Pretending to Farm

Happy Hogmanay

What a better occasion to re-enter the blog world, Hogmanay, yet another pagan holiday (mostly from the Scottish Highlands) usurped by humanity at large and made its own. Auld Lang Syne was adapted from a Robert Burns poem and the Times Square illuminated ball originated from the fireballs (contraptions of chicken wire, tar, and paper attached to ropes) marched through the streets on this night and swung high until cast into the harbor or other body of water. And yes, the crowds this custom gathered rivaled those in New York City (can anyone say New York City without thinking about that salsa commercial? I can’t.)

So Happy Hogmanay to everyone. May a handsome guest cross your threshold at midnight bearing gifts of salt, coal, shortbread, and whiskey. Feed him well and offer him great hospitality and the upcoming year shall be one of great fortune and health. Hey, I’ll try anything at this point.

Leap back one week and we find ourselves where I last left you, wishing you a Merry Christmas and unsure whether the tree would get decorated, the presents wrapped, or a holiday-worthy meal prepared. Well, it all happened somehow.
Somewhere in the fog of the 23rd and 24th, I pulled out my one anal retentive quality and trimmed the tree.

Felina was not happy about this. She was digging her new arboreal lifestyle. In retribution, she proceeded to break some of my ornaments. This is not a good thing, Martha. She received no turkey or plum pudding on Christmas Day even after she so insincerely meowed “God Bless Us Everyone” while balancing a crutch under one leg. The Poser.

Thankfully, my favorites made it (knock on wood). Papa Snowman taking his wee snowson on an adventure.

Our token black Santa (I mean this in all unseriousness)

Our heavily underbitten bulldog

And, of course, the dear wee baby Jesus, made by local Native American artisans.

We even have a pickle on the tree. It’s a Scandinavian good luck charm. I’ll hang ram nuts on the tree if it will bring us good luck.

The presents were wrapped as well, though their looks began to suffer as the Scotch tape began poisoning my bloodstream. I particularly loved it when, thinking I was finally finished, Hunky Husband plopped down his business associate gifts in front of me and looked at me imploringly. Yup, I wrapped them, too.

In the end, it was all worth it. Even the napkins I sewed (and no, I did not finish all three sets though I did fall asleep at the sewing machine trying) became holiday fodder.
No Christmas cracker hats for us, not when the opportunity to play pirate presents itself.

The best part? Watching the holiday through the eyes of a three-year-old whose excitement at opening each and every gift expanded upon itself until I thought he would bubble over. “My toys, my toys!” he shouted with glee. Even the pajamas and jacket he received were greeted with such joy that, at that moment, nothing could be more perfect.

Yes, Christmas offered me a memory strong enough to hopefully push back my sometimes glass-half-empty nature even when faced with illness and hardship and for that, I will be forever thankful. Granted, I am hoping the whole 2008-rhymes-with-great fortune is a true one and we will not endure another year like the one that just passed, at least farm-wise. We’d be plum out of livestock and then what would I call this mess I write?

Oh, and if you were wondering? Next Christmas, I'm leaning more toward Cordelia's way of celebrating the holidays. It would definitely cut down on the stress level.

Merry Christmas!

From all the critters at Rancho Laurena

Especially the human ones.

Have a wonderful holiday. I'll write again when I remember how to sit down.

A Bright, Bright Sunshiny Day

Today marks the beginning of a new era, a good era, filled with happy children and healthy farm animals and coyotes who know their place in the world, i.e. not in our farmyard. I feel it in my bones.

First of all, it is the Winter Solstice, the shortest day, light-speaking, of the year. For the next six months, it can only get brighter from here. I love those days when the light lingers far into the evening, bringing out the badminton set and the archery equipment. Not that I am good at either of those things, I am about as coordinated as an amoeba. No one stands anywhere near the target when a bow is in my hands for fear of looking like Steve Martin in his early stand-up routines. It’s still fun, though.

Today also marks Seinfeld’s “Festivus for the Rest of Us” so those of you who don’t participate in any of the myriad holidays that not-so-coincidentally fall at this time of year can pull out that aluminum pole, air your grievances, and display feats of strength. I’m a big believer in celebrating as many events as possible so, although we have no pole to set up (thankfully) and we air grievances on a daily eye-twitch-creating basis, we do have a family wrestling match which takes care of displaying those feats of strength (or weakness if one is referring to me). Hunky Husband always wins, of course, but he teases us enough to make us believe we could take him down before he puts the final kibosh on us all. Yup, not only is he handsome, the man is as strong as the proverbial ox.

The final and most convincing-to-me reason that a new positive era has begun happened early this morning as the Pint-Sized Farmer and I were doing our farm chores. (David is serving jury duty. When I told him he could probably get out of it, he told me it was his civic responsibility which made me feel like a gutter crumb for suggesting he skate in the first place. If you’re keeping track, that’s handsome, strong, and ethical. I did well.)

Pint and I were spreading scratch for the chickens, both astonished at how large the now-pullets-and-cockerels are getting, when one young bird looked right at me and crowed. It was a small crow, almost silent and very high-pitched, but it was a crow nonetheless. I haven’t heard one of those since the Great Coyote Massacre of 2007 and it was sweet music to my ears. Our little farm is reawakening to a better-than-ever time and I am blessed to be a witness to it. Once again, life is good.

Not Even a Towel

Let it be heard throughout the land; I’m taking the day off (as much as someone raising a three-year-old can do such a thing). We had a wonderful time last night and, although I am not the least bit hungover today (surprise!), I am tired and I don’t think I will even do one load of laundry. Yes, the washer and dryer deserve a day off, too; they’ve been working hard after all. People don’t have enough empathy where appliances are concerned.

The party favors were a hit. As you can see, they are nice silver framed ornaments anyone would be happy to hang on the family Christmas tree. We added a little gag though and took out the anonymous photos that came in the frames and replaced them with pictures of Jon and Curt, the CEO and President, respectively, of Jon Wayne Construction. Everyone got a chuckle out of it and Jon and Curt were particularly pleased that the photos turned back time ten or so years.

This is what they look like now. Jon and his always lovely wife, Teresa.

And Curt with his equally beautiful partner Jill. Honestly, I think they all look great, years, schmears.

When we arrived home, we found this lovely ornament in the mail. My amazingly talented mother-in-law Carolyn (remember Pint's quilt?) made the covering for the ornament on her fancy dancy embroidery machine. It now holds the proud honor of sole ornament on the tree. Thanks, Mom!

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a day off to begin. Clean-the-refrigerator-out-stock-that-will-be-soup is spreading its homey scent throughout the house and a sofa and blanket are calling my name. What’s that? They’re getting lonely without me? Gotta go, I’d hate to upset the housewares.

Bit It Off; Chewed It Up

By the power vested in me by copious amounts of coffee and diet Mountain Dew, what absolutely had to be done by today is done.

I managed to finish one complete set of Christmas placemats with two choices of napkins, eggplant (I know I should just say purple but it is a dining room table after all and eggplant is food.)

Or pomegranate (same reasoning).

The fudge was finished as of last night. I, as always, used the recipe off the back of the marshmallow crème jar with the only adjustments being no nuts of any kind as fudge is not allowed to contain nuts in my household and no Baker’s squares because fudge is only as good as the chocolate it contains.
This year I used a half and half combination of Ghiradelli semisweet and bittersweet chips. Yum. Oh, and I don’t measure the vanilla; I just glug a LOT into the fudge. (Yes I bought some vanilla but I’m not drinking it. Yet.)

The party favors are assembled and purty. I shall reveal the contents at a later date as I don’t want to spoil the surprise.

I ordered the cute little cardboard gingerbread house boxes from good-thing Martha’s website. Don’t blame me; it was Angry Chicken’s fault. She had them on her blog and I fell in love with them so much that I volunteered to be in charge of the party favors. Yes, that criminal Martha Stewart drove me to temporary insanity. Bitch.

Finally, the bosses’ special gifts are adorned for presentation. The tags say “I totally want to get one of these for myself so let me know if you don’t want it.” A girl can try, can’t she? If you want a gift tag that says this and other irreverent quips, that amazing Angry Chicken has them here.

Now all I need is my fairy godmother to come wave her magic wand. It’s 2:50 pm; I’m still wearing what I was clad in when I rolled out of bed; and I have no idea what I can fit my big fat arse into what I am going to wear. Add to that the fact that I have this huge sore on my lip/chin and also that, after all this work, I am way too tired to actually go to the party.

Although the fatigued part is real, I'm truly looking forward to tonight (as long as the restaurant is dark and my concealer effective). Daniel is making butternut squash ravioli just for me. Maybe he'll even put white truffles on top! As an extra plus, I get to choose the wine. Omigosh, I think I just drooled on myself. I think it's time for that shower now.

Schmaccomplishment

Just a quick note to reassure everyone that I am doing peachy and finding my inner so-far-hidden efficient self. The must-have-for-fudge-making candy thermometer conveniently broke possibly making this the first year in 20 that I have not made fudge for Hunky Husband’s bosses. Then, Aunt Flo came unexpectedly and uninvited for her now more-than-monthly visit this morning and she brought her friend humongous cold sore who plopped herself just under my lower lip. It was nice for them to arrive the day before one of the few nights a year I have the opportunity to get dressed up and go out for a nice meal. I needed accessories after all.

Then, during this morning's shower, I put what I thought was conditioner in my hair (Jessica gave it to me last night because she didn't want it; I think she was trying to get back at me for something). It turned out to be a glaze of sorts meant to be applied to dry hair in very small amounts, sort of like the old VO5 cream that came in tubes. Since after multiple rinsings and blow dryings, I still looked like Antonio Banderas on a bad day, I had to break down and wash my hair under the spigot in the tub. The bathtub is now slicker than San Francisco Bay. Otters beware.

The high tech computer, disguised as a “sewing machine,” is also keeping me company. We’ve mastered loading the bobbin, threading the appliance (it’s a good thing I still remember cat’s cradle from childhood), and sewing a straight stitch so far and, in six hours’ time, we’ve completed eight placemats and six napkins. Apparently, we’re aiming for that hot dogs and buns mismatch. Pint is being very helpful, sitting on my lap while I push the launch buttons and yelling, “Work!” either to me or to the machine. Every once in a while, he stares at me and asks, “Broken?” and this time I’m pretty sure it’s Gramma he’s referring to.

Oh, the joy of the holidays. And if you were wondering how the tree decorating was going, Pint has that under control. He is throwing carrots and/or pull-ups at the tree and naming it according to its adornments. Just hearing the words “diaper tree” just gets me in the spirit; how about you?

A Little Behind (Oh How I Wish I Was Referring to My Rear End)

It’s been a bit of a lost weekend and, although I have some clues, I’m not exactly sure why. First of all, I can’t stop watching this. I blame/ thank Kay at Mason-Dixon Knitting for posting it. Perhaps if I view it enough times, I’ll get the spirit/ gumption to dress the gianormous Christmas tree that sits bare in our living room and has for three days now. Ordinarily I am a very enthusiastic and particular tree decorator but I’m just not feeling it; it may have something to do with the autumn of rampant farm animal death. Who knows?

The tree is ten feet tall and artificial. Two years ago, we broke down and bought it at a very pricey pool supply store that, for some strange and unknown reason, sells very expensive, true-to-life, and pre-lit Christmas trees this time of year. During our first two Christmases here, we laid out a small fortune (that North Scottsdale markup is a killer) on tannenbaums large enough to not be dwarfed by our 14-foot ceilings. It blew our Christmas budget and the poor kids only received a lump of coal (not really but it is fun to see the looks of despair on their faces when we tell them that’s all they're getting). So we broke down and bought the fake tree, after Christmas, for 75% off the original price and another half off that for buying the floor model, the only caveat being that, by getting the bargain we did, we forsook the light guarantee.

Now we have a gorgeous-looking tree that doesn’t smell and has two strands of lights out. I’ve tried to fix them; it’s impossible. Black electrical tape and yellow clippie thingys wrap the lights around the trunk and I am afraid that if I start undoing things, the whole tree will need relighting. I need a puzzle master to figure it out. Will Shortz, where are you when I need you? I’m not touching that thing until the lights are fixed. Damn the decorations, Pint’s thrilled we have a tree in the house already.

To add to the tree debacle, I have not completed one, let me repeat, not one of the handmade projects I had planned on giving as Christmas gifts. Hunky Husband, seeing my conundrum, told me to stop knitting the Favorite Sweater Sweater that was supposed to be his main gift and work on something else. Moving on, I cut out all the placemat and napkin sets for the new table but I don’t know how to work the new-to-me sewing machine and need a few hours of peace and quiet to go through the larger-than-War-and-Peace manual. The trouble is that a few hours of peace and quiet don’t live here so they remain undone. I then started on Pint’s mukluks which are essentially knitted and felted boots. The child won't keep shoes on his feet and the slate is cold; perhaps he will wear mukluks if only because saying mukluk is fun. Mukluk, mukluk, mukluk, see? I purchased the suede sole for them and three other pairs for Jessica, David, and me (I live a deluded state of mind) but am not past the leg of the first boot. AND the company Christmas party is Wednesday night, this Wednesday night, and I am in charge of party favors and bosses’ gifts. Thankfully, I ordered and received all the components of the favors and they just need assembling but I have 10,000 pounds of fudge and a million saguaro gingercacti to make and I have neither the needed ingredients nor the Pint-free cooker-maker time. I am totally beginning to understand that whole fifties housewife throwing back snorts of vanilla extract thing. Trouble is I am out of vanilla. Oy, I should have been Jewish, little presents spread over twelve days, I could do that. Maybe.

For now, I am trying to focus on what I have accomplished only I can’t seem to recall what that is right now. I don’t know how that Angry Chicken does it.

RVHA Roundup, Winter 2007-2008

Because it is the holiday season, otherwise known as run-around-like-the-crazy-person-I-am month, I do not have time to write a post today. Granted, I do not have time to sew four sets of holiday placemats and napkins for our new dining room table either but WTF? Re-teaching myself to play seamstress keeps my mind off "things."

Below is my latest contribution to our local newsletter, the RVHA Roundup. I write a "Pretending to Farm" article each quarter. Our unique-to-this-area farming/ranching methods serve as a broad contrast and diversion to the Rio Verde Horsemen's Association. Although it deals with a few tough subjects, I hope you (and they) enjoy it.

In my daydream/fantasy, I am perched on my roof, alert, angry, and a tad deranged with shotgun in hand, ready to take down coyotes in droves. Dressed in full desert camouflage gear, I am a mix of personalities, John Wayne, Dennis Hopper, Kurt Russell, perhaps even Marlon Brando (and if I keep eating and drinking the way I have been I will look like him, too). It’s been a challenging fall and I am feeling more than a little wacko.

But wait, what happened to Bleeding Heart Liberal Lauren? Miss Respect Wildlife 2004-2007? The girl who used to love watching the coyotes run in packs through the washes that surround her home and enjoyed their nightly serenades despite others’ complaints has vanished with most of her sanity. That “girl” was stolen in the night by a howling pack of chicken and turkey slaughtering beasts and the being that replaced her, that creature is still in the process of metamorphosis, struggling to break out of her cocoon to see if she will be moth or butterfly.

We now have a for-frightening-away-purposes pellet gun that sits at the ready and I’m fine with that but I don’t know if I could actually use real ammo to shoot and kill a coyote. Part of the old me is still in here somewhere. How would I feel standing over my kill, being the person responsible for its demise? Could I live with myself or would I break down in wracking sobs, realizing that another animal’s death was never going to bring back my own animals and that all I got out of my revenge killing was an I-should-be-Jewish sense of guilt. Perhaps we should backtrack a bit and let you be the judge.

It all started on October 10th. My husband, David, was out of town (something about him being out of town lures catastrophe my way; I need the man) and I was beginning morning farm chores in the chicken coop as usual. Something seemed off. Where were the chickens? A few hens scratched around my feet but nowhere close to the numbers that typically greeted me. Still not fully awake and a bit bleary-eyed, it took me a few moments to realize that many were gone and, furthermore, they were never ever coming back.

Feathers and worse littered the larger and newer part of the coop, the section where the fancy chickens lived in their three-sided “summer house.” For three years, we had had chickens without incident and suddenly, we lost 22 in one night, every hen we had incubated here, all the crested and feather-footed breeds, the Barred Rocks, the Black and Partridge Cochins, the Blue Andalusians, and the gorgeous Buff Polish hens that young David wanted to show someday. The coyotes dug through rock and fence, slithered through the smallest of holes, and had a feast to end all feasts. I stood paralyzed, mouth agape, viewing the carnage, and then the tears came… and came and came until I thought I could cry no more. I was wrong; I’ve got tear ducts the size of Alaska and the emotions to keep them pumping.

On top of mourning the loss of more than 2/3rds of our flock, I was worried about our twin teenagers. Young David, in particular, would be devastated. I knew it. He was the chicken wrangler and spent the most time with them. He named them all, played with them, let them eat out of his palm and kissed their beaks. What would this do to him?

Honestly, I don’t know what it did to him. Upon hearing the news at school day’s end, he stoically lowered his head and set to work, repairing the coop, refilling the holes and replacing the rocks that were there to guard the fence line from predators. He barely spoke of it and we as a family did our best to both put it behind us and make sure it never happened again. We drove to Chino Valley and purchased a guard llama, often placed among flocks of sheep and goats by shepherds to insure their animals’ safety. We continued our coop reinforcement efforts and thought that we were once again safe.

Though I don’t readily admit it, I have been wrong on occasion and this was definitely one of those occasions. Apparently, the packs had a hoo-ha and filled one another in on the yummy and reasonably-priced organic poultry over at the Rancho Laurena Grocer and the attacks continued. They took six more hens, then two, then two again, and then, when I was already thinking about packing my bags for Insane Asylum Central, they dealt the hardest and most devastating blow. They got the turkeys and not just any turkey, they got him. Those sons-of-bitches otherwise known as coyotes, those formerly-liked canis latrans whose numbers have increased here as the development has continued over there; they killed my favorite turkey, Rubius, the only tom we had left. I still cry when I think of it; I loved that bird.

So here I am, mentally on the roof with shotgun in hand. Do I pull the trigger? Well, do I punks?

Sin and Bereavement

I try to be a good person. I know I’m not perfect by any sense of the word but I try to follow the golden rule, sacrifice my wants and sometimes needs for others, and follow a reasonable moral compass. I also believe in karma, what goes around, comes around.

So here I sit in my bed well past acceptable healthy reclining in bed hours wearing a mascara-stained face as my badge of sorrow and wracking my brain to discover what terrible thing I have done to deserve the fall we have experienced. Certainly, I have had judgmental errors, youthful indiscretions, and catty thoughts. Guilt sets in when I recall some of the things I have done but, compared to the general population, I think I have held myself to a reasonable standard. Granted, my house is usually messy and my laundry duties neglected. Sometimes I resent the demands on my time and then feel selfish because of it. Yet, I try to be honest. I don’t shoplift, break and enter, drive drunk, commit assault, and I have never murdered anyone (though I’ve been tempted a time or two).

This morning Lucky the Alpaca left this world. He had been feeling poorly and, after doing some observation and research, we realized a recent “choke” episode had led to pneumonia. On Sunday, we got the best antibiotics available for him and, within 24 hours of his first injection, he began to rally, once again eating and drinking, raising his head and even standing. The evil germs inside him were too strong, though, refusing to release their tenacious grasp on him and he once again faded. We were too late to recognize what he was facing and by this morning it was obvious he was not going to make it. We took him to the hospital but nothing could be done so his suffering ended and I hope and pray he is at peace.

We will miss our Lucky. He was kind and gentle and his soulful eyes served to both soothe the distressed and reassure the doubtful. He liked apples if I held them for him and, even though he knew he wasn’t allowed them, he did his best to sneak some cob with molasses instead of his sugar-free llama pellets. We will miss our boy, our first alpaca, our friend.

I hope to see you again sometime, my lovely boy.

And if anyone is listening, please forgive my faults, my sins, and my errors. I can’t take much more of this.

I just received word that my friend and fellow animal lover Julie who works with Valley of the Sun Giant Schnauzer Rescue lost her Greta this morning. It is our hope that she and Lucky shared their journey over the bridge and are both at peace and pain-free. Julie, I am so sorry for your loss. Thank you for all that you do for that wonderful breed and all that you give of yourself. I love you.

The Odd Couple

Marshall and Albert, both someplace they shouldn't be, personifying our household in one photo. Blessed? Cursed? You be the judge.