As The Butter Churns

November 3rd The French Connection

 (Porcs dans une couverture -Norton and Midge do - pigs in a blanket)

Dearest Daddy, 

     Bonjour. I am sorry about this year’s Notre Dame football team but I suppose you're getting used to it. And I hear the cold Paris autumn is intolérable.  I know I’ve been unusually silent since the spring, and I know too it makes you feel disconnected from everything that’s going on here. Again, I’m sorry. Forgive me if I repeat myself, but I’m just going to give you a broad update on what’s been going on.

 L'actualité:

    Since the beginning of the year, I’ve been on a big life improvement kick. As you know, it started with the around the clock renovations on the house. I just couldn’t take it any more – the constant mess, projects everywhere. It consumed me – and frankly, I went to and from school, Home Depot and Lowes. Alexis and I worked as I’ve said before, late into the night. Day after day after day.

 

(achem - my dirty little secret - the laundry basket of unopened mail - Awesomez is helping me - correction forcing me to open- ok I'm still lying she's opening it and I'm standing next to her)

 

 

(Alexis works and works and works)

    Then Lisa and Lindsey moved in and the renovations that weren’t finished came to an abrupt standstill. Even now, pieces of window casing and crown molding stacked in the game room. But it was time to prepare for the fair.

     Honey became the focus. We had to jar and then we had to buy shelves to put the jars on. Banners were designed, and created, business cards, t-shirts tables, tablecloths, infomercials, etc. Awesomez labeled day in and day out. The fair came and went. 

 

    Sales from the fair were underwhelming. It was exhausting trying to compete with deep fried Oreos™. The problem we face is that true honey lovers don’t like you to “do” anything to their honey and consequently, they don’t appreciate the idea of the Stingers™ line. Unfortunately, people who really like it don’t want to try it, because they think they don’t really like honey enough. I’ve been racking my brain how to overcome this problem and I keep thinking about the Life cereal campaign “Hey Mikey! You try it.” Moms were supposed to think it was healthy, but kids were supposed to think it was tasty.  

  (Honey packages -almost ready for mailing- we use hay - it's environmentally friendly - it smells good when you open it and we have a whole lot of it on hand)

   (Henry mailing his honey)

    A few stores are carrying it now and it seems to be selling, but we really need an endorsement from someone whom people admire, a food editor or someone. If only Ellen liked spicy food. Who knows? Maybe she does. Perhaps I’ll send her a jar. We did just get accepted as a member candidate to the National Association for the Specialty Food Trade, which means we may be going to their Winter Fancy Food Show in January. It’s in San Francisco and though it won’t be cheap, I think it’s the best way to help launch Henry’s Sweet Miracle Honey™ and Stingers™. Oh and by the way, we’re just now coming out with a new flavor! The Naughty Nana™. It’s a ginger/pepper blend. I can’t wait for you to taste it when you come in January. Chris says it’s his new favorite.

 (getting ready to launch)

     School started and life became complicated. Awesomez and I were trying to juggle the kids, school and everything else. Lindsey is very teen and thought living on the farm was fine in the summer, but it hampered her social life. So after much discussion, Lisa and Lindsey found an apartment in town near school. It was definitely the right decision. They have two dogs (Angel and Tasia- as in “Fantasia”) and neither got along with Irish. This made living in the house a bit more of a circus than usual. And having them in town is handy. I can go and spend the day at their apartment learning QuickBooks™  (a bookkeeping program) and not have to stay at a coffee shop all day. Awesomez can drop off or pick up something for me so it’s great in a lot of ways. Awesomez and I are actually spending more time together than when we were living together. I feel as though I got my friend back. Besides, blending two families isn’t easy. Heck, living with anyone isn’t easy, especially, since she's about as fanatic about football as you are. 

   (Awesomez and I work at taking the top fence post off - around the entire pasture - Alexis' great idea to save money and still be able to build a new section-Brilliant!)

    The truth is though it hit me hard they were going to leave; I’d worked so long for them to arrive and spent so much time preparing. I had this picture in my head of snowy evenings with us around the fire watching some old movie. Alas, that was not to be. Lindsey won’t watch old movies. Awesomez is so allergic to pet dander she could barely sit on the sofa, proving life isn’t always a Christmas card. Selfishly, I’d also imagined Awesomez would be there to help me with all the winter stuff. 

     As luck would have it, just about this time Alexis mentioned he was looking for a place to spend the winter. His situation was coming to a close and he needed to move on. So without much hesitation I offered him the attic “penthouse” and he gladly accepted. We worked out a rent/work agreement and are happily preparing for winter getting heat lamps, checking water heaters and putting in wind blocks. There’s so much to repair on the loafing shed in the pasture. The little cows have pushed down planks all over the place and the round bale feeder leaks like sieve.

   (back in my coveralls again - cleaning out the barn from Sir Edward's mischief)

    I can’t tell you what a relief it is to come home and find something done that I didn’t do. Alexis has already reorganized the barn and prevented an electrical fire down at the pump house. It seems my cracker jack former contractor didn’t make sure the wiring down there was done properly and we had an accident waiting to happen. The water stopped one evening when I wasn’t home and Alexis went to investigate only to smell the smoldering. He changed it out and prevented a disaster. 

     Speaking of shoddy workmanship, my sink in the kitchen has sunk again. I don’t understand why, but I guess the guys who put in my new counters and sink never built the proper support beneath it. So the sink has separated from the counter again by about two inches – This is the second time in less than three years. Bless his heart Alexis is fixing that today. While I steal away this precious time drinking coffee and writing you. C'est la vie.

     In addition to everything else, we’ve been asked to video document almost everything that goes on around here for a project. I feel a bit silly on camera, but I’ve been trying to comply. The idea is to inspire interest in Fort Flashback and the colonial living history camp. I know Dad I still dream. Rêver le rêve impossible. Perhaps the apple doesn’t fall too far from the tree and all of that.

     I haven’t slept well in months, which has been taking its toll on me. There is a reason why sleep deprivation is considered a form of torture. It’s the coyotes. My friend, Anna who has a turkey farm has lost a huge portion of her heritage turkeys this year. I worry every time I hear howling close by. During the day I worry about Frank, Brad, Silence and Alice - my silly turkeys and of course, Louise, my one kooky chicken. Norton and Midge seem to take care of themselves, but a pack could definitely take them if they tried. So I’ve been thinking seriously about getting a llama. I know, I know, another animal? And it’s not colonial. Although I can rationalize with the best of them and the llama actually originated in North America millions of years ago before moving to South America - so actually it's Pre-colonial. Right? Anyway, I’ve struggled with this day after day turning the options over in my head.

    The thing is Miracle had just quit working. It seems this isn’t uncommon for donkeys they seem to work about two years and then retire. I guess she’s not unlike a lot of women, she fell in love and quit her job. What can I say? She’s an ass. Then of course, there’s Irish, but frankly he’d rather be curled up watching “Dancing With The Stars” than living outside guarding animals. So the only other choice is a llama. What with winter fast approaching and darkness being the order of the day, coyote attacks become more and more likely.

 (just a little baby bear in the middle of  Mosquito Lake Road -)

 (a baby bear we saw on the way home- it was no bigger than Vivian and all alone - I hope Mama was close by)

     If you can imagine, the nights are worse. You see, Lucky is still lame and I’m afraid they could easily take her down. I can’t imagine what a slow terrible death that would be.  Irish does alert me to any trouble. So almost every night I get up and listen at the window to hear how close they are. If they are in fact, in the pasture I put on my coat and go down in the van. This happens so many times a night I’ve taken to sleeping on the sofa with Irish so I can get up quickly.

   (Healthy Lucky)

    I don’t’ know if you remember Lucky – she’s one of the little Irish Dexters I got from Pixie Forest Farms. She’s red like Gnatalie, Petite’s daughter and Gnatalie’s cousin. She’s a sweetie with a curly hairdo. Somehow last winter she injured her leg. I had the vet out last spring, but and he couldn’t find anything wrong with her that can be fixed. He told me to try putting her in the barn. Isolating her so she could get better, but she became insane and broke out of the barn. She doesn’t like being alone. Then back when Alexis and I were working on the house we built a corral underneath the Kubota barn. I thought maybe she’d be ok being outside if the other cows were nearby and she could see them. She broke out of there and limped back down to the pasture. So for the warm summer I left her grazing in with Petite and Gnatalie. I locked Abe and Andy out and let them roam the hills. The vet said they could try to mount her and that would be the end, so they contentedly roamed. For a while I thought she was getting better, but she isn’t. In fact, she’s atrophied so much on one side she looks strange. I fear she won’t last the winter. I don’t think she can maneuver through the mud and I can’t imagine what will happen with the snow and the ice. I’m looking for a sign that it’s time to put her down.

 (Lucky just balancing. She doesn't walk much at all anymore)

    Strangely, Henry, Tom and I are actually getting used the idea of butchering her if she does need to be put down. At this point after so many discussions, we feel throwing her away would be a sin, especially in these economic times. This has led me to think of Maryruth often. I don’t think I’m where she is, I don’t think I could just butcher Lucky to eat her, but I think if I have to put her down, I think I’ll be ok with it. What the heck is happening to me? Am I really a farm girl or what? The whole thing makes me want to crawl in a hole and go for a pedicure. If it weren’t for the money.

   (Henry - the other guy)

    On a different note, Henry got in a fight after school with a bully. I was extremely proud of him as he was protecting his friend, Dylan. I guess as usual it was over some girl. The bully thought Dylan had said something derogatory. He and Henry had been trying to avoid the kid during the day, but persistence paid off for the bully and he finally cornered them on the Village Green in Fairhaven. ( It sounds so Boston Massacre) Anyway, Henry said something right out some Clint Eastwood movie like "You'll have to go through me, first..." and the bully took him at his word disabling our hero with a blow to the neck. The bully was no stranger to street fighting. Henry on the other hand brought a knife to a gun fight.  He had a perforated eardrum, a black eye, a chipped tooth,bruised ribs and a shattered ego. A vacationing pediatrician saw the whole thing and gave me the details. Chris was closer, left work and picked up his nephew who was embarrassed he hadn't even really gotten in a good swing.

    He's been prohibited from playing his horn while his ear healed, but in any case he is probably giving up band this year. He’s going to finish his third year, but doesn’t really think it’s his thing. His ear has healed and he is back playing but he has informed me it’s not his dream. "I'm just not another Grandpa Horn..." Frankly, I’m just glad he stuck with it this long and hope maybe he’ll want to pick it up again in the future. I know he has your musical genes but honestly I can just about tell the difference between the piano and drums.

    Henry’s turning into a teenager before my eyes. He’s not as helpful as he once was without my occasional screaming. And you know I can scream when the occasion calls for it. Toby’s going through the same thing with Dean. Dean is doing well in school and has a girlfriend – Her name is Fredleynn (that’s correct - Fred- a – lynn). He took her to the Burbank High Homecoming Dance where they had their first kiss “Right in front of the principal,” according to Dean. However, a real teenage boy Dean has been completely disregarding all rules of the home. He disobeyed Toby and left the house for school at 5:45AM in the dark to go to the park. She went ballistic. He doesn’t seem to be able to comprehend the danger he could be in alone in the park at that time of the morning and she doesn’t know why he would do this. We’re worried about someone taking advantage of him and he of course thinks he can handle anything. One night Toby came home from shooting “90210” and found Dean engrossed in some program with jelly all over the carpet. She said recently her head spins around on a normal basis and she is not exactly sure whether she goes completely Linda Blair. The smart money says she does.

 (Dean and his girlfriend)

     Henry hasn’t gotten that bad, yet - but he gives up on every chore without really trying. I never would have watched Mom do the kind of work he let's me do without helping. I brought the hammer down pretty hard the other day and I am seeing an enormous improvement. Just to make sure I know he's really, really trying to help out, he gives me a running dialogue as he does his 'good deed' Yesterday for instance I heard: “Gee, look there’s a box of my mom’s things that have tipped over. I think I’ll pick them up without being asked and set them somewhere out of the way so the dogs don’t knock it over again…” ETC. He’s a pain, but generally amusing so I still give him dinner.

     Eying him the other morning, as he was pulling clothes of the top of the dryer and getting ready for school I noticed his clothes were way too small and fit like Jethro Bodine. We don’t get the hand-me-downs we used to from Trevor being all the way up here, so I’m going to have to go out and get him some bigger clothes. Otherwise, Quinn will inevitably go on and on about how socially unacceptable Henry is.

     Quinn is actually trying to be helpful in her own teenage way. She is turning out to be a pillar of morality. I guess one of her friends is going down a bad path and she told her she couldn’t be friends with her if she continued doing some of the things she was doing. Quinn’s response when the girls asked her just to accept her and not judge her was, “I can’t be friends with someone I can’t respect.” I have to say I don’t think I would have  had the insight to respond like that at her age.

    When I ask Lisa about her she responds with “You know, Quinn is lovely and I adore watching her play volleyball. I sit in the stands and cheer for my daughter, but the moment she comes over and starts criticizing my hair and clothes and tells me to stop embarrassing her, I remember I have a teenager.”

   (the eggs we learned how to do from Jim Roman - Chris's friend)

    Oddly, we skipped Halloween this year for the most part. Oh, Henry wore a costume to school of course. He said to me one day Winnie the Pooh had an eating disorder, Piglett was OCD, Eyore had clinical depression and Tigger had ADHD - so that was the perfect costume for him. We had planned to do it up, but I just couldn't get it all together. Tom flew in and we went to the Donaldson's and learned to paint Ukrainian eggs. On Halloween we worked as a family on our gingerbread competition. The one at the Bellingham Ferry Terminal. This year we're finally going to enter. Tom’s been working on the mock-up and mechanics.  I’m researching everything from the best gingerbread recipes for construction to icing for cement. Henry's been a baking fool. We’re going to go big! Everything has to be ready for Thanksgiving weekend when we'll assemble.

 (Lovely Lauren, Quirky Quinn, Lizzy and our little Lindsey)

 (Henry as T-i-doubleg-ger)

(Phoebe in the black widow) costume Lisa made for her)

    Thanksgiving is quickly approaching and I’m having a houseful. Toby and Dean are coming so is Laura Miller, Ayumi (Henry/Quinn and Phoebe’s babysitter) and her daughter, Awesomez and Lindsey, Alexis of course Team Donaldson and Nana – and maybe Mike. You’re probably wondering about Mike. That would make two of us. He has completely dropped off the face of the planet. I have not spoken to him since September. I got one email confirming he’s not dead. He doesn’t call back he doesn’t write. I know money’s been tough and work has been hard. He hurt his back, which forced him to walk awkwardly causing his knee to act up. I don’t know much more than that. We’re all worried and have no idea what he’s doing or whether he’ll show up to Thanksgiving or not. 

     To answer the question I know is on your mind – NO, I’m not working at the Everybody’s Store, but I did apply for quite a few positions on including an assistant director at a daycare, a cleaning woman and a cake decorator. The assistant director position pays less than the cleaning position. I sent pictures of my Easter cookies and Phoebe’s birthday cake for the bakery job. Surprisingly, I got called back for interviews on all three so who knows what’s going to happen. Lisa is concerned about me getting the cake decorator job before we enter the gingerbread contest. She says if I get it we might have to switch to professional category. I told the woman I’ve never ever decorated cakes professionally, but she seemed to like my samples so I’m excited.

(Thankfully the other woman does the baking - and Lisa shouldn't worry professional-shesmesional - I still burn all my cookies - timer or not)

     Stay tuned, you never know what’s going to happen next. . .we’re not sure if Midge is expecting piglets.

   (is Midge craving pickles?)

    Adieu pour maintenant, je vous aime,

 

    Denise

    p.s. Although Vivian is limping from the osteosarcoma, her quality of life is much better than I expected. I don't know how long she'll last, but she's older than Josephine or Gladys. In fact, she will be ten February 1st (and Luther 11 Irish twins) and I am grateful she is doing so well - here's a peek

 

p.p.s. At least the Lakers are winning.

March 4th Bugged

 (On our way to town we saw two eagles looking for their morning meal in the South Fork Valley - )

     Grumbling, I sat waiting in front of the Harris Café for about twenty-minutes before I ventured inside. I was meeting my dad and sister for breakfast and I had hoped to be done and get back to work on my apple trees before 10:00. Lisa was driving and I absolutely knew my she would be late, she’s always late except for work, but that’s only because of some promise to God she made a thousand years ago. She hadn’t spoken to Him on my behalf. Forever a fool and a perhaps a glutton for punishment I got there early and called my dad’s temporary U.S. cell phone.

    “Are you two almost here?” I asked hopefully.

    “You know your sister we haven’t even left yet, she’s doing some @^& *$%# thing with Phoebe’s hair,” he practically wailed.

    “OK, then. I’m here,” I sighed snapping the phone closed with attitude before scanning the sunny yellow room for a table. I spied a sun-drenched table for two in the window and boldly pulled over another chair. This was just what the doctor ordered, a nice dose of vitamin d. I sank into the chair and nodded gratefully to the smiling waitress who asked me if I’d like some coffee. Once again, I was waiting, my mind racing as I soaked in the warm sunshine in the bustling cafe.

 (butterfly - mixed media)
 

    I looked around and noticed a painting on the wall. Tom came to mind; he’s been falling behind on his painting. Mental note: gentle reminder or nag Tom if necessary. I thought about him mixing mediums like the painting on the wall and wondered if he should paint on some of our old barn wood. I took another relaxing sip of coffee and thought about my dad. The reason we were coming together. He was leaving, going back to Paris for another year. It was strange really, this annual visit. I’d imagined it a lot differently. I thought he’d come out to the farm and help me with some of my more difficult projects. Help me with the cattle and clean the barn. I saw us fixing dinner and chatting over a glass of wine, but that’s not exactly how it went. He was at Lisa’s most of the time. No hard feelings, she’s closer to town, which means he can go and listen to his friends and sit-in for a number or two and he gets gigs. –  The funny thing is he never ever calls when he’s in France. Lisa and I told ourselves this is because of his bad hearing. Not so. When he’s here he calls France as many as three times a day. C’est la vie.

     My mind wandered to Henry and Grandpa Horn. My dad had taken it fairly well, when Henry said he wanted to switch instruments. My dad had even generously suggested Henry rent one of his horns to another kid in the bad to pay for the oboe rental. My dad’s an ex-Catholic and no saint. He did his best to help Henry see the light. “There’s nothing for an oboe to play anyway. You’ll sound like a snake charmer,” and the like. But to Henry’s credit, he stood up to the old man. Which my father did like and thus began fondly calling him, “Oboe One”.  I smiled to myself at the rebellion. My father loved that part even if he didn’t like the oboe. “You’ve got to like what you play or you won’t practice. Why you’d like the oboe over the horn, any horn, I don’t know.” He persisted affably.

 (Grandpa horn still sporting his surgical bandage)
 

 (Comparing lion paws)

 (Oboe One and Grandpa Horn)
 
     I took another gulp of coffee after the server slogged it full. It was hot, hot, hot. I loved it. I considered taking off my jacket now that the morning sun was baking through the window. I leaned closer to the glass careful not to touch it lest I feel the chill of the Spring air. My eyes fell on a bug. It was a brown innocuous bug. Neither a mosquito nor a fly. Obviously it was no ladybug. Entranced by the bug tapping on the glass I stared at it wondering if it would find it’s way out. It could see the green leaves and blossoms on the trees. It felt the sunshine and wanted to go out and live. Instead it was stuck behind glass. It was safe. There was plenty of food and water in here. He didn’t have to do anything. I bet hundreds of his brothers and sisters wanted him to stay close to town and not struggle so hard, but my little bug wanted something different. It wanted to take chances and feel the danger. It wanted out and I felt it was my sole responsibility to liberate my brown buddy.

    I remembered I had a caramel-colored coffee cup in my purse – for emergencies- you never know when you’re going to have to scoop something or be offered a cup of something. The farm equivalent of the sleuth’s hairpin for picking locks. I unsnapped the strap and opened my chocolate leather bag pulling out the cup Awesomez had given me with FARM GIRL printed across it. Carefully, I tried to trap my new friend, a kindred spirit. He didn’t want my brand of help, he knew in his heart he should be able to do it on his own. He felt inferior with this Gulliver coming to his rescue. Obstinate he was. I had to stop trying to save him, because he simply kept thwarting my efforts. I didn’t want to smash his tiny legs and then he moved into the perfect position. I slapped the cup right over the top of him, slid my menu between the cup and the glass and transported him to freedom. I watched him flutter away and land in a tree. Silly, I was euphoric as I went back to my seat.

I considered taking off my jacket again, but had another cup of coffee instead as I sat there waiting, happily.

 (blinded by the light)

 (Lisa catching up)

 (Same Time Next Year- Denise, Daddy and Little Lisa)
 
 
 

 

 

February 27th Lucky Strike Extra

 (Nick and Lindsey get ready to leave)

     Lindsey and Nick left on a jet plane bound for Mammoth. Lindsey went home to her mom filled with stories, pictures and new friends. Nick on the other hand went home to his dad filled with anger, accusations and angst. Endings are never easy and this one was particularly hard. Nick who had chosen, begged to come and live on our farm to have a fresh start, was miserable now and felt it was time to go home. All things considered, I finally, reluctantly agreed. Lines had been crossed, things had been said, so I wished Nick luck and told him I hoped he would find what he was looking for.

“It’s all good,” he said and slipped away behind security while Lindsey stood waving goodbye.

After they left, the farm was unusually quiet. Nick’s sudden departure was traumatic. Henry was sullen and broken-hearted. It was back to just Henry and me and of course forty-six animals – give or take. Not much consolation when you feel as though you lost a kind of brother. All week Henry’s teachers and coach were asking if everything was all right at home. It wasn’t. 

The week dragged on, Henry continued to work out at the gym, his state meet looming near, but it was easy to see he found it hard to concentrate. On a bright note, our new tenants, Joe and Katie moved in with their dog, Rugby. But nothing seemed to ease the pain of Nick’s departure.

  (Henry works on his routine)

 (Henry works on his flairs)

 (parallel routine)

 (Henry swings)

 (Joe and Katie arrive)
 

 (Luther greets Joe while Kate works) 
 
 

 (Mike Senzer - for those who don't know - Mike is a science teacher who moved up here from Los Angeles)

 (Me and my little girl, Gnatalie- the cuddly cow I always dreamed of)
 

Mike drove up for a visit from Tacoma. We hadn’t seen him in a while and he thought he’d come see Henry for moral support and my dad drove out too just to fill the place with a little joie de vive. Tom called constantly, worried about Henry’s recent regression. We both knew Henry didn’t handle loss well, ever since his best friend, Harry, died.

            “Mom?” Henry said with a pitchfork in his hand. “There’s a trailer pulling up to the gate, should I go open it?”

            “Yeah, that’d be a good idea, it’s Susie and her husband” I said with a sneaky smile.

            “Susie? Doe she have Petite?” Henry asked wide-eyed, excitement spreading across his face.

             “Yep,” I said as Henry went running off.

          “There’s something else isn’t there?” Mike said assessing my demeanor.

            “You know me too well,” I admitted. I’m always in a good mood when Mike’s cleaning the barn. He takes off his squeaky white sneakers and puts on the farm boots Tom and I selfishly got him a couple of Christmas’s ago. Then pens in his breast pocket, he sets to work in his farm ensemble: worn khakis, short-sleeve button down, brown leather belt. Mike can’t stand an untidy barn. This by the way, has absolutely nothing to do with the conditions of the animal pens. Rather Mike can’t take the gestalt of the barn feeling unkempt. He likes the middle swept and the rakes hung in their proper locations. Hay bales should be stacked and water buckets arranged so as to be out of walk ways. “What can I say, some people buy strappy sandals in times of emotional crisis, I buy endangered farm animals,” I grinned.

            “You’ve about collected the whole colonial set,” he teased.

            “I’m still missing the pigs,” I reminded him.

             We walked out the barn doors and waved to Susie and her husband as they made their way down toward the pasture. Henry was running behind them trailed nimbly by Bruno who was leaping and darting here and there. Everyone was bursting with excitement.

 (Grandpa Horn -and Irish-- my dad is wearing his bandage from his latest cancer skin- his third type & once again he should be fine-The Luck of...)
 

  (Susie and her husband, Rex arrive from Pixie Forest Farm- specializing in heritage cattle Irish Dexters)
 

 (Gnatalie doesn't know how happy she's going to be)
 

            I opened the gates the gates to the pasture and Susie raised an eyebrow in my direction. “Should we unload?” She asked. 

            “Is that Lucky? I remember her!” Henry called. “We got two?”

            “Lucky is Petite’s daughter, Gnatalie’s aunt, Gnatalie’s mother Ladybug and Lucky are sisters.” I explained trying to appear rational, “Susie and I thought it would be a good idea to keep the family together”.

            “Do you think they’ll remember each other?” Henry turned to Susie.

             “Absolutely. It’s amazing what cows remember,” she laughed. “Sometimes you wish they’d forget things. The truth is, I had two cows, sisters, that were separated for more than a year and when they were put in a pasture of cows, they found each other in minutes and were inseparable. All my cows hang-out in family groups.”

            We brought Petite in first and then Lucky. Gnatalie began to lick and snuggle them immediately. The boys, Abe and Andy were not so happy. They began hollering and moo-oooing loudly.

“I suppose this is what they mean by having a cow” I surmised.

  (Susie and Petite enter the pasture while Henry watches - my dad is coming down the hill from the barn)

 (Gnatalie can't lick Petite enough - kisses and kisses for grandma)
 
  (The look of shock on Abe - left- and Andy is beyond consolation - in mid moo)

 (Happy cows - Gnatalie and her aunt Lucky butt heads)
 
  (Andy continues to Mooo his head off- is he welcoming or warning?)
 

            “Do you think they’ll hurt them?” Henry worried.

            “Nahhh, they’re boys and these are girls. Everyone should be fine in just a little while. Do you want me to let them go?” Susie asked. Mike not a lover of bovine, meandered back with his pitchfork in hand toward the barn. He had work to do.

            “Sure, I’d rather you were here for this anyway. Just in case. I’m big on just in case”. Susie untied the girls and off they went. Cows gone wild. Petite, Lucky and Gnatalie took off with Abe and Andy in pursuit. They ran and kicked up their heels checking out every corner of the pasture.

  (Petite, Lucky, Andy and Abe- Gnatalie is running to meet them)
 

 (a happy herd)
 

            “Today Gnatalie’s a happy girl Mama,” Henry murmured perched on the weathered cedar fence. “Rat-Bat Nooooo!” He yelled as I saw that darn dog race toward the herd of cattle. “He could get killed!”

            We screamed “Bruno! Rattie! Rat-Bat! Get over here! Come!”  And luckily he is fairly obedient or he realized he was about to have a near death experience so he came trotting back. Henry ran over and scooped him up just to be safe. The excitement over, we relaxed a little and chatted with Susie about her cattle rustlers and the legal battle about getting them back her cows.

  (Bruno and Henry - with Andy in the back)
 

 (Andy and Abe watch the girls at the feeder - looking like a Far Side cartoon)
 

            “If you need us for the round-up, Henry and I will be there,” I offered.

“I just might take you up on that,” she winked driving away with her husband.

After they left we went back to cleaning the barn and finishing the chores of the day. We made chili, watched and watched the Olympics with my dad and Mike. As Henry was going to sleep surrounded by dogs and cats of all colors and sizes, he asked me, 

“Mama? Do you think Nick is sad? Do you think he will miss me?”

“No,” I said honestly, “I think he won’t at first Honey. Right now, Nick is in his own sad world. He’s thinking only about himself. He’s unhappy with himself, but one day. Yes. He will miss you and realize how much you love him and how much we all love him and then maybe he’ll regret how things ended”, I said wiping away his tears. “But until then, you have Quinn and Phoebe and all of us and Lindsey and Awesomez and we all love you, and I know it’s not the same,” I said softly.

“I don’t even know why I love him so much,” Henry said. “

“My mom asked me a long time ago, what I thought love was. I remember we were driving down Mulholland. I told her I thought she was being completely ridiculous. Everyone knows what love is I mean c’mon. Now I realize what a complicated question it was. One thing I know for sure. Love never ends”.

“You know, it makes me think of Harry. Losing him. Every time I get close to someone they leave,” he said his eyes filling again with tears. I didn’t know what to say, how to comfort him. I knew this was bringing back so many painful memories. I simply hugged him tight. “Mama, do you think cows feel a kind of love? I mean they search the herds for their families.”

“I do. Now it’s late. Good Night John-Boy,”

“Good-Night, and Mama?”

“Yes?”

“Lucky, might just be lucky,her ear tag is 13” he said sleepily.

“We could use some luck. You know, there was a time when my friends said if it weren’t for bad luck I’d have no luck at all,” I smirked.

“Then what happened?”

“I had you”.

 (Lucky - 13- daughter of Petite- sister of Lady Bug - aunt to Gnatalie- born at Pixie Forest Farm)
 

February 21st Olympic Odyssey

 (Lindsey)

     Lindsey had a whole week off of school for mid-winter break and since her mother would be teaching skiing lessons at Mammoth all week she begged Awesomez to let her come to the farm.

     “Do you really think you’re up for another one of my children?” Awesomez asked me over the phone.

     “Is that some sort of warning?” I asked. “Actually, I just hope Lindsey isn’t bored. I don’t have anything big planned,” I explained.

     I went to Seattle with Nick to pick her up while my dad took Henry to gymnastics. Everyone was excited to see her, especially her brother. 

 ("The Big-un" Irish was especially happy to see Lindsey)
  (Lindsey snuggles The Big Boy - Irish)
 

During the days Lindsey helped me with farm chores and errands, during the afternoons she went to gymnastics with Henry or volleyball with Quinn and saw Nick at night.

     She saw Grandpa Horn teach band, she helped with the judging at one of Henry’s meets and she met all of Quinn’s friends. She did homework, painted and kept me company.

  (Lindsey sets to painting)
 

 (Grandpa Horn talks to the band)

 (Henry and Lindsey listen to Grandpa Horn)

 (Lindsey flips)

 (Lindsey lands)
 

 (Lindsey works with the ring judge)
  (Nick - hanging out)
 
 
     On Saturday while at Henry’s gymnastic meet, Chris turned to me and said, “We were kind of thinking of driving up to Vancouver tomorrow, you game?”

     “You want to go to the games? The tickets were $600.00 the last time we checked,” I said.

     “Well, we’d like to get into something, Lisa’s checking for some last minute deals but really we thought we just go up and soak in some Olympic atmosphere and see what we see,” he offered.

     I thought about it, I’d had plans we were finally going to try and go get Petite, but that could be postponed. Then there was the problem of Nick. He couldn’t seem to follow any of the rules at home or school so he was not going to be allowed to join us. And then I wasn’t sure if Lindsey even had her passport. We couldn’t go without Lindsey. Luckily, Lindsey’s brilliant mother had the foresight to pack her passport. We were good to go.

     The next morning, we met the Donaldson clan at Nugent’s Corner and all piled into their van. Henry had hurriedly painted red U-S-A posters to take with us “just in case”. The paint was still wet so we put them on the dashboard to dry and headed north.

     Crossing into Canada is one of my least favorite things to do, but if we wanted to go to the Olympics, we had no choice. I prepared the kids. “Now remember, these people have not one ounce of humor in their bodies. You don’t kid, joke or in any way say something sarcastic. Don’t get nervous, just speak if you’re spoken to, don’t add any information, just answer the question being asked”. I instructed.

     “And don’t forget your name!” Lisa added.

     “What?” Lindsey questioned.

     “Henry got so nervous once, he forgot his name,” Quinn informed her.

     “It was just enough of a hesitation for the guy to think I’d kidnapped him” I said dryly, giving my child a look.

     We approached the border and took a collective breath. If the kids didn’t believe me before, they did afterward. Lindsey was grilled and questioned until she was close to a nervous wreck. She answered everything calmly as the Canadian border guard checked all the missing child reports.

     “Who makes you breakfast?” He looked at her seriously. I wondered what she was gong to say. I hadn’t really made a real breakfast.

     “She does,” Lindsey said pointing to me.

     “Do you know her name?” He asked seriously.I worried she was going to forget my name.

     “Denise,” Lindsey answered. Whew.

     “Do you have a note from the mother?” He asked me.

     “No. I don’t, but she did provide the passport,” I offered.

     “You see where I’m going with this?” He asked.

     “Yes Sir and I’d be glad you were asking these questions if it was my child,” I said knowing I wasn’t doing anything wrong, but feeling as though I somehow looked guilty.

     “Do you have any proof of your flight?” He asked. And with all the excitement of a contestant on “Let’s Make a Deal.” Lindsey answered

     “Yes! I have my airline ticket!” She searched her pursed and offered him her ticket. He let us pass.

     "That was certainly the golden ticket, it’s what tipped the scales in our favor. Way to go Lindsey,” Chris praised her.

     “You handled that beautifully,” Lisa added, “Denise do you make breakfast?”

    “I know, I was wondering if Cheerios™ and bagels counted,” I smirked.

     “It’s a good thing you warned me,” Lindsey said depleted.

     From there we made our way onto the King’s Highway and set our course.

     “How long until we get there?” Phoebe asked somewhat predictably.

     “I have no idea, Honey. You act as though I’ve been there. We’re just figuring it out as we go,” Chris informed her as the glare of Henry’s USA posters baked in the sunshine reflecting on the windshield.

  (Henry's U S A sign reflecting)
 

    We parked and joined the party that was Vancouver. Walking down the packed streets you could feel the goodwill. We formed a buddy system, I took pictures of the kids in what they were wearing – just in case – and we set up our if-you-get-lost plan.

  (Canada hats)
 

    “Look there’s Italy!” Henry called out.

 (Italy)
 

     “And Russia!” Lindsey yelled as she saw a red jacket walk by.

 

     “I want one of those USA hats,” Phoebe announced.

     “I want a pin,” Lisa said, “I didn’t get one in ’84 when I went to the equestrian events and I really want one this time”.

     “I want tickets to an event,” Henry insisted. “I don’t care what it is, I just want to go to something”. And so did I. So Lisa, Henry, Phoebe and I took up the hunt as Quinn, Lindsey and Chris meandered slowly captivated by the street carnival. Every time I turned around I couldn’t help but count the kids. I felt like I was on a field trip.

 (Bronze-colored street performer)

 (Broadcast booth in Robson Square)

 (Free zip line over the city - 6 hour wait)

 (Zip line launch next to the flag)

 (painted Canadians)

 (a building in Vancouver)

 (flags fly everywhere)

 (the Dutch)

 (Olympic mascot)

 (Lindsey clowns)

 
 
  (Sweden)

 (Nike™)

 (yeah for our team)

 (the private family entrance for competitors relatives - dreams were being dreamed)
 
 
  (Henry, Lindsey, Quinn, and Phoebe)

 (Vancouver 2010)
 
 
  (Everyone has spirit)

 

 (Henry, me, Phoebe, Lisa, Quinn and Chris)
 
 
       “1-2-3-where’s Lindsey?” I asked.

         “I’m right here,” she said practically under my arm.

         Not knowing where we were going, we followed the crowd across Vancouver in a hurried pace. We didn’t know where but we knew we had to get there soon if we wanted tickets. Henry approached every scalper he passed, but they were mostly buying not selling.

     “Your mother would be crying by now,” I told Lindsey as she caught up.

     “I know, right? She’d still be back at the car. She walks so slowly,” Lindsey said laughing.

     “I’m so happy to hear you use an adverb,” I gushed.

     “You’re such a teacher,” Lindsey smirked as we were in a half jog along the street.

     “Why are we going so fast?” Lindsey asked.

     “’Cause we might miss something.”

 (en route to the ticket office) (Blast we were behind Captain Canada)
 

     Lisa, Phoebe, Henry and I broke into a run, moving ahead of the pack as we approached the Olympic ticket window. I knew my sister and we both were thinking these people walking near us might oust us out of our potential Olympic experience. We got to the line and eventually to the window.

     “Is there anything? Anything within a modest budget?” she asked the ticket agent. “We need seven seats”.

     “Seven? Wow. Let me look”. And she looked and she looked and we waited anxiously. “I have seven seats to women’s curling tonight”.

     “Curling,” Lisa turned to the kids now surrounding us, “Do you guys want to go to curling? Should we spend the money?”

     “Hell Yes!! I’ll go to anything,” Henry yelled. 

    "Henry you gave up swearing for Lent," I reminded him.

    "Is Hell a swear word?"

    "YES!" Lindsey said.

     “I don’t know anything about it, but I’m up for curling,” Quinn agreed.

     “Is that the one where they use the little brooms?” Phoebe asked.

     “Yes, it is, does that sound ok?”

     “Sure it’s the Olympics,” Phoebe agreed.

     “I’m with Henry I’ll go to anything,” Lindsey answered.

     “Heck yeah, whooo! hooo! Curling!!! Let’s do it!” Chris cheered in great zeal. As we stood there basking in our Olympic triumph we noticed a family standing nearby somewhat despondent. They obviously didn’t get any tickets.  Noticing them, Lisa walked up and tried to help.

     “Did you try getting seats for curling?” Lisa asked the woman. As it turned out they were from Orcas Island and no she hadn’t tried curling. So she got back in line and scored 5! Happily, we all struck up a conversation before departing for the curling match? Curling meet? Curling game? Curling event? Or curling tournament? We weren’t sure.

  (proof we are really going)

 (Lisa at the ticket office)
 
     Tickets in hand we were a bit more relaxed and ready to learn about curling. After riding a train packed like a sardine the Canadian equivalent of BART where I counted at every stop, “1-2-3-where’s Lindsey?”

     “I’m right here,” she said.

  (On the train after it thinned)

 (Lindsey and Phoebe walk and walk)

 (pretty Vancouver)
 
  (Lindsey and Henry- ready to order)
 
      We stopped at a Chinese restaurant for dinner where the kids had their own chopstick freestyle event commentated by the Amazing Donaldson. Afterward we set out walking the rest of the distance to the stadium. I was certainly getting all my steps in for Weight Watchers I thought.

     “You won’t believe it, but a cabbie just asked me where the stadium is,” Chris laughed as we all continued walking. We walked and we walked and we walked first down a busy street and then into a residential neighborhood. There nary a sign marking the route. If it hadn’t for the rest of the curling crowd we never would have found it.

 (Quinn, Phoebe, Lindsey and Lisa on the move)
 

 (lots of details)
 

 (security screening)

 (we're in!)

 (The Chinese are ready for curling)
 

    Excitedly we went in and found our seats. “1-2-where’s Henry? He’s not here,” I informed the rest of the confused group.

     “He was with us at the entrance,” Lisa reminded me.

     “He’s supposed to turn his cell phone on if he’s lost,” Quinn reminded me.

     “Do you think he will?” I asked getting mine out and about to push the button.

     “No,” Quinn and Lindsey answered as we all hurried back on a sweep of the grounds. I had a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. My father had filled me with too much child stealing information. My mind sorting through similar memories looking for a match as I ran. I remembered another time Henry had disappeared in a public place. It was in Macys when he was two. I was shopping with my friend, Laura, Phoebe’s godmother. We had just turned our heads for a moment and he was GONE. Frantically we looked, and eventually found him hiding in one of the rounders...

January 30th Never Give Up Never Surrender

(Quinn straightening her hair forthe day)

    Saturday was to be a lazy day. We had no real plans, I thought I might meet up with some friends, but that didn’t work out. Quinn and I called around searching for a cheap pedicure, but to no avail. We had breakfast, a few pots of coffee and watched Jodie Foster kick butt in “Flight Plan” when her kid was taken, before heading out for the day.  Now that we had Tom’s truck we were good to go. Anywhere we wanted.

(Grandpa Horn is addicted to email)

    One of the reasons we brought Quinn with us was to see the Stanford Campus. She is after all going to high school next year and although she may not have her sites set on Stanford, Chris, Lisa, Tom and I thought seeing as many campuses as possible might inspire her to new heights.

 

    So we told her about the tower and the hospital and of course drove around. We went to the union and pointed out the post office, but what caught young Quinnderella’s eye was the line of “Pink” Stanford wear offered at the bookstore. It was cute, I’ll admit, but more than I was willing to spend so Quinn weighed her options and decided to pay the balance. Smart girl. She’s learned young wishing you could go back and purchase that one special item is a bummer. I still think about a knotty pine armoire with notes tucked in it from a soldier during WWII but that was another time. I had money.

 

    Anyway, after my dad spent time emailing at the computer center we head off to the Ford Pavilion to buy our tickets for the college meet at 7:00PM. There was no parking nearby so I pulled over and let Tom out.

 

    “I’m going to go in with you. I think I get a special discount because I’m cripple,” Grandpa Horn smiled.

 

    “Grandpa! It’s a senior discount!” Quinn yelled.

 

    “Oh I thought it was because I was feeble.”

 

    “Grandpa!” Henry joined in trying to discipline my father.

 

    “Kids, I could write a book and call it Crap My Father Says.” My father feigns hard of hearing smiled broadly at this.

 

    When they returned Tom had a handful of admittance wristbands and a program which Henry quickly started thumbing through. “Hey, my name isn’t in here!” Henry said with a twinge of panic.

 

    “What?” I said with a pit in my stomach. “Pea, you’d better go talk to Chari or Howie, I saw her go inside while we were waiting.”

 

    “Who are they?” My dad asked.

 

    “The owners of Victory Gymnastics. Henry is competing for Victory with Coach Ray,” I explained.

 

    Tom left and in a very short time came back grumbling “It doesn’t look good. The meet is full and Henry isn’t registered. I spoke to Howie and I was encouraged and then I spoke to Ray and he didn’t think Henry could get in.”

 

“Are you kidding? Give me his USAG card. I’m not leaving here until he’s in,” I stated flatly.

 

    “That’s why I love you,” Tom said following me back to the gym.

 

    “Excuse me? Can you point me in the direction of the Meet Director?” I asked calmly and firmly.

 

    “May I help you?” The woman asked nicely.

 

    “I don’t think so. I need the Meet Director,” I said again. I wasn’t going to waste my time going through the chain of command when I knew who the decision maker was.

 

    “Well, I don’t know where he is, but that lady over there registers competitors.” I followed her gaze and marched over.

 

    She smiled warmly as I explained my predicament.  I told her how many years Henry had competed. I dropped names. I told her of the mix-up and that we’d flown in for the event and then I said, “and his grandfather flew in from Paris,”A knot was growing in the pit of my stomach.

 

    “And he hasn’t seen him compete since level 4” Tom added in a well synchronized attack. The woman smiled and nodded her understanding.

 

    “I’m sure we can get him in. Follow me.” I would have followed her anywhere. We went behind the scenes and found her big register book. We filled out the necessary paperwork and I wrote the check.

 

    “Just a moment, I have to get final approval from the Meet Director.” I knew it. The Meet Director listened and looked over at us just as Coach Ray walked over to see how it was going.

 

    “Ray?” The Meet Director started, “Is this true, do you coach this Henry?”

 

    “Yes, Henry, he’s my boy. I fly up to Washington every week to coach him” Ray said with a gleam in his eye. “Denise and Tom they’re going to buy me a house and I’ll go up there full time.” Ray might be a strict Chinese in many ways, but his wife and children are Americans – he was bound to soften over time.

 

    Henry was in and I could breathe again. We went back to the car to find Henry in tears he was so worried.

 

    “You’re in buddy boy,” Tom informed him. There was a collective sigh of relief as we told the story. “And Ray really wants you to do your best,” Tom added.

 

    It must have worked because despite many of the Victory boys flying off the pommel, Henry faced his arch nemesis and got a personal best. In fact, he got a personal best on three events and took fourth on floor.

(Henry with Parker his brother Sawyer and Cabryn)

(Cabryn Iverson wears her orange socks for Henry - )

(Henry doing his lever on the rings)

(Stanford handstand contest)

(my sorority sisters  Laura and Cynthia Lynn)

(my cousin Paul Haenel in back, my uncle Larry Haenel and Grandpa Horn

(Henry gets 4th on floor)

 (Sho Nakamori - almost certainly a future olympian & Henry)
 

(The Iversons)
 

    After the competition there were margaritas and Henry discovered guacamole. We played “Ticket to Ride”, spent time with our Iverson’s and ate breakfast at Hobees – just like we do every year.

 

(Denise and my little cousin Paul)

(Henry, Sawyer and Parker enjoy the jacuzzi while Susan and I try to catch up- nakie Cabryn has been edited out so her reputation won't be ruined)

(Henry demonstrates his skill on fantasticcontraption.com)

(Henry and his girl)

 

January 29th Planes, Trains and Automobiles

 (clearly I need to dust-my room is always the last cleaned)
 
     The alarm jarred me awake at 4:30AM. Terrified I would fall back asleep I shot out of bed. Quickly raced down stairs and hit the coffee then headed for the dryer and checked my tennis shoes. I did not want damp tennies. I fed the dogs, cats and headed back upstairs to roust the boys.

     Nick was understandably reluctant burying his head under a pillow. He’d worked until the early hours of the morning on a China essay, but nonetheless, we had to get going. Henry and I were meeting my dad and Quinn at the airport to catch a flight to Oakland so Henry could compete at Stanford this weekend.

     “Nicky, if you don’t get up. I’ll have to sing a good morning song.” I threatened. “Good Morning, Good Morning little Nick – You don’t have time to sleep now you’ve got to get up really quick.”

    NO! I’m getting up. Don’t sing!” He pleaded.

 

(Nick and Rat-Bat Bruno -in the pink girlie Maryruth room he's staying in- they're blurry because NICK changed the focus on my camera for school)

 (poor pink - Nick - he's trying to claim the room, but it's difficult)
 

 The phone rang. “Saved by the bell.” I said answering the phone, “Hey Mike thanks for calling, I’m up.”

 (Even new little Tabitha who NEVER sleeps is tired)
 

     We were out the door in short order and on our way, as Henry and Nick finished another “Kung Fu” episode en route.

     “I can’t believe you guys are leaving me on my birthday,” Nick moaned.

     “I know, I can’t either,” I agreed.  “I had no idea when I booked the tickets for the Stanford competition that it was the same weekend.” I felt terrible we were leaving, but suspected he was going to want to spend most of the time with his friends anyway. He’d worked hard getting in his missing assignments and meeting his deadlines. I was proud of his recent efforts.

     “You could have come,” Henry said.

     “No, it’s finals I really couldn’t.” Nick added practically.

     We drove in silence all of us reluctant about our upcoming separation. Lisa was meeting us at the airport at 6:45AM with Quinn and my dad and we were exchanging passengers. She’d take Nick to school and I’d d fly out of Bellingham International with my entourage.

     After lots of hugs and “Happy Birthdays” and “Good-luck on your final” and “Don’t for get to turn in your Vis Comm. assignments” and “Do you have that paper you needed?” and “You’ve got your snack bag right? And “Have fun,” Nick got in Lisa’s van.

     “Good luck with Dad. He was ready at the door like a golden retriever waiting for a ball. Rushing me to leave an hour before we had to go. But I had to laugh, we left and HE was the one who forgot his reading glasses.” She said chuckling. “Have a great time. Good luck Henry!” Lisa called out the window as she drove off.

     After getting our seat assignments Henry, Quinn and I put our bags down right in front of Halibut Henry’s, a tiny store, in the small airport.  I looked around, “Where’s your grandfather?” I asked.

     “Uh, I have no idea,” Quinn said. “Maybe he went to get a coffee?”

     “No. He went through security already.” Henry said.

     “What? No. He wouldn’t do that. He wouldn’t leave us.” I said, but knew the truth. When it comes to traveling he is a lone wolf always rushing. “Henry go look in the bathroom.”

     “OK, but I thought I saw him go through security.” We waited while Henry searched the airport for my father. Finally, I dialed his number.

     “Where are you?”

     “I went through security. I thought you were right behind me.”

     “I thought we were traveling together.” I said slamming the phone shut.

     It was probably best he’d gone ahead because we are a security check nightmare. Two bins for jackets, shoes in another, two computers out of their cases in separate bins. A bin for my purse, a bin my camera and a bin for my carry-on, then cell phones and Quinn’s shmancy belt in yet another bin. I think my father would have had a break down.

     We landed inauspiciously in Oakland and made our way to Air BART where we paid to get to the BART. My father maintaining a forty-step lead at all times.

     “What’s with Grandpa he’s always way ahead of us? He acts as if it’s a race” Quinn mused.

     “He likes to keep moving, when I was a kid we were always three hours early for every flight.”

     “He’s crazy” Henry marveled.

     “He likes to get where he’s going early and then read,” I explained.

 (Grandpa Horn pensive - because he's behind schedule?)
 

     From there we heaved our luggage on to the transport. Once at the BART station we figured out how to purchase a senior ticket, two kid tickets and a regular fare, once purchased, we had to make our way through the turn-style. This is simple for most people, but most people aren’t Quinn. She was scared. She put her ticket in and then didn’t know if she should grab it or which one to go through and for a moment I thought we might have to leave her on the other side of the plastic orange gates, but surprisingly she was able to amble through at the last moment.

     “I thought it was going to close on me!” She screamed.

     “Oh, Quinn.” Henry chided.

     We were making our way to first to San Francisco but eventually to Palo Alto. I didn’t want to rent a car because Tom would be driving up and it seemed silly to have two, so we were going to make our way on public transportation. If it killed us.

     As we took our seats on BART Henry turned “At least this time it doesn’t smell like urine.”

     “EWWWW Henry! Stop!” Quinn shooshed him.

 (Quinn, Henry on BART)

 (Ahhh the city - San Francisco)
 
      Twenty minutes later we climbed the steps of the Embarcadero exit, Henry quickly realized we were standing at the same street corner we had last year.

     “Mama that’s exactly where we were standing in the rain when the drunk guy was bugging us remember?”

    "Henry you look like a goat herder with that hat on," my father decided.

    "What?" Henry "Why?" 

    "Where's your goat?"

    "Grandpa! You're so weird," Quinn had made her decision.

     Ahh memories, I thought it was time for some new ones. “You know we don’t have to be at the hotel at any certain time. Is there anything you want to do?”

     “I want to ride a trolley car,” Quinn announced.

     “I want to eat,” Henry added. “Hey there’s a trolley car going to Fisherman’s Wharf, can we go?”

     And off we went, my father leading the way.

 (Grandpa Horn leading the way with Henry close behind)
 

 (Trolley car)

 (Pier 39)

 (Quinn get's her wish)
  (Missing Nick - on Fisherman's Wharf)
 
     Taking a page out of my mother’s handy-dandy-have-a-good-time-and-make-memories-philosophy, we decided to go for a nice white tablecloth lunch. Spotting Aliotos, we crammed ourselves into the elevator suitcases and all.

     Henry ordered grilled salmon, my father had a beer with his fish and chips and Quinn stated “I don’t eat fish.”

     “Oh yes you are young lady.” I insisted. “You are on Fisherman’s Wharf and you will eat something on the menu other than bread. Have some fish and chips. Just pretend it’s chicken nuggets.”

     “Alright, I’ll have the chicken nuggets.” Quinn acquiesced reluctantly, but good-naturedly. “Just don’t call them fish.”

     “I’m so proud of you,” the waiter laughed as she ordered. “You’re really stepping outside yourself.” He teased.

 (Henry, Quinn and me at Aliotos)

 (part of the view from Aliotos on Fisherman's Wharf)
 

     We enjoyed our lunch although the food wasn’t as good as it had once been, but the view was spectacular. The sky blue with puffy white clouds and boats bobbing in the distance, we talked about so many different things.

    "Where's your goat Henry?" Grandpa Horn barked as he made his way to the restroom.

     “Denise, I didn’t know Grandpa was so funny.” Quinn remarked.

     “I know right? I always thought he was uptight without much of a sense of humor, but he’s laughing and telling jokes,” Henry added.

     “I know, I’ve never really seen him laugh,” Quinn said.

     “Really? My father has always been funny. He’s the dad who’d dress up or build a float for the parade. He’s the big eight-year-old who never grew up. I think it’s that he can’t hear your high-pitched voices as well so he doesn’t really respond.”

     “I always thought he was serious until today,” Quinn said and Henry nodded.

 (Henry and Quinn with full tummies)
 

     As we stood at the Wharf waiting for the trolley, Quinn said she wanted to look inside a bakery nearby. So the two of us went in and browsed for a while. When we came back we found Henry wound up like a top.

     “YOU MISSED IT! Grandpa went to war! Full on war with the Jamaicans!” Henry blathered.

     “What are you talking about?” Quinn asked looking at Henry as if he’d lost his mind.

     “The Jamaicans over there were playing to a big crowd and Grandpa pulled out his horn and started a rivalry. They’d play and then he’d play and then he stole some of the crowd it was crazy,” Henry babbled proudly.

     Henry turned to Quinn, “Quinn, since I want to switch from the cornet to the oboe, next semester do you think my grandchildren will call me Grandpa Oboe?”

     Quinn paused a moment looking at Henry, “The way you dress, with that stained sweatshirt I think they’re going to call you Grandpa Hobo,” she said boarding the trolley.

     “The oboe? Are you kidding?” My father exclaimed when he heard. “You’ll sound like a *&%$#@% snake charmer. You won’t be able to play jazz. No one uses an oboe.”  My father snarled. Undaunted, Henry just rolled his eyes. This family is not for the faint of heart.

     “They had an oboe in the Paul Whiteman Band. I checked,” I said protecting my son.

     “Did they?” My father was silenced.

 (Grandpa fresh from the battle of the brass - Quinn and Henry - getting a little tired)
 

  Grandpa Horn was up and down on the trolley ride three times asking the conductor when we should get off and what connection to make to get to the train station. And once we were off we marched at a fast pace crossing streets on the diagonal, weaving through crowds of people all the while toting our luggage.

     Finally at the bus stop we waited with a huge crowd. Bus after bus came and went while we waited for the number 30. Eventually, it arrived and we crammed into the center holding on to straps while trying to protect our belongings.

     “Mom zip your purse and tuck it under your arm, this isn't Bellingham,” Henry warned me. I was touched. He remembered all my warnings about theft and crime and was now protecting me.

     The crowd thinned out stop by stop and yet we continued to ride until the end of the line. When it was our turn we gathered together adjusting our straps and stacking our luggage ready for the next leg of our journey.

     “How far to the train station?” Quinn asked innocently.

     “Uh Quinn, it’s that big building in front of you that says TRAIN STATION,” Henry said.

     “If she had a brain she’d be dangerous,” my father added and Quinn giggled so hard she almost fell down in the street.

     Once again, we stood trying to figure out how to get a senior ticket to travel three zones, two kids’ tickets and a regular fare. Each time we did it was completely different yet easy once you knew what you were doing.

     “What time is it?” Henry asked.

    “3:05PM” My father answered.

     “The train leaves at 3:06 let’s go!” Henry called as he and Quinn took off.

     “We’ll never make it,” Grandpa Horn warned, “It’s too late.”

     “We’ll make it, we’ll make it! C’mon Grandpa run!” Quinn yelled over her shoulder. Her hair and legs flying in all directions, “Now he wants to take his time!”

 (Henry and Quinn race to the train - Henry figures if he gets on - we'll all get on)
 

    We boarded the train out of breath. The kids victorious wanted to ride on the upper deck and so we sat watching the scenery go by. I fell asleep as did everyone else. We were losing steam. An hour later and three exits before our stop, my father started getting his stuff all packed up and strapped on. “We’d better start downstairs we only have a couple stops until San Antonio,” he warned. “It’s going to take a while to get down the stairs with all of our stuff. C'mon Henry don't forget your goat."

    "Grandpa why does this hat make you think of goats?" Henry asked again laughing.

     “He’s doing. It again.” Quinn said. “He’s driving me nuts. It’s maybe 50 steps altogether.”

     “Welcome to my childhood.” I said.

     “No wonder you’re always on time. You took part of it, and my mother completely rebelled. This must be why she’s always running late.” I laughed as Henry and Quinn psycho-analyzed us, which is fine as long as I come out the good one.

     “Let’s hang back just to drive him a little nuts,” Quinn said insidiously.

     “Fun and games with Grandpa. The only problem is, I don’t think he’ll care,” Henry said. “He’ll just leave us behind,” Henry laughed.

     When we’d all gotten off the train and it had snaked away. We stood there in silence. It was quiet and we were in the middle of nowhere. There were no shops just apartments. Which way next was a complete mystery. We just stood there for a couple of minutes thinking about our predicament.

     My father wanted to head right, so of course Quinn said left. We went left and my father dragged behind. We ended up at a little cybercafé where we got an espresso and directions to our hotel about another mile away. 

 (The Crossroads Cafe)

 (Grandpa Horn looking for directions)
 

    My father charged out the door and down the street as it began to rain. “So much for sunny California,” Quinn moaned.

     “Hush, just keep walking,” I encouraged. “We’ll be there soon.”

     “Not soon enough, I just want to get in the heated pool,” Henry said dreamily.

 (Quinn now wishing she'd chosen to go to the Las Vegas gymnastics meet instead)
 

     As we walked we approached a hardware store. “Stay here. Watch my stuff. I’m going to go in and see if we’re heading in the right direction,” Grandpa Horn announced.

    When he emerged he announced there was a faster way but we had to double back the way we came. The rain was getting harder so in true Washingtonian fashion, we put our hoods up and went on.

    “Grandpa, there’s a lady from the hardware store whistling for you! Stop Grandpa!” Henry called from the back of the line.

    We all came to an abrupt halt as my father went over to talk to her. “Would you like a ride?” She asked pleasantly.

    “Sure, we’d love one,” Grandpa Horn answered all smiles. Quinn shot me a look as if to say ‘are we really going to hitchhike’? I know she was wondering what her parents would think of this. I too was wondering what I thought of this. I raised my eyebrows and shrugged my shoulders unsure. I weighed the options, I could walk a mile or so in the rain with my father and two kids or take a ride from a slightly overweight woman who seemed smitten with my father. We took the ride.

 (Grandpa Horn loads the luggage)
 

    “Grandpa’s a chick magnet,” Henry said quietly to Quinn as we got into the back of the truck who nodded in agreement.

 

 

 

 

December 16th The Nose Goes

 (Deli's nose knows- everything)
 

Henry and I were sitting in my room snug as two bugs in a rug. He was reading Robin Hood and I was writing when the phone rang. It was Gretchen. Gretchen is good friends with my friend Jenny who lives in New York. Gretchen lives in Seattle and so Jenny thought it might be nice if we got to know each other.

 (Gretchen Bell)
 

            “Denise you absolutely won’t believe this, but I’ve found a home for Deli and they want her immediately. Tomorrow if you can handle it. “

            “Really?” I hadn’t even been actively looking for a home for Deli in quite some time so this call came as a complete surprise.

            “Yes!” Gretchen went on excitedly. “My friend was talking to friends of hers and happened to mention Deli and it seems this family had a coon hound and absolutely loves coon hounds. I gave them your number so they may be calling you tonight.”

            “Wow, well OK. I’ll be here. Thanks Gretchen it’s so sweet of you to keep looking. I feel so guilty though giving her away but Deli is cooped up in the house so much, she lives like a prisoner. I know it’s the best thing for her,” I confessed and we hung up.

            I explained the situation to Henry and tears filled his eyes, as he looked at her asleep in her dog bed next to us. “I know she needs another family. She’s so shy and doesn’t ask for attention like the other dogs. Irish hits you with his big shillelagh. Rat Bat just jumps on you and snuggles in. Luther lays on you and Vivian shoves her nose in and licks you until you pet her, but Deli stands off in the distance waiting for you to call her name and Mama, I forget to call her name.”

            “Well, the others demand so much attention, even Emmett worms his way in and Deli stands to the side like a wallflower. She needs to be an only dog or one of just a couple. Maybe a cat?”

            “She loves kitties.” Henry said cheerfully.

Later that evening we got a call from the potential new family. We talked about schedules, fences, killing poultry, vaccines, microchips, electric fences and the essence of Deli. They were sold.

            “We have a unique living situation. You see, I work during the day; I’m a pre-school teacher. I live in an apartment.  My husband works nights and has a house. We raise our son together and Delta will go back and forth between us so she’ll really never be alone. Can we come get her tomorrow?” She asked.

            “Tomorrow? Um, well…” I stammered looking over at Henry who was shaking his head and waving his arms.

            “Absolutely not!” He whispered loudly. “She is not going with them until I get a good look at them and I have gymnastics.”

            “You know, tomorrow my son, Henry, has gymnastics and he really wants to be there. Can you wait until Saturday and I can meet you in Everett?” I suggested.

            “Well, OK, Saturday it is. We’re just so anxious.” She explained. “Can you hold on? Without waiting for my answer she handed the phone to her husband.

            “Denise? Just wanted to assure you we’ll give her a good home. You know we had a hound, a black and tan named Henry. We saw the pictures of Delta Blue and I think she’s beautiful.”

            “I’m so happy. This is really hard for me, she was my father’s dog and he moved to Paris. He’s been gone a year and half now and she’s just not done well on the farm. She killed a turkey and a couple of rabbits and had a duck in her mouth. Life on the farm just doesn’t make sense she’s a runner. In the house though, she’s a real couch potato and very loving. She has the softest ears, like velvet drapes.” I explained emotionally.

            “Well, we’re really ready for another dog and we can’t wait to meet her,“ he assured me before hanging up.

            I looked over at Deli, Delta Blue, and felt misty. I knew this was the best thing, but I was tortured. I knew my father would be broken-hearted and I felt as though I was betraying him somehow.  Henry and I pet her on the bed and the three of us fell asleep.

            The next morning, getting ready for school we talked about the idea of her getting plenty of attention, of being an only or almost only dog. A boy after all was going to have a new dog he could love and they were bananas to get her. We felt better and I wrote my father to tell him what was going on. I prepared myself for his emotional response.

            True to form, I could feel the tears running down my father’s face as I read his reaction to Deli’s potential new home. Of course, he was understanding and supported me. He knew I’d tried. He then wrote me a few suggestions.

Dearest Denise-a-la:

 

I think you've done and thought of everything.  Make certain they have a collar and ID badge for her the day she arrives with "Deli", phone number, etc.  Make sure they use a nice medium-weight choke collar.  Remember, she can pull out of a regular collar on a leash and be--gone! Once the nose starts to go her hearing absolutely turns off and that’s it she’s gone. Gone!

 

They have really got to stay on top of her for a month or two until she gets to know the residences and neighborhoods... and can't let her alone on a long rope without have a choke collar on her.

 

Does the guy's house have a yard?

 

As for me, there is no way I am going to visit her.  I'll love her for what we had and from the pictures you get from friends.  Deli might be able to handle it after a while but not your father.

 

Hugs & Love,

Me

 

         We were all making peace with the decision. I did as instructed getting Deli a new collar, a rawhide Christmas present and a bag of food to take with her. While I was running errands the phone rang.

 (Deli in PetCo)

 (Deli and her treats)

 (Delta BLUE's new tag being engraved)

 (Deli - messing around in PetCo)

            “Hey Denise, I’m sorry to push this, but could we possibly get her sooner than Saturday. I have to very disappointed guys here,” Chryssa said.

            “Well, you see my son has gymnastics in Burlington in the evenings and he really wants to be there to say good-bye to Deli.” I explained slowly. After all we were making a life change here.

“We’d be happy to drive to Burlington,” she chirped without missing a beat.

“Do you know how much farther Burlington is than Everett. I can still meet you in Everett on Saturday,” I reassured her.

“No, no, no, the distance is fine. We don’t mind at all. We’ll just all pile in the car after I get off work at 4:00PM. Delta Blue is absolutely worth it and we’re so anxious. We’ll see you tomorrow then in Burlington at Henry’s gymnastics after about 6:00PM OK? I’m sorry am I pushing too much.”

“No, no I think it’s good. I’m glad you’re so excited,” I replied. “See you tomorrow then.”

“They’re getting her tomorrow?” Henry asked sullenly. “I want to meet them. I told you that.”

“No. They’re coming to gymnastics so you can be there.”

“They must really want her,” Henry said thoughtfully. “We better call the girls and let them know. They might want to see her before she goes.”

There was a flurry of preparations. A new collar, dog tag, dog food and super-duper gargantuan bone. We gathered her dog, bed and coat so she would have her things that smelled familiar smells.

After work I couldn’t face going to get her so I called Amy and she met me at the corner of Mosquito Lake Road and the 9.

“She knows something’s up,” Amy said as walked over to my van. “She’s acting very perky.”

 (Amy - her truck "Gunner" and Delta Blue - aka Deli aka Wacktilda)
 

            I hoped she would be happy and smothered with love. I hoped she would get the love and attention she used to get from my dad before he left. I hoped she wouldn’t be scared. I hoped she wouldn’t feel abandoned as I pet her soft ears. I loved her ears in between my fingers. They were soft and tickly.

            I picked Henry up from school and we stopped at Wendy’s for a snack. Naturally, Deli needed a good-bye treat. Or two.

 (Good-byes are always hard - Deli & Henry)

 (Deli enjoys the ride)

 (a little treat is in order)

 (Deli taking her burger)
 

            It seemed like an eternity until “they” arrived, but when they did it seemed too soon. Henry spotted them from across the gym and called me over. “Uhhh, Mom? It’s time.”

            I think I spoke a mile a minute explaining every last nuance about her. “She can dig and climb so I wouldn’t leave her alone in a yard unless you’re absolutely sure she can’t escape.”

            “We’ll be leash walking her anyway.” Jim said. “You see, I have to take a thirty-minute walk everyday. She’ll be a good companion.”

“What do you do that you’re out at night?” I pried. I felt a little nosey, but after all this was Deli and I knew my dad was going to want to know too.

 (Jim, Canon, Deli and Henry)

 (Henry, deli and Chryssa)

  (Deli and her new boy, Canon)

“I’m a classical guitarist.” Another musician! “And I’m currently not working. In fact, I don’t have any real plans to work for about six months.” Ahh, the son’s name was Canon not Cannon, my light bulb was turning on.

            I sat back and watched them with her. They were cuddly and Deli was wagging her tail. They thought she was spectacular and snuggled her and pet her as they cooed her name. “Ahhh, Delta Blue” Chryssa said.

            “Call her Deli mom, she likes it better. Don’tcha Deli-girl?” Canon insisted taking the leash from his mother.

 (Henry interviewing the family as he explains all of Deli's quirks)
 

            Henry came over to me. We stood there observing them for a few moments when he whispered. “They seem to really love Wacktilda don’t you think?” I nodded in agreement. “And she seems to really like them,” he added. I put my arm around him and squeezed.

            I’m doing the right thing. I’m doing the right thing. I’m doing the right thing I chanted in my head. Keeping her would be selfish and silly. “You know if there are any problems at all. We’ll take her back. Just give me a call.” I said breezily. Chryssa came over and hugged me.

            “We’re sorry, to do this to you,” she said empathetically.

            “No. Thank you. This is a good thing. Really. I think Deli is going to be very happy.” I said as Jim closed the hatch of their car and climbed in. The entire back was cushioned into a bed for Deli and Canon. As they  drove off I didn’t see Deli looking at me longingly through the back window, as I would have imagined. Instead, she was facing forward  -  tail wagging.

            

 

September 3rd I Can Cry If I Want To

(adorable hippo sculptures from Kenya via Paris from G. Horn aka - my dad)

and - annual - My Happy Birthday from Grandpa Horn

    It sounded like I left the dishwasher on the rinse cycle all night long. The Pacific Northwest was righting itself, making up for the endless hot summer days. With the relentless downpour Awesomez and I thought my day in Seattle at the Woodland Park Zoo would have to wait, but I called my sister and she reported it was to be a beautiful sunny day in the seventies.

    It was still early when we dragged Quinn, Henry and Nick out of bed and shoved some cereal in front of them. Awesomez volunteered to help me and together I went out to the chicken coop to take care of Michael. I held him and pet him trying to comfort him while Lisa helped me give him sips of water. She’s turning out to be a pretty good farm hand. She wrangles ducks, cares for injured chickens, herds goats and cleans stalls. Who would have thought Miss Immaculate would be OK with  goose poop on her tennis shoes?

    “Are you OK to leave him?” Awesomez asked quietly while I held him nestled in my arms. I could tell by the way she kept averting her eyes that she could barely look at him. His wounds were, deep and vicious. We wondered if what we saw was part of his brain and after close examination we weren't sure if he had one eye or not.

     “I am, only because I know Amy will be here and she said she’d call me every once in awhile to let me know how he’s doing.”

    By the time we got our acts together and met Lisa and Phoebe in Burlington it was already ten o’clock. A lot later than we planned, but we weren’t on a set itinerary for a change. When we pulled up to the appointed meeting place, Phoebe greeted me with the requisite birthday latte and a snuggle. I was showered with presents and oddly it turned out to be a two birdhouse birthday. Henry made me one and so did Quinn, Coincidence? Phoebe made me a very unusual and lovely bowl. 

(Phoebe starting the day out right)

(Phoebe made my beautiful birthday gift)

(surprised at receiving a second adorable bird house)

    Just as we got off the freeway I remembered “Lis- didn’t you want to go to some place down in Seattle? A burger place?”

    “Yeah, yeah, The Red Mill, it’s owned by this lady it’s supposed to have the best burgers ever.” Awesomez recounted.

    “Awesomez wasn’t that the place you said was on that show?” Henry asked.

    “Yeah, ‘Man Vs. Food’ “ Awesomez said.

    “Hey, The Red Mill! is right there! It’s right there!” Henry screamed, “We’re passing it!”

    “I can’t believe it. That’s it! What are the chances?” Awesomez said as we drove past on our way to the zoo.

     “I thought it would be at the other end of Seattle,” I said, “but I guess we know where we’re eating dinner.”

(Henry and Phoebe mosey along)

    We had decided to go to the zoo because we usually try and have a family outing on my birthday. In the past my birthday was usually at Sea World because September is a very hot and dry time in Southern California. We would never have considered the Los Angeles Zoo in the summer. And to tell you the truth, zoos can be depressing. Many of them have cages that are too small, I much prefer wild animal parks, but I wanted to go somewhere and this was both affordable and within a reasonable distance. I entered with a bit of skepticism. I’d heard a great deal of talk about the penguin exhibit and although fun, it was nothing compared to Sea World’s Penguin Encounter in San Diego. I felt like one of those people who move from New York and never think their new home's bagels are good enough or they are always asking why there aren’t any good bialys.

(Nick playing with a penguin)

(Penguin Scat)

    We went on to the gorillas and all of sudden The Woodland Park Zoo became my favorite place. The gorillas were awake. Something I wasn’t used to. And they were eating, holding hands and talking to each other. Interacting? They were close enough to view without straining over a rock. They’re behaviors were phenomenal and so were those of the lions, tigers and sloth bears. Orangutan playing peek-a-boo, baby pudu nursing, eagles ripping prey apart, snow leopard cubs pouncing, tapirs swimming and squeaking their shrill cries. It was unlike any other zoo visit I've had.

(gorilla eating an apple)

(Tiger got your tongue?)

(Sloth bear)

(After playing peek-a-boo he made his bead and took a nap)

(Endowed Wild Dog)

(Eagle eating prey)

(baby gorilla)

     Every time I turned around I saw an endangered animal enjoying the day as well as the common teenager, Nick sitting down. Moping - "Homo Sapiens var. Adolecence Mopious" It seems his knee might need surgery, so instead of dragging a despondent teenager all over the zoo, I did what my mother would have done. I got him a wheelchair and put an end to the complaining. Phoebe, Quinn and Henry were stunned. “My feet hurt!” Quinn exclaimed.

     “You don’t need surgery,” her mother pointed out.

     “Whatever,” Quinn quipped.

At 2:30 we were in line to feed the giraffe.  “It’s an extra $5.00? I don’t have enough cash I just have my debit card.” I said knowing I could borrow from my sister or Awesomez; it was my birthday after all.

     “I got it.”

     “What?” I asked.

     “I got money to pay for your giraffe feeding,” Henry said as he pulled a ten-dollar bill out of his wallet.

    “Henry! You don’t have to pay for me, I can borrow from one of the Lisas.”

    “I want to pay for you. This is a birthday gift I know you’ll love and I have the money, “ he said putting his hand in mine and kissing me on the cheek. “Let me do this for you,” he pleaded.

    “Thank you, this is a wonderful birthday gift and I love the bird house too. I can’t believe you just used your father’s tools and did it. I’m really proud of you.” 

    "Really? I did all the measuring and everything. I used Dad's hand saw and Dewalt™. Phoebe helped me. I had Quinn do the writing, because after all that work, I didn't want to crap it up."

(Henry's handmade birdhouse)

(Home Tweet Home)

(Henry tempts our new friend)

(Me, the birthday girl)

(Henry, Awesomez, Giraffe)

     Awesomez was just going to watch from a distance and not actually feed the giraffe, but I pulled the birthday card and the boo-boo lip and she caved. We all filed in and began feeding our leaves when the phone rang. I wouldn’t have taken it, but I saw that it was Amy and I was worried about Michael.”

     “He’s fine.”

     “He’s dead?”

     “No. He’s fine. He’s alive! He’s alive and drinking a lot of water, he’s walking around and I’m holding and talking to him like you asked.”

    “Great. I was worried.” I whispered “I’ve gotta go we’re feeding the giraffes.” I hung up and looked over to see Awesomez giggling with Phoebe over the giraffe’s tongue. I was happy. This is a great birthday I thought as I saw Phoebe wheel Nick out of the giraffe enclosure.

(Can you really beat this much fun? - yes they are in fact growling)

    After an exciting day seeing things I’ve never seen at a zoo we topped off the outing with cheap, delicious burgers. The place was packed with a line out the door that never seemed to get shorter. It's a little hole in the wall really, but it seems everyone in Seattle knows about it. I couldn't believe the burgers were only three dollars for a cheese burger and about five for the  Green Chili burger I split with my sister to try and stay within the bounds of reason when it came to Weight Watcher points. The the kids had shakes and malts all around while Awesomez through caution to the wind and ordered the peppery onion rings.

    We found a table outside and sat in the waning sunshine enjoying the sounds of the city when The phone rang again and for the fourth time today it was Amy dutifully calling with Michael’s progress. “Hello?”

(Man VS. Food - recommendation - a new family tradition)

   

    “He’s good”

     “He’s dead?”

     “He’s good. I didn’t say 'he's fine' this time, because you kept thinking I said dead and you still thought I said dead.”

     “I guess I’m scared, thanks for taking care of him," I said "I never could have had this birthday without you watching him. I really appreciate it."  I thought of Amy sitting there holding Michael for me. I was touched at how much a part of our lives she's become in such a short time. How did I get so lucky to get a whacko like her who would sit in my chicken coop talking to my injured chicken for me so I could go to the zoo on my birthday. Her kindness brought tears to my eyes.

August 15th Fighting Irish

(Grandpa Horn hard at work)

Dear Denise and Lisa

    A few days ago when Jacques, Pascal and I played on rue Buci, a Left Bank walking street which is always crowded with tourists I experienced something I hadn't in a long time.

    We'd played in front of a shop closed for the month of August and after a couple of sets, Jacques and Pascal went across the street to have coffee or a glass of wine or who knows what. And you'll not be surprised  I leaned against the shop and spent some time with my current novel.

(Grandpa Horn on the far right- on Rue Buci)

    Usually I don't leave paper money in the sax or banjo case when we take a break as it can easily blow out.  As it happens, this time there was a 10Euro note and a 5Euro note in with the numerous coins.

    Something caught my attention and I looked up just as two drunks passed carrying their bottles of booze.  One leaned down and grabbed the 10Euro note.  Before I realized it, I was already moving after him. Without thinking I'd decided I was not going to allow him to get away with it and spread a story around that the musicians won't do anything if you grab something out of their case, etc.

(band money)

    In fairly short order I caught the guy at the corner, grabbed his shoulder and spun him around.  A couple of helpful Frenchman who had seen the action had run along with me and were screaming at the guy to drop the money.

 

    The drunk with the 10Euro note was in a rage shouting something incomprehensible and leaning into my face.  I took one step back and drove a right cross into his nose.  He went down.  I stayed back as he was still holding a bottle in one hand and the 10Euro in the other.  He finally managed to get up and lunged toward me.  I stepped to the side, grabbed the front of his shirt and used his momentum to swing him into the side of a building. 

 

    This time his bottle broke as he landed, but he still held the neck of it with a fairly large jagged portion, so I stayed away from him.  Slowly, he turned and dropped the 10Euro note.  I picked it up and returned to our instruments as people on the street applauded.  Just as I was leaving, the drunk lifted his hand up, wanting to shake mine.  I turned and ignored him.

    Thankfully there were no police around. Even though I'd been the victim I didn't want to have my name become part of any official report. Every now and then we run into #%@!*&%! (pardon my French) and always try to avoid them. I just couldn't let this theft happen without doing something.

    I may be older, but, grumpy Grandpa Horn is still your dear old dad.

(Grandpa Horn back at work)

June 27th The Road To ...

 

(Grandpa Horn in front of a chateau in the South of France)

Dear Eveyone,

     Our plan was to drive south of Paris for about five hours in Philippe’s VW 10-passenger van to the tiny village of Montbron, about 50 kilometers southeast of nearest large city, which is Limoges where we’d be playing a wedding.

    We are to rendezvous at (I thought I heard) PLACE d’Italie. I set my phone alarm for 7:30 and of course I’m wide-awake at 7:15.

    I’m on the Metro by 8:15. This of course is an extremely early departure time to rendezvous at 10 a.m., but as you well know, I can’t stand rushing and always choose to arrive early, often as much as an hour early, finding it very relaxing to have a coffee and read the current novel I’m reading. Place d’Italie is an easy ride-–it’s at the end of Line 5, which is the line that services our neighborhood in the 19th arondissement.

    Seventeen stops later I emerge from the Place d’Italie exit. Glancing around I see three cafes. I select Café de France, take a table outside in the morning sun, order a petit café creme and freshly-squeezed orange juice and open my T.Jefferson Parker novel, "Where Serpents Lie" [quite a grisly tale where the villian-killer, abused as a child, of course, ends up feeding his alcoholic mother to his pet 20-ft. Anaconda].

    By 9:40 I’m wondering why March Chevaucherie, our outstanding sousaphone player, hasn’t showed up. He’s usually very punctual. I take out my cell and call Philippe. It seems Marc failed to set his alarm clock and has just gotten up! It is then I learn that we’re supposed to be meeting at PORT d’Italie, not PLACE d’Italie, which is reached on Line 7. Luckily, Line 7 also runs through Place d’Italie where I am and Port d’Italie is only three stops away. I can get there in ten minutes.

    Philippe picks Marc and his sousaphone up and they arrive where I’m waiting at 10:25. I’m thinking my old band leader Dolson would be having a heart attack right about now at this lack of precision.

    So, we’re off. Pascal, who usually plays bass for us, will be meeting us at a toll stop near Orleans. He’s going to be playing banjo for the wedding because Alan Kelly had a gig booked far in advance to the wedding. He was quite unhappy about it as the wedding is paying us over twice what his other gig will pay.

    The first hour flys by and soon we see Pascal standing beside his small Renault in a parking lot adjacent to the tollway. Having played a gig in Orleans last night until 1 a.m., Pascal crawls into the back of the van and is asleep within a quarter-mile.

    On this sunshine day of about 85 degrees the French countryside is gorgeously green from recent rains. While Philippe drives he splits his time between talking with Madeleine beside him and selecting various jazz tunes from his stash of CDs. Behind them Marc works at a book of crossword puzzles while I read about the serial killer who loves and keeps snakes.

    The first demand of the wedding for the band is that we are to be outside the church (the Eglise Saint Maurice de Montbron) at 6 p.m. so we can be ready to play the moment the bride and groom exit the church.

(Eglise Saint Maurice de Montbron)

    As we approach Limoges, the nearest large city to Montbron, about 50 kilometers away, I glance at my watch. It’s 4 o’clock and I’m amazed that it looks like we should be in Montbron with an hour to spare!

    Ah, but wait a minute.  Don't count your French Poodles too soon. Something always comes up with French musicians just as I believe we’re finally going to arrive someplace early.

    As Philippe takes a turn where the sign points to Limoges’ "City Centre" I suddenly learn that Marc left home without his dress clothes! He’s wearing a nice shirt, but his casual pants are yellow. Yellow? So we’ll be stopping in a mall so he can purchase a pair of black dress slacks.

    The pants-buying process blows about 40 minutes and by the time we’re back on the road to Montbron, with Marc working the GPS and calling out directions to Philippe, we of course have lost forever our one-hour cushion.

    Montbron is so small we don’t see signs for it until we’re within 15 kilometers. When I bring up the fact that none of the road signs are showing Montbron, Marc assures me that the GPS is right on and we’ll be in Monbron in 15 minutes.

    Marc proves to be true to his word. We pull into the parking lot in front of our hotel at 5:30. Because I’m the only one dressed the others rush into the hotel to change while I sit on the hotel patio and enjoy a coffee feeling like I’ve been in the middle of some Bob Hope, Bing Crosby movie,

    The benefits of a small town are that nothing is far away. The church is less than five minutes away and miraculously, we are standing with our instruments in hand at 6:03, waiting for the church doors to open which doesn't happen until 6:20.
(In the nick of time)

(Antoine and Julie)

     We play two or three numbers as the bride and groom, Antoine and Chunlian ("Julie") are kept on the church steps by the large crowd. Finally the bride and groom are guided over to the side of the church next to the band, and when we finish the tune we’re playing (it wasn’t "Who’s Sorry Now"), Julie gives each musician a kiss and a hug, explaining we were a complete surprise, that having us for the wedding was a surprise present from Antoine’s mother, who paid us handsomely to drive down from Paris and was also putting us up in the hotel for the night.

    So, with Julie and Antoine beside us, the band leads a parade of guests about 500 yards from the church to an outside area where cocktails would be served before dinner. The parade got interrupted just before we arrived at the reception area because so many people demanded they be allowed to take pictures.

(Grandpa Horn)

(The band had sport coats on when we arrived, but it was about 90 degrees and were immediately shed.)

(Antoine's mom dancing with Madeleine)

 

(Julie's bride's maids and parents)

    Julie couldn’t get over the fact that we had been brought down from Paris for the wedding. She and Antoine had heard us play a number of Sunday mornings on rue Mouffetard, and when Antoine’s mother had come to Paris for a visit on a Sunday, she immediately hired us for the wedding; we just didn’t know that she was going to keep it a complete surprise from Julie and Antoine.

(Antoine's parents)

    That Sunday back in March or April when we were hired I of course gave Antoine’s mother a couple of our CDs. There was no question she had listened to it often and as soon as cocktails were being served she came over, gave me a kiss and said I MUST sing "I’ll Be Your Friend With Pleasure"

    Not counting Lisa’s Toby’s weddings, this was the warmest reception I’ve ever seen a band receive from the host, hostess, bride and groom and guests at a wedding.

    Julie, a knockout herself, was also surrounded by beautiful girlfriends, and all of them made the band feel as if we were rock stars, almost pushing each other out of the way to be able to serve us champagne.

(Julie and her friends)

 

    Our music duties ended when the guests entered the dinner tent around 9:30-–there was a two-man team inside the tent playing CDs for dinner–-and our gracious hostess arranged for a musicians’ table on the grounds outside the tent complete with a bottle of champagne, two bottles of bordeaux and two bottles of rose to wash down the delicious dinner of beef and shrimp.

    When I finished eating I went into the dinner tent. Julie and Antoine were very gracious, saying how complete the entire affair was with us coming down from Paris to play for them. Hearing nice things like that are the extra perks you get playing good music.

  

    Bon Soir,

   G. Horn

June 13th Father's Day

My father, Grandpa Horn, happy singing and playing in Paris - and Madeline dancing along as usual. Madeleine is 78. She and her husband used to dance to street bands. He passed away five years ago. Philippe Audibert (dark hair) takes care of her. She loves to dance and goes to all the gigs, even weddings.

April 8th The Miracle Of Life

  (Clara and her girls - one is tucked safely under her wing)

    The thick grey skies seemed to mirror our mood this morning. The death of Clyde has left everyone here a bit somber. We’re not running around crying all the time, but it’s sort of taken the wind out of our sails. Henry has forgiven Vivian for her crime, realizing she had no malintent, but it doesn’t take away the pain.

    We moped about a bit in the morning fixing breakfast. Alexis feeding and carrying around Colter who has yet to fully rejoin his family. Mike came out for a visit since he’s house sitting for Lisa & Chris who cashed in frequent flier miles and flew south for a sunny Cancun vacation with the girls. In an attempt to right the ship Mike Henry and I decided to go out to the barn to candle Ruthie and Mabel’s eggs wondering if there was even a possibility of more goslings. It was amazing how all the animals responded to Mike even Scarlett who harbors Greta-Garbo-ways came out to pay homage to the man who would supply her ham every morning when he lived here.

    To our delight quite a few of the eggs looked dark and filled with the promise of new life. Our spirits soared. “Mama we’re going to have more babies! I think they’ll be here within the week.” My little farm boy predicted.

    “I thin you’re right Babalouie.”  I said, “You know we’re really very lucky. We haven’t lost a lamb or a goat even though we’ve seen plenty of coyote and of course the cougar”

    “Of course we’ve found a lot of scat from bear under the apple trees even though we haven’t seen them. We know they’re there.” Mike added.

    “And bobcat?” Henry reminded me.

    “True there was the bobcat in the pasture, but we’ve only lost one little life in almost two years.”

    “From our own dog.” Henry emphasized.

    “Can you imagine how horrible it would have been if the first life lost was Riley’s?” Mike asked.

    “That would have been horrible, his carcass ripped open.” 

    “Mom!”

    “Well, it could have happened. It’s happened to a lot of people I’ve talked to. The game warden and I discussed it at length. So the loss of Clyde no matter how terrible has to be put in perspective. It’s really quite remarkable and the only reason is Miracle.” I said going over to give her the cookie she was begging for. “She’s turned out to be an amazing guardian.”

    Miracle stood there begging for cookies like an overgrown basset hound absorbing the praise, all the while her ears turning around tuning in every sound always alert.

Introducing: Miracle The Wonder Donkey with Tom accompanied by Grandpa Horn's music.

February 3rd The Egg & I

  (Clara)

Clara, Clara, Clara, that’s all Henry and I talked about on the way to school. We discussed egg production and whether laying an egg hurt. We wondered if she honked when it came out or did something else. Henry had wanted to go out and see if she was sitting on her nest today, but we had to do all the morning chores, feeding the dogs, collecting the trumpet and picking up the dead bat Irish was using as a Frisbee™.

            “Mom, I’m worried she’s not going to take the egg. You know you used your robe. Now it smells like dog.”

            “Henry, she’s so used to us and the dogs, I don’t think she’s going to freak out. She’s far from wild.”

            “What are we going to do if she doesn’t sit on the egg?” He looked at me hopefully.

            “We’re not getting an incubator. We’d have to turn them and do all sorts of things, and frankly. If one egg doesn’t hatch, then one egg doesn’t hatch.”

            “You’re right. She’s supposed to have about ten right?”

(sunny snow cap with a layer of clouds while the mountain is shrouded in shadow - and people wonder why I don't mind the commute)

    Yes, and if all the girls lay, we’ll have forty goslings. I don’t have earplugs for that kind of noise. I don’t want to be the crazy goose lady of Mosquito Lake Road. “ I stated forcefully.

            “Mama?” He said in his con-artist-adorable-child-you-can’t-refuse-me-voice.

            “Yes?” I asked warily.

            “Can we keep one?” He looked at me with the boo-boo lip protruding, his eyes wide and watery leaning toward the car heater trying to absorb the heat. “Just one?”

            “Henry, we talked about this. We’re selling the goslings. We have eight snuggly geese.” Just then the phone rang. It was my dad confirming breakfast.

            “Lisa’s bringing Quinn. She has an orthodontist appointment she has to go to at 9:45AM so she’s not going to school first. ” He informed me. “So see you at Skylarks” he said and hung-up.

            “Henry, Grandpa's, leaving tomorrow for France and chances are he isn’t coming back for a year. Do you want to be late for school and come to breakfast with me? Lisa and Quinn are coming by, Lisa has to take Quinn to an orthodontist appointment so they can't stay for long.” I said as we sat at a stoplight.

            “Oh yeah, Quinn’s getting her braces off today! Uhh no, I saw Grandpa this weekend we went on a walk and if I went I’d miss band class. I think Grandpa would tell me I should go to band.” He said with surprising maturity.

("Mom, if I was a dog, I'd want Grandpa to be my owner. I'd always get treats" - Henry)

                                                            ***

(Grandpa Horn at his place in Bellingham)

             Clara was once again the topic of conversation at breakfast. “What are you going to do with these goslings?” Lisa asked. I knew she was expecting to chide me for keeping them. Or at least that’s what I thought.

“Some of them are pre-sold to a Doctor Trish Coffey. She’s been waiting for some goslings. She found me through Doctor Tom Walker. You see I have four good males and two good females. So I really don’t have to worry who the father is as long as the mother is Mabel or Clara.” I informed the table.

            “What the hell is a good goose?” My father demanded.

            “Pink bill, pink feet, correct eye color. Strong normal wings, with the appropriate markings and not too heavy.” I said as though I was a breeder of rare heritage Cotton Patch Geese.

            "Well, for Christsake it sound's it's a moral judgment."

            "She mean's they're flawed for the breed standard." Lisa added for clarification.

            “Denise! You have to keep one! You have to! You have to! Just one! A little fluff ball.” Quinn squealed.

            “Nope. I’m not keeping any geese Quinn. We have enough. One will mean two and then I have ten geese.”

            “And then she’ll be the crazy goose lady.” My psychic-twin chimed in.

            “Your mother’s right.”  I confirmed.

            After that, Lisa hustled off with Quinn, my dad and I ate our breakfast, chatted paid the bill and hugged good-bye.

(enjoying one last cup)

            “Be safe Daddy” I eeked out.

            “Ahh, I’ll email, it’ll be like I never left.” He said and turned and walked away.

(the girls along with Lloyd and Cleveland in the garden- Quackmire and Alfred decided to stay out)

            When I got home I saw Alexis had penned up all the girls in the flower garden as we discussed.  I was worried others might start building nests and we wouldn’t be able to find them. I knew the girls would be there, but I was surprised Clara was with them. I hobbled over using a branch I’d found as my farm cane. I wanted to chat with him about Clara and her egg. I had to know what was going on. Alexis opened the door as I teetered through my branch slipping on the floor. I made my way to a chair and he pointed to Clara’s egg on the table.

(my makeshift farm cane)

            “She just walked away from her nest this morning. She did bury the egg under the straw and went out with everyone else. So I brought it in here. I couldn’t reach you and I didn’t know what else to do.”

            “I’ve got a call into Tom Walker and an email so I’m sure we’ll hear soon.” We chatted some more about our plans for the geese. We decided to separate the girls further putting the “good girls” Clara and Mabel in one garden and the “bad girls” Ruthie and Matilda in the other so we didn’t have egg confusion. “Henry and I were talking on the way to school wondering what it might have been like when she laid the egg. You know, was she like a chicken squawking or honking of what?” I repeated.

            “I saw her lay the egg.” Alexis said. “She did it while I was starting to feed last night.”

            “You saw her, did she do anything?” I asked in amazement.

            “Well, she didn’t make any noise, but I did see some real booty action.” Alexis said with a smile as he helped me make my way down his steps. We agree he’d put the egg back this evening and we’d put dog carriers in the goose pen in case some of the other ladies needed to nest.

            When I got back in the house I checked my messages hoping Tom Walker had called. Nothing. The phone rang. Wrong Tom, well it was the right Tom, my Tom, but well anyway it was Pea.

            “I’m practically passing out cigars here at the office. We’re all excited. How big is it?” He said in a rush.

            “Well, I wouldn’t pass them out just yet. She’s not sitting on the nest. It is bigger than a chicken egg.”

(chicken egg and Clara's)

            “She’s not? Do you think the egg smelled like dog?” He accused.

            “That’s what Henry said. He wants to smear some of her poop on the egg to recapture her smell.” I relayed.

            “Might work, worth a try.” Tom concurred.

            “Lisa says some birds lay all their eggs and then sit on them so they hatch all at the same time. Kind of like getting everything ready and keeping it hot for Christmas Dinner. Hmm perhaps not the best analogy, but anyway I have a call in to Trish Coffey too about how many birds she wants.”

            “Are we going to keep one?” He asked expectedly.

            “That’s what Henry and Quinn want. You too?” I half asked, as I knew the answer.

            “Well yeah, actually we need a pair don’t we. I mean c’mon.”

            “You think I don’t want another fluff ball? But you know they’re goslings for about ten minutes. The darn things double in size while you blink. Then they’re geese and do we really need another pair of geese? And furthermore, they won’t be hand raised and so they might not be as snuggly.” I rationally pointed out.

            “We’ll see.” He said with a tone.

            I drove to pick Henry up and take him to the Fairhaven Barber Shop. We were late for his appointment so we said we’d come back in an hour. Seeing Lisa’s car a few spaces down we called to find out where she was. Turns out she, my dad and Annie were having coffee and the newly-naked-tooth Quinn was having ice cream over at Village Books. This is a small town. Naturally, we joined them for one last hurrah before Henry’s clipping. We sipped double shot non-fat latte's as we looked out on Bellingham Bay. The sun was shining and it felt warm through the window. Henry and Quinn licked their ice cream cones before they split a giant brownie. I wondered how many points they were consuming laughing to myself as I saw Quinn absently take her finger and rub it back and forth over her front teeth like a toothbrush. I guess she just liked the feel of her smooth pearly whites.

(Grandpa Horn, Quinn and her teeth and Henry)

            Dr. Walker finally called just after I dropped off Henry at gymnastics and right before my Weight Watcher meeting. I was relieved to hear his voice. The goose guru was going to impart his knowledge. He told me a myriad of information. It seems the geese have been off to the pond because they mate in water. They could have mated in the baby pond but it was frozen. Geese lay eggs every other day and won’t sit the nest until all the eggs are laid and then the “sit” is for thirty days. Clara should lay nine to eleven eggs. He did have one who laid fourteen but this was highly unusual. I was right to separate her out and keep her with Lloyd. He praised us for keeping the girls penned in, as we would truly be on an egg hunt if we didn’t take precautions. He suggested that if the temperatures dipped below freezing that we take the eggs inside and leave fool-her eggs. He had wooden ones, but chicken eggs would do. Then when she’s laid all the eggs and is sitting we should replace them. In the meantime we should keep the eggs cool not warm. He reassured me the eggs were hardy and not to worry. I thanked him and told him I would no doubt call again. He gave me his cell.

            My first call was to Alexis, as he needed to know how to handle the nursery, then Tom, because he was calling every twenty minutes. Finally, I called Lisa and relayed what I’d been told.

               “So they need water?” She asked in her analytical science voice.

“Yes, I guess they could have used the baby pool, but it was frozen.”

“Frozen water, huh now that’s a birth control you don’t hear about much.” I laughed. She was a doctor, but she was my sister.

“I guess, I’ll need those dog pens back I loaned you, the ones I used for the geese when they were little. I’m going to need to separate all the pairs soon.”

“OK I’ll get them and give them to you tomorrow. Hey do you still have the oyster shells you got for Alfred?”

“Oh yeah, they said they were for laying geese. I’d forgotten.”

“They’re excellent for egg production. So put some out there.” She insisted. Another farm first for me, I was now giving pre-natal care to geese.

(Henry with the oyster shells)

(Miracle and the goats want to know what's happening and why we woke them up)

  (Henry pouring oyster shells)     

    (Lloyd protecting his family)

            

January 21st Begin At The Beginning

(an otherwise peaceful morning)

     Henry announced this morning he needed new black pants and a white button down shirt for his first band performance - tonight. The ones we had were to small and the hand-me-downs from Trevor were still too big.

    Why I didn’t think about the idea of an assigned outfit before I don’t know. I was a teacher for Heaven’s sake I’d assigned outfits. Maybe it was because I didn’t get a flyer, or maybe because it didn’t have distinguished name like “Winter Concert” but whatever it was I was caught completely off guard.

    Furious at Henry for waiting until the last second and mad at myself for not thinking about it beforehand, I lectured halfway down Mosquito Lake Road on the way to school about responsibility and the importance of lists. A sore throat and three miles later I realized most of my frustration was due to the cost of buying extra clothes he’d never wear again, a long to-do list for today and my recent lack of sleep, none of which are his fault.  So I settled down sipped my hot morning coffee and began to figure out how to solve the problem. The problem was I had a full day with cleaning the geese pen, ordering hay I'd left to the last minute as well as other sundry scheduled obligations. I started juggling my day and making phone calls.

    Eventually, I called my dad who happened to be going to the mall to buy some things for himself and he had no problem going over to the boys department to pick up the items. I told him exactly what to buy. It seemed simple much easier than I had ever imagined. I regretted the depth of my anger wondering if I wasn't most upset that Henry is just like me. I'd heard my mother's words when I yelled.

    I picked Henry up from school. Climbing in the car I could tell he was hesitant. “It's OK I had your grandfather buy some clothes for you.” He gave me a worried look.

    “Is that my punishment?” 

    “No, no.” I laughed. “You do know you’re grandfather. No. I told him exactly what to buy.”

    We all met at Lisa’s for dinner. She and I shared a couple of chicken tamales from Trader Joes™ for seven points and everyone else had pasta with Lisa's hearty meat sauce. I examined the items my father purchased. He’d done an excellent job. Henry dressed for the concert and looked great, they fit, but there wasn’t the teeniest bit of extra room. I’d told my father one-size too small. I winced.  I hadn’t noticed how much Henry had grown. No matter, the show must go on. I coiffed his hair with a little pomade and we were on our way.

    “Are you excited?” I asked as we snaked along the black ocean, the lights from the houses glimmering on the water.

    “Yes very.” He said nervously. Funny, I hadn’t expected that answer.

    “Do you know the music?”

    “I have one song completely memorized.” He smiled at me wringing his hands and pushing up his glasses with his finger. His excitement was infectious. This was a big moment. He’d never performed at school. In kindergarten he was supposed to sing, “Good Things Come in Little Packages” with all the other kindergartners dressed as a presents. He cried and was escorted off the risers. In first grade he was supposed to walk on stage during the Thanksgiving performance. He cried and never actually walked on the stage. In fourth grade he did participate in a Gold Rush musical but all he had to do was wear Tom’s orange plaid shirt and stay in the background. Caitlin Fratkin and Sam Dyke did most of the acting for the class

(Henry and some of the band boys)

(6th grade middle school band)

(Dealing with some immense social crisis -Quinn with Marnie -on left - she plays trumpet in the 7th grade band and the Bellingham Youth Jazz Band)

    Lisa, my dad and I sat together in the burgundy molded plastic stackable chairs. Quinn flitted about chit chatting with everyone she happened to see. Unfortunately, Nana was sick and Chris was home with Phoebe who had a fever of 102.7. As the band began warming up Lisa turned to me. “If you’d thought about it, you’d have known they were going to wear black pants with a white shirt. I think that’s the requisite band outfit. That’s what I wore when I was in band. I think that’s what almost every middle school band wears. Dad? I bet that’s what you wore too isn’t it?” Something about what Lisa said struck me. She'd played clarinet, she knew. This was a universal event a tradition. These were the Wonder Years fraught with fear, embarrassment and new beginnings. Middle schools everywhere for generations have had just this kind of performance. Great musicians, mediocre musicians, and completely horrible musicians all began just like this. I looked at the excited faces warming up their instruments. They would all certainly remember this night.

(Warning: I could not edit songs)

   

   

    After the sixth grade, seventh grade and eighth grades played, we were asked to stay for the “Bellingham Youth Jazz Band”, a group of kids from different schools ranging in age from sixth to twelfth grade who perform a couple dozen times a year. The leader stepped on the stage and addressed the audience.

  “Jazz is such an amazing and universal experience. I try to expose these kids to tunes professionals actually play. Last night I was at a jam session here in Bellingham and played a couple of these Duke Ellington songs with an amazing trumpet player just in from Paris…” I looked at my father, legs crossed nodding. He leaned toward me and said, “You know, I did play with that guy last night at the Brewery. He’s good.” Henry seated on my other side glanced over at me.

    “Is he talking about Grandpa?”

    “Yes, Grandpa played with him at Boundary Bay.” I whispered. Henry sat beaming. Grandpa was going to perform for the kids during Band class on Friday morning.

(Grandpa Horn and the leader of the Bellingham Youth Jazz Band)

    After stacking the audience chairs Henry came running up to me, he had heard some kids say they were going to the Colophon Café for ice cream. I was too tired to think about going, but my sister gave me the eyebrow and the do-it-for-your-kid-look. “It is tradition to go out afterward”, she said, “We always went out to the Howard Johnson's”.  Dutifully I drove the few blocks to the restaurant reconciling myself to an espresso for the drive home, only to find it dark and deserted. Disappointed I consoled my son with Taco Bell™. 

    Sipping root beer and crunching on cinnamon twists in the car Henry said, “Mama I don’t think I have a great future in percussion, I was supposed to match the kid next to me, but I didn't. He went fasther than we practiced. In my student review I told my teacher what really, really inspires me, is to try to one day play the horn like my grandfather.” He looked so sweet and innocent sitting there, I tried to take a picture of him in my mind. He was starting down an exciting road neither of us could know where it might lead. The streets of Paris perhaps? I took another sip of the tepid Taco Bell™ coffee and wondered if I could still exchange those clothes for a bigger size. We were definitely going to need them.

January 18th The Good Bye Girl

(Grandpa Horn and his girl - Deli aka Delta Blue)

    Grandpa Horn is in the Country. He arrived the other day from “gay Paris” and has been staying with Lisa. Busily been making the rounds of his grandchildren. He went to Phoebe’s soccer game and bought sheet music for the piano. He attended Henry’s horn lesson and was amazed at Kevin’s patience. He sat through it biting his tongue trying not to interject – he mildly was successful.

    This morning he drove out for his first visit to the farm. Arriving with his signature whistle he sent the dogs into an absolute frenzy. Not unfamiliar with my father’s canine influence, I was prepared and put the dogs outside before he opened the car door. He tumbled in with his Green Bay knit cap tucked over his ears. Steaks, Trader Joes™ coffee and butter in his arms he greeted the dogs smiling. There were lots of hugs and kisses for the dogs as he worked his way from Deli to his eventual meeting of Bruno.
(Grandpa Horn in his Green Bay hat with his girl Del)
(Tom takes Irish on the leash until we're in a completely motorcycle free zone)

    The sunny skies demanded we grab our coats, so we all took a walk up to the landslide area surveying the dramatic changes, collecting rocks and enjoying the sunshine. Henry, Tom and my father were stunned to see the pond first hand. Vivian and Luther hovered near my father where Deli was bound by her leash. Irish romped and waded through the water after Bruno who was flying back and forth across the stream. The afternoon went along merrily with Henry skipping stones and breaking sheets of ice that still covered the pond. All this carefree attitude came to a screeching halt as the football games began.   
(Irish takes a sip of pond water)

(I never get used to the beauty of Washington - it takes my breath away)

(Henry asks Tom to help him find a rock suitable for Ellis to sculpt or polish and love)
(Luther goes all terrain)

(Grandpa and all "his" dogs)

(Bruno leads Irish on a merry chase)

(Where ever he goes - they go)
 
I can’t stand football. I don’t hate the game actually I hate watching the game. This is directly related to my father’s screaming, yelling, stomping and swearing violently about every single play. I repeat every single play of every single game. I understand this is typical of Notre Dame graduates especially the football scholarships. Whatever, I hate it and as a result I can’t stand to watch football. They, my dad, Wayne, and Tom watched football throughout the day on several televisions. The man-cub eagerly paid close attention to each of his learned teachers. His testosterone training was ongoing as he learned the lore. He listened to the tales of plays past and was even given famous clips of long ago to review. He spoke of the Steelers stealing the game from the Seahawks and lamented their winning. He could not be swayed by my friend Alicia’s undying loyalty to them or their sparkly logo. Henry snuggled up between his father and grandfather learning the finer points of the game while Wayne went up and down the stairs interjecting his thoughts per play.

(Note crazed look in Grandpa Horn's eyes)

(let the games begin)
  (Tom diligently educating Henry)

(Irish and Bruno are bored with the games)

At half-times and between games there was much horn blowing. My father would practice and Henry would try and match his pitch. I heard a lot of “No. Blow from your stomach. From your stomach! Ok. Better. Do it again.” I stoically kept quiet busying myself with other things.
(Henry watches and listens)

(Practice makes perfect)


(Henry with accidental excitement scratches on his face from an over zealous Irish puppy greeting him at the door - naughty Irish- Bad Dog!)
(Irish listening for his cue?)

(a baritone, Irish did the vocals)

Tom grilled steaks, fixed potatoes and steamed broccoli while I meticulously counted points We all drank wine – except Henry. After all this isn’t France. When Henry complained some of the pieces were a bit overdone I was about to kick him under the table, but Tom quickly admitted he got sidetracked by a spectacular play and forgot about them as Wayne doused the inferno with a Becks™.

The next morning was more of the same, plenty of sunshine and horn practice. My father took Deli on a walk promising her he would return. Sick of good-byes, I don't think she believes him.

(Deli)

December 24th Joyful Noise

Henry wanted to send a special Christmas card to his grandfather, and he'd like to share it.

So Merry Christmas Grandpa Horn, Merry Christmas Everyone!

December 3rd Love Is In The Air

(Henry waiting for his lesson)

    “Raindrops on roses, whiskers on kittens. . .,” Julie Andrews joyfully sang from the back seat as I wound up into the hills above Bellingham. Henry was enthralled with his first viewing of “The Sound of Music”. We were on our way to Western Washington University’s Performing Arts Center to meet with Kevin Woods because my father was not at all pleased with the idea of his grandson switching to the “God Damn Tuba”. So my dad offered to pay for a couple of lessons and, through his musical connections in Bellingham, we found Kevin for Henry’s first cornet lesson. I mentioned the tuba issue and Kevin responded in true horn player fashion. “Oh no, not the tuba!. That’s going to hurt your social life. You want to play the horn.”

“Well, when I play I sound like a moose,” Henry lamented.
(Henry illustrating the mouthpiece is stuck)

    During the lesson Henry learned to hold his lips properly and how to place his tongue. Kevin gave him exercises like holding a pencil between his lips for 15 seconds at a time while making the “trumpet face”.  Henry was trying to match Kevin’s pitch when "Doe – a deer, a female deer” from "The Sound of Music" came up. I told Kevin that musical ability had skipped a generation in my family as I couldn’t match a pitch to save my life. In fact, my friend Dawn used to subtly put her finger in her ear when she stood next to me to sing. Kevin smiled, and said he played in the orchestra pit for the play “The Sound of Music” and their Maria couldn’t hit all her notes. Somehow I didn’t think we were talking apples to apples here.
(Henry learning how he should hold his lips so he won't look like he's playing the tuba or sound like a wounded moose.)

    They did scales and drew pictures of teeth and lips. Kevin adjusted the height and angle Henry was holding his horn. I didn’t know how all this was going over. Henry looked a little bored and seemed to be looking away a good deal of the time, which would have sent my father into a rage if he’d been working with Henry. According to my father, he's a player, not a teacher.  When we were about to leave, Henry said enthusiastically, “I’m hoping we’re going to be able to do this again next week. I just love it.”
(Henry and Kevin Woods at Western Washington University)

    On the way back to the car, I was going to mention Henry’s lack of eye contact. He was well aware of it, because he brought it up first. He explained he’d been staring at Kevin early in the lesson and was self-conscious about it. He thought Kevin was “so cool and completely amazing”. (Henry threw out his apple core - not 3 seconds later our friend here grabbed it and flew away with his prize)

      We got home as the Von Trapps were hiding from the Nazis. Henry was sure Rolf wouldn’t turn them in. Once inside, we fed the dogs and googled the Von Trapps - learning the true story is even more interesting. I cooked dinner and, just as we sat down with our Sloppy Joes, we heard a siren. The dogs went wild. The strange thing was it didn’t stop. I wondered if there had been an accident close by.  I went outside on the front porch. It was no siren. It was an eerie bloodcurdling scream coming from the pasture. The screaming was rhythmic and creepy. At first, I thought coyotes. This seems to be my default setting. Henry and I rushed around to find the Costco™ flashlight and, once I had it, I began sweeping the pasture looking for eyes. Henry dialed Alexis so he wouldn’t miss the excitement. Now two flashlights began criss-crossing the pasture. You would have thought it was a grand opening. I yelled to Alexis from the roof just outside Henry’s window.

    “I think it’s a coyote,” I called down.

     “Me, too.”

    “Hey, you want to take a ride?”

    “Sure. I’ll get my keys,” I climbed back inside from my observation deck and raced down the stairs.

    “Can I come?” Henry pleaded.

    “Of course, get your shoes. Quickly.”  Off we went with three flashlights, down into the pasture while the screaming went on relentlessly.

    “Mom, if it’s a coyote and it has a kill, it might be Francine,” Henry worried.

    “I know, Honey. I thought the same thing.”

    As we drove I began to really listen to the sound. A coyote yips or howls. This was different, but familiar. I remembered this sound from last year. On Thanksgiving, we’d heard this same bloodcurdling scream. Lisa and I had rushed out to the barn, fearing something was injured and dying. I’d heard it many nights after that last fall and could never identify it. I’d told a lot of people about it, and one County Gal finally said to me, "It’s raccoon. They mate in the fall and winter and it’s the female mating scream." After listening closely to it, the three of us were pretty sure she was right. Alexis was surprised raccoons could make a sound.
(not a picture I took, but one I found of a screaming raccoon)

    “Even bunnies can shriek,” I said.

    “Bunnies can shriek?” Henry asked.

    “Yep,” I verified.

    “Well, a raccoon does have a dog quality about it. So I can see they’d be able to make that kind of noise,” Henry offered.

    “Well, now that you’ve suggested it, I can see that it doesn’t really sound like a coyote. Huh. Interesting,” Alexis added.

    "Raccoons are not just soft cuddly creatures with fluffy tails. They're fierce. In Minnesota, they'd lure dogs out into Minnetonka and then climb on their backs and drown them."

    As we got to the middle of the pasture, we apparently killed the mood because the terrifying, but passionate shrieking of the raccoon went silent. Not wanting to waste the evening,however, we took a swing by Wally’s pond, and then on down the kooky bulldozed path adjoining my property. Hundreds of plant containers, heaters, plexiglass and other things indicating someone is up to no good had appeared.

    "Look at all the downed pine trees just dying. Look! The bulldozer has just pushed them over and left them there to rot. We can recycle them into Christmas trees." I'd been looking for a good tree to chop down, but this was even better. You never know where or when you're going to find what you're looking for.

    "Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah," Alexis agreed.

    "Let's get more than one. Let's get a Charlie Brown one for my room," Henry suggested while we bounced along at a pretty good clip. Henry, who was sitting in the back, but leaning so far forward our shoulders were even, yelled, “Floor it!”  Alexis takes direction well, and we began accelerating through the dark forest with the headlights reflecting beads of fog.

    “Fasten your seat belts and enjoy your ride. Smile for the camera in the tree to your left. You’ll be able to pick up your picture in the lobby on your way out of Deming Land,” My son yammered as we zoomed around downed trees, laughing hysterically.

    “Snap out of it,” I admonished.

    “What’s he?” Alexis looked perplexed.

    “He’s just doing his Disneyland™ – Indiana Jones™/ Jungle Cruise™ commentary. They always take your picture during the scary parts of roller coasters like Space Mountain™,” I explained.

    “This is just like the Indiana Jones ride. We're going fast. Fast is fast. Fast is good. We’re in the dark in a jeep racing up and sliding down muddy hills, dodging logs where fierce raccoons might be popping out of trees. Raging beavers could be trying to cross our path. Instead of a boulder – at the end we have a cougar jump out at your car here at Fort Flashback. Thanks for visiting!” Henry said in his tour guide cadence.   

  

October 24th Chantilly Lace And A Pretty Face

 

Hi to Everyone,

Met Dave and Jeannine at Charles de Gaulle, played my cornet as they emerged from the arrival exits--causing a bit of a commotion in the arrival terminal for a moment or two..

    Took a couple shots as we shared a drink at their Airport Marriott Hotel. They leave for LeHarve in the a.m. by touring bus. Party is next Friday.
(Dolsons)

On the way back to Paris on the metro I got acquainted with some stewardesses from Air India who were staying at the Marriott. They heard me giving somebody some directions and wondered where I learned to speak English so well!
(Grandpa Horn and Flight Attendant)
The two young ladies' names are Rekha and Megha. They promise to e-mail me and want to hear jazz in Paris on their next trip from Bombay.
(Grandpa Horn and another Flight Attendant- he looks younger and happier in every picture)
    I of course love you all oh so dearly, but every day here is, it seems, something new and it's a wonderful way for your ol' man to live out his life. Especially, now that the word on my health is excellent.

I'm hoping to hit some really big-paying jobs eventually so I can afford to fly you all over here for a fun visit. I know, it's just a dream, but I've had many dreams come true, so...don't tell me to forgetaboutit.

G. Horn

October 19th Blowing In The Wind

(Grandpa Horn and Esmeralda)

 Dear Everyone,

I'd like to introduce our "new" (about a month now) singer, Esmeralda Vere.  She started out so shy she could barely face an audience but was determined to be able to make a fool of herself as I do on a daily basis.  I told her, you're a pretty young lady with a nice figure, it'll be nice if you have a voice but out on the streets it's even more important to be able to sell the song--if people think you're having a ball and you want to share it with them, you're on your way.

 

(Philippe & Esme)
(Esme and Alan)

She is attending university here and is bilingual, so she'll eventually include some songs in French.  She's from south of London and "Mum" talks  to her all the time, sends regards to the band and is coming to Paris for (long time friend and musician from L.A.) - Dave Dolson's party.  "Mum" sent her some "wooly tights" for the cooling weather and I told her I'd pay Mum to be able to get a pair on Philippe.

 

I forgot to get some songs of "Esme" singing this day but I got some last Sunday and will send them out with my next batch.  She's got a good voice and she's excelling in selling.  Crowds like her very, very much.
(Madeleine)

Place again is Abbesses exit, Montmartre area, with the kiddie carousel and Madeleine prominent. 

 

(More  shots of us getting our pictures taken)
As you may remember,  Philippe takes care of Madeleine and she goes everywhere with him and simply loves to dance.  Thus, when Philippe's with us Madeleine is definitely part of the show and crowds simply adore her.  I keep telling the crowds we can stop her and they applaud all the more.  She also keeps an eye on the money in the instrument case and sells CDs and makes change, etc.  When we get way too many bills on the pile she will skim a few off and put them in a bag so we don't look too successful (it also keeps them from blowing away in a strong breeze, which has happened).

 

( He refused to face the band.  His owner said he's strictly a classical music fan.)

 

bon soir.

Grandpa Horn

August 4th The Show Must Go On

(Playing in the evening.)

(Ahh Paris - reminds me of Bellingham)

Dear Everyone,

Music was a bit uneven Wednesday due to a sub banjo player (our wonderful banjo player had an accident and was in the hospital), but it was not evident to the crowd as we consistently received enthusiastic applause. The banjo player played a couple decent solos but he was consistently uneven with his rhythm/beat, driving Philippe and me nuts all evening. If we hadn't had steady Pascal on bass who did a marvelous job of holding the rhythm together the night would have been a disaster.

One very bright spot during the evening was my great friend and the banjo player the night before (which of course probably made the sub player sound even worse to my ears than he was), Ziggy, surprised us by showing up unannounced with his darling daughter, Lee-Lou. I was taking a solo when I spotted Ziggy's smiling face across the bridge and when I saw Lee-Lou, I walked over and played right in front of them. Zig got a shot of me--awful, of course, I look like a Neanderthal with a cornet.

The last shot will be of our late crowd after the rain stopped. Here's the story for Thursday:

It was extremely warm and muggy and rain had been predicted. Yet, all day--no rain. At approximately 7:45, just as everyone had arrived (Ziggy and I arrived early and held down a great spot on the bridge near the Isle of St. Louis side), it started to rain!

We stood around in the rain awhile (about five minutes), then Philippe suggested he drive us to our favorite Chinese place on the Left Bank and perhaps the rain will have stopped by the time we've eaten.

The rain did stop. We returned to a fairly vacant bridge.  Began playing about 9:15. When we played our usual opening number, "Spanish Shawl" the bridge was empty except for people passing by in both directions. By the time we finished "Shawl" we had a crowd! So from an evening that looked like it was going to be a big zero, we returned and we so afraid to lose the wonderfully large crowd that we didn't take a break until 10:30.

We picked up the instruments and played until about 11:05.
(Pont Neuf - on a better day)

Grandpa Horn

July 14th Make Room For Daddy

 

(Playing Le Petit Journal with Alfred & band)

 

Dear Daughters,

Reception by Laurence and boyfriend Gille (father of both her daughters, Otilla, 18, and Theoxane, 14) is nothing short of overwhelming.  Bedroom fixed up on 3rd fl., girls are going to country on vacation in two weeks, and Laurence and Gille go entire month of August and I'll have the entire place to myself until about Labor Day.

 

I'll be feeding their fish, their birds (number of finches), three cute chinchillas (the largest and cutest is Maurice) and two cats, Sandy and Carmel.

 

They absolutely refused to discuss rent money.  She agreed I might be allowed to help with some plumbing costs for the 3rd floor eventually.  She said "we just want you take your time and settle in and know this is your place again so you can play good jazz and enjoy Paris.

 

This has absolutely just floored me.  I did buy a bunch of groceries with Othilla including some good Cabernet, and have insisted they allow me to take them all out to dinner this weekend and they agreed, selecting Sunday.

 

Jeez, does your ol' man stumble into things or what?

 

Meanwhile Ziggy (my best friend and guitar player) is putting the word out to musicians.  He's tied up until Tuesday, with gigs, but we're having lunch Tuesday.
t is of course 1 o'clock in the morning and 10 a.m. Paris.  You can read this, perhaps over your morning coffee.

 

Philippe delivered about five musicians home in the wee hours throughout the city, and because I live the closest to the Peripherique (the beltway surrounding Paris, which I've seen spelled a variety of ways on signs--an "f" instead of "ph"), I was the last dropped off before Philippe returned to the Peripherique, the quickest route for him back to Fortenay-sous-bois.  As I waved good-bye while he made a U-turn it was 3:20!  Thus, I'm presently huddled closer to my hot cup of English breakfast tea than the laptop.

 

In brief, the evening went great.  I played every number of the evening except two, featuring Philippe, which I requested to give my lip a rest.  The lip only came close once to not delivering, but it was during the second set which lasted an ungodly 90 minutes.  The crowd kept responding enthusiastically so Philippe kept calling tunes instead of breaking after the usual 45 to 50 minutes.  Wonderfully he took my advice and featured himself at about the 75-min. mark, allowing my lip to recover for the final ten minutes before we broke.

 

(Auriel at the bar and with Madeleine)

I took a number of pictures and Oralie, the cute waitress (there are of course several of her), took some for me showing me playing and listening as someone took a solo.

 

I received nice applause from the audience for my singing as well as for solos. I sang "Deed I Do" plus two Hoagy Carmichael tunes, "Rockin' Chair" and "New Orleans".  "Rockin' Chair" got the biggest response because I add a few words of my own at the very end.  I gesture for the band to slow down (ritard, NOT retard) and to hold the final notes... while I sing:  "...yes I'm chained, chained to this rock-ing chair (and as the note is held, add) but with a little bit of Irish whiskey...and the ladies next door..."  It seemed everyone in the audience understood the words and produced the desired laughter and quite loud applause.

 

(Practicing in a loft)

Five additional musicians sat in near the end of the last set of the evening for about 20 minutes.  The cohesiveness our original unit had all evening suffered, but as is often the case the crowd has consumed a good bit of alcohol by this time of the evening/morning and usually responds to the unavoidable rise in the sound level by accepting "loud" for "good".  (Dolson would second this.)

 

(The band with guest washboard player - am in red suspenders)

The BAND:

 

Philippe "Alfred" Audibert (clarinet and tenor, alto and soprano saxophones);

 

Jacques Schneck (a pianist who swings, plays tasty solos and who kept absolutely flawless, perfect time, locked in perfectly with the string bass player who stood directly behind him); 

 

Edmond Caruana (string bass, or as the French call the instrument, "contrebasse", who performed some terrific solos, at times bending the strings to produce double harmonies);

 

(-green dress- Madeleine and her late husband used dance to our band in 1995.  After her husband died Philippe "Alfred" Audibert, our hot reedman, took her in and looks after her.  She tags along to all the music events and you'll see her in later pix dancing to our band as we play the streets. She's quite a crowd-pleaser and creates a wonderful off-beat look to the band, say, as this 80-year-old dancer gyrates to Oriental Strut and Spanish Shawl.  She also handles selling the CDs while the band is playing.  She refuses to take a cut of the money because she feels she owes everything to Alfred)

Benoit de Flamesnil (trombone, a very quick ear and smooth; not the earthy player of a Glenn Caulkins who played with the Golden Eagles and not the genius/monster type of Pierre, who plays with Gary Kiser; Benoit is somewhere in the middle, playing smooth solos and producing perfectly harmonic backup behind others as they solo.

 

And your daddy (cornet and vocals)... but you knew that.

 

Am returning to Le Petit Journal tonight and meeting Philippe there as he wants me to hear the band led by Jean-Pierre Morel.

 

The band features two cornets (Morel is one of them), trombone, three saxophone/clarinet players, piano, banjo, tuba and drums.  A 10-piece band featuring the music of King Oliver, Fletcher Henderson, Bennie Moton, among many  other legendary musician/leaders.
 
Will write more, so much is happening - and I sheepishly have to admit it's been raining off and on since I've been here and understand it's sunny and warm in Bellingham.

(mostly Americans in Paris)

Yesterday's music location came about because Philippe knows a keyboard player who plays daily (6 p.m. start) on the west side of the Musee d'Orsay, the beautiful museum wherein the largest collection of the French Impressionism paintings are displayed.  He wasn't going to be there yesterday so Philippe told him we'd take his place (usually between a couple of sketch artists and a guy who has a cardboard Mona Lisa set up and people can stick their heads in place of her's and have their pix taken; I believe this can be seen in the background of one of the shots).

 

While we had a nice large crowd that was very receptive and responsive, the problem was that they were too comfortable on the steps and too few got off their tushes and dropped Euros into the sax case.  It wasn't a bust,  but for roughly an hour and a half of playing we took in 58Euros (with the U.S. dollar in the toilet and now at $1.7 to 1 Euro that's about $98.60)  For the size of the crowd it was a bust. 

 

We couldn't get a bass player today.   Alain, our anesthesiologist bass player, was at his home in Normandy for a couple days.  He'll be with us today and tomorrow before leaving on his 15-day jaunt to a luxury hotel in Luxor, Egypt with a French jazz band.  How great a gig is that?

 

What was needed in this instance today was a young lady passing the hat as Madeleine Peyroux did for us in 1990 when she wasn't singing and Jamilla O'Shea, an Australian singer, did in 1995.  On the Left Bank people are strolling by and standing very near the band, and even though passing the hat will always make more money, people are much more inclined to throw something into the sax case when they're close to the band on the street.

 

ANYway, hope  you enjoy the pictures.  I just love the elephant!

 

Hugs to all,

Here's looking at you sweethearts!

Love.

Daddy
aka Grandpa Horn

July 2nd Disney Endings

(July 2007)(July 2008- still needs shutters and paint)

(old kitchen with my stove

)

(kitchen as it was- can't really see mismatch of cabinets- gunk etc))

I woke up to the blazing hot mountain sun shining in my window. As I lay there I took a moment, today marked a year. I was a real Washingtonian. I’d paid taxes, gotten a speeding ticket, fought with city hall, made it through a winter and lived here when “Annie” (who lived in her truck) was relocated to highway 9 for feeding a bear and running tourists away. It was only 7:30 AM and my room was already feeling warm despite the fan churning over my bed. I peeked in Maryruth’s room. The bed was made. I went downstairs. Dean, who’s always been an early riser, was sitting in the kitchen. He said he was trying to be quiet so he wasn’t watching TV.

(kitchen with  new cabinets etc) As I brewed a pot of coffee, he chatted about his mom and how she wanted to take him to Disneyland™. I found this interesting, because Toby and I have never agreed on Disneyland™. She was always full of disdain when she spoke of The Magic Kingdom™. She had undoubtedly seen the error of her ways. Living in Canada had helped obviously improved her perspective. I was happy she’d come around when Dean announced he didn’t want to go. He felt at twelve he was well past Disneyland™. Stunned, I felt this kind this was bordering on child abuse. How could she? How did she transfer her petty Disneyland™ feelings to a child? It couldn’t be genetic as he is adopted. I would speak to her about this. Almost feeling personally insulted I poured a cup of coffee, sat down and calmly explained “Dean, Disneyland™ is for children of all ages. You are not too old.” Just then, as if on cue my brainwashed child walked in the room and said, “Yeah, have you ever been on Space Mountain™ or Indiana Jones™ huh?” Dean didn’t respond. He sat there blinking at us. He knew he was beat. This is a Disneyland™ home. We’ve got a framed “E” ticket on the wall – just like the Donaldsons (of course, Chris had theirs hanging by the toilet for a while, but that’s been remedied) and I have an Enchanted Tiki Room™ ride replica in the game room. I have this because Pea absolutely hates and despises the Tiki Room™, but he goes to demonstrate the depth of his love. He does not do this silently, he mimics the birds and the clacking of their beaks, but he does do it. I’ve not gone four-four times, but not far from it. We try to go every year – until now.

    (note: Enchanted Tiki Room)

I worked for the mouse for a while, I was in charge of the Princesses, you know Cinderella™ Pocahontas™, Snow White™ and Ariel™ and it wasn’t always an easy place to work. There are all sorts of nicknames for it like Mouseshvitz and Duckhow and The Tragic Kingdom- but that’s different.

Disneyland™ to me is a place where the details are thought of. In each of the different lands everything works together. The flowers, the railings, the costumes, the buildings, the names and the appearance of the restaurants and even the trashcans are themed. There are people who pick up trash in very small areas all day long to keep the place immaculate. I appreciate this. While working on Fort Flashback, I learned from one of the men who agreed to be a history consultant for us that several years back, Disney was attempting a similar venture. I think it was going to be named “Disney’s America”, a history-themed park where they would re-create the Boston Tea Party every hour on the hour kind of thing. Their misstep as I saw it, was trying to do it on the East coast on historic land. Why would you go to the Disney version when you could go to the real thing I wondered? I felt great knowing they’d thought so much of an idea and pursued it so far that we were truly on the right track. I sipped my coffee as Henry rattled off all the reasons I should take HIM to Disneyland™.

(The kids pictures done @ Disneyland)

    Mike arrived, had a cup of coffee, gave the geese fresh water and poked through all the trash, and old books he left behind. I guess I’m supposed to get rid of it all. I packed Dean a lunch for the road and Mike graciously took Dean to SeaTac for me. It made the books and trash a little easier but not much.

I poured another cup of coffee and looked out the window. It was dry as Lusk, Wyoming. Evil Evelyn stood in the middle of my dustbowl with her pink bandana flapping.

I stayed in my pink pajamas all day puttering about the house tidying things up and putting things away. There were a million projects to do and things to take care of, but I’d think about that tomorrow. Instead, I spent the day chatting on the phone with Barbara as I cleaned the kitchen. This was a day of rest and reflection. We arrived a year ago – today. So many things didn’t happen this year I thought would happen. But so many others I didn’t expect did. I guess that’s life in a nutshell. The house isn’t done, but it’s come a long way. Henry doesn’t want to go back to Los Angeles unless it’s to Disneyland™. He’s excited about school.

    My father has come and gone and now is living in France. Naturally, he’s landed on his feet and is residing in an entire third floor apartment in a house in Paris with friends. He’s been invited to play with a “hot-hot reed player” at Le Petit Journal St. Michel and seems Notre-Dame-stomping-S.C.-kind-of-happy.

    Mike got a call today after Dean took off. He has a great job opportunity and he’s only lived his new place two days, so he’s excited about the prospects and feels the move was exactly right for him. Maybe he’ll meet a nice woman in Tacoma; there are a lot of women in his apartment complex he can dazzle with all his Jeopardy knowledge. Hmm.

    My mother’s friend, Marie called wanting to know, now that’s been a year did I regret anything. “Are you sorry you moved?” She queried. Still in my pajamas, I sat in the sunroom looking out the window while we talked. I mulled it over. Did I regret anything? Yes. I regretted a few decisions early on, people I hired, people I trusted. Money I might have spent differently-things like that, but did I regret the move? No. Absolutely not. I love the farm, the animals and the work. Do I regret pursuing a dream? No.  My mother used to say physically she wasn’t strong enough she’d never made it as a pioneer – they’d have left her on the side of the Oregon Trail, but it occurs to me now that she assumed she’d go. I guess that’s how I’m wired, I have to try. If things don’t work out that’s OK. But I have to try.

   
(game room then) (game room now To celebrate our anniversary Henry and I decided to watch “The Golden Compass” as we’d finished listening to it a year-ago as we were driving up Mosquito Lake Road. Before we could watch a movie, the animals needed to be taken care of. Henry went out looking for the geese. “Mom! I can’t find them!” he yelled almost frightened. I ran outside as I had a hunch my apron-string geese hadn’t gone too far. Sure enough they were in the shop looking for someone anyone to supervise or talk to. They get a little clingy. We herded them in to their cozy enclosure. As always Quackmire was the last one in. We were just clipping the pen shut when we heard a crash in the barn. “The goats!” We both yelled. We ran to the barn. Pea’s big barn doors he’d made had been left closed all day to keep the heat out and provide a nice cool respite from the sun. Luckily, as I guess I didn’t close one of their gates all the way. We walked in and it was goat pandemonium. Riley was king of the hill on top of the round bale. Goat poop everywhere – Henry noticed this immediately as he was barefoot. You couldn’t help but laugh at the sight. Miracle was braying her head off as if she’d been trying to tell someone all day about these hooligans. She wanted extra pellets for the day she’d had. No harm done as the packer pellet bin was still secure and all they’d done was eat hay.
  

    “Riley, you come down from there this instant.” I commanded in my teacher voice. Riley looked at me with his big brown eyes. Bleated a time or two and jumped down. I opened the gate and told them to get back in their pen. Sheepishly, they complied. They were full and ready for bed.

    “Well, I guess we don’t have to really feed them much.” Henry said looking on the bright side.

    The goats and Miracle closed up for the night, the geese nestled in the garage, Irish asleep on the porch, Emmett snoozing on the back of his chair, Vivian at my feet, Deli lounging in the sunroom, Alvin & Scarlet curled up in the cat tree, the cow bells clanging in the field and Luther snoring at my side, Henry sipping his cookie dough milkshake we were just about to pop the movie in when the phone rang. It was Lisa. “I’m just leaving work and I smelled a smell I haven’t smelled in a year!” She said excitedly.

    “What?”

    “You know that smell, the smell of rain coming down on dry, parched earth.”

    I went out onto the porch. “I smell it too.” Moments later, the sky lit up with lightening, thunder cracked “We have lightening.” Rain began to pour down. “It’s raining!”

    “Maybe your corn will make it after all. Don’t put a way those pumpkin seeds just yet. Maybe there’s still time.”

    “Maybe.” Maybe my friend, Gary did that rain dance I asked for.

    “Happy Anniversary.”

    “You too.”

June 17th What Tomorrow Will Bring

    We waited and waited, my father paced and paced, finally I sent him out on the porch with a book promising to call him the moment the doctor phoned. We waited. The clock ticked. Nothing.

    "Maybe they didn't get the results back yet. That happens. The pathologist could have been slammed."

    “If I don’t hear anything in an another hour I’m going to call.” My father said in a tone that implied he was simply going to confirm he was death’s door. Another hour passed and another and finally he called. Nothing, someone would call him back.

    After about an ice age around 3:00PM the screaming phone broke the silence. We all froze. Henry and I were both upstairs without a phone. Henry dashed down the stairs on the level of Michael Johnson, but my dad beat him to it. We listened. My father stood there in silence, his eyes welling with tears, he hung-up. A sound like a wounded animal came from deep within him.

    "I’ve got it. I’ve got another cancer.”

    "Tell me exactly what was said.”

    “Well, it wasn’t the doctor. He’s on vacation, he’ll call me later, but of the two sites, one was malignant. Stage one bladder cancer. I can’t go to Paris. My chance is over.” He stood there crushed. Defeated.

    “Don’t panic yet. Remember - Mom’s was stage three and aggressive. I don’t think it’s going to kill you I think it’s an inconvenience.”

    I guess I should call your sister.” He said haltingly.

    “I’ll call her.” I did and she as usual had some interesting things to say. She wondered if he couldn’t be treated with oral medication and perhaps he could be checked at the VA in Germany, as well as great questions. She started my wheels spinning and I hopped on the computer ending up on a medical website giving full descriptions and statistics as well as treatment for bladder cancer. Over many bouts with cancer, I’ve learned you’ve got to be informed and ask the right questions. The more I read, the more I wondered if my father hadn’t already had treatment. The description on the site of TUR was identical to my father’s biopsy procedure and follow-up.

    “Dad, I think you’ve already had your first treatment. When the doctor calls ask him about this” I showed him the site. He sat down with a glass of scotch and began reading.

    When the doctor called, it was confirmed. He had done all he could do when he did the biopsy and no further treatment was recommended for four months.

    My dad announced with twinkling eyes he was leaving for Paris in the morning. “It might be my last chance. My last hurrah, who knows what the future will bring?”

    “In the morning?  You’re ready? You’ve cleaned out the apartment?”

    “I only wish I could have gotten the stove cleaner.”

    “I’m flying standby on Jet Blue so I might as well take a shuttle down to Seattle.”
I called Lisa. “He’s leaving.”

    “He is. When?”

    “In the morning.”

    “That’s dad.”

    “Yep. Grasshopper. He wants to spend the night at your house and have you take him to the shuttle at the ValuInn in the morning.”

    “Hmm. Tell him, I’ll take him to Seattle.”

    “He said he was going to take a shuttle, because he’s on standby. He got a pass from Erickson.”

    “No. I’ll take him and I’ll take the kids to the aquarium. We’ll make a day of it.”

    “I know Henry will be thrilled. He loves aquariums. Remember when he went on a date with Kemi (my friend, his second grade teacher) I think he wanted to marry her after that. I’ll have Mike drop him off at your house after gymnastics. I’ll throw a box of CapriSuns™ in his bag for the ride.”

    This meant, my father was leaving in less than an hour for his trip because he had a practice/good-bye session with some musicians.”

    He came over to say good-bye and give me last minute financial instructions. I was to deposit this and do that, and had I made his reservation on the shuttle yet? I explained the plan.

(giddy with excitement)

    "Well she better be able to get those kids out of the house on time. I want to be early.” This was stating the obvious. My father likes to be six hours earlier than anyone else for everything – after all he has a book.  For a 6:00 AM flight he’d leave the night before. I told him having had a flight attendant for a roommate; I knew you could check the flight loads. Shannon always did this because she flew standby a lot.  He called Jet Blue and checked. He didn’t need to be there at the crack of dawn. The children would live another day.

     It was emotional when he left. We both were stunned at how the day had turned around, but I was happy he was off to live. It was hard having him here knowing how unhappy he’d become. Smiling and waving promising to email he drove away. I looked over his apartment - there was much to be done. "didn't get the stove clean enough" In order to get it that way, you have to wipe it off. Our ideas of clean differ.

I consoled my self with the sod cutter I’d rented from Home Depot™. I was starting the new walkway to my front door. Maybe it was symbolic?

(Mike and friends)

The next day, having completed step one, I was in Lowes™ getting concrete for the path, when my phone rang. It was Henry they were having a great time at the aquarium he was going to get Lisa to send me a picture he’d taken on the phone we got him for graduation. ("Here is the picture of the skate I was telling you about. It  really was moving around  like it could see us and trying to get our attention. Looks like some alien child.")

    As Mike and I wound up the 9 with 800lbs of concrete in my van my phone rang again. I expected it was Henry over eager to dial someone.

    “Hi. I just wanted to tell you I’m sitting on the plane and they’ve just shut the doors. We’re going to taxi from the gate in a moment. I just want to say I love you and I appreciate everything you’ve done. I’m sorry it didn’t work out. I know how hard you tried."

    "Do you know what you're doing after you get off the plane?”

    "No not yet. I'll figure it out."

    "Just be safe and have a great time."

    “I will Honey, I love you dearly. I’ve got to go. I’ll call you when I land. Au revoir.”

    "Bon Chance." Click.

June 15th Wishin' & Hopin' & Thinkin' & Prayin'

Having rolled out of bed, Henry and I slopped through the wet grass to the car at about 6:30 AM, loading Tom’s suitcases while he finished a few last minute things and wrote a host of instructions for me regarding a myriad of projects.

On the way to the airport, we listened to Sissy Spacek drawl “To Kill A Mockingbird”. No one wanted to admit we were going to have to say goodbye. Again.

We stopped at Starbucks™ and picked up a couple of coffees. Tom insists on going through his medium routine.

    “You mean a Grande, Sir?”
    “A medium black coffee.” He delivers this with a straight face.
    “A Grande.”
    “A medium.”
    “I think you want a Grande.”
    “I want the medium-size coffee.”
    “Any flavoring?”
    “Just a medium black coffee.”

    The baristas get a little nervous and confused, but he won’t play. He stands there deadpan, firmly ordering his medium coffee. He’s always been this way – he says. But I remember back when he used to brew “Irish Crème”.

    “I don’t like those fruffity-doofity drinks”

    We sat sipping our mediums in front of the airport terminal. Henry had made a huge rhyming card covered in tools, which ended by suggesting Tom might want to change Henry’s name to DeWalt™(a power tool brand).

    When the inevitable came and Tom got out of the car and we were ready for a weepy parting of the hearts Tom spotted some guy in a NASCAR shirt. Suddenly, he was giving the guy garbage about his driver versus Tom’s driver in his “team” over my shoulder as he hugged me goodbye. Henry rolled his eyes and said, “That’s my dad; he’ll talk to anyone about NASCAR.” True. He hasn’t been into NASCAR for very long, but once his son, Craig, got into it Tom made a Herculean effort to find out about it and somewhere along the way he got completely addicted. I could see him still yucking it up with the guy in the NASCAR shirt in my rearview mirror as we drove off.

    We just made a quick stop at Home Depot for a few cans of paint to paint the guest room and a can of spray paint. We're going to outline the new walkway Henry and I decided we have to have. We've gotten our feet wet one too many times. Resolved, we headed home to do chores and clean up. (proposed outline)
One father down and one to go, we were actually putting on some town clothes and heading back into Bellingham to watch my dad play at Boundary Bay Brewery.

    Henry couldn’t sit in the bar so we hooked him up with a chair just on the other side of the divider where he could see his grandpa. I sipped my glass of wine and watched my father perform as I’ve done so many times before. This time was different. He looked distracted and a bit sad. I could tell he really wasn’t recovered enough to play, but that never stops him. I watched and realized why he wanted to go back to Paris so much. Although he really enjoys the other musicians, they don’t play a lot of traditional jazz. For the first time I understood what he was talking about. I only hope he can go.

My favorite memory of Father’s Day isn’t of my dad, Tom or even my grandfather, it’s of Chris. Years ago, Lisa, Chris, Quinn and Henry were driving around in the Valley heat on Father’s Day looking at houses - Phoebe wasn’t even born yet. We’d spent the day in and out of places and Chris finally complained he was starving and it was, after all, Father’s Day, didn’t that mean anything?  Lisa promptly drove through McDonalds™ and ordered up some food. When all was said and done, poor Chris crumpled up in the back seat had to share his cold fries with both kids. He’s a damn good sport.

Lisa, Chris and the girls strolled in out of the sunshine. Tired of sitting by himself, Henry and the girls got their own table in the back – we tried to order fries for both tables– now the traditional Father’s Day food in the Donaldson home. They didn’t have any. Chris was able to console himself with the sampler platter.
 

Boundary Bay - 2008

June 14th One Man's Treasure

 

(in honor of flag day)

    An honest to goodness work from morning ‘til night Ingalls-type-family-grab-your-own-food-on-the- run-workday, plus Mike. Cement was poured, gates were built, posts painted, forests of plants tamed.
(Henry begins his task)

(Henry works hard)

  (Henry keeps going)

(Not sure if the posts had more paint)
Henry continued his manhood training as father and son worked side by side. Per usual, the geese supervised while my father poked his head out of his apartment every few hours to see if we needed his opinion. Tired and worn down from the biopsy he was like “Uncle Joe, movin’ kinda slow at the junction, Petticoat Junction”.
    (father and son)  (Not my shining moment)
    My dad is at the point where he’s getting a feeling of impending doom. He’s sure he’s got full-blown bladder cancer and will be stuck here with me for the rest of his pitiful life. Strange that my paradise is someone else’s idea of hell.
(Gander with identity crisis - thinks he's a flamingo)

(Clara stretching her wings)

    I took Miracle on a little outing in her to practice walking on a lead. She did very well and even ventured to step on the scary rock driveway she’s been terrified to cross. But when I looked up I realized she could see Tom and was determined to go visit him. She grazed leisurely on grass near the geese that spooked her a bit, but she was ok. This was the first time she was out with the dogs around. I was nervous they might rush her and we’d have a wild kicking donkey on our hands. But Luther and Vivian stayed a respectful distance away. They greeted her and backed off. Irish tried to do the same, but his overwhelming puppiness got the better of him. Despite my pleas and screams he went and sniffed her hindquarters. I had visions of her cracking his head open. I was frantic, but nothing could be done. I had her lead and I wasn’t going to get in the line of fire. Graciously she allowed this invasion of privacy, but when he decided a donkey leg might be taste like chicken and wrapped his teeth around her, she drew the line. Irish received a swift kick. It was a warning kick; she didn’t finish him off or even greatly injure him. Humbled he limped off to go lick his wounds. Ahh, he learned he there is something bigger and tougher than the giant puppy – he was shocked.

    Being Tom’s last night, we drank leftover sangria and watched a movie. Watching a movie with Tom is a little like being by yourself. Within a few minutes he’s asleep. This comforts me on lonely nights when I pretend he’s there with me. Henry kept an eye on him and woke him up every few minutes. We were watching “Mad Money” with Diane Keaton. I mention this because I kept thinking of trying to get a job. I’ve been unsuccessful at every turn. After two sessions of role-playing, Home Depot™ hasn’t called me back. I thought I did really well when the big question was “What do you do when a disgruntled customer comes in and she’s throwing a party that night and…” I thought I’m in like Flynn. That question was right in my wheelhouse. But no. It’s been two weeks and not a word.

I thought of this when I was watching the movie. The premise is Diane Keaton is a Palisades kind of non-working educated woman who hits hard times and is overqualified, but gets a job as a janitor. As a result she devises a brilliant plan to rip off the Federal Reserve. I kept wondering if this was why I wasn’t getting hired.

After the educational film, Henry begged to sleep with his daddy so I retired to Henry’s room. No dogs, no cats, no snoring, a perfect night sleep for my weary bones.

June 13th A Good Time

   (Henry's teacher's gift)

    This morning I woke up very early and began trolling dew-covered ditches, hillsides and the pond for wildflowers. My trusty companion, Irish, trotted along next to me chewing on my reject pile. When I was done I was soaked, but I had created Henry’s teacher’s gift. I couldn’t afford much, but I picked up the vase at TJ MAXX™ for a song.

Creativity, I am convinced, is born of poverty. When I bought my first home I couldn’t really afford to do much, but I couldn’t stand it the way it was, so I had to get creative. I ripped out the bathroom and went around collecting broken tile from different stores – stuff they were going to discard. Toby and I went to Home Depot™ and got a little pamphlet on how to tile and set to improving my bathroom. Much to everyone’s surprise – especially my mother’s -  it looked fabulous. Thus I realized, if I’d had the money, I never would have gone to the trouble.

The day has rambled on. Henry had his “fifth grade culmination”, which was actually a small award assembly. He went on to a swim party on Lake Whatcom while Tom and I raced back to the house to get ready for our celebratory barbecue. With barely a word to each other we furiously tidied, cleaned, marinated and set up tables.

We’d decided to have our dinner out by the pond so we could enjoy the evening, rain or shine, thanks to our covered pavilion. This meant hauling Tom’s new half-gas half-briquette grill out there in the truck. He loves it because it looks like a steam locomotive.

Meanwhile, Mike and my father are down at the hospital in Mt. Vernon. My father is having a biopsy for bladder cancer. It is an outpatient procedure so he should be home by this evening. Mike’s happy because he can sit and read while he waits and avoid having to clean the house. He calls in every few hours to update us on my father’s condition. “He’s still sleeping” seems to sum it up.

    The  “guests”, meaning Lisa, Chris, Annie, Quinn, Phoebe and Henry, as well as Diane, Jordan and Lauren all arrived late. Thank the Lord.

    Despite our best efforts, we haven’t gotten the Mosquito Magnets™ up and running so we scattered tiki torches filled with Citronella™ around. This was not terribly effective, but we made do.

    Just after everyone arrived, my tired-but-otherwise-OK father arrived with Mike. A few more guests also made an appearance. Lloyd, Matilda, Quackmire, Cleveland, Clara, Ruthie, Alfred and Mabel waddled up for their first swim in the pond. They’ve turned out to be very clingy. These geese don’t like to be left alone and always want to be where the action is. Once they arrived we all held our breath waiting to see them frolic in the pond. They didn’t. They hated the pond and were afraid of the water. Apparently, I have the only geese this side of the Mississippi with hydrophobia. We tried putting them in the water to show them how wonderful it is, but they would just flap wildly, squawking frantically until they reached land once more. Confused, stunned and full of disbelief, we left them to their own devices, not wanting to emotionally scar them. After that they flapped contentedly around the party, coming in the pavilion to check on Tom’s cooking and say hello. Weirdoes. (Lisa giving swimming lessons to Cleveland) (more lessons)

    Little Chris Donaldson showed up with Roxy, Andrea (a new girlfriend he’s had a crush on since the sixth grade), and he also brought a surprise guest – his horse. He trailered “Oz” over for Henry to ride as a present. (Little Chris & Andrea)

(Henry on Oz)

    All in all, our first summer evening was relaxed and wonderful. The kids walked the goats and rode the tractor, played badminton and floated in the boat while we ate Tom's delicious ribs, cosmic beans, corn and watermelon, sipped my sangria and downed Diane’s brownies. (Jordan and her mother - Diane)

June 12th Blowin' It

   

    Henry has decided to take beginning band in the fall. Furthermore, he’s decided to blow the cornet like his grandfather; consequently, he got a stunning cornet for his birthday from Grandpa Horn and a few lessons. Today was the first one.

    I could hear them in the sunroom while I made dinner. There was first an extensive introduction to music. Henry was shown the staff and explained the “language of music” and how it’s written. He was given vocabulary words and a quiz. Then my father played some music “demonstrating” I suppose. Finally Henry tried and tried and tried. He sputtered and honked and bleated. The sounds were amusing rather than annoying. I couldn’t help but be amused as I finally realized what a good idea the little spit valve is.

    Intermittently, I would hear my father play and then back to the foghorn. I was surprised at my father’s patience. Generally, he’s not very tolerant of beginners, but today was different. This was his grandson he was passing his knowledge to. I wondered if Henry would stick with it and they would play together someday. I imagined them years from now - both drinking cabernet looking at un-shaven French women at some sidewalk café.
 

“How’m I doing Grandpa?”

    “Comin’ along, comin’ along.” Followed by sounds one might surmise a wounded moose would make. It takes time.

    “Grandpa? Did I do it the way you wanted? Was that right?”

    “Just fine. Keep practicing.” The key changed and I thought of elk during the rut.

    “Mom! Can you hear me?”

“Yeees I can hear you from here.” I called as I sautéed the onions.

“Grandpa, my lips are tingling.”

    “It’s not easy is it.” It wasn’t a question.

June 11th Getting Sleepy

(Emmett and Scarlett)

    Since Tom arrived, I have been reduced from “job foreman” to “little helper.” I’m grateful really, but it requires an attitude adjustment. Instead of holding the drill, I’m holding a handful of screws and the level. There is no question that his work is superior so I relinquish my position willingly.

    It’s light until after 10:00PM, so we’ve been working from 7:00AM until after 9:30PM furiously trying to get everything done on our home improvement list before Pea leaves. I know it isn’t going to happen but we still try. On the bright side, the front porch is now complete – well, I'll have to sand and paint it after he leaves but the steps, uprights, gate including the latch are all finished and functioning. Check.

   
Our next project is the fence we designed to surround the area that will one day be a patio. The first task of course in the fence building process is to dig the holes for the posts. The job I dread most. This was the job I was so happy I wouldn’t have to do because handsome and strong Prince Charming was here and would save me from the big, bad posthole digger. The fence is calculated to need 32 holes dug - a foot wide by 18 inches –24 inches deep. Unfortunately, my fairy godmother neglected to tell me Prince Charming has a bad back. I knew Tom wore a back brace when he worked, but I never dreamed this would mean I would be digging postholes. But there I was, in the pouring rain digging hole after hole while he came by with his giant measuring stick to tell me whether or not I'd gone deep enough. I tried to go into a Zen like state concentrating on the task, enjoying the pain. I thought of happy things like taking care of unsightly under arm granny swing - just in time for summer tees. I tried to convince myself of good forturne, after all in Los Angeles I could be paying twenty dollars an hour for this kind of torment. Of course, I wouldn’t be getting this facial and full body mud treatment at the same time, very few places offer this exclusive combination.

    My father, although in his seventies is still as strong as an ox (and I know of what I speak) came outside to survey the situation. He's not much for chores, he usually rolls his eyes back and moans. This time he took one look at me grabbed the posthole digger, and said the nicest thing I think I’ve ever heard, “Hey, I’ll dig for awhile, why don’t you take a break?” I think I heard angels sing.

    Thirty-two holes later, I found myself exhausted. We were making good progress, but discovered a rotten cottonwood about to fall down in the cluster of trees where we’re putting up the fence. We considered trying to pull them with the tractor, but when I learned the leading cause of death among beaver is falling trees they cut themselves I thought it best to call our tree guy, Nick. After all if the experts make fatal mistakes then who are we?

    In the mean time, we began mixing concrete and setting posts while the geese waddled about giving unwanted advice. We were watching them investigate what were doing when suddenly we saw Lloyd put his entire face in a glob of concrete. He pulled it out and his bill was gray. His nose holes plugged up. I ran him down pinned him on the ground and swished his head under water in the baby pool to clear him out. Silly goose.

(Lloyd eats cement)

    Strange as it may seem, Nick called in the afternoon, and was available and willing to come out right away. When surveyed the situation he told us the "leaner" wouldn't even need to be sawed it was so far gone. With the help of his friend and Prince Charming, the "Halloween" tree, the "leaner" and one I didn't even know was bad all came down lickety-split.
(Strong and handsome doing manly stuff with local logger)

("Halloween" tree coming down)

    At days end, I can’t keep my eyes open. I can barely stay awake through dinner. I couldn’t figure it out at first, then I remembered what I call the “Lisa Phenomena”- I fall asleep whenever I go to Lisa’s house – When I'm there I have no responsibilities I have no chores, no goats to feed, no stalls to clean and I simply check out. I start by just sitting down a minute. I sink back into her overstuffed sofa and begin taking long blinks. My eyes get heavy and everything seems warm and fuzzy. The next thing I know hours have slipped by.  I think having Tom here creates the same thing. He’s come to take charge and so I relax. He shoulders my burden - I suppose you could say he is the stud and I am a lowly 2x4.

June 3rd Talkin' Turkey

    How many  nickie-new-guy-farm-folk does it take to unhook a tractor? My dad and I felt like numskulls trying to pry the stupid thing apart. I’d put the mower on twice, but I’d never had to take it off. I got the drive shaft off all right, but the two sides that swing on one arm - each on a pin - were ridiculous. And I did not want to call Duane again for more instructions. I’m sure I’m already discussed around the coffee pot in Lynden with chuckles and snickers. So we continued to pound with the sledgehammer. driving the tractor back and forth, trying any way we could think of to loosen the darn thing -  while all the time my dad kept repeating, “This can not be the way you’re supposed to do it. This is insane.” Eventually we did get it off.  I don’t know what he was complaining about. My entire life he’s “fixed” things by hitting them with a hammer – not always with positive results, but in this case it worked.

    Fresh from our success we headed down to the pond. My father drove and I walked to get some steps in, as I’d had to stuff myself into my jeans these last few mornings. I guess the elastic waist on my coveralls hasn’t been doing me any favors, so I’ve been trying to wear my jeans. It seems I’ve been rewarding myself a little too well for a hard day’s work. Unfair that I have to work like a farmhand and still eat like a city girl.
 

    The job started out much easier than I anticipated. Together we lifted one of Wally’s trees, hooked the cable around it in two places and off we went. My dad drove, and I walked back to the pasture to deposit our first load. Simple. My dad was smiling. “This is working better than I ever expected.” We went back for Tom’s next tree we were about to steal from our resident logger. I wondered what Wally would think when he woke up to find his trees missing. Would he go into a beaver rage? Would he be confused? Or was he watching us and plotting his revenge?
   
(Irish assists)

    The second log we got from the woodpile. It required a bit more effort, but not too much, and, again with Irish’s help, we put it next to the first. Another log, another thousand steps for me. Was it my imagination or were my jeans fitting better already? The third log was where we hit a snag. Wally hadn’t severed the tree from the stump completely. Shoddy workmanship. So we’d have to use the chainsaw before we could get it. Seems simple enough.

(Anna in the pasture with flowers)

    We got the chainsaw out and looked at it. Neither one of us had used this one before. We bought it last summer and either Tom or a workman used it. After much fidgeting and wiggling we figured out how to get the gas cap off. I looked in my file where I keep all the manuals, but it wasn’t there. We tried again. We pulled and pushed and toggled the switches, but not even a sputter. We downloaded a manual; we stared at it and finally we decided – like it or not, we were beat. My dad would take it back to Al’s where we bought it, and have them show him how to work the “farm boss”.

    Not wanting to quit for the day since it was only 7:30PM and there were at least two more hours of light left, I threw my coveralls on over my jeans and drove to town in the truck. I love driving Daisy the farm truck. She's got a springy bench seat and windshield wipers that have their own personality. As I'm bouncing along I suddenly start talking like I'm on Hee Haw. I sing truck songs to myself.

    I saw my neighbor Renata walking along, so I stopped. She told me there was a big community meeting tonight about releasing wild turkeys in the area. She thought that would go with our camp there perfectly. I told her it was something Tom had wanted and I drove on. No one had told me about the meeting. I guess I wasn't one of "them" yet.

    I got to Lowes™ and started loading 4X4X8 treated posts onto a big cart. I needed more than I could probably fit in the back of the truck, but I'd get enough to get Tom started on the fence for the dogs. I was feeling mighty proud of myself when I dropped a post on my fingernail. Intense pain swept over my body and I had to think to breathe. Luckily, I'd gotten a "Beef Master" tomato plant that had cool moist soil from their garden center and I used it as my makeshift "ice".

    After that, I let the nice eager guy with the gloves load the wood while I stood by chatting up another fella.  "You building a fence?" he asked.

    "Yep," I replied in truck talk. I glanced over. He had a white truck, too.

    "I built a fence just a little while ago. Real beauty."

    "Gets expensive. Lot of trips." The idea is you don't want to talk too much - no extra chitchat.

    "Yep. Never can get everything the first time." Long pause. "You grow up in Deming?" Whooo hoo.

      As I drove home, I called Tom. "I've got wood and cement in the back of my truck as I'm driving along Mt. Baker Highway."

    "Oooh. Are you wearing your coveralls?"

    "Yep."

May 23rd A Spooonful of Sugar

    (Marine Park)

    Henry had a big test from noon to three at the school district office, that combined with the heartbreak I decided not to send him to school in the morning. Instead, I let him sleep in have a good breakfast do some chores like clean the cat box and the toilets, before we headed in to town. I didn’t want to send him the wrong message about missing school, but I thought he might get all soppy and messed up if he went to sit next to Kanyisha (they’re seat partners) before the big test.

        Once he and his James Herriot book were in the testing room, I ran around and did corn and pumpkin seed research. I found a variety of answers to “how much corn seed do you need for an acre of land?” One place said five pounds and another fifteen. I made some calls and asked a couple of other farmers. I guess it’s like an airline ticket, no one really knows the price.

    While I was driving around, my dad called “I have to cancel my flight.”

    “What did the doctor find?”

    “He said he didn’t find any tumors but he found areas that are highly suspicious.”
  
     “I’m sorry Dad, but let’s not worry too much until we know for sure. There’s always plenty of time to worry. Think of how far science has come since my mom. But you’ll have to talk to the airline. It can't be too bad or they'd have seen more. I think this will just be a postponement.”

    “I know the doctor said if it was his father he wouldn’t let him go. He’d make him have a biopsy. I wouldn’t do it if it weren’t for you girls.”

    “I know. You’ve been my father a long time.”

    “I’m going to call your sister.”

    “Do you want me to call her?”

    “No. I want to talk to her. I play tonight.”

    "Don't forget to call the airline. With a doctor's note you should be able to get all the money back or a credit for your flight when you go."

    "OK. I'll call. Bye."
   
    "Dad? I love you."

    "I love you dearly."

   (Watering the hanging baskets on Harris Avenue)



     I drove around after that looking at the people doing ordinary things in the sunshine. It’s funny how when you have something like cancer on your mind how you can feel so disconnected from everyday things.


(local dog taking care of his shop.)

(Skylarks - where Grandpa Horn plays with the "Otters")

    I picked Henry up from the test. As the kids came out none of them were smiling. Greeting their parents I could hear “That was really hard. Really hard.” Henry was one of the last ones out of the room.

    “How’d you do?”

    “Mama, I have absolutely no idea. It was hard.”

    “I heard. Um. Henry, Grandpa’s test, the cystoscopy didn’t go well today. He’s not going to be able to leave on Tuesday.”

    “Does this mean he has cancer again?”

    “No. And that was a completely different kind of cancer than the doctor is concerned about now. We don’t know if he does or not, they’re going to have to do a biopsy and figure it out. So if Grandpa is more grumpy than usual, give him a break.”

    We killed some time at Lowes™ getting some things for the vegetable garden before we went to Phoebe’s choral performance given to the PTA. Naturally, Lisa and Chris were there, as was Anne. Diane’s daughter, Jordan was singing so she was there (Diane - clowing as usual)

as Patrice (another cookie party attendee). I knew a few people in the audience; I was feeling kind of local.

    First we had to sit through the meeting. The president resigned and they were voting on a new president. Funny I know about three parents at the school and the new president was the woman I met last fall in the Firehouse Café, Nina. – The one who’s coat Lisa and I loved (she’d made it out of sofa).

(Chris & Patrice)
    After the budget was approved and all the details finished, the kids came filing in with their choral instructor dressed in black tails.

    They didn’t all know all the words, but they did do an ambitious number of sweet songs that make up the fabric of our culture like “On Top of Spaghetti” and “Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious”.

May 19th Farmer In The Dell

    When Chris came over yesterday, I talked to him about my vegetable garden; telling him about my plans to roto-till the area near the barn.

    “Denise, if you’re not six-feet and two-hundred pounds, you’re going to have a hard time. If you are, its kind of fun.”

    “Really.” I said in my most insightful way.

    “You need to rent something for the tractor.” He said authoritatively. Authoritative is something Chris does well. And in this case he seemed perfectly justified. “Absolutely. There’s no other way.” he added, in case I was at all in doubt.

    Knowing I’ve gotten in over my head countless times, I called Scholten’s in Lynden where I got my tractor. I spoke to a very friendly woman on the phone who told me exactly what I needed. She understood I didn’t know the model number of my tractor off the top of my head. I asked if I could fit the tiller in my truck. She said yes and that she’d reserve it for me if I wanted to come get it this afternoon.

  I took Henry to school in my newly clean car, and my dad to The Woods, a fabulous coffee shop in Boulevard Park, where he had chosen to read a book and wait the morning while his car was being serviced. The Woods is kind of modern looking with huge windows directly over-looking the bay. You can sit up stairs and read or downstairs by the duel fireplace – or even on the other side of the fireplace out on the patio. The only place other that close to the water I can remember was Alice’s Restaurant in Malibu. Oh, how I loved to go there for the view, a bloody, and eggs "benny". Memories. Why, at a time when I’m trying to reduce my food intake (a little too much winter insulation) do I continuously associate food with fun? Not a good sign.

    Anyway, I did some errands, dashed home and got the farm truck, Daisy. Heading back to town, I got stopped at the one-lane bridge. They were doing some safety work and I had no choice but to wait. Seconds later, my trucker friend, Todd, came up behind me. The guy with the “Stop” sign, Todd and I waited in the drizzle as we watched the giant machine check all the supports. We discussed bridges in a global manner, the future of this bridge in particular and how many more loads Todd would have to do today. It was very neighborly.

    I dashed back to town, grabbed Henry, as it was a half-day, and swung by to pick up my father. He told me to scoot over, he’d drive. From the moment he gets in the car, the classical radio station turns on. Henry gave me a sideways glance. It isn’t so much the classical music as it is music. I know this isn’t compliant with most social moray’s, but I don’t’ listen to the radio all that much. Henry and I like to talk without background “noise”. Maybe it’s because we’re musically inept. My friend, Laurie, thinks this is a dark view into my personality. She’s all about music. She won’t date anyone who has my musical deficit. It’s not that I don’t like music. I like everything from Bing Crosby to Ozomatli and many things in between. I have a full jukebox. I just don’t play music in the background all the time like so many, including my sister and Chris, who also think there is something wrong with me. They site many more unrelated examples, however.

    The drive to Lynden was picturesque. The landscape was littered with huge dairies, modest farms, cute little houses and empty fields just waiting for crops to be planted. Screaming red rhododendrons, shy colts and curious calves were everywhere. I could tell my viewpoint was changing as I passed the farms and started examining how straight their crop rows were. I appreciated the dark rich soil free from weeds. It looked beautiful to me, suddenly. I think I’ve gone over the edge into some sort parallel farmer universe.

    We drove through a coffee kiosk on our way, my father grousing about the turning radius of this %#@!$ truck to the smiling woman at the window.

    We finally arrived at the tractor place and I immediately felt as if I was in the shoe department of Nordstrom’s. I wanted everything. I couldn’t believe my intense case of tractor envy. There were all sorts of implements I didn’t even have an idea what they did, but I was sure I could put them to use. Toby and I learned early on, as we struggled through so many home improvement projects, that there is a tool for absolutely everything. There are strange little gadgets that twist and lift and pull and, Lord knows, what else. The trick is you have to know what it is, which at times can be impossible for the nubie, and once you’ve identified what tool it is, you then have to find it.

    Lickety-split, they got the tiller in the truck and we were crawling down the 9 on the way home. The tiller is incredibly heavy and because there are so many curves we didn’t want it to shift our weight too much. We dropped my dad off at Mount Baker Automotive. He gave us a wave that all was well. We turned off the radio and headed for home.

    “Mom, do you think Miracle is lonely?”

    “Maybe. I’m not happy with her enclosure. Your daddy and I want to move her and the goats down with the cows. I think she might like them. She knows Anna from being in the barn.”

    “Maybe we should get another donkey.” Henry suggested thoughtfully.

    “Well, Daddy thought maybe she should have a baby.”

    “How long does it take for donkey’s to have a baby?”

    “I have no idea. Maybe you could do some research on it when we get home.”

    “OK. I can do that.” Good I thought. He can turn his evil ways into something positive. I know he needs to practice researching and this seemed like a great way to start. Practical. I was more than a bit surprised to learn that the answer was 11-14 months. We’d have to get her pregnant now for next summer. Talk about your planned pregnancy.

    When my dad got home a few minutes behind us, he promised to help me get the tiller hooked up when it stopped raining. I think he’s the only person in Washington who waits for the rain to stop. Knowing it wasn’t going to stop, I got changed and braced myself for the “Could it rain any harder.” “Jeez this is comfortable.” “What a great day this turned out to be.” “The sun is shining somewhere.” Barrage.

    First, we tried to shove the tiller out the back. It wouldn’t budge. Next, we got the tractor and tried to pull it out the back. We broke the tailgate on the truck. Wonderful. This project was getting more expensive by the minute. At this point, my dad wanted to hook a cable to the bucket and try to lift it out, but I was terrified of breaking the tractor. The thing is not cheap and he’s not going to pay to fix it if it breaks. He’s been my father a long time. I called the tractor place and, this time knowing my model number, I asked them if it had the capability to lift the thing. They said my dad was right and the tractor could indeed lift it with a cable. We parked the truck downhill of the tractor to give the tractor some extra height. We hooked it up and realized the tractor still wouldn’t be able to lift it high enough, so at his sign, I drove the truck out from underneath the tiller while my dad lifted it with the bucket and the cable.

    Once out, we tried to hook the thing together. I thought I could do it. After all, I’d done the backhoe plenty of times. Not so easy. It didn’t make sense. Something was wrong it looked like a physical impossibility. We looked and looked and studied the thing, but couldn’t figure it out. I called Scholten’s again. They were now closed, but magically a man answered. I told the guy the model number and explained the problem. I felt like girls do when a mechanic is speaking to them like an idiot. “Yes, I did that, yes, I know that’s what is supposed to happen, but we can’t get it close enough to hook it up.” Knowing, men like to talk to men, I put my father on the phone. My father will be the first to admit he’s about as mechanical as a jackrabbit, but men like to talk to men. After chatting up the guy, he handed me the phone.

    “Listen, I’m going to send a guy out there if I can get a hold of him.”

    “Really? It’s 6:00PM.”

    “He lives out that way off the 9. He won’t mind.” I want you to be able to use the thing.

    I hung-up.  “A guy’s coming out here to help us.”

    “You are kidding? Tonight?” My dad said wide-eyed and incredulous. “Well, that’s what we need or this isn’t going to happen.”

    The phone rang again. “Yep, he’s comin’ out just as soon as he finishes supper.” Duane said.

    And he did. It was the same guy who serviced the tractor last month, Wayne. He took one look at it and said there were missing pieces. “Lots of missing pieces.” He looked around, went to the barn where I keep the tractor and took the pieces off the mowing implement. He said, when the tractor came they weren’t on and you don’t use them for the backhoe, so I wouldn’t even know they exist. He walked back to the tractor, flipped the seat up to reveal a secret storage compartment full of little rings and things to keep implements in place. In a few minutes, he had it all put together.

    He turned to me and said with pride “ I’ve got to brag a little. My corn is already coming out of the ground. First time in twenty years I’m ahead of everybody else. I’m no farmer. I planted my garden where my donkeys used to poop. You know they always poop in the same place.” I nodded. I did know that.

    “Did you know it takes more than a year for a donkey to have a baby?” I thought I’d dazzle him with my bit of newly acquired knowledge.

    “Yep. My jennet had a baby once. Cutest thing I ever saw. She wouldn’t have anything to do with the baby after a couple of days.”

    “What did you do? Bottle feed?”

    “Nope. Called the vet, he came out and spent the day with her. Trained her on being a mom. She was perfect after that.” Housecalls are not something I’m used to.

    After he drove away, I started thinking. I looked out into the field. Now that I have the tiller hooked up, I can plow anything, even the big field in the pasture. I can plant corn. I can plant a big giant corn maze. Maybe some heirloom pumpkins and sunflowers and do a whole fall-apple-cider-thing if I get my permits. What’s the worst that can happen? I plant some seeds, after all, that’s what farmers do.

May 17th Phoebe Dolittle

         

   

  I woke up to “bang, bang, bang! Bang, bang, Bang! It sounded like construction, but we're so far from anyone that didn't really make sense. I heard it again, so this time I got up. Now awake, I had a pretty good idea who was causing all this racket, so I tiptoed down the stairs and crept out the back door past Irish, the sleeping giant. Bang, Bang, Bang. I went around the side of the garage, looked around and there he was, one of my noisy neighbors - the woodpecker hammering on the metal roof of the tractor barn. An industrious if misguided little fella, on par with Wally as far as work ethic. He sounded like a jackhammer as his head bobbed up and down. I have seen a lot of woodpeckers in my time, but I can't quite decide which kind he is. I thought at first he was a Pilated Woodpecker, but he doesn't quite match. Then I thought he was a Red-headed woodpecker, but again he doesn't quite match that description either.

(now positioned on a tree)

    I'd just gone in for coffee when Phoebe came trotting down the stairs, still groggy from sleep. She’d konked out during the movie last night and was up much earlier than I’d planned.

    “When are we going to see the geese?” she inquired with some amount of urgency.

    “Good morning to you too. Well, why don’t you get dressed or at least put some shoes on and I’ll drink my coffee.” Reluctantly, she went upstairs as I sipped. Grateful I’d kept her at bay for a few minutes. Before I’d finished my cup she was back downstairs, wide-eyed and ready to go.

    “Did you brush your teeth?” I asked, hoping to buy a few more minutes of quiet.

    “Yes, I brushed my teeth,” she answered with all the seven-year-old attitude she could muster.

    “Are you lying?”

    “Noooo I'm not lying. I brushed my teeth. Get up. Let’s go. C’mon I want to see the geese and the goats and walk to the pond and give the cows some cookies. You can bring your coffee” I’ve learned in these situations to just pour another cup of coffee and get with the program or you’re fighting a force of enthusiasm that will eventually overcome you.

(Phoebe waiting for me to finish my coffee) ( Emmet climbs on)

(Phoebe & Mabel) (Phoebe after being goosed)     (Phoebe & the barn animals) (Phoebe & Christina)

    

    After our morning escapade, Phoebe followed the recipe for Krusteaz™ Belgian waffles, deciding not to add nutmeg and hint of cinnamon like Henry. She’s a purist.

    Henry finally stumbled downstairs  a couple of hours later and smelled the waffles.

    “She didn’t add the nutmeg and cinnamon, did she?” Henry has loved his waffles this way ever since he saw Billy Ray Cyrus put cinnamon and a hint of nutmeg in his waffles on "Hannah Montana". He corrected the problem before pouring the batter into the waffle iron. By this time, Mike had finally gotten up. Despite his belief that sleeping late is some kind of mortal sin, he manages not to come downstairs on the weekends until almost 11:30AM or sometimes even as late as 1:00PM. He rationalizes this by explaining he was awake in his room. How this differs I’m not at all sure, but it makes him feel better. I, on the other hand, have no problem with lolling about. I just can’t seem to relax when I see so many darn unfinished projects, but I’m the kind of person who has a hard time staying home sick when the house is a mess. I don't necessarily clean up them mess, rather I go to work sick. I feel as though I’ve got to clean it up and, if I don’t I’m out of sorts. Given this, you’d think my house was immaculate. It isn’t. At the moment it’s what I like to call in flux. The spice cabinet is just this side of alphabetical, but there are still boxes and papers in the office that need to be filed. The missing drywall doesn’t help. My room has a pile of clothes that rivals the pyramids needing to be given away and I don’t make my bed as often as I should. Although I know I’d be happier if I did.

    Once everyone was fed, the syrup wiped up, the dishes loaded and another pot of coffee was brewing, we all went out to tackle the flower garden fence. Much to my surprise, the cement we’d poured a week ago had not truly hardened. Reportedly, it had poured for two days straight while Henry and I were at Mountain School. As a result some of the posts had sat in wet cement for so long they’d sunk down an inch or so. My dad, Mike, the kids and I tried to fix the fence, but after a while it was evident we’d have to pull out some of the posts and start over. “If you don’t do it right it’s not worth doing” rings in my head every time I want to take a short cut. That man haunts me through any sort of construction project.

    “You’re going to pull the post out? #@#$%! Deal me out,” my father predictably grumbled, lowering his head. His opinion is negated by the fact that he thinks everything is good enough and anything can be fixed if you pound it hard enough with a hammer.

    “Yes, because I’m not going to look at this fence for the next ten years and hate it. And I don’t want Tom to come home and be disappointed.”

    “Let Tom fix it then,” he growled. Mike laughed nervously in some sort of complicit agreement. I started pulling out the post without any further discussion. It slipped out of the ground with frightening ease. The cement did not even adhere to the post. I continued taking out the incorrect posts and after some coaxing and cajoling my dad, Mike and the kids all helped get the fence done right. We couldn’t do everything, because we had to wait for the posts to at least harden a little.

    The kids spent the afternoon walking back and forth to the pond several times and splashing in the water. They came back with their boots soaked. But they were all smiles talking very fast of their adventures. They went inside and made a pitcher of lemonade before they took the goats out for a walk. Only Rachel and Christina were on lead ropes. Riley and Alexander just tagged along due to their herding instinct. Rachel is the herd queen so they’ll all eventually go wherever she goes. Riley and Alexander scampered about racing up and down the hill nibbling on bushes and butting heads.

(Phoebe the goat girl) Although the pine trees did distract the boys, they stayed together beautifully. I hope pine isn’t harmful to them because they seemed to love the needles. Unfortunately, they also had a penchant for my blueberry bushes. So I ran over shooing everyone away as I have visions of blueberry crumble dancing in my head.

    Watching them I felt like I should hear yodeling. Henry actually yelled “Riiiicoooolaaaa” at one point.

    After that, they moved on to calling the geese and intermittently helping build the fence. I gave a couple of lessons in power tools and everyone worked with the level. Phoebe loved the cement mixer just as much as Henry. (Phoebe goes solo)

(Henry shows how it's done)

    “Are we ready for cement?” she asked hopefully every few minutes. She got the same boring we-have-to-do-this-and-that-first-before-we-pour answers.

    Late in the afternoon, Lisa and “Nana”, Chris’ mother Anne came out to fetch the Pheeb. Anne hadn’t been here before so we took a tour of the property and discovered the snakes have come out from hibernation. I jumped a mile every single time we saw one. Lisa kept saying things like “Isn’t he dashing.” “This guy is really quite handsome, look at his yellow stripe.” She suggested that if she caught one and I held one I might feel better. Now, I know they can’t hurt me, they’re small and there isn’t a poisonous snake in Western Washington, so it’s not like they’re rattlers, or Water Moccasins, (which is why no one in their right mind should live in Florida) but let’s just say I’m not wearing sandals anytime soon. I’ve got to figure out how to keep the grass lower because I’m afraid of my own yard. Lisa suggested the next logical step was a heritage mongoose. On our walk we found a bird’s nest with a broken egg, five snakes, a small field mouse in the last throes of life as well as countless frogs and toads. Taking a walk to the pond is like a mini-camping trip. I don’t think we saw this much wildlife except the deer in the North Cascades.

    When we got back to the house, Lisa went in and had a heart-to-heart talk with Henry. He’s had some trouble lately following directions and is making quite a few bad choices. He is ten after all, but I don’t like to chalk things up to “he’s a boy”. I’ve seen that go wrong too many times. So Lisa talked to him. She has a way of making you spill your guts. The two of them have a great rapport and he told her things he’s been afraid to tell me for fear of disappointing me. Crying he told me he needed to tell me a few things. A kind of cleansing of the soul which is why we have confession. I'm grateful Henry has Lisa to talk to. It's hard on all of us with Tom so far away, but with fathers in Iraq he isn't the only one who doesn't see his daddy every day.

    (Grandpa Horn & Phoebe give the geese a much appreciated shower)

     After Phoebe lost the battle of “Can I spend another night at Tante’s?” (German for aunt) Lisa, Anne and Phoebe went to her van to leave. They had to get back in time to take Quinn to her next party. She has a very full social calender. Leaving less than a minute and a half to spare - verging on late (as usual),  Lisa gathered her things and her child and finally got to the van only to discover somehow her keys had been locked inside. Why did she lock her car? No one knows.

    “Mom, we can call the dealer.They'll come.”

    “Honey, that will take a long time and it’s not the dealer it’s Triple A.”

    Reluctantly, I offered my Odyssey. Not that I mind Lisa taking my van, but I was completely embarrassed at the state of it. I had papers and PopTarts™ littering the floor. Coffee cups were strewn about. My initial resolve to keep it clean had waned. I handed handfuls of shirts and envelopes to Henry and gave the keys to Lisa shamefaced. As they were driving off, Anne offered to come out and help me clean. I should have said, “No, you don’t need to do that,” but I didn’t. She’s a great cleaner and I’m in no position to deny needing help.

    Mike, Henry and I cleaned up our construction mess, put away Tom's tools, herded the geese who’d been mowing the lawn all day back in the garage and settled in for the night. My father had already gone into Bellingham. It was, after all, Saturday night.

    We decided to watch “Sleepless in Seattle”. Of course, I’ve seen it many times, but it was like watching it for the first time, watching it from Washington. We laughed like only people in the Pacific Northwest do when we saw Tom Hanks carrying an umbrella. No one carries an umbrella. Only dorky tourists from California carry "dumbrellas" (as Tom calls them). And then there were several scenes where it wasn’t raining at all and some were actually sunny – in the winter. We weren’t even sure it was actually filmed in the Northwest at this point. Exhausted, I was moisturizing in my blue strawberry PJs and fuzzy socks. and just about in bed at 11:45PM when the phone rang. It was my father’s cell; when I answered I could hear music and a lot of laughing.

    “Hey, I just thought I’d let you know, we finished and I’ve been invited to a party, so I’ll be home late. Hey, I met a nice young shy girl who's name means harmony and beauty in Vietnamese.”  What? Honestly, This must be what it’s like to have a teenager. All I can say is at seventy-one, the man has a joie de vive.

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May 10th Let It Be

(Abe, Anna & Andy)

    I keep having this recurring nightmare the cows keep getting out of the pasture and running all over tarnation. The trouble is I’m awake.

    Every single time Pancho and Lefty got out of the pasture, the little Devons stayed right where they were supposed to be. They didn’t even walk out the open gate. But having excellent teachers, today they decided was the day to break for greener pastures. And greener they are.

    The Devons: Andy, Abe and Anna walked out the gate. How or why it was open no one knows. I could have forgotten to latch it when I gave them their oats last night, but I don’t know for sure. All I do know is they were in the pasture this morning while I was having my coffee and watching Andy play chase with a Canada goose. Andy would rush up with his horns down and charge the goose. The goose or gander would honk and flap its wings as it fluttered across the ground making quite a racket. Then Andy would stop and the goose would scold him for doing such a thing and then Andy would do it again. I was thoroughly entertained and poured myself a second cup, waiting to see if Abe would join in the game. While I was watching them I was contemplating how we could let them graze on all the unfenced land we have. It’s lush with grass and all our resident herbivores would love to get at it. I chatted with Tom about hobbling the goats, but he about had a breakdown and said that was like tying their shoelaces together and he didn’t want any part of it. So we’re back to fences. Maybe I can put up a hot wire or just a wire with flags to keep the cows wrangled, but that wouldn’t be enough with goats. Goats should be circus performers.

    Well, be careful what you wish for because as I set to work on my garden I heard bells. Not just soft bells ringing from the pasture, but bells up close and personal. I froze. It couldn’t be, Pancho and Lefty are in Wyoming. Slowly I turned, knowing what I’d see and, sure enough, there they were. Three Devons stampeding, complete with pounding hooves. Why were they running?  Because Vivian, self-appointed herd-dog, was chasing them at full tilt. As I watched I could hear the Bonanza theme playing in my head. I imagined Andy as Hoss riding towards me. Andy just seems like the Hoss type.

(Vivan herding)

(Abe Running)

(Mike and Andy)

(Anna & Abe grazing under the apple tree)

Mike, Henry and I made a half-hearted attempt to wrangle them when I said, “Forget it. Let them graze. Let’s just keep an eye on them and block the driveway.”

   

“Sounds good to me. Back to the garden then,” Mike said, relieved he wasn’t going on a cattle drive.

    “What should I do? How about if I get the cement?” Henry said excitedly.

    “Henry, we have a lot of work to do before we mix cement. We have to measure and dig the holes for the posts. We have to weed and then we can pour the cement.”

    “Oh. OK. How about if I get the cement mixer?”

    “Henry! Get a measuring tape.”

    “Alright,” Henry conceded.

    We set to work clearing out all the weeds and getting stakes to mark the garden. I decided to stay fairly true to where the dilapidated fence had been. Mike and I decided the flagpole would be the center of the width. And we measured, and we measured and we measured. I wanted it to be straight, but for some reason, perhaps the slope of the hill, the postholes weren’t straight to a gnat's eyebrow, so things weren’t coming out perfectly.

My father walked up, rolled his eyes and said, “What’s this -  Laurel and Hardy build a fence?”

“Well, Dad, I’ve got to cut part of the fence and I don’t want to cut the wrong amount. I’d rather measure three times than cut the wrong amount.”

“Ahh I don’t measure I just look at it,” He grumbled. Mike and I kept measuring. We were just this side of getting Tom’s T-square when my dad insisted we just start. Mike turned on me and agreed. Henry, hot to get the cement mixer, was already Johnny-On-The-Spot with the tractor and three bags of cement. I gave in. But stayed away from the phone fearing the conversation I’d have with Tom if it looked like crud. I can just imagine.

    Irish decided his building skills were essential to the project and started carrying around everything from the trowel to the hoe. He pulled at the string and almost ate the cement mixer so we tied him on a lead rope. He promptly chewed through it and was put in the mud room to take a nap.

(Irish decides to help)

(Vivian supervises)

(Luther opts out of the project)

    As it happened, with Irish out of the way the post hole digging went fairly well. We compromised; I got the level and checked to make sure everything was the same height and level in each direction. I took a section of fence and checked to make sure each one fit. Theory is theory and knowing the thing will screw together is peace of mind. Channeling Tom, I put stakes on each of the posts, as he would have instructed had he been there.

(Henry & Grandpa Horn)

(Irish will eat anything.)

doing his Farmer imitation)

When we were finished all the posts were in but one corner. We decided to leave that one until we got everything else up, in case we’d need a little forgiveness. I can always use a little forgiveness.

(before we started)

    While we were cleaning up and having what seems to be our weekly bonfire, I found another pile of junk under a tree. My dad put Deli on a leash and tied her to the flagpole. If she just roams around she's gone for hours. Well, he took a shower and got ready to go to the clubs to play jazz.

    "Where are you playing tonight?"

    "We don't know, we just stop in. The other night we went dancing at a couple of places with some girls after we were done."

    "You went dancing? Hmm. They must have been pretty."

    "Well, you know your old man."

    "Yes, I do."

    "Where's Deli?" My dad asked. I turned to look at the flagpole. The leash was there, but Deli and her freedom fighter, Irish were gone. Irish had chewed through Deli's leash to release her and now as we listened we could hear her howling intermittently in the hills. It was haunting.

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May 9th A Little Bit of This & That

(Luther taking a sunbath)

    I was drunk with sunshine from the moment I opened my eyes. On the radio they report a condition called "sun shock". I understand it's when you're driving along and you see sun. I guess there are increased accidents because people can't see the road.

     I’ve gotten a little behind this week, my friend, Kathy wouldn’t be surprised to know I’ve got laundry piling up. The floor needs mopping and I haven’t gotten much at the grocery store so we’re playing a little game my mother used to play called “What can we make for dinner out of what we have in the cupboard.” But I don't mind because I am trying hard this week to move things forward. You know, the bigger projects that need your full attention. Instead of the everyday things that will still be there on Monday morning. For me, it’s all about fences. Of course, there’s the fence for the dogs. Its design is becoming an engineering marvel and then I’m trying to get a flower garden fence in as well as a vegetable garden fence. After all we live on a farm; a vegetable garden is almost mandatory, isn’t it? Plus, we need really need a second pasture fence for the goats and Miracle. They just don’t have enough room where they are. That enclosure was always meant as temporary. Tom’s planning to build some sort of goat “tree”; it’s the same concept as a cat tree but for goats. I don’t know what it’s going to look like yet, but he thinks they don’t have enough playground equipment so he’s planning on using some old tree stumps and whatever else we have lying around.

It’s funny how fences work. They’re to keep some animals in as well as others out. And somehow they always make a space look bigger. I don’t know why that is, but it seems true. I marked out where I want my flower garden and somehow the amount of weeds seemed to double.

   

I wanted to go to get the materials I needed for the fence in the farm truck, but it wouldn't start. Dead Battery. We haven’t used it all winter because there really hasn’t been a need so it’s been sitting around with branches in it since November. The branches came from a cottonwood tree that was chopped down in September. September -  and this is May. My dad got the jumper cables I pulled up my trusty Odyssey and we got Daisy the Farm Truck humming again. When we went to the back of the truck to clear it out we were shocked to see that the branches were blooming. They had been absorbing so much water since they were cut down that they are still alive. And blooming.

    "Well there's so much of this crap it's no wonder," my glass-is-half-empty father said alluding to the constant drizzle.
(close up)

    Vicky Jackson, my wetlands consultant, and her assistant Clover came out this afternoon to do a wet season wetlands check while I was moving the goslings out to their new home in the garage. As I’ve mentioned before Washington State takes its wetlands buffers very seriously so everything is checked and double-checked. This means Vicky and Clover go down by the stream and check for signs of soggy ground and wetlands grass etc. Interestingly, dandelions don’t go to wetlands until much later in the season. Anyway, the good news is Vicky seems to think all is as it should be so we can proceed with the country permits as far as that goes. And we are due for the annual Cascade Toad migration that moves through our property. So stay tuned.

    The goslings spent a lovely afternoon eating weeds and sunning themselves in the grass and are now safely tucked into their new digs with a five-gallon water jug that should last them at least a couple of hours. Those geese drink a lot of water. I bought them a new heat lamp and replaced the one that burned out because the garage gets cold at night. We still get in the thirties in the evenings but with the lamps they should be fine. I put them on either side so no one will be left out in the cold like in that horribly depressing “March of the Penguins”.

(Alfred Sitting Down)

   

Alfred is doing better hobbling around. He went to the vet this week and had an x-ray of his leg. The doctor said he would probably do fine because he is a heritage breed. And when his feathers finish coming in his balance will improve. She said compared to so many modern geese that get too fat heritage breeds are proportioned better and, so, much better equipped to cope. She told me some of her clients have gotten regular turkeys as pets and these turkeys are bred just to gain weight and land on someone’s table so they have heart attacks and other problems that lead to early death. The birds are simply not designed to live. I guess this is becoming a common phenomenon today. Take the Kentucky Derby, for instance. They said many breeders are breeding horses with lighter bone structures which leads to more fractures and early death because they’re just being bred to run until they’re three or so. They’re not bred to live either. Sad.

   

May 8th Fence Building For Dummies

    With my father leaving for Paris in the next few weeks I have to face some rather major changes. My dad’s dogs, Irish and Deli, will be moving over to my house. Four dogs. I never in a million years thought I would have four dogs. So now what? I can’t leave during the day to do any work with Dogzilla, the giant puppy, chewing my house into little bits and I can’t leave them outside to try and cross over to Canada, which means I have to put up a fence. We do have a “dog run”, but it just isn’t big enough for four dogs for any real length of time.

    I started mulling over where to put the fence and what it should look like. I decided I would put it around what will eventually be my patio adjoining my kitchen. I can envision a built-in barbecue and lovely Jacuzzi as we sip on margaritas. But for now I will simply enclose the mud. I need the area big enough so we won’t feel claustrophobic, but not so big as to be out of reach in these lean financial times. Strength and cost being the two biggest issues in the “what will it look like” decision-making process, I went to Lowes™ and Home Depot™. I looked at vinyl fences as they don’t rot in the rain and don’t require the upkeep wood does, but one whack of Irish’s tail and those fences would be on the ground. I looked at wrought iron, certainly strong enough, but the price has gone up quite a bit since Phoebe and I put in a wrought iron fence a few years back around my patio on Califa Street.

    I remembered Northwest Fence, the place where I got all the cedar split rails for my pasture fence. They were really helpful and had the best prices after I’d called all around, even cheaper than Home Depot™. I figured it was well worth a trip and I’d at least get a good idea of what my options were. My only requirement is that it not be chain link. I just don’t want chain link around my imagined patio.

    When I got there I spoke with a nice guy who ran through all the choices. We discussed maintenance and price, strength and aesthetics. Just as I was about to throw my hands in the air, I glanced over at a little display. It looked sturdy and I imagined it would be fairly attractive. A little modern for my colonial, but I thought with some paint and some finials I could make it work. The guy told me it was called “Deco-Mesh”.

    “Funny, it looks like the fence I use for my goats. Hog fence.”

     Lowering his voice he said, “Well, to tell you the truth, it is. It’s just hog fence. You can get it at Laurel Farm Supply for $35.00 for 16 feet. And you could build it yourself if you have a dado blade. We only call if Deco-Mesh because of the Californians. You see, they don’t understand hog fence like you. You’re obviously a farmer livin’ out on Mosquito Lake Road. I remember you got all that cedar last summer. Right?”

    “Right.”

    “So you know about hog fence, but those Californians don’t like the sound of that, so I made up Deco-Mesh and that’s what we call it now.”

     This was amazing. He thought I was one of them! I passed. I wasn’t going near a dado blade as that’s what almost cost Tom his hand, but I never said a word about California and, luckily, Henry was outside on the phone with his new girlfriend running up my minutes or I’d have been outed for sure.

    I’m pretty handy, but a fence has to be straight and true and strong and, well, since I left there I’ve been trying to figure out if I can make this darn fence – with my trusty assistant, Mike. Tom won’t be here for a month, but he has been furiously going over all my construction options. We did the math and figured we’d need about 170 linear feet. We divided the thing into eight foot sections, calculating in the need for gates etc. Of course, there is one way to do it – the easiest way -  and then there are several “right” ways to make the fence so that it will look nicer and more finished.

One way Tom devised, I’d have to get 8-foot treated 4x4s and dig the holes, pour the cement yada, yada, yada. He'd have me going out and getting old carpeting tubes to create the perfect-sized hole and, believe you me, I’d never be able to hold my head up again if this thing didn’t end up looking great. There was talk of pre-drilling and naturally I would use screws not nails. In this same scenario, I was also supposed to drill holes into each of the sides of the posts to line up with the hog fence so that it would be neat and clean looking. I scoff, but he knows I’d do it . I'm actually good at following directions.

    Then, bless his heart, he changed his mind and now he wants me to get 6-foot treated 2x4s and, instead of cementing in the post, I’m supposed to cement in a bracket. A bracket? What if I put the bracket facing the wrong way? I’ve never cemented a bracket. I’ll have to go and study brackets. He says it will be easy. And he starts telling me the bracket is made to fit a 4x4 post perfectly.

    "But you're going to use a 2x4." What? "The bracket is just like a saddle." A saddle? What the heck is he talking about? I listen, trying to understand what he’s saying. I close my eyes and start to picture it. I am supposed to install one 2x4 and then sandwich the hog fence between it and  the other 2x4 and, I mean to tell you, I feel like he wants me to land a plane with him on the intercom giving me instructions. How is the first 2x4 supposed to stay in place before I secure the two of them? I think the other way he had me doing it might be more labor intensive, but simpler. Tom keeps saying things like “Well, of course, then you’ll want to use those same type of bolts I used on the gate in the pasture. Now you’ll want to make sure they’re. . . .” Oh, right! Of course, that’s exactly what I was thinking. And who’s going to help me when I screw up? Mike the “Handyman”?  I know Mike taught Woodshop twice this week at the high school, but I don’t think he’s going to know about bolts and brackets. I could be wrong, but he wears slacks and a belt when we clean the barn for heaven's sake. Oh, he’s a good sport and he’ll hold the posts and pour the cement, but my technical advisor he’s not.

I’m calling for my free installation estimate - just in case.

April 26th Get Along Little Dogies

   

    I woke up to a gorgeous sun shiny day. They have three hundred and sixty two of these in Los Angeles, but they don’t have that fresh scrubbed mountain air feeling. I’m not a heat tolerant kind of girl. When I was young and my mother would make me play outside, I thought August was just another name for hell.

   

    This morning was full of promise, but I knew too this would be my last morning with Pancho and Lefty. They’d be gone by lunch. I thought I would feel a sense of relief. No more chasing Pancho over hill and dale. But relief is not what I felt. I looked at their fuzzy faces and listened to their foghorn moos wondering if they understood they were leaving. I made sure Henry got a chance to say good-bye before he left for school because I knew they would be gone when he came home.

    When Jon pulled up, out popped two of the sweetest kids I’ve met in a long time, Stevie and her brother Cole. I felt better already. Jon was just as nice as he seemed on the phone and the kids were so comfortable with the dogs and the big boys. We all chatted about life in Wyoming, Elvis the basset hound, school, the women’s prison, Paris and I learned the kids are in 4H. Stevie is raising a black pig .

     Cole and Luther were a natural pair. It was easy to see this kid new his way around a basset hound. In no time at all Luther’s eyes were practically rolled back in his head.

   

    Stevie and Cole fed Pancho and Lefty cookies while I gave Jon all the required paperwork as well as Maryruth’s address - a necessity. And Lefty’s eye ointment just in case. We loaded up the yoke and a bag full bag of cow cookies for the trip.

    Then it was time. Jon pulled the trailer up and Lefty started crying. It was a long sad high-pitched moo I’d never heard him moo before. I don’t know why he did it, probably because he didn’t want to go into the trailer, all I know is I already felt terrible and now I felt worse.  My heart hurt. I’ve never parted with an animal before.

   

Stevie got a rope tied into a halter and started getting them ready. I held Lefty while Jon loaded Pancho. I’d never trailered them so I wasn’t sure how it would go. But the boys didn’t let me down. Pancho went right in, and Lefty about had a breakdown seeing his brother disappear. So he all but ran Jon over trying to get in next to Pancho.

    The doors closed and that was that. At this point Vivian became extremely concerned. She didn’t think the boys should be leaving and didn’t want to let them go. She followed the trailer to the end of the driveway and watched them go up the hill.

    I just stood there for a while listening to the silence. The bells were gone.

    I called Maryruth and she said, “Welcome to my world” with a laugh. “When they left here I cried for a week. I guess we’re all taking a trip to Wyoming.”

April 24th If It's Not One Thing

   

   

    I woke up with a start this morning feeling as though I’d overslept. I checked the clock and I was up strangely early. Sore and creaky from all the hard labor, I dragged myself downstairs looking like a truck hit me. I’d taken a hot shower before going to bed and too exhausted to dry my hair I went to bed. The result is not pretty. I had a little extra time so I chatted a bit longer with Tom over coffee than usual and leisurely made Henry’s lunch. Just as I was inserting the Flavor Blasted Goldfish™ I remembered.

    “Don’t forget Mama my all my paperwork and permission slips are due tomorrow for Mountain School. It’s the last day to turn them in.” Henry said sleepily before he went to sleep last night. Drat. I had forgotten totally I hadn’t even taken them out of the pack. Now, we had to leave in thirty minutes and I wasn’t even dressed. My dad walked in. I’d forgotten, he needed a ride to his car before school – at least it was on the way.

    I set new land speed records getting out of the house. Henry fed the dogs while I did the barn. As I fed Pancho and Lefty hay showered on me and I momentarily thought of my sister the chimpanzee. I’d have to avoid her at all costs. I now truly looked like road kill, but I would stay in the car and with any luck no one would notice me.

    We dropped off my dad and his book at Mt. Baker Automotive and Henry hopped in the front seat.

    “Mama, don’t feel bad about forgetting about me. I forget about you all the time.”

    “Is that somehow supposed to make me feel better?” I gave him the eyebrow lift. “ Anyway, I feel like loser mother of the year, and I truly am sorry. You brought home the papers and you told me to do them and you even reminded me last night. I’m not angry at you, but I know how teachers get when parents don’t turning their slips on time especially since I’m a chaperone.”

    “How about you tell me what to write and I fill in the answers while you’re driving.”

    “That’s a great idea.” So he did all the paperwork including his insurance information and the requisite check. All I had to do when we arrived was sign my name where he’d marked.

    “The only thing missing Honey, are the dates we’re going. Do you remember?”

    “No. I’ll just ask my teacher and fill them in when I get to class.”

    I turned to head home, because after all where else could I go in my condition? And just in front of me was a dark gray Honda Odyssey. Lisa. The phone rang and sure enough she’d seen my car. Luckily, she was on her way to an appointment and didn’t have time to stop. Whew. I continued on my way so far so good. The phone rang again, this time it was my father it seems his car was not ready and he needed me to pick him up. Fifteen minutes later when I pulled into the parking lot I realized he might not see me and I wasn’t going in. I’d call if I had to, but my luck continued and he walked out. They’d have the part for his car a little later so he just wanted a ride to the Extreme Bean and they’d call him there.
No problem as long as I don’t have to get out of the car. The Extreme Bean is also a drive thru and for a moment I considered a hot cup of coffee for the ride home, but vanity got the best of me. I’d go without.

    When I pulled into the driveway I felt elated. I’d made it. I went directly upstairs used the Trader Joes™ Tangerine Sugar Scrub and did my hair. While I was getting ready I started thinking about those Silver Dorkings again. What could I do with twenty-two roosters? I supposed I could give one to each of the kids in Henry’s class. That would make me popular with the PTA.

    I called Dan Cramer and he found some round bales for me and promised to deliver them tomorrow. “Now Denise, are you sure you don’t need anything nothing else? My son’s doing a great workshop on how to harness a team and drive them. It’s all day clinic and people are coming from three states, he serves a beautiful lunch.”

    “Dan I need a lot of things, and I’d really love to go to the clinic but right now we’re not spending any extra money.”

    “OK then. I understand. Oh and I was going to help you get a job wasn’t I? I’ll see you tomorrow.”

    I went upstairs to check on the goslings and found their 100-gallon tub is no longer big enough. They are suffering from overcrowding. They can move around enough and it’s too cold to move them outside still, but I had to do something because they keep knocking over their water dish and food because of these urban conditions. I called Lisa about the pen and because Alfred is injured and I’m really worried about him. I think the others stepped on his leg accidentally when I was transporting them outside. And he won’t stand up for very long. At first, I thought maybe he should just rest, but it’s been a few days now and he isn’t any better. I asked Lisa what to look for and she told me to inspect his joints. She also suggested a tarp and Irish’s puppy pen for their new living quarters. I was just about to set them up in their new digs when Tom called. Sipping my coffee while talking I glanced down into the meadow. I gasped.

“What? What’s wrong?”

“It’s him again.”

“Who him?”

“Pancho.”

I couldn’t believe it. Pancho, or should I call him Houdini was out again and this time he was trying to break back into the pasture. I ignored him and tended to the geese. I knew he wasn’t going anywhere. He’d walk around and eat grass mooing at Anna. He’d used up his dime.

    After the goslings were taken care of I called Kulshan Veterinary as their ad says they do cats to cows. I asked if they did geese. The receptionist said yes they had a poultry doctor. And I could bring the gosling in at 3:45 tomorrow.

    (Alfred is the only one sitting down)

   

“How old is he?”
    “He’s three weeks. Is it ok if I bring another one with me, because I think he’ll flip out if he’s isolated.”

    “Sure that’s no problem. What color is he?”

    “That’s a hard question. He’s molting.”

    “He’s molting? What color is he? He’s molting? That’s a riot.” She laughed so hard I couldn’t believe it. “Well, we’ll see you tomorrow.”  I hadn’t really thought that was Saturday Night Live™ funny, but it’s always good to get a laugh.

With Alfred handled, I went to the barn got a scoop of grain, walked to where Pancho could see me and called his name. I shook the scoop. Pancho came trotting toward me and followed me in the gate. I studied the corral. It didn’t have any breaks and it took me a few minutes to figure out how he’d gotten out, because Lefty was still there. Good old Left.

Well, he’d didn’t go over it. He didn’t go around it. Noooooo. He went UNDER it. That’s correct, he lifted up poorly constructed the green pipe corral fence up with his horns and scooched himself under it. We’d hired some guy to put it together and he apparently had no pride in his work. I’d never really studied it before, but the fence on one side was only tied at the top with red twine.  I tied the bottom with a rope to a fence post. I’d have to have Tom do it right, but for now it should hold. I hope.

    When Mike and Henry arrived home, we set to picking up junk. It seems in rural communities that people section off parts of their properties and just use them as a dumpsite. Living on this land is like going on an Easter egg hunt for old broken down farm equipment. I’ve found all sorts of bizarre things including a car that I can’t for the life of me figure how it got where it is. I have refrigerators and dishwashers and freezers with gunshot holes. Manure spreaders, forgotten tractors from almost every era, tires, stoves, and tables with benches attached that look like belong in a fast-food restaurant. Anyway, I can’t stand the stuff. I have to get it out of here. Now I have already filled up more than five industrial sized roll-offs with sundry construction junk.  The very biggest bins they make, but the minute the bin is gone, things seem to sprout from the ground. Tomorrow we’re having a guy come and take everything away including the appliances because they’re almost impossible to get rid of.

    When we came in Henry handed me a paper with the dates for the chaperone meeting. I was impressed. He was becoming a bit more responsible. I glanced down at the date and marked it on my calendar. I looked for the dates of the actual trip so I could jot them down too. I couldn’t believe it. The dates were May 12-14th. And I had been planning for months and months and months to drive to Seattle on May 13th to go to Charlaine Harris’ book signing. I know it seems piddily, but I’ve read seven of her Sookie Stackhouse Southern Vampire novels and I love them. They make me happy. As my aunt, Lana used to say, “They’re good chewing gum for the eyeballs.” She’s only coming to Seattle for the day and won’t be back for the rest of the year. How perfect it would have been I thought I could have driven to Seattle and Henry would be gone so I wouldn’t have to worry about what to do with him at all and just to add salt in the wound I wouldn’t have had to take him to school the next morning either. The perfect alone time treat. I mourned my opportunity.

I wasn’t done yet, because I’m a terrible mother. I called Toby.

“Maybe you can just leave the field trip for the one night.”

“Are you kidding? Leave? They shoot chaperones at dawn for that. No. I have to either replace myself or go, but I can not leave.”

I cautiously started asking Henry “Maybe you would feel more grown-up if I didn’t go Henry. I know Zach’s mother would like to go. You know some kids don’t like having their parents there they feel more independent.”

    “Well, if you have something more important to do Mama, that’s OK.”

    Sister Sally, you can tell the boy is Catholic. My mother often said, “When it comes to guilt, the Jews may have invented it, but the Catholics perfected it.”

April 22nd A Day In The Life

   

    This morning I woke up and was more than a little relieved to see green grass in the pasture. Most people are expecting green grass, but this weekend we had more than three inches of snow each day. It all melted by noon or so, but it looked like a Nordic wonderland. I tried to see the icy beauty, but I really want spring. I want to clean. I want to organize and I’m not even pregnant. I made lunches while I sipped on my coffee. As I was making cheese sandwiches I could hear the now unrelenting “thwack, thwack, thwack” from upstairs.

    My dad walked in from his house and wanted to know when we were leaving because he’s hitching a ride.

    “What the hell is that?” He demanded. “It sounds like you’ve got flamenco dancers upstairs. Who is that? Is that Henry?”

    “No that’s the goslings.”

    “That loud?” And when my dad who, like most musicians, is audio impaired from years of playing music says it’s loud, it’s loud.

    “Yep. They never stop talking and they never stop moving. I don’t know when they ever sleep. Seven will be asleep and one taps around and wakes them all up. That’s why Henry started sleeping in Maryruth’s room.”

    “Well, I guess so.”

   Just after we left the driveway for school I realized I’d left my coffee on the counter. So, after I dropped Henry off, I stopped to grab a quick cup of coffee with my sister and her new BFF, Diane, who is a sharp-tongued Carolina girl who keeps even my sister on her toes. I sat down and my sister reflexively started picking hay off me. I felt like a chimp being groomed. I drank my coffee as she occasionally plucked a piece of straw out of my hair. It was unusually sunny and warm by the window; unthinkingly I unzipped my very cute sweat jacket I purchased for just these sorts of social occasions. My sister and Diane got wide-eyed. I looked down and saw a quilt of hay spread across my shirt. My sister held out a parental  finger and pointed toward the door.

    "Shake outside. Now." Without a word I complied as the two hens cackled.

    I then turned in some work applications, because money is money and I need some. I applied for jobs at places that seemed happy. I went to Trader Joes™. I never knew you had to take a math test to work there. Very interesting. I have actually mastered 5th grade math so I felt confident. I could pass the “if there are supposed to be thirty six cans of peaches on the shelf and 12 sell a day” restocking quiz. They were excited about me until they realized I had a teaching credential. I was over qualified. They’d keep me on file.

    Next, I tried Starbucks™. They required a few essay questions. Once again, I was surprised but up to the task. They wanted to know about my relationship with coffee. Perfect, I took the application home so I could expound. After all, coffee and I are good friends and I didn’t want to make light of our long-term relationship.

    Once home, I let the goslings out in the sun for a while before I started on the barn. The veterinarian is coming out and is going to examine Pancho and Lefty. And it feels a little like I’m having company. You know how you have to tidy up the house before the housekeeper arrives just so she doesn’t know you really stuff your laundry down at the bottom of the closet. Same thing. I started rearranging shelves and hanging pitchforks in more efficient places. Mike didn’t work today, so he swept the hay that manages to get all over the floor. Henry and his friend Miles did the same thing yesterday, but need a bit more practice. I remember when my mother would tell me to clean the kitchen and I’d load the dishes. She’d come in and I thought I’d done a fine job and I was so proud I’d done what she’d asked, but she thought I should know to wipe down the counters and scour the sinks after I swept the floor. And perhaps I should have, so I cut Henry a little slack because Miles was over.

    Tom and I purchased fifteen bales of hay just two weeks ago, but Pancho and Lefty had plowed through it in no time. So, while Mike was puttering around muttering to himself, I went and got a round bale of hay. All by myself I moved that 500 lb bale. I couldn’t believe it. I did it. I actually used the tractor effectively enough to tip it, load it and carry it over without any assistance. I felt so Charley Parker. This was a huge leap from when we’d first gotten the bales. It started me thinking about how far we have come in the last nine months.

    Last night, my father walked in the house a little out of breath. I was cooking dinner while Henry, his friend Miles and Mike watched “Murder By The Book” on tru™ TV.

    “A couple that looked like Ma and Pa Kettle just drove up in a truck wondering if we’d lost any cows with black and white faces. I told them we hadn’t and they told me there were two calves on the main road near the logging road at the end of the property. The calves had been in the road and they’d gotten them to go down the logging road.”

   

We all looked at each other for a brief moment. My dad shrugged, Mike exhaled and I wiped my hands on a dishtowel. We all knew we were going after those calves.

    “I’ll get my boots,” Mike sighed.

    My dad nodded. “I’ve got to get to some leads from the barn.”

    “I’ll go with you, I’ll get some packer pellets, a bucket and I’ll grab Pancho’s treat dish in case we have to lure them. Boys? Look at me. Look at me. We’re going to try and catch some calves, so stay inside with the dogs. We’ve got to go before it gets any darker.”

    We grabbed our gear and hopped in the Odyssey.

    “At least they’re someone else’s cows,” Mike said what we were all thinking.

    “The couple that made Ma and Pa Kettle look like Jolie and Pitt said they got them to go down this road.” My dad remarked thoughtfully, as he considered the logistics. As we drove slowly down the road, I couldn’t believe the three of us wrangling cattle without hesitation. Not long ago, we’d have looked up and said, “What can we do about it?”

    We got out at the metal barrier that’s been put up to prevent cars from going any further, but we clearly saw tracks that went around it. We walked and walked and looked and mooed quite a bit actually, but no answer. These cows don’t wear bells. I could really understand the importance of bells right at this moment, standing in the near dark mooing for a lost cow. After driving around and around in the hopes we’d spot them we gave up.

    “Well, it’s not like they’ll go hungry. There’s so much grass now and streams all around us so they’ll have water,” My dad conceded.

    “And if they’re yearlings they’re not really coyote prey unless they’re injured.” Mike also tried to make peace with our defeat.

    “Maybe they’ll find our little herd; they will want to be with other cows,” I chimed in, feeling disappointed.

    “Well, at least we tried; we’d want someone to help us,” My dad said.

    “Yep,” Mike and I agreed in unison.

    “Maybe it’s a good thing we didn’t find them. What if we had and we couldn’t get them. Then we’d really feel terrible,” Mike said, rationalizing, a bit of the past emerging.

    Now, as I drove the tractor to the compost heap with the stuff Mike had cleaned up, I felt as though I was at Disneyland™ on Autopia™. The tractor had carved deep ruts making this trip over and over during the rainy months. The center between the ruts rose quite high, keeping me on the strange track. It made me uncomfortable and out of control. I didn’t realize it was like this because Henry usually does it. While driving out there with my pile of cow dung, I passed my little Miracle and you know how your mind jumps around. I started thinking about my friend, Dawn; she used to teach with me and I had received a little note from her. The reason I thought of her during this particular moment was that she, Noelle, Kristina and Bruce (Mike Brady & Reporter Number 1) would purposely and unmercifully tell crude ass jokes at the lunch table. Now, I don’t consider myself a prude, I simply would say I am not one who finds humor in bodily functions. Gas is what I put in my car. To Tom it’s his life’s blood. Give me a little decorum please. Yet, here I am no longer hearing their ass jokes, but instead I’m covered in excrement from my own hairy ass.

    Two hours of cleaning the barn later, I decided to finish in the morning. I started dinner and read an email from a couple who are interested in my dad’s place. They said it sounded great and  thought they’d really enjoy the relaxed laid-back style of farm life.

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April 17th Laissez Les Bons Temps Rouler

    

    My father feels about the Pacific Northwest much the way Lewis & Clark did, he hates it. “Rain, rain, rain, it’s always the same crap.” My father often mumbles and grumbles often times there are even stronger words in “french”.

    Since he arrived, many things have happened. My father lost 24lbs walking the property and helping me with farm chores. He said often enough “Tomorrow I might be dead, this could kill me or make me stronger.” Terrific. He’s a bundle of laughs sometimes. He really was a great help and very involved for a while, but then he started looking around for gigs to play. And it wasn’t long before he was emailing several musicians in Bellingham and surrounding areas.

    Soon was playing at Skylark's in Fairhaven as well as Boundary Bay Brewery. He discussed playing at Le Chat Noir and was lining up quite a few regular gigs. He was out at parties and practices so much that he started staying a couple of nights a week at my sister’s in town. He’d call and say “Honey, I think I’m going to stay at your sister’s tonight – I think I might need a Jacuzzi and a sauna.” Yep, he was really suffering. I’d take care of his dogs and he’d sip single malt Scotch.

But it just hasn’t been enough for him. He wants more. And let me tell you no one and I mean no one wants to be around a grumpy grandpa – especially one who can’t get the UCLA basketball games in their DISH Network™ package. No. No siree-bob.

He started talking about times past, clubs he’s played The James Joyce on State Street in Santa Barbara, Paris, he mentioned the possibility of playing New Orleans. And always the weather he always talks about the weather. “More of the same crap.” “Oh what a surprise, it’s raining.”

Well, we talked and he’s decided he has to do what makes him happy, so he’s leaving. He’s moving to Paris. He can play jazz day or night. Or day and night. When I told some of my friends of his decision they all responded in the same way.

    “Sure he’s going to Paris, but will he ever leave? I mean Paris c’mon. Does he speak French?” inquired  Lois rationally. "I mean you don't just up and move to Paris at 70."

    “This isn't just anyone, this is my dad, he’s got a ticket for May 27th. And yes, he speaks French.”

    “Oh, then I guess he really is going.”

    Yes, he’s leaving, but his dogs aren’t. I'm a little bitter. I suppose you can’t really play jazz effectively with a Blue Tick Hound and an Anatolian Shepherd tugging at their leashes. So now I’ve inherited a dog with wanderlust who could potentially try and get across the border without a passport and a puppy just slightly smaller than a Shetland pony. But what choice do I have? They’re family. Faults and all.

    My dad will go and find some small place to live. Hook up with some musicians and play beautiful music. When he was there before a young girl asked to sing with his band. She had a lovely voice and my dad liked her quite a bit. She was only about fourteen or so when they began performing together. But one club didn’t want her and that caused some trouble - I don't remember the rest of the story. That young girl now plays Carnegie Hall; I heard her voice at Starbucks™ one day. She was on one of their torch singer albums, her name is Madeleine Peyroux and they’re still good friends.

    My dad will be fine and have many more adventures. His grey-blue eyes light up when he talks of sitting in a little café. He speaks of the texture of the city and the excitement. This from a farm boy who grew up in Wisconsin and told me my entire life all he wanted in the end was a lonely cabin in the woods. I guess what he really meant was a small apartment in one of the most urban cities in the world. C'est la vie.

    I won’t mention that it rains a lot in Paris and no one gives a flying baguette about UCLA basketball.

March 29th Comes From Behind

An Icy View Of My Dad's Place And Our House From The Road - Today

(below) Grandpa Horn and Irish before the UCLA game

    Its a snowy wonderland from hell. I woke up this morning to as much snow as we’ve had this year. Enough is enough.

    Henry and I spent the day indoors mostly. We’ve been watching TRU TV. “Forensic Files” and “Murder By The Book”. We were watching one when an episode came on about the murder of Mickey Thompson. My dad was happening by and said, “Geez, you know that was so sad, Mickey was a great guy.”

    “Grandpa? You knew Mickey Thompson?” Henry was agog.

    “Yes, He was going to fund a film I was making, but he was killed before we put the deal together.” My dad replied seriously.

    “Do you want to watch this with us Grandpa?”

    “No. I know enough about it, and to tell you the truth UCLA is playing in just a few minutes. See y’guys later.”

    During commercial I happily went out to the car to get my brand spanking new vacuum cleaner. It’s the little things that brighten a girl’s day.  I don’t need jewelry I just want a DirtDevil™.

    That’s when I found them Pancho and Lefty were out again. The game. Drat. I was on my own. I didn’t even call, I didn’t want to hear the word no at this moment or I’d scream.
“Henry get your coat, put on gloves and I mean it, put on gloves. We’ve got to get the boys. They’re out again and I am going to have to fix that fence. I can’t take this happening every two and a half minutes.”

    Sensing I was on the verge of finding fault with just about anything right now, Henry put the show on pause and quickly got his gear on.

    We went and surveyed the damage.

I thought I’d fix it properly and went to get the DeWalt™. “If you don’t do it right it’s not worth doing” pounded in my head. I found the screws, drill bits, a hammer just in case and went down to mend my fence. Henry alternated between holding rails for me, trying to drill, keeping the cattle from going into the street, hammering and playing with Irish.

    While the snow fell like something out of a survival film I started pulling the rails down so I could get the thing together. Once done, I placed my drill bit in and started drilling a pilot hole so I wouldn’t split the wood. I wasn’t strong enough to get it all the way through. So I put the screwdriver tool on and put a screw in to finish it off. It split the wood. Henry came running when he heard all the yelling.

    “You ok?”
    “I’m fine. I’m mad at your father.”
    “Why?”
    “Because he’s not here and I need him and I’m cold and UCLA is playing that’s why. Now go keep Lefty from eating the rhododendron.”

    I went back to work. I put the rail back in place and tried nailing. I split the wood. I tried again. I split the wood. At this point, I got a spool of the not shiny wire and began weaving the rails together one after the other. I looked over toward the gate when I saw it move and couldn’t believe Henry had gotten Pancho in with the help of Irish.

    “Henry, that was amazing. You didn’t even have any treats.”
    “Thanks Mama, it was Irish. He’s a real cattle dog. He stayed behind him and seemed to understand what I wanted him to do.”

    Hmm. One in and the fence was done. Well, it might not be right, but it was done. Tom can fix it when he comes in a couple of weeks.

 

Now for Lefty and we could go get warm. As Lefty came toward me for the bucket of grain I was holding, Irish went into action. He thought he could come from the side and get Lefty in the gate, but it didn’t work. He scared Lefty and he ran full tilt toward the pond. Hungry, he turned around and came back. I scolded Irish and he seemed to understand what he did wrong. It was like hundreds of years of genetic programming had kicked in. He circled around Lefty’s side and came up from behind him slowly. I walked in front with the bucket yelling in my teacher voice “Step Up Boss! Step Up Now! Haw! Haw!” while Irish quietly but closely walked at Lefty’s heels lest he get any ideas. Henry manned the gate and in he went. Huzzah!!!

    Henry turned to me and said, "Mama, you need a shower." Covered in mud from head to toe, we put our tools away - or face Tom's wrath later. Fed the goats and Miracle. Gave them fresh water and closed up the barn for the night.

    After almost three hours we went inside and watched Mickey and Trudy Thompson get justice.

(my helper)

March 24th Stop The Madness

Knowledge is power, but ignorance is bliss.

I woke up this morning to a beautiful blanket of snow everywhere I looked, if I’d known last night during the power outage that my pipes could have frozen I would have been a nervous wreck. Luckily, I had no idea of the plumbing peril I was in.

Later in the day, Little Chris called and said he won 4th place and enough money to cover his costs in his very first professional rodeo. Thrilled, I told him he’d have to come out with Steph and celebrate.

“We should wait until there’s really something to celebrate.”
“No. No. No. We don’t ever wait to celebrate, my mother always said ‘celebrate everything especially the small steps along the way.”

“I like that. OK, I’ll give you a call.”

Excited over Little Chris’s news I dialed Tom and relayed the news, while I chatting with him about the rodeo, I glanced outside and noticed almost all the snow had melted. And then I saw them. Pancho and Lefty were out again.

I checked the basketball schedule. My luck was holding UCLA wasn’t playing.  My dad in his slippers rounded up Pancho.

While generous of spirit, reluctant cowboy Mike in his permanent press slacks coaxed Lefty back to the pasture.

March 23rd Mike Brady alias Reporter #1

Tom's Easter Card to Henry

    Lisa called me at sunup as she does every Easter and said "He is Risen." I told her Henry was still sick this morning so we couldn’t go to church or her house for brunch,

    Henry and I stayed home. Disappointed we played the computer version of Life™ to pass the time. I came in third. To come in third with two players is a bit annoying. I took this as commentary on my current financial situation.

    Late in the afternoon a horrendous wind and hailstorm moved in. The power went out. I called my dad and Mike at Lisa’s to let them know and went about setting up the generator. I had no luck. It wasn’t dark so I didn’t worry. My dad would be home and I figured he’d get it started. It’s a brand new generator. I spent what I consider a fortune getting it and then paying the power company to put a terminal in so we just plug it in and voila. Light.

    My dad arrived not long afterward with a plate of food piled high with ham, salad and two different kinds of quiche made from a recipe she got from hillbillyhousewife.com. I took a quick taste and put it on the back stoop while we started fooling around with the generator. Nothing. It didn’t turn over it didn’t do anything. We went through the trouble shooting section of the manual standing there in the rain. Nothing. We turned every knob and flipped every switch twice. Frustrated and annoyed, I called Bill. I figured he’d have better idea about what to do than we did. The thing is brand new what the heck. Well, he didn’t have any better idea, but he did call the electrician we bought it from and left a message. I didn’t have much hope that was going to come to anything on a Sunday. Easter Sunday.

    We got out the paraffin lanterns and put on our jackets. When the power doesn’t work, as I may have mentioned before, the water doesn’t work. The well pump stops.  I wasn’t too worried, it was now pretty dark, but Puget Sound said the power would be on by 7:00PM. We went in the family room built a fire and apropos of the evening Henry got out the Worst Case Scenario™ game. Now here’s a game I can win.
Reading the questions by flashlight and drinking my Earl Grey®  – the stove works and I had water in the kettle. We were doing OK.

    Lisa called to see how we were doing. “ It’s not as if it’s December and the pipes are going to freeze.”

    That’s true. It’s a lot warmer, we’re fine. I’ve got my laptop.”

    “Well, tell Henry he didn’t miss anything with the egg hunt. Just as the kids were going out it started to hail like crazy and they all ran in screaming.”

    I indeed won the game. It was 8:30PM and Rob the electrician called. He’d just gotten the message about the generator and said he’d come out. I told him not to bother –

    “It’s too late on Easter Sunday and Puget Sound said we’ll have power in less than a half hour.”

    “Well, I don’t live far so if you need me just give me a call. I don’t want you to go without power.”

    “It’s not December.” I reminded him.

    When I hung up, Mike decided he was going to go upstairs and do his Thomas Jefferson imitation and read by candlelight.

    Henry and I decided we were going to try and watch a movie on my laptop. Luckily, I had a full battery but I warned him I didn’t think we’d make it through a whole movie. It was worth a try and long before that the lights would be back on Henry reminded me.

    We popped in “Speed”. Henry’s never seen it before and it’s made even better because my old room partner at Woodland Hills Elementary, Bruce Wright, is in it. He plays “Reporter #1”. Henry and I did a talent show with him a couple of years ago. Where we re-enacted a “Brady Bunch” episode during which Mike dressed in a tux does a dramatic reading accompanied by Greg on guitar – while Bobby and Peter drop props like rubber chickens, feathers, making it rain etc. When we did it, Bruce played the Mike character complete with tux, I did the dramatic guitar strumming  (as I have no musical ability) and Henry stood on a ladder behind the curtain dropping things on Bruce while Bruce feigned shock and outrage.

    The laptop was a trooper and made it all the way through the credits.  At 1:00AM the power came on.

March 21st Pass The Mustard

    The phone rang at 6:30AM per usual. Tom calls me to make sure I’m up as I can barely open my eyes on dark morning. This morning there was a modicum of light in the sky. A hopeful sign. I quickly got a cup of coffee, started to make Henry a ham and cheese sandwich, remembered that today was Good Friday, and put the ham back. Now, I went through the morning “C’mon Henry it’s time to get up!” He stumbled to the shower and soon we were on our way, dog, goats and donkey fed. Henry and I had a PopTart™ and a bowl of oatmeal on the way, respectively.

    The ride to school was breathtaking. There had been snow overnight in the hills above our house and the trees were covered with a fresh dusting. Henry talked non-stop. I heard story synopsis' on The BFG and The Fantastic Mr. Fox, both Roald Dahl books. Just before we arrived at the bottom of the playground, Henry started wincing. I asked him what was wrong, but he said he was ok, he thought he had a little whizpopping going on - a Roald Dahl term.

    

I rushed off to take care of some stuff at the bank and then I was going to try and meet Lisa and her friend to get some things for the kids Easter baskets. I’d just finished at the bank a complimentary coffee in hand when the school called.

   

“Is he hurt?”

   

“No. He’s not hurt, he’s had a little accident and he needs some different pants.” I instinctively looked in the far reaches of my van/laundry hamper and spied a pair of jeans tossed aside on the way to gymnastics.

   “I’ve got some clothes with me, I’ll be right there.”

     “Umm, OK.” She said and then hung up. All the way there I wondered, why she’d said that, had that hesitation. I parked and went in. I walked in the office and both women tilted their heads toward a closed door.

   

“He’s in there.” They said in unison. I opened the door and was hit by a wall of pungent stench. My boy stood in front of me covered in crap. He didn’t have an accident; he was living some kind of Stephen King elementary school nightmare. He had feces all over his body, on the inside of his pants, in his socks, on his arms, under his fingernails he needed to be sterilized. This was something Mike Rowe might run from. Mother’s don’t have that choice, I found some baby wipes, and we borrowed some school pants and got out of there. So much for Easter baskets, perhaps we wouldn’t be going to Easter brunch at all if I had diarrhea boy.

   

The way home was fraught with bathroom humor. We discussed the “Saturday Night Live” commercial for adult diapers, “Ooops I Crapped My Pants”. I told him I’d always suspected he was full of shit. And so it went as we made our way home to Jell-O™ and rice. If he were really lucky he’d be eating the old B.R.A.T. diet. Lisa said not to worry she’d get everything for his Easter basket.

   

I made him some raspberry tea my father suggested and called some Java chicken breeders in an attempt to find someone who’s sell me these reportedly “gentle and calm” birds. After a call to Monty in Kansas, I realized I was hungry, remembering Henry’s cheese sandwich I’d made earlier I went out to the car to get it. When I opened the door, I saw them. They were standing near the newly budding tulips.

    

“Not again.” This isn’t funny. I went back inside and called my dad. “

   

“Yeah”

    “I hope UCLÅ isn’t playing because Pancho and Lefty are out again and they’ve broken down the fence.”
I told Henry to get his shoes and coat on and we went outside to round ‘em up. I was sure Tom was sitting in some meeting. Clean.

    When we got outside our cattle were well on their way to the pond. We followed. Once there we saw that Wally had run muck. Having been left to his own devices for a few days he’d built a damn rivaling the Hoover. The problem with his dams is that they choke the pond. The island where the Canada geese made their nest last year was flooded. Henry and I spent a few minutes clearing out his work so the flow of the stream would return to normal and hopefully allow the geese to nest.

    When we walked back my dad was finishing the repairs on the fence. Pancho and Lefty were in my yard. And leaving the largest cow pies you can imagine. More crap. I had savory thoughts of them as prime rib covered in mustard.

    We got them in again, filled their water and went in the house. I checked to see if anyone had any interest in purchasing them. I’m ready to give them away. Free shipping. I went back out and fed the goats, Miracle and Anna. She came at me giving me the head down and horn shake thing. I was having none of it. I started yelling and screaming something about McDonalds®. I don’t want any cows at the moment. I love Andy and Abe is a close second, but I started thinking how happy Miracle and the goats would be down in the pasture. What was I going to do with these stupid cows anyway? No one wants a history camp around here. No one cares about having a Plimoth Colony who am I kidding?

    Henry, Mike and I played the game of Life™. Big surprise, I lost. Tired and very cranky I went up to bed. Of course, the cat box needs changing. Perfect.

March 20th March Madness

    What is March madness? To many it’s a bunch of basketball games, but to me today it was Pancho and Lefty running down Mosquito Lake Road.

    It all started when I heard Anna, the guard cow, mooing her pretty little head off. She only does this when there’s trouble. Knowing this, I grabbed my camera and ran out on to the front porch. When what should I see, but Irish, Pancho and Lefty looking back at me.

I wondered how they got out. I ran back in the house and called my dad. He immediately came out and together we discovered Andy standing at a wide-open gate. Irish started trying to round them up, but he’s young and all he ended up doing was working Pancho and Lefty in to an absolute frenzy. We put him in the house. I tried to go along side them and move them toward the pasture. This was not working at all. The grass it seems is greener on this side of the fence and they were eating up a storm. My dad yelled for me to go get a bucket of grain. I did and I shook that think like it was a maraca, but nothing. They weren’t interested in the least.

   

We decided to let them calm down for a few minutes when suddenly Lefty decided he wanted no part of Fort Flashback and started heading down the driveway for Mosquito Lake Road with Poncho his trusty companion right by his side. Yes, he even walks on the left. Out they went and kept on going. I was screaming at the top of my lungs and shaking my oats like a crazy person and they didn’t even look back. I wondered for a brief moment if this meant they were on the lamb?
My dad went and got his CRV and I stood helplessly watching.

    Just as we got in the car, contemplating what to do when we actually got close. We didn’t want to scare them off the hill or into a car or anywhere else.

   

       They suddenly turned around and started running back at full tilt. Seriously, today was the day the cows came home. You hear about it, you say it, but now I’ve lived it. Why did they come home? We have no flipping idea. As I said this is March madness. I went to the barn and got a rope to tie around Lefty’s horns as Maryruth taught me. Eventually I got him rigged up. When he has this pink and purple striped rope wound from one horn to the other across his forehead he looks like a humungous hippie.

     Luring him with cow cookies we walked down to the pasture and my dad opened the gate. One down.
Pancho was a little more difficult. He was very happy mowing the lawn behind the house near an old tractor we found on the property. My dad stood on one side so he could keep Pancho from running for the road again. I kept poking him with the cattle stick Little Chris Donaldson gave me. Pancho meandered up by my van

and then headed for the rhododendrons, which I know, are poisonous so we started waving our arms and forcing him down the hill toward the pasture. A while later we got him in the gate. My dad exhausted turned to me and said completely deadpan, “It’s a damn good thing UCLA wasn’t playing or you’d been doing this by yourself”. That’s my dad.

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February 25th Cookie Monster

   

    My dad called me on my cell as Mike and I were just dropping off Henry at gymnastics. We had planned to do something fun like see a movie since we had four hours to kill, but when my dad said Anna was roaming around loose. We quickly drove the 30 miles home. I told my dad, not to bother chasing her, as it hasn’t worked in the past. I didn’t know what we were going to do. I prepared for a long evening. On the way, I called Little Chris Donaldson and asked if he had any suggestions. My dad had suggested leaving her out all night as she generally stays right near the pasture. Mike was terrified she’d go down the road and someone might hit her. I called Tom, and he said he was pretty sure she’d stay near the pasture. Leaving her out was risky, but it might be our only option, He thought the only reason she went down the road before was because she was confused and didn’t know how to get in the pasture. I knew that would mean I’d have a sleepless night ahead of me.

    When we got there, I thought I’d give an idea a try. Mike went to go change into the boots Tom and I selfishly got him for Christmas. I went to the barn, got a bucket of grain a lead rope and a pocketful of cow cookies.

    I went down to the pasture where she was grazing. This time she was calm and curious. I called her name and she came toward me. I showed her the grain and she went to it easily. I tried to put the rope around her and she dashed away. Ok. I was nervous, as I knew I only had so many attempts before she’d be wound up and wild. I showed her the grain again. She came over. I tried to loop it around her horns. Nope. No good. This time I picked up the bucket called her name and gave her a cow cookie and started walking. More obedient than Irish, she followed me right up to the barn. I was walking there as Mike came out of the house. Seeing us he stopped so as not to spook her. We’re all developing some cow sense. A few moments later she was safely tucked in the barn. Disaster averted.

February 19th Hope

    Mike and I drove to Anacortes this morning so I can get a valid teaching credential in Washington. I need to earn some money and this seems the best place to start. I’m not giving up on Fort Flashback; I’m just trying to be realistic. I’m not proud; I’ll bag groceries, or whatever it takes to provide for my family.
It’s a lovely drive to Anacortes and on the way I got a call from the Cotton Patch goose breeder, Tom. He explains that he’ll send me ten geese for a hundred dollars. Plus shipping. He overnights them as day-olds. They mail quite nicely because baby birds live exclusively on the yolk sack for the first few days. They absorb it just before they hatch. I don’t really need ten, but he won’t ship fewer, because they need the numbers for the warmth. We should expect them at the beginning of April.

    Just as we finish and are almost to Bellingham, I get a call from Lisa. She’s agitated. It seems there is some reason to believe that Griffin has gotten into some rat poison. She’s missed the courier that would have taken it to Everett. She doesn’t know what to do, so I volunteer. It’s about an hour’s drive. Mike and I pick up the blood sample, a couple of coffees and head out for the lab.

    I asked Lisa how it would be possible for him to get into rat poison. She said he got out for a little while about five days ago and she’s not sure what the neighbors have around their yards. I said, “I hope it’s negative.”

    “No. I hope it’s positive. If it’s rat poison, I’ve already started treating him, but if it isn’t it’s probably some kind of cancer.”
    Mike and I make the delivery, I give the woman at the desk Lisa’s cell number and she says they’ll have results in an hour or so.”

    I call Lisa and report in. She tells me “Dad’s picking up Henry, you can meet them at the Gelato shop.”
While we’re there, we get the news. It’s not rat poison.

November 19th Grey Is For Goose

    Mike has been humoring me and so has my dad for that matter. I’m bent on getting the kitchen and the dining room painted before the Toby, her husband Eric, Dean and the Donaldsons come for Thanksgiving. It’s not that they’re really company, but I work well on a deadline. I need a goal and company coming is the best one for me.

    My dad painted primed the kitchen, which really helped. Mike and I labored over the ceiling and then we painted the kitchen a soft butter cream, which I think will go great with the new red cabinets. The dining room I was going to paint a Mt. Vernon green, but because you can see the pool table from the dining room and I think the greens clash, I’m going with Purple Fantasy. Yep, purple, with black wainscoting. All the trim and doors in the house will eventually be black. I know, I know, everyone freaks about the colors I choose, but I love color. It’s grey outside and my eye needs the color.

I’m proud to say, it looks we’re going to make our deadline wainscoting and all.

October 29th Let There Be LIght

    Our first power outage. Henry and I drove home from gymnastics tonight. It was eerie. The road was completely dark for almost fifteen miles. We don’t have streetlights anyway, but tonight was different. All the houses were dark. The wind was howling and as we made our way up the road we saw power lines drooping from trees. Before we knew it we had inadvertently driven over a power line. Suddenly realizing what had happened I stopped. Now the line surrounded us.  Honestly, I was terrified but I didn’t want to scare Henry. I figured the rubber from the tires was protecting us or we’d be dead already. Gripping the wheel I drove over the rest of it and headed up the road. We got home and my father had already hooked up the new generator. I’d thought it was awfully expensive, but at the moment it seemed like a bargain. I’m glad he knew what he was doing because I hadn’t read the manual or anything yet. He’d even gotten a few extra cans of gas just in case. We tried to use as few lights as possible and then turned the whole thing off at 10:00PM. I’d gotten paraffin lanterns from Fred Meyer™ and little book lights so everyone could read (I don’t know how people read by candlelight- it’s annoying all that flickering that seems charming while you’re dining isn’t at all amusing while you’re trying to follow a plot) and have a light in their room. If it was colder outside, we’d have to leave the generator on all night or the well pump would stop working and the pipes would freeze.

 

    Henry came in my room and we chatted under the covers while the candlelight danced on the walls. It was strange. It was so dark everywhere and just knowing we couldn’t turn on the lights was different than turning them off. Of course, there are black outs in Los Angeles but they have a different feeling. For one thing, you know you’re neighbor is nearby. You can call out for help if you need to. In Woodland Hills, I had amazing neighbors that were always there for me. I could yell over the fence to the Meachams and I knew I could always get help, a Diet Coke™ or a power tool. My neighbors, Nona and Henry who lived across the street, kept an ever watchful eye out for anything suspicious. On my other side, Mary and John (he is a retired cop) made me feel tucked in and cared for. And finally, Donna and Chuck were always within yelling distance. On the other side of the coin, a blackout always held the possibility of increased crime.

 

    Now, with no one nearby – friend or foe and coyotes howling in the hills it felt very different, dark and shadowy with just the moon lighting the area for miles around. Truly, I don’t think I really need to take any more camping vacations. We have the wilderness every day.

    The power went on sometime in the early morning so we had all our electric luxuries for the morning routine.

October 7th Things Heat Up

    Looking forward to a lazy Sunday morning I was just pouring my first cup of coffee, when Mike remarked, “Wow. The cows are sure running around and playing a lot this morning.” I went to the window to take a peek at my cows frolicking in the field, but that wasn’t what I saw.  Anna was very obviously being chased by a herd of deranged cattle. Why this was, when all the boys were neutered I had no idea. You see, a bull is an intact male, a steer is a neutered male under two years of age and an ox is a steer with an education - over two years old. Whatever the reason, Anna was running for her life and the others looked like – raging bulls. It would have been one thing for Andy or Abe to mount her they were the same breed and the same age, approximately 700lbs. But Pancho and Lefty are said to be 2,500lbs apiece. They could kill her, or break her leg, which would result in the same thing. You don’t exactly put cows in leg casts. I called Kulshan Veterinary Clinic; their ad says they do cats to cattle. I spoke to a doctor who told me that yes; they’d kill her if I didn’t get her out of there. He told me that even cows would mount other cows in heat. Apparently, this can cause a great problem for some dairy farmers. What? Horses don’t do that. Dogs don’t do that and I know goats don’t do that. Why didn’t anyone tell me this might be a problem? Lord help me.

    I pulled on my already muddy coveralls and boots and ran down to the field and Mike came stumbling after me in his tennis shoes, slacks and permanent press shirt.
We tried to catch Anna with a lead rope, but she was otherwise engaged.
After a while we were able to get the big boys locked in the loafing shed, which according to Laura Ingalls Wilder I now know is a barn with three sides. Our immediate threat handled, we took deep breaths and tried to come up with a plan. Thankfully, my father had seen us from the window and he now joined us and the three of us went at trying to round up the cattle. Two hours later we were exhausted, and still empty handed, but Mike’s shirt was still tucked in. I had new found respect for Hoss Cartwright.
    In a desperate attempt we let Anna out of the corral. We logically figured she’s a herd animal and won’t stray too far. We were right on some level she stayed close by, but we still couldn’t get her. We couldn’t come anywhere close to getting her. Billy Crystal came to mind and I wished Jack Palance were going to come out of the woods at any minute. That didn’t happen.
    My sister once told me that cattle crossings keep cows in certain areas because they don’t like to walk over things. Remembering this, we came up with a new plan. Mike and I held a long rope between us while my dad came around another side as we tried to get her back in the pasture. She JUMPED the rope. The rope was almost three feet off the ground! She quite literally flew threw the air. And suddenly all we could think of was the cow that jumped over the moon. We were all so astonished and laughing so hard from disbelief and frustration it took a while to recover from the shock. Well, that plan wasn’t going to work.
Mike kept muttering something about he never thought he was going to end up chasing some cow in a field in Washington when he got put in my study group, and was glad this wasn’t being video taped. My dad kept yelling “This is just horseshit.” And while they were carrying on, I just kept wondering how many calories I was burning running all over the field. After all you have to look on the bright side.
    After a couple hours, the Donaldsons arrived and we all tried again. Anna was tired and we had fresh help. Soon with everybody and a bag of cow cookies, we got her safely to the upper barn with the goats and Miracle.

 

I was certain I deserved a snack after burning all those calories and it goes without saying, a second cup of coffee.

September 30th The Amazing Donaldson

    It’s Chris’s birthday tomorrow, but because Tom will be leaving in the morning we’re celebrating it tonight.
    I haven’t really described Chris in any real detail and I suppose this is as good a time as any.

    Before Chris joined our family, he grew up mostly in Santa Barbara. He went to Dunn School, graduated from UCSD and is an avid beach volleyball player and bike enthusiast. When Chris met Lisa he was living in a beer infested apartment in Venice with a surfboard as a countertop, a smelly couch and a couple of scraggly roommates. He and Lisa met on the set of a Daihatsu commercial shooting at 3:00AM. Chris was art department and Lisa was a production assistant at the time. I got her the job.

   

    The next day, Chris asked her out, but said he’d have to ditch his brother, Cameron, who was visiting. Lisa insisted the four of us go out. We all piled in his toilet of a Ford Fiesta™ and went to the movie “Chances Are”. After that, they dated for a couple of years, broke up a couple of times and finally tied the knot at Saint Monica’s with Cam and I by their side. No one’s sure, but we think Chris wore clean socks.
Their black tie wedding reception was on Santa Monica pier with tables set up around the carousel. My dad’s band played. Lisa was very pleased because she got a screaming bargain. The historic site was only $200.00 and she served wine she bought at Trader Joes™.

   

    Not too long after they got married, Lisa decided she was not satisfied with film work anymore. It would be too hard to raise a family, by this time she was second assistant camera, but felt she should go back to school. She considered nursing, but decided to realize her life long dream of becoming a veterinarian. (When we were little she wanted to be a bunny) Chris was completely supportive; he got one of his (formerly scraggly now respectable) roommates back again and kept their financial boat afloat. The amazing thing about Chris is his discipline. He can reinvent himself at any time. After their first daughter, Quinn was born he quit the film industry and moved to Colorado where Lisa was in vet school. He got a job and turned it into a career move. He purchased a Dip’n’Dots™ franchise, wrote a novel, went into advertising, started a company and got a patent on an Internet technology. He sold that property and worked on Toyota’s Intranet for a while.  He’s written several screenplays, and strangely, he even got Daniel Boone Day established in Kentucky. Etcetera.

   

    When Lisa was getting ready to walk down the aisle she turned to me and said, “You know you can marry more money in 15 minutes than you can make in a life time. It’s too late for me.” She later said she dreamed that one day she’d tell people she married Chris for his money and they wouldn’t think it was a joke. I think they’re close.

(Chris as Morticia - on left and Lisa as Gomez)

    Don’t get me wrong, Chris can be annoying, he loves to argue, he’s extremely direct, he’s becoming a neat-nick like his father, every Christmas he expects an Enquirer™ in his stocking and he still wears dirty socks. But he is funny, laughs easily and always wrestles with the kids under the name “MoJo-Cro-Cro”

    We all got together at a local restaurant called The Black Forest Steakhouse in Everson, to celebrate. I was anxious as I looked at the time. We were supposed to meet them promptly at 6:30PM. It was raining, big surprise, and we got behind a tractor going up the 9, As a result, we got there late. The real reason is we left late because Tom had to finish one last thing. I shouldn’t have worried, because true to form Lisa was even later.

    Henry was salivating from the moment we walked in the door. While Quinn, a recent vegetarian was grossed out completely by all the meat. Phoebe simply flipped to the deserts.

Chris opened the “very Chris shirt and sweater we’d gotten him”. “Very Chris” translates in to bright colors like and bold patterns like lime green daisies. Chris being tall, lean and dramatic in nature can pull these off. After the meal as is required at family birthdays, Grandpa Horn plays “Happy Birthday” on his cornet. This has been arranged with the server, she is to bring the birthday cheesecake when my dad pulls out his horn. Perhaps, this might be annoying in a restaurant, but my dad is good. He is many times offered a gig after this number.

    All in all as is usual, at these kinds of dinners, as sappy as it sounds, we laughed and enjoyed being together making Tom’s departure tomorrow even harder.