Pretending to Farm

What You Missed

One thing we learn on a farm, even a small pretend one like ours, is that life can be cruel; and, in the last 17 months, we have definitely had our share of cruelty. Loss occurs without narrative or explanation; it occurs via storms, tumors, and predators; it occurs with little emotion from nature itself. 

Although at times I have perceived nuanced sadness from the farm lot and the in-house domestics, mourning is an individually human adventure and mourning we have done. Hey, you wanna mourn some, too? It’s fun; you get to eat all the Ben and Jerry’s you like straight out of the pint carton and people say nice things to you and make you feel all warm and loved inside. Spoons at the ready? Let’s catch up.

 3. Chickens

   

Some of you might recall the Great Chicken Massacre of Summer 2006. Coyotes had discovered the Rancho Laurena Chicken Shack in our backyard and couldn’t get enough of that free range poultry goodness. This led to the purchase of Spartacus, our most excellent guard llama, and essentially took care of The Mysterious Case of the Disappearing Chickens. Well, guess what Nancy Drew? Bobcats ain’t afraid of no llama. And they’re sneaky. And husbands think they’re mountain lions. So the chickens started disappearing, first, the bolder ones who eschewed the comforts of their home for the wilderness of the trees and then the elderly and ailing. We began receiving telephone calls from our area’s mandatory nosey/crotchety neighbor. Poor bitch, she actually had to bend over and pick up a few chicken feathers. Then she had to start hanging feathers with notes attached on our back fence as if we were in danger of impending tribal warfare. 

To give her credit, she was the one who fingered bobcat as the perp though David saw the attack cat early one morning and said it was at least 50 pounds where bobcats who don’t eat fried food top out at 35 so it must be a mountain lion, right? Right? After a particularly bad loss in which all the roosters but one died in defense of their harem, many of which we lost as well, the boys four spent a day in the farmyard battening and boarding and we have lost no chickens since (though we have received a couple more notes from Injun Ginny). 

 2. Ducks

   

It was a dark and stormy night, actually, the stormiest since we moved here. Thunder. Lightning, the way it shook was frightening. You gotta knock, knock, knock on wood. And then awake to a bunch of dead ducks. 

Poor Robert was on a school break and had the misfortune to be saddled with the post-storm farm chores. A scant two minutes after he went out into the farmyard he returned to share this particular non bon mot, “I’m sorry Mom but all the ducks are dead.” Yeeeaaaahhhh, metal poles were maybe not the best materials to use in the construction of the duck pen. With the exception of one horror flick worthy inside out bird, the rest of the birds were without injury and, if not for the fact that they were ducks and could not hold a glass or wear Nikes, one might have thought they committed group hari kari to get on that space ship orbiting for losers. Lightning, shockingly effective killing method. 

Yes, things are no longer ducky here at Rancho Laurena 

 1. Molly

   

Molly deserves the number one spot because, after all, her passing affected us more than any other. She was a crazy old bloodhound but she was our crazy old bloodhound and, for that, we loved her. 

In case you have forgotten/never knew, we adopted Molly from a woman at Camp Pendleton whose husband was injured in Iraq and whose new handicapped housing would not allow pets. Unknown to us, Molly arrived in heat and we awoke the following morning to the raucous sounds of bloodhound sex in our backyard (they howl, you know). Next came puppies and bottlefeeding and wildfires and evacuations, all enough to drive a sane dog a little crazy and this adopted one certifiably batshit. 

Molly was, above all, David’s dog. That dog loved him more than all of Troy loved Helen. Even when old, obese, and very infirm, Molly followed David’s every move, slept beside him, worshipped at his feet. Though perhaps not quite as obsessive, David returned Molly’s feelings and it was a far right nightmare scenario made in heaven (yes, the approval of gay marriage will lead to legal man-dog love). 

In one month’s time, what had been a small fatty tumor on Molly’s torso grew to the size of a large bisected soccer ball which bounced sickeningly at her side. The vet said nothing could be done, that a real danger of bleeding out existed, and that Molly’s rainbow bridge time had come. Sadly, we said au Revoir to our crazy old bloodhound and buried her in that Stephen King novel in our backyard. 

We’re still a little sad but, on the bright side, our food bills are lower. 

So there you have it. I may have missed a few things but I tend to suffer from a combined case of post traumatic farm death disorder and can’t remember shit. Tomorrow, I shall talk about things less rigor mortissy. Until then...

Is Mr. Wizard Still Out There?

We awoke this morning to unrelenting wind and driving rain, atypical for our little patch of the Sonoran Desert. It was still dark, causing me to wonder if the washes were running, how the livestock were faring, and if anything had been swept away or, on the contrary, deposited homeward. Leaving myself bare, I looked at Hunky Husband and pondered, “I wonder what it will look like when the sun comes up.”

Not missing a beat, he said, “Lighter.” The smart aleck.

This is my life. It is not boring and one has to stay on one’s toes or be slaughtered by multi-directional, not-quite-rapier wit.

An hour later, I still cannot see what the storm hath wrought but, in the dim light, I am assured that none of our livestock are tumbling down our semi-annual river and our home has not leapt from its moorings so I think we’re okay. It’s probably silly to worry about a simple rain storm when elsewhere snow is drifting and waves are roaring but, hey, I’m nothing if not egocentric. We got five whole inches of rain last year; two in a 24-hour period makes an impact.

Meanwhile in the house world, all remains a this-is-the-filthiest-I’ve-ever-seen-it mess. This is not helped by these.

Or the rabbit who thinks he is a cat
(or bloodhound depending upon his present company). His potty training is not going well, still thrown way backwards since our Thanksgiving absence, and he is now in solitary confinement in the master bathroom (which is fairly large so it’s not like we’ve thrown him down a dark hole with a pocket watch and given him the idea he is late for a very important date).

This one doesn’t help either. He has a penchant for knocking things over, graceful feline my you-know-what. Felina can literally pussy-foot her way across a tabletop of clutter and never graze one object but Apollo takes after his Rocky-born namesake, Apollo Creed.

He does make it up by keeping our laps warm during those rare relaxing times. Of course, he also never fails to accompany us to the restroom because no one wants to do their business in solitary peace. I have had Marshall the bloodhound, Apollo the part-Siamese-if-you-please, and a certain Pint-sized farmer all join me in the tiny throne room. Oh, joy. You know, I grew up in a usually-quiet family of three (or four if you include Terry Dog), two parents and me. Lately, I’ve been thinking I conked my head one too many times during those aforementioned eighties, leading to my current predicament/blessing. Help, Mr. Wizard.

So now I must rise and shine (flicker?) and dive into the overwhelming clutter and dustbowl that is my home. I feel like I am in the scene in “Apollo 13” after Tom Hanks’ character and his wife have thrown a party and she says, “The house is too dirty; we’ll have to move.” Wish me luck (or send a housekeeper or ten). I’ll need it.

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.

Yarn on Hooves

The first thunderstorms of the monsoon season rolled through in the night, providing much needed water for the desert plants’ and animals’ survival as well as lightening my mood with the promise of rain-cooled air. Morning’s overcast skies chained me to bed until six instead of the intended 4:30 or 5:00, so timed for snapping photographs while the temperature was still tolerable. I persevered, however, hoping for picture taking in a temporarily cooler atmosphere but instead found East Coast-like humidity. Within moments, I was downright dewy. An overly wimpy heat-sensitive pretend shepherdess can’t win for losing.

I did find out something about myself. Part of my recent melancholy has to do with farm animal separation. While taking photos this morning, I felt like it had been forever since I had visited with my fleecy friends up close. I have to force myself to “suck it up,” Hunky Husband’s favorite mantra, and be out there if only for a little while each day. I have lost touch with the farm and have only a spoiled rotten baby turkey (seen here doing his best rubber chicken impersonation) as close physical evidence of what we have built here. If I have to go as far as wetting towels and putting them in the freezer the night before for application around my neck in order to be out there with the farmy bunch, that is what I have to do. Reconnecting with what I love about this place is the key. I know this now. Don’t think I’ve changed my mind about going to San Diego though. I’m being honest with myself, not masochistic.

Philosophical musings ended; let’s take a peak at the yarn on hooves.

Behold Madeline, still looking the baby bison, just a much larger baby bison. She is almost as big as her mother who, by the way, weaned Maddy just fine without any help from us. After hearing many differing viewpoints from the Shetland email group, I was concerned that once again, we would have to consider separating the sheep into pastures but we let nature take its course and, voila, it worked! Sometimes I think all the human interference is unnecessary, but then I remembered the whole elbow deep in the uterus business, too. Perhaps we shepherds should only interfere when the health of the animal is in danger.

Speaking of, look at poor skin and bones Daisy. She acts like she feels fine, eats and walks around, but she is a shadow of her former self. From her appearance, I’m afraid she’s not long for this world but I am not about to begin meat goat chemo. Hopefully, she’ll rally but I am not counting on it. The sad truth about farming is it is full of heartbreak.

On a lighter note, I present the handsomeness that is Darby O’Gill, blessed with lovely crimped moorit fleece, nicely set horns, and a physique any ewe would lust after. He’s a looker, that Darby.

His twin sister Fiona is as well, though her shy personality made photographing her a challenge. She and her mother, Charlotte, almost look like the true twins. Fiona is just slightly smaller and has that wee bit of grey around her mouth. Other than that, their lovely faces are almost identical.

Until my departure Friday morning, I will endeavor to continue rediscovering my inner farmer and furnish the photos for proof. A very handsome rooster was begging to be photographed for posterity and I wouldn’t want to disappoint him.

Whiskers on Kittens

Last night, as I sat down to begin spinning Leroy No-Longer-Brown’s fleece, I found that, not only did it look like it had a lot of VM in it for fleece that had been professionally processed, it in fact did. After losing a few tedious hours to picking out every little scrap of hay, burr, and leaf, I decided to abandon my spinning for the night and haul out the drum carder this morning to re-process it.
This is not one of my favorite things. In fact, it’s exponentially more boring than watching grass grow and, if I didn’t have my trusty iPod, the littered fleece would take many moons to get through.

To counteract the fact that a good portion of my day has been devoted to do something very un-favorite, I thought I would list some of my favorite things, despite the absence of Julie Andrews and/or a highly-desired thunderstorm. So here goes (I’ve limited myself to three of each)…

Favorite Books:

Pride and Prejudice
Jane Eyre
The Secret Life of Bees

Favorite Movies:

Ghostbusters (I know but I could watch it over and over.)
Chicago
Pride and Prejudice (BBC version with Colin Firth)

Favorite Blogs:

Confessions of a Pioneer Woman
The Yarn Harlot
The Panopticon

Favorite Blogs by People I Know (Cyberly):

Chocolate Sheep
Boulderneigh
Sheep Thrills Farm

Favorite Podcasts:

Wait, Wait, Don’t Tell Me
Sticks and String
Cast On

Favorite Television Shows:
The Office
The Daily Show with Jon Stewart
Iron Chef America

There. I feel a little more balanced. I could have listed a lot more, particularly on the blogs and podcasts but I wouldn’t want to go too far in the favorite direction and feel all giddy while I drum card. I have my emotional, funk-prone reputation to keep up, you know.

By the way, there will be no blog post tomorrow as we go spend half the day at the dentist and then celebrate Jessica's 18th birthday together, as one happy (do you hear me, my offspring?!) family, even if it kills us all.

Under the Broiler

Wed 97 / 70 Thu 100 / 72 Fri 101 / 73 Sat 102 / 74 Sun 100 / 74 Mon 100 / 73 Tue 99 / 72

It’s beginning. Despite my greatest attempts to squash it down, the dread is rising within me. The heat is here and will not leave, except during the occasional monsoon-driven thunderstorm, until mid-October. I need to sit in a dark, quiet corner and say “Ohm” over and over so as to avoid the inevitable heat-induced meltdown. (Actually, I have never successfully done this, my mind is too busy; it wanders to tasks undone or dreams unfulfilled. My brain is purple, remember?)

We are doing our best to avoid the first step in acknowledging that Mother Nature has turned on the oven, which is cranking up the air conditioning. This is a turnaround for me. When we first made the decision to move here, I said to David the Husband, “I want to go but don’t ask me to economize on the AC. You know how I am with the heat.” Well, that was before our first $475 electric bill knocked me on my generous rear.

Would someone please give me a hand up? It’s time to check and repair the existing misting systems and add more around the garden and sheep pen. Shade cloth has to be repaired and added. We will need to rise earlier, just like Ben Franklin advised but apparently did not adhere to himself, to accomplish outdoor chores before it is hot enough to bake biscuits and fry eggs in the yard.

I don’t like this time of year but nonetheless I feel blessed to have our home, land, and animals who have added infinite pleasure and experience to our lives.

Don’t take that to mean I am not looking forward to October. I might be a mush-factory today but I know that some too-soon day I will tear up because I can’t touch the steering wheel of my car without receiving first degree burns.

By the way, keep an eye on that weather pixie. In the 90's, she wears shorts and a bathingsuit top. She might just get nekkid when it gets over 100, at least David the Husband hopes so. It's the little things that keep us going somedays. Woohoo!

Perchance the Haboob Threw the Stork Off Course

Last afternoon and evening, we had an enormous wind and dust storm, known as a haboob. I suppose this term is Middle Eastern in origin but I think the local weatherman continues to use it so, come commercial breaks, he can giggle and say, “Ha, ha! I said boob on TV.” (My mother and I have concocted a theory that all local newscasters come from an island somewhere full of shallow talkative people with big hair that are helicoptered out as positions become available.) The winds topped 50 mph and once darkness fell, the whistles and groans the heavy gusts created gave me the feeling of, rather than living in an adobe home in the Sonoran Desert, I was huddled in an old stone cottage on the moors of northern England. I felt as if Heathcliff was going to come bursting in anytime lamenting the loss of Catherine and morosely leaning his heavy head against his arm on the mantle of the nonexistent giant stone fireplace. (Yes, I was alone other than a sleeping Pint; yes, I have a vivid imagination; and yes, I am still taking painkillers.)

This morning many things are placed differently than they were before said haboob. The patio furniture upstairs and down is upside down and sideways. Thankfully, we remembered to close the umbrellas and lay them on their sides unlike the last time when, even though the umbrella was closed, it launched missile-style from the roof top deck and committed hari-kari by plunging point first into the ground and breaking into a million pieces. The inflatable pool toys are no more as they were thrown pell-mell into cacti and, once deflated, ended up in tree limbs and stuck in between fence posts. In addition, all the straw that we had carefully raked into lamb-friendly bedding areas is now on the opposite side of the big yard, covering what little we have left of the sod. We lost the shingles from the original ruminant shelter (we have changed to tin roofs in the construction of all further enclosures) and the goat pen is littered with tar paper and other roof-building detritus. As you can tell, I’ve got oodles of clean-up to tackle and no David-the-Husband today, but since I’ve misplaced my helmet and shoulder pads, I will put if off until I have the energy to find them. Interestingly enough, all the VM- (vegetal matter) filled wool I used as garden mulch stayed perfectly in place, furthering my admiration for its stability and usefulness, as well as its warm and fuzzy producers.

Speaking of which, we are still on Charlotte lambing watch. She’s become weary of my looming presence and of me staring at her private parts, which are noticeably swollen. I have been told this means she is effacing and dilating and lambing could occur anytime. As David the Husband is away for business overnight, it will probably happen while he is gone. At least, that’s his fear and mine. As always, I will keep you posted.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go stare at Charlotte’s vagina for the millionth time. Here’s a little something sheepy to keep you entertained while we await the blessed event:

We here in the Wild West don't care a continental for this spring forward bosh.

Spring forward. Today, as in the-middle-of-this-morning’s-night today, those of you who are out-of-the-Zone or non-Arizonans had to set your wee little clocks ahead one hour (though these days the-computer-chips-in-everything-and-soon-the-back-of-our-necks do it for many digital time pieces.)

Note to my friends and family in California: We are bending our elbows concurrently again. Please remember that.

Arizona does not participate in this crazy manipulation of time and confuser of VCR programmers everywhere. Being of the independent sort, and still embracing our Wild West roots, we choose not to mess with that hogswallow. Why, you ask? (Besides the reasons I just gave you.)

In short, we do not need one more ray of sunlight, much less a full hour of the dadgummed stuff in these parts. When I lived in “sunny southern California,” I thought the sun was stupid there in its inability to stop shining, but here? It’s downright dumb as a stump. Until the invariably-letting-me-down-in-its-severity-vs.-its-description “monsoon” hits, usually in mid-July, we will not see another cloudy, much less rainy day. It makes me crazy(er). When I hear that Windex commercial singing of that bright, bright sunshiny day, I want to hurl objects at the television screen (except it cost way too much to treat in that matter and if I indeed do that, well that will be the day you all can say in unison and without doubt, “She’s certifiable.”)

So tonight when all you who made-fun-of-us-because-we-are-Zonies-and-descend-on-your-shores-when-the-temp-climbs-above-100-here are trying to sleep because you have to get up and go to work in the morning and the clock says ten but your circadian rhythm tells you it is only nine, well, that’s karma baby. I could go on about how tired you’re going to be in the morning because of the same issue, but I will refrain. I have my own karma to consider, you know.

For now, I will quit beatin’ this dead horse and stop shooting my mouth off. I’ll pull in my horns, and holster my six-guns.

Besides, I’m fixin’ to skedaddle out yonder and get all things farmy in apple pie order before it gets hot as a whorehouse on nickel night out there.

Sleep well, pardners!

Meteorologists Schmeteorologists

Did you ever read the book by Madeleine L'Engle, A Wrinkle in Time? In it, a small group of children use something called a tesseract (I think; I read the novel 30 plus years ago) to travel to different times and places. Well, I think fiction has come to life here at Rancho Laurena. Strange things are happening in the Sonoran Desert.

Just last week, I was applying multiple layers and wool socks as accessories to my slippers and jammies to venture outdoors for morning farm chores. All of a sudden, however, I can scoop alpaca poo in shorts and t-shirts. (Not that I wear shorts. My mother didn’t allow me to wear them to school when my gams were attractive, even though at the time I thought they were not, and now I refuse to wear them because my legs are flabby and covered with something resembling grayish-pinkish-whitish purple-splotched tissue paper.) I have switched to light cotton jammie pants and tank tops or t-shirts. My pigskin gloves are making my hands sweat but I wear them because I am (get ready for another ridiculous aspect of Lauren) allergic to hay and get little itchy red bumps and sometimes hives all over my hands and arms when I come in contact with it. I’m also allergic to cats and dogs but that didn’t stop me from getting them. See how I suffer in the name of love?

As an aside, I do fine with being around the animals. It’s similar to getting allergy shots. The constant exposure tones down the histamines. Yet, if I go anywhere for more than two days where I am not exposed to pets, I come back a raging, red-eyed, my-throat-is-closing-up-on-me ridiculously repetitive sneezer. As I rarely leave the compound though, this is not typically an issue.

Digression finished, whether because of global warming or someone’s cruel joke or karma for something I did years ago that I have forgotten or, and I can’t imagine this, something having nothing whatsoever to do with me, it is supposed to hit 91 on Sunday. The high today is forecasted to be 86. Does no one realize it is still March, more specifically the first half of March? I already had to turn on the ceiling fan in our bedroom and, of course, I didn’t think to clean it first so for a few fleeting moments it snowed five months of accumulated dust all over the bedspread and furniture and, oh yeah, my diet Pepsi and me. If I squinted just the right way and used my son Robert’s imagination, which is boundless, it was almost like the real thing and attractive to boot. Until I had to clean up the accumulated flurries.

They (read fancy pants meteorologists group raining on my previously-enjoying-spring-parade) say 2007 will be the hottest on record. Can anyone say brink of sanity? I knew you could.

Boy, I miss Mr. Rogers.

Blame It on the Weather

We awoke this morning to a drizzly cool gray day, a day antithetical to accomplishment and drive. The pull to curl up by the fire and knit is strong, but the time-sucking computer is stronger, urging me to get lost in it, to search for new podcasts and free music from independent, unsigned groups. This day calls for that second pot of coffee and staying in fleece slippers and warm pajamas longer than typically accepted.

Outdoors the ruminants seem comfortable in the gloom. Their ancestors came from the northern British Isles, from the mountains of Turkey, and from the highest Andes. A little mist is nothing compared to what they have evolved to endure and their contempt of any discomfort on our parts is palatable.

The chickens aren’t quite so cocky, pardon the pun. They huddle in their coop, as if, a la the wicked witch of the west, they would melt if water hit feathers, or at the least they would get mad, madder than the proverbial wet hen. Their relation to the turkeys and especially the ducks must be distant, as these other birds relish the wet, eagerly embracing any moisture that falls, gobbling and quacking in unfettered delight.

The pint-sized farmer isn’t fazed nor aware of any of these happenings.

“Side,” he says, pointing toward the back door. “Side, yeah!”

“No,” I say. “It’s too cold and too early to go outside.”

He pulls on my seated figure, willing me to get up and brave the admittedly not-so-severe elements but I protest, instead turning on his favorite choo-choo show and selfishly heading back to the computer.

Today I get to blame my lack of activity and pull towards downright laziness on the weather. Tomorrow, I’ll get up and get things done. That is, unless it's raining of course.