Doggone

She's hairy, and dusty, and she sometimes walks so close to me I can't see her in my shadow. Once in a while, her stick-to-me glue gets on my nerves. But she's mine.

She came to me through Craigslist. We've been together since August of 2009. Once in a while I get wistful for a Corgi, or a Basset Hound, or a Shetland Sheep Dog, or a Labrador, or a Mini-Australian Shepherd, or a Blue Heeler/ACD, but I'm pretty happy with my Border Collie.

She thinks she is the boss, she tries to herd children, ducks, chickens, pigs, cows, and goats if you let her. Mostly she takes her "job" of protecting her territory very seriously.

She's quirky. She has one blue eye, and the other eye is 3/4 black and 1/4 blue, which makes her look cross-eyed sometimes. She hates baths and loves popcorn. She sleeps on my feet and is the first to greet me when I come home and open the gate.

Meet Sam.

{this moment]

{this moment} - A Friday ritual. A single photo - no words - capturing a moment from the week. A simple, special, extraordinary moment. A moment I want to pause, savor and remember.

If you're inspired to do the same, leave a link to your 'moment' in the comments for all to find and see.

Inspired by this blog and, ultimately, this blog.

{this moment}

{this moment} - A Friday ritual. A single photo - no words - capturing a moment from the week. A simple, special, extraordinary moment. A moment I want to pause, savor and remember.

If you're inspired to do the same, leave a link to your 'moment' in the comments for all to find and see.

Inspired by this blog and, ultimately, this blog.

And yes, I realize it is not Friday, but I was so inspired, I could not resist.

Falling in love, again and again.

If you've ever read "The Velveteen Rabbit" by Margery Williams, you'll recognize the nickname for gentleman in the photo above: the Skin Horse. Partly because of how 'real' he is, and partly because of his color: Buckskin, is how the nickname came about.

He's not mine, no.  But I love him like he is.  This mature and gentle being belongs to my mom. His name is Spencer.

25 years ago, he looked like this:

His mom's name was J.B. and I would lounge on her uncomfortable back for as long as Lori would let me, just to bury my hands in that mane, lean close to her neck and smell that lovely scent of dirt, and "horse," which is an unforgettable smell.

His dad was named Diamond Eyes, a well known APHA (American Paint Horse Association) sire and Halter Performance horse:

When he was born, he didn't have any white markings on him, so the breeder put him up for sale immediately.  In the mid-to late-eighties paint horses were all the rage, and the more white coloring they had, the better.  According to the show circuit anyway.  

The Skin Horse had lived longer in the nursery than any of the others. He was so old that his brown coat was bald in patches and showed the seams underneath, and most of the hairs in his tail had been pulled out to string bead necklaces. He was wise, for he had seen a long succession of mechanical toys arrive to boast and swagger, and by-and-by break their mainsprings and pass away, and he knew that they were only toys, and would never turn into anything else. For nursery magic is very strange and wonderful, and only those playthings that are old and wise and experienced like the Skin Horse understand all about it.

"What is REAL?" asked the Rabbit one day, when they were lying side by side near the nursery fender, before Nana came to tidy the room. "Does it mean having things that buzz inside you and a stick-out handle?"

"Real isn't how you are made," said the Skin Horse. "It's a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real."

"Does it hurt?" asked the Rabbit.

"Sometimes," said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. "When you are Real you don't mind being hurt."

"Does it happen all at once, like being wound up," he asked, "or bit by bit?"

"It doesn't happen all at once," said the Skin Horse. "You become. It takes a long time. That's why it doesn't happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don't matter at all, because once you are Real you can't be ugly, except to people who don't understand."

"I suppose you are real?" said the Rabbit. And then he wished he had not said it, for he thought the Skin Horse might be sensitive. But the Skin Horse only smiled.

"The Boy's Uncle made me Real," he said. "That was a great many years ago; but once you are Real you can't become unreal again. It lasts for always."

The Rabbit sighed. He thought it would be a long time before this magic called Real happened to him. He longed to become Real, to know what it felt like; and yet the idea of growing shabby and losing his eyes and whiskers was rather sad. He wished that he could become it without these uncomfortable things happening to him. 

 In late November of 2009, Spencer, along with April, came all the way from southern California to North Carolina to live at Hope Farms.  Since then, I have fallen in love, again and again with the Skin Horse.

Lately, he's been known to teach me a thing or three, especially about trust, and every time I am around him I feel more comfortable in my own skin.  

At 25, and being from California, he doesn't keep his "topline," meaning, the roundness of a younger, more fit horse and I worry about him keeping his weight on, especially in the summer time.  The humidity of these NC summers are difficult for him, but I'm hoping that he adapts more and more every year.  

I no longer think of 25 as being "old" for a horse.  He has become. And he's helping me to do the same.

Thanks for sharing him, Mom.

Quilted

There is something about a quilt - handmade, planned, preserved, and well-used - that makes me wish I had a hundred of them.  

And when they hang on the line, patiently - soaking up the sun - I want to stare at them all day and ponder:  whose hands pieced those puzzles together, and for whom?  

Yet they are silent, standing ready for any kind of duty whether an impromptu front yard picnic, or farmers market table covering, or a chilly spring night covering.

Especially connective for me was when, in my English Literature class we read "A Jury of Her Peers," by Susan Glaspell and then another touching and poignant story within "Everyday Use," by Alice Walker.  Both of these works of literature played upon a quilt.  

The pieces of fabric, however tattered, held together by threads -however steadily or crazily stitched, are so telling of the nature of our lives.  And sometimes, our quilts, much like our lives, aren't quite pieced together like the picture we have in our minds.  

But, indeed, this is the beauty of a mismatched and hither-thither quilt.  And the beauty of a life that was once planned to be a solid color, or black-and-white, even, that is now the many pieces and colors of a life unscripted.  Even the worn and tattered edges hold a certain beauty, no matter the light.

Sleepless Sunday

So I've done it again, brought in a new week by welcoming 12:00 midnight.  I should be sleeping.  

But the truth is I've got great news. 

I was able to snap a few pictures over the last several days, as you can probably tell. 

And while I won't divulge the boring details I will just tell you that it was on clearance, it was just like the old one I used to have, and unashamedly, I am in love with my little blue Canon PowerShot SD1100 IS Digital Elph.  It does everything I need it to and more.  It almost makes me appear as though I know what I'm doing!

As I said, ALMOST!

And oh my goodness does it feel great to be able to take photographs again!  It's like seeing good things come to life all over again!

*Yawn* and on that note, good-bye and good-night!

In Loving Memory of

Peaches, our dear beloved bovine friend.  A lady to the end.

mudess

As I was posting a comment to a friend's blog the other day, the word verification process came and I entered the given letters.  And then I laughed because it so described me and my boots that day:  mudess.  Yes, I have a new nickname for myself.  Mudess.  I like it, it has a nice (muddy) ring to it and looks somewhat elegant when capitalized, too.

"Yes, your Mudess, I will take the wheelbarrow full of manure to the compost pile right away."

(hee hee!)

Because I'm naturally nosy, I went to answers.com to see if I could find a definition for mudess, alas there was none.  Perfect!  (don't we all want to coin our own nicknames?)

The English student in me wants to add a "d" in there.  Muddess.  Is this "proper" spelling for a word that doesn't really exist?  Or, should it be left in all of it's un-glory of mudess?  Yeah, I just made up another word:  un-glory.  I kinda like it, too.

Speaking of liking words, let's review some of my favorites.  Please chime in at any time and add yours, too.

farmhousewife
field-mouse-itis
mudess

Okay, so I admit it.  I wondered what the next word verification would be so I went and posted another comment, which served a dual-purpose as I really did want to continue reading her blog because it's been a long while since I've been able to spend any amount of time reading anything except one or the other of two English or Religion textbooks.  So, the next word I got was:

~~drum roll~~

ratear

wha?  is that RAT-EAR or RA-TEAR or.....RATE-AR.  hmm.  Interesting.

Not quite as cute and quaint and befitting as mudess, but fun and completely useless nonetheless.

Have a great day!!  Anything you do after reading this will be considered productive so have at it!!

On whispering to chickens.

At one point I'd lost track of how many were out in the pasture. I had a general idea but had not written down an exact number. When one is watching chicken tv this isn't the time for counting. It is a time for listening, watching and wondering exactly how big is a chicken brain? Go ahead, call me a chicken whisperer. Did I ever tell you about the time I sewed up a chicken's neck with needle and thread? For real. Ask my Mom, she'll tell you.

Some are more friendly than others. Some regard you with a suspicious eye and turn on their toes and point their fluffy feather bottom towards you when you move a muscle. Others hop right onto bended knee and look somewhat sideways at you while making a slow but deliberate "waaaaallllllkkkk" noise at you. It's almost a question, this "waaaaallllkkk" noise. The answer to which I've not found yet, but about a 1/3 of a coffee can full of lay crumble will usually quell it, if only for a little while.

Wing clipping day provided the counting opportunity that I needed. We lured them in to the henhouse with food and then closed their chicken door. I got the scissors, a bin to put the feathers in and Captain Strong Arms was the designated holder.

We officially have; 18 Red Stars, a hybrid super-layer made by breeding a Rhode Island Red with a Delaware hen or the likes. One Rhode Island Red Hen. One New Hampshire Red Hen. One Easter-Egger (Mrs. Featherbottom, one of my original hens), one game hen (Mrs. TopHat), one game-ameracauna hen (Ms. TopHat Jr.), one game-easter-egger-something-or-other (Ms. Henrietta, who came here carried in my sweatshirt, from Jimmy's farm), and one of my original Ameracauna girls (Mrs. GreenEggers) from the Biscoe fleamarket. Add to this my two OEBB-Red Bantams, their husband "Little Guy", the nicest speckled shy rooster ever to grace the henhouse here at Hope Farms, and their two daughters, "black girls." The most recent addition has been "Bert", my blue Cochin Rooster who I am determined to make a pet out of. He's not quite sure of my intentions but patronizes me adequately.

Running Total: 31

As if we were done. Sheesh, do you people know how in love with chickens I am?

There are three new children, in quarantine currently to make sure they are healthy and happy; Three Bantam Golden Seabrights. A Roo and his two ladies. As yet unnamed, but unbelievably gorgeous.

Then, to use the old cliche, last but not least are the six beautiful Blue Orpingtons compliments of some new friends that we willingly and loudly claim - Thank You for breeding these beautiful shy and yet simultaneously proud creatures. I am going to promise to enjoy them every single day. Even when it is muddy out there.

Grand Total: 40 Chickens to Whisper To. *remind me to tell you about the "bawlk bawlk" joke someday....

So, that's it. For today. And, I want you all to know that instead of doing my English homework, I blogged. So now I can cross that off of my to-do list for today.

A parting thought, compliments of a sticky note my mother left in one of the books she sent me:

"Just for today: there is enough love, there is enough time, and there is enough money".

Amen.

just for fun

From the summer of 2007 - Eddie had just turned two!

wordless wednesday

Favorite Farm Foto Friday

go ahead, look back five years

Taken almost five years ago.  My, how things have changed.  I would never imagined I'd be where I'm at today and I wouldn't change it for anything.  

Favorite Farm Foto Friday

chicks: before and during

Baby Chicks. One of the cutest things known to man. They keep you guessing with their soft yellow downy fuzz - wondering what they're going to turn out to look like - and growing into their feathers that will soon appear.

We picked our Heavy Breed (straight run) Special from Reich's Poultry at the Post Office on May 26th, they were all a day or two old. We had ordered 50 - when you order that amount, they throw in five extra, and when I counted, we had 56.

There is, along with the element of surprise, an element of dread as well when raising baby chicks. With life, there is death. And so it is. There is the possibility that one or several more of these chicks will not survive for whatever reason - natural or man-made - and you will have to deal with it.

As far as the "after" that is missing from the title of this post:

Although we are raising these chicks with the high hopes that there are lots of hens (with a 'straight run' order, you get the hatchery's choice, or leftovers, of sex) there is the reality that there are more roosters than we want and so at around 10-12 weeks, we will slaughter them, process them and henceforth put them in the freezer.

The hens will remain here at Hope Farms for the rest of their lives - chickens can live to a ripe old age of 30-35 years, although their average lifespan is about 15 years. They provide great free entertainment too. It is always interesting to spend time with chickens and note their freakiness dispositions, the hierarchy of the flock, and how they respond to you, the human.

And now I leave you, potential chicken whisperer apprentice gentle reader with this video, which should make you a.) smile b.) want to order a batch of chicks and c.) somehow know that your head needs examining 3 weeks into raising baby chicks in your spare room, which now smells -strangely - like baby chick poop.