Canine unit report

I am reporting to you on a new development.

First, this is the precursor report on some exciting new adventures.  You will be updated on this as more details are available.

In the advance wave of  information gathering on the new adventures, a remarkably strange thing happened to me and my owners.

We got in the car and drove.  Not your average drive, mind you... we did not go to the Tractor Supply or to the vet, or for a hike at a park.  We didn't go see a friend.  We did not head to the house at the beach.  No... we did not.  We drove a bit further, to another coastal place.  Now we had been to this place a few weeks ago, but only briefly.  A day trip, which is a good thing.  We come and see, and we're back home come evening.

This trip, my humans must have lost their ever-loving minds.

First, we drive into what has to be the craziest place in all of South Carolina.
Neon lights and people everywhere, moving frantically, as if they have places to be and things to do at night...

I began to worry about the humans, who are laughing and talking and totally not getting the worried expression, and then my insistent glaring.  Do they notice?  They do not!

We stop at a place called the red woof inn.
Interesting smelling place... friendly to all canines, we check in.  I am a little concerned as my female human goes into the office, but I can see her and keep an eye on her.
Do not worry... I will not let her out of my sight.

This is where the story turns really strange.

Really strange,,, people... I'm telling you!


The humans grab the bags and head inside.
No big deal, I think, I've stayed at a place like this a time or two.

But NO.... Noooooooooooooooooooo....

The crazy humans walk me straight into this tiny little room... that immediately goes to blinking and whirring and MOVING.

For the love all things canine, PEOPLE.... help me!

I employ my best technique to indicate that this is NOT familiar territory for me.  I stick my nose and then my whole head up my human's skirt.  Ahh... familiarity.... I am safe... but only momentarily.  The little room shudders and shakes and comes to an abrupt stop.  Off down a hall, we enter a room that is WAY UP in the air.... ohhhh, people... I looked out the window and WHAT???? why are we in the air...  The humans... they're SO unconcerned.  

These people... something is wrong with them... they unwind and quickly climb into a bed that is NOT theirs, leaving me to figure this out for myself.  So, I stand guard all night...ALL NIGHT.  Just to make sure things are fine, I get the mama human up at 2... and we check the perimeter.  It's dark, and quiet... then, suddenly from out of the bushes ambles a wobbly human.  That crazy individual says "is the doggy friendly?"  What!?!  This is a negative...  Just in case... I give it a low, rumble... the one from deep down that says "back away from my human!"  I continue this rumble until the wobbly human backs several steps away.  The mama human reassures me and we head BACK into the little moving room!  I HATE this thing....
ahhh... skirt....  yes...

Just to check...
because I'm a good German Shepherd,
we checked the perimeter at 3:45
and again at 5:50.

By this point, I have perfected the technique of walking, head up under the human's skirt, from the door, to the little crazy moving room.  My legs now only shake enough to still allow me to stand.  I mean, really, if I can't see the little room....


After that, the mama human did what I'd been trying to convince her to do all night...
she sat, with my head on her knees and drank several pots of coffee (so, they're one cup pots!)...
but she helped me... 

She tells me that it's fine... that I'm a good dog for protecting them while they slept.  She's so glad that I am so attentive and protective.

No more of that sleeping stuff.

I am looking forward to getting far away from the little moving room and riding in the car.  Not sure what the big picture is here, but I sure do plan to keep my humans safely under surveillance.

I will report to you again, as I know more.

Sincerely,
The Official Canine Caretaker
Stormy

Roses for you...

Yeah... I know it's been a while.  I feel the tug to write and share... or someone calls and says "I get tired of checking on your blog to find nothing new"... or something jogs a memory or hits a nerve and I actually stop everything that I'm doing and sit down to tell you about it.

Recently, I've had a few friends who have laid their souls bare for the purposes of making the world a better place.  They've spoken up and shared in a way that touches your heart and lays open the places that all of us have, but few of us can or will lay open to the world.  It makes the world a better place and it makes those of us in the world kinder, more thoughtful people.

So, there are several reasons why today's post is happening.

This morning, I walked the dog.
Just like every other morning, but maybe with an extra spring in our step because it's cool today...

or because the new, little calves in the pasture across the road intrigue a German Shepherd in so many ways...

or because there were roses.

All of my life, the roadside and the ditches and the hedgerows in this part of South Carolina, have been covered with these small roses.  For many years, I thought they were wild.
They are not wild roses.  In the early 1900's, these roses were sold, via 'ladies magazines', through advertisements.  The best of the research that I have indicates that they came in three colors and a 'start' of the roses sold for ten cents.  You did not get to choose the color.  I can picture my great, great grandmother and her sisters and sisters-in-law, posting an envelope containing a letter with  their name and address and a shiny dime.  Over time, the rambling nature of the little roses moved them from homestead yards and gardens to the roadsides where they consistently bloom year after year with no care and no modern horticultural oversite.

They are among my favorite flowers and they make me happy.

And this morning, they were in full bloom.

The moral of this part of the story is "Plant something to leave behind!"
Plant whatever you love... an apple tree, an inexpensive rose,  daisies,,, daffodils...
Leave them as a legacy to those who come behind.

This brings me to the container.  And kindness of those around us.

When I was just out of college, and engaged to be wed, I worked in a small town.  And I had clients and customers who were regulars.  It was a small town and everyone knew your story.  Some folks knew ALL of my story and most of these folks were so kind and so sweet.  They were happy to see my happiness.  One day, just before my wedding, a sweet lady, with silver hair, came to me and handed me a beautifully wrapped package.  It was wrapped in simple white tissue with a pale pink, hand tied bow.  I will never forget what she said.  "This is not an expensive gift... it's an old thing of mine that I love and I want it to go to a new home full of love."  I unwrapped it.  It was a rose bowl.  Chipped silver plating, wrapped around a real crystal bowl with a 'flower frog' frame on top.
Designed to hold roses with short little stems.  Well worn and very used and more precious to me now, 31 years later, this small rose bowl has been used for beautiful dinner parties and special occasions.  It has sat by my chair as I read at night and on my bedside table.  It has graced my dining room table and my simple little kitchen table and the window sill.  It's sat on my front porch and in  more than one hospital room. It has less silver plate and a few more dings than it did when I got it.

And so this morning, I pulled it from the walnut corner cupboard and grabbed my snips and filled up the upturned bottom of my shirt with dainty little roses, and a fern frond or two and some fennel.  I filled the bowl with the heady scent of the fresh snipped roses and fennel and remembered a kindness and the well wishes.  It reminds me to be generous and kind and actually take time to do the small things that make an impact.  In small, small ways, like planting an heirloom, or giving a gift that is a small part of ourselves, or reminding people to be kind, we will make the world where we are a better place. 

So, where ever you are, as you read this...
take time to smell the roses... and share the small things in life, in small acts of kindness.
You will impact someone far more than you know.

Old, old trees

30 years ago, we began a rolling conversation that almost always started with the sentence "We're going to have to cut the trees."

And never, in all of this time, could I wrap my head around the homeplace without them.

They sheltered my childhood.  They shaded my home.  They sheltered my children.
They sheltered the birds, and squirrels and countless other creatures.

They stood strong and sturdy in the storms.

As little girls, my sister and I made 'play houses' under them... houses without walls, but where we played with each other and our dolls.  Where we played 'family'... where we pretended to be a 'normal' family.
We must have read thousands of library books under the trees, and we sometimes sat in the trees.
We would swing on swings made of rope and wooden boards, suspended from these trees.  We played with the spring puppies under these trees.

They formed a sturdy defensive wall against the afternoon sun, shading the old house and its inhabitants for all of the many years that there was no air conditioner in place.

During the years that my three children grew up, we put not one, but two, swing sets under their branches.
There they played... in sandbox... and jungle gym... and went down the slide a million times... underneath the trees.  Little dark haired girl, little blonde boys,more puppies and dogs than I can recall, and all of them often attended by a little bent lady with white hair.  She would sit her chair under the shade and 'mind' the children... when she actually simply didn't want to be in the air conditioned house.  Not born in a century of 'cold' forced air, she really preferred the shade of the trees.

During the evening and all of one night when Hugo blasted South Carolina, from the coast right through the upstate, I paced the floor of the old house, holding a new born boy whose nursery was upstairs.  The house creaked and shuddered and the trees bent low as the wind whistled and whipped.  Fear of several of the big trees landing on and in the house was very, very real that night.

Over these 30 years, we've lost some trees.  One that was affectionately called the 'nanny' tree, because that's the one that Nanny liked to sit under, on a sunny summer day, with old lady and  young girl sitting under it, suddenly begin to spray water from it's crown.  And then... you could hear the crack begin.  I ran and grabbed the two, and ran back to grab something that was left, when the bulk of the big tree came down. The tree fell within our line of vision.  It frightened the young child so, because she couldn't see me and I worried that she'd be scarred for life. It did make me realize how something so sturdy and solid, could, at any moment, come crashing down.

We had one in the back yard fall, in a storm, and completely take out a hundred year old corn crib building... flattened it to the ground.  A loss that I regret deeply even to this day.

And slowly, but certainly, I began to see the signs... and feel the strings of my heart that were attached to the trees let go.  Big limbs... truly huge limbs, 40 inches around or better, would plummet to earth with no cause... on normal days or nights, they'd simply crash.  More than once, we lost our power connection... having it completely ripped from the house.

Fear of having the very old house forced from it's river rock stacked foundation began to out rank the attachment to the trees.  A very wet and stormy summer, near continual fall of large limbs and the certainty of the trees being covered and damaged by ivy played in my mind.

So, when the conversation arose again, with my thoughtful and patient man, I said "Yes, it's time to cut  the trees."

Several contractors were interviewed.  Several declined to take on the job. This job would require people with expertise, a bucket truck AND human climbers, in addition to removal of the power from the house for several days at least. God bless my husband, who took on the task of finding someone who was capable and only requiring me to meet the two most likely candidates.

Finally, one was chosen.

In the week just before Christmas, they arrived.

And the power went down... and the work began.

For four days, from early until late, a dedicated crew of five worked steadily.

It was pretty amazing to watch.

I had imagined that I could not watch the trees go down, but when it came to the time,,, I couldn't NOT watch the trees go down.  I sat... all four days and watched, as limb by limb, the trees were removed with careful precision and very talented rope work.  Like an orchestrated ballet, but with men and saws and bucket truck, the rhythm of the day.... little limbs, ropes go up.  limbs... large limbs come down... they cut free, the swing free of the tree and are lowered swiftly to the ground and carefully.  Some, it seemed, missed the house by only inches, but they landed safely down below.  Then... four times, the huge, huge trunks, roughly 90 feet tall, were secured with even bigger ropes to trees and trucks and men.  One man and one saw went in and the others hollered warnings and encouragement as they all tightened ropes... and then, you saw it begin to move... barely, at first, then, as if in slow motion,  until the arc of the tree trunk was at about 60 degrees, then a sound and shock waves as the big tree landed, right where they guided... mere feet from the house.

I am grateful to the tree crew men who did not run me off, as I needed to be in the middle of it... I needed to see and hear and feel it.  I needed to look inside the hollow places and smell the tangy sourness of the tree sap.  After the first day, when they figured out that we were going to be safe about it, they would even turn and look at us after each big accomplishment, as if to say "Where you watching?"  "Did you see?"
I tell you, the men who did this work are rock stars!  They smiled when I told them that.  At roughly one tree a day, they were steadily at work and damage came to no human, and harm came to no house or equipment.

At the end of the last day, with a catch in his throat, Tommy said "You know, I was not sad about the trees until tonight.  As I walked back from the barn, I saw the birds, trying to find shelter for the night..."

Yeah... we both had our moments, and I walked around the better part of a week with tears at the ready and a lump in my throat and a good many times, I  had to turn and walked away.

At the end of the week, though, it's done.  Two of the trunks have left for a saw mill to be milled into lumber.  Two of the tree trunks and all of the limbs are left to be firewood, to warm us for a couple of winters, to make our campfires, to cook our food.  Small limbs were turned into several large truck loads of hardwood mulch. Reuse and recycling will claim all four trees.

I will tell you that I keep having to go out there and walk around... mostly to look at how the light plays on the land,,, on the house... to see the way the sun rises on it... to watch it at dusk.  I'm making my peace with the changes.  While I still sometimes shed tears, I begin to see a new place... to imagine spring.  The trees were underplanted with several hundred daffodils and jonquils and equally as many tulips. This year, they'll meet the sunshine. Might I plant a couple of raised beds?  Perhaps a truck load of azaleas... or a fruit tree or two.  I climb up on the stump and survey my little sideyard...so very different than it was a week ago... and I do see the downed lumber, but I also see the future, on a homestead that has been changing and growing and keeping us for these many generations. The ancestors that I knew would say "That's enough of this sentimental non-sense... Get up and get this place cleaned up! Chop the firewood, stack the lumber, use the bounty of it and plant some more trees." " Good grief, girl", they'd say, " You've got hundreds of acres of trees! Quit your fretting and plant some more flowers!"

Finally, there are 149 rings... on the stumps,,, one may have 148... So these trees were saplings as the Civil War began. Their diameters were between 44 and 48 inches each. The lives and history they stood through since 1864 boggles my mind.  4 trees... 6 generations of one family.

Special thanks to McCullough Tree Service of Laurens, SC, 

       who tackled a huge job and provided both excellent customer service and quality work.

Go outside!

 
In the barest of early morning, Stormy and I head out to greet the day.  We're met by Tank some mornings and other mornings he sleeps in.  With the earliest of falls changes in the air, the sounds of early morning start the day in the calmest of ways... most days.   One day last week, there was a skunk in the yard, so that was not calm as we beat a hasty retreat before the dog could engage the 'kitty' and the skunk could engage it's defense system. 

I usually get a run in as early as I can to beat the heat.  If not, then I sweat and regret the run back up the hill to the house with the sun against my back, but I do it anyway.

I hang my laundry on the line.  Consistently, it prevents firing up the 220 volt appliance and I gain benefits from it, my clothes and household textiles last much longer and look better and the carbon footprint is lowered.

I work in the garden.  I feed the birds.  I sometimes sit on the porch and rock.

I really love to sit on the porch and watch the birds and rock.

I miss having kids underfoot while I do these things.  And many days, I want to whisk away the kids that I know from their electronics and their too busy lives in the man-made jungle and toss them into fields and take them to the creek to look for things. I want to see them climb trees and fish in rivers and build a raft from stuff they find.  I want to slow them down and give them time to breathe and figure out what the world is made of.  I want them to hold a kitten that's still wet from the womb and 'get' what the maternal nature is of a mother cat.  I want them to plant a seed and have to wait to watch it grow and someday, down the road, to pick the fruit and cook it for themselves, or maybe even eat it standing in the garden, fresh from the plant and still warm from the sun.

The last thing I do each night before I turn in is walk the dog.  We walk, under the moonlight, again accompanied by the night creatures chorus and the stars.

I recommend it, whether or not you need to walk a dog!

Cream Cheese Pound Cake

I inherited a full house... it was chock full from front door to back with everything that anyone related to me (and some from folks who weren't related to me)  had wished to store for the last 40 or so years.

We spent a lot of time, sorting and re-storing.  And really, with very, very few exceptions, have lived life with the furniture that we found here.

One of the favorite things that I found when plundering all the stuff was recipes.  Some were handwritten.  Some were fragile newspaper clippings.  Some were in musty, old books.  And while there were a few adventures... (I mean exactly what does constitute a 'slow' oven with today's modern thermostats?), by far and away, all of the recipes that I've tried have become favorites.  Solid and sturdy, made of common ingredients, a lot of these recipes are 'ground work' recipes.  Staples of this and many southern homes, they're recipes you build upon.

One of my most used, often requested and 'never fail' recipes is this one for cream cheese pound cake.  It's perfect as it is, still warm from the oven.  It's even more perfect with a finely diced fresh peach and a spoonful or two of whipped cream.  It's the worlds most comforting breakfast when you slather a slice with butter (yeah... that's overkill for sure) and toast it in the oven.  You can make a trifle with it that'll disappear long before anything else on the dessert table at the covered dish dinner.
And you always have the ingredients in the house, so when disaster befalls your friends and neighbors and when you need to comfort hearts and hold hands and there are no words to say to make it better, you throw one in the oven and put it on your granny's best old plate when it's done and carry it right on over.

If you really want to gild the lily, you can frost it with peaks of buttercream icing or you can glaze it with cream and powdered sugar, but there's really no need for that at all.  This plainest and simplest of cakes is a 'go to' recipe that everyone should have in their repertoire.

Cream Cheese Pound Cake

1 - cup of margarine (softened)*
1/2 -  cup of butter (softened)  *             *Do not substitute or change this ratio.  Just don't.
1  - 8 ounce package of softened cream cheese   (I often use neufchatel which is lower fat.)
3 cups of granulated sugar
6 fresh eggs
3 cups of sifted cake flour    (In a pinch, you can use all purpose flour)
2 teaspoons of REAL vanilla extract  (Honestly, I don't measure the vanilla, I pour and I'm sure it's more than 2 teaspoons.  Not so much as to make it soupy, but probably more like a tablespoon. )

Preheat oven to 325 degrees.

Combine the first three ingredients, mixing well.  Gradually add the sugar and beat about 5 minutes until fluffy (this is 5 minutes by hand, if you have one of the handy stand mixers, it's more like 2 minutes). Add eggs, one at a time.  Add your flour about a half cup at time and beat well.  Add the vanilla last.

Pour the batter into a well greased and floured 10 inch tube pan.

Bake in the center of the oven for 1 hour and 30 minutes or until the cake tests done.

Cool in the pan for 10 minutes, remove to a plate and cool.

Additional notes:

This cake is delicate in flavor and texture.  You can tweak it, to be sure, but the above recipe, followed precisely, yields the classic cake that I describe above.

This recipe seems to be from the 1920's.  Margarine, which has a very strange history, was used more during the first world war than any time from it's inception in the late 1800's.  This recipe uses less of the 'harder to come by' butter.  I've tried swapping the margarine out for butter and it doesn't make the same cake... simply doesn't work.

Invest in a solid, heavy cake pan.  Even if it's the only cake pan you will have.  You can't beat a tube pan for versatility and you don't want the frustration of owning a cheap one and turning out cakes that are too brown and dry.  Go ahead and get a good one... you're only going to need that one for the rest of your life and you can will it to your children.

And last, but not least.  Make your own vanilla extract.  Get some nice fresh vanilla beans.  I like to use three.  Run a good sharp knife down the length of them and drop them in a pretty bottle.  Top it off with your choice of an excellent grade drinking alcohol.  I use Jim Beam whiskey.  I also keep some made up with rum.  And I like to 'season' it about 6 months before I use it.  And I like to have a stock of it in the cabinet (and at least another bottle hidden away for emergency baking).

Happy baking... not much beats this pound cake.

There are fresh peaches on my dining room table just begging.

Never get tired of it.

Yesterday, the dog and I took a little trip.  We drove some distance to try out a new trail that turned out to be not exactly what expected.  That's neither here nor there.

This morning, I headed out for my run about 7.  I'm trying to figure out how the warmer weather is going to affect my running, as I committed myself to this after it had turned cooler  in the fall of last year.  The dogs have to stay home because they impact both my run and my enjoyment of it.  For the better part of the first mile, I can hear them howling at the top of their lungs.  They are utterly dismayed at not being allowed to go, and for the one with the shepherd tendencies, it's kind of rough when her 'herd' runs off down the road.

For a while, I trot along not thinking about much.  I'm not a music runner... mainly because I don't have anything that works for that, but it is thinking time for me.  Somewhere in that first mile, I have a few minutes of queasiness.  I figure it wouldn't be an issue if I ran before I ate, but that really doesn't work for me. So, I eat my oatmeal 45 minutes before running and chug through the queasy.
Then... then I look around. And wow... what a morning it was today.  There was a new burst of wildflowers everywhere.  Kind of a crazy riot of purple and yellow and white everywhere I looked. The heavy, sweet scent of the honeysuckle, hanging thick along the river bank and the smell of warm wet earth were tamped down a bit by the gentle sprinkle of rain that joined me intermittently.  The rush of the water over the shoals was more pronounced this morning because of heavier rains north of us.

Rounding the curve in the road, I see a great blue heron, stalking fish in the edge of the swollen creek as it tumbles over the fall.  I slow to a walk to see if I can observe it a while, but it flies, wary of human contact, which is as it should be to keep it safe.  The falls is far too populated most summer days to see any wildlife there, but the early morning, if I do have to share it, it's with the heron or my constant companion this spring, a female wild turkey who is no doubt,  setting on a clutch of eggs nearby.  Most mornings, early, she's foraging and we startle each other.  A morning or two, she's clucked a warning at me from somewhere up the hill above where I run on the trail.  I'm looking forward to seeing her with her poults.

I turned around and again, like nearly every day, realized what a beautiful place I have to run and to live in general.  I enjoy the fresh air and the sound of the river and I love the birdsong and the flush of early summer flowers.  I'll have to take a walk this weekend, with the camera and see just how many types of flowers I find.  I'll bring home my photographic evidence and pull out the book.  Not an ordinary book, it's a book about South Carolina's wildflowers written by one of my daughters college professors.  I was gifted the signed copy for mother's day of her senior year and very few weeks go by when it's not referenced, but this is the time of year when it stays on my bedside table.  I recommend you have a copy of your own if you live in the South and if not, I hope you can find yourself a comparable reference for your area.  The book is A Guide to the Wildflowers of South Carolina  by Dr. Doug Rayner, co-authored by Dr. Richard D. Porcher.

The only downside to the morning was that the rains of late have spawned a fresh crop of mosquitoes.  Ninety percent of the time, I am not bothered by them.  (I think it's because I eat a lot of onions and garlic!)   But this morning, even stopping long enough to watch the bird or look at the creek netted me a thick coat of the little buggers on all exposed skin.  All the more reason to keep on moving!

Encouragement

You know, I really should write more.  I've really got some 'splaining to do...

But for today, this will have to do.

I was thinking this morning what an amazing thing that encouragement is.

I was thinking how much encouragement went into raising my young ones.
There were no days where I didn't rise each day and pray for the wisdom to encourage them
in the ways that would be best for them... for their lives, for their happiness and for strength and courage for the lives that they would live.

Yesterday,,, last night, actually, I realized that the tables have turned.

When I most need it, I hear, see and feel encouragement from my children.

Don't get me wrong, I'd be remiss to not count encouragement from Tommy and countless friends, but in the last two weeks, I've had the great opportunity to spend a greater than average time with the young adults who are my children and I didn't realize how much I have needed it.

Thank you to Elizabeth for verbalizing things that make me certain that I raised you right (or at least as close as humans can get).  As the 'practice' kid, you've turned out well.
Thank you for saying that watching what currently feels like struggles gives you hope and inspiration for the future.  You have no idea how that speaks to my heart.  For a girl who didn't have a cheerleading bone about her, you are my steadfast cheerleader and a solid certainty that I count upon.

Thank you to Jordan, for being here at this time.  I know that it's hard to wait upon the things that you so deserve, but I have enjoyed this time. You have eased the transition to a quiet house for me.  Never having been an 'only' child at any point, I have had days to realize the power of your humor, the depth of your spirit and appreciate your calm, steady approach 90% of the time and your feisty Scottish heritage the other 10% of the time.  Sometimes, it is enough to be here.

Thank you to Trent, whose unshakable tenacity has always been there, but whose adult character is coming into view.  Thank you for pushing the point sometimes, and for thinking outside the box.  Thank you for coming into your own in a way that makes us proud.  For having had parents who were far more experienced, you've consistently met both our high expectations and let your creative side run.  No easy task, to be sure.

Know that I love you three more than reason and know that I appreciate the encouragement that you offer me.  It's a beautiful thing to catch it on the bounce back.

Running

 Since November, I have run nearly every day.  Strangely, I haven't run since I was in college, unless it was after children or from mad dogs.   My kids were good and very few mad dogs have been hereabout, so there was not a lot of running.  There are reasons for the running... we'll not go into them now.

I went to the doctor recently.  After blood work was done, the man came into the room grinning and said "whatever you're doing, keep it up".

And I'm making every effort to do that.

Because....

 I run beside this river.  And every day is a beautiful day.  The chilled air in the river bottoms is just the ticket to keep a person moving and even stopping to take it in is invigorating.

Just like college, all those years ago, I get a real charge from the run itself.  Endorphine rush is a huge driving factor in getting into the shoes and out the door.  I'd forgotten what it felt like.

I'm super guilty of using the excuse of too much to do.  I've done it for years and have become an expert at it.  Giving everything over for everyone else.

If you've been doing this, please, for your sake and because I tell you it's worth it, start right now...

... do the thing for yourself that you know you need to.  It doesn't have to be a run... it needs to be what lifts you and helps you to keep your chin up.

The world will spin on anyway.

Get yourself up...

put your shoes on....

and go do the thing you want to do.

Enough already!

 Enough already with this cold stuff...

I realize that it's still January... but barely.
The last week, I have been enjoying 70 degree temperatures, a handful of daffodils in a vase and those ever so cheery crocus to brighten walking the dog in the wee hours.

Actually, when it's nippy cool but still warm enough for you to wear your gown and flip flops to walk the dog in the wee hours, it's just about perfect...

...it sets my heart to spring... and I order up some garden seed]

and drool over the seed catalogs.

I grab that last bag of garden veggies from the freezer and turn them into dinner.

Then, it happens... the dreaded 'cold snap'... which isn't actually a cold snap... it's a return to what is normal for January.

(except for those daffodils... and the crocus.... and the frisky bird behavior...)

Anyway, enough about the unseasonal warm and the daffodils.

I've promised a tale about quail... 

Late last fall, while at work, a coworker who also has 'birds' and I were talking about quail.
I expressed that I'd been very curious about quail, and several times had gone on exhaustive searches to find some that were local enough that I could drive to get them and that wouldn't cost me an arm and a leg to experiment with.

Small and fairly tidy, they are easily kept for meat and eggs.  The Coturnix quail are fast to mature, being ready for egg production and the table in about 8 weeks. 

So the friend says "I can get you some of those!"  Turns out that he goes to farm auctions on a regular basis that have them come up for auction occasionally.  I gave him a price range, which based on my previous research would have netted me a little roo and a couple of hens.  Ten days later, I get a call.  He has me a dozen quail.  Wow! 

I bring them home and we acclimate.  Which means that I had to get used to being fussed at when I went out the back door.  They make sweet little noises but they're insistent boogers.  They like fresh sand to dust in and my particular quail do not like treats.  They instantly started to lay eggs.  One even laid an egg in the box on the way home.

 Pretty, pretty, speckled little eggs.  Little eggs that if proven to be from fertile birds can be quite expensive.


Little eggs that,if put into incubators, turn into a few more birds, so you have a breeding plan.

And little eggs that in 19 days can be the cutest little birds you've ever seen.
Little chipmunky sort of birds, except for that little yellow one...

For size comparison, this little dude is sitting beside a quarter.

...and I guess, by size comparison, yes... that is a tiny, wee little poop.

I raised enough to overwinter.

And as soon as this whole winter weather lets up, and the days get a bit longer, they'll go back to laying and we'll repeat the process.

So, as I spent part of the afternoon wrapping their pens with a tarp to try to keep down the wind factor, I thought I'd share.  They're really very sturdy, but after yesterday's wind and storms, I thought it would be a good idea to offer them a bit more shelter.

I'll let you know when we start to get some eggs... then we'll know it's really spring!

We miss them so.

After many years of lots of sweet moments, laughter and a good bit of calling her 'the fat dog' instead of Daisy,   we woke one morning to find that she simply had died in her sleep.  We did not know her age or even where she came from.  She was tossed from a moving Jeep, many years ago.  That day, so long ago, she was so fat that her little legs were shorter than her belly.  We expected to be surprised with puppies, but instead, discovered that she would eat more than her weight in anything left at her disposal.  After a  solid diet and exercise plan, and vigilant protection of the 50 pound bags of dog food, Daisy became our beloved little girl. A fierce barker when anything happened on the farm, she was as good as any alarm system and constant in her devotion.    This is the last photo that I made of her.  Just after we got the quail  late this past fall, I looked out the kitchen window to see this.  Bittersweet...  Rest in peace, sweet Daisy.  You are missed.

Days before we lost Daisy, we lost Bailey as well.  Ever a free spirit, she was hit by a car one afternoon.  I think we all knew that is how it would end for her.  Though she had a metal hip and a rod in one leg from a truck versus dog collision when she was less than a year old, her fondest desire in life, after being Elizabeth's dog, was to chase cars.  Over the more than 11 years that she was ours, we'd tried everything.  She was not a dog for confinement.  Bailey came to us when Elizabeth made a trip to Petsmart, just weeks before starting college.  Nothing would do, but I go back with her and see this amazing little pup who had stolen her heart.     Bailey was personable and sweet and so, so smart.  Her charming personality was known to all. She loved Elizabeth best of all and was never so happy as when the Jeep slowed up to turn in the yard... her girl was home. She was companion and protection, canine love in a special package.  She rests by the river, where she loved to play.

It is lonely just now on the farm.  They left so close together that it seemed suddenly quiet.
We're glad for all the days that we had them, for the memories and for the devoted affection that life with a dog brings.

Strength to meet the challenge... and depth of gratitude.

A lot has been going on here.  Good stuff, difficult stuff... height of hilarity to depth of anxiety stuff...

Normal life stuff is what I'm saying.

Over the last month, we've celebrated Christmas and New Years, an engagement, health issues, work issues all around, weather challenges, animal challenges.  Endless prayer... Tangible, intangible precatory overtures.

Life.

It's been a while since I have shared what I am grateful for.

I am grateful for that which is inside of me that believes in the power of prayer.
I am grateful for my 'direct line'.

Recently, I have been awakening in the middle of the night and determined that if I should be awake at such an hour that I will not waste the time in worry, I have begun to think of it as time that I should offer prayers for all in my life that I am grateful for.  The time has been valuable.  It has helped me to see the multitude of blessings in my life.  In the still and quiet of the darkest of night, there is room for the light of all of those blessings to come shining through.

I am grateful for the middle of the night.

I am grateful for friends, who both listen to me and hear what I am saying.
I am grateful for their counsel and their guidance and their love and devotion.
I could not live without them.

I am grateful that I count among those friends my children.

I readily admit that days happen that I am stunned by my children. For any part that I played in who they are, I am grateful.  Every day of their lives, I have prayed for them and for me to be the example that God would have me be.  I pray for strength for them and love and life abundant. They are adults of substantial heart and soul.  Like all young adults, they are faced with challenges.  I see them rise to the challenge time and time again.  I am glad that they are both tender and tough, by equal measure.
I am most grateful for the days when their arms are around me, and I am grateful to hear their voices at times when they are not close enough to touch.

I am grateful that also among my friends, is my husband, of nearly 30 years.  Really... it seems like yesterday.  I am blessed that he has spent all this time encouraging me and supporting me. I appreciate his sacrifice on my behalf and on behalf of the children more than words can say. In a rather strange way, I am grateful for the tough times,which has shown us what we're made of and forced us to work together as a team.  After Christmas, we took a trip.  The first trip, alone, together, since children came along.  We laughed a lot and have vowed to do more of this in the days ahead. 

I am grateful that life is never dull.  Never a predictable moment here...

I pray for strength to meet the challenge of each new day.  Strength of mind, and strength of body.
I pray for courage to face the challenge, even when strength fails.
I pray that my life reflects God's love and that He works through me as long as I live and breathe.

Baking a green ham.

* Vegetarian folks... this is a post you might want to skip.

Sometimes, I take for granted the things I learned from my folks.  A favorite uncle (perhaps actually a great uncle once removed) was a college professor and he loved to have dinner parties for his friends.  He taught me the basics with several types of meat that have never failed me in 30 years.

This week, a sweet friend took on the task of cooking a green ham for her family. She called for instructions.  Her single request was that it not be dry.

This recipe works for roasting a green (raw, fresh, non cured) ham or for a large pork roast.
Green ham does NOT have anything green on it.  Green is merely the phrase used to signify meat that is not cured in any way, but has just come fresh off the hog.   A few butchers still can get you a fresh ham and a few folks still raise and butcher their own hogs.  Most of us these days get them from the grocery store.

Open the package and wash the meat thoroughly with water.

Mix 1 teaspoon of sugar and 4 teaspoons of salt and rub into the ham or roast on all sides.
Line your pan with heavy duty foil.  
Place ham skin side up, cut side down on the foil.
Score the skin side of the ham.  I score one way and then at an angle so that you have 'squares' about an inch in size.  You want to score into the fat about 1/3 of an inch.
The skin is tough, use a sharp knife.

Pour a single cup of water into the  pan.  Cover the pan tightly with foil.

Bake for 17 to 20 minutes per pound at 325 degrees.  Instant meat thermometer should read 160 degrees for appropriate doneness.

I start to check at the early side of (17 minutes x ___pounds of meat) and check every 20 to 30 minutes (depending upon how fast it's going) until it reaches 160 degrees. 

Bone and skin will have pulled away from the meat.  Let it rest for 10 minutes before slicing.

This has never failed me, nor have I ever had a dry ham.

Let me know how this turns out!

Meteor shower

It's just a little past midnight...
a brand new day ticked into place while I was outside,

standing along side my son,
watching shooting star,
       after shooting star,
              after shooting star.

... and remembering how many nights like tonight, I wrapped a little one in a big warm blanket
and wiggled
and giggled our way into a yard,
         or a field
                or a pasture,
                       to look up and behold the night sky.

Tonight, I stood there with a grown man
and we each made wishes... 

in some respects, little difference...
mother and son, in full appreciation of the beauty of the firmament... 
watching little streaking lights as they burn away.

In some respects, quite a lot of difference...
where I would have, twenty years ago, had to bounce him from one hip to the other,
little monkey arms and legs hanging on tight,
standing there with little boy breath against my cheek,
waiting to get so cold that one of us began to shake before turning for the lights of the house,
warm and beckoning.

I made him promise me that should he have little ones someday, that he will wrap them up and carry them out that they too should see and know the night sky.

And he agreed that he would... and then we began to shiver... and we turned and came in
surrounded by the lights in the inky blackness on our way back to the warmth.

Thanksgiving's Eve

It's the day before Thanksgiving and this means that we are so far behind on the cleaning that we've given up and moved on to cooking. 

Rather... I got up at 5:30, walked Stormy and started cooking.  Long before the sun came up.

And when I say we, we've all been  busy, but just now the man of the house is rearranging quail pens.

Yes, quail pens, which means that there are some things that I need to catch you up on.

Moving on... one might ask what I am doing sitting down this moment, but it's necessary... and things are in the oven, timers are set (even though the pitiful timer is being held to the fridge by a band-aid).

I am on schedule where my trusty notebook is concerned and even hatched up a second and third dessert that sounded good.  Am behind on getting out the dishes and washing them... and honestly am contemplating the drive to get some (shock and dismay) paper plates.  I am simply tired of loading the dishwasher.

Truthfully, I'm on the heels of having attended a conference, where there was much to see and do, and even more to contemplate... I look forward to next week, when I can settle down and do just that.

Getting home to be blasted into Thanksgiving mode is harder than I had imagined it would be.

And the house is much too quiet... with grown children, who are actually young adults, the day before Thanksgiving finds them all at work.  For this I am thankful.  As I chopped pecans and walnuts and diced sweet potatoes, I realized that they're all employed, which is no small feat during these economic times.  They are all healthy and reasonably happy... they have what they need and most importantly they have friends and they each have a beloved.  As a mother, this makes me very happy.

Tomorrow, or maybe late tonight, they'll start to come in.  The one who may not make it, will not be forgotten, as if we don't see her, we'll drive to her after the crush is over here.  I appreciate her dedication to her calling and remember trying to schedule the holiday madness when we were young and married and beginning careers.  It wasn't easy then and times have not changed.

As the day winds down, and I have far to go, it's time to get back up and organize and clean and cook some more.  I wish you many blessings and much to be thankful for in a life full of wonder and love.

Change of seasons

I live in a place where there are four seasons. 

 Four distinctly different seasons...

 And all of them are beautiful in their own way.

For as long as I have lived here, I do not believe that I have ever enjoyed an autumn as much as I am enjoying this one.  Cooler temperatures are nice and the colors are gorgeous.

Sleeping with the windows open and needing to layer on a quilt or two brings a whole different kind of peaceful rest as the chorus of night noises change to a more urgent symphony.

 Yet again, with the season change, work for me is curtailed and I find myself on a new wavelength

trying to figure out how to get things geared up for the Thanksgiving holiday and what to do with the time I have at hand.

 Things change... This old tree, almost certainly a witness to history, failed to put out leaves this year and stands sentinel before time and the winds of change bring it down.  

The subtle changes sometimes leave the biggest void.

I will miss it when it goes.

 But for sure, the road always leads home.

For me and for all those that I love.

 A hearth with a fire, a blanket and a book.

 A time to wonder and think.

Time to be reminded of my blessings.

Historic sewing

Every once in a great while in my life I have a big 'hmmmm'  moment.

You know... the kind where you pause and reflect and wonder.

This is one.

Recently, I have become gainfully engaged at an historic site where periodically, we need to wear historically accurate garments.  The date of the time period at this beautiful site is 1765.

Back country South Carolina at the beginning of it's recorded history...

Colonial land grants from the British crown to settlers who were willing to pack their lives into a wagon and head into the unknown with only their families and the possessions which seemed prudent to carry.  Finding their way along a wagon road south, living in the 'rough' until they reached their new home.  When I think of the courage that this would require, I can hardly breathe.  To places unknown, to settle a wilderness... to meet wild animals and native Americans and carve out a home with little more than your family and your hands and the knowledge that you had... it simply blows my mind. 

Back to historical sewing.


First, there is research.... lots and lots of research. 
Time and place, station in life, age and tasks all play into what you make.
 
It really was  a simpler time.  No stores of any kind, months to wait for anything you ordered and then traversed the whole of the state to get to Charleston to take possession.  Very little in the way of choices... wool or linen.  Textiles made of wool and linen were both produced in South Carolina and just the simple textile skills that I possess and much time and patience would produce fabric yardage to make into clothing and household textiles.

Simply protecting your body from the elements and modesty as was required by social mores at the time meant that you needed upwards of 10 yards of fabric for garments for a single outfit for an average size person.
I began closest to skin.  The basic undergarment for women was called a shift.  Widely documented, the shift of the period covered you from elbows to neck and almost to the ankle.  Made of linen, it stood in as your nightgown and  your underwear day and night.  After a good bit of research, I chose Kanniks Korners Last Half of the 18th century shift pattern, a mid weight white linen and commenced.

Now, in my sewing room sits several amazingly wonderful modern machines, and more antiques than I care to explain.  And none of these machines were available at the time period that I need to portray, hence I needed to polish up my hand sewing skills.

At first, it took me back to the earliest days of my taking needle in hand...  Summer afternoons spent making doll clothes from scraps and tentative stabs at creating patterns until my great aunts took pity (or possibly realized budding seamstress potential) and began to take my sewing education in hand. Somewhere in there, someone produced a 1940's commercial upholstery machine.  It smoked... it really, really sent up streams of smoke from it's motor and sparked and rocked wildly back and forth sideways while I, in my childish excitement, put pedal to the floor with a vengeance.  Yeah...

Then,  as work began on this most recent project, I began to realize that I looked forward to the quiet hours with needle and thread and sumptuous linen.  Simple lines might make the job easier but period technique and width of fabric meant extended, careful tiny stitches.  Felling seams, in order to prevent the linen from fraying and to make the shift withstand the test of hand washing and wear time, added more hours of fine tuned stitching.

Often this stitching took place in the confines of the historical structure, while waiting for tours to start.  The day that I finished the shift, I was sitting in an historic building build about 1822.  The final stitches meant that I need to move on to another part of the 'kit but just reveling in the beauty of a garment, made entirely by hand, was pretty nice.  Turned inside out the garment is as beautiful as it is right side out.  I love the technique and the end  result.

Then.... oh, my goodness... I put it on.

And I slept in it.

Deep and peaceful slumber.  When I wakened, the luxury of the linen, the impeccably perfect fit, the comfort of the simple, simple garment.
In the past world, fraught with hardship and danger, to have form and function collide in the form of the undermost layer of clothing had to have made the day ever so slightly easier.
I will confess to eccentrically wearing it quite a lot.  I look forward to shedding my modern confinements and pulling it over my head, simple comfort after a long day.  I also confess to spending a day off in it... doing barnyard chores and traipsing happily about tending flowers and animals in it, in all it's glory... historic underwear on the lam...

I accessorize this garment, when no one is watching, with my flip flops...
tres chic... I expect to start a trend any day now.

Work progresses, apron and bonnets and petticoats and jackets... the very challenging set of stays.  I look forward to making a second shift... I suspect it may be my 'go to' comfort wear at home now,when noone is looking.  The weird, weird connected feeling that one gets while making an historically accurate garment, in an historically accurate place, for the purpose of education and then discovering how wonderful it feels to sew every small stitch yourself.

If it's been a while since you applied needle and thread to fabric, let me recommend it.

Ironically, I am writing this sitting on the circa 1765 porch, watching a tufted titmouse  and blue birds and humming birds flit about the grounds.  Sharing the story here with travelers and people out for the day is a very nice job.  With the sounds of major highways in the distance to remind me that it is, indeed the 21st century, I can think of far worse things to do on a Friday morning. 

Father's day...

Second in emotional challenges for me, is Father's day.  Slightly less raw than Mother's day, is the day that we celebrate the male influences in our lives.

I am blessed beyond measure to be able to give thanks to the following:

First and foremost, let me say that I made peace with my father.  As an adult, I came to terms first with how my early life fell to bits and secondly, with my father.  We had a relationship unlike the average father-daughter one, but what is average anyway?  In the end of his days, we talked long and communicated well on what, by any stretch, had been a relationship fraught with every emotion known to human kind.  In the very end, I accepted that he would not be at peace with it, but that I was.  Forgiveness, true, true forgiveness frees both the forgiven and the one who forgives for life and love as we should know it. I am grateful for the heritage that I have and it came from my father's family, as that is the one that I have known.

Secondly, I am grateful for the men in my life who took a seven year old girl and guided and molded and gave selflessly of their selves and their resources and their wisdom.  To Uncle Juddy, Uncle Hugh and Uncle Billy, who were 'great' relatives both generationally and presently, spent more time and effort bringing a willful, stubborn, aimless child into focus with many hours of calm, wise counsel and much direction, both specific and that which comes from watching lives lived well, I wish them eternal peace.  For looking at me and understanding that I was going to need a lot of skills to make it in life 'alone' and then for proceeding to teach me those things, I am ever grateful.  For being examples of fine, tough, never say die, Scottish stock, they were pretty much perfect.  For walking me down the aisle, teaching me to be a  fearless cook, keeping it real and honest when I needed advice that I didn't want to hear and teaching me marksmanship and how to fish, drive a tractor and change the oil, I am thankful. For helping me learn to manage my temper, which in this family is no small feat, for insisting upon self control and modelling it (most of the time), I am glad.
For giving me the gift of knowing men who were tough on every front but gentle and kind with women, true old fashioned gentlemen who gave me confidence in the male gender and in myself, I heap highest praise.

To Ike, who was my link to the heart and soul of the African American experience, and who's gentleness and easy smile made it ok to be a kid again.  Memories of sitting on his knee in front of a fire, warming my hands, held between his wrinkled, calloused ones was comfort and care in a world gone wrong. If ever there was a way for a white child to have a black grandfather, this was it.  For teaching me that hearts do not come in shades of brown or white and for holding my hand when I was scared, I am ever grateful.

To my father in law, Jerry, who, in retrospect, shielded myself and my family, and whose quiet reserve and insight into life, and whose example of being true to vows are unsurpassed in my experience, whose parenting gave me a beautiful husband and whose dark brown eyes and sense of humor I see in my own children.

To the men who are present in my life now:

To Jordan and Trent, who from infancy, retrained me in the meaning of maleness and who have loved me so sweetly and so completely and whose rambunctiousness has caused me to live a life that is not at all boring.
May you someday know the joyous gift of being fathers yourselves.

To David, who from toddler hood, remained my consistent friend and confidant and a good example of the best of the male world.  For nearly 50 years of absolute constancy in 'being there' and whose unwavering counsel I trust.  For knowing me, heart and soul, all of that time and still being there through sorrow and sunshine and every day in between.

To my Uncle Phil and Uncle Claude, who,both, make me laugh...always.

To my son in law, Clayton, for his spirit of adventure and courage in joining the family.

To my brother in law, Tim, whose good nature and giftedness at being an uncle, adds so much to my life.

To my husband, for being first and foremost, the love of my life, kind and caring when my heart needs it, sturdy and faithful in a world where that is often missing. For being able to deal with a fiercely independent spirit (in me and in the kids) and for not throwing his hands in the air so many times.  For support, physically and emotionally, and spiritually and for being the one man in the world to give me the gift of being a mother, I owe so much.  From the moments of their birth, he, who held them first, has been a steadfast champion of our children.  For working day and night, for riding shotgun on consistency and supporting my need and desire to be a full time parent during their young years, I am indebted.

Happy Father's Day!

This afternoon, after supper, my oldest boy insisted upon 'walking' his mother.
This is not in anyway unusual.
We often walk... over field and forest... through bramble and stream.
He's always been my child who is attached to the land.

Anyway, I leashed the dog and let myself be led away.
We walked to see some hunting areas that he's been working on.
We came to a new deer stand and he encouraged me to climb on up.

I declined... then, ahem... he offered to 'boost' my backside up in there.

Harumph...

Then I climbed on up.

I love seeing the world through his eyes.

Springtime chicks.

Nothing says spring on a farm like spring time biddies.

Now there are three approaches to baby chicks.

One is that you purchase some... you order up some or accidentally purchase some at the local feed and seed store.

Or your hen goes broody and you allow her to have her way.

Or you set them off in an incubator.

I'm a fan of that last option.  Really.  You end up with the chicks of your choice, the timing of your choice and chicks who imprint upon human beings, and for me, are easier to manage.

This year, I failed miserably at the 'plan'.  The plan this year, was not to have any little ones.  To skip a year, and allow natural attrition to cull the barnyard flock to a reasonable size for household of what is sometimes one and sometimes two people.

What ended up happening is some mixture of the last two options.

Back in February, I had a little hen go broody. 
And for whatever reason, I neglected to break it up.
I just let her go for it. 

I mean, she was so cute and ridiculous,
sitting in the corner of the lowest coop,
all fluffed and temperamental.

The rooster kicked into being 'a real boy' about that time, giving me all kinds of fits, but making me very unwilling to make lunch of him until I'd determined what kind of genetics he carries.  (He, being my sole survivor of a batch from option one (purchased) last year. I purchased 'hens' and 1/3 of them failed to be hens). He's all kinds of weird colors, but supposedly carried the 'blue egg' gene.

Anyway, things went well for a couple of weeks, until I came home one day to find the nest broken up.  Eggs broken everywhere.  Not sure, exactly, what happened, it was further assurance that I needed a summer off from having baby chicks.

Fast forward to April.  She did it again.

Again, I go to get in eggs and feed chickens and there she sits...
tight as anything on a large clutch of eggs, carefully hidden from my daily treks to the coops. 

Ok... so I'm busy... working two part time jobs... I let it continue.  

Until one day about a week ago, when I was in the area working and heard a commotion.  I went to see what was going on and every chick in the coop was out of sorts, squawking and flapping, I was flogged soundly by the rooster when I entered the coop (a very significant rooster 'no-no'), I discovered her pecking and breaking eggs.  Half developed chickens were oozing out of the nest, I was being flogged and the other hens were hysterical. 

I grabbed the rooster, stuck him in a feed sack and hung him on the wall.

Ok, so that's not what should have happened, but it did...

I grabbed the hen and tossed her.
I gathered the warm eggs into my shirt, being rather stunned to discover that one of the problems was over-production... and the fact that eggs were still being laid into the nest.  So much for not separating her from the coop...

I run to the house,
put the eggs in a basket,
grab the incubator and plug it in. 
Put the eggs in the cold incubator and hoped for the best. 
NO idea when to expect biddies, no idea of whether or not the incubator would come to temp or go over and kill the remaining developing chicks.

Again, significantly distracted by other life issues, one day this week, I head to the laundry, and while I'm putting clothes in, I hear... something scratching... in the incubator.  No peeping, mind you, only scratching.
And sure enough... there's a peep.  Oh, my...  again, I am unprepared.

I have a great brooder. It has thermostats and lights and ventilation... the works.
Is it ready?  No... Is it even clean?  No.

Soooooooo.... chick goes into a box, with a desk lamp.

Due to stupid chicken management on my part, we have continued to have hatching on 12 hour intervals. 
Up to the point of 10  uhm. er 12 chicks. 

And what we can determine about the rooster is this,  he is definately a mixed up fellow.
Little bits are the biggest mixed up blend of chickens I've ever seen. 
Some have the telltale 'muffs' of an Americauna (what the rooster is 'supposed to be').
Some have olive legs, some have bright orange legs, some have black legs.
Every color and hue.

What remains true...

There's nothing like baby chicks in the spring...

It's going to be a colorful barnyard mix, for certain.

We ARE having new chicks this summer.

Which may be a good thing, since I've lost two hens to what is likely a weasel in the last two days.

Ahhhh... barnyard drama...

A sure sign of spring.

For my Facebook peeps, I've put up a 'meet buttercup' video, which gives a new hatchling a once-over, up close and personal!