The happiest of hours

It started as a ride on my horse Huck. Just a brisk buzz past the neighbors' farms and down along the river -- "the loop" as we like to call it. I didn't have a lot of time yesterday afternoon -- about an hr and a half to ride, leap in the shower and fetch the kids before the dinner/bath/bed routine. But on a warm, sunny spring day, sandwiched between rain past and rain predicted, it seemed criminal not to ride.

We trotted along Chet's hayfield and picked up the tree line while Maisie darted back and forth in front of Huck, barking incessantly. I hollered at her repeatedly but this only egged her on. She spun in manic circles and barked some more.

This little freak show featuring my fat, spotted guinea-pig looking horse, and deranged, rabid acting dog, made it as far as Liz's barn. That's about 1/4 mile as the crow flies, or 2 minutes as the horse trots. Something like that.

Either way, that's as far as we got.

No injury befell anybody, Huck didn't lose a shoe, Maisie didn't get kicked. I however, suffered a setback: I succumbed to the bottle.

It was a little one. You know those bottles of wine you get on airplanes? About that size.

Liz was not home, or in-barn -- she was still at work -- but Jane was there grooming her horse, and shortly after I rode up, Sarah, who lives next door, happened by in her pickup.

Apparently three's the magic number because the next thing I know, bottles of wine are being passed around (hmm screw cap, how convenient). Jane unfolds a little chair, Sarah leans against her truck, I slump in the saddle on Huck's back. It's officially happy hour in the gravel drive in front of Liz's barn. Only thing missing is Liz. And some munchies.

I don't know how long we parked there but Sarah opened a bulk bag of horse treats for Huck, and Maisie and her Jack Russell darted around in the woods, while we squinted in the sun and chatted.

At some point I glanced at my watch. And it dawned on me that if I chugged my bottle, kicked Huck into a gallop and raced to my car, I might get the kids in time. I shifted the reins and wine bottle to one hand and borrowed Jane's cell phone to dial Martin.

Me: "Hey, something's come up. Can you get the kids at daycare?"
Martin: "Who's number is this? Where are you calling me from?"
Me: "Jane's phone.... I'm in the saddle...well, I'm riding....I'm on Huck, can you get the kids or what?"

Eventually, the three of us disbanded and I took my horse, my dog, and my buzz home. When Martin got home, I was still untacking Huck in the barn.

Martin: "Hey, how was your ride?"
Me: "It was great. Gotta do that more often."

Technically, it's riding if I'm in the saddle, right? That's Jane, happy hr accomplice, in the background. (photo, courtesy of Sarah's phone)

Today's tip: the space between the horse's withers and the saddle makes a most excellent receptacle for empties.

Last week's recap

The big news of the week: Drippy is no longer with us. He was put to sleep Thursday after I hemmed and hawed for days. I'll spare you the gross details but it was time. He was a mess and showed no signs of improving.

He lived a good life -- 20 years! -- but it's weird not having him around. Sure, he was a self-centered grouch, he mauled other animals, he dripped and drooled on anyone in reach. But he's been on the farm as long as we have. Longer, actually.

I remember when we closed on the farm 9 yrs ago, and in that "oh my god, what have we just done?" mentality, we drove out that night to gaze at our new purchase. We left our former farmhouse, mired among 60's suburban split-levels, just a block from the Metro and a Chinese restaurant plagued by health code violations. Several exits up the highway and among dwindling traffic, we veered onto a twisting, hilly two-laner past sleepy houses and fields of horses and dairy cows.

Martin: "Wow, it's so....dark out here. Is it always this dark?"
Me: "Yea, it's the country. There's not a 7-11 around the corner."
Martin: "There's not even a corner around the corner."

We didn't go in the house. We just stood in the moonlight, with the barn looming over us (blissfully unaware of the looming repairs....holes in the barn roof from people shooting pigeons, the rotting fence line we'd replace, the run-in shed that would collapse in a snow storm....).

As we stood there, the gray shadow of Drippy bumped up against me. At that time, I knew him only as "barn cat 1" on the list of conveyances with the property, in addition to "barn cat 2" and "utility cart" tipped up against the silo.

That night, if Drippy could have spoken, this is what he would have said: "Look you two, I don't give a fig what you think you just signed, I'm the law of this land. Don't think for a second that you own this place."

Drippy ruled with an iron claw. Scratch first, ask questions later. Though he could be civil when he wanted food or attention and certainly softened in his waning years.

Somewhere in our photo archives -- in the days before digital -- is a picture of Martin, reclining in a chair on our deck, the sun's setting, and he's clutching a cocktail (a screwdriver, I recall, in a pint glass filled to the brim). Martin should have been happy but the look on his face is utter disdain. Because Drippy is camped on his stomach like hen sitting on an egg. He's disinterested and oblivious to the long string of saliva stretching from his fang and pooling on Martin's shirt.

That was part of the problem. Drippy was not an absentee dictator. When were out and about, he was there. Amidst the zillions of photos we've taken of the kids, he's ever present. And usually not in a 'Where's Waldo' kind of way. He marches right into the frame.



So it's odd, no longer greeted by his yowl in the mudroom or hearing his pleas to come in. No longer tripping over him in the barn. He was a lousy, drooling, good for nothing, freeloading cat. Who will be missed.

Wanted: thick skin

About a week ago I posted an entry entitled: "Literary blogs be dam^*ed." It's pretty clear who I'd targeted....subtlety's never been my strong point. But with no warning and a few misplaced facts, let's just say that the subject of my blog was less than thrilled. Words were exchanged. I pulled the whole thing down and skipped town. Or, skipped the computer.

But as they say, time heals all irate email exchanges. So I'm back. As is the post, edited. Perhaps it would be safer to shelf this one and move on, but I can't be alone here. Someone out there can relate to this.

Update on missing week to follow.

(originally posted March 23, 2009. Note: typos that follow are strictly mine and were not present in emails you see below. don't worry... this'll make sense in a minute.)
Sorry readers to detour from the main drag, but it's time to jerk the wheel and jounce down this bumpy, dirt road. So settle back for today's diversion. It's off-topic but is something -- or someone -- that everyone has, at least some point in life. Guaranteed.

A mother.

But only I have my mother.

I'll spare you some apple-baking, June Cleaver portrait of perfection, which I'm sure exists, but not in this case (And who would want that? Though Mom does make a mean double chocolate cake.)

This isn't a testament to domestic skills, but to career. My mom's an editor with more than 40 year's experience in news rooms and filing centers. She's dealt with her share of shoddy writing, tight deadlines, and bosses breathing down her neck, in addition to temperamental, defensive, recalcitrant reporters.

But no one's as temperamental, or defensive, or recalcitrant as a daughter. Especially when her mom is critiquing her at 10 pm. (Really, is there ever a good time?)

Part of the Art of Editing is telling a writer that his or her writing's lousy, but in the most tactful way. It took me years to accept that when my Mom said, "Jo, you've got a lot of good stuff here..." she really meant, "The content is remotely interesting, but the writing stinks. Start over."

Over the years Mom's offered a lot of constructive, pro-bono editing. Now that we're both older, she still dispenses niceties, but sometimes in an more abbreviated fashion. Here's her phone call the other night:

Mom: "Hey honey, how are you?"
Me: "Fine."
Mom: "I hope I didn't wake you...."
Me: "No, I'm sitting here w/my laptop, working on the blog."

Mom: "Oh good, because I wanted to talk to you about that. About your blog. I've been reading it and it's okay.... but it needs more. It's lack substance. It needs to be.... more literary. Like when you wrote about the wind. (the weather's knocking) I like that. You should write more of those."

Me: "Mom, when they hit me, they just hit me. I can't write like that all the time. You want me to wax poetic about our mulch pile? The clouds? How about 'Ode to horse poop?' I can't write that kind of crap." (pun intended).

Which brings us to Mom's other editorial soap box: My potty mouth.

Recent Mom email: "....you might consider a way to remain edgy without using profane or crude words..." Which is kind of ironic, because Mom emails me blog links all the time that would be bleeped by censors.

I'll save you all the life and times of my parents, but here's what you need to know: Mom grew up in a household where swearing was wash-your-mouth-out worthy. Dad probably had a little more latitude. I doubt he swore in front of his parents, but by the time I arrived on the scene, he was certainly familiar with a few four-lettered favorites.

I don't remember uttering my first curse but Mom does. I was 4 years old and coerced by my best friend, Judy Miller, who was both 2 years my senior and had two older brothers. Mom doesn't remember whether I said sh*t or fu*&, but it was first (and last) time she walloped me. She felt awful for hitting me, but it did the trick. I don't think I swore again til jr high.

But be it Dad's DNA or society's love of cursing (notice, I'm blameless), I do sound off here and there. Which is why my kid believes that I sometimes shout what sounds like "fox!" even when the animal is nowhere to be seen. As in "Fox this driver! Move it already!"

But I try to temper myself while speaking freely on this blog. And I thought I was getting better. Until my stinkbug entry. (name that bug)

Another email from Mom: "Just read the bugs piece. great fun. one quibble; piece works fine without using 'hell'... too strong a world in print for a light piece."

Seriously? H- E- Double toothpicks is too strong? Is that even swearing anymore?

Mom continues talking on the phone, pitching substance: "....it can be more literary and more lighthearted. Your blog, it's just kind of dark, the subject matter....it's not as funny..."

It was about that point that I cupped my hand over the phone and yelled through the rafters, "Martin! Phone's for you!" There was no chance we'd settle this debate.

Yea, maybe these entries are a bit dark. Not exactly sunshine and skipping through the lilies. But the farm -- especially in Feb/March -- is gritty and grimy and muddy and mucky. And just plain old dirty. And difficult. Dammit

Spring is finally here!

Go forth and be merry!

I ain't no Johnny Appleseed

The spell is over, the curse is lifted.

Scroll down to Monday's entry and you'll find the following rant: people always point out what needs fixing on the farm, but never tell you how to do it.

Well, that's true no more. Finally, someone answered our plea.

That person was Chet, our neighbor, local vet and unofficial mayor of these-here parts, who was probably greatly relieved that this time, I didn't call him to shoot a sick fox found in a stall. Or to make sure a snake we found wasn't poisonous. Or to meet me at the local market to retrieve and save an injured dog in the road.

This time, I only asked for a reference: an apple tree expert who would provide some guidance on what to plant, when and how.

No doubt Chet and his wife are sick of driving past our unruly and unkempt sheep-gnawed trees. He was happy to help and came through with local orchard owner, Gene Kingsbury. We met him last Sunday morning in a chilly, misty rain as he merrily pruned row upon row upon row of his fruit trees. Gene was undaunted by our litany of questions and saved me from a future series of "I don't know" answers.

When I thought about planting our new trees, I envisioned a Johnny Appleseed scenario: shove a seed into the dirt, dangle a watering can above it, and about the time that the kids leave for college, we'd have apples.

Not so. Assuming we don't plant the treelings (is that a word?) upside down, we don't let the sheep or deer or rabbits or field mice devour them, and we prune them, talk to them and love them, and cross our fingers, we'll have fruit. Next year! Talk about a fast turn around.

Not only can you select the apple species (autumn gala, autumn rose, buckeye gala, and so on), but you can pick the size -- or "rootstock" in tree-speak, which dictates the size of the tree.
They (the plant people) graft the variety into the rootstock and ta-da, you have a small, medium or large fruit tree. Sort of like ordering a shake at MickeyD's. What we wanted, said Gene, was an M-9 -- code for dwarf tree -- a size that would be easier to prune than our existing monstrosities.

Gene offered further advice to spare us from instant failure: select a pest and disease resistant tree, stake each one right away, prune often, spray often, and don't use RoundUp.

I called a Pennsylvania-based nursery and ordered 6 trees recommended by Gene -- 2 crimson galas, 2 daybreak fujis and 2 late season fujis. They'll be shipped via UPS, but exactly how, I don't know. Do they travel in a box with air holes like an animal crate? Or perhaps wrapped in a burlap sack sitting shotgun beside the UPS driver? I didn't dare ask. I didn't want to seem like a newbie apple grower.

But the guy on the phone was wise. Before we hung up, he took over where Gene left off: "once they're planted, cut them back to 34 inches in height and as the buds begin to swell..."

"wait, what's going to be swelling?"

"The buds. The buds swell. You'll know. Just rub off the second and third from the top so the single leader will grow tall."

At this point, I stopped taking notes.

If the trees make it to 2010, it'll be a miracle.

Country time living, old school fun

You know that Country Time Lemonade commercial that uses iconic scenes of summer to push its powdered drink? It's the TV ad that shows a kid coasting over a river in a tire swing, twins walking through a field of flowers, a couple strolling down a winding, stone-walled path in the setting sun?

It's kind of like that. Only it's March and it's a mud puddle.

Who needs TV -- or a glass of sugar-laden lemonade, for that matter -- when you have a pothole filled with murky water and a muddy driveway full of rocks? Spring never smelled so sweet.

Help Me help You!

When Martin and I lived in the suburbs, we barely knew anyone on our block, aside from our Jimmy Buffet-loving neighbors who had a bar in their basement, and Kevin, the ageless man-boy with Tourette's who rammed passing cars with a shopping cart, mowed lawns (and flower beds and trees), and delivered the Washington Post, all the while screaming "here's your Sunday inserts, sh*& heads!"

But now that we live in rural-land, we're part of a tight-woven community. People call you "neighbor" even when you live 8 miles away. And when the closest store is a 15-minute drive, of course you can borrow a couple of eggs. Heck, just come on over for dinner!

People who measure life in acres, bales and diesel prices won't hesitate to loan you a set of tools or lend a hand to split a pile of wood. But more than anything, they love to dispense advice. As in, "you gotta fix that fence line" or "about time you reseed your pasture" or "you planning to prune back those trees?"

I don't mind the gentle reminder, the not-so-cloaked nag. Please, tell me what I should do. THEN, tell me how I should do it.

That's where the lines of communication go dead. And I'm not sure why. Maybe it's that "I walked to school five miles in the snow, up hill, in both directions" mentality. They toughed it out, now it's your turn.

Most people who live out here grew up out here. They learned how to fix a tractor, pull a horse shoe, mend a fence. It's inconceivable that you don't know how to attach a bush hog to your tractor.

Never mind that just a few years ago, I would have guessed that a bush hog was a wild pig that lives in the shrubbery.

My rural education began and ended in 3rd grade when we spent two days studying "agriculture in Eastern Maryland" and I learned why the two-laned road to the eastern shore stinks like chickens.

Unfortunately, Martin's in the same boat, which is why we alternate asking questions. "Should we spread lime on our fields?" "How much gravel do we need to fix the drive?" "What's this funky fungus on our grapevine?" The neighbors just smile all the while thinking, "Are these two joking or are they just stupid?"

So we've abandoned asking questions. We pretend we know what we're doing and plunge in. Unfortunately, the learning curve is paved with potholes.

When we first moved here, we borrowed the neighbor's tractor and promptly stranded it in our field. "Don't you know that you can't run a tractor totally dry?" the owner asked us, as he hiked through knee-deep fescue to prime the fuel pump.

So far no one's lost an appendage through our mishaps, though Martin came awfully close to blowing up the house when he showered the cellar in fuel while fixing the furnace. But again, that was a single slip-up. Most of the time we just look like rubes, not suicidal maniacs.

Years ago before the days of the sheep, when the apple trees were still moderately fruitful, people said, "You got to prune those trees!"

"Okay," we said. "How? How much do we take off?"

"Well, you got to cut them back a lot if you want good fruit."

Martin took that advice and a set of pruning shears and 3 hours later, it looked like Edward Scissorhands had been over. Months later, we were holed up in the dark, smoky shadows of our local bar, escaping the summer heat and humidity. In the normal neighborly fashion, the old guy sitting next to us introduced himself, and we swapped "what to do you do" and "where do you live." When we described our farm, his eyes widened with recognition.

"Oh! You aren't the folks that hacked up those nice apple trees!"

Martin and I both paused to suck down our beers. "No," I finally said, rolling my eyes. "Those are our neighbors."