Man, S&%$ Grows Fast When Not Ignored

Just a wee update on our summer farming skills. This is our second summer here on the Central Coast, where days can be sickeningly hot. So far, we've only had a week or so of plus 100 degree weather, but there's gotta be more coming. Last season our crops sucked ass. We had no idea what we were doing and pretty much dumped it all in and threw some water on it every now and again (we really did do more than that, but barely). The results were astounding: we cooked everything before we even got it out of the ground.

So this season we decided to check soil PH, add drip systems and pay attention. Below is the fruit of our labor. We built these raised beds about two months ago and planted them a week or so after that. 

June, 2014

July, 2014 (Today, to be exact)

It's been at most six weeks and somehow we've grown a whole jungle. I've actually found a tiger hiding in there. And, you know, sometimes the plant's foliage will be all huge and braggadocio but it's fruit sucks and you'll get like three piece of crap tomatoes from it (which happened to us all last summer). Well, not this time. Below you can see our average-sized cucumber. The zucchini and tomatoes and squash are all equally as bulging. We have so much produce now that my dogs have decided to go vegetarian. Now that's a true farm dog.  

(What in the hell do you do with sixteen of these?)

FAIL.

This here is the last time you will be seeing our five little quail because as of this morning, Jack thought it would be "nice" to set their cage outside in the sunshine and fresh air. Apparently it was nice, so nice that they all jumped out and scattered to the four corners of the world. And not together, which is the shitty part. Together, they stand a chance against the mean guys and the cold nights. But they are so young and quick, that they literally all just shot off toward whatever direction they landed. We feel horrible. First, it is possible that we quail-napped them and that mom or dad was a short bush over, watching in horror as these ungainly monsters shoved their babies into a saddle bag (I sincerely hope not, but our country friends have since informed us that this is, sadly, quite probable). Then, we move them to a completely different neighborhood with no low-lying shrubbery, and allow them to run off by themselves into the great unknown.
Freaking city folk. What jerks.

What the Duck?

 Well, we found five, day-old ducklings a few days ago while we were out for a ride on our motorcycle, and due to our paralyzing fear that they wouldn't make it through the night without our god-like intervention, we took them home. This brings the total number of animals now living on our modest little farm to 21. Wait, 22. I forgot about the new pig (I'll introduce him in the next post).

Given that we almost killed every single one of them while our hearts were bursting with good intentions, I thought I'd give you a quick what-not-to-do guide to rescuing ducklings.

#1. Wait at LEAST eight minutes before calling it a day and packing them into your motorcycle saddle bag. What the natives have since explained to us is that shit happens in the duck world same as ours. Mom may have gotten held up by an old boyfriend, or maybe dinner took longer than expected. She may have been just down the street but other, less patient ducks kept cutting her off and giving her the finger. To be fair, the little guys came to us and wouldn't venture more than a few feet from our feet, but it's totally possible that they were just out for a bit of fun and knew exactly where they were headed. At the time we seriously doubted it, given that they were roughly the size of the eggs they hatched from and it was almost dark in an area rich in feral cats and coyotes. Still, the guy at the farm supply place mumbled to a co-worker, "Dude, they're wild animals. They'd of figured it out. That's what they do." And then he went on to sell me $74.38 worth of chick raising supplies.
#2. When any creature is one day old, do not set it in a canvas saddle bag with no insulation and proceed to ride 50 mph for 15 minutes in 60 degree weather.
#3. Do not assume that because they are mostly dead and can no longer stand upright, it is because they are hungry. First take into account the harrowing ride they just took, and then google it. Baby ducks don't need to eat for 72 hours after they're born. Shoving their beaks into chicken mush while cheering them on does nothing.
#4. Do not assume that because they are mostly dead they need water. They don't. And since the only problem is that they are nearly frozen to death, setting them down in a lid full of water and dunking their beaks while cheering them on could probably be considered premeditated murder. Or manslaughter if they die. Which thank god they didn't or I would have turned my own self in.

Luckily, that's all we did to the poor souls, and despite it all, they lived. They are right now in their cozy wine box, basking in their brand new heat lamp and cuddling up for the night. Um, except they're not. I can hear them beginning to chirp, and what will follow is an all night party filled with running in circles, jumping on top of each other, and hucking themselves at the walls (I think in search of their mama). I'm not certain, but something tells me this behavior may be pointed at us.

The More Given, the More Expected

Well, I daresay that we are now officially a farm. We have chickens, goats, dogs, a cat, and as of Saturday, a pig! A 20 year-old potbelly pig named Willie. We have taken him in as a favor to Jack's sister, and so far he seems to be doing just fine. She says if he snorts a lot he's happy, and every time I say hi to him he snorts. We're feeling pretty confident that he's not gonna bust out and run for the hills. That always feels nice.

With the addition of another life to care for, I've actually been thinking about death. Potbellies live for about 20 years and Willie is 20. He is the oldest animal on the farm and by far the closest to death. I guess I've never really thought about what one does with a very large dead animal. Set a bonfire? Rent a backhoe? Can you bury a 150 pound animal in your yard? But more importantly I've been contemplating the awesome responsibility it is to care for another life. It doesn't really matter to me whether it's a chicken, person or dog; it's still a life that I have been entrusted with. It's still a life that I must tend and nourish and watch over. Especially if it's an animal (or a baby, I guess). They are completely dependent on us to keep them alive and know what they need when they need it. And since they can't talk, we have to be vigilant in order to understand their needs or pain. But this is not easy. I mean, Willie is 20 freaking years old! I have no idea what he's like when he's uncomfortable, let alone in pain. And this could be a concern very, very soon.  Ah! What if I can't read him? What if he is in pain and I mistake his grunts for grateful applause? Is there a Cesar Milan of pigs? They're smarter than dogs, you know.

(I just have to mention here that as I'm contemplating death and despair, my man is downstairs blasting Gun's & Roses, an album I never even knew he owned.)

It doesn't help my state of mind that my brother and his family just lost almost all of their adolescent chickens to their dog, who oddly enough, is normally almost comatose, and an old student who just lost his dog and best friend of many years. It just makes you think. The more animals you care for, the more death and loss you will experience. And the more you hope that you will be sensitive enough to know what to do and how to help ease their pain (and, let's be honest, your own). I'm guessing that as the years pass and I become more familiar with the deaths of my animals, this won't cause me as much anxiety and anguish, but as of right now, even shit-clots on the tail feathers of my chickens cause me distress. Jack and I had to team up a few weeks ago and cut one off of Big Black Bertha, and now, just this morning, I noticed one piling up on another one of the gals. And of course, the bleeding heart that I am, my first thought is that it must be painful, like when you put your hair in a ponytail and one or two strands of hair are pulled too tightly, except that chickens don't have hands to pull out the rubber band - or in their case, the dried shit ball stuck to their feathers. See? It's things like this that you have to be on top of. Who would ever think that part of being a responsible chicken owner is weekly butt checks for dried shit balls?  But if you don't, who will? Those little ladies lay their hearts out so you can have a hearty breakfast. The least you can do is be on the lookout for unwanted crap clingers.

I guess that's all for now. Here's to another day of health and happiness on the farm and to hoping that we awake to more of the same. And here's to hoping that you awake to the same, too.

If Only We Could Be Like the Trees of the Fields

Why is it so difficult to keep shit in perspective? We are so easily confounded and overwhelmed by nearly everything that comes our way. Before we know it we are overcome by the tide of things outside of our control and shepherded - no, thrust - into a place that seeks to suck the life right out of us. And try as we might, this seems to happen more often than not. Even here in the great outdoors it touches us. We certainly believed that we were escaping that great tide when we chose to move. I mean, what could be more simple? Country life, blue collar jobs, no neighbors, and animal friends a'plenty. What in the world is there to freak out about? I continue to ask myself this every single day, even though I am freaking out continuously. Because there is money, there is status, there is success, there is accomplishment to freak out about. Yes, even here, in good ol' God's country, we are hostage to this age-old story, and in all of the above, we have little to brag about.  Even here, the first thing asked is, "So what do you do for a living?" We ask this first because we have been trained to ask this. We ask this because we don't have any idea what else to ask. We don't know how to ask questions that matter to our souls, like, "What do you love to do?" or "Who are you?" or "What is your passion?" No, we ask the most meaningless and mundane of possible questions: What do you do to make money, which truthfully translates into the saddest but most dogged of human concerns. If I know what you do, I know roughly what you make. And if I know roughly what you make, I can put you in a category that I can judge up against myself. I can know if you are above or below me according to our societies' social scale. I can know if I should praise you or pity you. I know if I am better or worse than you. All because of the amount of money you earn.
Well, here's my heretical take on this bullshit, for what it's worth. Never in my life have I met someone whose money contributed to their wisdom, beauty or compassion. In fact, in my experience, the wonderful individuals who have wisdom and beauty and compassion typically go without monetary opulence. Not that this is necessary, I'm sure, but somehow it seems to contribute to things. And maybe it isn't the money that changes people at all; maybe it's the power that money brings. Either way, most of those who have changed the world have gone without. And I believe that we really should evaluate these sages up against those our culture holds in high regard today. What are we truly longing for in our lives? What secret desires are we wanting them to validate for us? Because I guarantee you that pop stars and athletes and A list actors aren't primarily concerned with the stuff that Buddha and Jesus and MLK and Mother Theresa lived and died for. If you can actually ask yourself what baby Northwest's (or whatever the cuss his name is) parents would dress him (her?) in if attending a Bat mitzvah, or if Posh Spice would drink this particular protein shake (if she is even "cool" anymore), you've already lost it. God bless 'em, they're just people who happen to be rich trying to figure out this freaking life. But to idolize them simply because they're loaded? Yikes.
Then again, what do I know? I rescued a homeless dog, wrapped a Cal-trans orange handkerchief around his neck, and named him Kevin.

Beautifully Blue Collar

Today I had what folks might call an existential realization (that may be the wrong terminology but that just furthers my forthcoming point). I'll get to it momentarily, but first some background. This is slightly uncomfortable to admit, but it wouldn't be truly existential otherwise, I'm guessing (brother?). So we have lived out here in the "country" for near two years now, and up until perhaps this very day, it has been romantic and novel and brave. It has been cool and "an experience" and urban-chic. I mean, what semi-aware city-dweller wouldn't love to say they gave up/sold everything to experience the country life? How very Thoreau of us (and though we didn't build our own dwelling from scratch, we did refurbish a barn, which, to be totally honest, is way cooler by today's standards). And if we don't quite invoke Thoreau, at least Sunset Magazine.

So in the spirit of authenticity, we are poor. But we are poor by CHOICE, and it goes without saying that that puts us in a completely different category than the real country folks out here who are actually poor. For the past 1.5 years as we've both worked basic labor jobs, my story has gone like this: "Yeah, we moved from Corona Del Mar in Orange County (as if we even owned there, but it's the name that really counts to people) in order to realize our dream of a slower, quieter life with land and animals and simplicity. We're still figuring out what we want to do up here, so for now I'm working here in the tasting room for ten bucks an hour because I want to learn more about wine." That part has been true all along, that I wanted to learn more about wine. But the rest of my story implies that we have some sort of cache of cash that allows me to cuss around "learning" enigmatic stuff for as long as I want, because clearly, if we moved to Po-dunk Templeton from CDM, we must be loaded. Though that is completely untrue, I have been absolutely fine with allowing people to assume that. Yes we are technically "blue collar" for the first time in decades, but it's by choice, you see. It's for the adventure, the experience, the story. It's so that we can really relate to our fellow country-folk. It's not because we have to work at these places. Jack doesn't have to spend seven hours a day loading boxes of wine onto trailers. I don't have to pour wine to drunken neophytes six hours a day to make a living. Ha! How silly that you would even think that.

But then today happened. It was a day just like every other day. My winery was hosting an industry party after hours which I was not only not informed of until the day of, but was also sent to Trader Joe's to shop for said event (sounds exactly like a job one does solely for "learning" purposes). When I was done, the check-out man said hello with a wonderful smile, as they are apt to do there, and began unloading my cart. For some reason, today I chose not to remove my name tag before entering (which I never do) and so I found myself explaining what all the pizzas and savory tarts were for, which got us talking shop. My first shock was that I was actually "talking shop" with my grocery guy. I've never done that before in my whole life. I've never had anything in common with the grocery clerk except the weather maybe, or the first graders outside selling Almond Roca for the school fundraiser. Certainly not my life's work. Yet here I was, laughing about consumers and secret product prices. Hee-heeing about customer service and the "people with money" who assume their cash makes up for their lack of taste. And that was the second shock: our talking shop related to the hospitality business, a business that I've never be a part of. People that I have always left tips for with a bit of, "Oh, poor soul. How does s/he ever make ends meet?" (Bare in mind that I was only a teacher. We're not talking hedge fund money here)

He took my money, I took my goods, and that's when it happened, my existential realization. As I pushed my red cart past the free plastic utensils and extra-strength hand sanitizer on the way to my expensive Audi with the now two-year-old dented fender, it hit me like a punch in the face. Him and me, he and I, we are the same. Regardless of the stories we tell ourselves or others, we are blue collar workers. We do a job that anyone with the ability to show up can do. So what that I go home and eat vegan or read Carl Jung or drink impressive sounding wines. So what that he creates symphonies in his garage or lovingly raises children that are not his. In this one thing, we are the same. We work for just above minimum wage in a society that not only shuns such a thing in adult life, but nearly makes pariahs out of those who have no other choice. We - I - have a job that educators spend hours and hours warning their students against. Teaching them that if they don't get perfect grades and get into the "right" college, they will end up like this - like me. Ha! I can hardly breath with the irony of this. No wonder I never spoke such things to my students. How little I knew about why I didn't...

But what I felt most in my core as I walked away from that clerk was that I was damn proud to be in his company. I AM damn proud. We connected on a level void of the bullshit of money and status and subterfuge and pretenses. We saw one another as simply human, as common neighbors in this big ol' world. I can't remember the last time I felt so proud to be like someone else, so proud to be a part of a group. I am the 99%. Jack and I are the 99%.

And goddamn if it doesn't feel just right.

Here We Grow Again

It's been a little over a month since my last post but in that tiny amount of time, we have been busy little bees. For starters, we tried our hand at building a chicken coop. What began as a modest structure for three hens, thanks to the lack of written plans, ended up a McMansion for like 13. Turns out, when you don't actually know what you're doing it's pretty easy to build the complete opposite of what you had in mind. Still, it's been a month now and we still have all six gals, so ostentatious eye sore or no, we consider it a success (all our neighbors swore we would lose at least half by now to predators).

A bit less exciting would be the story of how I almost killed all six of our goats a few weeks back. I chalk it up to still being a city slicker, though in truth it was probably due to my alter-ego, Short Cut Sally. I was in a hurry come feeding time and assumed that the 50 pound bag on the ground was the same 50 pound bag of goat feed I bought the day before. Having never used this kind of feed before, even though the electric green hue of the pellets looked a bit alarming to me, I reasoned that I just bought a 50 pound bag of feed, and here at my feet was a 50 pound bag of what looked like feed. Besides the unnatural color, I should have been tipped off by the refusal of the three small goats to eat said pellets. And I admit that when I noticed this I actually said aloud to myself, "Hmm. I wonder why they aren't eating it". The problem with most animals is that they trust us, which means that even when their jackass owner feeds them rat poisoning, they'll eventually eat it. Which they did. Let me say for the record that I did not purchase this poison. I think it's hideous and anything that causes death by internal bleeding should be outlawed, unless of course it's used on people who abuse children or animals. No, it just so happened that the feed was in the same barn as my dad's ground squirrel poison. And Short Cut Sally didn't stop to check the bag. She poisoned all of her goats instead. To make a long story short, only one of the goats got seriously sick, and that was terrifying and I definitely learned my lesson, but in the end, everyone survived. I can't even imagine what I would do with six dead goats. Those things are not small.

The last addition to our little farm family is the Blue Heeler lying next to me right now. Jack found him a week ago in an industrial part of town and we've put up flyers, posted on Craig's List, and reported him to the pound but so far no one has claimed him. We're pretty sure he belonged to a homeless person because he is so well-behaved and docile (unlike our other two banshees/dogs). He is so incredible, in fact, that we considered starting a business called, "Homeless Guy Dog Training." But in all seriousness most people are scared of homeless guys, so we decided against it.
Here is his picture. We named him Kevin. He is perfect in every way except when he pees on the rug. And when he bites us.

Our Souls' Work

I just now listened to a song performed by a dear friend of mine, who finally, after four years, allowed me to hear her music. I am speechless. I've only known her as a fellow educator and mother, so it's no exaggeration to say that I am in awe. Jack and I sat here in silence and listened to the whole song and both of us could only say, "wow" when it was over. Her gift, and I say this in complete belief that we are all born with a gift to give to this world, is her song. This is not to say that she doesn't have other gifts as well; she is a wonderful mother and teacher. But hearing her voice sing her truth transcends her other gifts (at least in my opinion). Oh, and she is also writing a novel, which is no poke in the eye, so it's kind of a big statement I'm making about her music.

I'm not telling you her name so that she can't get mad at me or sue me for libel, but this also allows me to be totally honest about what I think (and really, even if she suspects, how can she know that I didn't  receive song attachments this week from another friend who also happens to be a mother and teacher and writer of novels?). And what I think is, most of us, like 98%, are scared to death of our gift. THE gift. We are so scared of it that I would bet many of us don't even know what it is. This doesn't mean that we aren't still fully present and authentic in our lives; it just means that we are avoiding that thing that moves our souls like nothing else does. That thing that makes us sweat and feel a tiny bit nauseous when we think about actually doing it. That thing that can keep you up at night by simply thinking about doing it. I call this thing our souls' work; the core of our purpose in this life. For my friend, it's playing her music out loud. For me, it's writing and doing what I need to do to be a therapist. I have known in my bones for a long time now that I need to write and I need to counsel people, but in my 38 years on this planet, I have done almost nothing to achieve either one. And naturally, I have done about a billion other things instead. I can grade an essay like nobody's business and I can pour a mean glass of wine, but I can't sit down and type out my truth for others to read and I'm terrified to complete my training in therapy. I think it's only been in the past six months that I've understood why. It's the same fear that paralyzes all of us. It's the fear that if we finally bare our soul and commit to fulfilling our deepest truth, we chance failing at our most vulnerable level. We chance having the very core of our being rejected. We chance putting our guts out there to only have 39 people in the whole world read what we wrote or listen to our song. We chance being told that we don't have what it takes after all. That we were wrong to believe that this was our souls' work.

So we stifle our truth and do other things to pacify us. The problem with humanity is, this never fools our souls, damn them. I mean, it can work for a while. We can convince ourselves that this thing that we are dedicated to now is what we are supposed to be doing. And we can do this for quite some time. I've done it for years. But eventually, if we are willing to really listen to ourselves, we will see through the rouse. And having just reached this point, I have to admit that right now, this is much scarier than it is "enlightened" or "sacred" or "inspiring". No, it plain sucks ass, because once you acknowledge it it's real and you have to do something about it. There's no other choice. Which explains the nature of this post. I sat down to write something witty and safe about our new chickens, and this is what came out. I freaking told you. Once you blow the roof of the sucker, you're done for.

But seriously, on a side note, we finally got chickens. Six fine young gals. So far, our janky, homemade coop has held against predators (including our own dogs and cat), which, I'm not gonna lie, we are all flabbergasted by.

Even Goats Can Be Bullies

It pains me to admit what I'm about to admit. We all want to believe that we are Cesar Milan. We want to believe that we have the secret to communicate with animals like no one else can. We want to believe that when we look an animal in the eye, whether it be dog or armadillo or goat, it understands that we love it and thus does exactly what we want it to do. Years of semi-intoxicated friends over for BBQ have proven this theory (and all most of them have to show for it is a dog bite).

My own dogs' unruly behavior should have tipped me off years ago that I am no Cesar, but pipe dreams die hard, and so I upped the pet ante with three 120 pound goats believing that my inner Cesar nature would transform them into veritable house pets within a few short weeks. Well, let me tell you something, sisters and brothers. If you think training a dog is hard, a goat will make you wish you'd never been born. 

We initially adopted three of these large ladies, and though they ignored us 100% of the time and busted through most of the fencing we put in place, they became fast family. I mean, real gems. And then, because if a little is good, a lot is awesome, we adopted three more mini-goats. (Please don't tell them I said that. They are quite sensitive about their status in the greater goat community.) These vertically-challenged, hollow-horned, bearded ruminant mammals max out at 30 pounds, which is a far cry from their 130 pound forced-siblings. But, again, when you think you're Cesar, what does size matter? So I threw them all together, the big ol' lover of family that I am, and waited for the magic to happen. And waited. And waited. I've been waiting so long now that my own mother confronted me with the following: "C.J., don't you think the little ones are taking quite a beating from the big ones? Please tell me you are going to do something about that." In my infinite Cesar wisdom, I replied, "Oh, mom, they're fine. That's the animal kingdom for you. They'll work it out in no time." Six months later, mom counters with, "Well, C.J., now Patrick is permanently limping and the little ones haven't gotten to eat a full meal in weeks." (This is because the large ladies pummel, charge, head-butt and trample anything that gets in their way of food. And the only things that get in their way are the pigmies.)

All this to say, I am ashamed to admit that my first attempt at a farm animal family has failed. I have ignited the fire signal for help. I am no Cesar; not with dogs and certainly not with goats. Out of my three large ladies, two of them have to go. They are bonafide bullies, and no amount of stretchy rubber bracelets is gonna change that.





That was four years ago. Just kidding; it was only three months ago.

Takes My Breath Away

I just came across a saying that I swear I came up with, except that it was printed in a journal I had nothing to do with, which is pretty solid evidence against my former claim. So, my hands may be tied in the intellectual property category, but not tight enough that I can't quote it and then attempt to make it even more kick-ass than it already is.
Here it is:
"The most beautiful people we have known are those who have known defeat, known suffering, known struggle, known loss, and have found their way out of the depths. These persons have an appreciation, a sensitivity, and an understanding of life that fills them with compassion, gentleness, and a deep loving concern. Beautiful people do not just happen." - Elisabeth K. Ross

BEAUTIFUL PEOPLE DO NOT JUST HAPPEN.  (I think it's clear to us all that I'm not going to make it more kick-ass than it already is.)

Beautiful people do not just happen. I have no idea who this woman was, but I'm going to find out right now. Hang on as I consult the oracle (google).

Holy crap. Not that any of you would know this, but I am right now beginning my training in psychology and grief and she was a psychologist who specialized in death and dying. Holy crap. She wrote a book in 1969 where she discussed her theory of the "five stages of grief." My mentor's work is in grief; specifically in the five gates of grief, as he describes them. Holy crap. Holy crap. Holy crap.

I am speechless. I..............wow. I read dozens of quotes every day and many of them speak to me, but this one was different. You know when you read something that stops you in your tracks? It doesn't happen often, does it? Not for me, either. But this did. I even wrote it in permanent ink on my desk so I can read it every day (the only other quote I've written is, "God calls you to the place where your deep gladness and the world's deep hunger meet" by Frederick Buechner). No offense to Fred, but Liz dominates in the desk-quote competition.

Beautiful people do not just happen. God I could type that 100 times in a row. The most beautiful people I have ever known in my 38 years are damaged, are broken, are scarred. They have been hurt and abused and betrayed. They have fought and raged and sobbed. They have fallen face-down in the dirt and cried until there were no more tears. But what differs between the beautiful ones and the victims is that they get back up. They refuse to cower. They refuse to give away their power, even in the face of abuse. They refuse to abandon their birthright to feel alive.  And in so doing, they lay claim to their own souls and grab hold of their lives. These are beautiful people. These are people who don't "just happen." And when they - we - come out on the other side, we embody empathy and compassion and kindness for even the most depraved of human beings. There is no choice in the matter for us because we've been there. Or almost there. Or could have been there. It's incredibly difficult to judge others when you are so acutely aware of your own vulnerability and frailty.

Perhaps to some this sounds like weakness, but to me it sounds like beauty.

Elizabeth K Ross is dead now, but what she said above, without even realizing it was worthy of quoting, is gospel. It really did take my breath away.

The fact that I'm pretty sure I also said it is besides the point.

TV: The World's Best Sedative

I think I'm now at the place in my writing that my best friend and I call "true confessions." It's where you divulge something you are in no way proud of to someone who has true confessed herself, thus ensuring that neither of you have a single leg to stand on in judgement. Actually, given that you can't spill your guts in return, this is nothing like "true confessions," but this whole confession thing is about the confessor anyway, so I don't really need someone else to do this with me. That just serves to make us feel that we are in like-minded company. Like if there was a hell, we wouldn't be headed there alone. But since I don't believe in hell, no companion confessor is needed here (Fyi, this is strictly my intellect speaking. Everything else in me is screaming for a partner in crime right now.).
Now that we have the introductions out of the way, I will begin.

Confession #1:
I hate roosters. I used to love them when all they reminded me of was that trip to Mexico City to climb Mt. Orizaba where met up with a mysterious Swede named Pepe. Roosters were romantic then; awakening to it's prideful crow and the sweet scent of pan dulce from the bakery down below. Turns out, everything is romantic for four days. Yes, even a bird that sounds like it's being strangled to death in the wee hours of the morn. The love-light fades, however, when you are awakened every single morning of your "peaceful" country life at 3 am and again at 4 am and again at 5 am and again at 6 am. Take it from me: keep roosters for your vacations, not in your backyards.

Confession #2:
I love 80's music. This wasn't part of the initial confessions, but listening to "Hey Mickey" right now made me cough it up. 

Confession #3:
A fly just landed on my eyebrow. This happens a lot here.

Confession #4:
Moving to the country makes me hyper-aware of noise pollution. It's crazy. I used to sleep through neighbors screaming, sirens screeching, and drunkards being @#%holes. Now a freaking cow lows a mile away and I'm at the window flipping it off. But, seriously, they're amazing animals. No disrespect.

Confession #5:
It's a Saturday night in a town of 5,000 and Jack is out working, so I can keep this up for hours (just in case you have something to do).

 Confession #6:
 I drink a lot of wine now. This is the country, technically, but I'm kind of cheating in saying that, since two of our four nearest neighbors are wineries. I just don't feel right without telling ya'll that. Here I've been touting country life without disclosing that I can walk about two blocks in two directions and belly up to a bar. I know, I know...how disappointing. But this is what true confessions are all about.

Confession #7:
Jack just got home so this will be it. The grand finale. The padre grande. Here it goes: my students have always thought I was so strong or anti-whatever because I didn't have TV. I mean we had a TV, but no cable. All we could watch were DVDs, and I was proud of this. Instead of watching brain-sucking TV we would ballroom dance, practice our gymnastics, read the New Yorker aloud, debate current politics, or clean the house (just kidding; we hate cleaning the house). But recently we got something called Netflix - which re-buffers every four minutes out here - but may as well be called Manna From Heaven. There aren't enough years left in my life to watch all the shows that mesmerize me. I won't even waste your time by listing them all because it would take a good ten minutes to read, but trust me when I say, "Where in the hell did this miracle come from?" If uninterrupted, I can watch six hours of stories, easy. But no...no! This is what I'm confessing! This Netflix is bad. Wasting my life watching these shows is bad. Country living should only be allowed if you don't have Netflix, because if you do, you might as well be in a 10 by 10 studio in Tokyo. Or a townhouse in Orange County. At any rate, I've got to come clean. I'm an addict. The real reason I don't have cable is because I know myself well enough to know that if I did, I'd never leave the house. We were raised without TV, sugar cereal or secular music (this story for another blog), resulting in an uncontrollable addiction to all of the above. I've come to terms with great music, but I still refrain from buying sugar cereals or cable. I know my weaknesses too well.  But then Netfix entered my life, and I went into a tailspin. I am in a tailspin. This is my seventh and final confession (I swear to god I didn't plan the whole seven thing). I could watch mini-series from now until my 100 birthday and not blink an eye at anyone who tried to interrupt. Just ask my closest friends.

Oh my lanta...for the first time in my life I think I know why I don't want children..true confessions.
Unless they were on TV, which is a totally different story.  

To My 39 Readers, God Bless Your Little Hearts

I want to say that I would update this blog even without my 39 readers, and that the world can go screw itself if it doesn't like what I write, but I'm pretty sure that would be a lie. It's a strange thing about humans that even though all of our inspirational leaders throughout the history of the planet teach us to care not what others think, we don't believe them. Maybe once they become millionaires we do, but otherwise they can take their care not crap and shove it. The rest of us know what really matters and that is what others think. Why else would 98% of people be so secure and happy and unique?
All that to say, I am grateful to my few but mighty readers, and especially to Sheri, Jess, Robin and Michael, who respond to each and every post, come hell or high water. I will never be able to express to you guys how much your support means to me. If I knew how to say thank you in 1,000 languages I would, but I only have 39 readers for a reason.

Thank you.
And to that list add Jack, my first and everlasting fan.

A Country Life is not Necessarily a Simple Life

Maybe it's the movies or romantic novels or postcards from rural locations, but I think it's fair to say that  most Americans (probably due to the fact that many of us live in cities or close enough to them that trees in fields are a novelty) believe that a country life is a simple life. How could it not be? No rush hour. No long lines at Starbucks. No keeping up with the Jones' dogs. No working for the corporate monster who doesn't give a shit whether you work your paid eight hours, or twelve hours without overtime. No bosses who call you Carrie instead of Camie, or Greaseball instead of Griswald. Yes, living in the country most definitely must be a slice of heaven. And compared to all that, is it. No doubt about it.

But as it is with all things, there is a distinct downside to moving miles and miles away from all the jobs; something that doesn't make it all that simple. Money. We aren't fools. We decided to make this move knowing we were giving up fulfilling and lucrative careers in order to pursue our dream of land and space and quiet. We knew there would be a learning curve. We knew money would be tight for a bit. We knew we would have to live in a 200 square foot Airstream for six months while our barn was being converted into our home. And true to our word, we got through all of that, no problem. (On a side note, I just looked at the clock, and I am officially 38 years old. Good god.)

But what's interesting is that now, after more than a year living here, we are feeling the repercussions of our decision more than ever. We are broke. There it is. We are po' folk in the worst way. For the first time in our life together, we are living paycheck to paycheck. We qualify for Medical, for the love of all that is holy. MEDICAL. And yet we are happy. Happier than I dare say we have ever been. We look over our land each sunset and toast with our expensive wine that we can only drink because I get it for 50% off and say how lucky we are to have this life. We really do this every night. Every single night. And then when the wine is gone we scrounge through our fridge to find dinner.

Being a lover and teacher of literature my entire life, I am a romantic. I have fanaticized about the love of my life and me being poor and destitute and against the world (I have also fantasized about us being the wealthiest couple on the planet, able to give assistance and aid to millions). Us versus everyone else. Our love conquers all. Money doesn't matter. Status doesn't matter. Possessions don't matter.  Of course, in my fantasies we are always in a third world country where no one else has shit either, which makes being broke-ass a hell of a lot easier.

Naturally, our present situation is very different than my fantasies, but that's what makes it breathtaking. That's what makes it real. We are poor in a world that says we are nothing without money. We are broke in a culture that says we are defined by what we own and what we have in the bank. We are penniless in a society where the OC Housewives reign supreme because of their money and homes and cars and Botox (which I just read, I'm horrified to say, fucks you up in a bad way).

And in the face of all of this, we are content. We are happy, even. We are poor and we are happy. We are broke and we are in love and we are at peace. I may have to file for bankruptcy soon, but I have never loved my life more than I do now.

And really, what else can any of us ask for?

The Changing Moods of Music

I opened this page listening to some emo musical piece that made me want to pour my guts out, and then just as I was about to spill the beans, Pandora, bless her heart, began to play a parody of french cafe music. No one in their right mind can wax can confess to murder whilst listening to a parody of anything, so now I've got to start over. Give me a second to think about what else I can write now that my unspeakables are out of the question.
Well, now she's showcasing a cute little female voice singing such an upbeat ballad that I almost want to compose a fairytale right here and now. But wait...now Nick Drake and his lone guitar fill my speakers and once again, my mood changes and I want to write, what? He's folksy, simple, honest and raw. I want to write about what I feel about politics and humanity's behavior towards itself and our planet, and how it treats the animals that occupy this world with us.
But lucky for you, she's now playing bossa nova -  Joao Gilberto, to be exact, and I so want to write about my beautiful and ethereal experiences while traveling around the world with a dear friend of mine, Silvia, some years ago. Forget politics and horrible human beings. There is beauty and wonder and adventure out there!
And now she changes it up again (damn these three minute pop songs) and Ella graces my ears with notes of longing and love and heartache and hope, which lead me instantly to my love, Jack. I want to write a memoir about what he has given me and taught me and shared with me. I want to shout out to the world that my partner is the best man I have ever met, and that we can all have this magnificent love if we will only believe that we, each and every one of us, deserves love, and trust that if we wait patiently and don't settle, we can find it. We will find it.  It took me many years and a marriage I wanted so badly to be right for me to learn this.
Oh, Beyonce. I'm not sure I can even match her talent with my words. But that's one of the most wonderful things about music, don't you think? I would never even think to buy a ticket to see her live or even go out to buy one of her albums, yet when I hear her sing, I feel something ignite inside. I perk up a bit, sit a bit taller, get a little attitude in my walk.
Once again the odd shift that happens with music pulls me from American woman-power to global spiritual-power as Krishna Das enters my room with Indian melodies and god centered chants. If you have yet to bring him into your musical journey, I encourage you to do so now. And if you practice yoga at all and have never done so while listening to Das, you are in for a spectacular treat, for certain.
Uncle Tupalo. A band that has breathed life and truth into my soul since I was in college. The memories that surface with their music are limitless.
And there is always, always room for Rage Against the Machine. He may be American and white, but this boy's heart and soul are connected to the global community. He makes me want to rise up and kick some serious ass. I just need to figure out what ass that is first.
The Beastie Boys, on a slightly less serious scale, have been in their own way, as impactful as Rage to many of us Americans. They may not be all about revolution and justice, but I don't know another group of white boys that inspired their awkward counterparts to break it down as completely as they did. Do.
And just as I am ready to throw in the towel at the god-awful time of 11:24 pm, Pandora brings on Prince. Here I just have to tell it like it is: Prince does not ever, ever, make me want to write. All he makes me want to do is dance (which I just did on our balcony, between me and you).
How does she do it? Pannie just went from Prince to Jewish wedding music (mind you, this is all a shuffle of my many stations, but still. Prince and then Jewish wedding?) So I have to keep dancing, naturally, but instead of booty shaking, I'm now high-stepping in circles while snapping my fingers above my head and rotating my wrists back and forth faster than is natural. It's a highly complicated combination for a goy that secretly wishes with all her heart that she was a shiksa, which my Hawaiian partner would say takes serious chutzpah on my part. 
Well, alas, I must admit that I think I've been outdone. James Brown is now grunting out of my speakers. As no one I know will argue that he leaves little room for interpretation, and I'm not nearly gutsy enough to tell you what his music makes me want to do, I am done.
It's no wonder I wish I was a Jewish African-Mexican American.

God bless the musicians of the world.  
God bless Pandora.
And God bless Christmas music, which is playing right now, even though it is only October the seventh.

Come to Mama

I figure I may need some proof for those skeptics out there who are want to believe my drunken cow stories, so I went out to document the bovine debauchery firsthand. Below you can see our assistant winemaker, Steve, dumping a wheelbarrow-full of fermented grape skins in the field. What is more noticeable, however, is the clear back-end view of every cow in that field. Normally, any human in their midst is front and center, because they have a deep, deep distrust of our species (can you blame them?). If I as much as tiptoe next to the fence, every single one of them is staring at me in a matter of six seconds. And I only say six because some of them are a bit "slower" than the rest, god bless them. But during wine making season, I could be on fire, screaming like a maniac, and they would still turn their asses to me. 

Below, you can see the actual proof of what I write. That purple mound can be no other than fermented grape skins. There are more cows waiting in the wings, but they have to head-butt these five formidable females out of the way before they can partake in the spoils. And that takes guts, no matter what your species. 

I'm not sure if you can tell, but the dude on the left is the bull. He is the only bull.  The other fifteen cows are heifers. And he is staring right at me. Normally this would be cause to soil one's self, but I had one up on him; I knew he was good and drunk. 

Based on his for-the-moment companion's cavalier tongue language, so did she.  What an opportunist. 

Happy Hour Cows

I've been working in a tasting room for almost a year now in the hope of sneaking my neophyte self onto the wine production side of the fence.

So far, it hasn't worked.

Paso Robles is now in full blown "crush" time, and I'm still making ten bucks an hour pouring wine inside an artificially cooled room without the slightest likeness to the beauty and wildness of the green vines and the soft earth and the big blue sky. Dammit.

Still, it's not all bad. I'm close enough to be able to watch the entire process and ask a crapload of questions (much to our wine maker's chagrin)and the whole thing is pretty cool. Making wine is ridiculously simple on one hand, and incredibly complicated on the other. I won't bore you with the reasons for this, but I will entertain you with a cool little something I saw while I wasn't working on the production side of things.

If you've read any of my previous three posts, you know that I am surrounded by cows and that I've grown accustomed to paying special attention to my bovine neighbors. Well, they have yet ceased to amaze me. Not only do they cry when their young are separated from them, scream when any part of their herd is being driven away to slaughter, and run like hell when I approach them, but they also have an impressive affinity for our very own nectar of the gods. That's right: cows enjoy happy hour as much as the next guy.

In a nutshell, once the grapes are picked, fermented and crushed, the skins are all that's left. These little empty sacks are good for nothin', so we load them into a wheel barrel and deposit them on our neighbor's land. Don't get the wrong impression; this is not litter. This little drop off may just be the best part of their cows' entire lives (and I'm not exaggerating). For the past three months I haven't seen a single cow anywhere near the winery, but for the past five days since we've been dumping our skins, the whole herd is suddenly at our gate. Mamas, papas and babies. And guess what they're all doing? That's right...getting drunk. They practically snort up those skins, which maybe they would do normally, but these aren't just grape skins. These are 100% alcohol-saturated grape skins. These pack a punch. And I believe that these clever cows just may know this. Why else the sudden appearance? Why else the crazed eyes and sudden fearlessness when I approach? I'm telling you, they know. And they love it. If I stay and watch them long enough, they start to stumble around, bump softly into one another or the fence, stare longingly at nothing, and try to make out with cows they otherwise wouldn't. It's the darnedest thing.

And the whole time I'm watching this, I'm trying to place where I've seen this behavior elsewhere. These are lowly, stupid, clueless cows after all, so where in the world would I have seen this drunken frivolity before? Certainly not in my own species.

Certainly not.

A Cat and Five Acres of Nets

Well, we're not a farm yet, but now that we have a cat, we are well on our way. About a month ago Jack found a four week old black kitten in our wood pile, and he is now our official farm cat. There's kind of an unwritten law that every farm needs a cat or two, so that means we're one step closer. And having never been cat people, it's big when I say that this cat is rad. He listens almost better than our dogs (which actually isn't saying much, but still) and he cuddles better than they do, too.  He also magically knew to use the litter box within minutes of being introduced to it. Our dogs will still pee in the house after six freaking years. I'm not sure, but my forever belief that dogs are better than cats just might be on shaky ground.  It's clear from the below photo that he is fitting right in.

Next update: I started working weekends at a tiny winery nearby and just had my first experience in working the vines. Well, not actually working them, but covering them. There are birds here called Starlings that send out scouts just like the monkeys in The Wizard of Oz. If these scouts see ripe grapes, they magically signal the rest of the group and within seconds half of your vineyard is toast. So as soon as our winemaker saw the first scout, we were up at sunset the next day ready to "net". It took four of us two days to net five acres of vines. And luckily for the winery, we bested the birds and saved the soon-to-be wine. Another fine win for humans. God knows we need alcohol more than birds need food.

Slaughter Part III

So given the Country Code of Conduct, or the CCC, after about another 1.5 hours of cows crying at an awkwardly obvious decibel, we decided to do the little that we could: sneak up our lane and hide behind an Eucalyptus tree to get a better view of her property.

It was so simple that is was unbelievable. There in the driveway was a cattle car. That was it. A Ford 150 pulling a medium-sized cattle trailer. It looked like it could hold six cows comfortably, eight if it was a rush order. The engine was off, there was no sign of human activity, and yet the cows were absolutely terrified. Somehow, somehow! they knew what that trailer meant. How the freaking HELL could they know that? They knew that the ones getting onto that trailer weren't coming back. They knew that something horrible was going to happen. I have seen dozens of trucks and trailers come and go from that ranch, but never, ever, have the cows responded like they did this night. And it's not like the slaughtering took place in that trailer so the smell of blood alerted the herd. It was simply a transportation device. That was all. And yet. And yet they sensed it. They sensed it. To say they were just responding to being separated doesn't work. These cows had already been through the separation of the calves from the mothers; this is a part of raising cattle, and we have now lived here for two calving seasons. We know what those cries sound like. They are absolutely horrible to hear, but never have we heard anything close to the fear and protest we heard the night that slaughter trailer came. I wrote in my last post that the sounds from the cows this night had layers like a choir. Who was making all the noise is conjecture of course, since I was across the street hidden behind a tree, but I'm going to do my best to describe what it sounded like to us.

 First we heard the babies (again, I'm not sure, but if my mama was being led away to her death and I was a cow, this is what I would sound like). They were crying. This is the only word I have to describe it, but to be truthful, crying is almost an euphemism. It was closer to screaming. Over and over and over and over again. We are used to the sounds of cows, as we are with coyotes and foxes and horses. (FYI, most of us have never actually heard a fox, but they seriously have the most disturbing cry of any animal I have ever heard in my life.) But that is how we knew these cries were not normal. These were urgent; these were screams. And they wouldn't stop. And as if these were not bad enough, on top of them were the cries of the mamas, and on top of them were the cries of the rest of the herd who seemed to know exactly what was happening to the ones being led away. Normally, any group lowing lasts roughly 15-20 minutes. This time is went on for 2, maybe 3 hours. It was excruciating to witness.

I don't write this to convince the four of you reading this of anything. I write this because it has now been three months since this night and still I can't forget it. I have avoided writing about it because I know it is an uncomfortable subject and telling people anything that makes us have to question our actions makes us act all crazy. But here's the thing: I have watched the unimaginably cruel PETA documentaries. I have read the heart-wrenching literature by animal rights groups. Both have made me sick to my stomach and horrified at that which humans are capable. And two days later, I'm pulling into In N' Out. I'm not sure how this strikes you, but to me, it's sort of effed up.

I am trying hard to think of a clever ending that helps you feel like there's an end to this issue like they do on NPR so we don't actually have to do anything, but I got nothing. All I got is my gut, which is telling me that there is no end to this story, which I hate by the way, because shit without an ending is messy and if there's anything humans hate it's shit without an ending, but it can't be helped since I said I'd be honest and so this one has no ending because I don't have one. I'd love to say that I've made a solemn vow to never ingest another living being again. I'd love to say that what I heard with my own ears and saw with my own eyes that night was enough to convince me that animals are so much more than fodder for my table. And actually it did. And it also didn't. I have since eaten about 90% vegan ( not just vegetarian because once you open Pandora's box - the myth, not the website - you find that animals are mistreated in every single industry that benefits humanity), but when I'm depressed or PMSing or hung over, all I really want is cheese and meat with a side of bacon.  And guess what? I eat it. What a friggin' cusshole.

So I will leave us all with this: When we think of cows from now on, know that they are more intelligent and emotive than our Manifest Destiny fairytales taught us. They create bonds and have feelings. True, maybe they can't buy flowers or open the car door, but that doesn't make them any less sentient. It takes a hard heart indeed to ignore these truths in order to feast on fillet mignon or rib eye. Even if it is superbly BBQed.

Slaughter Part II

Disclaimer: I really, really want to insert humor wherever I can into this post to lighten the mood. I truly do. The problem is, I can't find a single place where it is appropriate. I know everyone always warns that if you want people to read, you must stay neutral and PC in all things, but in this situation, that would be totally pathetic. I can't do it. Even though what I heard that evening was profound enough to still impact me three months later (which is really saying something considering my average impact timespan is roughly 3 days), I'm not going to exaggerate or dramatize it. I don't think I have to. Hang on real fast; I need to pour another glass of wine to continue.

So my blessed neighbor doesn't do the slaughtering at her ranch, which every neighbor within a five mile radius is thankful for (turns out, so are the cows). I have heard told my whole life the wonderful fairytale that the animals we eat are too stupid to know what's happening to them. Well, whoever made that one up has clearly never lived near my neighbor.  In the ten months we've been here so far, I am certain that this has happened before, but for whatever reason I've never noticed. Probably too busy grilling, frying, baking and sautéing beef.  Unfortunately for my belief in happy endings, this last time I heard it; everybody heard it.

We are used to hearing the lowing of her cows because they do it often. Maybe they're hungry or thirsty or randy or anxious because they sense coyotes about. This is how it usually is with the cows. But these were not the sounds of this night. On this night, there were layers.  There were so many different voices that it was like a robe-wearing cow choir.  I take it back; that was a horrible simile. They sounded nothing like a choir. In the attempt not to sound dramatic, I won't say what they really sounded like, but it wasn't a choir (cows, forgive me for even writing that).

At dinner I made a brief comment about the unusual amount of noise coming from the cows, but didn't think much of it until I realized that we were on to dessert and they still hadn't stopped. They were getting louder. The cries were growing, like more cows were joining in. This had never happened before (or at least we were too busy grilling to notice) and soon our curiosity was piqued. However, one thing we learned pretty quickly from our neighbors is that most people move away from the city to be left alone. The few times we've driven up their driveways - all at least 1/4 mile long - we've been met with a few shotguns and a lot of large dogs. I personally learned this by attempting to deliver we-are-new-to-the-neighborhood pies to everyone on our street at Christmas time (which, looking back, shouldn't I have been the one accepting pies?). Clearly we were not about to saunter up her drive and get all up in her business. And then there's the other tacit agreement of country folk: we all buy a lot of land so we can do what we want on that land. We don't bother you, so don't bother us. The problem is, I ain't no country gal yet.

Slaughterhouse Part I

Not only was I expecting country life to cure me of my hesitance to kill insects, I was also hoping it would cure me of that pansy feeling that animals have a right to live and not be slaughtered by arrogant humans who believe they can do whatever they want to anything that can't fight back or speak up for itself. I'm honestly not trying to get anyone's goat here; I'm simply pointing out a rather ignorant, superficial hope I had. And worse, that hope stemmed from the desire to eat what I want, when I want, despite who I might be eating.
 Moving next door to an organic, free range cattle rancher seemed like the perfect way to learn to forget my woos. I've done everything I can to convince myself of the Meat Manifest Destiny doctrine. I've tried to "connect" with her cattle, but decided that they are too dumb to be capable of connecting because the smallest movement I made caused them to take off running in terror (unlike my majestic goats who play and run with me; hence, no one would consider eating. Except for, of course, the other half the world). I've spoken numerous times to the rancher who actually makes her living by raising cattle for slaughter. I've listened closely to what she has to say, and I really do admire her philosophy. It costs her more and earns her less to raise these animals in a humane way and I deeply respect her for that. It isn't easy to do what is right when doing what is wrong is so easy and pays 10 times more. For a while there, I thought it had worked. I bought her meat and grilled it with relative ease. And I'm not gonna lie - it was by far the best meat I've ever had.
But then the cattle car came.