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...."