Back already

I am home. Wow, that so-called vacation went fast. Turns out I never got to the Shakesperean Festival. Didn't get any further than the mountains.

I got mesmerized by the blue sky, the sun, the wind in the trees, the sparkling water of the creeks and lakes, the incredible display of stars every night. I liked not hearing another human voice unless I turned on the book on tape I was listening to. I liked not eating or drinking until I, and only I, wanted to. I liked showering in the great outdoors. I liked snuggling deep into piles of blankets and putting the hood up on my sweatshirt to seal out the freezing night air.

So, I stayed in the mountains. And now I am back. It went too fast. But, I know it is still there, waiting for me.

Okay, remember that vacation?

Okay, my eldest son and his girlfriend from Seattle headed back home, home to regular work hours and commitments. My daughter headed back to college, back to a crazy-difficult

condensed/accelerated Chemistry series. My other son is back with his team in Portland, meeting his commitments. The house emptied tonight, quickly. Every one had a bag of food, a freshly washed car, and lots of hugs. It was a good visit.

And, now, tomorrow, I start that vacation smorgasbord I discussed earlier. Where to go, what to do? First stop, my travel trailer waiting for me in the mountains, at my brother's place. Then, who knows? The Shakesperean Festival? San Francisco? The beach? I will ponder, contemplate, and consider when I am in a quieter mood and place. I'll let ya know.

Where do these things come from?!?

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Okay, these things are being killed; daily! constantly! without mercy! How is this a good idea, strategically speaking, unless there is one big ass marauder being held in the wings for the end-game?

Dang, I am greeted every morning by multiple kills, enemy depletion, bad karma! Before breakfast!

I kinda feel bad, but not as bad as I feel when I don't kill sat least one a day, or when my possessions gets compromised by little sharp, gnawing rodent teeth! I am a reluctant general in this war... Really, if they would just go away with their feces and Hanta virus and germs and nastiness, I would cease and desist.

But, I must soldier on! These are rodents we are talking about! Vermin! Scourge! Black death carriers and evidence of poor housekeeping! Even my chickens know enough to kill them when they appear!

I don't want to have a trap notched with a million kills! I don't want to think about little blind naked mouselings with non-returning parents dying of thirst and hunger!

They are forcing my hand, my cruel, survivalistic, them-against-me hand!

It sometimes sucks to be higher up the food/synaptic chain...

Butterfly collection

WorldImages

I have a butterfly collection. It does not consist of physically real, actual specimens pinned to a board with a label beneath. It only exists in my memory, until I catch a new one, then that one exists for a fleeting moment in my heart, my mind, and my tummy.

I am referring to the flickering fluttering beating of fragile wings that happens under your ribs when your sweetie looks at you that way. Or when you see an old flame who you aren't supposed to care about. Or when you realize you are pregnant, or in love, or in over your head. Butterflies in my collection are the ones from the good things in life.

Butterflies prove to me that I am still sensitive to the things that make life worth living; a really great kiss, a really profound and changing moment, a treasured secret discovered. As I grow older, I add more slowly to my collection. The really great moments just don't come around as often as when one is new to the world of love and discovery. But, come around they do.

Be ready with your net, the one you weave out of memory, to capture and keep the delicate wisps of the moment for later savoring.

What is in your butterfly collection?

Live, laugh,listen, love

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live with intention.
walk to the edge.
listen hard.
practice wellness.
play with abandon.
laugh.
choose with no regret.
continue to learn.
appreciate your friends.
do what you love.
live as if this is all there is.
-mary anne radmacher

Pictures of the crew

Lil Peep

Timora

Quaila and babies

Betty and Goober

Goober

Albert

Sleepy Fat Little Fluffy

Alphie (for Alpha, the first hatched)

Pictures by Anne Burker of Whoah, Girl blog

Ongoing War

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Just so you know, the war against the mice continues. Traps set daily, mice dead daily.

It's ugly. Little carcasses willy-nilly in my Jenn-aire downdraft cupboard (I will never have a Jenn-Aire again, these things suck! no pun intended). Mouse turds cast about like weed seed in the wind. Blood, death, dramatic poses of rigor mortis.

These little shits are relentless. But, I have noticed that the dead of this war are becoming smaller. Like coaches send in progressively smaller and less competent players as the first string is eliminated, Nature is sending in the B team. And I am annihilating their resources. Day by day, snap by frickin' snap. But they keep coming.

I have disinfected, washed, removed, sterilized, and otherwise dealt with the path of their infestation. I am losing my sense of humor. If ever I had one regarding mice in my home.

This is like a horror show for me, a nightmare come alive. Anyone who knows me gets that I don't do creepy infestation/germs/uncleanliness without major upheaval. I am in a crisis here, trying to keep shit in perspective. Because...big sigh and setting of shoulders here...I am a farm girl. But, for cryin' out loud, I am also a nurse. I love the smell of bleach and alcohol; isopropyl, not ethanol.

I will soldier on. Like Winston Churchill advised, I will never, never, never give up. As I have said before, farm life ain't for sissies.

Peace

A friend sent this to me. Thank you, Karen.

May there be peace within. May you trust that you are exactly where you are meant to be. May you not forget the infinite possibilities that are born of faith in yourself and others. May you use the gifts that you have received and pass on the love that has been given to you. May you be content with yourself just the way you are. Let this knowledge settle into your bones, and allow your soul the freedom to sing, dance, praise and love. It is there for each and every one of us.

--Unknown

Vacation Filler

You can observe a lot just by watching.

--Yogi Berra

Vacation Filler

589. They should know that bad hygiene frequently results in body odor, antibiotics and people not wanting to approach them.

--from1001 Things Every Teen Should Know Before The Leave Home (Or Else The'll Come Back)

Vacation Filler

I am going to fill my blog with favorite stuff in order to keep it going while I travel. I will try to communicate from the road, but no promises...

Try to live 'til you die, not just 'til you get run over.

--from Grit & Gumption

A Cowgirl's Guide

Mouse-acre (like massacre, get it?)

The seventy acres around the house was harvested and mowed, shaving the wheat and fescue off to stubble. That really upset the resident rodent population, let me tell you. No longer able to scamper around in stealth mode, under cover of grass, they have made the decision to move to safer digs.

Some have gone to the barn. Some to the pool house. Some to the cool darkness under the house. And some think they belong in the house, more specifically in the cupboard under the Jenn-aire, where the downdraft exits through the subflooring and provides a nice stairway to heaven. That is, my kitchen. Where a war for turf is being waged with deadly results.

That's the cupboard I have been keeping my toaster. Not any more... Here's why;

I set a trap in the cupboard just to see what it might yield. It caught a mouse. Then, another the next night. Then, I set two traps. Two mice, for God's sake. Okay, I am on to something. This is no advance mission/point man thing. This is a full on assault. I took out Sun Tzu and reviewed it. Emboldened by the master's words, I bravely strove on.

I set another trap, a single this time, gooey with Tillamook cheddar and Adam's all natural peanut butter (extra crunchy). Upon my arrival home from work, I checked the cupboard. My skin burned with released adrenaline and surprise. My eardrum felt like it was going to burst from the shriek that was emitted by my son's girlfriend who was bravely peeking out from behind me. The cupboard looked like the scene of a mass and bloody murder. Smears of blood covered the bottom of the cupboard, the sides up to five or six inches, and the side of the toaster (I know, I know, take the toaster out of the area of infestation...). Feces abounded, indicating that the rodent had been fighting the trap for some time. (Like maybe three and a half minutes, long enough to shit eighty-five times.)

There was no dead mouse, just an empty trap with a little tuft of grey hair. It really made me feel ill, and kinda sad. But, thus is the Art of War. I resolved to do the tough thing. I called George to clean up the mess.

But, before he could, I noticed a mouse, live, hanging out in the back of the cupboard. I took out the drip pan he was in and he sedately allowed himself to be slid into a bag. Without outwardly visible physical injury, I couldn't be sure, but it would seem that this guy was the source of the blood. He seemed a little dazed. So, according to the Art of War, I took the prisoner, and made a commander's decision. I called George to dispatch him.

Exhausted from my command ordeal, I poured myself an adult beverage and put my feet up, waiting for George to finish up so we could talk out my experience. Leadership is exhausting.

Vacation Smorgasbord

I am embarking on my first ever two week vacation by and for myself. I took two weeks off from the hospital, and I am leaving at the end of the week. I won't be blogging much during that time. I hope to be away from anything Internet-ish.

I have checked out the options, and decided I will go do what feels right for each day. I will spend time in the mountains, fish, hike, and tan. I will attend a Shakespearean Festival and take in some plays. I will look at real estate in a beautiful mountain town we are thinking of moving. I will take photographs, see my kids if it works out, eat good food, watch some movies, read a book, and...who knows?

Its like a good-times buffet, or Smorgasbord. That seems preferable to me than trying to plan anything structured. I need choice and lack of obligation and schedule, what my life has been about for years now, usually someone else's obligations and schedule. Bring on the ambivalence and indecision!

Quote

The cure for most anything is salt water...

sweat, tears or the sea.

--Unknown

To my children

You are the poem I dreamed of writing, the masterpiece I longed to paint.

You are the shining star I reached for in my hopeful quest for life fulfilled.

You are my child.

Now, with all things I am blessed.

--Unknown

I am the Cap'n

Image from Talk Like A Pirate Original Site

I celebrate International Talk Like A Pirate Day each year. That means I talk like a pirate on September 19th. I often have dinners featuring entrees such as lamb shanks (whole), turkey drumsticks, boiled turnips, Bilge Water Stew, and lots of rum. And lime, for the scurvy prevention. Guests must eat with only a large knife and two tined fork. They must use a pirate word every time they talk or choose between being keel hauled or swilling grog.

I subscribe to a newsletter put out by the originators of TLAPD, Cap'n Slappy and Ol' Chumbucket, pirates on board the Festering Boil. I recently took the test, 'What Kind of Pirate Are You?' with the following results:

You're the Cap'n

Some men and women are born great, some achieve greatness and some slit the throats of any scalawag who stands between them and unlimited power. You never met a man - or woman - you couldn't eviscerate. You are the definitive (WO)Man of Action, the CEO of the Seven Seas, Lee Iacocca in a blousy shirt and drawstring-fly pants. You're mission-oriented, and if anyone gets in the way, that's his problem, now isn't? Your buckle was swashed long ago and you have never been so sure of anything as your ability to bend everyone to your will. You will call anyone out and cut off his head if he shows any sign of taking you on or backing down. If one of your lieutenants shows an overly developed sense of ambition he may find more suitable accommodations in Davy Jones' locker. That is, of course, IF you notice him. You tend to be self absorbed - a weakness that may keep you from seeing enemies where they are and imagining them where they are not.

Now, that's an accurate description if ever I read one. Except the self absorbed stuff. Not me. If I am, it is not a weakness...

Doggy shopping

Mutt

Entlebrucher Sennenhund

Boxer

Beauceron

As I mentioned earlier, I am dogless for the first time in nineteen years. Our dogs have died, one a year, until Sweet Cali Girl traded my recliner for God's on April 14, 2009.

I often daydream about having another dog. I have owned Chihuahuas, a Beagle, a couple Doberman, a Springer Spaniel, and several Border Collies. I love them all. But, I want to choose a dog that will fit my lifestyle and have her needs met, too (I know it will be a girl).

Statistically, Borders are the smartest dogs in the world. Before you get all huffy because you think little Tinkles is way smarter than any other canine, take it up with Animal Planet. I didn't make this up. And, I suppose you could argue testing methods, but I won't. Of all the dogs I have had, Borders are up there with the smartest. The least smart dog I have had is a Chihuahua. Again, I wonder if her general timidity made her appear as an empty headed plaything.

So, I have been doing dog research. My, there are certainly a lot of them. Maybe you can help. What dog would you choose? I want one who is not too big, not too small, outgoing, able to go hiking and camping, loyal and short haired. All of the dogs I have had, except the Chihuahuas, have been all these things (except the hair thing for the Borders).

There is a dog like a Dobie called a Beauceron bred for bear tracking. Sounds cool.

Or a Boxer. They look so neat, and are fun loving and loyal. Hmm.

Maybe a Entlebrucher Sennenhund. You know, silly, the tri-colored Swiss cattle dog. Loyal, cute, sturdy, handy with a cowherd. Not too big, either. Good with kids and animals. And each comes with a, get this, naturally docked tail, about four inches long. No kidding, like the Manx cat of the dog world.

Or maybe a mutt, a rescued puppy (for it must be a puppy, I fear, due to learning manners around poultry). Nothing with Pit in it, just because I don't like the face of Pits; I love dogs with big expressive eyes. And I will not reinforce the breeding of Pits. If I adopt a Pit, it's like saying that there is a home for every Pit that gets abandoned by the lower 95.

Have you noticed that most of the larger dogs in any shelter is either full Pit Bull or mixed Pit?

Anyway, I keep dreaming of the next dog. Any ideas?

All Google Images

Divesting

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I was raised poor, if you haven't picked that up by now... Really poor. So, without going into the details, we'll leave it at that. And, I have had a hoarding thing. You know, I love stuff. I can find a reason to buy or keep just about anything.

Not like the first time mom of a four month old I met In Baja, who saved her son's first booger, but like someone who is afraid that each possession is the last of that they will ever have...

I spent my twenties and thirties (okay, and maybe some of my forties...)... acquiring. Stuff. Shit. Things.

And, now, I have decided that I have evolved beyond that. I am now divesting. I will no longer be help captive to my possessions, my stuff, my things...

At what point do things that we save begin to possess us? When do we say 'Enough'?

Well, I have reached that point. I have said, 'Enough'. And, man, does it feel good. During the garage sale, as I watched the Stuff leave my storage barn in other people's cars, I felt lighter, freer, saner. I feel accomplished, just by letting go.

The past week of sorting, cleaning, pricing, bargaining and arguing with myself, has been an ordeal. But with each decision to let go, I gained power. I no longer feel ruled by things, anchored by objects. It is cool, let me tell you.

We now have room in our storage barn to house George's travel trailer (Scruffy), the quad, our jet skis, the riding lawn mower, all of our outdoor equipment (scuba, mountain climbing, camping, hunting, snowboarding), and various antiques thrust upon us by the in laws.

How about that?

So, officially, I am no longer a packrat. I am part of a lean, mean, cut-to-the-chase operation.

And I am proud!

Food nest

Our little Old English game hen, Timora, AKA Hen From Hell, has decided now to lay eggs in the chicken scratch bin. I keep the food in a tall garbage bin, slick sided and difficult to access. But, for her, it is a perfect place to leave eggs.

As I have said, my hens have nests, very nice nests. But, they don't use them. So, life continues to imitate some kind of surreal Easter egg hunt. So much more interesting than simply going down the line of nests and gathering eggs that the obedient hens have placed where I want them to put them.

For coloring outside the lines and thinking outside the (nesting) box, I appreciate the girls.

Happy birthday, Jennie May

Happy birthday, Mom. This is the day I will celebrate your birth, eighty seven years ago today. You got to see your sixty-third birthday, and three days more. You got to see your children grown, and some of their children grown. You got to see what a big beautiful family you had created. You expressed pride and contentment at the family reunion in your honor that last birthday weekend.

In the chaos that was our family life, you taught me love. To love a child or a handicapped person or an old person or an animal. To love a man who is flawed. To 'have a little talk with God' when things crashed in around me.

I miss you, Mom. You are always in my heart, and often on my mind. Your voice is the voice I hear when I need strength and guidance at a patient's bedside. Your hands guide mine as I soothe the sick and vulnerable. Your dedication and uncompromising standards of patient care helped set my own standards. You are never forgotten and always with me.

I only wish you could have been here to see my kids. They are awesome. I know you are with us, I know you can see and feel them from where you are now. I have tried to bring you to life for them through stories and favorite objects of yours. But, I just wish you were here, for them, for us, for me.

Thank you for being my mom, my friend, my example. Happy birthday, Momma.

Weaker, not Dumber

Indiscriminate rodent behavior

Google image

In cleaning the storage area of the barn, I am continuing to unearth treasures from the past and the memories attached to them. In addition to the memories, I am getting a few surprises, too. There has been a lot of mouse damage, some of it heartbreaking.

I am trying to be pragmatic and a grown-up, but, it is not easy when I see holes chewed in a beloved old plaid shirt last worn by my father, dead these past thirty years. Or foul urine staining a tiny baby gown. Or a nest with grain, feces and shredded paper filling a decades old hat, the veil now in tatters. 'These are only things', I tell myself, and silently give thanks for the memories.

When I set off to do this job, I vowed to be ruthless in lightening the load that my family packs around and stores. The bins and tubs and boxes represent the changes in our family, the changes in the children's sizes and interests, and the changes in our living situation. We have gone from soccer practices and parties to snow boarding and mountain climbing. We have gone from having little folks around to having a family consisting of five six-footers. We have gone from a big house with formal dining area in an upscale neighborhood to a farm with free-range chickens.

I was prepared to deal with the off-loading that those changes necessitated. I am not prepared to being forced to throw stuff out based purely on the free operant behavior of rodents. I mean, they don't care where they poop or pee or nest or chew or drop a load of offspring. Yet, the end result of their behavior is my disappointment, at best, or heartbreak, at worst.

Cleaning out and clearing out is not for sissies. It is hot, dirty, nasty work. Work that falls to women most often, have you noticed that?

Fact

If you pick blackberries one day, then the next day you get pickle juice on your hands, you can find the holes in your hands really easy.

Blackberry Cobbler x 3

Emily and I picked blackberries yesterday with the intention of making three blackberry cobblers, all from different recipes. The recipes were very different from one another. We wanted to see which one we liked best.

The first used a traditional recipe using flour and sugar and butter and milk. It created a softer, more cake-like pastry that was very good.

The second recipe utilized dry sugar cookie mix as a base for the pastry. It made a thinner, slightly drier pastry with a little crunch to it.

The third recipe was actually called blackberry crisp, and had whole rolled oats and brown sugar and cinnamon.

After extensive scientific research and data collection, a clear winner was named. The research study consisted of placing all three on a plate, ordering the taster to taste each and pick the best. Six volunteer tasters participated.

The winner?

*

*

*

*

Was the crisp for its rich flavor and crunchy whole grain bite. But they were all excellent in their own way, and were clearly exceptional in taste and texture.

All in all, a fun day and a great experience.

Winston loves watermelon

I gave my granddog a bite of watermelon. He loved it. I gave him a couple more small pieces, which disappeared as quickly as the first.

My family and I had slices of watermelon, and I took the rinds to the chickens. Winston found them, stole them from the chickens, and ate every one of them.

To me, he looks like a bully old Englishman with a cigar. Living up to his name, doing a great imitation of Sir Winston Churchill.

Change in circumstance

Yesterday, a patient of mine woke up after brain surgery with complete paralysis on the left side. He was a big man, tall and powerfully built. Reports from others who knew him before detailed his kindness, strength and humor.

A tumor turned his world upside down at age 66. I watched him struggle to perform the simple tasks I asked of him; grip my hand, wiggle your toes, look this way, say your name, all without success. His right fist, big as a cantaloupe, frantically gripped and gripped, turning white at the knuckles as he willed his left side to do the same.

I spent a couple hours with him and then took him to ICU. I said goodbye and 'Good healing' to him. He held my hand tightly, then gave me a flirtatious lopsided grin and winked with his right eye. Even partially paralyzed, he was a dazzler. It made me at once tickled, then very sad.

I didn't make it to the elevator before the tears came.