Pretending to Farm

In Which the Family Helps Out So I Can Actually Do Something

Hunky Husband (yes, Michelle, I have given in to the truth and David the Husband will now be referenced by this new moniker) is away playing middle-aged Easy Rider with our friend Scott from San Diego, only sans Peter Fonda and with BMW Adventure motorcycles instead of Harleys. Scott says nothing screams old, fat, and bald like a Harley but I think it is only because he is prejudiced in favor of his new toy. The two of them were meeting slightly west of midway between here and there and planning on getting dusty and dirty exploring the trails in the mountains of eastern San Diego County. Though not as hot there as it is here, it’s still too toasty to fit in with my idea of outdoor fun but boy will be boys. For not the first time in my life, I am glad the farm and its responsibilities are keeping me here

Before he left, he did a little turkey sitting so I could finish plying the yarn which I am now calling “Sunny Beach Day.” At first, Zorro did not know what to think of this whiskered mass of handsomeness; but, after a peck or two on the cheek in introduction, decided he would do just fine as substitute for his usual caretaker (me) and they settled down to watch another disastrous Dodgers/ Diamondbacks game together.

Earlier in the day, I had tried to finish the yarn with Zorro along but never could quite get comfortable with the rhythm of it. The cats were poised nearby in case I moved suddenly, knocking Zorro off my shoulder, and, in general, the whole fiber therapy motive was stymied.

Zorro, obviously, didn’t seem to notice my discomfort.

He didn’t mind me knitting either. He must be a fiber friendly turkey poult. That’s a good thing, Martha.

Although I still need to wash it and set the twist, here is “Sunny Beach Day.” I am hoping to have enough to make Pint a little zippered sweater jacket but might have to settle for a vest, probably a more usable item of clothing around here anyway. Most winter days it still gets up into the sixties by the afternoon. Wool, wool everywhere, yet not a climate for its use. Grrrr.

Speaking of grrr, contest #2 did not go quite as well as the first one. I guess people are more willing to come up with cleverness for sock yarn than a Home Depot gift card. Lesson learned, though I was just trying to include the non-knitters among you. Teresa, though she was the one and only to enter the contest, came up with a wonderful and a little too close to the truth at times admission and, for that, wins. Email me funny lady with your address and let me know where your interests lie for your wee surprise. You all forgot about the surprise, didn’t you?

Have a wonderful weekend everyone. I want to thank young David for turkey-sitting so I could type two-handed for the first time in days. I had almost decided it was time to give the blog a rest until my turkey rearing days have come to a close but his reprieve saved me and hopefully lightened your day as well.

Remember to keep on praying for wee Tom, though from what Beth tells me, he is lapping up all the attention he is getting at the hospital and beginning to think he is an only and much-indulged child.

At Least He Doesn't Sleep in Bed With Me

My new best friend is taking up all, yes literally all, of my time. He is my constant companion, whether I am folding laundry, brushing my teeth, or attempting to type on the computer (he likes to add extra symbols and change the cursor position). Like a new puppy, he cries nonstop when left alone in his crate and, since his crate is in our bedroom/ David the Husband’s office, it is impossible for David to conduct business on the telephone when he is in there. After all, it’s not exactly professional to talk to HOA board members whilst a turkey poult peeps mournfully and insistently in the background.

So here he sits with me, either on my lap, on my shoulder, or at my side and Pint is jealous. Yes, you read correctly; my grandson is experiencing a difficult case of sibling rivalry with a baby turkey.

I’m not sure how to remedy this. After all, I’m a bleeding heart wimp who can’t cut off my feelings for any living creature. Zorro is here to stay. I have already invested too much time in the little guy to turn him back to the perils of the farmyard and risk finding his wee baby body cold and dead on the ground.

To add to this, we have summer trips planned and tentatively planned. Do we bring Zorro along? David already visualized the hotel check-in, complete with the “Any pets?” question. Do we answer, “Just a baby turkey.”? The predicaments I get myself into.

So for now, he’s with me. All turkey care, all the time. Pint will just have to get over it somehow.

By the way, those of you wondering how SR Jessica is doing out in the world of independence need not worry. My big girl drove herself to LA to see an intimate Eddie Izzard comedy show and wormed her way into meeting him. She’ll do just fine. And she still calls her mommy just about every day. Weez loves her.

Finally, I need some big time prayers sent to fellow knitter/blogger and good friend Beth. Her very young son, Tom, is in the hospital having a challenging time thriving physically and we need to help him get better and help the doctors figure out what is going on in his wee body and make it better. Fire up the positive healing channels, everyone. The little guy needs our help.

My New Best Friend

After two days straight of finding the same number of dead baby turkeys, one in the turkey pen and the other in the chicken coop, we decided we could not stand any more heartbreak and took nature into our own hands. We had to plan a pre-emptive strike to save the one and only Zorro.

Zorro is a fun and adventurous little guy, who, despite our greatest efforts, somehow managed to repeatedly escape his nursery and had a great time running around in the big yard by himself time and time again. We felt he had tempted fate one too many times and we refused to find his wee corpse like we had the other two. Enact Project Farm Animal to House Pet.

Zorro now sleeps in a pet carrier on the nightstand beside my bed, but during the day likes to join the family, and in particular me, during our daily routines.

He joins me as I check my email and read a few blogs.

He helps me type my own blog post.

When he is feeling artsy, he looks over my knitting.

Yet, he kindly whispers his criticism in my ear so that no one else can hear what he has to say.

Zorro, you’re my new best feathery friend. I hope you like hanging out with me as much as I enjoy doing the same with you.

You all knew I was strange. Stop shaking your heads at me!

A Call to Creativity

Presenting Contest #2, albeit this time with deliberately posed objects rather than serendipitously found ones, featuring the newest copy of "Hobby Farms" magazine, the letter 'B' (which was found on the floor by happenstance with no clue as to its origin), a ziploc bag filled with three blueberry muffins, a pinwheel, and a lifeguard hat). The person who most creatively and humorously comments on the story behind the use of these combined ingredients, judged by David the Husband and me, will win a $10 Home Depot gift card and a wee surprise, which I will cater to the person who wins. You have until midnight Thursday; the winner will be announced on Friday. Put on those proverbial thinking caps and make me laugh, make me laugh, because after a weekend of listening to the endless noisy drone of a Negative Air Machine, I need a laugh.

Speaking of, the hygienist just left and we have tentatively passed the lack-of-mold test. Stay tuned for a partial return to Lauren's sanity and thought processes. I haven't been able to hold a proper conversation since the invasion.

Jakers says, "Thanks for letting me come inside; that heat gets my hackles up."

Flummoxed

David the Husband found this photo on the BMW Adventure Rider website and kindly shared it with me. I assume it is in South America.

Although I am rarely left speechless, this picture has that effect on me. All this time I thought I needed a specialty trailer (which we do not have) to haul our alpacas, much less a whole mess of llamas. Can anyone tell me how the llamas, being naturally distrustful and somewhat flighty animals, are staying on the roof of the station wagon, much less how they got the rest of them to cram into the vehicle itself? This just blows me away so call me flummoxed.

By the way, everyone get your creative writing skills warmed up. Next week, we'll be having another relate-unrelated-items contest, though this time I have gathered some things to put together (unless by happenstance I find another strange grouping like the last time). Also, to be fair and to give all you wonderful reader people incentive, the prize will be for knitters and non-knitters alike. Mysterious, very mysterious.

The Grinch is Alive, Not Sure About 'and Well'

"...Oh the noise, noise, noise, noise! If there's one thing I hate...oh the noise, noise, noise, noise!" - The Grinch

"...They'll blow their machines. They'll bang their sledge hammers. They'll run their shop-vacs. They'll bang with no manners!" -Lauren

Call me The Grinch. Yesterday, we were invaded by the Mold Men from Damage Control and my already low tolerance for non-farm animal related noise was put to the test and I failed miserably. It never stopped, the banging as they tore down the walls, demolished the tile, and ran the negative air machine which still runs and has to run until Monday when the hygienist comes to inspect us. What I thought was a simple shower pan leak has turned into an EPA watch sight. The visqueen surround has grown and is creepier than ever. It won’t allow me to enter our garage from the house. It’s in Pint’s closet, around the bathroom and into the garage, all because of the blown-in paper-like type of insulation we have in the walls that allowed the water to weep and spread like a virus before it morphed into the three kinds of mold that brought the invasion of the Mold Men. (By the way, as the grandfather clock is a really big thing, of course we got it from my really-big-thing-giving mother.)

Because of the omnipresent racket, I think I was totally entitled to open a beer at 2 pm, particularly since it took me a full hour to drink because Pint decided to dump all the toys that I had just moved from the living room into his and no-longer-David-the-teenager’s room into a large, no-longer-organized pile. A Gramma, a Gramma, a Gramma says Aargh! (Sorry, Backyardigans reference).

Speaking of Backyardigans, those of you who are interested in joining our knit-a-longs for whatever character you choose, please visit Backyardiknits and leave a comment. We are thinking of asking everyone who joins to post to the blog and share their patterns, their progress, and their favorite Backyardigan episodes and quotes, etc. It’s still a work in progress but we think it will be great fun for those who are interested so drop on by.

Finally, Pint is making great progress in the pool and, as long as he is accompanied by someone he trusts, is fearless in his swimming and has great fun diving underwater to retrieve dive sticks and torpedoes. Hooray Pint! Hooray Grandpa! I think I need to join them, if only to get away from the noise.

Dye, You Turn Me

My world is upside down and I am questioning my place here. All this time I have been thinking I was the crunchy earth mother type, all-natural, preferring the world as it was originally made rather than how someone has manipulated and manicured it and wham! All of a sudden I want to put chemical dye on everything.

Remember the results of dyeing roving day? Sure, I liked them but the colors were, at first glance, somewhat garish, and I longed to go back to the God-given naturally heathered fleece of my lovely sheep.

Yet once I spun and plied them, they were beautiful. They went from colorways named “Summer of Love” and “Tie Dye” to “Desert Sunset” and “Seaside.” As Pioneer Woman says, I wanted to marry them and have their babies. (“My child, what a hairy back you have.” “The better to supply you with yarn, my mother.”)

I mean look!

And look!

Suddenly, color combinations are going through my head like moving-somewhere-cooler fantasies. I gaze at the landscape, looking for inspiration. I think about other landscapes, flower gardens, rock striations, fabric patterns and I’m once again obsessed.

Our minimum of white sheep (as in a total of one) will keep me in check, I’m afraid, on this one. No grass pasture = all hay trucked in = too much money spent on something definitely unprofitable = no more sheep for ewe. I don’t know how real shepherds do it. Actually, from what I’ve studied, most don’t, they supplement their income with outside jobs. The ones who do make a profit have very selective breeding programs and send the lambs with less than perfect fleece to market (and not to buy a loaf of bread). I can’t even eat a lamb chop much less send a poor wee lamb to slaughter.

So for now, I will fantasize about infinitesimal color combinations and when the desire for color grabs too huge a hold on me, I might accidentally wander over to Ebay and see if someone is selling some Merino or Rambouillet or Corriedale or Blue-Faced Leicester or Cheviot. Any soft, white, dyeable fleece with good crimp will do, thank you.

The Door to Hell

It’s starting to frighten me. I walk by and I feel it staring at me. Its visqueen covering reaches out to me ever so subtly as I pass until I imagine a protruding face and clear plastic ghoulish hands grabbing me, pulling me into the horror of three kinds of mold and deteriorating walls within.
I hear whispers, “insurance blacklists,” “not covered under your policy,” “Stachybotris,” “I’ll cost you thousands, many, many thousands.” Maybe I’m imagining it; maybe I’m in one of those Japanese horror films.
Or maybe it’s real.

“Gramma, you have entered The Homeowners' Zone.”

Findings

We here at Rancho Laurena would like to share with you our era of do-overs and a frenzy of findings. Care to join us?

Found under Lauren the Turkey, her do-over of the season:

I think he or she is very beautiful as does David the Teenager as you can tell from the angelic expression on his face. We don’t often see this side of David lately. I’ve decided when he is exposing the seedier side of adolescence, I will gaze at this photo and know that somewhere deep inside him, this person still lives and thrives.

Also found:

The treasure of the Low Desert Jackalope in the silk purse just a few minutes ago. Apparently, the kids reassembled their hunting kit and were successful during their do-over outing. Kathy wasn’t feeding us all a big entertaining bowl of hooey after all. The woman knows her Arizona legends.

Unfortunately found:

Not one, not two, but, yes, ladies and germs, three colors of mold in our bathroom walls as a result of the shower pan leaking. (I cannot and should not get in there to photograph it.) Shortly after its discovery, the bathroom was hermetically sealed and we are awaiting the arrival of The Mold Men in their white ET suits, Ghostbusters backpacks, and Darth Vader voices. The first tradesmen were not appareled or authorized to demolish mold-filled walls and, although they got a good start on the job, it needed a do-over from a different source called Damage Control. Oh, joy. Please tell me this is covered under our homeowner’s policy, American Family Man.

And just like Poltergeist, they’re here. Mercy.

Here’s hoping all your findings are fortunate and your do-overs successful.

The Three "P"s

It’s a busy morning around Rancho Laurena. After realizing the shower pan was leaking in David the Teenager’s bathroom and the water pooled on the floor was not a result of overzealous washing, we have been invaded by tradesmen of various specialties to remedy the situation. This is a good thing, Martha. It is also a chaos-generating thing with a Pint and three bloodhounds wanting to become pesky apprentices and a germophobic teenager refusing to allow any of the “funny-smelling” shower rods, doors, and/or hardware to be piled in his newly moved into and painted room.

As this will be entertaining us all week long, ladies and germs, I will have limited posting time but nonetheless endeavor to keep writing. Anything for my loyal readers.

Presenting:

The Summer of Love Yarn spun slightly thicker than lace weight, wound into a center pull ball, and plied from the inside and outside of the ball. This is all I have as this was the colorway that Carrie chose. I think it will make a nice accent to an otherwise plain sweater, maybe collars and cuffs or decorative edging.

Premiering:

The Backyardiknits. If those of you with small children have not found “The Backyardigans,” stop what you’re doing and check your TV Guide until you find it. Sit down with your own Pint, watch, repeat. Beth, Brandy, and I started this wee blog, not associated with the show but admiring it. Backyardiknits, as you can deduce from its name, is for its fans that knit. A few free patterns are already there plus a handful of posts from each of us. Come on by and pay us a visit.

Play-Acting:

The Pint, swimming in the Olympics. He puts his face in the water and slithers snake-like across the large top step of the pool. About half his body is submerged. After joyfully witnessing this, we devoted much pool time to teaching the boy for real. He is excelling at putting his face in the water and kicking, but only if he has a death grip around his instructor’s neck. He will perform this same death grip from the back and enjoy a quick underwater swim, which we find amazing coming from a boy who last week would not leave the step under any circumstances. Maybe he will end up swimming in the Olympics, after all.

As the young carpenter’s apprentice is getting a little too eager to learn again, I must get back to playing interference. Have a wonderful week everyone.