Spawn of Turtlezilla

Friday the 13th.  A day of bad luck, and terror by chainsaw.  The world ends, and the unholy creatures crawl out from their lairs to devour the innocent.  Friday the 13th: the day I met Turtlezilla, face to face.  I am grateful that I've lived to tell the tale.

Now, for most of this year, my husband has been setting up his game camera (game cam, for those in the know) all over the farm, just to see what there is and where.  Mostly he was interested in establishing a pattern for the deer over the course of the year.  But one week, way back in May, he set it up down at the pond, just to see what was going on there.

Oh, the goslings were so cute!  Lots of deer, some raccoons, and cute little painted turtles enjoying the sun.  The occasional glimpses of the heron: amazing.  It was also interesting to watch the 4'x8' raft drifting here and there in the pond, tethered by a long rope, but also drifting with the small currents and the wind.

But we also saw this...

What. The. Hell.

It is like a freaking dinosaur crawled out of the ooze and muck from the bottom the pond and ate the world.  This is a snapping turtle, supposedly.  I think it is a radioactive mutation that somehow wound up in a farm in Virginia.

We named it Turtlezilla.  

Turtlezilla quickly became the stuff of legends:

  

• "The goslings are gone!  Turtlezilla must have eaten them!"  
• "Did you hear that big splash?  It must have been Turtlezilla jumping off the raft!" 
• "No otter this year.  Turtlezilla must have scared them off."  
• "Wow, the remains of a dead deer.  Turtlezilla must have got him."  
• "Don't let Amy near the pond!  Turtlezilla might eat her!" 
• "Don't let the Boy near the pond!  Turtlezilla might eat him!"

The Husband was concerned, obviously, especially when other shots showed more than a few large turtles.  So he emailed the local CPO (Conservation Police Officer, which is code for game warden) with the photo above, asking if he could recommend anyone who deals with turtles.

See, here is the deal about snapping turtles.  They pretty much have no natural predators once they reach a certain size.  And their bites can do severe damage.  They usually only bite humans (or dogs) when they are out of water, and feel threatened.  However, while they are scavengers who will eat plant or animal matter, they are also active hunters, who will dine on other reptiles, fish, birds, and small mammals.  ( Click this link if you want a brief overview of snapping turtles.

And now enters the hero of this story:  Luke Hoge, Turtle Hunter.

Luke showed up and I took him down to the pond.  We explored the paths, and then he set up a handful of traps and promised to come back on Friday.  Friday, the 13th.

I take one to two walks around the property every day.  The first evening of the traps, I could tell immediately that one had caught something.  The bobber, (in this case a gallon size jug) was BOUNCING in the water.  BOUNCING.  

Luke returned on Friday around noon.  I asked if I could tag along when he went to check his traps.  He's a nice, friendly guy, and he seemed pleasantly surprised, if not amused, that I asked, but he was willing enough to have a dumb city girl who wore knee high boots tag along.  I grabbed my phone and took off after his truck.  (And I should note here, and there really isn't an actual road to the pond.  He widened our walking paths beautifully.)

He parked and hauled in the first trap, which was attached to the raft.  Nothing...  He waded out into the pond, armed only with a pair of gloves, and hauled in the second trap.  And I squealed like a little girl.  He'd caught not one, not two, but THREE turtles.  Two HUGE snapping turtles and a painted turtle.

For reference, that itty bitty little painted turtle, was actually about 6 inches long.  The larger of the two snapping turtles was about triple that.  He was two feet,and longer than that when you add in that monster tail and huge snapping beak.  Luke guessed that this guy was probably about 60 years old.  (I have no idea how to tell how old a turtle is.)  The female was maybe 14 inches?  He kept the two snapping turtles and released the poor painted turtle, who was trapped with two hostile animals who could not stop hissing and lunging at each other.

These are scary creatures!  Their beaks were lethal looking.  Their claws were over an inch!  And they were fearless.  Luke had to keep twisting to avoid their head and the nails.  He let me snap the pictures, and then he tossed them into the back of his truck.

Luke checked the last trap.  Two more big snapping turtles, a male and a female.  The male was not quite as large as the first guy, maybe 2-3 inches shorter.  The female was the smallest of the four.  Luke estimated her at around 9-10 inches.  They were tossed into the truck as well.

As Luke began to pack his equipment, I asked a ton of questions, which he was willing enough to answer.  Turtles have to be a minimum of 11 inches to harvest for meat.  (He planned to re-locate the smallest female.)  The oldest turtle he's ever harvested was about a 150 years old.  (Wow.)  He says they taste kinda like the dark meat on a turkey.  The hatchlings (which are vulnerable to predators) are about the size of a quarter, and they have a 10-20% survival rate.  He also said that if the turtle is in the water, there is usually no danger.  They'll mostly just slink down into the mud and keep their distance from humans and dogs.

As we finished talking, we heard an odd sound.  I followed Luke to the back of his truck, and I kid you not... One of the males was making a break for it.  He'd managed to climb up the tailgate and was preparing to jump.  

We stood back and just watched.  (Seriously, did you click on the first link?  Look at the picture of that beak, the claws.)  He jumped, tumbled over, and began making a run for the pond.  (Well, as fast as he could.  He IS still just a turtle).  Luke grabbed his tail and got him back in the truck.

So, the temperatures are already declining, and yet Luke managed to capture four good-size snapping turtles in just under 48 hours.  He believes that we've got a great habitat for them, and we are sure to have more adults.  The pond is just under a half-acre, so it is possible, especially with several other ponds nearby.

Now, I have spent a lot of time comparing the photos.  Granted, I never did get a tape-measure out while Luke had them here.  And I only have that one grainy game-cam photo of Turtlezilla.  But, based on the dimensions of that raft, and some measuring of the original images, I think the big guy we caught is not Turtlezilla.  I don't think Luke caught him.  I think Turtlezilla is still there.  

We haven't seen the last of Turtlezilla.  And he knows we came after him.

[Acknowledgment:  Notes were taken during my interview of Luke Hoge, but I was standing out next to a pond, typing his answers into my Crackberry.  I attempted to double check what I recorded by verifying information on the web, and I feel reasonably confident that I relayed the information he gave me correctly.  BUT.  If I didn't, then the mistakes are all mine, and not Luke's.  Same goes with the measurements.  I tried to record what he told me, but I may have screwed those up as well.  If any of you are super computer nerds and want access to the original images so you can prove me wrong, then leave a comment.  Lastly, Luke was amazingly polite and also pretty damn funny.  I would happily recommend him to any locals who suspect they have a snapping turtle problem.  If you would like his contact information, then contact me.  Here is a video of him working his magic.]

I Am Clarence

Hi.  My name is Clarence.  I own a farm in Virginia.  I'm a big guy.  How big, you say?  Well, the other day, I was sitting on the compost heap, and I heard a human, a female human, scream, "Holey S**t!  There's a bear cub over there!"

That's an odd human.  She comes out to feed me from a ceramic bucket, but it is never the same food.  I like the slightly rotten tomatoes.  I ignore the crumpled egg shells, and am not fond of the coffee grounds.  One day she gave me a whole head of slimy lettuce.  I just sat basking in the sun and nibbled it from the leaves all the way down to the stem.  Yum.  The best was when she tossed out two overripe spaghetti squashes.  I am ashamed to admit, I devoured them both at one sitting.

As I was saying, that human, she is odd.  She wears a funny leaf or something over her head, sometimes brown, sometimes, black, and sometimes blue and green.  And she wears these weird rubbery things on her feet.  Those look like they'd be tough to chew.  And, though she comes out to feed me every day or so, other times I hear her calling the black furry barking dog to chase me.

I thought she was amusing at first, the human.  Once, I was watching one of my females with our twins, and the human started barking at them.  Seriously.  She barked, and she sounded fierce.  My family scattered, and the human's companions all laughed.  Now that the human has her dog here all the time, I know who she learned from.  I didn't think humans were smart enough to learn animal languages.

I have tunnels everywhere.  I have quite a network, although my favorite door is in that compost heap.  But the human and her male seem intent on finding me.  They actually set up a camera to try to find me.  Ha!  As if they could find my holes.  You can only find one of my holes if you step in one, but more on that later.  The camera.  They set it up all over my farm.  At first, I carefully sneaked under the camera and ate the female's vegetables.  That game got old.  So then, I decided to just ignore it, and go about my business as usual.

One day, as the camera was making those tiny little noises, snapping me as I walked by, it hit me.  Maybe it would be more fun to photo bomb the camera.  So, I took a big bite of leaf, stood up on my back legs, and started chewing.  I did it a couple of times.  I wanted to show it my bum, but I am too short.  But that gave me the next idea.  I could get my animal friends to photo-bomb as well!  Whenever I saw the camera, I would tell everyone where it was!  What a great idea!  We got to work.

Yeah, good times.  The buck tried to do the photo bomb, but he wound up mooning the camera instead.  Show-off.











However, all good things come to an end.  The female got her male to set up a gun and shoot it.  He shot at paper, which I think is pretty odd, but I know what happens next.

So, I laid a trap.  In one of my outbuildings, I have an old network of holes and tunnels coming up into the floor.  The female was in there, and I watched her carefully step around the holes.  Then she left to go investigate the outside walls--I think she was considering the building for a chicken-coop.  While she was gone, I connected two holes together just for her...inches under the ground.  I mean, why else would I dig such a shallow tunnel?

Sure enough, she came back.  She stepped around the big holes by the door, and then moved to step between the two connected ones.  One foot down, and the tunnel collapsed, and she screamed as her foot sank into the dirt.  She jumped away, screaming as she ran out.

I just about died laughing.  I wonder what else I can do to provoke that noise again.

I am Clarence.  I am a groundhog.  I am legion.

No Good Deed Goes Unpunished

Before, from the study

It all began with a rose.

The garden just beyond the morning room windows was teaming with plant life, intended and otherwise.  I gazed many times upon the plants and weeds, wondering which was which, but was too busy to get my gloves and boots on and haul myself outdoors.  After all, there were still boxes to unpack, furniture to arrange, and laundry to be washed, folded, and ironed.

The point is that weeding that garden was on the To-Do list, but way at the bottom.  And well, I like to think that green is green, and flowers are flowers.

And then I noticed a pink flower.  It was a rosebud.  I thought, I would love to smell that rose.  After all, Country Kitty wouldn't have planted a modern rose that smells only of the pesticides and fertilizers required to keep it alive.  I decided to go take a look.

The path was no more.  There was waist-high grass and weeds, and some odd flowering plants that were eye-level.  I had no idea what they were, but they were keeping me from the rose.  Defeated, I walked away.  That rose preyed on my mind, however.  What would it smell like?  What would it look like when it opened?  Would it hang around for awhile?

That evening, at dinner, we repeated the increasingly familiar pattern of my son talking too much to eat the food while it was still warm, and then refusing to eat.  It is frustrating, and nothing seems to avoid it other than giving him pizza or hot dogs or hamburgers.  Which I refuse to cook special for him.  So, I was getting increasingly impatient; and, I happened to look over his shoulder and see the pink rosebud peeping through the weeds.

I stood up, and calmly excused myself.  I put away my dinner things, stepped into my garden shoes, pulled on my hat and garden gloves, and blundered in.

I steadily filled a garden waste barrel with clover, various weed grasses, and creeping vines.  I cleared area in the dirt around the peonies, the lilies, and the pond grasses. I yanked all sorts of dandelions and crab grasses from the stone path.  It took me forty-five minutes to make the approach to the bush.  I was too tired and sweaty to remember to sniff the rosebud.

Two more weeding sessions.  I had decided that I would clear the entire garden before I enjoyed that rose.  I made four trips to the compost heap.  I discovered that the eye level plant really was an evil weed whose flowers were about to burst like tiny dandelions.  I dodged spider webs, crawling beetles, and about seventy-two thousand gnats.  I surprised the frogs as I cleared around the pond.  I caught a glimpse, after one of the weeding sessions, of a chipmunk exiting the cleared area, his cheeks bulging with seeds.  I replanted the few bulbs I accidentally pulled up, and I mourned the single paper lantern that I unceremoniously yanked out from behind a stone urn, not recognizing what it was before I pulled.

After

I finally finished.  I circled the garden a few times, pleased with the results, and frankly thinking that, although the garden now looked a bit nude, it was gorgeous. 

I collected my gardening tools, and the few straggles of weeds already drying sadly in the sunlight that I'd missed when clearing the debris.  I made my approach to that glorious pink rosebud which was on the verge of spreading the top petals by now.  I moved closer, breathing the heady aroma of a real rose.  My nose touched the silky petal.  I inhaled deeply.

And then I sniffed a gnat up my nose.

I think the hummingbirds are bloody lucky that their nostrils are so small.

Receiving Guests

Rooms were looking good.  Paths were clear.  Some weeding had been attempted, and yards had been mown.  I was ready to receive guests on the farm.

I didn't grow up in an environment where one entertained.  I hosted my first party ever back in 2003:  a party to celebrate our newly purchased house.  There were a few more there, and after we moved to a much bigger home, I began to entertain semi-often.  I cannot call myself an extraordinary hostess, but I've learned to enjoy planning unusual occasions, arranging decorations, and creating interesting menus.  My Anti-Valentine Play-Reading Party was a huge success, but I guess I outdid myself when I hosted my brother's wedding and reception for over 40 people.  It was semi-casual (for a wedding), but it was a nice affair.  Last year, when we house-sat a townhouse for friends who went to Puerto Rico for a year (just because!), I had to scale down the entertaining.  Other than my son's birthday party, when I squeezed 15 additional people into my living area, I limited myself to no more than three guests.

Now, there is parking, there is plenty of space for entertaining, and I am looking forward to having many a nice party.

So, last week, I thought I would have a few guests:

Friday: one of my girlfriends, who was to bring her twins to play with the Boy.
Saturday: two friends from good old Austin College.
Sunday: the Son of Country Kitty, who grew up here and who I've decided to adopt as my slightly younger brother.

FRIDAY

My dear friend from the old neighborhood came over with her kids.  I gave her a tour of the house before we decided to settle in the sun-room.  My son and the twins were upstairs in the "playroom"... which is really a nice den area that has been co-opted by tons of Legos, an old wooden farm, eighteen thousand construction trucks, and three bookshelves full of books.  There is an area for adults to sit, and frankly, with a window unit in that area, it is pleasant.  But three kids spreading out allows little room for two adult women who want to catch up on gossip what's been going on in our lives.

Maybe forty-five minutes later, my husband wandered in and said he'd just had to go upstairs and break up a fight.  Huh?  We'd heard nothing.  Apparently, my son had pitched a fit because I wouldn't let him have his cow-popper (which may be one of the most evil gifts he's ever received), so he went up to the playroom and slammed his door repeatedly.  

Sunroom= cannot hear the rest of the house.  Now I know, and I suspect I'll be spending more time there....

SATURDAY

Wine Friend came over with College Friend from Austin.  She has twins also, but they were back in Texas.  We were going to grill burgers, drink wine, and play a board game or two after the Boy was in bed.

Before dinner, I gave College Friend a tour, and took her to see the garden...which needed to have its paths mowed.  Oops.  So, the garden tour was us walking along the perimeter of the fence, and me pointing and saying stupid things like, "And there are my tomatoes.  I really need to harvest.  And there are my butternut squashes.  I don't know when I get to harvest those."  And so on.

I offered up some appetizers:  a cream-cheese dip whose recipe I'd altered because of allergies.  That came out great.  The home-canned salsa...not so much.  I hadn't sampled this year's batch yet.  L-A-M-E.  My jalapenos were not particularly strong this year, and my tiny little tomatoes dictated that I puree them rather than chop.  Wine Friend and I dug through my (organized, thank you very much) spice cabinet and added about a million powders and seasonings in an attempt to make the salsa acceptable. 

Hamburgers for dinner.  Great.  The meal went nicely (and the wine flowed).  After the meal, we cleaned up a bit and that is when we were supposed to decide on games... except we didn't.  We wound up with a fire pit in the front yard (but not where you could actually see the stars), cigars and more wine, and (I am blushing to admit this) the hostess falling asleep on the couch in the sun-room.  Games were out of my head until the next day.  Embarrassing.

SUNDAY

I had promised ribs and home-made ice cream to CK's son.  I struggled to finish thawing the ribs before the time I had to start cooking them.  I succeeded, and they were amazing, if I may brag a bit.  

However... the ice-cream.  See, July 4 dinner here at the farm, I was supposed to make ice-cream.  I had my machine, my special vanilla, the sugar, and left the whole milk and heavy cream at home.  We used the 2% milk on hand, and attempted to experiment by adding whipped butter to thicken it.  Butter-chunk ice-dream is dreadful.  Period.  So, I promised CK's Son that I would provide good ice cream this time, ha ha.

I had the ingredients on hand this time.  However, I had not remembered to put my ice-cream basin in the freezer until the previous day.  And I couldn't find the recipe book anywhere.  Still we made a game attempt...which didn't work, because 24-hours is NOT enough to freeze the basin.  I had to offer chocolate instead.

But, we did play two rounds of croquet, and had a blast.  There were bugs, a storm was forming north of us...and passing north of us, and someone far off was firing off a bazooka or something.  It could have just been an elephant gun.  My husband thought it was probably someone sighting in their rifle for hunting season (which opens next weekend!).  Then the guys sat in the breakfast/morning room and did some computer thing.  I understood the following phrases:  signal strength, wi-fi, passwords, router.  I did the dishes.

After a bit, it was time for the Boy to go to bed.  We were heading upstairs, and thanking CK's Son for visiting, when the Boy suddenly stops and announces that there is a mouse on the stairs.

Here are the reasons it couldn't have been a mouse.  One, the stairs were totally dark, and how could he possibly see a mouse?  Two, mice run away from humans.  Three, why on earth would a mouse be hanging around on the stairs anyway?

We called for light.  It was mouse.  It was cute and furry and too small to jump up from the stair.  He looked as though he was thinking about nesting in my silk dressing gown.  CK's Son trapped it in a plastic storage container (which has been sterilized since).  The Husband took it outside to dispose of it.  CK's Son left, I read to the Boy, and we all settled down.

I wondered how the Husband "disposed" of the mouse.  I mean, Katt is a terrible cat, in that she doesn't hunt.  I didn't think he'd taken it out and shot it since I'd heard no gunshot, and plus it was only slightly larger than my thumb.

Me:  So, what did you do with it?

Him:  I disposed of it.

Me:  Did you kill it?

Him:  No, I took it out into the field.

Me:  You just let it go?

Him:  Sort of.

Me:  What does that mean?

Him: (sheepishly) I threw him.

Me:  Did you pick him up by the tail or something?

Him: (even more sheepishly)  I just threw him from the container.

Me:  (laughing at image of the flying mouse)

I liked having my friends over, because I invited them.  

The mouse?  So not invited.

Ghosts, Spiders, and Croquet

We are settling in nicely.  I've spent a lot of time unpacking and arranging things, and while there is much more to do, it is more focused (i.e. "Where the %@^$ are my headbands?" versus "OMG, another box marked Kitchen?").  But, while unpacking is never an easy process, I have made lots of progress.

I've been able to linger over my coffee and my lunch, and the morning room/breakfast nook/ room off the kitchen is a marvelous place to linger.  Two walls are huge, old fashioned type windows, the ones with lots of little panes, rather than one big pane with a grid laid across it.  Miss L told me that if one of the panes got broken, we can actually go down an actual hardware store in the historic downtown area, and replace the pane.  How cool is that?

Anyhow, I read too much, and lingering over my coffee is one of the best times to read.  I sit here, in the morning room, with a view of the lawn to my left, and the patio and pond immediately before me, full of fluttering butterflies of black, yellow, gold, blue, and white... although at the moment, there is a little boy creating worlds with his Legos blocking some of that view.  Anyhow, the book I've been lingering with is by Shirley Jackson:  The Haunting of Hill House.  This is a selection from the opening paragraph:

"Hill House stood by itself against its hills, holding darkness within...walls continued upright, bricks met neatly, floors were firm, and doors were sensibly shut; silence lay steadily against the wood and stone of Hill House, and whatever walked there, walked alone."

 Oops.  For those of you who haven't read it, this is a terrifying book, even if there is no blood, guts, or gore.  (Actually, there is a bit of blood, come to think of it.  If you HAVE to watch one of the films, watch this version.  You should read it, if you can.)  I've read this book dozens of times, and gotten the chills, and my mouth drops open as I discover new gems hidden within the text.  Here's the one that gave me chills just yesterday, in which Dr. Montague is explaining the architecture of Hill House...

"Every angle...is slightly wrong.  Hugh Crain must have detested other people and their sensible squared away houses, because he made his house to suit his own mind.  Angles which you assume are the right angles you are accustomed to... are actually a fraction of a degree off in one direction or another.  I am sure, for instance, that you believe the stairs you are sitting on are level, because you are not prepared for stairs which are not level... [they] are on a very slight slant toward the central shaft, the doorways are all a very little bit off center..."

I could go on, but I am certain you know where this is heading.  THERE ARE ALMOST NO LEVEL FLOORS IN THIS HOUSE!!  The rooms are odd shapes (not square!) The doors are unusual sizes, and some refuse to close while others refuse to open.  There are little stairs here and there.  All this can be attributed to four different constructions over the 300 year history of this farmhouse.  Before yesterday, I found all this charming and quirky, and I regarded it all affectionately.  But that scene, which has NEVER gotten me before, got me yesterday.  And as I walked through the house last night, closing windows, turning off lights and checking doors... I thought, "Whatever walks these wooden floors, walks alone."

Speaking of walking (yeah, I am totally changing the subject--there is no one to hear me scream in the night, except the boy, who does NOT need to wake up like that!)... this weekend the paths in the upper and lower fields were mown (and widened, thank you so much, City Tomcat Husband.)  Yesterday morning, the boy and I took the dog and our trusty web-wands out for a walk.  We saw many interesting things, but what captured our interest the most was all the fascinating spider webs along the path.  (The ones in our path were destroyed by my waving tree branch and the boy's swinging ball on a rope.)  We saw funnel and sheet webs, but the one we watched being constructed was an orb.  Here is a crappy picture of it:

Now what was extraordinary about it was the actual spider.  We were close and I found a picture of what it looks like.   (I am attaching a link, because I do have a few friends who might murder me if I put a big picture of a spider here.  Take a look at the blog, and scroll down to the 12th picture.)

Spiders are everywhere inside.  I am trying to remember that they are here to eat the other bugs, and that they are my friends... but it is hard to remember that when I am about to plug in an electric cord and see a little spider sitting on her web, grinning up at me with sharp pointy teeth.

The day ended nicely, despite the ghost stories and spiders.  The boy and I played a few rounds of croquet on the newly mown lawn.  It was fun.  And I tell you, there is nothing quite like being able to shout with laughter and not wonder if the neighbor is gonna start peaking out the window to see if someone is being slaughtered.  Because...

"No one can hear you if you scream in the night."  -Eleanor Vance in The Haunting of Hill House by Shirley Jackson

I Live On A Farm... And I Have A Truck!

I LIVE ON A FARM NOW!!!

We've been here since Friday.  All I've done is unpack, pretty much.  I've managed to sneak in a few walks.

The best walk was dragging three garbage cans out the "curb"... down the gravel driveway, up the rise, after dark.  The first two trips, I entertained myself by shining the heavy duty flashlight into the trees and undergrowth.  The third, I finally remembered that we are close to a full-moon, so I turned off the light and walked by moonlight.  That was worth it.  The world looks different when not blazing with light.  I must do that more often.

The worst walk involved me forgetting that I need a "web-wand" when strolling down a mown path through the trees.  I usually grab a fallen branch and wave it around madly as I walk, as if I was Gilderoy Lockhart.  The purpose of the web-wand is to break up the SPIDER WEBS that form exactly where I want to walk.  So... there I was, strolling down the mown path through the trees, and I walked right into a big web, which I am certain MUST have had a carnivorous spider waiting for prey like me.  I shrieked... No.  Let's be honest.  I screamed like a horror-movie blonde.  I was madly attempting to brush the spider off (not that I knew she was there, but why take chances?) as I wiped the web out of my hair.  BECAUSE I HAD FORGOTTEN MY BIG-BRIMMED HAT.  To my credit, I did laugh after I stopped running.

What else?  We've seen a stray cat, a lot of deer, a chipmunk or two, several bunnies, a mangy looking cardinal as well as many chickadees, which is my son's favorite bird to identify currently.  Lots of frogs in the pond in the patio.  I saw five today.  I excitedly told my son, who hardly raised his eyes from his Legos to say, "I saw six yesterday."  

So what, kiddo?  I am sitting in the breakfast nook, listening to those frogs and the cicadas and the crickets.  He's asleep, the dog is stretched out somewhere, and the cat is catting around outside.

The dog has been here since the beginning of the month.  Amy and Katt began as housemates cautiously, but have progressed to touching noses and smelling each other occasionally.  But yesterday, they behaved like, well, cats and dogs.  Big fight over the cat food.  I made the mistake of feeding Amy at dinner time when Katt was outside.  Later, when Katt came inside, I thought I would feed her.  I must be stupid.  There was food EVERYWHERE.  Even under the dish.  Katt's water was splashed over cat, dog, floor, food, wall, steps... and into the three next rooms as Katt took off running.  Amy is now banished when Katt is eating.

Speaking of eating.  I have now cooked twice on the gas stove/ oven, which matches the rest of the kitchen theme.  1800s? (I must ask Miss L, the Country Kitty, before she leaves.)  Anyway, it is all rounded and has little doors.  It is a modern appliance, however...I've never cooked on gas before.  So, there I was last night.  I had decided to cook spaghetti, since I had two spaghetti squashes that we needed to eat.  I was prepared to do that...until I remembered that I have no effing clue where my baking dishes are.  Somewhere in the dining room in a box marked "Kitchen- Stuff", maybe?  Anyhow, I had to make do with real spaghetti (well, the gluten-free variety, which is pretty rocking).  I needed to brown the sweet Italian sausage from the half pig we bought last summer.  I needed to boil water.  And I needed to heat up the marinara.  No problem, right?  A dinner I could cook while half asleep.

The Stove/Oven.  (ignore the boxes)

First, I couldn't find the buttons, or dials, or whatever they are called.  They were hidden behind the cute little door on the left.  Then I didn't know which dial was for what burner.  And then I remembered that I had no freaking clue if I was supposed to push something to catch the flame, or how high to turn the dial.  I decided to just experiment.  I promptly managed to kill the pilot light.  Fortunately, I DID know what to do with that, since my son had blown it out the previous day when Miss L was just telling me about keeping eye on the pilot light.  So, I re-lit it.  After awhile, I managed to get one lit.  It wasn't the one I wanted, but I used it.  I had to get the meat cooking!  I then took about ten more minutes to get another going.  I am so grateful I have good pots (All-Clad Copper-Core), even if they are almost 12 years old.

My truck and the farm-house!  And a big tree!

Long story short (too late!), I did a great job, and the food was excellent.  And breakfast was even easier!  Yay me!  Although, Miss L dropped by this afternoon, and noticed that one of the pilot lights was out.  So glad this farmhouse was built during the French and Indian War... i.e. drafty.  Good grief.

Now, Miss L came to drop off the essential farm accessory.  A TRUCK!!!  Okay, I could care less that it is a truck, except that it is a stick shift!  My car, a 1997 Honda Civic, was totaled last November, and I miss driving stick so much.  So, I cannot tell you a thing about the truck other than it has almost 200k miles on it, and it is a stick shift!  Oh, and it doesn't have power windows or locks... JUST LIKE MY POOR HONDA!

Move is a Four Letter Word.

You've missed me?  That is sweet... unless you are annoyed that I haven't posted anything in a bit.  Trust me when I tell you that I don't intentionally annoy... well, I do, but in this case, I didn't.

I moved.  It was a special kind of hell.

See, I was supposed to move at the end of June.  And I planned my summer teaching schedule around that.  So, the summer camp was scheduled for the last two full weeks of July.  It was perfect.  Until it wasn't.  We extended our lease by a month so that we could get closer to a working move-in date at the farm.  So, I packed all through the month of June, into the first two weeks of July...although I also had to write an original script from scratch.  Which I did.  Which meant I hadn't quite gotten all the packing I had hoped to have done by the time my class began.  And so I taught, and packed only on the weekend....

Okay, boring story.  The point is, we had to be out of the townhouse at the end of July 31.  We made it... if you count before sunrise on August 1 as part of July 31.  No joke.  I was cleaning and packing vehicles until 4:30 a.m.  August 1, I wore my "Crit Happens" t-shirt.

So, about half of our belongings are in two climate controlled storage units.  Two-thirds of the remaining are at the farm, crowded into one room,more or less.  The remaining is with us as we crash at my Wine Friend's apartment while he is halfway across the world on vacation.  We move into the farm next week.

I am so excited!  In the meantime, we've been canning and freezing produce.  I now have something like 12 quarts of ratatouille frozen, and just canned 7 pints of hot peppers!  And the husband canned 6 jars of an amazing bread and butter/relish hybrid.  

My poor puppy has been living at the farm since July 31, and while she is enjoying the farm, she's missing us.  I miss her, too.  She is working out a relationship with Cat, the farm cat.

In the meantime, I am cooling my heels at a cool urban village with shopping and restaurants that I can see from my window!  We went to a movie on Friday and bowling on Saturday, for heaven's sake!  What a difference it will be going from this environment (which I confess, I am kinda digging) to 10 acres out in the country along a gravel road.

This will have been the weirdest month in my entire life.