Pretending to Farm

Magically in Love

Although I didn’t realize it at the time, the day young Rebekah and her family brought Magic into our lives was a red letter day. Yes, Magic has moved outside to the Pen of Misfit Fowl along with Tonks and Lupin. She has mostly adjusted, though not as well as her younger former cage mates, and no longer paces the fence line waiting to be rescued. She does, however, keep an eye on the big yard for the presence of her humans. When she sees us coming, she pitter patters to the gate in hopes of an indoor visit. Most of the time, she is not disappointed.

You might think we bring Magic inside at least once a day because, being bleeding heart farmers, we feel sorry for her but the opposite is true. We need her. I need her. Sitting in my room knitting the Tasha dress or, as a quick temporary break in projects, my Wool Festival homework can be a solitary pursuit. After all, I knit at the speed of sludge and those hours of clicking pointy sticks add up. Magic comes inside and, after flapping her wings to disturb all the paperwork in the room and marking her territory a few times on the towel covering the bed, she settles in beside me. She cocks her head to get a good look at my face and at my knitting. I can see her inner duck critic sizing up what I am working on and, after vocally quacking her advice, she adjusts her lovely prehistoric feet under her soft downy belly until she feels relaxed enough to know all is well with the world (or at least the bedroom) and lets her eyes slowly give up their vigilance. I love her.

Oh, and that homework? One of the workshops I am taking is “Steeks,” which involves a Norwegian style of stranded two or more color knitting. Instead of binding off and shaping the armhole stitches as is the norm in most sweater making, one knits a large tube in the round and then, gulp, cuts the knitting where the sleeves will be inserted. I am too huge a coward to try this on my own without seeing it done in person and, since no one knits within 20 miles of me (it is the desert after all; I really should live in Canada or someplace somewhat cold), I thought this was a workshop worth joining.

For my homework, I am to knit a miniature tube, at least five inches in length, in preparation for the ordeal. I haven’t done much Fair Isle knitting, only on Pint’s really big stocking, but I think it’s going okay thus far. The stitch pattern is called “rose and thorn,” beautifully modeled here by my other knitting-time companion, Miss Millie, our little brown pound mutt. I love her, too.

You know, that is one of the best things about our little pretend farm. No matter how challenging life gets or what dastardly things happen, The Love runneths over and it never ever stops. Like Jimmy Stewart said, "It's a wonderful life."

UPDATE:

When Hunky Husband arrived home from this morning's dive clinic, which was a coaching session for his Cactus Shadows Dive Team, not something to cure injured divers, and after he had read today's post, he said, "I have the picture for you!"

So here it is: It seems that when I leave my station, Magic checks over my charts and instructions to make sure I am knitting correctly, the cheeky duck.

Secondly, Papa Ernie the Shearer is set to arrive tomorrow morning to give the lambs, goats, and alpacas a hair cut. Woohooo! I'll try to concentrate enough to remember to take plenty of photos; it gets a bit hectic you understand.

Suck It Up

“You know you might just have to suck it up.” Those are the words that ushered from my husband’s mouth three nights ago, and I have been thinking long and hard about them ever since. They were not meant to be cruel or demeaning but came out of the frustration of dealing with a chronically ill wife.

I was feeling sorry for myself as usual. My joints were really bothering me and new painful lesions were popping up in record speed on my skin. My feet had decided not to work when I arose each morning, causing me to walk like Peter Boyle in “Young Frankenstein” and making it impossible for me to pick up a certain Pint-Sized Farmer who always wants to be picked up and loved when he sees me vertical. I was beginning to convince myself that life in a wheelchair was coming sooner rather than later and that old bones would not be reached.

And then there was Taos. Ever since I missed last year’s Wool Festival, I have been looking forward to traveling there to participate in the 2007 festival and drink in the atmosphere. I love it there, the crisp air, real trees, and unique people. Just about everything about Taos, I love. And now I was afraid I would not be able to go, just like I could not go to Minnesota, just like I have had to cancel my attendance at so many events and miss out on so much of life.

You see my hands don’t like to drive. After anywhere from five minutes to an hour, they seize up in cramped pain and protest their prolonged position. Driving the nine hours east to Albuquerque and north through Santa Fe and on to Taos seemed like an impossibility. So I felt sorry for myself some more and ate cry baby soup, lamenting the workshops I would miss and the people and places I would not see.

“You know you might just have to suck it up.”

I’ve decided to go. Armed with if-nothing-else pure stubbornness, Robert and I are making the journey this coming Wednesday. Since I waited too long to make a hotel reservation, thinking I might not be able to go and fearing the cancellation fees I would encounter, I had a difficult time finding a place to stay but then happenstance joyfully danced in and, for just a little more than a regular, generic hotel, I found a tiny bed and breakfast to call home for the four days we’ll be there. Our casita has a fireplace, sitting area, and private patio, and is about a mile from the plaza, forcing us into some much needed exercise and hopefully ordering my feet to once again work properly, dang it. Taos is said to be a place of healing after all, serving as the hub of the 86 mile Enchanted Circle winding through northern New Mexico. This year we will travel this circle. If the legends are correct and healing is there, I’m not passing it up for the world.

If by chance, any of you out there share the good fortune to be in Taos for the Wool Festival, after the day’s workshops have ended and our daily travels complete and before Robert and I head back to our little home away from home, we’ll be sitting under the giant elderly cottonwood trees at Eske’s Brew Pub sharing good company and a delicious meal. Robert will have a home brewed root beer; I’ll be drinking a well-deserved I-sucked-it-up pint.

Ode to Joy

I simultaneously mourned and sulked throughout my day yesterday. Severus, our little baby turkey who had given us and a certain chicken hen great pleasure and love has disappeared into thin air and we don’t expect to see her again. We suspect an owl.
As always, I cried and cried, enough to spur David to bring Magic inside for a comforting visit. (Yes, the young ducks have all moved out of doors. Magic is the only one having difficulty with it; she’d much rather be a house duck but I’m sure she’ll adjust in time. Tonks and Lupin have found heaven amongst the muddy water and vegetation and never want to return indoors.)

Losing an animal yet again spurred me into questioning the path we have taken here for the first time. Why did I think I could be a farmer? My heart is too soft and my system too weak. I could no more send a lamb to market than I could slaughter one of my own children. What was I thinking?

Yet, this morning as I did farm chores solo due to David’s business trip, I remembered. The temperature was an amazing 60 degrees; the breeze was light; and the animals beckoning and full of affection. Between health issues and heat intolerance, I have not been as involved as I have been in the past and have lost sight of the joy the whole experience brings to me. I love the farm; I love being a farmer.

Yes, I hate losing animals. A little bit of me dies inside each time we lose one but if that’s the price I have to pay for having what we have, so be it. God willing, I will always be a farmer.

I will close the blog today with a wee bit of knitting progress. The very nice lady whose daughter will be the hopefully lucky recipient of one hand-knit-by-me Halloween and beyond Tasha dress wrote yesterday for a progress report. Here is Tasha’s A-line dress thus far; it’s just under half way completed. The flowers are a combination of intarsia and Fair Isle as I designed the dress (did the math, pulled out my abacus and slide rule, and checked the alignment of Jupiter and Mars) to be knit in the round before I realized it was impossible to knit straight intarsia that way. At this point, there was no way I was going to start from scratch and redesign so I fiddle-faddled with the flowers until I liked the result. What do you think? I’m pleased but it’s hard to be objective after staring at something hours each day.

While we are on the subject of Backyardigans Halloween costumes, here is Cowboy Tyrone’s sweater, in need of blocking, seaming, and finishing the neck. He’ll wear jeans, a bandana, and a black cowboy hat we have left over from a trade show for him to almost complete the ensemble. Do you think it’s a little much to buy a three-year-old cowboy boots?
He is the one and only Pint after all.

Oh Where, Oh Where Has My Mojo Gone?

I have to apologize in advance for a short post lacking in photos and humor. Appointments, commissions, and chores have clogged my day and stolen my writing mojo. Hopefully, tomorrow it will return; I’d hate to have to go on an Austin Powers-esque quest to get my mojo back.

I awoke to a grand 58 degrees this morning, divine proof that fall is beckoning and my mental health is improving! Although I am sure a spell or ten of high heat will visit before autumn has definitely arrived, I am thrilled that summer’s end is nigh.

The ruminants are thrilled as well, their sighs of relief palpable. Even more relief will come next weekend as Papa Ernie the Shearer is visiting Sunday to take a few bags of yarn-to-be off the three Angora goats, this year’s lambs, and, if Son Ernie can come along, the alpacas as well.

Daisy, being a meat goat, does not need shearing. Our predictions of her impending demise were overly hasty, thankfully. She eats and drinks like a healthy goat should but is still scarily thin and depressed if a ruminant can be. Maybe she misses the family who raised her during her first year of life. I don’t know but she keeps to herself, socializing very little with the other animals, and responds only to a few of the family. It’s sad.

On a lighter note, Tumalo the Dark (alpaca) and Leroy the Grey (ram) are celebrating the fall air by sparring, pressing their foreheads together and rounding about one another. Why Lucky is not involved, I know not; maybe he’s the brainier of the boys and actually realizes he cannot mate with a sheep or goat.

Work beckons, gentle readers. I must be going now. If you see my mojo, tell it in no uncertain terms to high tail it back this way. Thank you very much.

Oh, and by the way, for those of you who wanted to know why my mother’s portrait hangs in Epcot, it is because the photographer who took it entered it into a national contest and won. It is a beautifully done photograph, but the subject matter didn’t hurt either.

Felix Cumpleanos Mi Madre

Maybe it was a case of brain flu or the first signs of dementia OR maybe I had just run out of farmy things to write about in the last week. Today, however, we are back to the banner subjects. Thank you for your patience and understanding.

Family first, isn’t that what that (insert bit tongue here) James Dobson calls his organization? I’m not sure; I get all those ________ mixed up. The saying is true today though, because it is my dear mother’s 65th birthday.

My beautiful mother, who our friend Tony jokingly calls my “evil twin,” looks nothing close to 65. In fact, anyone meeting us for the first time thinks we’re sisters and they’re being very sincere. Thankfully, this is due to her youthful appearance and hopefully not my elderly one. How does she do it? Well, she eats well, exercises, takes loads of vitamins, and preserves herself well with good Scotch. We thankfully share good appearance genes, though hers are better, as well as some not-so-great emotional ones but this is neither the time nor place for that. Since my mother is once again jet-setting around the world (well, this time she is in North Carolina instead of Peru or Kenya or Australia), I have to wish her a very Hap Bird Day via the blog. I love you, Meem. I’d say whoop it up for your special day but I’m sure that plan is already in action.

Here’s a portrait of my mother that hangs in Epcott Center.

And here are the wine markers I made for your birthday present, Mom. Each one is a little different so you and the Jolly Girls, Generation Deux, can keep your stems straight. They have Swarovski crystals and silver Celtic beads and are adjustable in size. I hope you like them.

Tomorrow, we’ll go mosey around the farmyard. Margery wants to know how Daisy is faring (she’s still hanging in there) and the rest of the ruminants want some face time as they are feeling a bit left out lately. As the weather cools, we’ll be seeing a lot more of them.

Once again, Happy Birthday, woman-who-carried-my-ten-pound-body-two-weeks-past-due-in-a-5’2” frame. You are very loved.

In Which I Justifiably Berate Myself

All week long, I had planned on posting today about the last of the three reality shows I enjoy. Last night, however, I was returned, ironically, to reality whilst watching “American Masters” on PBS.

I was furious with myself. What was I doing watching silly junk food programming when I could instead learn in awe about Jose Orozco and Diego Rivera, pioneering, daring, and wondrously talented Mexican muralists whose work left me frozen with knitting needles in hand, wondering how I ever dared to think myself talented?

Maybe that’s the problem with television today. Just like the typical American diet has led to rampant obesity and illness, the average network programming has led to widespread stupidity and incuriousness.

Of course, if people didn’t want to watch stupidity in action, the ratings would be bad, the advertisers would leave, and the networks would pull the shows. So the show goes on and we all pay the price in brain cells. I’d rather lose mine over a cocktail, thank you very much.

Now don’t get me wrong. I’m not saying people don’t deserve a little junk food now and then; nothing tastes quite like a baggy of hot salty French fries. Yet, this is a guilty, and hopefully, rare pleasure. The same argument could be made for Reality Shows.

Am I going to give up watching “How Clean Is Your House?” No, probably not, but I am definitely going to watch more American Masters and History and Biography.

By the way, if you were wondering what the third show was that I was going to highlight, it was HGTV’s “Design Star,” because it involves home design, decorating, and art. Unfortunately, it also includes a few stupid and/or combative people selected to heighten the drama and, in turn, the viewership.

Me? I just like seeing what a true artist can make of a blank canvas (or wall).

A Pirate's Speech for Me

Ahoy! I just learned from the girls over at Mason-Dixon Knitting that today, and every September 19th is “Talk Like a Pirate Day.” Why this is I do not know but, garr, any excuse to sing “Yo ho ho ho,” drink grog with me hearties, and fantasize about the so-not-a-bilge-rat Johnny Depp works for me. Yup, that Johnny Depp can show me his buried treasure anytime.

So avast ye maties, we were speaking of reality shows I have taken a liking to, the ones not filled with bilge rats that deserve nothing better than to join their fellow scurvy-ridden blaggards in Davey Jones’ Locker. My first choice was “How Clean Is Your House?”

Second on my roster is “Project Runway.” Anything that involves design whether it be clothing, home, or fine art shivers me timbers mightily. Now, if ye be in the least bit intolerant of pirate smokers, this show is not for you. In a past season, one of the male crew rolled his hair and wore a shade of eye shadow that matched the beautiful briny sea. Savvy?

Since this matters not to me, and shouldn’t to you, the show is great with a few caveats. Each week, a challenge is thrown down to the mates involving everything from designing a gown for the Emmys to creating an outfit from recyclable materials. Some of the challenges admittedly push the ridiculous gimmick scale and deserve a good heave ho but all in all, they fit the bill nicely. Also, due to the inevitable scuttlebutt, a fair amount of flotsam and jetsam spills out between the contestants, my main issue with reality shows, but no scabbards are drawn and all is forgotten when the designs are finished (I love watching them make them; that’s my favorite part) and the runway comes alive.

At this point, a bunch of self-important lobsters including Michael Kors, Nina Garcia, and Heidi Klum examine a bunch of very thin landlubbers march up and down the deck. They seriously scrutinize each outfit while making little notes on their parchment. Finally, after questioning the crew and discussing amongst themselves the way one wannabe designer or another have bilged on his own anchor, they make their decision. The loser then walks the plank and the winner, all ship shape and Bristol fashion, receives a small treasure. At season’s end, the main winner gets major booty, and I’m not talking about J Lo’s arse.

I could go into more detail but, arrgh, this talking like a pirate thing is a little more challenging than I thought it would be and I am feeling a bit scuppered. Just do yourselves a favor and watch it. It’s on Bravo in reruns now; the new season starts in December.

For now, it’s time to swab the decks, weigh anchor, and raise the Jolly Roger. Yes, we have one; did you ever doubt it?

The War of the Terry Cloth

Tomorrow, I will get back to the three (and only three) reality shows that I like, though there seems to be a bit of controversy about that as Pixel Pi does not think “How Clean Is Your House?” is a reality show at all. I can see her point (and I thank her for the Nice Matters Award, too). No competition takes place but it is full of REAL people and not actors and there are many gross-out moments so I proclaim it reality. To keep everyone happy, the next two do have contests.

A different sort of contest is going on in my house right now. My rapier is drawn and I am ready to lunge and parry. En garde, les enfants!

Last Thursday, every towel in my house was thoroughly laundered, complete with lemon ammonia added to the Tide, vinegar included in the rinse water, and “Fresh Breeze” Downy measured into the place where fabric softener goes to die. The used-to-hold-a-TV-but-now-used-for-linen-storage armoire was packed full of newly laundered terry cloth goodness.

Today, it is empty and my laundry room, which I just cleaned out last week as well, runneth over. Twenty two towels filled that cabinet; four people use the towels stored there; five days have past. My frickin’ children (and I say that with the greatest love) are using the towels once, ONCE, and then throwing them either in the laundry room (if I’m lucky) or on their floors. Bath towels are not Kleenex, dang it!

I have told these uncaring minions a million and one times that, after showering and drying off, they need to hang up their towels on these wonders-of-home-convenience called racks, rods, and loops. We have all three, depending on the bathroom in use. I told them that as a child, I was expected to make the same towel last all week long which I did after trudging ten miles in the snow to work in the coal mine for 12 hours each day. (I made up that last part but it adds a little something to the story, don’t you think?)

Yet, they refuse to do it. So guess what? I’m not washing their stinkin’ towels any more. It’s high time everyone did some real pitching in around these parts. And if they don’t? They can drip dry like the fine washables they are for all I care. And they better not raid our linen closet. Hell hath no fury like a housewife harried.

I don’t know how long this battle of wills can carry on but I am telling you right now, as blog readers are my witness, I will never wash a singly used towel again (Picture me proclaiming this on arthritic knees with a fistful of laundry soap in my prune-fingered hands while fiercely glaring at the washer.)

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a serious come-to-Jesus meeting scheduled with the dogs about their irresponsible shedding and, with it, a lesson on proper vacuuming techniques.

Reality Bites

I’ve always claimed to despise reality shows, mostly because they’re an insult to my intelligence. Besides, I watch enough people (children) bicker on a daily basis that I definitely do not need to watch complete strangers do the same in Technicolor. My stress level is somewhere in the disappearing ozone layer as it is (yes, David, I allow it to be there; only I can decide to not let things get to me like they do).

Yet, lately, a few shows have entered the picture, get it, picture, that do not have anything to do with eating giant, mud-covered living slugs, or having tribal ceremonies, or, worst of all in my opinion, vying for the affections of one undeserving asshole by multiple bimbos. Apparently, a lot of people have no shame.

Today I will both reverse my I-will-never-watch-reality-shows stance (someone once told me to never say never or you will find yourself naked on the courthouse steps reversing your opinion, food for thought) and recommend a few I like. I realize this doesn’t technically fall in the knitting/spinning/farming/family categories so here’s a brief summary to prevent the blog police from coming to my virtual doorstep: I’m knitting Tasha in my first attempt at absolute perfection, spinning nothing because I have no time and it makes my hands hurt, growing nothing while we wait for cooler temperatures, and raising a bunch of stubborn, intelligent, authority-challenging mess makers who, despite all this, I love to the ends of the earth.

Take “How Clean Is Your House?” on BBC America. Although I am by no means a stickler for cleanliness and have been known to let the laundry pile fester until it comes to life and attacks me in my sleep, I love this show. It features two British women (I’ve always been a bit of an Anglophile; I blame it on Masterpiece Theater.) who visit the homes of very messy people who one day decided to no longer do housework and the next thing you know, ten years had past and they find themselves living in disgusting hovels. I think one of the reasons I like this show is because it boosts my challenged self-esteem by making me feel really good about my own house which looks pristine in comparison. It also inspires a few changes in my own cleaning habits, mostly because of the lab results from the lady who goes around the house with swabs and takes samples. One wee bit of cleaning advice? Close the toilet BEFORE you flush. Otherwise tiny bits of waste spew into the atmosphere, go forth, and multiply. Ewww. When I shared this bit of knowledge with my family, and added the suggestion that they also use a sanitizing wipe (I placed a pack of them in each bathroom) to give a quick once over to the seat and rim after business is done, they all stared at me like who-is-this-woman-and-what-have-you-done-with-our-mother. Anyway, I really like the show, the two very entertaining women who host it, and the effect it has had on me. Give it a try yourselves, why don’t you?

Since this post is getting on the long side, I’ll save the other two for later in the week but I cannot end without sharing Hunky Husband’s own reality show idea. He thinks it’s a real winner; I’m reserving my opinion and would love your input. He calls it “Get Your Drink On.”

In it, a group of somewhat interesting people in their 30s and up (no bimbos or butt cracks) would get together, imbibe a reasonable amount of alcohol, and let the conversation flow. They might talk politics, tell jokes, get catty, regret or relish past decisions, cry (we have one friend who always cries when we drink together; she’d definitely have to be on the show), laugh, and reveal secrets. David says this is not a binge drinking show as he doesn’t want to promote over-indulgence, just practice it. Like “Seinfeld,” it would be a show about nothing and everything.

I think it has potential but would definitely need some heavy editing. One aspect of the show does scare the bejesus out of me. You see, we might find out we’re not nearly as clever as we think we are when we’re buzzed, that the joke so-and-so told really didn’t deserve the tears that streamed down all our faces or that the solution to world peace we all collectively arrived at was just a bunch of gobbledygook. And the next thing you know, we’d have to eat giant, mud-covered living slugs to make the show worth watching. Maybe I haven’t reversed my opinion on reality shows after all.

Mysterious, Very Mysterious

Da, da, daaaa (In case you can’t tell, these are everyone-look-at-one-another-with-spooky-wonder sound effects.)

I have been writing, or what can sort of pass for writing, this blog for almost 1 ½ years. My stats, or the number of people and page loads that visit each day, have slowly but steadily risen (I guess I’ll win the race) during this time and I am pleased and assured that readers return to the site even though I am a strange, emotionally-driven, different drummer marcher.

Lately, however, my stats have skyrocketed, first rising 30%, then 50%, then doubling, and, as of yesterday quadrupling. Also, the people visiting “Pretending to Farm” are coming from everywhere. In addition to the typical US, UK, and Canadian readers, people are coming from Sri Lanka, Finland, Spain, France, Venezuela, Romania, and even Saudi Arabia (I hope they’re not showing me as an example of how women are not supposed to behave.)

Donning my tweed cap and houndstooth duster in spite of the heat and grabbing my magnifying glass (because I can’t see for shit), I look into what brought these visitors to my site and find… da, da, daaa… google images. People are searching for specific pictures and Page and Brin are sending them my way.

Some search terms I can see: horse, sheep, alpaca, McDowell Park, shed snake skin, and the related rattlesnake babies. A few perplex even me: rock, girl sucking on lollipop, a patient in hospital gown, and one extremely filthy one having to do with a brother-in-law and kittens by another name. Ewww.

So I’m wondering, are these people even reading the words around the photos they find or are they just using me for my images. I have a feeling it’s the latter.

Mystery solved and it’s a good thing, Martha. This tweed is darned hot.