a girl's best friend

Consider the raised flower bed. I have always wanted them.

Always.

There is something so organized and clean and orderly about raised flower beds.

Contained.

The chaos of a summer garden can be contained in a raised bed. Strong redwood setting clear boundaries for what should and should not be happening in that bed. No weeds. No chickens. No mess.

Are these raised beds a metaphor for my secret desire to have a quiet and orderly life? Do they represent calm control over things that are usually quite unruly?

Or...

Are these raised beds a symbol of possibilities and creativity? Empty soil canvases waiting for exotic herbs and gorgeous cutting flowers?

Or...

Are raised beds simply the answer to my aching summer-garden back and perpetually dirty knees?

Could be.

Or, it could be that these particular raised beds are so special because they were built by the hands that mean the most to me. It was noticed that I love raised beds even when he doesn't. The corner posts were finished with the beveled edges that I love on pasture fences. He remembered that.

Who needs diamonds to feel loved? I have raised beds.

2012 County Fair

You take one goat.

Sprinkle in one small chicken.

Add one good-sized steer.

Don't forget a dozen brown eggs.

And what does it make? One excellent County Fair!

mother to mother to mother

Mother Nature is amazing to me.

Truly.

I always imagine Mother Nature as a beautiful spiritual, ethereal being. A wispy, wise, and peaceful presence.

Living on a farm we see Mother Nature's work daily. It has to be her. Who else would make the fruit trees bloom at just the right time in the spring? Who else would wake the sleeping daffodils under ground and tell them to come forward and announce themselves?

Who else would fill Bessie, our true Mother Hen, with the consuming "broody" urge to set on a clutch of eggs? Mother Nature has set a farm Mother to work. The work of unrelenting patience. Setting herself still and quiet for 21 days on a clutch of fertile eggs borrowed from the farm next door.

She's done it before, so we figured she could do it again. But things didn't go as planned for Bessie. After two weeks she became confused one night when returning to her nest after a short snack and leg stretch... She returned to the wrong nesting box. The eggs lay cold all night.

With a new batch of eggs, we start the count down again, as Bessie will not be deterred. Her instincts are too strong. After two more weeks, the mix up happens again.

So, we've learned so far that Bessie isn't the smartest chick on the farm, but she is possibly the most devoted. She has become weak and thin. She has lost all of her feathers on her underside. And she is falling victim to the Hen House bullies as they pick at her. Yet she waits...

In a panic to help her we try to "break" her mood. We remove her eggs and remove her from the nesting box over and over again. We lock her out only to have her wait at the door to have her race in when it's opened to find her nest. It was heartbreaking. Mother Nature's powerful instincts had consumed this Mother Hen.

As a mother myself, I couldn't watch it anymore... her confusion, her devotion, her will. So, RT and I run to the feed store, buy 5 four-day-old chicks, and wait until well after dark. Then, in the late night moonlight, with a chick in each of our hands, we all creep into the chicken coop, I lift Bessie as she sleeps, and stuff the 5 chicks underneath her.

It was the most amazing sight to see her the next morning clucking and fussing over these chicks as they scampered out from under her wings and then back under cover of their Mother. No question in her little mind that these are her babies.

A Mother of 5.

She had done her job. She had waited patiently, and they had come. It didn't matter that they had come by way of a human mother's empathy, or a spiritual mother's instinct. They had come indeed.

Hello, old friend.

Let's pretend like we're old friends, dear blog. The kind of friends that you can go without seeing for months even years, but when you do reconnect it's like you've just seen them yesterday. You don't miss a beat. You don't feel guilty that so much has happened that you haven't shared.

Nope.

You just pick right up where you left off, thrilled... So, hey, old friend...

Knox.

Meet Knox. Knox is my new dog. Knox is a border collie. Knox is crazy!

Knox is pure joy for life morphed into the shape of a dog. Knox is intense and silly - a full contact dog.

Knox has a unknown history. His history with me starts at the Central California SPCA. So, we'll just start there, even though I know there is "history." Knox can be crushed with words. Devastated by your voice. Knox will run frightened until he hears even the slightest give in your voice, the tiniest change in your tone. He will detect it, and he will forgive you instantly for your lapse and come rushing back to your side. He forgives. It's cool. It reminds me to do the same...

Knox is an open heart, and that is what I love about him. He's all the other stuff that border collies are too - obsessed (with chickens and tennis balls), loads of energy (thank God for the invention of the Chuck It), intense (he can win any staring contest - especially if it's with a chicken...).

He sleeps flat on his back. He's learning not to put his front feet on the counter, and he has the wildest swirly hair on his rear-end, he's missing one of his front teeth - hence his nickname, Billy Bob...

Knox is... Knox is...

my dog.

And that means a lot.

christmas gift

As the year drew to an end, and we dug into celebrating the holidays with our family, a stray kitten, by way of a friend, came our way. As nice as it would have been to say that the "inn" was full, I surprisingly felt compelled to take this not-so-cute, starving, wormy, whiskers-burnt white and orange kitten home with us.

Now, I do consider myself a spiritual person. I do believe in: things that are meant to be, that everything happens for a reason, that there is a Christmas spirit, that Santa does exist. And on this particular Christmas morning, after a year or more of losing some of our most favorite creatures that had the most pure spirits, I believe a tiny gift was meant to be delivered to our family.

Corny, I know... But, honestly a heartfelt belief.

This kitten, this silly little kitten represents all that we held dear and all that we are striving for as a family in the year to come. He stares through you with understanding like Bryce, my best four-legger did. He demands your affection but gives it back three-fold like Lily, our best feline friend did. He is patience, love, gratitude, satisfaction, and peace - with an orange tail and four paws.

Oliver, Oliver Twist, is the sweetest spirit that will remind us all that our life is enough. That we should hold each other close and say "I Love You" way too much. That we should enjoy the day for what it is - wear slippers, eat cookies out of the jar, lay on the bed and talk, laugh.

Oliver, we don't know where you came from, but we are so glad that you are here.

Thank you, Santa...

red

yeah, yeah... I'm back in business. There's too much good stuff that happens in our life to let it just slip by. I must write!

So, with Fall comes the beginning of 4H. RT's only request at the end of 4H last year was that could he please raise a steer because he didn't want to be the only boy in middle school showing his Nigerian Dwarf goat at the fair... What, not manly enough for you RT?

After much discussion, analysis, reasoning, rationalizing, and agonizing we decided to cross over to the dark side... raising a market animal. Meat animal. Short term project... and after too many glasses of wine at an FFA benefit dinner, one introduction, and one phone call later, RT became a beef cattle rancher... a rancher of one.

Red.

In the idealic setting of farmland and rolling hills, at a dear friend's home, a handsome - clearly champion worthy - hereford steer has come to live. My son's first business endeavor... well, besides the market eggs of last year. And I'm not making fun... those eggs fetched a silver Supreme Champion belt buckle and $250 at the livestock auction... not bad for 12 stinking eggs.

Anyway, back to Red. RT didn't over think the name. It was between Burger (too mean, I said), #110 (ear tag), and Red (note his color.) But we are over thinking everything else: brand of feed (hours of research), type of hay (tried two types already), halters, coat blowers, corral fencing, exercise schedule, weigh dates, hoof trimming, blow drying...

And I thought blow drying the chickens was weird.

OK, blow drying chickens is weird...

In this short period of time we have all already learned so much: there is no end to the number of flies in the world, cow tongues are scratchy, cow poop is easier to clean up than horse poop (cow poop stays together in one plop), cows like to play (yes, Red was trying to play when he was tossing his head and running after RT... "Stay behind the tree" I'm yelling. Please God let no one have filmed us...) Anyway the learning goes on and on and on. So stay tuned. This project is sure to yield some great laughs!

country goodness

There is the most wonderful place of country goodness that I have discovered deep in the heart of the tiny town I live in.

The Hen House.

The Hen House is full of all things wonderful... fairy lights, cobwebs, laughter, and the most mouth watering, delicious smelling, homemade soaps and lotion you'll ever come across.

Ever.

The Hen House is a family-run shop on the property of my new friend, Veronica. She shares the shop with her best friend... so you can tell already, good things are happening in this little place. The shop itself is one of the out-buildings of the original dairy that called this gorgeous piece of property home.

From the time you turn onto the drive-way lined with untamed grape vines and rose bushes set off by the beautiful, lush irrigated pastures as a backdrop, a peaceful, warm feeling comes over you.

When you pass under the rusty iron arched trellis, stepping carefully on the concrete stone that has "welcome" scrolled on it, you are greeted by a friendly selection of lazy ranch dogs.

And you indeed feel welcome.

Whether you are being helped by a daughter or a niece or Veronica herself, you feel like the afternoon's most special visitor. You are told about the latest soaps, the yummiest lotion creations, and of course, any local news that has flown through the hen house...

Magical.