Pretending to Farm

The Daydreaming Never Ends

I’m late posting today because Miss Felina, calico kitten extraordinaire, had her first visit to the vet this morning.  The doctor was very nice and the staff professional but no oohs and aaahs for the in-my-eyes beautiful girl.  In my deranged daydreaming mind, I pictured dancing veterinary assistants holding Felina aloft while spotlights caressed her pulchritude.  Angels from on high would spontaneously erupt in song and, with heaven’s gate opened; the Nicholas Brothers would pirouette down to perform a little soft shoe in her honor.  Hmmm… maybe it’s time to call the funny farm por moi.  My mother already thinks she must have dropped me on my head.

Speaking of heads, poor Elora Dannon got hers stuck in the pool equipment.  Shade is a valuable commodity this time of year and, since the pool workings are under cover, Elora tried to find some relief alongside them.  I guess she didn’t realize how big her horns were (happens to the best of us until we see that horrible picture, that’s not my _____, is it?!)  David and I pushed and pulled her this way and that until we finally freed her.  She leapt to her feet, seemingly none the worse for wear, but her predicament and the unknown length of her entrapment gave us a huge case of the guilts.  Because of my detestment and avoidance of the heat, I’m just not spending enough time outside right now.  My wimpiness and subsequent neglect led to a poor goat’s discomfort.  She could have been seriously hurt and here I am hiding in a mechanically controlled climate.  If Al Gore and his ilk are correct and we are heading to higher and higher temperatures, our poor ruminants don’t stand a chance.

Or maybe I’ll finally talk David into

Idaho

,

Wyoming

,

Pennsylvania

,

Indiana

,

Colorado

,

Maine

,

Montana

,

Ireland

,

Scotland

,

Wales

…

The daydreaming never ends.  Maybe I should check my head for that bump, mother.

Gambeling Without the Casino

Here I sit on the back porch again after a quiet Memorial Day weekend.  My poor husband is sick with the stomach flu that attacked Jessica and young David the last week of school so I did my best to play nurse maid to his patient (without the fun costume- he’s sick, remember?)

It has now been two years since our arrival here and, in honor of our pretending to farm anniversary, the Gambel’s quail chicks have begun hatching.  They are incredibly adorable.  Good parents both, the male and female lead the babies from the nest they have tended together for the past three weeks.  Mom, Dad, and a line of approximately twelve chicks parade across the dirt, understandably proud and happy, making their wacka, wacka calls as they display like a true marching band.  The chicks can feed themselves soon after hatching and will sometimes run out of formation, leaving themselves vulnerable to the far too numerous list of their predators.  Hawks, snakes, foxes, coyotes, and bobcats (yes, I have seen all of these at our home) all enjoy a quick chick snack, leading to an ever decreasing parade line.  Twelve goes to ten and eight until four or five remain to carry on the population.  It is very sad but is what it is.  Nature is cruel, remember?  Along with their natural predators, they have to contend with the unnatural ones as well, i.e., orange-vested humans.  Not being a hunter, I don’t identify with the “sport” but know they cannot have much meat on them.  Even with the ridiculously high limit of 15 birds a day, a meal of quail could barely fill Dick Cheney, much less his entire family.  Since we cannot even manage to eat our own chickens, however, the quail face no danger from us except perhaps embarrassment from our adoring voyeurism.

And on the farm…

After ignoring each other for a year now, the goats and sheep have begun symbiotically bonding with the chickens.  Each morning before the temperatures rise, they stand against the fence of the coop while the chickens jump up and eat the excess hay off their fleece, and, if they’re lucky, the far too numerous flies. 

God in his wisdom invented the fly

And then forgot to tell us why.

-

Ogden

Nash

Both species seem to enjoy this and if it cuts down on our food bill, or on my picking-hay-out-of-fleece time, I am all for it.  Unlike the remora and the shark, this is not a natural symbiosis, but I accept it all the same.  It must be the liberal in me.

Enter the Pagan

Our young cockerels, or adolescent roosters, are just beginning to find their cock-a-doodle-doos.  They throw their heads in the air, emitting a diminutive half-crow that has neither strength nor volume, making it adorable to hear, particularly compared to their fully mature relatives.  The grown roosters’ call is loud, grating, and occurs way too often.  If the wind is blowing in the right (wrong) direction, they can be heard for miles away, once again endearing us to our neighbors. 

I recently wrote about these guys in “A Tale of Three Roosters” http://pretendingtofarm.typepad.com/pretending_to_farm/2006/05/a_tale_of_three.html but we have yet to administer the final death blow to any of them.  Taking a page from the book of Pagan, David suggested that Memorial Day would be the perfect time to sacrifice a rooster to the fallen.  As the word sacrifice is literally translated as ‘to make holy,’ I feel this is unnecessary as our fallen soldiers have already accomplished that task.  No matter what one feels about the war (I hate it), any war, and the reasons behind it, it takes more than guts to put one’s life on the line for one’s country and for someone else’s ideal.

On this Memorial Day, before burgers and beer, give a thought to the 2, 464 soldiers who have given their lives in

Iraq

, as well as their friends and families whose lives are forever affected by their loss.  Although I am the liberal so often demonized by the mainstream, I appreciate these men and women and know that it is because of their and other’s sacrifice throughout history, I can sit here on my back porch unafraid and look forward to many years of pretending to farm.

Thinking, Drinking, and Tinking

Drinking beer and knitting don’t go well together, particularly if the pattern is at all challenging.  Believe me, I have tried this combination many times, and being the stubborn pretend farmer and genuine knitter (and drinker) that I am, I continue to try.  I am also a ridiculously sensitive person.  When other friends handle heightened emotional states by plunging into work and driving on (Allene), I tend to shut down or, as another option, open my first beer at a ridiculously early time of day (noon, I’m not all bad.)  And yes, I get that “It’s Five O’clock Somewhere” song in my head every time.  This is how my Memorial Day weekend began.

To continue the list of my many foibles, I don’t take rejection well.  Instead of persevering, I tend to give up way too easily.  I’m not sure why.  I am stubborn to a fault and one would think that would transfer to my goals, but I think it has to do with my many insecurities.  I try to hide them, but not from my poor husband.  Therefore, he has the often unpleasant task of giving me constant reassurance and telling me how smart, beautiful, not fat, etc. I am to counter whatever is bothering me on that particular day.  Frankly, I don’t know how he lives with me at times.  Don’t think he does not have the occasional slip-up, however.  I was recently lamenting my growing weight, and stated that I wish I could go to a fat farm, when he smugly told me that I was already on one.  He tried to save himself, “PHAT, I mean!”  Yeah, right, I might be emotional and somewhat gullible but I am not stupid.

Yesterday, I got my first rejection notice.  I had submitted “The House Chicken,” http://pretendingtofarm.typepad.com/pretending_to_farm/2006/04/the_house_chick.html to “Hobby Farms” magazine for publication.  I thought it was a good story, but after just re-reading it I am not as sure.  Apparently, they did not think it was that great either.  I read the “we do not have a current need for the subject matter” letter three times through, forwarded it to my husband, and opened that first beer.  Not the most mature means of handling the situation, I realize, but it is what it is.  My day got better from that point.  David came home. We watched some fun television and ate some good, phattening snacks and fairly soon I was able to forget those can’t-see-talent-if-it-hit-them-in-the-face editors at “Hobby Farms” and enjoyed my day. 

I do have some penance to perform this morning, however.  In addition to suffering from a slight hangover, I have a lot of frogging and tinking to do as that knitting and beer combination did not go well as usual. For you non-knitters out there, frogging is ripping out your knitting a la “rip it, rip it,” and tinking is knitting backwards.  Knit, tink, get it?  Not sure who came up with that one but I am glad I have name for something I tend to do more often than I should.  Maybe someday I’ll get it right.

With Swiss on Rye

I awoke early this morning with a kitten bouncing on my head and, unable to return to sleep, decided to accomplish some in-house work for a change.  As I began the laundry around 5 a.m., I glanced out the window into the big yard to see each and every turkey perched on the roof of their shelter. 

Turkeys

are great flyers, at least the noncommercial breeds (see Ben Franklin Had It Right After All) but thanks to the bird netting that drapes over their enclosure, they cannot fly far.  When they reach full-size, we might let them explore but the thought of it frightens me for now.  I am sure too many predators crave fresh turkey, and not necessarily with Swiss on rye. 

Rampant turkey growth necessitates extra farm chores this weekend.  We (admittedly mostly David) need to enlarge their enclosure, build a bigger shelter, and head to Western Ranchman, whose stock we have greatly increased, to purchase new and larger food and water dispensers.  Their peeps have turned more into squawks, their hops into struts, and their appearance is reminiscent of more awkward teenagers.  (For reference, see my 6^th grade school picture.)  When we enter the pen with their mash bucket, they run up to us and jump like slipper dogs, waiting for us to feed them.  Trays full, they hungrily scoop and gulp the mash with their now larger beaks rather than peck at their food as their chicken cousins do.

I am beginning to sense who the males are and who the females are though I am not completely sure.  The sole Black Spanish, who young David named

Alamo

, has grown larger than the rest, as has the prominent snood bump on his face.  He has also begun preening, standing tall and bumping chests with one of the Blue Slates.  Boys will be boys regardless of species. Mature males (oxymoron?... sorry guys, I couldn’t resist) display their feathers when frisky and in the presence of females, leading to countless hand-traced crayon turkey drawings by kindergartners everywhere.

Only a fence separates the chickens and turkeys leading to curiosity on both sides.  They talk to one another often and cock their heads as if trying to understand each other’s language.  No one has attempted to cross the border as of yet, leading me to believe they are fairly equal societies, none having an advantage over the other and no inequality of wage or food supply.  That is a good thing because I am sure our poultry would not appreciate laws and legislation, much less be able to learn another language.  The roosters would call the system amnesty and would try to set up a vigilante force along the fence (good thing that’s built already, that would open up a whole new bag of feed) and the hens would rebel in response, raising wings of protest.  For now though, they are happy in their own Featherdoms and all is well in poultry land.

Imelda Rises Again

It occurred to me after writing yesterday’s post that perhaps my perception is off a bit.  In the post, I stated that although David is here 90 plus percent of the time, the big things happen when he is not.  After ruminating on this for a while (it rubs off, you know), I realized that the reason I feel this way is because when major things occur and David is here, he handles them with little fuss, giving the perception that they are not major after all.  Nice quality to have in a husband, don’t you think?

Yesterday, I went on a job interview… wait for it… at a knitting store!  I realize this is a bit like Imelda Marcos running the shoe department but the help wanted email went out and I jumped on it.  When the application arrived in my inbox, I was surprised to find 18 pages of paperwork, mostly knitting-related.  At the interview, I encountered more tests of my knowledge, such as gathering pattern supplies, correct yarns, and needle size.  It lasted almost an hour and I still don’t know if I got the job or not.  It would be a great test of my discipline, or lack thereof, to work surrounded by beautiful yarns of every color and material.  Wool and mohair, obviously, but fluffy novelty yarns, metallics, silks, all the types I cannot make here.  Of course, I already have more yarn than I could possibly use in a lifetime.  Stephanie Pearl-McPhee, the self-named “Yarn Harlot,” calls this condition SABLE.  Stash Acquisition Beyond Life Expectancy.  When my friend Ilene was here recently, she saw only a portion of my yarn and disapprovingly asked, “Do you just buy it when you like it and then decide what to do with it?”  I never thought this was wrong, but I have to admit I have been feeling a bit guilty about it ever since.  Of course, that didn’t stop me from buying two more skeins after my interview today.  I obviously have not acquired that sense of discipline yet.

Pool Cover Update: I came out of my Scarlett O’Hara character long enough yesterday to examine the pool cover and am happy to report I found no damage.  Phew.  Elephants and alpacas, how about that for quality?!

Felina, or Felinita as I have been calling her, is an absolute pistol.  I had forgotten how energetic a kitten can be, crab walking on the edge of the bed, darting bullet-like back and forth and chasing our toes whenever we move our legs under the covers.  She then grabs these same toes or fingers if they are moving and simultaneously bites (hard) with sharp baby cat teeth while scratching feverishly with claw-extended back paws.  The next moment, she assumes supergirl position, front legs flying forward, back legs extended straight behind, and falls sound asleep.  Her entertainment value is seemingly endless.  Of course, the dogs are scared to death of her.  She hisses and spits whenever any of them get in the same room with her, dramatically arching her back like the best of yoga pros as her fur stands on end.  Marshall, who must outweigh her by 125 pounds actually yikes and backs away.  The power of psychology in action, admittedly combined with the gullibility of a not-so-smart (but loveable) bloodhound.

Well, perception set straight, pool cover intact, and home entertainment enhanced, I await word on employment and greatly enjoy life as it is, job or no job.

Lucky Almost Takes a Dip

A sense of humor is a wonderful thing.  While I was wasting my time venting my frustration about the waste of taxpayer dollars to dig up poor Jimmy Hoffa, the people of

Milford

,

Michigan

were making it funny.  Instead of complaining about the inconvenience, they have developed a morbid sense of comedy.  Milford Baking Company has begun selling chocolate cupcakes covered with sprinkles that look like dirt and feature a green plastic hand reaching up through the chocolate icing.  Another store is selling t-shirts emblazoned with "The F.B.I. Digs

Milford

, Do You?" The local Dairy Queen has begun posting rotating messages including, "F.B.I. You R Out Standing in Your Field" and "To Find Hoffa, Look in the Yellow Pages Under Cement."  Although the search is serious, these townsfolk have found a way to have some fun with it all and I applaud them.

You can read the complete article concerning the people of

Milford

and the search for Jimmy Hoffa here.

From a

Michigan

horse farm to a

Scottsdale

pretend farm…

Many an animal in history has been lost because a gate was not properly closed.  We have had a few hounds escape; thankfully we got them back and have had no other losses.  However, yesterday the gate between the big and small yards was somehow opened and the ruminants decided to go on a pool-side expedition.  Now, much has been made of the amazing brush clearing ability of goats.  Yup, they are great at it.  They are also terrific at eating the sunflower seedlings I have dutifully watered daily, the potted bougainvillea plant, and the formerly blooming yuccas; formerly because Elora and Bill ate the pretty red flowers that just yesterday morning beautifully grew from their tops.  Of course, David was not here.  He is here 90 plus percent of the time but somehow when the big things happen he is not.  The well went out and we had no water for three days, not here.  Sophia died.  We buried her without him.  I know there are more; I just can’t think of them right now.  Alone, I attempted to lure the ruminants (just the sheep and goats at this point) by running to the feed shed and scooping bowls of cob with molasses.  While I was doing this, Lucky, the alpaca, decided the adventure looked fun.  As I turned from the shed, I was shocked into paralysis as I watched the 200 or so pound alpaca with sharp pointed hooves run across our expensive pool cover. The company who sold it to us claimed an elephant could stand on it but they regretfully did not say anything about alpacas running across it. I still haven’t taken a close look at it.  I’m a coward when it comes to household maintenance costs and am playing Scarlett O’Hara for now.  I will think about it tomorrow.  Maybe.  After much ridiculous posturing on my part and many laps running around the pool on their part, I finally got the ruminants back in the big yard but not Lucky.  He hummed and darted this way and that; he reared on his hind legs, first time for me witnessing that behavior, and did everything in his power to avoid leaving the pool deck.  Since he outweighs me and is much faster than I am, this went on and on until I was nearing frustration caused tears.  Finally, I grabbed a garden shovel and a pool net, the only implements I had close at hand, and, while making wild “I-am-an-alien” arm wavings, was able to force him back into the big yard.  Relieved but exhausted, I briefly wondered if it was too early for a drink, but instead turned to my knitting for therapy.  Don’t think I didn’t have one later.  That would have just been silly.

Not a Typical Day

On a typical day, done alone, morning farm chores take about 30 minutes. 

Let the goats, sheep, and alpacas out of their pen, drag the feed cart to the shed and fill with two alfalfa flakes and three Bermuda, all the while using the cart and what other faculties one has (ample hips and rear end) to block the ruminants from entering said shed.  Grab goat horns and pull away Elora and

Pearl

who somehow manage to get past huge bum and are voraciously eating their cob with molasses out of its bag (that is evening treat, not morning food.)  Pull the cart back to the pen with both help and hindrance from all interested parties.  Bill and

Pearl

help push.  Elora, both impatient for her share and desiring a little amusement, jumps into the cart, begins eating, and enjoys her joy ride.  Charlotte and Cookie baaah encouragement from the sidelines and Tumalo and Lucky try to keep pace with the rest while maintaining enough distance to prevent actual physical contact with any of the above including me.  Fill their manger with hay and rinse and fill their water tubs.  Grab the shovel and poo bucket, scoop the alpaca poo, and dump it onto the compost pile.  Cover with straw to keep the flies away.

Next, wrangle the chickens. Drag the running hose to the coop, create pools of water in the dirt for their amusement and temperature control, empty and fill the vacuum water dispensers, all three, use said hose to ward off rooster attack while scattering scratch grains in all directions, including the turkey pen. Check quantities of chick grower mash and layer feed.  Damn, both empty.  Go back to feed shed and get wheelbarrow.  Repeat previous goat blocking activity while laboriously lifting 50 pound bag of chicken mash into the somehow taller wheelbarrow.  Exhausted already so say screw it to lifting the layer feed.  They can all survive on chick grow today.  (David is on a business trip.  Someone has to pay for all this feed.)  Grab the hose again, (I have too many hackle scars to risk more) push the wheelbarrow to the waiting chickens and drag the exponentially heavier bag into the coop, this time blocking three chicken loving bloodhounds from entry.  Undergo a slight epiphany as I understand I have a love/hate relationship with my butt.  Scoop handfuls of feed into dispenser because I can’t lift that f***ing bag again.  Realize how out of shape I am.

To the turkeys.  Pause and shoot loving glance their way as I see how big they’re getting.  My babies are growing up!  Emotions welling, grab other hose, drag it to the turkey pen and fill their water as well.  After a quick look into their box, notice they are out of food also so open the garage and scoop a bucket of game bird mash.  Fill their food trays.

Almost finished.  Rinse and fill the dog water.  Run inside, by now covered in dirt, hose water, and slobber (no poo today, thank you!) and check on the house chickens.  It’s a damned conspiracy, no food or water.  Take their food bowl back outside to the slightly less heavy bag sitting where I could drag it no further and fill it as full as possible.  (Yes I grabbed the hose again; one has to appreciate the pain of hackles into ankles to realize how much I want to avoid another attack.) Run back inside, shove the bowl into their cage along with the cleaned and filled water dish, and I am done.  Done!  Finally, I can play with my kitten!

Yes, you read right. 

After four days of intermittent sobs and complete sadness from missing dear Bella and much discussion on the pros and cons of getting another cat, we broke down and went to the Arizona Humane Society and selected a kitten.  We looked at many kittens, played with seven, and decided on this little one, or she decided on us.  While others sniffed around and scattered skittishly, she leapt onto our laps and purred contentedly. She was the one; we knew it immediately.

We brought her home to mixed emotions.  Robert was thrilled, Jessica was pleased, and David, Jr. was stoic.  As the other two played with the little girl, squeaking and cooing, David sat to the side silently watching.  This went on for at least a half hour as we discussed different names and talked about keeping her indoors at all times.  Finally, little Felina, named after the fair maiden and love magnet in the Marty Robbins song, “El Paso,” walked over to young David unbidden and began to rub against him and purr.  His face changed.  His silent stoicism altered to quiet acceptance and then sorrow for the cat that he had loved and lost.  Silent tears rolled down his face until, unable to face the rest of us, he hid behind a chair in the corner and wept.  We love our new little girl but we still miss the best cat we ever owned.

A Very Blustery Day

A storm is whipping up.  When I awoke, the sky was clear and bright but in a few short hours, it has gone gray.  The wind is determined to blow the last remaining blossoms off the Palo Verdes and the temperature has avoided its typical meteoric rise to the triple digits.  In fact, it has dropped.  Our

San Diego

relatives tell us this same storm swung by their house yesterday and dropped an inch and a half of rain, making me very excited as I love a change in the weather and particularly a stormy change. 

Oh the wind is lashing lustily
And the trees are thrashing thrustily
And the leaves are rustling gustily
So it's rather safe to say
That it seems that it may turn out to be
It feels that it will undoubtedly
It looks like a rather blustery day, today
It sounds that it may turn out to be
Feels that it will undoubtedly
Looks like a rather blustery day today

From:  Winnie The Pooh and the Blustery Day
Written by: Richard M. Sherman and Robert B. Sherman

Yes, I probably did watch too much Winnie the Pooh as a child and as a young mother.  Oh, bother.

A few times a year when it rains enough our wash runs.  For those of you unfamiliar with the desert, a wash is a usually dry sandy creek bed that fills with running water, sometimes very fast running water, when the sky releases enough of the wet stuff.  The smaller washes around here run more often but ours is very large.  We have used it as a horseshoe pit and volleyball court.  Our neighbors once road their quads through it (we put a stop to that quick) and the neighborhood horses and riders use it as a trail (that we like.)

When we first moved here, I couldn’t wait to see the wash run.  Any sprinkle would spark me into action. Grab the camera and the umbrella, and flashlight if it was night time, and run outside to watch the wall of water arrive.  It did not come and did not come.  Our neighbors told us that when it ran, it sounded like

Niagara Falls

, so we kept our ears peeled, but it still did not come.  Doubt began to seep inside me.  I no longer ran outside during a rainfall.  If it rained at night, I would halfheartedly listen for the promised falls, but nothing. I lost hope and one day when it began to rain, I took no notice and ran errands instead.  To the knitting store I went.  While I was standing in line, my cell phone rang, and upon answering it I was greeted with hoops and hollers telling me that, indeed, the wash was running. 

I have found this often happens in life.  You try and try to make something happen, work hard to accomplish it until the obsession becomes unhealthy, and shortly after you decide to let go, it happens for you.  “Let go, let God” my mother and aunt tell me.  I guess so.

Well, after hearing my family’s excitement, I began a high pitched squeak of my own.  “The wash is running?  Really?!  The wash is running!”  Heads turned.  I don’t typically like talking on my cell phone in public; I think it is a bit rude to air your affairs in front of total strangers, but this was different.  The wash, so stubbornly dry for so long, was finally running.  The line could not move fast enough and when I finally got to the front, the perplexed sales clerk had the courage to ask me what was so exciting about running wash.  From her city dwelling perspective, she thought that perhaps my husband, for years unable to do the laundry, had finally made that first step and I could not be more grateful.  When I then explained what was actually happening, she understood but could not share in my excitement.  Purchase completed, I ran to my truck, drove quickly home, and joined my family in a most joyous rain dance.  I let go and look what I got.  Complete and utter joy.

A 19th Century Girl?

The RVHA, Rio Verde Horsemen’s Association, is an organization of mostly like-minded folks here in the valley.  As it is dedicated to preserving our cherished rural lifestyle, we joined soon after our arrival.  In addition to more civic-minded pursuits, we have great fun.  Dinner dances, family picnics, chili cook-offs, and tag sales are just some of the events planned each year.  To me, however, one of the greatest things about the RVHA is the email communication system.  Ted has found some dogs at such-and-such vicinity, Margaret’s horse is missing, the Dillon family has lost their cat and they are giving away hens and roosters.  (Still no Bella, I have just about given up hope.)  In a habitat where a wandering animal can soon become a prey animal, this system, faithfully kept up by my good friend Monica, is invaluable.  I don’t know how many animals have been reunited with their owners, probably too many to count.  What I do know is that since we receive a something missing email almost daily, the system serves a much-needed purpose.

In the year 2006, I feel privileged to belong to such a grass roots organization.  I won’t get too “Little House on the Prairie” here, but it brings to mind days on the homestead in which locals looked after one another and actually knew their neighbors.  In

San Diego

, we knew only a handful of our street mates and we all lived much closer together.  Yet here we have met just about everyone and have gotten to know them well enough to share a cocktail or a cup of coffee depending on the time of day, help one another out with tricky projects and heavy purchases, or discuss someone else’s idiosyncrasies. (We have none, of course, though I have heard talk about noisy roosters and bellowing bloodhounds!) 

Sometimes I think I was born in the wrong century.  After all, I spin wool, mohair, and alpaca fiber, all from our animals raised here at home, into yarn that I knit into sweaters, scarves, hats, and much more.  Yet, I find some of the patterns I use on the internet and am currently knitting a laptop carrier that I will felt in the washing machine.  I raise chickens and turkeys and could live off the land if need be; but we buy our chicken to eat at Costco and if one of our own dies, we bury it in the yard and put flowers on its grave. Pride and Prejudice is one of my favorite books and I can do the things the sisters do in the story, paint, draw, play the piano, and embroider, and I think I look pretty damned good in Empire Waist gowns, but I also enjoy watching the movie of the same name on DVD while munching on microwave popcorn. 

Recently, I was dreaming of larger properties in cooler climates (the heat does this to me every year) and found a 144 acre horse farm, on the internet of course, in

Pennsylvania

.  It was a beautiful 19^th century brick manor-like home with a large pond in front.  The advertisement said that the pond was stocked, sparking visions of sending our boys out front to catch dinner.  When I mentioned this to my husband, however, he succinctly stated that we would most likely not catch the fish, but instead name them and cry when they died.

Yes, I have 19^th century inclinations, but I am definitely a 21st century girl.