The Gathering

Since I first became aware of dream sequences that are repeated from time to time, my reoccurring nightmare has always been based on the unpreparedness scenario. In school days is was usually about my not having studied for the test for the day, or when I was showing horses, it was having my name called to enter the ring, and my not even having my horse saddled yet. Apparently my control freak nature comes out in my nocturnal moments and I can’t seem to find a way to solve anything. Chaos rules, and there is the feeling of total helplessness in that I am drifting, falling, turning, with no sight of land to catch me. 

More recently my typical journey into this nightmare world has involved getting the news, and usually the surprising news comes from my husband, that a large number of people were coming over for, perhaps a very surprising dinner that I had not planned for, nor shopped for. In this nightmare I am forced with the sudden responsibility for cooking for, and entertaining this invading horde of visitors. I know, doesn’t sound like the end of the world, but we all get to have our own set of nightmares, and this one is mine.

So, months ago now, the idea was thrown out that my husband’s sisters wanted to try to get together as a family, somewhere like a retreat or reunion. He is from a large family, six kids total and this was going to be a pretty big project to tackle, plan, and somehow find a time when it suited everyone. Then as the idea began to take shape and become more than a just wild thought, Mark suggested we use my family’s beach house. There was an issue of would it be big enough to handle everyone. It would be crowded and a whole bunch of togetherness but looked like it could be done. It then became my job to check on availability of open dates on the cabin.

I have to admit that my early thoughts on this project being at the beach house were somewhere on the verge of my feeling like I was being put into one of my not so favorite dreams. I was really not looking forward to the idea of being responsible for the coordination, planning, hosting, and then cleaning up after such a large group, but I was assured that was not to be the case and that the sisters would handle it. I got some dates and tossed them to the group, found one weekend that worked for most, and the train ride of planning it began. What began months ago finally came to the appointed date, and it was time to head to the beach.

After doing the usual stuff that nails down leaving the horses, the dogs, and farm, we left on Wednesday to head down to the cabin to open it up and also to get a head start on finding some sea food to eat. Mark’s baby sister drove her rental car which was stuffed with suitcases and snacks, drinks, and all kinds of other food for later. Arriving a bit before dusk we got in the boat and drove it slowly across the bay to find a waterside restaurant where we ate our fill of fish and shrimp till we could do no more, and headed back to the cabin for the night. The remaining group that included our two daughters, their significant other and their kids, would make a total head count of nine adults, two toddlers, and two infants, and were coming the next day.

Finally the cars began rolling in and then once everyone had found their rooms and had settled in, we all headed out for the beach and the water. Lawn chairs made their way out to rest under the shade of the big oak out front, and the toddlers had their water wings snapped on. Suddenly there was a new life to the cabin and the area around it that was surprisingly wonderful. It had been so long since we had come to the cabin when our children were still quite young, and my parents were healthy and strong. Suddenly the happy noises of the toddler cousins getting to know each other, playing with their sand buckets and splashing in the water, combined with the excited chatter of the older siblings and cousins as we all refreshed our relationships and the air was filled with a renewed energy and made the place feel happy again to me. 

Since the times back when we used to travel with our kids and their friends to the beach to share the house and time spent there with my parents and my brother and his wife, the house had lost its joy when we visited it. Where once the house would be filled with many folks, in more recent time Mark and I have visited, we have been alone. The house would be quiet and the sounds where of the waves on the shore and a passing Osprey. I am part hermit and do enjoy a lot of solitude and being at the beach when there are no distractions is great, but I had forgotten what it’s like to be there with little kids, and lots of folks to catch up and laugh with. It was good to hear the chaos of the life bouncing along the days. It was great to see the beach towels drying on the porch railing and to smell the shrimp boiling in the big pot down stairs. 

There was also a nice flow to the wine and “A”dult lemonade. I mixed a batch as close as I could to my dad’s old recipe, and I think was successful in recreating a passable semblance to his famous elixir. It made me miss my dad terribly, and wished he could have been there to feel the joy once again in his house. 

We spent the next few days in a blur of eating good food, enjoying the sun and the warm water and each other. The babies were good and there were many arms to take a spell with them, aunts rocking the crying one to sleep, and Gracie, our Yorkie guarding the other one. We had arrived on Wednesday and suddenly, it was Saturday evening, our last night. There was a point where it became so clear how much fun we had all had, and that sadly it was nearly over. The bubble would inevitably be popped. Mark got out his camera and began taking group shots with the afternoon sun casting warm rays over everyone in the moment. We shared another great meal of gumbo from the leftover shrimp, joined by some great hamburgers, and finished the night with some games and continued conversations, all of the adults sitting in the rearranged living room in a circle, and, it was sweet.

The down side to all this fun is Sunday morning and its time to pack up and clean up. Everyone went into worker bee motion to get it all done, and we got the floor swept as we headed out. Sad but smiling faces said goodbyes and hugs were sent around to all.

No one wanted to say it, and didn’t have to, but all of us were keenly aware of how special this had been and how likely that it may not happen again with the same faces, but we all agreed we should try to.  One by one the cars rolled away and the quiet returned to the cabin. As I backed my truck out from under the carport, I could easily imagine my dad standing on the landing of the stairs, smiling, waving goodbye, and happy that we had come. I was happy that we had, too.

On a Drone Note

Rain is gently falling outside the open door to the back porch. A rumble of thunder here and there, off in the distance, gives a nice touch. It is lulling and sweet. My plans for the day did not include rain, but rain can give permission to change one’s plans, and so mine shifted. 

As to life on the farm, and deaths, in continuum from the last entry in blogdom, I wrote that I was not happy with the recent snake predation on wren nests and such and I also wondered why the starlings seemed to get away from being molested by the no necks and could raise their squawking babies with immunity. Well, I was wrong. The day before yesterday on the afternoon hike to the barn, I noticed, first, there was no irritating squawking noise from the starling babies coming from the gourd houses. Looking up, I saw the side of a snake, the unmistakable pattern of its skin, coiled there in the gourd, digesting baby birds. Not that I particularly wished the birds a death sentence, but finally it was quiet. The gourd was well out of my reach and there was nothing I could do, either way to deal with the snake where it was. So I left the shovel, for its potential use later in reckoning with the serpent, leaning against the fence.

The next day, yesterday, I had finished my riding, had practiced my drum playing in preparation for two gigs this weekend, and was beginning to make my way up to the house from the barn when I heard the most amazing and unexpected sound. There were two Purple Martins, either immature or both females I could not tell which, flitting around the houses. They flew into several of the houses and out, chattering and calling all the while. Pure music their voices are, lilting and light. The sound takes me to an instant happy place. In watching them, with a smile on my face, I really hoped they would not try to nest here since my snake situation had not improved from last year, and I did not want to see these two eaten. Then I realized that the snake who had been in the starling house yesterday, was indeed still there, and was just now trying to get down from the housing.

It hung from the gourd hole, kinked up and twisted, about a foot length out. It flickered its tongue and looked about not sure what to do next. Apparently the climb up to the house was lot more easy than going down was going to be. Its choice to leave was either to drop to the ground, some ten feet down or more, or to slither out of the gourd and go back up to the pole the gourds hung off of, and then go down the pole again. It had apparently not figured out either option.

And so it hung there while these two martins flittered about only inches away from this snake, oblivious to it, just happy to be making musical sounds for me to enjoy for the moment. The martins finally left and the snake slunk back into the house to ponder its situation, its head just inside the house, peeking out. When Mark got home I told him about the stuck snake and so as not to turn away a good chance to practice his skills with flying his new toy, uh, real estate tool for showing property, he got out his new drone and off to the nest pole we went. 

This drone, a four propeller driven flying thing, has a camera mounted on it and can be sent to incredibly high heights, and is a steady and stable flyer with radio controls. Mark set it on the ground and waited for it to warm up. The snake watched us from its perch above us. Then Mark set the drone in motion and up it went. The whirling noise from the propeller blades were enough to drive the serpent into a retreat mode and we could not see its face from the ground any more. The  drone went up and hovered at the door of the gourd, taking video of what it saw. The video did later show the side of the snake as it hid its head into the farthest region of the gourd. The silly snake was still in there this morning and I am beginning to wonder at the relative intelligence of this creature at the art of leaving. It may well be still full, though,  and not hell bent of leaving just yet and taking this opportunity to chill out and observe the farm below its perch. Who knows with snakes.

So, rainy day, thunder, a day with a built in excuse not to do the things that probably should get done, like vegetation management, but perfectly suited for my spending a few hours playing drums. In my tack room I have a set of practice drums that are probably more antique than up to date, but function very well for how I practice. I put on a set of headphones and a cd of the music that I know our band wants to play at our upcoming gigs, and strike the plastic heads of the set, hopefully in time. Not as gratifying as a real wood and skin kit but good for hearing the songs and keeping the motor skills up.

Very easily, though, I no longer hear my tapping on plastic but go straight into the music in my ears, and I am there, playing with Santana, and the Allman Brothers. I am sitting right next to Butch Trucks and watching Greg as he plays the organ and sings, feeling the magic of the music they created in the years of my teens. There was so much great music made during and around the 70’s, and it still holds the test of time. I have no doubt that Greg and Carlos would not appreciate my efforts to help them along, but its nice to imagine I am there kicking it with them. And so I play their songs and tap out the beats, with the three dogs in residence laying undisturbed at my feet.  

My batteries sadly died to my cd player, though, and I put down the sticks and headphones and walked outside my tack room into the barn aisle. Two of the mares were munching on their hay, standing quietly, the sound of rainfall on the metal roof above them ringing in a peaceful serenade. Cistine, however, had left her stall and stood standing as I have seen her do before, her body, under the run in shed but with her face just out far enough to catch the falling water that runs off the roof. I said something and she turned to face me and her head was drenched but she seemed delighted to be being rained on, face only. She is a very silly horse and likes to play with water.

Since the batteries had died and there was to be no riding in this rain, I pulled one of yesterday’s saddle pads over my head for cover and rounded up the dogs to head to the house. As I passed the bird houses, I saw that the snake was still there in that gourd, and coiled tight. The shovel is in the same place too, just in case.

Feathers and Eggs

Yesterday at afternoon feeding of the horses, I was throwing hay into the stall for Sunset, when I noticed that the nest that had been built last year on the ledge over her door, had faint noises coming from it. The noises were from the plaint plaintive peeps of baby birds, begging for food from a parent. As I backed away, I saw a wren with something in its mouth around the corner of the barn waiting for me to leave so it could deliver. It flew to the nest, the noises got more frantic, then they subsided, and the parent flew away to find more. In the knowing of the repetition of how things work around here, I held little hope that the sounds would be there the next day. They weren’t.

Last year when the little wrens made the nest in this very same, super safe spot inside the barn on that ledge, high away from dogs, cats, raccoons, and other predators the little birds did not take into account that snakes can climb, and like to eat little wren babies. Sure enough, last year, and the year before, and the others before that, the wrens make a nest in a place they think is safe, like on this ledge. Sometimes they have nested in a riding helmet left lying around, or in flower pot hanging on the front porch,  or under the hood of the tractor in tidy small nests of grasses, horse tail hairs, and an occasional sparkly trinket for decoration, and they nearly all end the same way. It surprises me that they are not extinct. Every time, just when the eggs hatch and the young fuzzy babies begin the beg with that screech that begins the servitude of the parent to find that endless source of bugs and grubs, snakes find them.

Last year the snake, that had eaten the wren chicks from that nest, remained draped around the rafters for a day, digesting. It was a fat, heavy, yellow rat snake with faint markings, blending in well with the treated lumber we used to frame the stalls with. It lay there oblivious to the comings and goings of the horses passing under neath it, and I went around where it lay incase it decided to drop at an opportune time and land on my head. 

This year there have been no Purple Martins to listen to either. Their nests last season were raided by both avian predators who took their eggs, and lastly by a very large rat snake who killed the babies, just before they were set to fledge and fly away. The parents abandoned the colony and I have only seen one lone scout earlier this spring. He didn’t even light on the pole that holds all of the gourd shaped plastic houses, but flew on. I do miss hearing them. Their  happy clucks and chirps have made my mornings for years as I walked to the barn for early feeding. In a sad way, this year, I am  actually a bit relieved that they are not back. It was too painful to not be more effective in protecting them, in a space I provided for them in the first place. The pole was complete with a snake guard so they could be safe and successful, but obviously not.

And then there are the dogs. The pair of Canadian Geese that had been hanging around all spring had finally apparently nested somewhere down by the beaver condo at the narrow end of the pond. I had not seen the nest but the dogs did. The other morning at feeding time the pair of geese were in one of the paddocks plucking the seed heads off the tall grasses when I heard them start their warning honks. It wasn’t until I got back to the house that I learned what they were honking about. Following behind me came the two big dogs, each slowly trotting with a swing to their hips, with heads low and mouths in a funny, not closed, holding something precious way that only a dog who knows what it’s up to, can do.

Layla, the black lab was happy to show off her prize and gladly placed it between her front legs when she laid down on the front yard grass. She did her Lab smile and licked the egg and looked at me for my approval, then licked the egg again, and again. Hyphy, the other large dog, of unidentifiable genetic origin, obviously knew what the egg was about and forgot the licking part and went straight to trying to get her teeth in a place where they could do some damage to the shell. I convinced her that I only wanted to look at the egg for a moment and she let me pick it up, watching me carefully incase I might want dibs on it. The white egg was quite heavy and I gave it back to her. In very short order she cracked it, licked the contents until the shell was empty and then ate the shell.  She had either done this before, or somewhere in her genetic coding the instructions for sucking eggs was there and gave her guidance. Layla eventually bored with her prize since I was not up for playing fetch with it, and I saw the egg laying alone unguarded. A glance back later showed that egg to be gone too. The geese continued their plaintive honks for a while, and the wren this morning held food in its mouth flitting around the barn looking for the mouths to feed, that were there no more.

My real grudge with the snakes eating baby birds thing though, is, that I have a prejudice for wrens and martins that does not extend to the darn starlings who have nested in the martin houses this year. Their babies stick their ugly heads out the door and screech relentlessly for food and yet, no snake comes to quiet them. This is a total mystery to me and it simply not fair for the snakes to target the birds I like and ignore the ones who are a nuisance, but they did not ask me what I thought.

In earlier days, when I had not spent decades watching the animals that we share this land with, I had a rather childish attitude that the animals all lived in harmony and that rabbits played with baby deer while butterflies danced over head. It was most disturbing when our Lab of a few years back brought me the forequarters of a fawn it had killed or found. The dog was so happy and wanted me to know of its skills and prowess as a hunter. I was sick, but it was not my place to make a judgement call over whether the dog was evil or not. The dog was only doing what its instincts told it to do to survive. It would live to eat another day whether I poured some processed dog chow in its bowl for dinner or not. 

With all of this on going carnage and lethal establishment of the pecking orders, I still am in ways deeply saddened by these deaths. I am though, now more accepting of one fact that is, I am simply not in control of everything that lives and dies out here. I am not Mother Nature, and there is little that I can do to control the rules that guide the existence of the animals around me. My only choice is the acceptance of the fact that this really is a “snake eat baby bird/dog eat egg and or anything” world, and get over it, whether I want to or not, and do my best to stay higher up the food chain.

Being Bored...

I once told my mother, on a long hot summer afternoon, when out of school session and no friends could be found to play with, that I was bored. I will never forget the amazed and befuddled look on her face and she turned back to me in astonishment. “Bored????” she spit out. To which I suddenly felt very sheepish and could have easily cut a hole in the floor and climbed in, covering my head and closing my eyes to my apparent error in voicing my situation. She went on to say something about me doing ANYthing, or just going SOMEwhere. I don’t remember the specifics too well. All I remember from that day was her look, and her admonishment of my telling her I was incapable of entertaining myself. I turned and left her room, and did some serious thinking that day.

 Since that day I have rarely had the occasion to be bored again, when left to my own volition. (That said, I do not do organized group meetings for that reason.) I found that by feeding my curiosity and learning to be creative, that I could take my own responsibility for how my minutes were spent and enjoy them. 

As a kid I learned to draw horses. It was gratifying to draw one and have my grandfather tape the drawing to their kitchen wall, and so I did many, many more of them. I read like a fiend, and then began writing my own fables, delving into my imaginary world no one else could see, bringing stories onto paper for someone else to read. I quickly learned that an audience giving feedback is powerful fuel for the creative, so back to work I would go. My interests have expanded since then, and I have learned to do a little bit of a whole lot of things, and while master of none of them, the challenge to improve keeps me entertained and somewhat sane.

Recently, Mark and I had the good fortune to have a visit from perhaps one of the most influential and inspirational people to my life, in a round about way. Our visitor, Steve, makes most folks' pitiful effort to avoid boredom in life, pale and trivial. He is, the Renaissance guy, and he, is always doing something, really well.

From the time I first met Mark, in art class in college, I had heard a continual reference to this guy Steve, who had been in the army with him. They had been photography instructors on base in New Jersey together and had become good friends. The list of creative things that Steve could do was not only that of a super man, it was ridiculous at the level he perfected each and every one. He greatly influenced Mark whether Steve was showing Mark how to fly a falcon, how to paint a watercolor, how to cut a stone and cast a ring in lost wax, doing pottery, and this is to only mention a very few, besides working in photography. Together they were always busy and always doing something feeding their curious minds. Steve set a bar of excellence that was at first, off putting and his attention to infinite detail, intimidating. It is in his uber overachieving, influence first to Mark, and then later Mark’s sharing it with me, that has led me to try things I would never have even thought of, and, to try to  also do them well. 

The first time Steve came to visit us was many decades back now. We lived then on farm in a tiny house that we rented while we were still in college. My horses were out in the pasture, and our new chickens roamed the yard and their laid eggs by the front porch. It was a old house and had seen quite a bit of neglect, some of which we intended to fix up, some of it we hadn’t even noticed or thought of, until Steve came.

I woke the first morning to the sound of a hammer outside our window. Looking out I saw Steve out there fixing the gate to the chicken pen. Having taken it upon himself to see what needed to be done, he simply did it. 

He had brought with him some wines that he had made at his home in Seattle, a few reds and also a particularly incredible raspberry elixir. He sent me out of the kitchen one night and fixed a salmon, that he had caught in Puget Sound, frozen, and wrapped in paper towels and stowed in his suit case. Now thawed, wonderfully cooked, and delicious, he pared the fish with this dry and rich raspberry wine. It was heady stuff, and memorable still.

Over the next decades we kept in touch by phone usually over the holidays or on Mark’s birthday. Steve visited every decade or so as his job as head of the graphics department for Boeing brought him to Huntsville to the rocket center there, and once in the south, we weren’t to far away. His wine making improved to an amazing level, and he was hired to teach courses in winemaking at a college back home.

We had never met his wife Deb, and over the years had heard about her, and their baby girl, who is now grown. So it was great on this visit that she was able to join him in a post retirement loop around the country in a VW camper. Again he brought more incredible wine. Together one night, they made a risotto with porcini mushrooms that they had gathered on their farm before leaving, and a pan forte he had made for dessert. My mouth drools at even thinking about the pan forte with its crunchy, not too sweet, and crazily spiced, goodness of cardamon and pepper.The lovely roses they bought for us were put in a pot that Steve had thrown back back in their army days and the flowers stayed fresh long after their all too short visit.

In a spring cleaning down in the barn this weekend, we opened some boxes that had not been opened since we moved here twenty years ago. To my surprise, one of the items was a watercolor that I had done back in college and it was my very first attempt at painting a bird. Actually it was two kestrels, a male and a female that Mark had trapped, as a direct result of his falconry skills learned from Steve. The birds were in the biology lab being studied for a project Mark was working on with his ornithology professor. This painting was the beginning of many years of my painting raptors, and eventually of my learning to train a hawk to the fist, once again Steve’s influence to blame.

It is good to have people to push you, to inspire you to try something, anything. Who knows where it will lead you. And “Don’t be bored,” as my mother said. Mark and Steve are two who certainly live that mantra. I am so lucky to have been influenced by them, and continue to be still.

Repetitions, Again

It was officially spring this past week, and Saturday was one of the finest types of days that one could envision. It was warm enough for a t-shirt and yet cool enough to be so pleasant that wearing a light sweater was an option. With a sky of cool blue, grasses beginning to green up the pastures again, and trees wearing haloes of electric shades of chartreuse, it was lovely. It said spring was indeed here once more, and that is a good thing.

On a rainy day preceding this particularly lovely spring day, I was in need of an upgrade to my cell phone, but quickly I found that I had a problem because my phone was already stuffed full and had room for nothing more. The photo roll was the culprit, so this meant I needed to ditch some photos, and lots of them. I began scrolling the thousands of shots stuck on my phone and began hitting the delete button in ernest amazement at how many stupid shots were taking up all of this room. Quickly though as I scrolled, a pattern emerged as the years rolled by in a captured image progression.

With each spring, recorded in my phone over the past several years, I seem to have taken the same basic shots, over and over each year. In spring I have taken shots of the flowering trees, the camellias, the

garden cleaning out for summer,  and then through the summer with repeating shots of being at the beach, or the mountains. Then the fall shots come with the repetition of the leaves in color and the occasional snow angel drawn into the few rare snows.

Scattered through out these repeating shots are the succession of the dogs who have run through my life, my horses, various meals waiting to be served, lots of shots of blue washed skies draped with wispy clouds, and more recently are the additions of my grand daughters. But all are spaced through the time line in patterns of rhythms in predictable repetition. I have responded to these things by taking a photo, over and over and over, again. Like spring, here, again. Click, and its on my camera phone, again. It probably won’t take me long to fill the camera back up, and probably of the same subjects, again. There was one thing, however, that wasn’t on the repetitive illustrations of my world yet.

Behind our house this time of year the woods below us fill with water and the whole floor of the woods shimmers when the sun sets beyond it, casting long shadows of the still bare trees on the surface of the dark water. It is lovely from our vantage, but intimidating. Since we have lived on this property, now twenty years, there are some areas that we have never set foot on nor even seen, due to it being either, very hard too get through thick brush, or because of our fear of snakes, mosquitoes, bears, alligators, etc. Out of the blue the other day, Mark very bravely donned a tall pair of boots, headed down the hill, and went out into the water and woods with his camera and tripod. He returned an hour or so later as the sun was fading, quite excited about what he had found and said that the next day I should join him there in the woods.  

Reluctantly, based on the afore mentioned reasons to not go into a swamp, I followed him into the mid-boot high water. Snakes were on my mind, but it quickly became obvious that we were entering into an enchanting water world, despite the possibility of stepping on a slithery creature. Swamp irises and palmettos stood in bright green clumps and cypress trees grew tall and straight, surrounded by their rings of mysterious knees. A stand of birches lined the edge of the water to our left and their trunks were covered in papery bark of gorgeous pale pinks, salmon, and tans. We walked on further into the woods trying to not disturb the leaves that lay below the surface of the tannin stained water.

At one point we stopped to asses where we were relative to the house. I had a general idea which way it was was and it was amazing to see that even though, we had not gone terribly far, from where we stood, the house was obscured now. With no frame of reference, it was quite easy to imagine being lost for some time in here. There were only the tall trees in sunlit black water as far as we could see.  And we walked on, fairly stunned ad surprised at the size of this previously unknown water feature we had on the land. 

We came to an area where some of the trees stood much taller, way taller. Here the water was deeper on our boots and there were deep ruts still cut into the mud below these giants. These were the tracks of the loggers who had cut these woods to shreds well before we bought the place. Why the loggers, who cut with no discrimination, left these mega-giants standing, is any one’s guess but my guess is that the mud was too difficult to bring the larger trees out from. Whatever their motive for leaving them, I am glad to know that such giants are a stone’s throw from my back porch, even if I can’t see them from there.

There, probably, won’t be many more days that will be cool enough for me to be brave enough to go back in to see the swamp and its lovely trees without sharing the time with dragon sized mosquitoes and hefty snakes, but it’s great finding it’s there. For all of the years we have explored our land, that area was out of the way, and cleared trails led to other places more easily accessible. To find that we have a fifteen to twenty acre swamp that starts just below the back porch is pretty neat and it is always nice to find a surprise. Knowing there is a bit of wildness so close by is a wonderful thing.

And yes, I did take some pictures with my cell phone, but just not as many.

   

Vengeance

The question on the farm that has been begged for answer going on a few months now was, where in the heck a short or a fault in the hot wire fencing was. Repeatedly over this time I have studied, repaired, retightened the tape, replaced the controller, and had hoped, I had it fixed. The  next morning my efforts looked to have worked and the fence was untouched, but, then the next morning I would look out to see sagging places in the top strip of electric tape, showing clearly that one certain big brown mare had very little regard for the still inert plastic tape in her way to eating the green stuff on the other side of the fence. That silly mare knew when I had changed something about the fence and was careful not to touch it until her whiskers sniffing the wire told her it would not bite. Once she was sure it really wasn’t on, over the fence she would stretch her long neck pushing both the hot wire, and the mesh wire fencing below that, down.

My once erect wooden fence posts have all been loosened by her pushing the line and she has stepped on and crawled up the woven wire mesh fencing below the hot wire nearly to the point where she could step over the whole thing. When I heard the entire line from here to the barn moan with her leaning over it the other day, my frustration level hit the that point, where it was time to fix it or kill her. If the day saw no other thing done but this, by golly this mare was not going to ruin my fences any further.

My former neighbor, and sadly long gone friend, Col. Morris used to say that a farm needed a face lift about every twenty years. In his long life he solved this by simply moving to a new one every twenty years or so and starting over. We have now lived on this farm twenty years, as of January, and to say this place needs a complete overhaul, from fixing roof leaks, repainting, and general repairs on both the house and barn, is a gross understatement. Those pesky issues could wait but this hot wire issue though, had top priority. There is great truth that “ Good fences make good neighbors”, but also good fences keep horses where they belong, and other critters out. And thus the quest to fix the fence began like every job out here does. It begins with tools, which ones do I need, and where the heck any of them might possibly be. 

My theory had been that the grounding system to the fence was bad. So I jumped in and dug all thirty feet of that up, rewired it with new wire, and plugged the charger back on only to find it still no go. Quite frustrated with this result,  I put on my glasses and began to study the wire carefully from the charger then down the line. I found a huge problem where the current runs via a large wire, under a gate opening, and then up the next post to run the next lines of tape. There it was, at the bottom of the post where the line went downward, a broken wire, and the remaining wire that was still buried under the red packed clay and,  was no where to be seen. 

I got a pick ax out of the tool room and began digging a new trench through this twenty year old, well packed red clay gravel gate opening. Very quickly, I had to wonder my sanity. Here I was, at “my age” out there flailing a heavy steel pick at dirt that was packed harder than well aged concrete, just to keep a silly young horse from single handedly tearing up my farm. “Do I really like horses this much?” I was asking myself as I wheezed and leaned on my pick ax for air. I was not sure.   

I buried the new wire while the big mare stood watching my every move, made the new connections, and turned the charger on. Again no zap. The day was getting longer by the minute but I still kept at it. Eventually I had repaired, fixed, and replaced every variable that I could but my tester kept telling me that a very low current was going out.

I was about to cry, when I heard a very loud POP! I looked to the source of the noise to find my silly big brown mare with a very surprised look on her face. Her upper lip was curled up over her nose and she stomped and kicked in anger at this new situation and the surprise shock she had gotten when she had stuck that pretty little nose on the hot wire. Vengeance, was finally mine.

The fence has not been touched again by that silly big brown mare, and I have a pretty high level of  confidence, that it will stay that way until, the next time. 

A Box of Mirrors

Back in the days when I was a kid and my mother “dressed” me up to go shopping for clothes, a store that we frequented was a department store called Bronson’s. Bronson’s was situated in the middle of Normandale, the first suburban mall built in our town. Normandale was a very modern open air mail with covered walkways, fountains, courtyards, and green spaces, and lovely shops filled with jewelry, clothes, toys, housewares, and all of the things one could want all within walking range of each other. It was a very “Mad Men” architectural setting of green ceramic tiles and great expanses of glass framed by thin shows of steel supported by large beams and arches of free form concrete. 

The largest of the shops was Loveman’s, the anchor department store that had the most of a bit of everything, and always had a several week long visit from Santa Claus each Christmas. The store had a huge front upstairs window facing the parking lot below, and there for all to watch, Santa would sit in his huge chair and greet each frightened child, hear their wishes as they tried to look past the fake beard to find the truth, smile for the photo, give them a lollipop, and send them on their way back to their adoring parents.

I bought my first make up there. Feeling very grown up, I bought my first boy friend a tiny bottle of Brut cologne there. There was a strategically placed counter of warmed choices of toasted nuts, cashews, peanuts, walnuts and pecans, all right by the escalators where every one had to ride to the second floor and back with the scent of these warmed nuts luring you towards them. If you succumbed to their call, these warm salty goodies were measured out with a small metal scoop and were put in small paper bags to carry around and enjoy while you shopped, or waited on your mom to do so. 

On the other side of the escalator the cabinet of goodies continued with sugary things of all sorts. It was the first place I encountered  cherry flavored spaghetti shaped strands of chewy strings with the consistency of gum drops but these you could eat inch by inch. They came in bundles wound together, a prize to work through for hours.  

In this modern mall, Normandale was host to Mel’s camera shop which was wallpapered with large photos of Ansel Adam’s Yosemite portfolio. Next to Mel’s, or maybe a few stores down was the fancy dress shop that my aunt liked, where models would model the dresses one liked to see, so that a lady could drink her tea and not have to try on a darned thing. Dress chosen, it was put in a lovely box and then carried home. There was a hardware shop further down with shovels, nails, and parts to fix this and that. Other shops included Zales, the jewelry store, The Record Store, which sold vinyl records and appliances, Woolworth's, a discount dime store, Toy Land, my favorite,   and many others that stayed for decades and others that came and went as retail tends to do.

Normandale’s being built was a beginning of the end of the urban retail, with its convenience and glamour, and it sparked the unleash-able, leap frog, suburban crawl of new modern neighborhoods with strip centers and other newer malls. Gradually the shops all followed these newer malls and Normandale was abandoned. It now stands as a sad symbol of changes that happen as fads rise, and then they fall. Loveman’s huge glass windows are broken and Santa no longer comes to visit. Bronson’s changed its name and moved to a fancy place out east and call themselves “The Name Dropper”. Normandale is a ghost world now of faded glory and only its memories remain alive.

But back to Bronson’s, back to when Normandale, and life in general, was in its glory days. 

There was a display case in Bronson’s, on the left side of the store as one entered, built of dark polished wood with a shadow box type opening on the top and drawers below. The shadow box was lit from inside and was fully lined with mirrors. When I stuck my head into the opening and looked to the right I saw an infinite number of my faces reflected there, and also a bit of the opposing reflection of the back of my head from the mirror on the other end. If I turned to the left, this infinite reflection was the same and try as I might I could never count how many of these repeating reflections there were.  My head, reflected there, always remained in the way of my seeing them all. It was a fascinating thing to me and I can still recall my amazement at this box of endless mirrors, having spent many of my mother’s shopping hours with my head stuck inside this infinity puzzle box. 

The magic and mystery of shopping, that surrounded this place called Normandale, back in the days of my child hood, was tied and linked to this amazing box of mirrors, and the visual memory of the box is as real to me now as it was then. It’s mystery provoked me to think in ways that had not occurred to me at that time, about infinity,  and also about perspective.  I could only see the magic of the box when I put my head in to see it, and I wondered what it did when I didn’t. Did the mirrors continue their magic without me?

When I began to think about things as a kid, I realized at one point being amazed to learn that my parents were once kids, and their grand parents too. I  thought that time simply began with my birth, and that all of the players in my life began then too. Myopia has its down falls and revelations and it was shocking to find that my birth did not start time.

Now I have begun to see my life from the present, to the days of my youth, and all of the events that passed before I was even here, each as single reflections in that box of mirrors, all lining up and all heading away from now, back into the infinity that came before me. I look the other way and see fuzzy glimpses of the future and see that they too line up as single reflections of possible days that will happen with infinity into that which hasn’t happened, yet. It is from my perspective that this time line runs, equally running in both directions. I am just in the middle of the magic box of mirrors, observing.

ps.  Happily, on Tuesday, this week, in the very early hours of the morning, our second grand daughter, Marilyn, was born, adding yet another happy and wonderful event to the time line we call our life.  She is a tiny and beautiful, and we all look forward to being a part of her journey from here.