Roadworthy

It's a Tuesday afternoon and I've made a late start on a road trip to visit Huck, who's summering off the farm and hopefully, working on his svelte figure. Distance-wise, it's not much of a journey but during rush hour, every trip's a pilgrimage.

There's a Diet Coke and a pack of gum sitting shotgun, but I'm not alone. Brynn's right behind me; still I don't feel her presence. At less than a month of age, she's about as lively as a loaf of bread and though I remember snapping her seat in the car, I find myself craning around, to check that I didn't leave her stranded at home, baking in the drive.

A sleeping baby isn't much company but I feel the steady presence of another soul. And I'm reassured between radio lulls, when I hear the rhythmic panting from the depths of the car.

Factor in Corrie, and in my last 20 years of driving, most excursions -- from grocery store runs to summers spent chasing horse shows along the coast -- have included the companionship of a Border Collie.

Corrie -- who strolled into my life after high school, and died four years ago -- was like Maisie in her utter sheep-dog lust for work. But otherwise, their personalities were different. Corrie sedately sat or slept on the floor, on the passenger's side of Zippy, my Honda civic. Sometimes I'd reach down and give her a pat. Maisie, on the other hand, travels standing up, on high-alert, in the SUV.

I imagine the two dogs as people -- like professional athletes on the way to a game. Corrie would have been the grizzled veteran, lost in thought on the team bus, plugged into an iPod and saving her energy for the field. Whereas Maisie is the anxious, effusive rookie who won't shut up and bounces a ball against the seat in front of her.

With the arrival of Brynn, Maisie's been relegated to the way-back, the SUV's trunk area -- a landfill of discarded socks, happy meal toys, squirt guns, diapers and muddy towels.

Somehow she finds her footing amid the debris and stares intently out the window -- like her life depends on it -- and frequently snaps at passing cars, her nose issuing a resounding "thump!" against the glass.

It also leaves an artful streak of nose slime on the window.

She doesn't snap at every car -- I don't know how she chooses her foe -- but she has a system and when the thumping gets too violent, I worry that she'll bruise her nose. "Easy, Maisie," I'll warn, glancing in the rearview mirror.

From my vantage point, all I see of her is one pricked ear peeking above the headrest.

And for the trip down to Huck's farm, just like every other drive to get the kids, or buy stamps, or play softball, Maisie's just a thump and an ear.

Still, she's a strong presence. And it's nice to have company.

Sunset, 8:37

Summer heat and humidity sunk its hooks in a few weeks ago but officially, the season launched its comeback on Monday. We celebrated summer with cocktails, popsicles and a post-dinner leap into the neighbor's pool.

I also provided this picture to prove that Martin is not plagued by narcolepsy, but is mobile and awake during sunlit hours -- contrary to a growing case file of evidence suggesting otherwise...

This means war

We're at constant battle with nature.

Battling the ivy that creeps through our foundation into the living room. The hornets nesting in the barn eves and the pergola. The rodents scuttling in the hayloft. And the never-ending procession of ants, flies, silverfish and spiders that call our home, "home."

While we win a few skirmishes, we're losing the war.

So I don't know why I'm hanging onto some glimmer of hope that we'll keep our new porch clean and pristine...and poop-free.

That last one's the sticking point. I'm determined to keep the front porch free of waste. Yet two cheeky, stubborn barn swallows are foiling my plan.

Normally, I have no beef with barn swallows. When they dwell in the barn.

I've already surrendered that structure to animal waste. There's a well-established bird colony in the barn rafters and they leave plenty of calling cards beneath their nests. Besides, the horses poop in there -- and so do the cats, visiting foxes and God knows what else. Heck, I wouldn't be surprised to see the kids trot out there and drop their pants.

But the porch is different. It's new, it's barely paid off and it's relatively clean. Or it was clean until our little swallow pals quietly settled atop our renovated, snow-white porch columns. They perched up there and defiled them.

We chased the birds away but they came back and hastily slapped together a nest, which Martin unceremoniously knocked down. The birds went postal; they retaliated the next morning, angrily chattering and swooping down on Martin until he retreated indoors.

But before seeking shelter, Martin placed a hefty block of wood on top of the column to prevent future nest construction. That worked for a couple of days but miraculously, the little birds managed to knock the block off and return to the perch....after defiling another porch column.

So the birds are up a match point. And I'm back on the internet, trolling for a solution and plotting our next move.

Oh, to be carefree again...

I have oodles of photos of Cayden and Hadley naked.

Not because I think naked kids are cute.

Or because I'm plotting to blackmail them in their teenage years. Or embarrass them in front of their high school prom dates.

And not because I haven't done the laundry.

But because it's one of the few perks of distant neighbors and rural living.

And because it's hot outside and they're more comfortable this way.

And because little kids are constantly going to the bathroom/requiring diaper changes.....clothes are discarded over the day.

So kids go naked and pictures are taken because pale tots against lush green grass make nice photos.

...Nice photos that we can whip out in 2023 and 2025 when we meet their prom dates and regale them with stories of Hadley eating dog food and stink bugs...

Under the magnolia

Every spring Martin briefly brandishes his green thumb. With credit card in hand he putters off in Chitty and returns a couple of hours later with a trowel, a garden hose, a few sacks of mulch (martin loves mulch), and a pallet of flowers.

Unfortunately by summer, all that remains of his spring plantings are a few lumpy mounds of earthy compost. Inevitably, the hose is forgotten in the high grass and becomes the first of many victims, struck down by our merciless lawn mower.

And regular watering sessions are abandoned. A dry day turns into two, then three, then more and the flowers double over, clasping their midsections, gasping for liquid sustenance. They wilt, fold into themselves and disappear. (This year, a hungry rabbit put the flowers out of their misery before dehydration set in.)

So aside from the fruit bearing bushes and trees -- which thrive despite lack of care -- only one other planting has withstood the test of time in our yard.

The shower beneath our magnolia tree.

Four years have passed since Martin announced his plans to strap a shower to the side of our house, under the kitchen window and the magnolia tree. He wanted to wash under a ceiling of blue sky and step onto a bath mat of green grass.

I thought the idea was kooky. Why shower under a tree when there's functioning plumbing and a plethora of bathing supplies indoors?

But he was determined. And frankly, it wasn't a bad idea to wash up outside when we were filthy from moving manure, or covered in lawn clippings or paint from the fences.

But I wasn't too keen on Martin's natural shower curtain: the magnolia and a few boxwoods. Sure, the greenery would spare the neighbors who cruised up the drive, but if they came around the back of the house, there we'd be -- in our birthday suits, showering under a tree.

So, a basic wooden shower stall was constructed to prevent any indecent exposure charges. Yet even with this wood siding, I still jump when I hear gravel crunch under tires.

But I'll give Martin props: the outdoor shower is oddly pleasant. In the evenings, after a sweaty day of toiling in the barn or chasing kids, it's calming to stand under that shower head and watch the sky darken as birds swoop overhead. It's peaceful -- just the pitter-pat of water and the occasional snort from the horses, their noses buried in clover. And one evening after a storm last summer, I was even greeted by a rainbow, in all its hues, arching against the sky.

Martin still has some truly kooky ideas. He likes to eat ramen noodles topped with peanut butter and salad dressing. He wants to buy a used military truck to run errands on the weekends. And if you stood too long in one spot in the yard, he'd probably mulch your feet.

But the crazy outdoor shower? That wasn't such a bad idea after all.

Deja vu all over again

How much things change...and stay the same.

Here we have the same couch, same guy, and same activity (or lack there of).

What's changed? Four years, three kids and shaving habits.

Behold Cayden, fall 2005...

Hadley, fall '07:

And finally Brynn, spring 2010:

Champion sleepers-in-training!

Stormy weather

The flowers, berry bushes and grapevines received a much-needed soaking when a thunder storm pummeled us just a couple of days ago.

There wasn't anything notable about the weather. It wasn't nearly as furious as the storm I blogged about last year -- the one that threatened to crack open the house and carry away the contents. And it wasn't like the storm that struck down the power after an abominably hot day (pre-kids and while Martin was away), when the house cooked without air conditioning and that night --powerless-- I slept on the dirty runner in the hallway. With carpet grime stuck to my skin, I gasped for a breeze through the screen door while our cat Drippy meowed at me all night long.

No, this was not a memorable storm. Just a run-of-the-mill clapper that briefly blots out the world in a gray deluge.

Still it had enough ferocity to turn our house into a sieve. As the rain came, I closed the windows, sat on the couch and listened for the ping.....pat....ping......pat........ping-pat-ping-pat-ping-pat......

And I saw it before hearing it -- a steady dribble on the table piled with photos that I swore I'd put in an album six months ago. I shoved the pile out of harm's way and grabbed the plastic baby bath to catch the dripping water.

And therein lies the problem: our leak locations are inconsistent. Leaks jump around, starting and stopping with the whims of the wind, the force of the rain and other meteorologic factors.

The other problem: we haven't found the right handyman -- a roofing sleuth to handle the oddities of our farm house.

There is a guy who works around here but he's sort of the Jeff Spicoli of the roofing world. I've called him a few times about work and he never gets back. But he always calls to invite us to his Woodstock-styled party that he hosts twice a year. Go figure.

So if we need to embrace our inner-hippie, we're all set. But we're still in search of a miracle worker to patch the leaks around the windows and roof. In the meantime our solution: pots, pans and baby baths.

The first cut

It doesn't matter if it's midday, afternoon or evening; we hear them all the time. Nearby or in the distance: the steady, methodical rumble of a diesel-fed engine, towing a mass of metal that cuts a wake in a field of green, then turns over the cuttings in long lumpy rows and binds them into bales.

Around here it's a race against time, to cut and bale hay in a rain-free window. The tractors and hay wagons surface in the afternoon, once the dew has burned off and the grass is good and dry. As I write this, the neighbor's field is being baled and a tractor growls as it approaches the house, then quiets as it recedes along the thick rows. The baler gobbles up mounds of grass, then pauses as a flap rises from the back and a bright-green round bale tumbles out, in hen egg-laying fashion. At 6 pm the farmer is halfway done and round bales dot the field like giant dinosaur eggs.

Last week before the hay was cut -- a couple nights before Brynn's arrival -- Martin and I tucked the kids into bed and led our nightly entourage for a walk: the dog, who darts ahead and three cats, who take turns trailing us or tripping us up the drive. A nearly full moon lit the way and on that night there was no grumbling machinery -- just tree frogs and a hooting train. The waist-high field crowded the road, begging to be cut, its lush stalks bending under the weight of the seed heads.

In the moonlight, it was easy to miss the light show. Martin didn't see it until I told him to train his gaze over the grassy expanse. Then it materialized: a magnificent firefly show. Thousands of flickering lights hovering above the sea of green. It looked like a massive rock concert with a million lighters, or strobe lights in a club, flitting on and off, in tempo with the tree frogs.

As far as the eye could see.

New Arrival

The baby formerly known as "hoffa" received an eviction notice on Friday and once we got the ball rolling, "Brynn" tumbled promptly into the world around 9:30 am. She's the smallest of our fleet -- she weighed in at just 6 lbs, 10 ounces -- so she needs to pack on the pounds if she's going to compete with her older brother and sister.


Both the Boy and the Barbarian gave her the once-over at the hospital and found her to be an acceptable addition.



And since she arrived home, she's been thumped, jostled and man-handled -- an appropriate initiation into this crazy household.