Child Abuse?

So we just experienced our first goat hoof trimming extravaganza and boy was it. First you have to catch them, which is liable to rip your fingers off in the case that you grab the collar of of one of the 140 pounders as they are running past you. Or you are liable to end up on your face in the mud as you're chasing around Duffy, a 30 pounder, who can easily out-manoeuvre both my dad and husband for a solid five minutes (most embarrassingly is that this out-maneuvering took place in a closed 10x10 pin). Once you've caught one, you have to literally push it onto the ground by pulling his legs out from under him. Then you have to have one person hold down his head and neck, and another hold down his legs so he doesn't kick you in the face as you take wire-cutters to his feet. All this while you keep a sharp eye out for his "friends" who WILL head-butt you if you get too comfortable playing nail salon on one of their own. Then, you get down in the mud on your hands and knees, and it takes about 8 minutes to effectively trim the hooves of one goat. Then you get up and try to catch the second of the six.
Now to my main point: Jack was stationed by the legs, I was the nail salon lady, and my dad was in charge of keeping the head down. We catch our first one, Daisy, shove her to the ground (that sounds worse than it was), and dad leans on her neck and holds her head down so she can't buck up. I keep saying, "Dad, be careful! Dad, easy!", and he keeps saying, "I got it, sis. She's fine", even though she didn't look fine. And then all of the sudden, she stops moving. At all. Like she's dead. I start yelling at my dad, Jack starts yelling at Daisy, and my dad starts laughing and says, "Aw, she's not dead. She's asleep. What do you know?" Jack puts his head right up next to her nose and confirms my dad's diagnosis. We look at one another in total confusion for a second before dad, with complete nonchalance, explains, "Looks like I put her in a sleeper hold when I leaned on her jugular." When I ask him how he knows how to do a sleeper hold he answers, "Oh, my dad used to do it to us kids all the time. Knocked us right out."
You learn something new every day out here on the farm.

Our Barn is Getting Closer to a Home!

Our goal was to spend the night of Thanksgiving in our new barn-home, and though all that made it inside by the deadline were the sofa and bed, we did it. We still have quite a ways to go, but the tranformation is significant enough now to post some pictures. I will post more when we are finished, but who knows when that will be.
p.s. After seeing these pics together here I've realized that unless I take them from the same exact perspective, they're kinda lame as "before and after" shots. I'll be more precise next time and they will make more sense.

Kitchen Before Renovation (taken from the left side door)

IKEA cabinet madness (from left side door)

 

Almost Done (still need center window, two doors, range and hood installed. This is taken from the right side door)

Full Moon at Midnight

You can’t see the moon, cuz we’re not that fancy with our camera yet, but the lighting is incredible for taking photos. Who knew?

 

 

Workin 9 to 5

I am about to get ready for day two of my first official job here, and, more interesting, my first non-teaching job in nine years! As you can see from the late-morning time, this is surely nothing to do with teaching. I am working part-time at a winery tasting room in Paso Robles. And let me tell you, going wine tasting is a hell of a lot more fun than standing on the work side of the bar. And I mean STANDING. There are no places to sit in the entire place, so we stand for eight hours at a time, pretty much (I mean, there is a toilet). But this is the hardest part of the job (especially for a woman who is still healing from two knee surgeries) and I am extremely happy to be hired. The manager said he gets anywhere from 3-8 applications a day, and had about 100 piled on his desk when I walked in. Even cooler is that this was the very first tasting room I went to regarding a job. So it must have been meant to be. Oh, and the coolest of all, I signed up five people to the wine club, which is every tasting room's bread and butter, and was told that five in one day is like unheard of, especially for a first day. And I am seriously the suckiest sales person I've ever met. I couldn't sell water to a Bedouin. Well, maybe if he was drunk...
P.S.
I'm feeling quite worried for our free birds, so we are going back tomorrow to check in on them. I mean, we freed them in a real avian paradise, not like the ghetto one I tried to fool myself in to thinking was awesome, so they should be frolicking with glee now in the massive amount of water they have at their disposal. I just hope they stopped trying to run away from it, because a few more feet and they will waddle into the road that surrounds the lake. Man, that would suck bad.

If You Love Them, Set Them Free

It is with bittersweetness that I write this. Tonight, at 6:42 p.m., Jack and I set our two ducks-that-we-thought-were-geese-but-discovered-that-they-really-are-ducks free at Atascadero Lake Park. Just like the bible and that one pop song by Sting advise, if you love somebody, set them free. And so we did. They are now old enough to fly with impressive force into our dogs' faces, so we figured they can hold their own against a few disgruntled geese or the lake's local gang of Mallards (just because they are better looking than the our red wort-faced ducks doesn't give them the right to be a bunch of jerks). We tricked them into a cardboard box, which was surprisingly difficult given our combined strength, intelligence and agility, threw some food pellets in, taped it up, and drove them to their new home.
It was like dropping your kid off at kindergarten for the first time. Jack prepared to rip open the box mere feet away from the lake shore, and I was all nervous and giddy with camera ready in hand. He said, "Are you ready?" and I nodded excitedly from behind the lens. He torn off the tape, threw open the doors and stepped back like a proud papa as I readied to capture their first enraptured reactions to their new waterfront home (up to this point in their lives, the only lake they have ever known is the 3x5 hole I personally dug in the ground, and which they have refused to swim in even once, the ingrates). Three seconds passed, then five, then ten, and still no one came out of the box. At first I was scared that the taped in ride over gave them both heart attacks, until Jack, as any good father would, kicked the box. Slowly the little female walked out, followed (after another swift kick) by her brother/lover/partner/only friend on the lake. And let me tell you, they were not enraptured in the least. We had to chase them towards the lake, and then Jack picked up the female and literally set her in the water, which she flew out of the second he let her go. This was not the "setting free" photo op I was hoping for. We sat down and watched over them for about 15 minutes, but in that whole time all they did was stand there and stare at the water suspiciously. And to top it all off, when we wished them luck, said goodbye and gave them our sage advice to not be sitting ducks (since that was all they were doing), they didn't even look at us! Not even a sideways glance as they waddled away.

In the end, even though they were totally thankless, we bear no hard feelings. Are we disappointed in them? Certainly. Did we expect more from those we raised since they were the size of yellow rubber duckies? You betcha. But do we hold it against them? Not for one second. After all, as every parent knows, "you can lead a horse to water, but you can't make him drink."    

P.S. As I write this, the fermentation fumes are making their way into our trailer. Effing bastards.

This was my sorry excuse for a pond. They never got in past their ankles. I'm not kidding.

As soon as they were out, they ran away from the water. What the hell?

Making sure the wings are up and running in case of a geese attack.

They are just now beginning to sport their red facial warts. I hope they don't get picked on too badly.

The Smell of Harvest in Wine Country

One is hard pressed to find a more romantic land than wine country in the fall. When the vines pull heavy with ripe, inky purple shades of merlot, cabernet, syrah, and zinfandel, it is a time of celebration for humans and animals alike (some say the best way to know when to harvest is when the birds come to feast). Wine lovers come from all over to the central coast for "crush" time and all the wonderful, drunken harvest parties. It's a glorious time had by all.
Unless, of course, you live near Wildhorse Vineyards, which we do. There is one thing slightly less romantic than the rest of wine country during harvest time, and we are on the front line of this one thing. It's called the fermentation process. Don't get me wrong, fermentation is a thing of pure beauty because it eventually leads to the nectar of life, and I would never, ever insult it. HOWEVER, I will boldly issue the following warning: It is never a good idea to live in a trailer that is old, and therefore requires all windows to be open at night for ventilation, within one mile of a large winery. Around 9:45 each night for a little over a week now we have been the recipients of a southerly wind pregnant with the pungent scent of rotting grapes. The first few nights, being neophytes to harvest time, we assumed it was our trash collection (we have to take our own trash to the dump, so you can imagine how large the tower grows before we are forced to take it). It was that gnarly. But once we disposed of the trash and the smell continued to join us for aperitifs each night, we were at a loss. We busted out all the incense we could dig up out of our as-of-yet unpacked boxes and set it aflame next to our arsenal of candles. I am sorry to report that all our thick musky smoke did was cohabitate with the fermentation stench and drive us from our humble abode. This wouldn't normally bother us, except that fall nights (as of literally three days ago - before that nights were still like 75 degrees) up here are a bit chillier than in Newport Beach, and being driven from our trailer, even with the open windows, feels a bit like lying naked on cold concrete. And that is not romantic, not matter how you cut it. So with that my friends, I am off to try to cuddle our two dogs who may just be more pissed off about our harvest situation than we are.

Farm Dog Sam in the Goat Water

 

He had to ward off the three big goats to secure his position IN the water. He got tossed onto his back from a head-butt from Shirley, but he got back up to win the fight.

Son of a B#$@%, They're Not Ducks

As I sit here on our outdoor deck built around an one hundred plus year old oak tree, I can see one of our "ducks" sitting on top of the fence that guards the Avian Paradise. The only problem is, it isn't a duck. All this time we have believed that first we were raising two baby ducks that were abandoned, left behind or decided that a better life could be had in the big city. Then we were told that we were actually aiding and abetting illegal Mallards. And we were totally fine with that role. Well, it turns out, thanks to our friends Marley and Tony who came up this weekend, that our Mallards are not only NOT Mallards; they aren't ducks at all. That's not the worst of it, though. The worst is that they are GEESE. Before you jump to conclusions and think that we have a prejudice towards some birds and not others, let me explain to you the characteristics of North American common geese:

The smaller one, who is able to fly long enough to crap all over our drive

And the big-boned sister who may never fly, god bless her heart

 1.) They are huge. Much, much larger than your average North American duck. 2.) Because they are huge, they eat an unfathomable amount of feed. This would be fine if they also pulled their weight around the farm like the rest of us, but they don't. They eat, shit, and attack our dogs. Which brings me to the third point. 3.) Not only do they not lay eggs or eat down the weeds or cuddle on my lap; they are virtually the bird equivaliant of a guard dog. No joke. They are huge, angry and unpolitely protective of their things. Now that they are moving out of their adolecent years and into adulthood, their true colors are emerging. Where last week our dogs could chase them around, now they chase our dogs around. And not just chase - attack. The first time it happened was yesterday when our mentally challenged Min Pin, Sam, tried to eat their food. They took after him like he was trying to eat their young (which, with Sam, is completely plausible). He literally tore across the yard with tail between his legs, flanked on both sides by honking, biting geese. I bet they would bite out his eyes in a heartbeat if they could. 4.) The older they get, the crazier they get. And as far as I know, neither has any plans of packing up anytime soon (they have it pretty cussing good), so we are in for some serious barnyard drama for the next god-knows how many years. 5.) They are, how shall I put this? Stupid. Our guests spent several hours yesterday digging and building them a killer swimming hole, and they looked at it like it was a gaping black hole from which they shan't return (how DARE they treat our guest like that). Seriously? They don't even know a body of water when they see one? And they are classified as "waterfoul"? Oh, god help them. And us. 

This Post I'm Just Gonna Talk

I am procrastinating. I am really good at it. I believe there are few alive that could out-procrastinate me. I have procrastinated updating this blog for three weeks or so by doing everything else under the sun that I could possibly think of. And now, the only reason I'm actually doing it is because I'm procrastinating tackling the very tedious to-do list I have today. You would too, if this were yours:
TO DO
1. Call Paypal regarding the fact that they 1. never sent me a new card after I realized someone else was using my account and 2. that they sent me an electronic bill for that account that I can no longer access electronically to pay or even verify the charges. I tried calling yesterday and after five cussing minutes of "speaking" with the fake lady who tries to fend off as many customers as possible from talking to an actual live person, my phone drops the call literally within the first minute the man in India introduces himself.
2. Call United Airlines regarding the completely cussed up experience I had flying home last week. Long story short, they begged me (no, really) to give up my seat for a woman who HAD to get home that day, with promises of food vouchers, free transportation and a hotel for the night. Mind you, I was a 45 minute flight from home, and out of the goodness of my stupid heart, I acquiesced. I thought to myself, "Self, this could make a fun little solo date night. Eat for free, drink for free, sleep in a big comfy bed alone for free. Could be worse." And then it all went to hell. My food voucher was only 10 bucks, which won't even buy you a water in the airport. Strike one. Then I take a shuttle 45 minutes to my hotel and am told the moment the shuttle pulls away that no room was booked for me. Strike two. It's now 9:00 pm, I'm all alone in a part of San Francisco I have never even heard of, had an appetizer for dinner because that's all my stupid voucher would buy me, and there's no room at the inn. The only difference between me and sweet Mother Mary at this point was that at least she had Joseph with her. Well, that and she was pregnant with God.
So, the desk guy calls United and they basically spit in his face, and then I call United and they basically spit in my face. And I quote, "We're very sorry, Ma'am, but there seem to be zero rooms in the ENTIRE CITY due to an Apple conference. Good luck to you." Strike three. I look at the desk guy, he looks at me, we both shrug our shoulders, and he calls me a cab back to the airport.
It is now 9:45 pm. The ride back costs me $50 bucks (no voucher for this one), and when the driver drops me off and asks what I'm going to do now, I look at him, he looks at me, and we both just shrug our shoulders.
By the time I find a United supervisor and explain the situation, emphasizing the glaring fact that I was doing them a favor, not the other way around, he gives me a rather condescending look and says, "I'm sorry ma'am, but we only do service with certain hotels, and if they are all booked, there's nothing we can do." Strike four. I am literally at a loss for words. So I say, "Soooooo, what I'm I supposed to do? Sleep here on the floor?" He replies with the suggestion that I go downstairs to where they have all the outdated pictures of local hotels with the matching phones and start calling. "Hopefully you can find a room, and hopefully United will reimburse you." Strike five.
It is now 10:30 pm and I would have been home almost five hours ago had I been a selfish jerk like everyone else on that flight (I swear the United guy could smell weakness). I book the one room left in the city (which does not have one big comfy bed, but two singles), wait 25 minutes for it's shuttle to fetch me, and get to my room just before midnight. My room that costs $269 plus taxes and fees. When the desk lady asks me if I need help with my luggage, I laugh aloud. My luggage was not asked to give up it's seat on that flight, so it was right then rotating around and around the lonely carousel in San Luis Obispo. I tell her as much. She looks at me, I look at her, we both shrug our shoulders, and I slump off toward my room.
3-5. More phone calls.
6. Job search. I'm flat broke.
7. Start a club whose sole purpose is ensuring that the general populous is aware of the recent most disappointing comments Mit Romney has made. A man who will say, without apology, that the Palestinians (and he has met every single one of them?) "have no interest whatsoever in establishing peace" has no business leading a country that is inextricably tied to the conflict in the Middle East. I am literally speechless.

So as you can see, lots and lots of reasons to be procrastinating right now.

Now That’s What I Call the Beginning of a Compost Pile

And this is only the result of one hour’s work on a 50 foot strip of land. We have almost six acres. I’m seriously going to end up with like 37 composts piles. That should look real pretty.

Goat Herding Videos (I'm stepping it up!)

 

Hopefully, if my computer skills don't fail me, you will be able to watch four whole videos in this post of our very first attempt at goat herding! The three are in order from moving them out of the temporary pen we placed them in when we first brought them home to their new pen at the top of our property (about a five minute walk). They were sharing the Avian Paradise, but I dare say the ducks weren't too keen on this domestic situation. Every single time they ventured out of their cage to practice their flying skills (which i fear the fat one will never perfect), within seconds all three goats would rush in to eat the duck food. The ducks would quickly pit-pat back in after them, but though they put up a damn good fight for a couple of birds, the goats proved stronger...and faster eaters, to the ducks great chagrin. So, much like humans would, they sought their revenge. The second day the goats were munching on their food, they snuck away to the goats' side of the pen and preceeded to wolf down as much of the goat food that they could manage. I am not joking. This is how both species decided to maintain their shared living conditions. So as the human who created this blissful relationship, it was clear to me that Avian Paradise could not make an exception for goats. Ahh, how similar we all are (as much as humanity tries to deny it).

 



First Video:

Part I

 

Second Video:

 Part II

 

Third Video:

Finale!!

 

Duffy and Patrick (both born in March)

 

 

Baby Dwarf Goats!

The woman I spoke to on the phone yesterday about goats said, "Well, the first thing you need to know about goats is that they're addictive." What an odd thing to say, thought I. And then we drove up to Paso and out of Paso, up a long dirt road and finally up her driveway in order to meet her Nigerian Dwarf goat babies. OMG. Saying they are addictive is an understatement. If Jack wasn't standing right next to me, I would have stuffed our truck full of as many of them as I could shove in. As it happened, though, he allowed me two, but the woman threw in one more for the road. Ha! I love how people work out here in the country! So, without further adieu, I give you our two six month old little boys and our two year old girl (the pictures aren't good because I can't yet tell them where to stand for photo opps, but I'll post more once they realize I'm not the enemy who stole them from their 60 member herd of fellow vertically challenged Nigerians. Except that, actually, I am.):

Sure, they look like your average goats without anything to give size perspective, but below when they are next to Max, our 11 pound dog, you can see that I'm not making fun of them when I call them "dwarfs".

The tiny guy in the middle, who's face you can't even see in this photo, maybe has two inches on Max.

Avian Paradise

I still don't have any chickens, but that's only because I have no place to house them yet. When my students were here a few weeks ago they tore down the existing coops because they were, well, shit houses. The dude that farmed chickens here before us left an unbelievable mess behind, and its no wonder all his chickens got diseases and died. More likely they decided drinking the cool-aid had to be better than this cussing life and offed themselves in an overwhelming show of massive avian solidarity. At least, that's what I choose to believe.
Anywho, I wanted to pay tribute to my amazing helpers (Conner, James and Rae) by showing the before and after photos of what is now a two-duck resort, but what will shortly be a mecca for birds everywhere (but probably just for the two ducks and the five chickens). And actually, now that the ducks are pretty much full-grown, we've realized that we have been raising and housing illegal Mallards (thanks a lot Brianna and Magali!). And word on the street is that they will up and fly south for the winter. As a matter of fact, just this week I've noticed the smaller of the two sneaking behind the oak tree to try out her newly filled-out wings. I just can't shake the feeling they're planning something. And to think of all I've done for them.



The two buildings on the left were the existing coops. Everywhere you see plants, there are also deep holes for some strange reason.




Close up of the chaos

This does not even BEGIN to do the amount of shit in the coops justice.





Coops gone, plants pulled, holes filled. All in 100 plus degrees. Bravo, gang.

Who Knew a Goat Could be Just Like a Dog?

Out of our three new goats (each about 1.5 years old and all female), Daisy, the black and white, was bottle fed. Turns out, this results in the goat being more like a dog than a goat! We have discovered this in the few days we've had them because the moment we step into their pin, Daisy is literally all over us. She follows us where ever we go, nuzzles us constantly, and plays games with us, like chase and headbutting. It's amazing to watch, actually. She will push into our legs or hips trying to get us to play with her, and when we leave the pin, she cries for like 2 minutes! If she weren't so cussing strong, I'd even consider leashing her up and taking her for a walk. However, with two slightly bum knees at the moment, probably not a good idea. Plus, she could use a bath before I go showing her off to all the neighbors.
So here she is playing with Rae this morning. It's so stinking cute.

And here's all three of the gals with Sohie and Alanna, past students who stopped by on the way home from their roadtrip to San Franciso. We're feeding them oak leaves. It's like crack to them.

Goats!!!

There is so much to report, as I just realized I haven't updated this since July 24 or something. So sorry to lag so badly. We have had three of my students up here helping us all week, and we have had to work early mornings and late evenings since this heat wave drives us inside like ants around noon every day. The two boys, Conner and James, left yesterday, and Rae is here for 3 more fun-filled weeks of shoveling shit, raking, digging, planting, watering, tearing things down, feeding animals, weeding, sweating, swimming, and glorious sunsets.
The picture below is our fabulous five workcrew. We are not smiling, but that's only from pure exhaustion, not unhappiness. At least, that's what they all said to my face.

I just added this one because it shows the colorings of dusk. My favorite time out here.

Second bit of news: we are officially a farm now with today's addition of three goats! It took four adults to catch them in their old pen and get them up a ramp into our truck, but we did it. They are now in their new digs, and by the way they are chowing down on the pasture, they are fine with the upgrade. Let's just hope they aren't allergic to Eucalyptus leaves. If they are, they're gonners.

From left to right: Daisy, Tina and Kiki (already named by previous owner)

Double Damn You, Death!

So, one of the coolest things we found out about our property is that a family of red foxes has lived on this land for 25 years or something like that. Currently, there are three of them: momma, papa, and a son or daughter. They hide away all day, but around dusk we can see them begin their evening hunt. They run across our driveway often and we think one of their eating areas is behind the barn, because that is were we normally see them go. And even if we can't see them, we can hear them every single night. They sound like high-pitched dogs, but creepier. For something so cute, their howls sure are disturbing. The other night we were sitting under the oak, and right next to us in the vineyard we saw one. He was only about 10 yards away from us, which is the closest we've ever been able to get. He stopped and stared at us for about 30 seconds, then trotted off down the row. It was so exciting to be that close! And how cussing cute that little guy was. Skinny little body, long, lanky legs, and gigantic bushy tail that was more than half as long as the rest of him. I asked J, "I wonder when, if ever, we'll get to see him close up?"

Turns out, much sooner than I imagined.


The very next morning, J ran down to our tiny Main St to get the LA Times (they won't deliver to us!), and when he returned, he gave me the news: right at the bottom of our street, our little fox had been hit by a car and was laying in the gutter, dead. I jumped in the car and sped down to where he was. It couldn't have been but a few hours before that he was hit, because he was still soft and bug-free. We tried to move his body closer to the curb so no one else would run him over, but the animals who came to feast didn't give a cuss about that, so he was back in the street the next day (and had been run over again). I took some pictures, since this was, unfortunately, the closest I would ever get to him, and here they are. I am so sad to post these, but as you are seeing, this is life in the country. None of our neighbors even flinched, and J and I were leaning over the poor little guy, practically delivering his eulogy in the middle of the street. My sister suggested cutting off and keeping his tail as a tribute to him. For a split second I imagined myself in the dead of winter, necklaced by a luxuriously warm fox tail and sipping a hot Toddie on the spot where he died. But then I thought about how annoying it would get to have to explain over and over again where I got such a gem, so I decided against it.

My First Official Three Days of Being a Country Digger

'Tis a strange thing, accomplishing a dream. We are here: on our land, in our trailer, unemployed. Our dream (well, not exactly our dream). We did it. We actually cussing did it. For three nights now we've watched the sun melt down the surrounding hills without hearing a single city noise (plenty of cows, foxes, donkeys and birds though). We've gone to sleep with all windows swung wide open, not even bothering to lock our door. We have risen every morning, had coffee under our big ol' oak tree, and then headed out to our respective areas on the property to sweat and dig and shovel. I've planted lettuce, attempted to build a duck pond (horrible turn-out), raked my ass off, planted four trees, pulled down a fence, and shoveled decomposed granite like a madman. Oh, and we went to the feed store and bought our very first bale of hay! If there is a heaven, this is ours.

But still there is a dichotomy of emotions running through me right now. Sorrow is one. My dear friend, Jess, hosted a going away party for me the night before I left, and the loss of the closeness of friends is still fresh inside of me. Knowing you can meet up with someone at any time if you need to is something I no longer have. And that is OK, but sad at the same time.
Fear is another one. Fear seems to want to jump down our throats at every moment, and if we drop our guard, it's terribly easy to be pulled under. Fear that I won't be able to make a living is the one I've lost sleep over for the past month. I just up and quite the only career I've ever had, and a career that made me blissfully happy. I have no idea what comes next for me, and now that I'm here, it's becoming more and more clear that "working and living off one's land" stopped being realistic with The Little House on the Prarie (God did Michael Landon make that look awesome). In my stronger moments, which thankfully are more often than not, I know I will find something that will bring me joy and cold hard cash, but I can't lie and say that pursuing this dream isn't the scariest thing I've ever done.

Anywho, let's get down to what's really interesting: the ducks. Since they are my very first farm animals, and I know absolutely NOTHING about them, maybe one of you will see these photos and be able to help. One of them is a bit smaller than the other, but what's worrisome is that her face seems to have failed to grow feathers. It's actually pretty freaky looking, and I'm going to guess, not normal (considering her sister has facial feathers and they are the same age and born of the same mother). So if you look at her and know a thing or two about feathering, do tell. It would be a crying shame if my very first farm animal loses all her feathers and ends up bald. What in the hell would she tell the chickens?

Feather-full Face

Featherless Face

No Caption Necessary

I Just Watched a Bee Dying

No matter how small a life, I still feel terribly helpless watching it come to an end. I am freakishly uncomfortable with death; why or how this came to be I do not know.

What I do know is that country living ought to do the trick. Yesterday there was a dead owl in front of my parents' house (killed, we think, by our resident family of red foxes), and the first official night i stayed there, the neighbor's horse died. And I mean, I walked over to feed it some hay because it was hanging by our fence, and something was terribly wrong. He was sweating heavily, breathing hard, stumbling, sighing, and not in a good way. Long story short, the very eve that I introduce myself to this horse ("Yeah! We have a horse next door!"), the freaking thing dies. It was horrible. And it happened so fast. If I had to write a dialogue about it, it would go something like this:
     "Oh, look, Jack! The neighbor's horse came to introduce himself. I'm gonna go feed him some      hay."
     Camie approaches the horse, pets it's nose and notices it's not looking too good.
     "Hey, mom. Come look at him. He's not looking too good. Maybe bring over an apple; all horses love apples."
     "Hmmm, he's not eating the apple either. Oh no, he just fell over. Shit! He can't get up. What do we do?"
     Camie goes and tells the one neighbor they've met across the street what's going on. Thirty minutes after Camie excitedly first meets the horse, he's dead. Turns out, after 27 years of living, he chooses to die the same hour he meets her.

Yes, I do believe country living will indeed help get me more acquainted with death. I can't say I'm excited about that.

Pole Barn and Garden Area Before

And After – though we’re still not done done.

It's Been Three Weeks and Another Knee Surgery

After 11 looooooong days of post-surgery, I just drove up to the farm this afternoon (though my surgeon would literally have a heart-attack if he knew I made that drive).  Wait.  Before I keep writing that magical word, farm, I need to clarify that right now we have absolutely nothing that qualifies us as a farm. It's more of a dream term, if you will, meaning that I am choosing to believe that if I say it enough, I will actually end up with a farm. And to be fair, I did tell my students it was a farm, and now we have two ducks. Naysayers beware.

So, I drove the four hours and fifteen minutes up the 101 North today to surprise J who has been living on our land now, more on than off, for 2 months. He came down to help me convalesce from my second knee surgery for a few days and then came back up. I can't blame him. My parents' neighborhood blows compared to Eureka Lane. Oh yeah, that's our new street. How freaking fitting after a three year search. Actually, the real reason I drove up impromptu-like is that he forgot his two chocolate chip cookies from Pain du Monde. I'm not sure there is another human being in the entire world who loves his P.d.M. cookies like J does. He drove away at 4:00 am and when i awoke hours later to find his cookies still tucked away in my purse, I almost shat myself. That is the terror someone can instill in another when cookies mean that  much. I'm not joking. So I immediately decided that there is only one thing a kick-ass wife can do, and that is to hand deliver the sacred sweets to my lover myself. Boy was that the right choice to make. :)

I have a bunch of pictures to upload  to show the before and afters of one of our smaller fields, and I will do that in the morning. But for now, we are about to pour ourselves a glass of Riesling, sit back in our chairs, and watch the sun slowly sink behind our neighbor's wheat field. I still can't believe we did it. God bless listening to your heart.

We raise our glass to you Ms Velin. We love you.

My 10th graders just played this for me during our last class together. They restore my faith in humanity and the power of love. :)

I Don't Normally Do This, But...

http://youtu.be/tzrRmB40l00
If we want to change the way humans treat one another, perhaps we need to start with how we treat "the least of these." We have deadened our outrage and arrested our compassion, all in the name of food. How truly heartbreaking.

Dummies Guide to Catching Dinner

Step One: Find way into corner of barn

Step Two: Slither up barn door

Step Three: Climb to the top of the barn door

Step Four: Realize that due to lack of arms, baby bird snacks are just out of reach. Valiant effort, snake.

Barn Befores

So here are a few pictures of our future home on the range. As you can see, it's just shy of livable in its present state. I'm driving up this weekend so we can lay out our renovation plan, and then, depending on how far a hundred bucks gets us, J may or may not be able to camp inside come next week. He's not real worried though, since he's been RVing in the driveway for several days now and thinks he can easily do another month in that lap of luxury. I wonder if he could just drive the Airstream right on into the barn? Talk about the best of both worlds.


There She Is: The Magnificent White Beaut (until we paint her red)



A lot of imagination is needed to see what we see in this photo.

Front doors and downstairs. Bugs and small critters may be a problem given these doors don't quite close.

Downstairs. And tractor oil stains, which I think we'll keep. Adds character.

 Though we are free spirits, we've decided that we do, indeed, need more than a few wall studs separating the bathroom from everything else. Especially since the kitchen will run the length of the same side of the room. That could get really awkward.

So far, the raddest part of the barn: the upstairs oil drum heater. I know it's easy to assume it's just decorative, but it's not.

Upstairs. My favorite part, besides the heater? The lonely sink on the left.



Upstairs front view. When it grows up, it wants to be my writing room.