Cheers and Tears

The week began with tears.  

Last Monday, we had to sit down with the Boy and really drive it home for him that we are going to be moving.  He doesn't want to leave:  he's going to miss the farm, the fields, his school, but mostly the chickens.  I assured him that Country Kitty agreed to keep the chickens, and I was certain we would be able to come out and see them.

His tears hurt both our hearts a little.  All three of us have grown accustomed to the farm, and all of us will miss it in some way.  The Husband will miss it more than I will, since this is his dream.  However, the farm has grown on me.  I'll admit there are things I've come to like about living in the country.  But, we have to find a place to live until the right opportunity presents itself.  So, we are looking at places both in town and in the country, if the commute for the Husband won't be any worse.

In the meantime, we are all determined to enjoy life here to the fullest.  The Boy and the Husband cleared out the upper field on Saturday.  The Boy has been spending even more time outside, playing frisbee and unfortunately chasing the chickens:  he loves the sounds they make.  I've just suggested to him that maybe he ought to record them, so he'll have the sound forever.  Big smiles.

white peaches

The peaches in the barnyard have come in finally.  White peaches, sweet as can be.  I don't know if I am going to have enough to attempt canning any.  Sad, that.  But the pears are also coming in, and we all shared a beautiful but tiny apple.

fixing a broken handle

Early last week, the chicken waterer appeared to have been knocked down.  Alas, the red carrying handle had broken somehow.  I found a suitable object to set the waterer down on, but wasn't relishing having to buy a new waterer.  I grumbled about it for a few days, and was working up to a new one, when it occurred to me that I could fix it!  I found some heavy wire, a few plastic corks from wine bottles, and went to work.  It is really cool, and way more comfortable to carry than the other had been.  I haven't rehung it, however, as I am not certain if the wire will keep its shape if it is holding 5 gallons of water underneath.

Sheila, the Eastern black swallowtail

We are not only raising chickens here on the farm.  All our work to preserve some butterfly habitats paid off!  The boys discovered tons of caterpillars in the fields this weekend.  We captured one (now called Sheila) and put in the Boy's Butterfly Habitat.  Sheila didn't do anything much on Sunday, but this morning, I found a cocoon!  Very exciting...

rat snake skeleton

The boys also uncovered the remains of the snake we killed:  nothing left but bones.  

The bones make me think about what we leave behind, how we affect the world and lives around us.  We've been here a year now, and I can see signs of our presence here:  the reconstructed chicken coop with its big pen, the white laurel, the new path through the woods, Katt's grave, all those funny trails in the lower field, the trees we've trimmed from the paths, the new lawn near the sunroom.  

But, the farm is also leaving its own trace on us.  The Boy identifies plants and bushes, where once he asked if everything was poison ivy.  He has no fear of wild animals now, and indeed recognizes that the cute fluffy bunnies are evil beasts from Troll Planet X, and that the majestic eagles we've glimpsed are a danger to our chickens.

I've learned how to use a riding mower, and how to dodge potholes.  I automatically climb into my muckers when I leave the house to chase down the dog or check on the chickens.  I rarely leave the house without my phone, so I can snap pictures of cool spiders or weird scat or an unusual footprint.  Heck, when I walk into a spider web, I don't even shriek anymore.  

Well, not as much, anyway.

The trees are beginning to turn, and leaves are falling already.  My garden is past its prime, and I've been considering planting a fall crop of greens and maybe broccoli.  At every task or observation, I now remember fondly how I handled it last year.

Memories fade.  But I did two amazing things last year, and will benefit for the rest of my life from them.  First, I agreed to try this whole living-in-the-country thing.  Second, I decided to create a blog so Country Kitty could see what we were experiencing.  I've recorded many of the big experiences, and more importantly, lots of little ones.  I'll have this forever.

But, in the meantime, I have two more months to live here.

And I will be living it.

An Odd Thing

I live on a farm, and I've had all sorts of odd experiences.  Like having to drag my groceries on a sled through three foot deep snow to get from the car to the house.  Like watching a spider cricket grow to maturity in the utility sink, because he was stuck there and I knew that if I tried to free him, he'd just crawl up my arm.  Like searching for a walking stick that can double as a web-wand.

We can also include under "Odd Experiences" the time I ran out of my house barefoot to rescue a chicken from a fox, then chasing that fox into the woods, and finally administering first aid to the chicken.  Or, the time when the sump pump backed up due to ice, and I got to spend several hours wading in my own basement when I wasn't crawling under the front porch, armed with a hairdryer and a few buckets of hot water.

I hardly think about the odd things I do on a daily basis now.  I stepped into the shower the other day, and saw a spider on the inside of the plastic shower curtain.  I was already wet, and I didn't want to call for assistance, so I just gathered the folds between my hands and slammed them together, effectively squishing the spider.  I then took my shower.

This morning, I reached into the trash can to rescue the toast crusts that the Boy had accidentally thrown away:  the chickens love cinnamon toast crusts.

However, something happened last week that has captured my imagination.

One of my best friends came for the week, a last-minute trip that was so great.  She and I did some of the things that I have been meaning to do for a long time, but never got around to doing:  visiting the local distillery for the tour and tasting; hiking a section of the Appalachian Trail; and getting out on Friday night to hit the local First Friday event.

We also spent hours talking and laughing, enjoying wine every evening.  I gave my usual tour of the farmhouse, pointing out all the charming details (moss from the 1700s, ax marks in the log walls, adorable kitchen) and the places to watch out for (sloping floors, odd steps up or down, low ceilings). Of course, I also showed her around the farm and entertained her with all the adorably odd habits I've picked up here.

Her favorite was my web-wand.  We went on a walk of the fields, munching on the occasional blackberries, letting the Boy pick our route, so he could show us the new paths he mowed with his father.  (And they are hilarious.  Period.  Curves and twists...if I hadn't known that the Boy had done them, I would have thought that his father had been doing something with the weeds other than mowing them.)  Anyhow, my friend was giggling over my web-wand, and had already pictured Lockhart before I explained it.

Moments, later, however, we came upon the really odd thing.

We have rain and storms often enough, and we come across fallen branches and other assorted storm debris.  But this evening, in middle of the path, we found this nest.

It looked undisturbed.  There were no obvious nesting branches overhead.  No sign of a distressed mama bird.  Just a nest full of cloth fibers and a perfect egg.  Google failed us when we tried to identify it, although the closest match was a bird species so common I've already forgotten its name.

Who knows how it happened?  We'll never know, but for once, something odd enough happened that I actually recognized that it was odd.  And it made me think about how many things I have come to accept as just part of my day, that had once seemed so extraordinary.

So, I will go back to waving my web-wand and eating fruit right off the bushes, tormenting the local foxes and feeding my chickens slightly-rotten but organic cucumbers and tomatoes along with their favorite cinnamon toast crusts.  And I will look at it all and giggle at how far the City Kitty has come.

How Do I Pick?

I've had a lawn before.  And I had a 20x20 garden plot for a few years.  I know about outdoor work, and what needs to be done.

That is the case here on the farm.  I know about outdoor work, and I know what needs to be done.  The issue before me is, how do I prioritize the tasks?  If I mow the garden paths in the big garden...then I don't have time to spend prepping the beds.  If I haul more wood to the burn pile, we could get another evening burn in before the burn ban...but that is time I could spend weeding the flower garden.  I could dig dandelions all day...but I would hardly make a dent, so I have to set an timer to make me stop.  And I don't even have to worry about mowing the fields, because the Husband does that.

Something I tell my acting students is, "If everything is important, then nothing is important."  And I am trying to think in that way here.  If I try to do everything, then nothing will get done... including showering, meals, my writing, and looking through all the lovely pictures I've taken of spring on the farm and still haven't shared.

So, my choice today is to quickly summarize the amazing share-worthy stories and pick some awesome photos.


Top Ten Stories
1. We've had two bonfires in two weeks.  I'm getting good at building the proper structure.

2. We lost Vader to a fox three days after Elastigirl, but gained a lovely girl named Pickles.  She's an escape artist, so she will be uniquely suited to a free-range environment.

3. The kitchen garden is doing beautifully!  Lettuce, kale, beets, peas, and Swiss chard are doing well, and I don't know what the onions and carrots are doing.

4. Turtlezilla has been sighted.  A lovely duck and her mate lost all the eggs she was guarding on the raft.  Sad.
5. While the Husband and I were hauling wood for the last pile, a frog suddenly appeared on his glasses...and just sat there.

6. The entire path around the farm got mowed, because the swamp finally dried out enough to the take the tractor down there.  Now we have 4 inches of rain expected this week.  Boo!

7. We dug out the fire pit...which had been looking more like a fire mound, and hauled all the muddy-ash mixture down Clarence's holes.  Take that, groundhogs!  I also dumped all the weeds I pulled while prepping a bed in the big garden down another of his holes...  Probably just a snack for him, but it felt good doing it.

8. Katt had another decline.  I took her to the vet, and apparently our dear kitty has a pretty bad heart murmur AND high blood pressure.  I have my freaking cat on aspirin, and blood pressure medication.

9. Amy has gained about six pounds since her last vet visit.  She's more active, she cannot get to Katt's food anymore... so she is now banned from the mudroom at all times so we can prevent her from eating cat poo.  The vet said that is pretty high fat content.  I think it is pretty gross.


10. I finally had a big party here.  It was fun, and I have learned that I must never walk around with a wine glass again.  Somehow, it kept filling itself... But, to have so many wonderful friends, both new and old, made for a wonderful evening.

And that is all the news.  Now... to run off and weed before the rain starts.

Winter Is Out To Get City Kitty

See, I was just thinking I had a snow hangover.  You know what I mean.  Too much snow, too much ice, too many low temperatures.  My enjoyment of winter shot past the happy buzz place, into the I'm-falling-all-over-my-feet phase, and is now throwing up into the snow.

But Winter shot past the, "Ha ha, City Kitty lives on a farm, here's the real experience," to the, "Let's kill City Kitty because she's hiding in the farmhouse, missing the true misery we've been trying to inflict upon her, and now we need to drag her out by her hair and slaughter her."

The gloves have come off...literally.  Old Man Winter and the Weather Witch hooked up and have it in for me.

They found me in the sunroom...

I thought I was safe inside...

I'm scared...  I don't think a hairdryer is gonna save me this time.

Resilience

Resilience: the capacity to recover quickly from difficulties; toughness.

We just had a major snow event (as in, a foot and a half of snow).  And I survived.  The Weather Witch drew no blood.  Well, some blood was spilled, but it was from common carelessness, and certainly not an elevator full of blood.

I am frankly surprised I did as well as I did.  Country Kitty told me that, back during the Snowpocalypse of 2010, they didn't get off the farm for TWO WEEKS.  And the forecasts for the Lovelanche (Love+Avalanche... I totally think that is a stupid name for the storm, but the interwebs never lie.) were showing up to two feet of snow.  I should have been full of dread.

But I wasn't.  I had stocked up ahead of time, so we had plenty of milk and fruit.  We already have a well stocked freezer, and we buy TP at Costco, so we are set well into May.  We had already purchased our generator and tested it.  I felt... prepared. Ish.  All I had to do the day before the snow was to prepare the chicken coop, and figure out some way to cover the generator in the event we needed to run it while it was snowing.

Wednesday, the day before the Lovelanche was to begin, didn't begin particularly well.  The recycling center was full, so I had to bring home two big bags of recycling.  The sump pump outflow hose had frozen again... and there was a wading pool in the cellar.  It should have been a relatively small issue... but it wasn't.  I had to pour hot water into the outside end of the hose and move it around to get the ice chunks loosened.  I also hauled out my nice, professional grade hair dryer in an attempt to warm the hose.  No dice.  I eventually had to set up the old sump pump, attach it to a garden hose, and snake it up the cellar stairs, out the dining room window, and across the yard.  River in the middle of the front yard?  Check.  I had muddy boots and shirt, wet gloves, and an open window in 30 degree temps.  But dammit, I no longer had an increasing flood in the basement.

It didn't take long to deal with the chickens, but I still hadn't begun the genny shelter, and it was already long after noon.  I had already decided that I would use part of the dismantled scaffolding in the corn crib.  But I had to figure out how to cover that structure in such a way that two feet of snow wouldn't destroy.  I also had to move the frame and cross braces all by myself.  It was exhausting, and my muscles were trembling by the time I had carried them all the way to the location we'd picked. 

After lunch, I had the pleasure of trying to erect scaffolding by myself.  (NOT a one-person job.) Moving it into place over the generator was hilarious.  By the time the bus delivered my son, I had it placed, and was glad to accept the Boy's help in building the roof.  I tell you, there was something comical about an exhausted woman and a 7 year old carrying a big sheet of 3/4" plywood all the way across the semi-icy barnyard and back yard, and then maneuvering it to the generator site.

I had to use more brains than brawn to get it in place--there was no way the Boy could help me lift it up to the cross braces (I needed a raked ceiling, so the snow could slide down rather than pile up.)  I managed, and then we had the excellent adventure of extracting the big tarp from the ice and frozen cardboard on top of it.  (Frozen cardboard is terrifyingly heavy AND inflexible.  Never, ever, kick it.) Getting the tarp in place was also hilarious, although my sense of humor was too tired to laugh by then.  But, here you see the fruits of my labor!  It wasn't pretty, but it did the job!

But, there was an unexpected bit of good news.  In dealing with the sump pump, I was outside under the front porch, wiggling that hose back and forth as I tried to loosen the ice, when I heard a rustling in the leaves under the porch.  I know we get skunks sometimes, so I backed away, and then took a careful look around the space.  As my eyes adjusted, I saw a brownish shape moving.  And then I recognized it.  It was Acid.

I don't know how that damn chicken survived 5 nights outside in below freezing temperatures, all by herself.  Nor do I know what she was eating, or why she didn't join the other girls when they were outside.  But she was there, healthy and more than willing to come out from under the porch.  I walked her back to the coop, and she hopped inside and seemed quite ready to eat.

So, we have seven girls again, but I notice that the hen-pecking has quieted.  She is more confident now, and not as scared of her shadow as she was.  It is amazing just how tough the smallest chicken can be.  

Now, the odd thing about her return was, that I was surprised, and that was all.  I was happy to return her to the flock, but I wasn't overjoyed, or even joyful.  I tried to tell myself that I had already accepted her death, and that she was not a pet.  I started wondering if I had become callous.

But then something occurred to me.  Acid had survived all that time on her own.  She came through her experiences, and none the worse for wear.  She'd figured out how to stay hydrated, she found her own food to eat, and she found a safe shelter.

I've survived too.  I've already faced so many experiences here on the farm that, at the time, seemed like the hardest lessons I've had to endure.  Each episode seemed enormous:  Gandalf's death, the icy driveway, the grumpy sump pump, the isolation.  And yet each of those experiences helped me to get through that preparation day with only a little blood, plenty of sweat, and few tears.  That preparation day was just another day.

I have accepted the reality of life out here.  The driveway will be an icy nightmare, therefore, I have to park the cars at the top of the hill, really close to the road.  Having free-range chickens means that I will lose some.  The arctic cold means the sump pump may freeze, so I have to be prepared to do what needs to be done to remove the water. And sometimes... sometimes you just have to embrace the inner redneck and run a garden hose out your dining room window.

Winter Tracks

The snow hung around until yesterday.  It was a glorious mid-40s!  I got away with a light jacket.  I felt the warmth of the sun on my face and hands ('cause I didn't have the wear gloves!), and after arguing quite eloquently with the chickens about going out (i.e., I threw them all outside), they strutted around all day.  Even Acid and ElastaGirl joined the old girls.  Alas, Mocha is the bottom of the pecking order, so she stayed inside and enjoyed the lack of harassment.

The snow melted, after almost two weeks of hanging around... I think.  Honestly, we've had so much coming and snowing that I cannot remember what is new and what is old.  It is snowing right now, for what it is worth.  And a huge blizzard is predicted for next weekend.

The Husband and I went out for a walk this last Saturday.  We walked the paths that no human had trod for days.  There was many a surprise in store.  For example...the pond was so iced over, that the deer had been crossing it.  I marveled at the tracks, wondering if we had misidentified them (even though by now we are almost experts at deer tracks around here...but more on that later).

fox? raccoon?  Who can say?

Well, the pond was THIS frozen.  As in a full grown man could have walked onto the ice and would not have fallen through.  Not that anyone in my family would have done such a thing...

We continued on the path through the lower pasture.  We saw these tracks, which may be raccoon but might also be fox.  I thought maybe it might be a small dog, but we were sure it was not the feral cat we see upon occasion.
One way or the other, I snapped it since we had no idea and were too lazy to look it up on our phones at the time. However, I have just looked it up. I found a similar image here.

deer highway

But this was the most amazing sight of the afternoon.  The path before us was heavily trafficked.  It was nothing but deer.  Deer!  Our field must be an interstate highway on the deer maps!  I couldn't believe the sheer volume of hoof prints.  Are they drug mules? (snicker) Or is there a party going on in the fields that I could be bringing wine to?

mouse runs

Now, the cutest sight we saw that afternoon was the little mouse runs under the snow, gradually appearing as the snow has melted.  We followed the runs for quite a way, through the bushes, past the old barn, toward the field, and there it split toward the compost heap and toward the farmhouse... rrr.



The biggest footprint (ha ha) were left by the humans.  Human runs (shoveled paths through what was once about eight inches of snow) show just how they circle their den, strike out for the mailbox and cross through the woods to where they left their car.  Amazingly, the deer and the dog also traversed those runs.

You know, we never did get around to shoveling the patio.  We were too busy dealing with the chickens, building forts, and marveling at the wildlife.  

Next weekend, we will have a blizzard, supposedly.  Two feet of snow.  I cannot wait to see all the new tracks in the snow.  But one of them better be a car returning with a fresh shipment of wine.  'Cause, a glass of wine makes the wildlife that much better.

Last Week

So, we had a winter event last week.  You probably know about it, it seemed to hit half the country.  We had a lovely three day weekend beforehand, and then snow on Tuesday.  And more snow.  And more snow.  And it snowed almost until midnight.  Supposedly, we had seven inches.  But really, we had ten.

Ten inches of snow is no big deal, although this was the first major snow event since the Snowpocalypse.  We were prepared.  We parked both vehicles at the top of the hill, made sure we had milk and supplies.  The propane tank was full(ish), and I made sure the chickens had a full tank of water and plenty of food.

I wasn't prepared for a whole week of no school.  Nope.  No siree.  

Since Tuesday was the snow day, I thought, I totally understand and support not having school.  The roads were a mess, and it was coming down!

Wednesday, the roads were still a mess, but we'd dug out the top of our driveway, and dug paths to the cars, the chicken coop, and around the entire house.  We even got mail that day.

Thursday, no school...and not because the roads out here in the west were still a mess.  (I mean, some were, and that is no joke.)  But more importantly, some of the town roads still hadn't been cleared, and the HOAs hadn't finished clearing some of their roads and sidewalks.

Friday turned into Monday, in that, today we were supposed to have another day off school, a moveable teacher workday.  It got moved to Friday.

The Husband teleworked the entire week.  I got very little writing done, although I did move approximately 18 tons of snow.  I didn't tidy much, but I tried to get the chickens to get along with the new girls.  I failed to cook anything exciting, but I hosted two neighborhood boys on different days.  I didn't leave the farm much, but I got to visit with various neighbors.

Do I sound a little nonchalant?  I think so, too.  Even when the basement sump pump stopped working, it was a shrug versus out-and-out panic.  Nothing that a hairdryer and some hot water couldn't fix, it turned out.  

And now we prepare for another polar vortex.

Yawn.

I mean, I should be uneasy.  We still don't have the driveway clear.  The road south of us is growing narrower and narrower as the snow drifts cover the sides.  I could use some gas in the car.  I don't have a space cleared for the generator, in the event we can use it.

It could be I am getting used to this.  We as humans have this amazing ability to adapt.  For example, now, when I hurt myself or feel pain, I rate it on the scale of childbirth.

Mother blankety blank!  I fell on that blankety blank step again!!!  Ow ow ow! There's blood!  Dangit!... Well, this IS only a four on a scale of childbirth.  Eh, I'll survive.

I layer clothes, use my ski pants whenever the heck I want to, and have been holding my big warm lamb coat in reserve.  I have new sweaters, and add an extra pair of socks when I use my muck boots to go out and check the chickens.  I assess the wind and the sun before deciding if I need a coat or not (trust me, when you are wearing 4 layers, top and bottom, a coat can be too much at times.)  And I keep a pair of nice shoes in the car, so that I can just hike up there in my muckers and change when I arrive wherever I am going.... I've got this down, I think!

We all know what's going to happen now....  

A Tail of Two Kitties

We've been housesitting Wine Friend's cat for just over a month.  She's a long haired black cat of sixteen pounds, perhaps.  And she's just lovely.

But she and Katt don't get along.

When Nimue first came, we closed off the upstairs with a pet gate.  She hissed at our dog Amy when they met.  Expected, I guess:  dogs and cats are not necessarily natural compadres.  But when Katt crept up the stairs to peer at this new kitty through the pet gate, Nimue hissed and growled.  Katt slunk down the stairs.  And then came back up to look again.  Nimue hissed and growled and batted at the pet gate.  Katt slunk off again...and then came back up.

I swear she was giggling as she repeated this several times.  I finally moved the pet gate the foot of the stairs.

So, we've had an upstairs kitty and a downstairs kitty for awhile.  Nimue gets to cuddle and snuggle with us in bed, and spends mostly quiet days, following the moving sunbeams, sitting in the window watching the chickens down below, and napping wherever the hell she damn pleases.  Nimue is happy to play with me or with the Boy, and she doesn't dart away anymore when he chases after her, begging her to let him pet her.  In that, she is considerably smarter than Katt, who just lets the Boy lug her around the house.  At first, she wasn't wild that Amy comes upstairs at night, but she no longer hisses at her unless Amy comes around a corner she was preparing to round.

I swear Amy just rolls her eyes as she walks around the hissing kitty.

On sunny days, when Katt goes outside to do country cat things, I remove the pet gate and give Nimue full rein of the house.  Well, I did that three times, until she discovered Katt's food dish and thought she'd try to take a nibble.  I heard the sound, and started yelling at Amy, who was actually curled up asleep on her bed next to me.  Nimue was banished to the upstairs that afternoon.  Now, if I let her out, the first thing I do is move Katt's dish out of reach.

The two cats have decided to let Amy show herself to be the bigger animal.  Nimue has learned that Amy could care less about her, and now watches with bright, interested eyes as Amy passes on her way to bed.  And she is fascinated when I get on the floor and pet Amy, with the belly showing and that tail thumping the floor.

Katt has finally accepted that the only danger from Amy is that she'll steal her food.  She's stopped chasing the dog around the kitchen, and only occasionally bats at her, and I think she only does that when I am watching.  You see, she now SLEEPS with the dog, and Amy doesn't even run away.  Katt will walk up, sniff sniff, and Amy will either lift her head and sniff back, or just turn a sleepy eye to watch her.  Then Katt will perch on the edge of the dog bed and press her body against Amy's side.  And they will sleep.

Now, she still takes over Amy's bed when Amy isn't there, and Amy is smart enough not to push her luck:  if Katt is there, she passes up that bed for one in another room, or just does without.  To deal with this, I actually bought a small dog bed that was on clearance.  Katt loves it, but only if it is placed next to Amy's bed.

Pet beds are taking over the house.

So, there is a species of cat peace, as the cats have adapted to their new lives.  And I realized that those kitties are not the only changed creatures.

I realized this as I was driving home one afternoon last week.  The road is supposedly dirt, but that means some gravel, a lot of potholes, and several patches of mud interspersed with ice, at the moment.  I was weaving left to right, carefully avoiding most of the potholes, because I know exactly where they all are.  I even think of it as a driving video game:  Pot Hole Dodge.

Anyway, I was driving along, zooming around the road avoiding the potholes, sometimes on the right, but sometimes all the way to the left, hugging the edge.  I came over a hill and found a navy-blue Lexus ahead.  I thought the car was weird as I approached, and it took me a minute to realize why I thought it looked weird.

The car was clean.  Like shiny.

I slowed down as I continued my game of dodge'em.  And I watched Mr. Lexus braking almost to a stop, easing into the potholes, and then picking up speed before hitting the next big patch.  I smirked as I easily swung all the way to the left to avoid that big patch.  I wondered if he thought I was some kind of lunatic.

And then it hit me.  I knew the road, and was driving like an insider.  He was driving like someone who'd never been on a country road before*.  And I didn't identify with him at all at that moment.

The City Kitty has not become a country kitty, but it could be that she's adapting, too.  

Survival of the fittest, baby.



*For the record, I am pretty sure Mr. Lexus must have been heading to the nearby meat boutique--local farmer selling great local meats, from animals that you may have seen wandering the farm the week before.  I visited them as well before we moved out here.  Kudos to Mr. Lexus for supporting local farmers, and I hope his suspension made the drive not too bumpy.

Happy New Year!

I hope everyone had a lovely time the last few weeks.  I'm surprised at all the inquiries about whether or not Cthulhu had actually driven me insane, since I'd gone silent.  Rest assured, Devoted Readers, I was simply taking my own Christmas vacation.  (Or, if I may be honest, I had the Boy home for two weeks and there was simply no posting anything other than lame Facebook statuses.)  I continued working, however.  This blog entry has been simmering for almost a week.  So...

Happy New Year

or 

You Can Take the City Kitty Out of the Country But You Can't Take the Country Out of the City Kitty

College Friend was going to be in town after Christmas through New Year's Day.  The last few years, we've been seeing in the New Year with Wine Friend and/or going to the old neighborhood, but this seemed like an opportunity to go into the District and do a grown up party.

I won't go into all the nail biting, the back-and-forth discussions, the endless texts and frequent phone calls, making child-care and animal-care arrangements, the wardrobe anxiety, and transportation issues.  Let it suffice to say that we planned, and it all worked out beautifully.  The Husband and I got to go stay at a very nice hotel and attend a kick-@ss party in Washington DC with our friends.

I will also gloss over are the preparations to leave that day:  herding the chickens back into the coop; cleaning out the cab of the truck so that I could cram in our luggage, Amy, and the Boy; and even the dilemma of switching cars so that our wee-little Saturn wasn't spending the night at the commuter lot.

No, the real story is what happens when City Kitty enters a nice hotel after 5 months of living on a farm.

First of all.  Mud on my sneakers and the car when I pull up.  Oops.  I could see the too-polite-to-say anything look on the doorman's face.  The Husband had already checked in, so he met me in the lobby, handed me the key, and I got directions for the parking garage, which was full of nice, expensive, big, and CLEAN vehicles.  I wondered if there was a car-wash entrance that I'd missed.

Now, it was a cold day, but remember, I layer every day just to stay in the farmhouse, which has the thermostat set at 62, but varies depending on what side of the house you are on.  So, I was hauling luggage and had my big sheep-skin duster over my arm.  I was a bit warm.  I found the elevator and then the room.  I walked in and unloaded, smiling as I looked around.  Nice room, cool view, and four hours before we had to leave.

And I realized I was hot.  As in, is-my-antiperspirant-actually-working? hot.  I pulled off my sweater.  And then the flannel lined jeans.  The top long-sleeved shirt.  The silk shirt under that.  My socks.

Him: Is this a hint?
Me: I'm burning up!
Him: Ah.
Me: What is the thermostat set at? I'm dying!
By now, I was down to my tank top and leggings. The Husband looks at the thermostat and chokes a little.
Me: So what is it?
Him: Sixty-eight.
Me: Well, set it lower!

Sparkly Silver Sandal

We finished unpacking, and I needed to paint my toe-nails.  I painted, let it dry, and we got ready to go down to grab a bite to eat.  I had to wear my sparkly silver sandals, so that the nail polish wouldn't smear.  Except, all I had were the flannel jeans.  Not a fashion-do, lemme tell you.

After we got back to the room, it was time to start getting ready.  Shower and all.  I turned on the hot water all the way up and waited the usual four minutes to make sure the water had time to get hot.

Four minutes.

I was amazed to pull back the curtain and get hit with a blast of hot steam, and step onto an uncomfortably warm shower floor.  (shaking head)

I finished with all my primping and dressing.  I looked amazing.  (I really did, the Husband said so.)  But, there was a snag.  The original plan was for us to get picked up in a car by our friends.  That wasn't happening.  So, they were metro-ing in, and the Husband wanted to know if I was up for that.

My first thought was for my new sparkly silver sandals, and how they wouldn't really keep my feet warm.  So, I thought, just wear your other shoes until you get to the party, just like you normally do when you leave the farm...

College Friend!

Sneakers, under a fancy evening gown.  Beat up sneakers with mud caked in the treads.  Sneakers that would not give me the extra three inches required for me not to step on my dress.

The Husband!

We took a cab.  Party party party.

We got back to the room at a respectable 1:15 a.m.  We got ready for bed.  And then we both lay there, wondering why the hell we couldn't get to sleep.

We were hot.  The room was set at the extravagant 65 degrees.  We usually sleep with the thermostat set at 55 degrees.  

We set the thermostat down again.

It was surprisingly nice to get out of that too-warm hotel with its too-clean floors and the hot water that scalds you when you test it to see if its gotten warm, and get back to the farm.

Oh the humanity...what in the world has happened to me?

A Lovecraftian Christmas

This won't be a long blog post.  You see, I am descending into madness.

There is an evil witch haunting me.  I let her hang around last year--the infamous Weather Witch.  She was my friend, actually, and we cheered on every single opportunity for snow.  I gave her up when I moved to the country.  See, I thought I ought to be more respectful of the weather.  I didn't know that behind the cute fur-trimmed parka lay a loathsome beast which knew my name.

So, the spring was an odd one.  Super hot one day, cool the next, and wet after that.  And sometimes, it was even all in one day.  The summer was even weirder--cool enough that plants grew slowly, wet enough that what grew redefined the term, and cloudy enough that the sun didn't help ripen much.

At least, that was the case in my garden.  Apparently, everyone else had nice tomatoes, and healthy corn, and a great crop of pumpkins.  Oh well, right?

And then the fall...where we alternated between cracked earth and thick gloppy mud.  And days of incredible heat.  And then the several days of snow.

The Weather Witch's tentacles are emerging.  She's preparing to trap me on the farm.  I just know it.  The last two weekends are just a taste of what she has in store for me.  Cars trapped in the ice, an inaccessible driveway, sheets of ice sliding off the roof.  Snow, then ice, then freezing temps, then a bit of sun to make a nice soupy mix, and then freezing temps again.  I go out to clear this or that, or dig out a tunnel... and I hear her breaking ice in the woods.  Maybe I just missed seeing the squirrel or a deer, but the slithering sound is NOT ice melting down the branches.  The footprints are suspicious...

Those are cloven hooves!  Not deer!

And then I make it into town, and the roads are clear, and what snow I see clings desperately to a few shady lawns.  I breathe a sigh of relief.  No scary winged creatures sitting in the trees, calling to me.  No ice tunnels under the path I walk, waiting to drag me to the underworld.  No odd drafts where there should be nothing, or loud skittering behind the walls.  (How could those be mice?--there are two cats and a dog!)

She's here, and she's coming for me.  She wants me to go all R-E-D-R-U-M.  The rage cannot be expended on battling ice, or cleaning.  She keeps tempting me to explore new buildings, looking for sleds or shovels or towing cables... and then I come upon the scythe, or heavy duty chains, and even the hand saws.  

Right now, I hear the incessant dripping of ice on the roof.  Drip, drip drip, drip, drip, drip drip.  The clicking of the heating system.  Click, click click, click click.  The never ending honking of the geese.  I hate them.

Must get out.  Must go hike through the woods to find my car.  Must get out.

She's coming for me.  But first I better go into the shed to look for a bigger shovel.

[satire.  look it up.]

Bloody Cold

Okay.  Full disclosure here.  I grew up in Texas.  I am a total weenie when it comes to the cold.  I've learned to adapt (sort of) and live with it (complaining all the while, and enduring the mocking from my Alaskan friend) but I grew up in a place where they freaking closed the school system one time because it was too expensive to heat the buildings.

The temps have not gotten above freezing at night recently.  The days were in the high 20s, and once you factored in the wind chill, in the teens.  Bundled up in a drafty farm house, I've felt a little like A Christmas Story's Randy:  "I can't put my arms down!"  And I look about as cute.

Today is a heat wave of up to 36 degrees, so I'm managing with a tank, silk layers, blue jeans, a fleece sweater, and sheep-skin boots.  Inside.  When I go out, I add a cashmere scarf, a wool hat, and a long duster.  Oh, and the matching bronze opera length gloves.  In my defense, there is also some wind today.

This winter has been bloody cold so far.  Even the squirrels have fat rolls!  Yesterday, the Husband went to check on the girls in the morning (23 degrees, thank you!), and we found their water frozen solid.  Oops.  We  purchased a heated chicken water reservoir.  This required extensive rewiring and re-arranging of the coop.  (But you know what?  It is worth it.  LEIA LAID AN EGG!!)  And don't try to lecture me on it technically still being autumn.  I will throw some ice chunks at you.  Because we have ice.  Lots of ice.

Ice from the chicken water dish.
Oh, and my cute bronze leather gloves!

Iced frog pond with heater.
I saw a bird land on the heater
to drink the unfrozen water
at its edge.

The big pond with ice.  Small break at bottom left.

 I've been so cold that when asked to put together a Christmas list, the first two items were sweaters and long sleeve shirts.  And I admit, I couldn't wait.  See, there was a sale at Target with 40% off of some cute sweaters and long sleeve shirts.   (2 and 3)  At the rate I am going, I will be layering the sweaters by the time Christmas hits.  Again with the "I can't put my arms down!"

So, you are probably wondering why I don't just turn up the heat.  Our heating runs on propane.  That means, every so often, a huge truck comes and fills a 500 gallon tank, and we pay about a billion dollars for that.  So, we keep the house around 60 or so during the day, and around 55 at night.  What do I do?  I hang around in the part of the house that has radiant heat in the floor, or I just put on extra layers and force myself to get quite energetic if I want to take them off.  I vacuumed the whole house Saturday morning, and I was free of layers for an entire two hours!

And bed time?  Ha!  I wear my thermal pajamas and then crawl into a bed with flannel sheets, a comforter, a thick fuzzy blanket, and a velvety/fleecy blanket over me.  

Now, I do own a very useful garment called the Couch Potato.  It is basically a very thick fleece sack with long sleeves and little elastic bands at the bottom for my feet to stick out of.  It zips from the high collar down to about my knees.  It isn't really attractive.  I look like a waddling amoeba in purple.  I mention this because I have been resisting it so far.  I keep thinking I can get by with lots of layers over my lined jeans.  But I know it is coming.  And I am thankful to have it in reserve.

Just wait 'til I have to pull out the Dog.  But that is another post altogether.

Hornets and Roofs in a Nutshell

European hornets pretty much suck.  They are huge, and they are mean as hell when disturbed, and their sting feels like sticking a flaming ice pick through your skin.  Here is a pic I got off the internet.  I chose the one with a pin through its body because I HATE them.

And we had a huge nest in the hollow of a huge old tree in the front yard.

I say had, because one wandered into our house on a cool night and decided that my Husband's pillow was a great place to chill.  He stung the Husband in middle of the night, which necessitated a crazed visit to the ER, which involved waking up the Boy, which made me rage against the next one I found flying lazily around the bedroom the next day.  I employed my best curse words and a lethal application of fly swatter.

And then I got on the internet and found a local exterminator.  Two days later, two charming gentlemen arrived to employed a three-step plan to destroy the nest.  Wham, bam, and suck it, hornets.

BUT.  The thing that kinda sucked more than the actual wasps... is that a bunch of guys came to clean and paint the roofs of the house and corn crib.  And they came the first day after the hornet nest had been powdered with poison.  That means the hornets were pissed off right about then.  And I was pretty sure that getting stung while clinging to the roof of an old farmhouse was NOT in the contract.

I warned the contractor, and even suggested they begin with the corn crib, which is a few hundred yards from the nest.  He gave me a funny little smile and asked where the outdoor faucets were.

I spent three days waiting, just waiting for a howl of agony followed by a shudder on the roof preceding a big thud in the yard.  Every time I heard voices, I paused to make sure that it was a request for more paint/rags/hose and not a "Oh ****, run!"  Three days, when every rattle of the metal roof made me pause to identify the noise as a step and not a body dropping from lethal injections of hornet venom.  Three days fearing for the lives of those swaggering roofers overhead.  I even worried for the exterminator.  

But, I am a worry-wort, really.  My husband got all the bad luck, apparently.  Everyone else was lucky, thank goodness, and had a happy ending.  No one else got stung, the hornets are mostly dead, and the roofs are all shiny and green now. 

I'm thinking that next time, maybe I outghta make sure to check ahead of time before scheduling a hornet nest's destruction, just to make sure that there WON'T be men dangling from the roof at the same time.  But maybe that's just crazy talk.

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.