Shape up, Maisie

Maisie's days of "freelancing" with our neglected herd of sheep are coming to an end. I just enrolled her in an intense, hands-on sheepdog training clinic next weekend.

Border Collie boot camp.

Frankly I'm leery about it. For one thing, I'll be around dog people for 3 straight days. And no one's crazier than a dog owner. Except maybe a horse owner.

Secondly, this clinician is a no nonsense trainer. He's Scottish, he yells and he carries a big stick. And while he hollers a fair share at the dogs, it's the owners who bear the brunt of it.

Back in the day, my old dog Corrie went to these clinics. But she was teacher's pet -- a suburban dog with no experience, no practice, but a natural knack and style for moving sheep. Poetry in motion.

Jack, the stick-wielding Scotsman, would cast a look of disgust over the crowd of owners. Then he'd point at Corrie. "Just look at this dog. Lives in the city, never gets any proper training (looking disdainfully in my direction), and see how she moves out here. She listens...she senses... You wish your dogs did this well."

Of course I'd be sitting there smugly, basking in the glow of Jack's backhanded compliments.

Well, the tables will turn. Next weekend I'll be the chagrined owner facing a lecture. Because Maisie doesn't herd our sheep. She winds them up like cars on a Nascar track, running them faster and faster until they're just a dingy white blur streaking through the field. She does not know finesse, only speed.

It would be nice to banish her bad habits. I just wish I didn't have to get schooled, too.

Silo suggestions

The weather is chewing away at our silo, bite by bite. Thanks to mother nature and neglect -- it grain-storing days long past -- the old structure will soon be topless.

That's okay with us. Seeing that it rained in the house last Sunday, we're barely maintaining the buildings that we need. The silo is a casualty in the war on home improvements.

About six years ago a summer storm roared through. It grabbed hold of the silo roof and pulled. When the weather cleared all that was left on one side was a twisted piece of metal, dangling like a hangnail. Three days ago I noticed that the hangnail was gone.

But that's just the way it's gonna be...the wind and rain will open the roof like a tin can until one day, the rotted wood and sheeting flies away in Wizard of Oz-fashion. When the roof's lopped off, it'll look like an empty toilet paper roll.

But funny enough, it's the first thing that visitors notice when come here. They climb out of the car, squint up at the sky and ask: "What are you going to do with that silo?"

The question used to irritate me and I'd point out more pressing and costly repairs like the barn roof, which is huge, dizzyingly expensive to replace, and leaks like a sieve.

But now I just ask: "what do you think we should do with the silo?" Most frequent reply: convert it into an observatory. Runner up answer: make it into an apartment. Craziest suggestion: convert it into a kids' play area....because windowless, concrete cylinders are a toddler's dream.

Martin once boosted me up to the lowest ladder rung built along the side and I gingerly climbed up. Looking back, it was pretty stupid. The roof was damaged and we didn't know whether the sides were structurally sound. But I made it to the top, peered in the old window and nearly lost my grip and fell when a dozen pigeons fluttered past my face.

I regained my bearings and shakily descended. But not before taking a good look around at the birds-eye view: the fields of timothy waving below, the horses grazing the neighbor's ridge and the woodsy treetops, folding down in a crease in the valley, marking the river.

One day the silo roof will be history but for now it serves its purpose:

Barometer of storm strength. And pigeon conservatory.

Gully Washer

(no, I didn't take this picture....)

On radar it was just a red, deformed blob. An angry yolk in a misshapen egg slinking across a satellite map. I looked it up after the fact -- just to see how meteorologists depict a storm like that.

Normally, we know when bad weather's coming. You'd have to be blind not to see a wall of gray gathering from the West. It's like a ticking clock: when the furthest ridge disappears from view, you have 30 minutes to finish mowing. When the near ridge evaporates you've got 15 minutes, tops.

But yesterday we weren't outside and this storm could have crept up on us, if not for our failsafe detection system.

I was in the bathroom stepping out of the shower, when I nearly brained myself on the sink as I tripped over the dog. Maisie was cowering near the tub, her head wedged behind the toilet.

I raced around shutting windows while Martin dashed out to button up the barn. And that's how fast it hit. He got stranded out there.

It was one of those scary storms -- not because of thunder and lightning -- but because it positively cannot rain any harder, and it sounds like the wind's trying to suck the house through a straw. Ever seen the movie "The Perfect Storm?"

It was kind of like that. Minus the nautical theme and George Clooney going down with his ship.

But it was bad enough that I wondered if this might be "The One" to take the house down. I seriously considered rousting the kids and stashing them in the cellar. But as I weighed the options.......wake sleeping kids, die in storm, wake sleeping kids, die in storm,...the weather checked itself. It dialed back as if you say, yea, you'll make this one.

But not without some towels to mop up the rain that dripped through a window molding and puddled in the sills and cascaded down the walls. I don't even know who to call about that repair and how they'd even to fix it. For now I hope it doesn't rain sideways for a while.

Outside, we escaped with the minor damage: One pasture tree snapped in half and a fine collection of meaty branches in the front yard. The weather also took another bite out of the silo's tin roof in its quest to rip it from the frame, slowly and painfully, storm by storm.

But that's another blog entry.

Fruity update

Our berry bushes have officially shuttered for the season. No more blackberries, raspberries or blueberries unless we buy them from a store or stand. And that means it's time to pilfer the neighbors' garden!

In addition to growing veggies and flowers, Chet & Paula have a big, bushy tangle of blackberry vines that are bursting with plump berries. Our only competition for them is the birds, who have a knack for plucking the ripest, fattest fruit.

Fortunately I nabbed a few, still warm from the sun


And just about the time that the blackberries have ceased production, our grapes will be ready for harvest. Anyone for grape jelly?

My kingdom for a Girl Scout

A stranger just rapped on our door -- a grandmotherly type with a wide smile blanketing her face.

Before she raved about our lovely boxwoods -- which look pretty ratty right now -- I'd already sized up her polyester ensemble, her sensible shoes and the subcompact car she abandoned in the drive. Random stranger....overly cheerful....tin can on wheels...she was definitely one of "Them."

Jehovah's Witnesses frequently flutter to our house, which begs the question: do these guys prey on farmers? Are rural communities prime real estate to peddle salvation?

In all the time I've lived in the 'burbs, the garden variety of solicitors came knocking: chimney cleaning services and carpet cleaners. Kids selling magazine subscriptions and wrapping paper. Church do-gooders and firemen brandishing collection boots. But Jehovah's Witnesses weren't in the regular rotation.

So why now? And why can't we get the bratty preteen pushing Girl Scout cookies, for Christ Sake? I'd buy a boat-load of Tagalongs if it would spare us the doorstep evangelists.

If I had any guts, I would have shocked polyester Granny out of her support hose. I should have said, "I'd love to talk but the kids are chained up in the basement." Or "Great timing, I'm about to roll a fattie."

Or, if I'd brushed up on my Jehovah's Witness trivia, I would have announced that I believe in blood transfusions, military service, Christmas, Easter, and birthdays. She'd have to denounce me. "It's Armageddon for you!"

But no. I told Granny the truth. The farrier's due any minute to shoe the horses. "No problem," she said. "I'll just come by another day."

Fortunately, she didn't leave me empty handed and I've got some nice bedtime reading. Thanks, JW's!

Better than flowers or chocolate

This past weekend I loaded up Thing 1 & Thing 2, as well as all the accessories needed to A) supply a third-world nation, or B) travel with toddlers for 2 days. With our bounty of sippie cups, juice boxes, goldfish crackers, diapers, portable crib, blankets, pillows, swimming gear, multiple changes of clothes, etc, we drove 3 hours to our friends' house in the mountains. Martin held down the fort at home.

All he had to do was feed the sheep, horses, and smaller beasts. Muck the stalls. Entertain the neurotic dog. Mow around the house, bush-hog the fields, weed-whack, water the new trees, spray them against pests. And move his office furniture into the Mouse House.

We both know that he got the better end of the deal. Cake walk.

Still, it didn't stop my long distance nagging ("that farm better look ship-shape when I get home..."), though admittedly, I didn't expect much. Even when he claimed that he cleaned up the barn.

Well, imagine my surprise when I rolled up the drive at 11 pm -- knee-deep in McDonald's wrappers, with two limp, slack-jawed toddlers in the back seat -- and snapped on the lights to see this:


Sorry, no "before" photos available but take my word for it: even when the barn is clean, it's a mess. It's always awash in cobwebs on the ceiling, grime layers on the walls, and dust bunnies the size of snow drifts. And that's just the dirt. Don't forget the debris.

Traditionally, "tidying" the barn means taking all the random junk -- mountain bikes, garden hoses, extension cords, saw horses, tools, horse blankets, jumps, buckets, paint cans -- and condensing it all into one corner of crap. Where it can gather more cobwebs, horse hair and dust bunnies.

Well, Crap Mountain is gone. I have no idea what Martin did with it -- I assume it's been relocated to the loft -- but frankly I don't care. The barn is junk free. And the wall are so clean, they look white-washed.


Bottom line, I don't know what inspired Martin's cleaning frenzy and I don't want to know. It was an awesome surprise. And anytime he hears that disaster we call an attic beckoning him, I say: don't fight the urge...follow your instinct and clean, man, clean!

Easy come, easy go

For 12 hours we were the proud owners of "George" the Turtle.

Daycare pawned him off on me this morning. One minute you're waving goodbye to your kid, and the next you're leaving with a truculent turtle in a cardboard box.

At home I googled "what do turtles eat?" and discovered that it depends on the species. Some turtles are carnivores, others are vegans. The site added that "turtles should not eat processed food!" But hey, beggars can't be choosers. In George's box I deposited a few carrots, some deli meat and leftover chicken. As an afterthought I pelted him with a piece of bread, just in case he was in the mood for starch. No dice. He protested captivity and hostile living conditions by going on a hunger strike.

That's when I made the executive decision: before the Boy got attached -- or the cats cannibalized him -- George should be relocated to his natural habitat. Which was tonight's after-dinner entertainment.

George's release in a nature preserve, aka, the nearby river.

Cue the Mary Tyler Moore theme: "You're gonna make it after all...."

Job wanted; will work for horse feed.

Last week's house cleaning escapade scared me straight. If I don't find gainful employment soon, scrubbing floors and chasing children might become more than just a hobby.

Last week I realized it was time to stop flitting around these job listing sites. It was time to hunker down, get serious and step up my job searching big time.

When I first got laid off, I trolled around for the perfect job. You know, "trendy magazine seeks staff writer to interview hip people, write cool stories, and set her own deadlines. Travel to exotic destinations required; obscenely generous compensation; time off permitted to ride horse, meet farrier and schedule vet appointments."

Then I returned to reality, noted the lack of opportunities and began looking for: "writer needed, paid position."

What I discovered is that there are plenty of jobs out there. But few that I'm qualified to do.

Only a smattering of jobs are listed on sites dedicated to journalism and they're not exactly suited for me: press maintenance mechanic, electrician, letter sorter...

Most openings on big websites involve technical writing, and would be right up my alley if I had 10 years of government experience, top security clearance, a background in aviation, or electronic engineering, or IT integration, or software development. Or if I were fluent in Mandarin Chinese.

I also found a couple of jobs for those who can dish about finance and banking (note: "must be a positive person"), and a few for those with a degree in social work, or extensive experience working with the EPA.

One website listed a slew of full-time writing opportunities with the Navy and their posts sucked me in.... great benefits, full medical coverage, discounted travel... Then I read the fine print...."all this with the pride and purpose and satisfaction of serving your country..."

Yikes, enlistment required. Minor setback, I thought, until I read the even finer print and discovered I'm too old for the Navy. The cutoff age is 34. Dammit! Those jobs were mine!

So far, my favorite job listing is for a "media sanitation specialist."

What the hell is that? A person who writes about garbage??

Actually, the job requires top secret security clearance, a polygraph and 10 years experience so "personnel shall destroy or degauss* (had to look that one up) material as appropriate when directed by the sponsor using sponsor-approved methods." Whoa, heavy.

Bottom line, I'm not qualified to shred documents or do much else other than write this blog.

Maybe it's time to start paying myself.

I wonder how long I should wait before I ask myself for a raise....




*degauss: to remove or neutralize the magnetic field

Fresh Air

Old houses have problem windows. That's just a fact of life.

If they aren't sealed shut with 50 coats of paint, then the windows are in various states of disrepair. The sills are rotted, the weights that operate the windows fall down into the wall, or the house settles and the frames jam up.

In some of our rooms, we have more windows than wall -- and I love that because we gets tons of light. But I hate it because our windows look like crap. Refurbishing them would cost a zillion dollars and removing them would be kind of sad.

We'd never be able to replace the originals with their wavy glass and the hurricane shutters that are more than decoration. The shutter bolts are embedded in the sills and if you really wanted to, you could shut them tight like a kid slapping his hands over his eyes. The house buttons up and the weather's not getting in.

But we don't use the shutters and we don't open the windows either because the screens have popped off, and the storm windows come crashing down. Therein lies the problem: open a window and you welcome every bug in creation.

But we've made an exception this year. Because the last two weeks have been remarkably beautiful. Cool nights and low humidity -- unheard of in July. How do you not open the windows? To hell with the insects.

The master bathroom window draws a wicked breeze strong enough to slam doors (hence the boot jack, paperback book, and sneaker jammed up against the door) and we have to keep the cheap blinds retracted, otherwise they'll blow right off. This means that we're very "exposed" at night. It's quite possible that the neighbors, who occasionally trundle down the drive, are being flashed by Martin and mooned by me.

But the peep show, the mosquito bites -- even the errant wasp buzzing around right now -- are worth it for the fresh air. It's all short lived -- muggy weather is in the forecast. But for the next 48 hours, neighbors, avert your eyes!

The window sills: treasure troves of chipped paint & dead bugs which probably lead Hadley -- the greater consumer of all things inedible -- to wonder, "Hmm, decisions, decisions."

Mouse House Makeover

The transformation is complete! The Mouse House, former milk parlor....then 80s' apartment...then rodent infested hole-in-the-wall....is now a place of beauty.

Bubba, our good friend & contractor worked his magic -- he hammered out some bigger windows, added another door (for a future deck), did a little hocus-pocus and voila! A civilized work space.

Before:

And after:

From the other end:

Check out the trippy lights, man

And no more peeing in the bushes. Bathroom w/shower.

It looks pretty sweet. Now if only Martin wasn't going to junk it up with all of his office equipment. I really think that it's better suited for me and my minimal amount of stuff. Hmm, maybe he should move back down to the basement....

Take my apron, please!

I have GOT to get a real job....

... a job where I can park my butt in a cubicle or some cramped office and clack away at my computer. Where I'm appreciated. And PAID!

I just finished cleaning the cellar which serves as a laundry room/storage area/office space/kids' playroom.

The cellar had reached a new standard for filth and dust-bunny accumulation. It didn't help that we use it as a dumping ground for toys, sporting equipment, winter clothing, paint cans, muddy shoes, furniture....

The place was a pigsty and each time I walked across the floor, my feet felt....well, gritty. Gross.

So Martin and I tackled the room this morning. Five hours later, every toy has been put in its place, 12 loads of laundry have been washed and folded, and the floor is swept, scrubbed and mopped.

I, on the other hand, am sweaty and grimy. My jeans are stained and my hands are scorched by bleach. Really, I can't imagine how the housewife of the fifties tackled laundry, scrubbed the kitchen and picked up after her family day after day...and while wearing a dress, no less. Pure insanity!

Now that the cellar is clean, I don't want anyone to set foot in it. In fact, I think it might be wise to clean each room, and then close it to habitation. Then we can just live in the barn, or better yet, pitch a tent and camp in the yard!

A tale of two cats

When Spook first settled his furry orange butt on our hayloft stairs, he was this feral, rangy adolescent who raided the barn cat dishes and fled at the faintest glint of human contact.

That was winter Spook. Summer Spook is still feral-and rangy-looking but now he's crazed for attention and constantly underfoot. I can't walk down the barn aisle or into the tack room without kicking, or stumbling, or tripping over that lousy cat.



His transformation did not occur overnight. I went through two rotisserie chickens, one serving of pot roast and a truckload of canned cat food just to earn the right to stand next to him.

Why in world did I waste my time? Hello, unemployment.... and the pressing need to catch him and get him neutered. But more than that, Spook posed a challenge. I wanted to prove I could tame the savage beast.

Cooing to him and singing his name like some half-brained cat lady was effective. After a few months he began testing the barn floor, creeping along as if it might suddenly swallow him up. But once I moved or worse -- made eye contact -- he'd bolt back up the loft stairs. It didn't help that the other cats hazed him mercilessly; this spring, there's been a lot of skittering and yowling in the loft.

But by June, Spook had matured. If I squatted down, sidled over and stretched my arm out, he'd let me pet him. That was a couple of weeks ago. Now he rubs up against my legs and follows me everywhere. It's hard to believe that the same cat who lived in the shadows has become my shadow.

He's still a gawky, feral looking thing. And probably always will be. When he saunters up -- throwing his shoulders and staring with his wild orange eyes -- you feel like you're being stalked by a lion going in for the kill. But then he flops down and yawns, or curls himself around your boot.

Bottom line, Spook's domesticated, but he'll always have a wild side.