Albert

When our Old English game rooster, Albert, crows, his voice matches his stature. High pitched and squeaky (don't tell him that). He puts so much effort into each crow that, like a overly deflated bag pipe, air rushes back in at the end of every crow to equalize the pressure. The result is a little wheeze at the end, like a miniature reverse crow.

Listen, and see what I mean...

Georgia on my mind...or, George on my couch.

I feel as though I am married to Ray Charles. My husband sits on the couch, blank faced, wearing wrap around black polarized sunglasses. He has a billed cap on to keep light from sneaking in over the top of the glasses.

You see, he strained his neck badly while lifting weights last week. He is in terrible pain, unrelenting and constant. I feel bad for him.

But he still looks like Ray Charles...

Happy birthday to my son, my answered prayer

Twenty three years ago, my middle child, Garrett, was born. Doctors and genetic experts that advised us recommended that the pregnancy be terminated. This was due to medicinal-, treatment-, and chemical- exposure I had in the early stages of the pregnancy following a terrible head-on car crash. I was trapped in the car as it burned, escaping narrowly. Unaware that I was pregnant, I received treatments that were not compatible with having a normal child.

Having taught the handicapped for ten years in my early university post-grad years, I determined that I would be a pretty darned good mommy for a messed up little kidlette. And I was terrified for nine months. When he was born, it was by Caesarean section. He was wedged into my pelvis so firmly that a one sided forcep was used to 'scoop' his head from under my right hip. When I heard the doc ask for a forcep, I said 'No! No forceps!' I was reassured. When he was bundled and shown to me, his little ear was folded under into a strange lump. 'Oh, God, his ear! George, his ear!' I was reassured that it would plump up normally in a few minutes. Man, I was looking for signs of imperfection.

What I got was my Garrett, my son, my sweet boy. Perfect and whole and strong.

A message to him, who I was willing to accept in any form, but am grateful for the form you came in:

Happy birthday, my son! You are a dream, a gift, a magic being who represents that faith and belief and knowledge can be rewarded with perfection! For nine months, we walked a precarious path, you and I, but look what it led us to: a wonderful, strong, loving YOU! Thank you for treasuring the gift. (oh, except for that holding the shark thing..)

Love, Momma

Large predator

My tracks, on either side. HIS, in the middle...

While hunting in the remote Ochoco Mountains of central/eastern Oregon, I came upon the tracks of a being that had gone before. Comparing my prints (men's size 7.5) to the others, I realized how small I was compared to the previous treader of this path. And I got nervous.

I was relieved that I carried a Glock .4o caliber semi-automatic on my hip. Because I was the smaller, more vulnerable mammal in these woods.

The man whose tracks I cut had size 13 boots, at least. Way bigger than I am, and someone with an unknown nature.

That's why I love guns. the great equalizers...

Things I love

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• Puppy breath
• Clean teeth
• Sunshine
• Nice people
• Being in a long term marriage and not wanting anything/anyone else
• Tillamook medium cheddar cheese
• Hens that sing
• Baby laughter
• Fire
• Gardens
• Words
• Solitude
• Thick socks

Bad girl book club

from FEmail Creations

Mail order chicks

Chris McCary photo

I ordered twenty five day old Buckeye chicks today. They will arrive by mail in the next few weeks. Seems I am back in the chicken business. The chicken putting-up-with, anyway.

Well, I really do love chickens. They are so funny. And smart. And animated, and communicative. And they are the only pet that can make you breakfast.

Buckeyes are a special breed. They are a heritage breed, original to the United States, and the only breed developed by a woman. They are lovingly raised and the lineage protected by dedicated breeders throughout the US.

From The The American Livestock Breeds Conservancy Website:

“The Buckeye is a dual-purpose breed of chicken with a deep, lustrous red color of plumage. They have yellow legs and skin, and, thanks to their pea comb, are very cold-weather hardy. …..Buckeyes also have a personality all their own. They are a very active fowl and are noted for being especially vigilant in the pursuit of mice, some breeders comparing them to cats in regard to this ability. They tend to have very little fear of humans and are possibly too friendly. In fact, some males may show a little aggression during breeding season. They also seem to lack the tendency to feather-pick each other (this is a trait worthy of further exploration). The males emit a full range of sounds beyond those typical of many other chicken breeds, including a dinosaur-like roar!”

http://www.albc-usa.org/cpl/buckeye.html

As Chris McCary writes in his The Ultimate Fowl Blog:

The Buckeye is a dual purpose breed and as its name implies, it heralds from the State of Ohio originating sometime before 1896. It is the only American breed with a pea-comb. The Buckeye also has the distinction of being the only breed of chicken created entirely by a woman, Mrs. Nettie Metcalf in Warren, Ohio. It was admitted to the American Poultry Association’s (APA) Standard of Perfection in 1904. Mrs. Metcalf’s Red Fowl creation pre-dates the introduction of the Rhode Island Red to her Mid-Western area.

Mrs. Metcalf set out to create a large red fowl. She began by first crossing a Buff Cochin male to Barred Plymouth Rock females. She then crossed the half Cochin pullets with a Black Breasted Red Game male she acquired the next year, probably of Oriental ancestry and genetically Wheaten or dark Wheaten in color. She took the red offspring of this mating to create the breed.

Mousers! Pets! Roaring rooster! Oh my! What a fun time this will be!

I also like that the grown birds are too big to be carried off by a hawk, the nasty things. We'll continue our vigilance for fox, raccoon, feral cats, dogs and skunk, but those are pretty big targets. Slower, too.

So, stand by. My daughter and I will keep you updated on the new venture. Pictures, too. Won't George be surprised when he gets home!

Drilled

So, my coworker nurse, let's say his name is Chuck, had a remarkable and memorable event occur three days ago, the effects of which may linger for a while.

He was hoisting a 4' x 8' foot piece of plywood into place as he built a chicken coop. Having gained a bunch of weight over the winter, he had jettisoned his tool belt in deference to comfort. His hands were full, and he was leaning out over an expanse, on a step stool. He had an electric drill in one hand.

Well, the drill was, for now, unneeded. So, he stuffed it down the front of his pants...

I know, I know, but he did it.

And, lo and behold, and not surprisingly, his waistband pressed upon the trigger, and the drill turned on. Alarmingly on. He dropped the plywood, began clawing at the errant power tool, and watched in horror as the drill wadded up his boxers, exfoliated his pubic area, rolled his manhood up like a firehose, and tore the front of his jeans out.

Blood was everywhere. As he groped at the on/off switch, the battery release button and the appliance itself, the thought crossed his mind that he might need stitches. That fear was confirmed by post-event assessment. But, he did not feel comfortable with going to the local emergency department.

Dear God! He knew these people! They would know him and make him the laughingstock of the hospital! Get out the 4 x 4's! Apply pressure! Save face, if not blood and tissue!

Well, after long minutes of direct pressure, the bleeding was slowed to an ooze.

He showed up to work the next day, and the next, willing to share his story. Despite the screaming laughter of the other PACU nurses (me included). He had an unusually bulging groin area, demonstrating the dense packing he had applied to his, well, parts. I offered icepacks, which were medically indicated, but were soundly rejected.

Man, I think maybe manufacturers should post a new consumer liability warning on drills: do not put the drill into your pants.

But, on the other hand, most of us would not do that in the first place.

Keyboard option impulsiveness

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I get lots of emails; funny, sad, warning, patriotic, silly, informative, you name it. I delete many of them even before I read them if I am busy or if it looks like: a) I have seen it before, b) it seems like I can live another day without knowing the contents, or c) it is a mass forwarding that obviously was not sent with me in mind.

But, WHY do folks feel compelled to use the BIGGEST LETTERS, in every COLOR AND STYLE?

And why must I

scroll

down

to

read

it?

Maybe I am getting old or cranky, but I hate it. I don't want to scroll anywhere. I want to read it. Make the point-tell the story-and move on.

And I don't need colors, italics, underlines, boldness, or lots of punctuation to enjoy a story. All of these keyboard options are the written equivalent of shouting at the reader. Yes, one can use all the options, but should one?

Sigh... I think I need a nap. Or a stroll, not a scroll!

Time out

I won't post for a while; going to my retreat in the mountains. To rest, to heal, to cogitate, to sip wine, to..., well, whatever.

Later...

Predator kill

These are some of the sweet animals that have graced our lives, only to fall prey to some nasty unwanted unwelcome invasive predatory species; cat, hawk, skunk, raccoon, or fox.

Rest in peace, sweet guys...

Thanks for the cuddles, the laughs, the knowledge and the conversation.

Carmen, she of black sleekness and a way of roosting anywhere. Mauled and left nearly uneaten by feral cat.

Pheasants, raised to young adulthood, slaughtered in one night by skunk. Only their heads were eaten.

Quail, raised to adulthood, slaughtered one by one by skunk, coon, and cats.

Little Peep, sweetest and smartest in the world, swept up by a hawk as a young hen.

Victoria, original wife of Albert, for whom the English cottage was built. Actually appeared in local newspapers and high school yearbook. Famous for pooping on overhead projector during class.

Cast off

My cast was removed yesterday. You probably noticed that I have been missing in 'lack of' action lately. The two are closely linked.

I have been in a funk. Rather than calling me to check in to see if I need anything, to bring me an ice cream, to take me out to see the world, I have experienced solitude. I could not drive, so I stayed home. Other than relatives calling me to see if they could do anything, I got calls from those who needed money, favors 'when you are up and around', or just to dump their problems on me. I started hanging up and crying. Then, I started not answering. Then, I started spending more and more time in bed.

Not to say that I have been totally alone. But, my husband has gone about his business, working, going to the gym, going away all weekend, taking friends to the beach to crab, and I stayed home.

The first night I had my cast, I sat in the recliner, my foot and cast elevated, watching my son and husband fix food and drink, eat same, and never offer me one thing! I got up, hobbled unsteadily into the kitchen, asked my husband for some ice, which he placed in the cup I had provided, dropped a cube, then swore and crashed the ice cube into the sink, shattering it, blowing ice all over. He then handed my glass back. Disbelievingly, I hobbled over, filled my glass with lemonade, and tried to carry a glass of lemonade down the two steps into the living room while on two crutches. No help, no offer to help.

It took me crying in sadness, pain, and frustration to my husband that night before he began occasionally asking me if I needed anything. (Why do I have to cry to get his full attention? To seem sufficiently helpless and 'Judy's turn to cry'-ish? I hate to cry.) But it didn't make him stay home from a weekend at his retreat in the desert.

I am first and foremost a nurturer. I give and serve and provide and cuddle when my people are hurt or sick. I stay in the hospital with them. I take them to my place to take care of them after they are hurt or operated on or when they are ill. I go to the doctor with them, if they want support. I spend hours helping them understand their medication or illness. I cannot think of a time I have gotten any of that back. And, for that, I am hurt, deeply and profoundly. Deeper than I ever thought I could be.

So, I have pulled back. I need to think about all this. I need to know what kind of person gives so much and gets so little back. I need to look in myself, find that place where I can think, and process. Meanwhile, I am afraid, very afraid of what will happen to me if I get badly hurt or ill, or disabled, or, inevitably, old. I feel like I have no one to count on but myself. Every important disabling event in my life, from C-sections to hysterectomy, I have been similarly dealt with by my 'support network'.

What do I do? How do I fix this; starting from within me?