Thanks Kenny

“You’ve painted up your lips and curled your tinted hair. Ruby, are you contemplating going out somewhere?”


My brain sometimes really gets me. Why oh, why do songs like this early Kenny Rogers lament get stuck in my head and continually circulate, and permeate, my thoughts, over and over and over again? The other day is was Karen Carpenter singing “We’ve only just begun, to live, White lace and promises, a kiss for luck and we’re on our way”. And why exactly is it that the very songs that seem to imbed themselves are the ones that were not my favorite when they came out some decades ago, but now seem to running on a timeless loop with little hope of escaping them. Another one is the song by Gordan Lightfoot about the sinking of the ship wrecked, Edmond Fitzgerald, done in the fine rhythms of a good rolling beer toasting chantey. Oh, and then there are any of the really great songs from the movie Cabaret that we watched recently, with Liza Minnelli belting them out, that get stuck floating round and round in my head. Diversion, please deliver me from these uncontrollable thoughts.

Life on the farm continues hot and slow but this week was graced by several days of afternoon thunderstorms with much needed rain cooling and soothing the plants and animals, my attitude included. This was also the week of my maiden voyage on my young mare, Cistine, a soon to be 4yr old filly who I have been ground driving, lunging, and trying to get her ready for a safe first un-tethered ride. I had been on her with my instructor holding the lunge line a while back, twice very briefly, so I did know that my being on her back wasn’t an issue but the entire rest of the puzzle was not so clear, like what it means to go left or right, and the biggy, whoa. Tuesday was the day I just got on and hoped.

I was over at my neighbor’s farm where there is a Hitchcock ring, an oval shaped pen perhaps fifty or sixty feet at the longest end. It is not as small as a round pen, which can limit a runaway and which I would have preferred, but neither gives any protection from being bucked off. It did have some feeling of enclosure and the sand footing was nice and soft enough for any possible unplanned dismount, and after a bit of lunging to gage her brain function, I put on my helmet and aboard I climbed, all the way up to her 17 hand plus high top of her back.

She stood there, ears pointed to me back there in the saddle, and then walked on when I gave her the words to do such. We did several rounds of the arena, several changes in direction with an easy opening rein action so as not to hurt her sensitive mouth, and we practiced “whoa” many times. She was quiet, relaxed, and interested in the new game we were playing and after a while I got off and gave her a big pat on the neck. She would have preferred a carrot but I was empty handed until we got back to our barn.

To climb onto the back of a young, previously never be ridden, horse is total leap of faith. It is quite a helpless thing to sit there assessing the shape of the animal, to feel its back for the first time, see its reaction to your being there, and have both parties wonder what comes next. The older I get and the more young ones I start, the longer I take with homework to get me to this moment in time. This is a critical step and one that will shape much of the horse’s future behavior from how well, or how disastrous, this first ride goes. There are no controls, no brake system, no seat belt and no air bag and a horse is a very big, athletic animal prone to all sorts of panic attacks which can lead one very quickly to being transported to the hospital should the do-do hit the fan. It is a long road to having a horse get to the spot where they know what you want and are about, and for them to be able and willing to comply. It all has a foundation on this first couple of mounted experiences so one really wants the thing to go extremely well, for many reasons including self preservation.

Cistine did do very well with it all and again several more times this week we repeated the lesson and each has nicely uneventful, ie, I did not come off involuntarily. I had taught her a bit of leg yielding from the ground and she quickly picked up on that from the saddle and was sensitive to the position of my body and would turn with the direction I faced to stay moving in front of me, so it was clear that what I had taught from the ground was paying dividends and carrying over. Long road, but we have had a good week and a good start now.

The hottest part of the day tends to be dealt with by staying indoors and finding diversions there. Yesterday we tended to our young wines, which we started a few months ago. We buy the grape juice concentrates that are from grapes from all over the world, in large cans, and then we add the other stuff, and yeast, to make it turn to five or six gallons of wine. The carboys, the glass fermenting containers, sit on the kitchen counter tops now, roughly eighteen gallons of chardonnay and merlot, wearing t-shirts to protect the light sensitive wines from the sun, waiting to clear before we bottle it soon. Early sampling is part of the job, and yesterday’s drudgery was quite promising and quite tasty.

We also started a new batch of beer, this time we went for a more summer brew, a European styled lager. First we sanitized all of the equipment and then poured the malt extract and water into the kettle and brought the mix to a boil. After a good while it finally got hot enough to begin to boil up rolling bubbles which quickly produced a foamy top. One has to watch carefully at this point that it doesn’t foam over the edge, so monitoring the heat is critical. At some point during this boiling the potential brew, the wort, begins to look a bit like egg drop soup with soft chunks floating around and the foam begins to drop back to the bottom of the kettle. This is called the hot break and it is where the proteins begin to change and drop out of the mix. After the hot break occurred, we then took our big kettle out to the swimming pool to set it in the water to cool it quickly. Slow cooled wort makes for hazy and unstable beer, and we don’t want that come bottling, and then, drinking it time. The wort now sits and bubbles contentedly turning its sugars into beer for the future..ahhh

All our hard labor done, we retired for the afternoon to the pool with our health conscious papaya/pina coladas in hand, and slipped into the water. Sitting on the steps of the pool sipping our concoctions we noticed that the sinking sun was casting low beams of light through the trees at our back and the beams were landing on the trees in front of us, lighting them upside down, making for a very Maxfield Parrish painting style scene, warm and very lovely, each leaf defined.

Another beam found its way bouncing off the water of the pool and was reflected upward into a clump of Spanish Moss. The dancing light bounced and moved through the moss in the patterns of the waves in the pool, and somehow it made me think of fairies, Tinkerbell, and such. It was a visual treat to watch, mesmerizing, and magic, and then the sun set, and it was gone, yet another example of the fragile beauty of the ephemeral.

Full Circles

For some unknown, on the conscious level at least, I awoke yesterday morning in total funk. The already toasty sun had risen and was sucking the moisture from the newly wet ground from the recent thunderstorms, and was holding in its grasp making the air thick and heavy. This phenomenon of weather makes me go into a frustrated mode because of the toll it takes on my energy. On Monday I had ridden three horses at mid morning, came in with a massive headache and was nauseous. There are so many things of life on a farm that require outdoor participation and weather plays the major role of how easily or how dreadfully awful it can be to do anything productive. It just pisses me off to feel trapped, and to counter that I must emerge into a creative and productive mode at something. Finding that outlet is the challenge, many available, but which to choose is the rub.



the garden earlier in spring

 Horses fed, yesterday morning, I wandered back into the house, my shirt damp from the efforts spent, and pondered the next move. Breakfast seemed a good diversion, and so did the previously unopened bottle of Champagne my daughter had given me for Mothers day some time back. It being Fathers day, it just seemed fitting to use it as sort of a Parent in General day, and so we fixed up some Mimosas with some mango/orange juice. My mood was improving as I cooked the eggs and spread peach preserves and almond butter over our toast. It is just amazing to me how much of my energy, thoughts, and emotion are wrapped up in food and how it can, so strongly, affect my mood and outlook. The day began to improve in my attitude as we shared our breakfast fare and moment together. Afterward we ambled to barn world to let the fed critters out of their stalls and check on the garden.

Our summer’s garden is now putting forth nice quantities of lovely red tomatoes, though some are picked early and fried green before ripening, yellow straight neck squash, and lots of tender green beans, sweet banana peppers, fresh basil and parsley. Very soon our incredibly tall and well fed corn stalks, courtesy of the copious amounts of composted horse manure we applied to the soil before planting, will be yielding numerous ears of the best sweet corn ever bred, Silver Queen, the most divine of taste. The okra, too, is flowering and soon it will be putting forth pods to be chopped, rolled in corn meal, fried, and devoured.

In giving thought to the food chain thing and your being what you eat, as I said, this year we heavily loaded the row crop part of the garden with rich, black, composted horse manure. So, the horses ate the grain, turned it to poop, which turned into compost, which we put on the ground to feed the plants, which will be feeding us its fruits, which will fuel our bodies before passing through to continue the cycle…I realize I am becoming one with my horses in more ways than one. Neigh. In grocery store world one is so removed from the process that it is impossible to realize this connection and the flow of the source of our energy. Growing a garden does remind me to appreciate the simplest of vegetables. It did not get here by accident and must be used to the fullest.

Food is naturally so beautiful. Raw vegetables, fresh and clean, are purity and potential. I opened a cantaloupe the other night that was gorgeous, with a creamy veined skin yielding to a lime green rind that quickly blended into the wonderful soft orange sherbert color of the center meat of the melon. It was the first of the truly summer melons we had tasted this year, the winter’s grocery store versions mealy and never sweet. This one was sublime and the reason one eats cantaloupe, and keeps one always in search of the next perfect one.



Life continues to roll along in the farm world despite my whining about the heat and my bad attitude about it. The horses are hot and swish their tails in a steady rhythm to thwart the biting mouths of the horse flies that plague them. I cover their coats with various sprays to try to keep them free of these flying chain saws but not much works, really. The dogs spend their days in shade, panting, spend time in the pond cooling their bellies, and when they look pitiful enough, get to come inside to enjoy the benefits of air conditioning. Life slows to a meandering pace this time of year, coping with lizard weather. Things still get done but at a snail’s pace instead of a rush to the finish line. The passing thunder storm this week dropped some much needed rain and cooled the air, and gave respite if only for a few hours, and was welcomed by all.

With the passing of seasons, the rhythms of life mark their time and things have a way of being fresh and unique, and at the same time, are a constant in the annals of the passage of time. It is nothing new for mares to become pregnant in early summer, and so again, Joline is doing her part to follow this tradition, but she is doing so now at twenty years old, carrying an early pregnancy which will hopefully make it to term, and become what will most likely be her last foal. Should she make it through to the birthing and weaning of this foal, Joline will have earned her retirement and will have to do nothing more than eat grass for the rest of her days, her job will have been done, and well.

On another front, an equally repeated occurrence in the general course of most lives has happened, but one which is totally new and unique to me. That is the announcement of my eldest daughter’s pregnancy. While people have been replicating for some time now, for me, the idea of a new person coming into my life, that is part of my life, of me, and of all the ancestors from generations past, is a bit mind blowing. “I am going to be a grandmother” isn’t something that is rolling off my tongue easily yet. It is a concept difficult to conceptualize. There will be a new person on this planet in December. Yet another of a life changing event that is as normal as the passages of days, but stands huge in my sights. My immediate thoughts turn to “how in the heck will we ever baby proof this house?” That thought, is daunting and a bit overwhelming, but one that will have to be met with at some point down the road.

In my mind, however, lurks the strong disbelief that I am old enough to be a grandmother at all, and that my child is old enough to be a parent. Time keeps on ticking, right into the future. It will be interesting to be on this side of situation after having witnessed the change in my parents when they became grandparents. They turned into goo-goo babbling idiots for a while there and let the grandkids get away with murder compared to our restrictions as youths. I suppose we will not be too different. I think that is the plan in life.

Another hot weekend, another tomato sandwich or two, or three, some added bacon, but mostly mayonnaise, salt, pepper and a perfect slice of red goodness. There are a few things that can’t be improved on and that, is one, and reason to not totally hate summer. So while I type and wait on the sun to leave for the afternoon so that I can do afternoon chores, those wonderful round orbs are out there enjoying the heat and are becoming one with that compost and are filling to perfection to become our next ‘mater sandwich, another circle complete.

dust to dust

Like the unwanted houseguest who settles in onto your favorite spot on the sofa, and who drinks up all your chilly beer, summer and its side kicks, heat and humidity, have done the same thing. This particularly nasty combination hit my face each morning and sit on my head as I head to the barn, unrelenting and taunting, leaching my mood of any good humor. This farm I enjoy so much of the year is now the source of dread at each day’s arrival as I ponder my “what to do outside the house” list, and I strike off most just because there will not be enough energy left after my “must get done” list is half way completed. I can usually overlook this inconvenience until August, but this year the weight of the heat has got me down, and it looks like a long summer ahead. Sigh…

Why, oh why, did my European ancestors settle here in the south? It can only be that they got here in the fall, and enjoyed the gentle winter, nice spring, and were too entrenched to move once summer laid claim to the area. So, having worked a few horses today, I now am hiding indoors while the sun travels across the sky and am trying to find diversions to control my cabin fever and anger at the heat. Writing, painting, definitely not house cleaning, I will find something I am sure, but thinking cool thoughts isn’t working by it self and the air conditioner hasn’t stopped to rest in a week.

This afternoon I am scheduled to meet with my brother at a funeral home to be planning our parents’ funerals. I have never planned anyone’s funeral, whether dead or alive, and am finding that my thoughts on the subject are a mixed bag of dark humor and puzzlement as to the whole ritual of burying someone. A good friend recently gave me a guide to funerals for dummies type manual, having heard of my parents’ recent decline in health, and suggested that I give it a look and make an attempt to deal with the details of the event before they happen so that the grieving can be done without the stress of casket shopping. I had no idea there were so many options and details to be decided about just to get a human remains in the ground, or burned up and put into a jar, or whatever. It is a bit overwhelming and I am wondering what the heck I am doing making choices that my parents won’t even be around to know if I got it right.

I am not a big fan of funerals, as they rank right in there with weddings to me, just another one of those over inflated events that mark our lives. I have been to some that were terrific in their sadness, but a few that were down right hilarious, too. Mark had a friend who died years ago and so we went to Birmigham to send old friend, Jimmy, on to the next astral plane. Jimmy had been cremated and was in a shoe box shaped container when we arrived at the grave site where friends and family stood around about an irregular shaped, 6 inch or so, diameter hole in the ground.

A young boy was holding the box and the dutiful preacher held his bible in front of his chest and the funeral began, somber words from the preacher spilling forth to the family to help them with the reality of Jimmy having moved on and the finality of the physical and the immortality of the afterlife, etc, etc etc. Finally when the preacher has said his fill, it was time for Jimmy’s ashes to return to the ground and the young boy was told to put Jimmy in the hole.

The kid approached the hole and very reverently positioned the box to line up with the cavity. In the box slid, and then stopped. The boy gave a slight push with his foot to encourage Jimmy to move on down, trying not to look inept, but was not successful at either. He gave another push, and then looked up for advice from the preacher. The box was hanging up on a bit of ground in this post hole and wasn’t looking like it was going anywhere, so the preacher walked over to see if he could help. After his pushes were also not working, more friends came over to see how many guys it took to stuff a fellow into the afterlife. After numerous attempts to stomp, shove, and cajole Jimmy to get his body buried, they had to pull the stuck box out to assess the problem. It was getting to be a very awkward moment, with Jimmy’s poor grieving family sitting there in tears watching this funereal chaos. Jimmy went in, and then he came out, then back in again, but still with no progress.

Finally, somebody got the silly giggles and their futile attempts to stifle their snickers got worse, and it was contagious. The moment was shattered and nervous laughter erupted onto everybody’s faces, even the preacher. Something was said about how Jimmy had always been the rebel and had never gone the normal path of life and he wasn’t doing it now in death and another round of deep laughter was set off and the mood of the funeral was lightened. Eventually one of the funeral home folks got a set of idiot sticks, a post hole digger, and cleaned the hole out enough to let Jimmy get six feet under. Dirt was thrown into the hole and Jimmy was at rest, finally.

Then the funniest flower arrangement I have ever seen was at my husband’s grandfather’s funeral. There was an easel holding a fluffy plaque to which was attached a pink plastic princess shaped telephone with the handset left dangling in the air. The floral writing on the thing stated the obvious, “Jesus called…!” Dad would have rolled over in his grave at the silly thing, but he wasn’t in there just yet, and quietly lay before us with a rather stoic face.

Dad had spent a good bit of time working through the depression years as a well digger and the lingering claustrophobia stayed with him even ‘til his death, and in his final wishes he said that he was not be put under ground and wanted a final parking place in a building, whatever you call those places, where caskets are put into lockers. After his funeral service was over we stood around talking with relatives much longer than our youngest daughter, then four or five years old, saw fit and so she took it upon herself to walk over to the still open casket, reached up to the lid and pulled it closed, and turned and said “Dead Dad”. She was right and we left to drive home.

Now as I sort through the huge stack of papers my mother gave me to take to the funeral home to pre-purchase their caskets and services, I am looking through plot deeds and who is already resting in which slots, and how many bodies can be stacked where. My mother bought a large section of this graveyard many years back and we have room for a very large clan, and then some, with each slot being able to bury two stacked on top. There is rank even in death it seems.

I see here the statement of funeral costs for my grandmother, who died a few years back, and who got only the minimal of services. The cost of her minimal burial was around four thousand dollars. Holy cow…What a racket death has become to cost so much merely to dispose of a body, and how complicated it all is, especially for the living who have to deal with the details of something that is a normal and expected part of life. Rituals get us through many things though, and so with my parents advancing time of death, we will go through these details today to have the basics of their passing set into place, so that we can grieve and miss them when the time comes for them to start pushing up daisies. The decisions for today, among others, will be what color caskets and liners they will look best in, but I promise I will not be talked into the solid gold ones that will keep a body fresh for two centuries. Dust to dust, no mummies please.

imagine

The past weekend was Memorial Weekend, the national holiday which usually coincides with the end of school and thus begins the summer vacation time, but its origin of intent was to remember and to say thanks to all of those good people who have served in our military, who have perhaps lost lives, limbs, and their sanity in doing so.

I will admit to being one who has largely regarded this weekend primarily as the beginning of summer with all of the trappings of sitting by pool, barbequing and such, drinking a few chilly brews, and have given very little reverence for this day to remember those who have served in the military. It has not been out of disrespect, perhaps it’s more of a disconnected feeling from those who have seen battle or even just spent years of their lives doing their duty, because I personally, and luckily, did not, but I do appreciate those who did.

My husband is a veteran and served three years of his youth during the Viet Nam era, but who fortunately became a photography teacher for the army rather than have to have gone to the battle field and kill or be killed for that very unjust and unpopular war. My father, served in the Korean Conflict during the 50’s, and he did see the horrors of combat personally, was wounded, earned medals of highest honor, and spent many years of my youth awakened by his night mares of Chinese fighters shooting at him in the Korean mountains.

In the words of the rock song from the 70’s!” rings a truth that we humans simply can not figure out how to deal with and/or avoid. “War..huh. What is it good for? Absolutely nothing!” Repeatedly through out mankind’s history wars have sprung up for all sorts of reasons, lives have been lost, boundaries changed, technologies have been pushed, cities destroyed, and bits of civilization and knowledge have been lost forever. To what end? It is a truly baffling mystery. It sure would be a super world if wars were no more and being a veteran was an obsolete occupation and was a thing of the past, a place were folks just got along. Nice fantasy. Imagine…

Any way the weekend was nice and long, and it did allow for some good and much needed relaxation, dinner with friends and family, reading by the pool, and the big green egg got a stiff workout cooking lots of ribs and veggies.

Twenty eight years ago today was the birthday of my geriatric mare, Limerick. Born on Memorial Day, her then owners who were serving in the military at that time, decided to honor the day by naming her G.E Commemorative. It’s a bit of a full mouth of a name and no one questioned why they named her after a light bulb company, so when I bought her as a yearling I called her Limerick to limit the confusion and shorten the writing on the halter plate. She was a Hanoverian through and through, tough, opinionated, very talented, and worked when she wanted to, or not. She could jump the moon and buck just as well, and many a time I found myself without a saddle to land on. But when Limerick was playing nice with me, we won everything we entered. It was either a first place blue, or last. She has spent the last couple of years being a nanny to my weanlings and always did a super job teaching them manners. She always kicked them high, if they needed it, being careful not to damage those potentially expensive legs. Twice I have called the vet to come do the final closing for her when she has been acting or moving like she felt very bad, and both times she has foiled that plan and has met us at the fence with a whinny and a canter, clearly not ready to go just yet. Today she will get many carrots, chopped fine so she can chew them carefully, and a nice grooming. Limerick gave me many good memories, and taught me a great deal, along with a few broken fingers, and a dislocated jaw once, and she is deserving of a peaceful retirement in her little pasture and barn, forever how long she decides to hang on, and at this rate it will be totally her decision.

The Purple Martin colony is noisy and raucous with the growing chicks in the gourds sticking their yellow rimmed mouths out to the frantic parents who continually fly by to stuff them with dragon flies and whatever bug is prey. Today unfortunately, one of the chicks made an error in judgment, or was pushed, and left the nest too early. I saw the brancher sitting on the fence line below the pole where its house was, and a male adult kept flying to it, seeming to encourage some flying. Occasionally the parent would just sit on the wire next to the baby, but for whatever reason, the chick either couldn’t or wouldn’t try to fly and eventually it hopped to the ground and hid in a rose bush. Marely, the Yorkie, smelled it and brought it to me in her mouth and the poor little bird gripped my finger as I took it from her, and it slowly closed its eyes and let go. I know mortality is high for the chicks but I just hate to see one so close to making it adulthood die right there in my hand, so pretty, and very sad. Perhaps it was nature’s way of making sure its remaining siblings had enough to eat, or perhaps it was just bad timing on the chick’s part. Either way Mom nature can sure deal out cruel blows along with all the other good stuff.

The weather has finally turned to summer and perhaps one of the only, if not the best, redeeming feature of enduring the torture of a southern summer, it is a homegrown tomato. There simply is no substitute for one still warm from the sunshine, sliced thin, and juicy. The first of our tomatoes have turned red and I picked three this morning and plan on some ‘mater sandwiches with mayonnaise and salt and pepper for dinner.
It is a pure and yummy goodness like no other. A cold watermelon is almost a good second, and then there are cantaloupes too.

In the past few years our tomato plants have succumbed to a virus or some form of wilting disease but so far, (knock, knock on head) they are looking incredible thanks to a new location and many piles of nicely composted horse manure tilled into the ground before planting them. The plants are tall and vigorous and loaded with large green fruit, waiting for the sun to turn them red, although there is much to be said for a fried green one too, so many choices, but such a good problem to have.

The heat of the day is closing and off I head to feed the herd and take Lim her birthday snacks and some to Frank who also had a birthday this week, one year old now. Happy Birthdays to them both…and  many more....

Bugs and Brides

A new quiet has arrived on the farm. Thankfully, the past few weeks’ incessant humming, whirling, buzzing, and droning of the millions of love starved red eyed locusts, has come to a predicted close and out door farm life is again so much more peaceful and easy without them. Theirs’ was a relentless tone, and now, it’s mostly gone, at least for another thirteen years. The dogs have all been enjoying crunching on these spent adults that have fallen to the ground after their mating game was done, and I am sure that Jack will miss them the most, but he will find something else to eat to keep his figure suitably rotound. He always does.

This past weekend we left the recently quieted farm for a brief journey to Birmingham to see a dear friend give away his only daughter in marriage. I hate weddings in general, and the idea of dressing up and driving two hours there and back were not high on my want to do list. This, however, was a must do attendance for us, and so we resolved to do what was necessary to give support to our good friend in his hour of need.

Thus resolved and reluctantly all tidied up, we drove to our destination site, The Club, an uber swanky club straddling the steep peak of Red Mountain and overlooking the valley to the north which is the town of Birmingham. The Club was built either late 50’s of early 60’s and has a suave and sophisticated look about its architecture and lines as it lays like a relaxed cat upon the narrow top of a fence line, slowing flicking its tail. It is a white, smoothly finished structure with slow sensuous, curving lines and is topped with a low profiled flat roof. Tidy gardens line the path from the parking deck and lead you to the glass front doors. Once inside the view from the glass walled foyer/bar is a expansive scene of the busy urban life below. It has fortunately stood the effects of time, both physically and socially. It is so nice to see that some later architect of decorator was steered clear of “improving” its character and has left this elegant old place alone

The wedding du jour, was to be held out on a broad deck that perched over a very steep slope below us. It was a mid-May wedding but the weather didn’t get the memo. It was chilly to say the very least, a late in the season cold front had come in to lighten the humidity and the temps and the chilly north wind was blowing steady into the faces of the already seated. We found our way to some chairs and we waited for the quartet playing the usual pre-wedding songs to wrap it up.

Finally, after all of the grannies and the moms had been escorted in, and everyone had gotten a chance to see and judge their frocks for this special day, the show began. The anthem chords of the marriage parade were sounded and all eyes were turned to the back of the seating area, and there was the bride and her father.

She was beaming in her joy and he was smiling and squirming in the discomfort of both his tux and his being in the spot light. In they paraded and vows were exchanged and all the hooplala of the typical ritualistic Gentile/Hebrew wedding was done with all the mixed metaphors from both religions, they kissed and the grannies and moms were escorted back from whence they came.

Servers stood by with trays of wine as the thirsty guests unseated themselves and turned to try to find libation. It was a good thing because most of the wedding party and their many guests had not counted on a stiff cold breeze for a May wedding, were freezing and needed antifreeze badly. The coldest I saw was a bridesmaid with a particularly interesting shade of red hair, wearing a moss green, gossamer, strapless gown. She had become a bit of a study of contrast in colors when she walked by. Her skin had become a vivid and cool shade of purple which really set the two secondary colors of the soft moss and the electric orange hair off to a tee.

As far as weddings go, it was okay. The weather was overlooked as the wine settled the nerves, and the food was excellent. The bride’s father was so happy it was over and he even survived the first dance with his married daughter on a brightly colored dance floor to the sounds of a kick butt band playing mo town hits. We ate and we drank, and chatted with those we did find in the crowd that we knew, and then were about to leave when the father said that there was to be a special announcement back out on the deck. So back into the cold night we all went.

Kaboom….kaboom, kaboom etc etc etc. Below us cans of exploding gunpowder were launching streaks of fireworks upward into the sky and the launched fireworks exploded into mind blowing patterns and colors, some very close from our vantage point. The air was thick with the smell and the sonic booms shook out legs. This was no amateur exposition. This was a fantastic show, in a fantastic setting, but the reason for the show was the most fantastic. As a child, one day the future bride told her dad that at her wedding she wanted fire works. Unbeknown to this bride, on this her wedding day, her dad had obliged and had secretly arranged for this dazzling show. It was a great end of the evening for us and we said our adieus and drove back home in the dark.

As I said earlier, I hate weddings. The happiest moment of a wedding, in the traditional style regardless of the culture, is when it’s over and the bills have been paid. Why it has evolved into such a ridiculous event that causes so much stress and involves such a huge investment of time and money, is a total mystery to me.

My own was sufficed in a court house on a Monday in May. I wore blue jeans and flip flops and stood with my legs crossed. Job done, we left to go camping. No thrown rice, no tacky brides maid dresses, no jittery nerves about where so and so will sit, no protocol, no wedding planner, no Godzilla bill for friggin’ flowers, no preacher giving a mini sermon, no stupid white dress signifying my purity, no worrying about the caterer making enough cheese biscuits, no diamond to ooh and ahh over, no year’s worth of planning and a life time of money to pay for it all, the very idea of it all makes me crazy.

But, to each their own, and this recent bride seemed to have a good time at her almost flawless wedding, despite the chilly breezes. Her dad can breathe again and go back to fishing in his little pond and life goes on,too, here on our farm. May is nearly done, my daughter turned twenty six this week, and soon there will be another anniversary for Mark and me. The horses are glossy in the paddocks, Jack has managed to not make any news in a while, the Purple Martins are busy feeding baby bird mouths, and the corn is knee high in the garden. Good news this week was that Joline, my geriatric broodmare, was confirmed pregnant, so I will be keeping fingers crossed that she can carry it to term successfully. I guess weddings, love starved bugs, and pregnant mares are really on the same big page in life. It 's all about keeping it all going.  Another day, and another page turns.

April's Encore

April did not close quietly. It had appeared as if it might, and then, the frontal line of a century hit the area and state. In terms of perfect storms this one was exquisite in its perfection, and in its destructive powers. The colliding masses of air that met were the total opposites in their temperature and humidity, and their confrontational line left a swath of devastation from high winds, tornadoes, and hail that will long be remembered for its fury and horror, and its resulting loss of property and life.

The day was damp and muggy, and felt like a sauna with the winds from the south pulling the moisture from the warm Gulf of Mexico, priming the atmosphere for the arrival of the still quite cold and dry air mass from the north. The weather channel folks were very excited and the meteorologists were busy on the television, enthusiastically showing maps and giving warnings about the potential power of the storm that was to arrive here, later in the afternoon. They showed graphics and maps and repeatedly told of what to do to prepare for its arrival. Their urgency was dramatic and a bit of a cause for some mild concern, but it’s kind of like the boy who cried “wolf” too many times and nobody believed him. That is, until the wolf did finally eat someone. We had just a bit of skepticism at the need for all their excitement.

We have storms here all the time, nearly weekly, especially in spring when the air is still in flux of changing from winter to summer. Occasionally we do have fierce thunderstorms, with these fronts, and sometimes, a tornado, sometimes with damage, but usually, not. And so we listened to these weather guys do their thing, and prepared for the usual despite their enthusiastic warnings of “Blah, blah, blah!”, and went about our merry way finishing the afternoon chores.

When I returned from afternoon feeding at the barn, I walked into the house and looked to the tv and saw where the effects of the storm were now being visible from sky cams across the state, and it was evident that this was no usual frontal line and this was not the ordinary spring storm. Already, they said, this storm had killed and destroyed many in its path in neighboring states. Cameras were suddenly switched to show a massive tornado which was in view courtesy of a remote sky cam, descending upon the town where Mark and I had been in college, Tuscaloosa, Alabama. We watched in amazement as a giant, rapidly moving funnel swept over recognizable landmarks and obliterated them without a sound, blowing debris far and wide. It was a surreal event to watch, and then to realize that we were watching death happen, and destruction so massive as to not comprehend. It was a strange and helpless feeling to watch an event like this in real time, and be helpless to act. Just after this unprecedented, huge, tornado passed just south of the tall walls of Denny Stadium, that camera went dead.

Reports and photos later on began to reveal the extent of the horror after the tornado left the town and laid aim at another to the east. The storm front also spawned many other tornados, but none as massive or as long on the ground as Tuscaloosa’s, but huge amounts of damage and loss of life had occurred all over the area. The tornado that hit in Tuscaloosa had been a mile wide and covered almost seven miles of concentrated town, raking entire neighborhoods, buildings, cars, and people away. Text books, checks, and debris from this town were carried by the huge winds as far away as Birmingham, which also felt the brunt of this collision of air masses. The number of lives lost or missing was near three hundred or something, I have heard, and the injuries were uncountable.

Friends of ours called us from Tuscaloosa after the front had moved on that night, to tell us they had been missed and were ok, but they expressed the unbelievable destruction they witnessed with shock and dismay in their voices. The area we had spent so much time in, and the apartments where Mark had lived when we met, were simply gone, bull dozed by the sucking winds that pulled up, or leveled, everything in its path, everything.

We were fortunate that fate would spare our immediate location and home, and we were graced with only a bit of wind, and that was gratefully, all. The cooler and drier conditions the retreating storm left behind were welcome and the next day these conditions were pleasant for the poor souls who did live through the storm to pick up the few remaining pieces of their newly shattered lives, and an entire state, and country, was numb with the extent of the incomprehensible loss.

As cleanup is begun, life continues, and the healing of the scars will take time, but mend the wounds. Life on this planet is a strange and fragile existence and is one with no guarantees of tomorrow, and had best be enjoyed, savored, and appreciated. A motto to heed is certainly, to “Be here now”.

On a totally different wave length from the sobering effects of the passing storm, the next day, outside in the woods, there was a loud and very strange noise coming from all over the place. It was a constant whirling, relentless whistling sound that brought to mind the sci-fi alien landing in a movie sound. This was a very different sound from the typical cicadas, crickets, frogs and such that are busy vocalizing away this time of year and as I rode my horses near the trees they paused and cast inquisitive ears towards the strange sound. It is now a loud and constant droning which lasts from dawn to dusk.

Red eyed cicadas are the source of this sound, the internet research enlightened us, a particualr batch of bugs that hatch only every thirteen years. Theirs is a life cycle that lasts as adults only for a few weeks, emerging from the soil as grubs that have fed on roots and such for thirteen years, and they then shed their skins to become winged adults. The males rub these orange rimmed wings together, making this crazy whirling sound, each trying to attract a red eyed female. Mating accomplished, she then lays her eggs either on these hard wood trees or in them, to lay in wait for yet another thirteen years, the cycle completed. An article written thirteen years ago predicted their return in late April, and that will remain present until a few weeks into May, and the author was spot on so far.

They are a colorful and good sized bug, and I nearly stepped on a very tired male this morning as a came from the barn. I went to go get something to put it in so I could photograph the thing later, but when I came back to it with a cup, the might dog, Jack, was standing where the poor bug had been, and the weary bug was now yet another victim of Jack’s culinary indiscretion. He looked quite innocently at me as he crunched the last of my would be model.

Our youngest daughter was born in 1985, on a year of their emergence, and she is soon to be twenty six, on this year of their second return since her birth. The next time they fill the air with their droning amorous calling, she will be thirty nine, and I can’t count high enough to know how old I will be, if granted, I am here. Funny, when one looks at events with personal markers like these, it does give one a frame of reference that gives thought. I will remember this reoccurring occasion of these bugs for the cross timing with her birthday. I will also regrettably, remember it in association with the timing of the deadly April tornados.

A little link on the bugs..

http://www.wyff4.com/r/27626426/detail.html

April's Closing

After the sublime rest of our two day vacation at the beach, we returned once again to farm world and to all the critters and plants that live here with us. It was nice to see Jack seemingly nonplused about his bout with the horse tranquilizer in our absence, happily barking at our arrival. Marley, Heidi, and Memphis gave equal wags of tails as the others in the welcoming reception committee. Back home is good, but back home means back to work, and in spring on a farm, there is no end to the stuff that needs tending to, should be tended to, and doesn’t necessarily include that which one might actually want, to get done. It can be simply overwhelming, to the point of doing absolutely none of it, which is the exact approach we took the weekend before last.

There was yet another in the continuing series of  full moons to be rising on Sunday. It had been waxing on Saturday and we noticed the fish were being very active along the shoreline in the little pond behind the barn. The scent of fish on the bed was heavy when down wind of their underwater nests. We tossed some lures out and quickly caught several nice fish, both bream and bass, and one bass that was so large and fast it snapped Mark’s line, jumped, and spit the lure back at him. Spring fishing is an opportunity to not miss when at its peak and so that was our plan for Sunday, a catch and fry day. We made some calls for recruits to come help with our mission, our daughter and son in law, two of their friends, and a new friend who had never fished but who was very interested in the challenge to learn. I assessed the inventory of oil and cornmeal, and having sufficient quantities of both, the plan for a fish dinner was on, if, the fish cooperated as was expected of them.

This new friend of ours was someone we met recently at an art reception, and who is an internationally known violinist, female, who is currently in our town on a fellowship with our symphony orchestra. Lianna is from Russian, and she speaks with an interesting accent having learned her English in France and carries the lilt of that influence into her words and which makes for very charming conversation. She is recently engaged to the cello playing French fellow who I spoke of in a past blog, who liked our homemade wine, a lot. She is a lovely girl, dark haired and with sultry eyes, she is lithe, graceful, and is a sensitive soul. She played the violin one night in our gallery while Mark did a photo shoot of her and the walls echoed with the strength of her notes and the resonance of her skill. Lianna is beautiful and charming, etc, and has traveled the globe playing before critiquing audiences, but had never fished in her life. So out to the farm she came to try something new.

I had to spend some of the Sunday in town dealing with family matters with my parents so I missed her lesson but was told when I got back out to the farm the news was good. She had learned how to fish, and most importantly, to catch fish. Not afraid to get her hands dirty, Lianna had easily taken to baiting a hook with a live cricket, and tossing the line and bobber out to the waiting fish and then pulling them in. Not only did she catch her first fish, she caught her first bass, which in fishing fresh water is the gold standard of the fish most prized as game fish. Regrettably she had to leave to go rehearse her violin playing for several hours and was not able to stay for the dinner to come but was smiling and quite pleased with her new found activity and hoped to do it again soon.

There are few things as gratifying as catching very aggressive and strong large mouth bass on light tackle, and on this Palm Sunday, with a full moon rising, the fishing was at its best. We said good byes to Lianna and I climbed into the boat and we began the more serious quest for catching dinner. The fish obliged and we did, and then some, and threw the extras and the too big ones back.

I do not clean fish and left that job to the fellows while I went to the kitchen to prepare the mix for the batter and get the other things ready for dinner A marvelous time fishing, and then eating was had by the weary fisher people, sadly minus Lianna, and that week was done and made room for another.

A fairly monumental moment was had by one member of the barn yard in the past week or so. Frank, the Tank, my former young stallion, well not technically active as such but beginning to try, has become lightened of his load and is now, a gelding. In the history of man kind dealing with its shepherding of animals, and really its choirs too, I can’t imagine the idea suddenly popping into someone’s brain that if one were to cut the prized jewels off of a male animal, it suddenly becomes something one can use for anything besides the sharing of those jewels and their cargo, and no longer is it a rearing, biting, Mr. Stud, who thinks everything is his to, own and take his pleasure with. In the case of the choir boys, it lets them sing at high ranges for many years, their voices not succumbing to the evil forces of those hormones released by those prepubescent jewels. What random thought led anyone to think, ah, “male, cut do dads, then behavior better.”? Deductive reasoning of any sort has to have come with some experience to make judgment enough to elicit change of action. Perhaps an accidental cutting, without death, showed a delightful change in personality and behavior that led others to see a correlation to the lightening of the load of the testosterone producing glands.

Anyway it is a weird way of expressing and controlling animal husbandry, which is a strange name to call it too. Be that as it may, the act of gelding, or neutering a male horse, is critical if one wants a horse that is not prefixed on replication, to all and any ends, including but not limited to having a large horse standing on its hind legs over your head, ready for action. Geldings are not perfect, but they tend to be infinitely more consistent in behavior, and ignore those former urges to feel like, “They Rule,” and rather tend to become great partners, friends, and even, confidents who are comfortable wearing the new blanket with the gold trim their owner got for them at Christmas.

Frank has now, thankfully, joined the fraternity, or sorority, of males relieved of the baggage of the motivation for the perpetuation of the gene pool. Frank has made a definitive change from being a young brat to becoming a very sweet kid once again, and that has made my life safer, and Kitty, his pasture mate and nanny, very happy. Is the process a judgment call of nature? Sure. Do I feel guilt at the disfigurement it entails, the temporary pain, and permanent hormonal change? Absolutely, I do. This is farm world tho, where the animals are often big, fast and dangerous at times, and so my goal is to limit my risks. Having a young stallion is very low on my priority list. Having a superior and mentally focused, riding horse without the potential danger of the effects of its raging hormones is very high, and in gelding, this variable is largely eliminated. Frank is free now from the stresses of these hormones and already shows a more mellow character. This I like, a lot.

Years ago, when my mother’s father died, the estate was sold off, but my mother brought me one thing from his farm. He had been a cattle farmer most of his life on five hundred lush acres of Mississippi delta land, and had run a large herd of well bred Angus cows. The one thing that mom brought me from his life, from the possessions that he no longer needed, was a surgical stainless steel set of the tools one uses to perform an emasculation. I thought that was a rather strange legacy to leave a granddaughter but it was a very nice set of tools, the when and where I might actually use them was up for grabs however. For some strange reason I recently haven’t been able to find this box that holds such a sacred set of instruments and I have reason to suspect Mark of hiding the thing, but have no proof of such. I will keep looking, just in case.

And so, another week, another month, all going by so quickly it numbs the brain. So what of our actions, our experiences, our thoughts and our deeds that happens as we bumble our way through this life? If there were no photos and no written form of what makes our memories, those ephemoral events would be lost.  It is in their chronicling here that sets mine into a form that might be remembered and shared, and so I write as they happen, and I wait, for the next installment which will surely come when least expected and unpredicted.