Time to pull the plug?

You try to prepare for these kind of things -- hell, it happens to all of us -- but in the end, when you're faced with the demise of a beloved pick-up truck, it just hurts.

My dear Chitty, words can not express my feelings for you. You've been like a family member ever since we laid eyes on your sun-bleached, two-toned, dented body. Your sagging bench seat, your knob-less windshield wiper control. Your mangled hubcaps and the second gas tank door, mysteriously sealed shut with rusty screws.

You were a vehicle that could be dinged and bumped without guilt. Something we could overload with a pallet of fence posts and trundle down the road in Dr. Seuss-like fashion.

You deftly handled 28 inches of snow in winter '02 when we so desperately needed beer and brownie mix.

In springtime you scoffed at flood conditions, digging your wheels in the mud when everyone else needed a tow.

You've provided Maisie with a shady place to rest and the kids with a safe outdoor play area. You've been our trusty ride to the dump.

And that's why we've been able to overlook the massive brake failure that sent Martin plunging off a road, leaping a curb, and dodging trees to rest at the banks of a river.

We didn't hold the brake failure against you. We knew it wasn't personal. And we agreed to pay to replace the brake lines.

And the master cylinder brake pads.
And the brake drums.
And the steel cables.
And the custom-made brake piping since they don't have parts for classics like you.

But then there were the other failures. Your shocks, the bald tires and some serious engine repairs.

Let's face it, Chitty, you did sign that Do Not Resuscitate clause in motor oil. We want to honor your wishes.

So if we can't find a way to save you, I hope that you can look down from that big Ford dealership in the sky and realize that you may be gone, but not forgotten.

Happy Early Anniversary

Folks, it's that time again. Time to sink a wad of cash into another invisible farm improvement.

But I'll splurge on this particular item. We're pretty attached to running water.

The circuit breaker for the well tripped last week. And when the water failed a second time, Martin thought a new spigot was leaking into the well-pump wiring.

But when it kicked off again -- the kitchen sink fizzling away to nothing -- we called the plumber.

He cracked open a pipe in the yard and announced, "You need a new well pump."

"Well, eventually," he added. "The old one should hold out a little while."

By "a little while," I assumed he meant a few weeks, maybe a month. But the pump commit suicide 4 hours later.

That night, the water system suffered serious indigestion. The pipes whined and groaned and the sink faucet hiccuped and belched up a few bursts of water before the dry heaving set in.

There wasn't a thimble of water in the pipes. Not a splash to rinse a toothbrush.

The plumber arrived the next day and said he could replace the pump for $1600.

For 1,600 bucks, I told Martin, I better see Old Faithful shooting from the sink. I want a geyser that strips dishes from my hand. Peels skin off in the shower.

"You're not going to get that," Martin said. "You're going to get your water back. For $1600."

I watched the plumber extract the blown pump from the ground -- the device looked like a metal tube used to heat buckets of water in the barn. It was hard to believe that the thing cost the equivalent of a weekend at a swanky hotel and spa.

The upside: water has been restored to the farm.

And we no longer have to shop for anniversary gifts. Now when I flush the toilet or use the sink I'll just say, "Hey honey, nice water pump..."

He's a Believer

All of a sudden, it's not so easy to sell that "there's no such thing as dinosaurs" theory to the Boy.

Last weekend Martin took the kid to a show that blew my extinction claim out of the water.

Seeing is believing....

Weekend Recap

This....
....plus this...
...plus this...
...in addition to this...


Equals This....

Gone Missing

Thanks to cell phones, email and good-old-fashioned horseback gossip, news travels fast around these parts.

It doesn't take long to discover that a dog's missing, or that a dodgey driver has banked his car in the ditch along the drive.

Or that a bull is on the loose.

I wasn't home when the news broke but I did receive a bull-related email. It was like a warning notice ripped from the script of Law and Order: Be on the lookout... a predator is on the loose!

Only this message read: A not too friendly bull got out...anyone got a tranquilizer gun?

Apparently a local farmer and his crew were banding their stock when the young black bull made a break for it. He jumped out the window (of a barn, I assume) and cleared a fence.

Then he high-tailed it as fast as his cloven hooves could take him, swapping the confines of the cow farm for the woods and pastures of our horsey 'hood.

The unfriendly bull was spotted several times that afternoon and even cornered on a few occasions. But each time he broke free. He liked the taste of freedom.

Skinny, shirtless teenagers, muttering into walkie-talkies, buzzed the area on ATVs. But by nightfall they'd had no luck finding the bull and they abandoned the search for dinner.

That was Tuesday and by Wednesday, we had no news on the runaway. My neighbor Liz, noted that the search party had not been deployed the second day: "No naked teenage boys on ATVs. They're out cutting corn."

But Thursday -- day 3 -- a train operator spotted the bull loitering on the train tracks. Somehow, he stopped the engine before impact and called the cops. One tranquilizer dart later and the bull had been apprehended.

I'm glad that they rounded him up. He was putting a crimp in our trail riding. And I think after 3 days on the lam, he wanted to be caught. Better to be face pasture confinement then wind up on a dinner plate, sandwiched in a bun...

Good Humor Man

Mom and Dad were never the types who forced me to clean my plate. And thankfully, they refrained from serving child-repellent dishes (liver and onions come to mind).

But they did dangle that dessert carrot in front of me: "If you don't finish your vegetables....no ice cream.... "

That must be standard language in every parent handbook.

Every so often, however, I got pardoned -- a temporary reprieve from sensible eating and a chance at unfettered cookie consumption.

My get-out-of-jail-free card was my mom's brother -- Uncle Bill -- who was more than happy to forego carrots and peas, and dish up a double serving of pie. Or stack teetering scoops of ice cream in a bowl, stabilized with chocolate chip cookies.

Gluttonous escapades with Bill were annual events since my uncle lives on the west coast. But those summer trips were sugar infused.

When I was 8 years old, Bill took me to Disneyland. I don't remember the rides or if I met Mickey. But I remember the food. We passed through the admission gates and Bill marched up to the first vendor he saw and ordered our first course: ice cream sandwiches. We followed that up with caramel popcorn and then cleansed our palates with snow cones.

Perhaps we wedged a hotdog in there as well, but at sunset when we left the Magic Kingdom, Bill grabbed me by the shoulder with that "I have an idea" expression on his face.

"You know what we should do now?" he asked. "We should go get some ice cream!"

Over the years Bill and I have gossiped over brimming bowls of cookies-and-cream, and drizzled fudge over french vanilla, laughing when Granny's voice floats in the kitchen: "William? You're not in the freezer again, are you?"

Of course metabolism catches up with us all. I can't plow through a bag of Oreos anymore and even skinny-Bill has dialed back his sweet tooth.

This past weekend Bill came out for a rare east coast visit. The last time I saw him, he looked glum and disinterested in dessert. Chemotherapy had dampened his cravings for mint chocolate chip.

But that was months ago. This weekend he looked more like himself. A little thin, but healthy and sporting hair again.

It was after dinner when I saw the old Bill return. He ate four pieces of custard pie and followed them up with a double portion of ice cream (Note: Edys makes a repulsive flavor called Banana Split. I took one bite and deposited my serving in Bill's bowl. Somehow, he managed to eat it.)

Shortly after the ice cream, Bill discovered the ginger snaps. By then we were knee-deep in political debate and I noticed that each time Bill emphasized some political injustice, he leaned forward and slid his hand in the cookie bag.

The whole evening, from pie to ginger snap...brought back some sweet memories.

The Bee Tree

Tis the season of stings. The bees and their venomous relatives are celebrating a last hurrah -- emerging from the earth, haunting the trees, hovering in the air.

At our neighbors' house, the hornets drive the humming birds from their sugar-water feeders. Obviously the birds outsize the insects, but hornets are powerful intimidators.

Our wasps are also busily streaming from ground nests, seeking an unsuspecting ankle or a bare wrist resting against the tractor. They burst angrily from rust holes that spread in the metal tubing of the pasture gates.

This past weekend, I took Chance out for a rookie fox-hunting run. Not 10 minutes in, he bore the brunt of a dozen vengeful bees, enraged when hounds and horses treaded over a wooded nest. Once the attack was underway, we fled the forest for a bee-less corn field. But they kept after us. At home I picked stingers from the welts that pocked Chance's neck and hindquarters.

And about a week ago, I discovered a massive haven of bee activity right beside the house. I heard the humming from an open window. Like the steady buzz of power lines or some far-off mower chewing grass.

But this hum originated close by, in the tree that hugs the porch and tops out next to our bathroom. I walked outside to investigate. Every branch shimmered with motion. The tree buzzed with life as bees lifted to the air, then dive-bombed the flowery clusters.
I reminded myself that they're plain old bees. Not hostile hornets or defensive wasps. If I leave them alone, they'll return the favor.

But it's the sheer number -- the cacophonous drone -- that scares me.

I know what they can do.

Note Hadley parked to offer scale of tree. Toddler not harmed for this photo.
Even the bees don't mess with The Barbarian.

The traveling door

Before we began collecting sheep and cats and horses. Before we sunk our savings into our money-pit farm...

...we owned another money pit.

Our first property was a stately, turn-of-the-century stucco farm house that loomed over the cookie-cutter ramblers in the neighborhood.

It had 5 bedrooms and sprawling living space -- far more house than we needed. But I fell in love with the pine floors, the stained glass windows, the grand hallway. Yet we couldn't ignore the pee-stained carpets, the cracks in the plaster, the water stains and daylight peeping through the roof.

Friends found our new home frightening. "I'm just worried the ceiling might fall on us," one person said, clutching her child and backing out the door.

Our house was the original Money Pit. We hit up my parents for money and for 4 months, invested major sweat equity. Martin and I scraped plaster, hung dry wall and prepped the floors. We hired plumbers, roofers, electricians and painters.

When the dust cleared and we reached a level of reasonable repair, I launched smaller cosmetic projects. Easy ones, like finding a screen door.

But not just any screen door. An age-appropriate door for a 1900s house. Martin thought I was crazy but he accompanied me to a store that sold salvaged house parts -- translation, " junk."

Junk available at obscene prices.

There, I found the door. It was really just a rickety, paint-shedding wooden frame. A screen door with no screen, no hardware. It cost $80.

It took most of the summer to restore it. The mindless scraping and sanding was torture. Eventually, we primed and painted it, and fitted it with new screens. Finally, Martin carefully tacked the trim back down. By then summer was over. It was storm-window season.

Not long after, we swapped our urban money pit for a rural one. At closing an attorney breezed through the conveyances before Martin chimed in.

"The screen door doesn't convey. We're taking it with us."

Around the table everyone looked confused, except me. The new owners wouldn't appreciate that Martin slaved over the hallway ceiling one weekend or that I spent hours on my hands and knees prying up carpet staples. They certainly wouldn't the appreciate the screen door.

At the new-old house the door never fit right, but it's been serviceable. Lately however, it bears the battle scars of curious cats and pushy kids. At night bugs navigate the holes and tears.

But there's no chance I'll ever repair it. I know how much work is involved. And I'm not ready to part with it either. If we ever move again, it's coming with us.

Goodbye lazy days

I've had a good 6-month run, riding horses, chipping away at chores, but otherwise goofing off. And then the employment alarm chimed. My days of languishing on a chaste lounge, eating bon-bons and watching soap operas are officially history. Today, I return to the world of gainful employment.

It's excellent news for my sanity and our wounded bank account. It's a little sad for the irresponsible me who'd like to whittle away this fall fox hunting and otherwise horsing around. Oh well, employment beckons.

But have no fear. The animals will continue chewing away at the farm, the husband will break machinery and injure himself, and as always, the kids will wreak havoc.

In other words, the blog will carry on.

Pseudo wedding crashers

Martin and I just received a wedding invitation in the mail. And aside from the fact that the wedding is 10 hours away in up-state Michigan....

....we've never heard of these people.

We studied the envelope, scrutinized the invite and picked apart every name. We concluded that we haven't the foggiest idea who these people are. They're not distant relations, not friends of the family.

I googled each name and discovered that Dad works for the Michigan DOT. The groom graduated from Northern High School in '96. Father of the groom has a nondescript facebook page. And the couple registered for the Martha Stewart collapsible sink colander, in gray.

If it wasn't so far away I'd have to attend. Just to check it out and seek a familiar face. But we're not setting out on a pilgrimage to solve this mystery. Instead, I RSVPed our regrets. I was tempted to write "who are these people?" or something strange like "sorry -- same weekend as the S&M convention!"

But I didn't have the guts.

However, I did personalize the RSVP card with a "Sorry to miss the big day. Theresa and Nathan, can't wait to see you again!"

And who knows, I might send them the colander.

Sign of the Season

All the signs of autumn's approach are here. Chilly nights, shorter days. The birds have gone south.

And the kids are back in the bath tub.

We've had a nice run, relying on a daily chlorine dip to decontaminate Thing 1 & 2. I don't think those kids have seen a bar of soap since mid-July, though Mom swore she bathed them a couple of weeks ago. ("Didn't their hair looked nice? I washed and brushed it.")

The pool was so easy. Just click on their life vests and give them a little shove. And it wasn't just the convenience, it was the whole experience. Loading up in the gator, gravel crunching under the wheels, the dog running and barking alongside. Leaping in the water for that brief break from the humidity or just slouching in a patio chair clutching a beer. Next thing you know, it's getting dark and time to cast the threats that your parents used to reel you in: "I'm going to count to three..."

Finally, everyone's bound in towels still damp from the day before. The sun's just a sliver and we buzz down the drive, spitting gravel and scattering the deer who've ventured from the trees.

That's been the daily routine since June barring cold snaps and gully washers. But the last couple of days have been cool and the nights even cooler. Reluctantly, we've had to accept reality: it's time to bathe again.

The kids miss the pool, for about five minutes.

Water is water, I guess.