The best laid schemes

The best laid schemes o’ mice an’ men
Gang aft a-gley
Robert Burns

Today I was going to spend time on a self project - one of the ones I promised myself the other night. This isn't a sexy project, or anything as luxurious as a spa day, or even anything for my health (maybe mental health), but something I have been wanting to do for a couple of years. For a few hours today, I was going to put aside my work, my guilt over having undone things in the house, and work on my library - organizing, dusting, cataloging, loving. My mom gave me a library database system a few years ago and I have been fixin' to work on the project for years. I think I have one book in the database.

Well today was the day. I was going to start as soon as I finished the dishes for dinner. I did! Then, I called for K to close the chicken coop door. He walked outside and squawked, "Mom!!, Come help! Hurry!" The first thing I saw was a baby calf walking around in the yard. I looked at the gate and sure enough it was open and the horse was running for the opening. And I do mean running.

We have a problem keeping the cows fenced when my husband is away. In fact, he usually doesn't even make it out of the county before one or another will jump a cattle gap or pull a fence down, a tree will fall on a fence or someone will have a car accident thereby collapsing the fence. Perhaps they are scared of my cattle skills or maybe they just want a vacation, but Mr. W's first question when he calls is "Are the cows out?" He has been gone for a while and we have not had one cattle related incident. I was feeling a bit smug until tonight.

I quickly stepped in front of the horse and pushed him back inside the fence, carefully keeping my bare toes out of hoof's way. I closed the gate, called for Princess to get some feed for Dusty to lure him away from the action while K was tackling the Yellow Dog because he was not helping. Unfortunately, the calf called for his mother and she rushed the gate and poinged me back a bit. Now I had no way to get the calf back in the pasture because if I opened the gate the momma would get out too.

That's when we noticed the cows strolling around in the garden. Though my wooden garden fence is cute, it is not designed for restraining heifers or even baby calves. Once the dog was restrained, the bovine population breathed a collective sigh of relief and settled, except for the crazed momma of a few posts ago. Motherhood did not benefit her overall demeanor. She is a bit too high strung for her own good. Doesn't she realize that we are the ones who plant all that nice clover for her to munch, provide cool, clean drinking water even during the drought, and treat her to some corn every now and again?

K lured Dusty away from the gate and swooshed the crazed momma giving me time to encourage the baby, who has grown exponentially by the way, to step back inside. After that we just slipped behind the garden to open a metal gap to let the garden cows back into the pasture. Unfortunately, we weren't quick enough. One of the heifers launched herself through my fence taking down all the chicken wire and a strand of barbed wire.

As so often happens after an incident, we started trying to decide who was responsible for the chaos. Knowing that my children rarely open a gate, preferring to go over it, I knew that I had left that gate unlatched. Perhaps I was too excited over the chain swinging.

Needless to say, I haven't logged or dusted many books.

Farm Life Today

The Yellow Dog and his question mark tail roam the premises, even the rafters of the barn. Hmmm, what mischief can I get into today???? Should I eat the girl child's hand (It's not really in his mouth. He's not that kind of dog.)? Should I chase the cows? Bark all night? Dig holes in the yard? Torment the cats? Capture a chicken?

We noticed the question mark tail soon after we claimed The Yellow Dog. Then his mischievousness grew. Somehow the tail came to symbolize the devilry of the dog. It makes me smile.

The dog is not the only one with mischief on his mind. A few things disappeared from the shed this week - a card table and chairs, a chain, the top to the garbage can . . .

I found them. I walked to the barn to throw a scoop of feed in the horse's bucket. I saw a big fat hen leaving a nest, so decided to collect those eggs. We have a few (five, it appears) rogue hens who refuse to nest in the hen house. I suppose this hay bale is more comfy. Anyhow, I was getting the eggs and saw my card table set up in the barn. The metal garbage can top was hanging on a post gong style with a stick attached. There was a chain hanging from the rafters atop the triple stacked hay bales that create the wall for the "fort," and a gang plank that leads from the ground to the tops of the first layer of bales. I clanged the gong to see what would happen. Children came running. Suppressing a smile and trying to sound stern I asked, "Why is my card table out here?"

"It's my fort!" Princess proudly exclaimed.

"That's my garbage can top."

"It's my alarm."

"Why do you need an alarm?"

" In case of an attack."

" Who do you think will attack?"

"K. . . . . . "

"Ooooh."

"Watch what I can do!!" She then proceeds up the plank to to the chain and swings across a chasm in the stacked hay, thereby explaining the missing chain.

"Your turn."

I think I will.

Spider Lilies

Spider lilies are popping up all over the place. They are stunningly red, have an interesting feathery appearance, and provide autumn color. I should say autumn color that is not in a pot. There is just one tiny problem with the whole Spider Lily show - location. Location is of utmost importance in landscaping. A splash of color here, a little texture there makes all the difference in a well hewn landscape.

Notice that the Spider Lily has no leaves at this stage of the game. In other words, we had no idea that this specimen or any of the other 2o or so Spider Lilies blooming at this time existed until a bloom emerged. For the most part, once a bulb has been planted the flower reproduces in a close circle. Not the case here!

I suppose the flowers were originally planted in some centralized location, but we bulldozed the entire yard when we starting working on the place because we needed a tractor to get up the driveway when it rained. There was also the small problem of the driveway running two feet from the side of the house - fine in the city or town, but a bit out of place here. Anyway, we had a dozer person come and move the driveway, level the hill top a bit, and do other hard scape molding. A lot of dirt was moved. Apparently, a lot of Spider Lilies were moved, too!

Our yard is dotted with bright red this year. I don't know what happened last year because they didn't bloom, but this year we have single stems of Spider Lily every ten to fifteen feet. Sure, the children picked the first few, then we realized how interesting the yard could look if we left them randomly dabbing color over the place. I suppose I should go out and dig and move them while I know what and where they are, but then I would lose the color and the fun of seeing the yard with polka-dots!!!

Dots are in, right? I bet you're glad you aren't my neighbor.

Shore Books

Last time I was at the beach, I read two books - the first book I purchased on the way down and the second was in the bookcase just waiting. Funny thing, both the books had similar themes that when combined moved me to think thoughtfully about my own life.

Between the Tides by Patti Callahan Henry was the book I bought because I walked past it in the bookstore seeing the word tides and a white crinoline showing beneath a child's white skirt. You know it looked and sounded beachy.

William Shakespeare wrote "What is past is prologue." Between the Tides explores the reality of the middle ground between the past and future, between high tide and low. Nine months after her father's death, Catherine still could not bring herself to sprinkle the ashes in the Carolina Low Country river of her childhood as her father wished. By sending his daughter back to her childhood home he hoped that she would be able assuage guilt, find truth, and change her perceptions, so that she could live fully in the future. Encouraged by Forest Anderson, her father's assistant professor, Catherine makes the trip, finds answers, and is able to embrace her true self and a future full of love and expectation.

Having heard of The Mermaid Chair by Sue Monk Kidd, yet knowing nothing of it, I picked it up to finish out my weekend of relaxation. Jessie Sullivan goes to the Barrier Islands of South Carolina to care for her mother who has intentionally severed a finger while cooking at a monastery. Though being contentedly married for years, Jessie falls in love with a monk who has not yet taken his final vows. Through this love she reignites her life and breaks out of her metaphorical box. In the end, she decides to reunite with her husband, but before she does she makes a commitment to herself.

OK, I guess everyone is wondering what sprinkling the ashes of a father and an affair with a monk have in common. Seeing it written does make it seem more improbable, yet each of these women chose a safe place, rather than finding a place of growth and full living. Each put life and love on hold while living a truncated life. True, one was trapped by the past and the other trapped by the needs and routines of life with a family, but what each failed to do(and in my opinion what many women fail to do) was to devote time, space, and energy to nurture herself.

There is a scene at the end of The Mermaid Chair when Jessie walks out into the water to complete a ritual that she had seen her mother and her mother's friends perform when she was young in which they tied some yarn together and cast it to the sea to show an enduring bond between the friends, but instead of making a vow to family or friends she makes a commitment to herself - a commitment to make room for her inner spirit.

I let the demands of family, work, and home smother the person I am. Even without having an affair with a monk or losing a parent I realize that I, too, need to commit to myself. I think I will walk to the top of the highest hill on our farm in the almost full moon, tie a knot in a ribbon and cast it into the breeze, thereby vowing to make a little time for me - not the mother me, not the wife me, not the daughter me, not the sister me, not the useful at work me. What about you?

Will you pour?

I'm feeling a bit left out after I found this picture on my camera this morning. Rubber Dinghy obviously had a tea party. Or someone had a tea party for Rubber Dinghy. I wonder why I wasn't invited?

Did you get an invite?

Do cats drink tea?

First Calf of the Season

Our first calf of the season arrived last week. To make this one even more special the mom is a first time momma, and she was born and raised at our farm - a complete circle of sustainable life. She's such a crazed, hormonal maniac so protective of her calf that it took me three days to get a picture without risking death. Mr. W finally followed them into the shed to snap this one, but the photo op was short lived. She charged.

Charolais cows are big; Charolais bulls are enormous; and Charolais calves are many times a little too big for the first time heifer. To avoid the scary need help with labor issue, we had the bright idea of renting Sarge, a neighbor's Brangus bull, to guarantee small calves for all our first timers. No, the calves won't be true to breed -the tell-tale signs of the Brangus bull are written all over the small calf's grayer white coat (rather than creamy white), black nose and hooves, and compact head - but we can sell all of these calves so as not to sully the picturesque views from the porch with mismatched cows.

My husband is going out of town for the next month or so. He plans the calving around his seasonal absences. Isn't that nice of him?

Pyramids, Temples, and Coliseums

I found a great beach book. Honestly, it was easy to find since my mother left it on the table for me and the children to find and use. My mother does things like this a lot - thoughtful gifts, well placed, at just the right moment. Anyway, the book is Sand-tiquity by Malcolm Wells, Kappy Wells, and Connie Singo.

Sand-tiquity demonstrates the building of ziggurats, step pyramids, coliseums, temples, the Parthenon, a pueblo, and the Pyramid and the Sphinx. We tried to build them all this weekend. Of course, ours didn't look as fabulous as the pictures in the book, but the instructions were simple - a swipe here, a cut there, and eureka! you have all of ancient history lined up on the beach.

Thanks, mom!

A Few More Days of Summer

I drove south to capture a few more days of Summer at the beach. We left after ballet on Thursday night from the city, which is not my usual path and I learned so many useful travel lessons on the way.

1. Never leave the house without a map - a real map - if your route is not as familiar as the back of your hand. Looking at a MapQuest map minutes before you leave doesn't count because even if it looks like a straight shot that any fool could find blindfolded, chances are once the journey begins the Highway 49s and 59s will get confusing, bypasses will become available that look similar to the roads you actually need to use, and the food and bathroom needs of your 8 year old passenger will require you to get off the path.
2. Your vision of what things should look like and how things appear in the dark are two different things. Road signs seem to fly by in head-lighted, heavy traffic of metropolitan areas. Chances are you will miss the turn and not recognize landmarks that would guide you in daylight. Bring a map so you will know for sure.
   
3. Even if you think your sisters will be available for a directional consult since the route is their usual, don't count on it. It is possible that they have a life separate from yours in which they have school conferences, meetings, and other activities. They may not answer their phone, bring your own map.
4. Sometimes logic doesn't rule road size. Any reasonable person would assume that as you draw nearer to a major city the number of lanes would increase rather than decrease. Yet they don't. When the lane number decreases and the only signs are for the Robert Trent Jones Golf Trail, a map would be handy to avoid that chest tightening, forward leaning panic that arises when you've already been on one too many wrong roads and the clock is moving closer and closer to a new day.
5. Finally, if you don't have a map, don't be tempted to cut through on rural roads to make it back to the major highway for which you missed the exit 10 miles back. It's just not worth it. Unfamiliar backroads dimmed by darkness may not go all the way through making it necessary to get on other backroads, and then other backroads. While this exploration may be a fun-filled adventure during the daylight hours, when driving at night with a child who is rightfully worried that you don't know where you're going, it's not a good idea. Lose the 10 miles and backtrack.

You would think, after all these lessons, I had a miserable trip down, but I didn't. All the snafues (Can I use snafu that way? I doubt it.) began to be funny. By the time I got to where I knew the way for sure, I could barely drive for laughing. At least, I didn't get sleepy and clean the ditches for the Department of Transportation. But seriously, bring a map, a full sized, detailed one. Who knows, you may not need it, but you may.

CAW!

Caw! CAWW- CAWW! caw-CawW! aw-aw-aw-caw!

The crows have arrived. Every rooster crow is punctuated by a CAW. Every squeak of the gate is preceded by a caw-caw-caw. Every bark is interrupted by Caw-caw. Every step is accompanied the cacophony of caws.

Fall is here. The crow tells me.

No, the temperatures haven't dropped, not much anyway. Yes, the humidity is still oppressive. But early in the morning I feel what the crows tell me.

The crow says it is Fall - the time of collecting and preparing. Yet, they don't come because it's Fall per se, they come for a feast - a nutilicious feast. The pecans are full, yet still green and the crows show up in hordes to eat - to prepare for the winter.

Because the Summer is dead.

Chicken Wisdom

Chickens have a reputation for being stupid. Though some of their antics appear foolish, I have found watching their interactions and behaviors gives great insight into human deportment. I'm not joking. Really.

Take this rooster for example. He is the same Buff Catalana rooster featured on my banner art, only now he is in molt which leaves his tail feathers and the rest of him lacking a bit.

Funny thing. He knows it.

He is not the same rooster when not fully plumed. He is not as haughty. He is kinder with the hens, not chasing them down for a quickie. He doesn't scream "Look at me!!!" with the same aplomb. He doesn't rush over to the scraps I throw out the back door thinking he is entitled to the best.

Chicken Wisdom

1. Looking your best gives you confidence to demand respect.
2. Balding men are probably more attentive to the needs of women since they are not so fixated on themselves.
   

Gridley

Exactly one month before my husband and I got married, which by the way was 21 years ago today, I called Mr. W and asked, "Can you pick me up from work, today? I have something to show you." I did indeed have something to show him - the person with whom I would soon be sharing a life and home, the person with whom I needed to be most honest, the person who I knew didn't like inside cats and was a tad bit allergic.

When he arrived, I took him through the waiting room of the animal hospital in which I worked, through the exam rooms, past the surgery, and into the hospital. I opened the door to a cage, picked up a tiny kitten, put it on his chest at which point the kitten attached himself, then said, "Dr. S is going to kill this kitten if I don't take it home today." He took the kitten home.

The kitten apparently mewled loudly once the lights were turned off for the evening until it found its way into the bedroom and climbed into bed with Mr. W, who doesn't like inside cats and is somewhat allergic. After finding a comfortable place on his pillow the kitten fell asleep for a few hours, after which time he got sick with an upset stomach in the bed of the man who doesn't particularly like cats.

After a tenuous beginning, Gridley, named for the circular stripes on his sides that made him look as if he had just jumped from the barbecue, quickly scratched out a place in our lives. He slept in our bed, entertained our friends with card tricks, and amused us with his peculiar ways. He was patient when the children picked him up by the head. He was patient when we were late with the victuals. He was patient when life made his position in the home sink to levels to which he was unaccustomed. He was patient when his litter box was a little dirtier than he liked. He was patient when someone was sitting in his favorite sun spot.

A few years ago, Gridley died of complications of old age, but every anniversary I think of him and also think about how lucky I was to find a man who is patient in a lot of the ways Gridley was.

Fat

Yep, Mississippi is ranked number one. The state desperately wanted to be number one at something. Yet, I doubt this is what they had in mind. We also rank way up the charts for infant mortality. The other day, I was reading the blog Kit Burns was Framed. He had that blonde Miss Teen USA contestant video posted. When I watched, all I could think was "Thank goodness she's not from Mississippi." You see we have this reputation to overcome. The reputation of being slow, backwards, prejudice, poorly educated, and stuck in the past.

While there are slow, backwards, prejudice, poorly educated, and stuck in the past people here, looking only at those people without seeing the rest of the population leaves a less than truthful picture of us. Yet, when media is in the area, those are the people who get in front of the camera or quoted. Then, we have the problem of movies reminding us of our past and teaching others who normally wouldn't have a clue. It took months after Mississippi Burning was released for me to be able to talk freely when living in Chicago. People accosted us in restaurants and theaters when they heard our accents just dying for us to confirm the movie. "Is it like that?" or "Do you know anyone in the Klan?", they asked. The idea that the movie was based on events in the 60s and focused on a limited population of people seemed evasive. We deserved some of the finger pointing since justice was not fully served in that case until recently, but I always looked around Chicago and felt the neighborhoods were more segregated than anything we produced here.

There were and are problems in Mississippi. I and most Mississippians will be the first to admit them. Yet, given a chance we will step up, take responsibility, and find ways to solve them. Add fat to that list.

No, You May Not Borrow My Pen

After seeing an article about the waste of half used plastic pens cluttering the environment and our homes, I, of course, looked around my home to see if we fell within the norm. I was horrified to find hundreds of the offending disposable pens purchased by some office supply fiend (me), donated by politicians and salesmen, and stolen borrowed from desks when I go to the office. I immediately issued an edict,

“No more pens will enter this house until every drop of ink is used from the pens we have.”

As usual, I spoke without really thinking about the difficulty of achieving the goal, but we did slow the flow. True, our little household doesn’t effect the demand for throw-away pens, but making an effort to rid our house felt good. The first thing I did was cull pens – ridding my life of frustration producing skip writers and ink gloppers. Then, we started using pens, determined to use one until no ink remained. Most of the pens were so poorly manufactured (counting on our inability to keep up with them or our preference for new) we never had the satisfaction of watching the ink sink to the end of the tube. Even though I did succumb to temptation and purchase the children some markers for their timeline and map work (I can’t punish my children for every hair brained idea I get), I haven’t purchased a pen in a year which is an amazing feat for someone who drools over/on/into the office supply catalog.

Until last week.

When I was getting ready to sign payroll checks, I couldn’t find a working pen other than a uni-ball vision elite with orange ink. The bank had already warned me against using orange, pink, and green ink (though I think it adds a happy touch) on the checks since it adds extra work because their scanners don’t capture nonstandard banking colors. I used one of the children’s markers, which is also probably non-bankish, and then purchased a delicious lapis blue fountain pen, hopefully made in the USA, and a bottle of luscious cocoa brown ink.

Now that I have this pen, I wonder why we have moved away from these wonderful, more permanent instruments; why anyone would sacrifice the feel of a nicely made pen and the flow of the perfect shade of cocoa ink flowing from the perfectly fine tipped nib. This may be my last blog entry. I'll do all my journaling on my 100% post consumer waste paper with my non-disposable fountain pen feeling good about my contribution to the environment while enjoying a luxury. Seriously, after a couple of days, I'm hooked.

It really only took one day to become hooked, but I did have to make a few minor adjustments to my desk habits. Learning to fill the reservoir with ink left me with a finger and thumb stained brown. I will also have to train myself to be more careful with my ice cold Tab unsweetened iced tea that has a tendency to perspire and leave unsightly brown blotches on my work. Other than those small annoyances that should be easily trained away, the conversion was easy. If I was a lefty, I might have to mirror write like Leonardo da Vinci did in his journals even though the ink appears to dry almost instantly, but since I'm not, I won't worry about it.

I'm done with disposable pens. Like line drying clothes, baking bread, and keeping bees and chickens, turning my back on this environmentally unfriendly habit is painless, even enjoyable. So, no. You may not borrow my pen because I only have one, not one hundred.

Eclipsed

My view of the Lunar Eclipse was blocked by clouds. Funny. I go outside to not see the moon and I don't see the moon, and I am disappointed. I wanted a scarlet, sunset moon as promised. I'm not seriously complaining about the clouds. We need rain. And, more importantly, when the sun rises the clouds will block a bit of the heat. The clouds are only over the moon. I could see most of the stars. Doesn't seem quite fair.

My husband who told me not to wake him because of the cloud cover will get to say, "I told you so." Unfortunately, I let the screen door pop a few times during my reconnaissance missions. I wasn't being mean, it was really an accident. I think I'll go out one more time. You know, to let the chickens out.

Bye-Bye Nice Blogger Award

Angela will rethink all those nice things she said about me after I say this, but I can't resist.

There is this ballet mom who talks constantly, and to make it worse she speaks in public address mode. She speaks to the room, across the room, to the adjoining studios. Her only volume is ear drum piercing loud. She has a better way to do everything. She has done everything more often and better. Even if you are talking privately to another mother or father she will listen in and start broadcasting her experience. Yesterday, I was taking advantage of the unpredictable audition wait time reading a book. A couple of mothers started talking quietly on the other side of me and BOOM!, the PA system was put into operation right across my head. I assumed that since I was obviously reading she would walk around the couch and move closer to the mothers to whom she was speaking. Not a chance, and I should have known since I have had the pleasure of listening to her squawk for a few years.

After giving up on common courtesy, I left my place on the couch, walked outside, and sat on the floor. I could still hear her. Then in spite of my best intentions, I got tickled thinking about those mothers left inside, who had no chance of politely escaping her recitation of her excellence, or her rage at whatever was inconveniencing that day.

Then, I felt terrible. She is obviously terribly lonely, wanting to be a part of a group, and feeling left out. I have been lonely and left out. I feel her pain. I have polished a few stories so that they show me in my best light. I should be embarrassed. Yet, I think I have always thought about others. Now I have a choice for the Nutcracker season, I can avoid her like the plague because her voice and demeanor are the equivalent of fingernails on a chalkboard to my uninterested ears, or I can try to be nice and listen patiently nodding at all the appropriate moments in feigned agreement while she squawks so perhaps she will feel better about herself.

What tack would you take?

A Different Look

Princess, my 8 year old girl, has had a big week of changes. She moved up to a new more challenging ballet class with the "scary, yapping"(her description) ballet director as her teacher, auditioned for The Nutcracker, and had 10 inches of her hair cut for donation to Locks of Love (her idea, not mine).

I'm proud of my baby for wanting to give to less fortunate children, but I liked her hair long. Sure, it is more trouble long, but she handles her hair grooming now except for ballet buns. I was afraid she would look older with short hair and I knew that producing that regulation, slicked bun for ballet would be more difficult with shoulder length hair. I didn't push her to keep it long, though. I only reminded her and her stylist of the ballet company's hair rules. Princess said, "Mom, I can just slick it and get some of that fake hair." I asked, "Why should you cut your hair and then run out to buy someone else's?" She said, "Those little girls need hair to feel pretty." Hair cut. L, the hair stylist, kept the front a little longer for me and suggested starting the bun with duel pony tails.

I was right, though. She does look older which is a little sad. Also, this morning's audition bun left much to be desired. Yet, there was a bun, and "scary, yapping" artistic director didn't mention hair failure. Turns out that the artistic director is not as scary and yappy as she thought based only on his pre-performance version of himself.

I will get used to it. Her hair grows fast.

Staring into the Face of an Emergency

I've lived a life free of dangers that were not manufactured by myself or in my own mind. True, I've done some dangerous, scary things but I walked into all but a few of those situations with my eyes wide open. True, Katrina passed over our community, but we were waiting and planning, and it was only a Cat 1 by the time it got here. Yesterday, I got the chance to find out how I would react in an emergency situation without the benefit of prior knowledge. When visiting a museum yesterday, alarms started blaring, emergency lights flashing.

I calmly took my children to the exit while looking for answers to what might be happening. Alright, I dropped my purse spilling the contents, but I rarely carry a purse so forgot I had it. At the exit, we were met by security who pointed us to the door through which we could join the other visitors and the staff who were not seeing to the animals, where we waited outside in the 105° temperatures with the sun quickly making leather of our dehydrating bodies. Once the museum was checked, we were allowed back inside. Supposedly, dust from the construction of a new exhibit caused the alarms to sound, the fire trucks and police to arrive, and the building to be evacuated.

We were safe, though hot, and I got to see how I, and my children, face emergencies. When we got back inside and continued our tour, I noticed that we were 50 feet from an exit and yet walked almost the entire length of the museum to evacuate. When I pointed out the exit to the children and told them we should have gone out that way, my son said, "Mom, I tried to tell you." I guess I was too busy picking up the contents of my purse to notice or listen. I realized that though I remained calm and my pulse never elevated, I could have gotten us killed anyway (if there had been a real emergency) by wasting time taking the long way out of the bowels of the museum.

Have you ever been evacuated from a public building? Would you have stopped to pick up the contents of your purse?

Eau de Pepe le Pew

On a nightly basis Eau de Pepe le Pew waifs through every crack and pore of our old house. We have humanely trapped and relocated scads of odoriferous creatures from under the house, in the barn, and at the cat food bowls right out the back door. There appears to be a never ending supply of Pepe le Pew look-a-likes. The problem, as I see it, is a lack of natural predators. Country people are scared to death of predators.

In Mississippi, hunters, scared farmers, and rednecks have extinguished the black bear, the wolf, and are trying their durnest to extinct all snakes, bobcats, coyotes, and anything else that scares the pants off them. The result of diminished bobcat populations is an increase of perfumed air and smashed Pepes in the highway. We have a problem, a big problem here. If you remember our nearest neighbor has earned the nickname, The Shoot Family. I know you are dying for the real story, so I will quit pontificating and explaining.

The other night everyone in our family forgot to close the door behind the chickens. At bedtime I shouted, "Did anyone shut the chicken door?" I was the only one standing so I went out to take care of the neglected chore. I quickly came back inside because I couldn't see a thing and I was scared I would fall through the cattle gap. The only available lighting utensil was a wind up flashlight - you know the ones you turn franticly for a few minutes for a few seconds of non-turning light. This was fine since I really only needed it to cross the gap.

I crossed the gap without incident, but as the last fading beams of the wind-up were turned toward the door of the coop, I saw that scoundrel, Pepe le Pew, entering the hen house. Of course, I wound furiously hoping better light would show that what entered the coop was just one of our puffy, black, skunk-looking cats. The extra light failed me. It proved that instead of a cat it was indeed the cute, but foul smelling creature that invokes dread in the heart of all stench fearing Southerners.

Big deal, you say. It wouldn't be except that skunks eat eggs and baby chicks. Though I don't mind if that cute little Pepe gets one or two eggs, I don't want to encourage him so that he will go fetch his Odorable Kitty family, including cousins, nephews, nieces, grandparents, and step-uncles once removed. Action had to be taken.

With my wind-up flashlight as my only weapon, I try to maneuver a very uncooperative Pepe out the door. I made noise, shined the light (while furiously winding so it would be on high beam), and poked him with a stick. He was scared to scent, but thankfully held his glands. He instead tried to dig his way out. Impossible. We trenched a four foot ditch to submerge the wire for this very reason, only we were counting on the intruders being outside the coop rather than inside. I needed more of me, so I went for reinforcements.

Everyone poured out of the house full of excitement and in various states of undress. We banged, shook, shined lights, poked, and prodded to no avail. The cats came to investigate, which helped a lot. NOT! The Yellow Dog came to protect us, barking like a maniac but never getting close enough for Pepe to see him. The skunk seemed unable to find the entrance, seemed unable to reason in his assaulted state, seemed unable to do anything but dig and hold his tail in that scary, threatening, "I'll spray, I'll spray!!!" position. His posturing separated the brave from the fearful, the animal lovers from the natural shooters, and the patient from the quick fix crowd.

"How?; What happened?," you say. The children started squealing and running the first time the tail was raised. Though we were all cautious, quickly stepping back anytime Pepe approached our stations, the real fraidy cats were shown. After 20 minutes of patience, Mr. W. suggested going to get a rifle. I couldn't stand the thought of it, so we waited. I suggested we fully open the door and prop it that way, turn off the lights and sound, then wait. We waited, occasionally flitting the wind-up beam inside to see if Pepe was going inside the hut to eat anything important. We waited, sweat dripping in pools. We waited, losing Mr. W. to his cool bed, because of lack of tangible progress. We waited, until the children took the wind up flashlight and found their way back to their beds. I waited. Finally, sensing abandonment, Pepe casually moseyed out and away. Defeated. I sort of felt bad, until. . . .

Later that night Pepe came back to the house. I think he is courting one of the puffy, black cats. Unfortunately, they are no more receptive than Penelope Pussycat and attack the intruder who is seeking to share a romantic meal. The ferocious protector of cats, The Yellow Dog, comes to the rescue. And we are treated to a whiff of Eau de Pepe le Pew for the seventh night in a row.

Top Ten Reasons Why I Haven't Been Posting

10. We started school last Monday. I was in shock. Literally. I changed gears so fast I gave myself whiplash.

9. One of my work clients procrastinates more than I do, finishing 3 new products the day before leaving for a show. I had to do emergency photography, apply Photoshop magic, write copy, and create, then print brochures. Being the never say never personality that I am, I worked like a maniac and finished the project.

8. Another one of my work clients had complete network failure. They really should schedule these things with me. The first week of school is not the time for computer, software, or network failure. Please.

7. My garden has passed its prime so there is little to show that would inspire others to garden. In fact, I try not to go out there. It's just too depressing and it's too hot to do the work that needs to be done.

6. The chickens are hot, walking around with their wings splayed and their mouths open. They are not cute this way.

5. The cats are sprawled on the concrete of the patio trying to leech any relief from the normally cool, damp, mossy area. They are not regal in this position.

4. The Yellow Dog has excavated a huge trench next to the house to find comfort. Neither the droopy, panting dog nor the landscaping is amusing.

3. The pastures are browning, except for the weeds (actually some of them are giving up, too). They are not appealing and I refuse to touch-up my blog pictures. Wouldn't that be cheating?

2. Since the garden is finished, there is nothing to can, freeze, or dry, so there is nothing to inspire anyone.

1. I'm jealous because I can't write with flitting ease like ZBTZahBTzoo. Thanks, by the way, for checking on me.

Having said all this you would think I was battling depression or at least the doldrums. I'm not, just silent. If the temperatures and/or heat index drops below 100° during the day maybe my brain will begin to see words. Cape Jasmine, will this suffice?

Oh, there is one funny, whole family, skunk story. I'll try to write it after supper.

Cooking Ahead

Even though it was as hot as a "cat on a hot tin roof" yesterday, my mother and I had a cook ahead session. I had a mound of flat leaf parsley and carrots that had to be harvested because of the heat, so we got together to make meatloaf. We each walked away from the project with six meatloaves in the the freezer and had a great time doing it.

I don't like the idea of make ahead meals, except "The Sauce," but the realities of life make having something in the freezer that just needs to be reheated comforting. Princess wants to audition for The Nutcracker again this year which means that I will spend many hours driving her back and forth to Jackson for rehearsals between now and the beginning of December. Add that driving and waiting to my work and homeschool schedule and there is little time for cooking. So, I have the six meatloaves to which I can add a jar of green beans or a salad, 5 bags of pesto (without the cheese and some of the oil) which can quickly become something fantastic, 3 quarts of ratatouille which I can serve on pasta or with some meat or by itself, and several quarts of "The Sauce" that when poured on anything will make it taste as if you spent the entire day in the kitchen (I did, just not the day I served it). If the weather breaks, and maybe if it doesn't, I will make eggplant lasagna or a tasty eggplant, zucchini, pasta dish to round out my options.

Cooking while everything is fresh makes the food, though frozen, still retain a certain quality that makes it not a terrible option. Having a kitchen afternoon with your mother (or some other friend) is a great way to be productive and socialize.