I am blessed to live in a home that overlooks water. Most mornings I attempt to bring myself out of a sleep induced coma by sipping strong coffee while gazing out of the window in our kitchen that overlooks the shared pond bordering our backyard. I must admit that over the years I have had to steadily increase the strength of my morning coffee as well as the magnifying power of the cheap glasses I used to only need for reading so that I can actually see the this man made enclosure from my window.
With my dimming eyesight has come an enhanced appreciation for the wildlife that inhabits this small body of water. Amazed to discover that deer could swim, our first winter here I saw an eight point buck cross its snowy circumference leaving a wake in his path that any ocean going vessel would have envied. I have watched pairs of great blue herons patiently hunt the banks of its shores, gliding gracefully above the tree tops once their stomachs were full. Always a welcome sight, the colorful wood ducks who pay us an occasional visit add their voices to the croaking melodies of bullfrogs and cicadas during the summer months.
This pond has also become a magnet for migrating flocks of Canada Geese and you can almost set your watch by the noisy Two A.M. arrival of these 474's of the waterfowl world. Precisely estimating glide path ratios, the rowdy gangs of Branta Candensi conduct several loud flybys each evening and after landing in a less than graceful manner, persist in proudly honking at one another until the sun starts to rise.
Disturbing my oldest son's peaceful slumber on more than one occasion, many of these long necked, web footed fowl fell victim to early morning assassination attempts staged from this boy's second-story bedroom window. Now you truly cannot comprehend the meaning of the words tar and feather until someone has plucked a couple of geese in your driveway and unfortunately no matter how you cook it, goose meat doesn't taste good. There just isn't enough John Boy & Billy's Grillin Sauce on the shelf at the local Piggly Wiggly to disguise the wild taste or tough texture of this not so delicate delicacy.
Having to constantly rearrange uneaten goose meat in the freezer and scrape feathers off my windshield eventually led to a self preservation effort and a stay of execution was issued. Not long afterwards a mated pair of geese took up permanent residence in the sparkling asylum behind our house and each spring these monogamous creatures have treated us to a whole new generation of offspring.
Feeling pretty secure about their protected status, a couple of years back mama and papa goose even marched their goslings up through the backyard and the family vacationed for a few days in the small pond near our driveway. Unwilling to risk an altercation with their larger kinsmen, our domestic Pekin ducks immediately vacated the premises, angrily staring at the unwelcome intruders from a safe distance.
One chilly morning this past winter I was in the pasture feeding horses when my two old buddies flew over the barn. The honking that signaled their return from a predawn excursion made me look upward and I watched as the pair majestically soared toward their backyard refuge. Then, like a scene out of the movie Funny Farm, two shotgun blasts shattered the moment and the birds flew back over the barn, swiftly heading in the opposite directions.
Back at the house, my oldest son repeatedly vowed he had not fired the shots and in a normal family the fact that he was barefoot and still in his pajamas would have lent some credence to his story. Later that day I saw the geese return home, but I knew if someone else was hunting the shared pond it wouldn't be long before they met with an untimely demise.
Shortly afterwards, my eldest pulled up and unloaded a sack of deer corn from the trunk of his car. Coyly suggesting that I sprinkle the contents of this bag all the way around the edge of the pond, he then reminded me that it is illegal for anyone to wing hunt a baited field. My neighbors will probably never speak to me again, but the geese are still here and their repeated honking serves as a gentle reassurance that even the most cold blooded assassin may mellow with time.
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
Birds of a Feather
Things that are not quite right always seem to find their way through my back door. What's really strange is I apparently have a bizarre appreciation for the abnormal and welcome its presence with open arms. Case in point - right now I'm trying to compose this literary masterpiece on a laptop computer so old it has to reach critical temperature before the upper keyboard will work at all. By my side sits a Chihuahua sized Jack Russell so crooked she meets herself coming and going. Both are slightly flawed, but they have become an essential part of my daily existence.
Unfortunately, this tolerance for the wounded and imperfect may have made me an easy mark, but over the years it has also led to some pretty interesting experiences. One of the most memorable of these would have to include a very small visitor who arrived two days before Thanksgiving a few years back and comfortably roosted around our home well through the New Year.
We had twenty-two people coming for the big chow down on the third Thursday in November and I was rather frantically attempting to make dressing when one of my son's friends walked in holding an injured, pint sized owl. The creature had collided with the front windshield of the young man's truck and the entrance of this mesmerizing, wide-eyed raptor brought all culinary activities to an immediate halt. The hit and run teenager claimed he didn't know where else to take the tiny victim and relieving himself of any further responsibility, made a hasty exit back into the chilly night.
The little bird had trouble flying, but otherwise appeared perfectly healthy so we set up temporary shelter for "Screech" in a thirty-five gallon aquarium next to the refrigerators in our garage. Feasting on tiny balls of raw hamburger meat, Screech was brought inside for hand feedings three or four times daily and by the Christmas holidays all this handling had made him pretty tame.
In the evenings Screech would perch on the big poinsettia in the center of our kitchen table and lovingly coo at his own reflection in the bay window. Sort of a feathered fixture around our house, it gave us a scare when the normally ravenous little fellow temporarily lost his appetite, but one sleepless night spent administering eyedroppers full of water spiked with old canary vitamins seemed to do the trick and the bird started growing stronger with every passing week.
Something of a novelty, Screech had his fair share of visitors and one of these uninvited sightseers felt compelled to inform me that I was committing a crime by harboring a bird of prey. Now I tend to be a law abiding citizen with a rather sick sense of humor and I quickly apologized for not returning this wounded animal to the dirt road where the accident had happened so he could die alone in peace.
Faced with jail time for being an ornithoid napper, I then attempted to extricate myself from the long arm of the law by asking this self-righteous individual to hand me a hammer that was sitting on the shelf above Screech's cage. Explaining that I intended to use the tool to dispose of any evidence which could lead to my conviction, this code quoting intruder seemed to take offense at my solution and she swiftly fled from the scene.
Not too long after this incident we had a spell of severely cold weather and I decided to bring Screech inside for the night. He was getting to the point where he could fly pretty well, but I worried the owl's ability to hunt for food may have been diminished during his brief time in captivity. Figuring Screech could use a little freedom, I put him in the bathroom adjoining our bedroom, closed the door and bid him goodnight.
Sometime in the dark, wee hours of the morning I went into the bathroom for some water. Groggy with sleep I didn't bother to turn on the light, and had completely forgotten about Screech until the obviously hungry owl descended from nowhere, grasped my hand with his sharp talons and bit the daylights out of my finger. Startled, but impressed by his predatory skills, I realized my fine feathered friend was fully recovered and decided the time had come for Screech to return to the wild.
With warmer temperatures in the forecast, the next day I gave the cooing cutie an extra helping of hamburger and watched as the little owl soared away into the bright morning sunlight. No longer harboring an illegal alien, my criminal activities came to a happy conclusion and this episode with Screech taught me that every now and then it is OK to bite the hand that feeds you.
Unfortunately, this tolerance for the wounded and imperfect may have made me an easy mark, but over the years it has also led to some pretty interesting experiences. One of the most memorable of these would have to include a very small visitor who arrived two days before Thanksgiving a few years back and comfortably roosted around our home well through the New Year.
We had twenty-two people coming for the big chow down on the third Thursday in November and I was rather frantically attempting to make dressing when one of my son's friends walked in holding an injured, pint sized owl. The creature had collided with the front windshield of the young man's truck and the entrance of this mesmerizing, wide-eyed raptor brought all culinary activities to an immediate halt. The hit and run teenager claimed he didn't know where else to take the tiny victim and relieving himself of any further responsibility, made a hasty exit back into the chilly night.
The little bird had trouble flying, but otherwise appeared perfectly healthy so we set up temporary shelter for "Screech" in a thirty-five gallon aquarium next to the refrigerators in our garage. Feasting on tiny balls of raw hamburger meat, Screech was brought inside for hand feedings three or four times daily and by the Christmas holidays all this handling had made him pretty tame.
In the evenings Screech would perch on the big poinsettia in the center of our kitchen table and lovingly coo at his own reflection in the bay window. Sort of a feathered fixture around our house, it gave us a scare when the normally ravenous little fellow temporarily lost his appetite, but one sleepless night spent administering eyedroppers full of water spiked with old canary vitamins seemed to do the trick and the bird started growing stronger with every passing week.
Something of a novelty, Screech had his fair share of visitors and one of these uninvited sightseers felt compelled to inform me that I was committing a crime by harboring a bird of prey. Now I tend to be a law abiding citizen with a rather sick sense of humor and I quickly apologized for not returning this wounded animal to the dirt road where the accident had happened so he could die alone in peace.
Faced with jail time for being an ornithoid napper, I then attempted to extricate myself from the long arm of the law by asking this self-righteous individual to hand me a hammer that was sitting on the shelf above Screech's cage. Explaining that I intended to use the tool to dispose of any evidence which could lead to my conviction, this code quoting intruder seemed to take offense at my solution and she swiftly fled from the scene.
Not too long after this incident we had a spell of severely cold weather and I decided to bring Screech inside for the night. He was getting to the point where he could fly pretty well, but I worried the owl's ability to hunt for food may have been diminished during his brief time in captivity. Figuring Screech could use a little freedom, I put him in the bathroom adjoining our bedroom, closed the door and bid him goodnight.
Sometime in the dark, wee hours of the morning I went into the bathroom for some water. Groggy with sleep I didn't bother to turn on the light, and had completely forgotten about Screech until the obviously hungry owl descended from nowhere, grasped my hand with his sharp talons and bit the daylights out of my finger. Startled, but impressed by his predatory skills, I realized my fine feathered friend was fully recovered and decided the time had come for Screech to return to the wild.
With warmer temperatures in the forecast, the next day I gave the cooing cutie an extra helping of hamburger and watched as the little owl soared away into the bright morning sunlight. No longer harboring an illegal alien, my criminal activities came to a happy conclusion and this episode with Screech taught me that every now and then it is OK to bite the hand that feeds you.
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
The Goat Flu Incident
I have an unnatural fear of The Carolina Trader. Just seeing one sitting on a table in my house can send a sense of dread streaming through my consciousness. This may seem like a rather paranoid attitude, but I have good cause. Innocently disguised as a newspaper, this green-jacketed publication provides a forum for people wishing to sell everything from baseball cards to generators. My oldest son, who normally becomes bored so quickly he can't finish reading the cooking instructions on a pizza box, can spend hours perusing the contents of this periodical. Ultimately, the boy becomes passionately obsessed with the acquisition of some article profiled between its covers and that's exactly how I ended up with typhoid Nanny.
The saga started out innocently when Austin and his girlfriend found baby pygmy goats for sale in the The Trader and thought it would be fun to get a male and female to rear as pets. Shortly afterwards, little Nanny and Billy arrived unannounced at Camp Clamp on a frigidly cold January afternoon. Austin led me to believe the couple would be residing with his girlfriend's parents, so I allowed the cute little ruminants to spend their first few nights in my garage until a pen could be constructed on the grounds of their permanent residence. Concerned because Billy had a runny nose and crusty eyes, I lowered the sliding door and turned on the heating vent in an effort to keep the infants warm.
Several days later Billy's condition worsened and he joined the great goat herd in the sky. Within a week's time it also became obvious that Billy's much healthier counterpart wasn't going anywhere. Wishing to regain use of my garage, I finally moved the little female goat up to the barn and into a stall normally occupied by one of my mares who was enjoying conjugal visitation with a stallion at a nearby farm. Within a month's time, my out-of-sight, out-of-mind son completely lost interest in his newest acquisition and Nanny became Mom's goat. Nanny's care and feeding took its place on my morning agenda and I have to admit that our daily game of butt your head on the wall of the stall was entertaining.
Now I know I have a propensity for overfeeding things, but the pygmy goat sure did seem to grow at an extraordinarily rapid rate. Six months after her arrival the dwarf dainty was weighing in at over seventy-five pounds and nearing maturity, resembled a German shepherd on steroids. When my mare returned home we constructed a pen made from white picket fencing near the barn. Complete with a large doghouse for shelter, Nanny began residing in her new accommodations next to the riding arena, and thus became known as the cloven-hoofed keeper of the ring.
One morning while I was putting fresh bedding in Nanny's pen I noticed something resembling a volcanic cone erupting below her ear lobe. Since I was scheduled to leave for a horse show in Blowing Rock that afternoon, I quickly lanced and dressed the wound. My husband would be feeding the goat in my absence so I asked him to keep an eye on Nanny's boo-boo for any signs of infection. Not thinking anymore about it, I packed my bags, and experiencing something akin to pure joy left for a few days of solitude in the majestic mountains of North Carolina.
Truth be known, I love going to Blowing Rock for horse shows. The weather is cool, the setting is beautiful and I relish staying at the little Victorian inn downtown owned by two not so manly men named Scott and Chris. There's no place like home, but every now and then it's just nice to go some place where gun racks are not standard issue on riding lawn mowers and the upscale Exxon sells really good brie cheese in addition to expensive unleaded gasoline.
Back at the farm my husband was obviously taking his care giving job a little more seriously than normal and this temporary keeper of the herd decided to consult with one of my boarders who was trained as a vet tech about the boil on Nanny's neck. Intrigued by the eruption, she decided to do some research. Slightly concerned by the results of her investigation, she informed my spouse that Nanny may have a bacterial infection similar to typhoid that could prove fatal to humans in very rare cases.
If I died my husband would have to feed the goat, the dogs, the chickens, the horses, and our children everyday for the rest of his life. I firmly believe this realization created a sense of panic that totally rocked his world and I received a very ominous phone call from my significant other while I was enjoying a complimentary bottle of wine provided by Scott and Chris.
"Have you been suffering from any cold or flu-like symptoms?" he inquired without a lead-in, apparently convinced the dreaded goat flu was about to strike me dead at any given moment. Now, over the years my husband has asked me some pretty strange questions, but this one immediately soared above its predecessors. After garnishing a little more information, I reassured the poor man that I was feeling just fine. Taking comfort in his concern and the fact that no bacteria on earth could survive in my alcohol laden blood stream, I hung up the phone and returned home relatively healthy the next afternoon.
Nanny's boil did not prove infectious and she remains grossly overweight, but in good health to this day. Imprinted during her youth, the goat still views me as a bipedal parent and she enjoys an occasional stroll down to the house so she can visit the rest of her human relatives. I still return to Blowing Rock each summer for the same horse show that inspired the now infamous goat flu incident and much to my husband's relief, have yet to develop any cold or flu like symptoms while visiting there.
The saga started out innocently when Austin and his girlfriend found baby pygmy goats for sale in the The Trader and thought it would be fun to get a male and female to rear as pets. Shortly afterwards, little Nanny and Billy arrived unannounced at Camp Clamp on a frigidly cold January afternoon. Austin led me to believe the couple would be residing with his girlfriend's parents, so I allowed the cute little ruminants to spend their first few nights in my garage until a pen could be constructed on the grounds of their permanent residence. Concerned because Billy had a runny nose and crusty eyes, I lowered the sliding door and turned on the heating vent in an effort to keep the infants warm.
Several days later Billy's condition worsened and he joined the great goat herd in the sky. Within a week's time it also became obvious that Billy's much healthier counterpart wasn't going anywhere. Wishing to regain use of my garage, I finally moved the little female goat up to the barn and into a stall normally occupied by one of my mares who was enjoying conjugal visitation with a stallion at a nearby farm. Within a month's time, my out-of-sight, out-of-mind son completely lost interest in his newest acquisition and Nanny became Mom's goat. Nanny's care and feeding took its place on my morning agenda and I have to admit that our daily game of butt your head on the wall of the stall was entertaining.
Now I know I have a propensity for overfeeding things, but the pygmy goat sure did seem to grow at an extraordinarily rapid rate. Six months after her arrival the dwarf dainty was weighing in at over seventy-five pounds and nearing maturity, resembled a German shepherd on steroids. When my mare returned home we constructed a pen made from white picket fencing near the barn. Complete with a large doghouse for shelter, Nanny began residing in her new accommodations next to the riding arena, and thus became known as the cloven-hoofed keeper of the ring.
One morning while I was putting fresh bedding in Nanny's pen I noticed something resembling a volcanic cone erupting below her ear lobe. Since I was scheduled to leave for a horse show in Blowing Rock that afternoon, I quickly lanced and dressed the wound. My husband would be feeding the goat in my absence so I asked him to keep an eye on Nanny's boo-boo for any signs of infection. Not thinking anymore about it, I packed my bags, and experiencing something akin to pure joy left for a few days of solitude in the majestic mountains of North Carolina.
Truth be known, I love going to Blowing Rock for horse shows. The weather is cool, the setting is beautiful and I relish staying at the little Victorian inn downtown owned by two not so manly men named Scott and Chris. There's no place like home, but every now and then it's just nice to go some place where gun racks are not standard issue on riding lawn mowers and the upscale Exxon sells really good brie cheese in addition to expensive unleaded gasoline.
Back at the farm my husband was obviously taking his care giving job a little more seriously than normal and this temporary keeper of the herd decided to consult with one of my boarders who was trained as a vet tech about the boil on Nanny's neck. Intrigued by the eruption, she decided to do some research. Slightly concerned by the results of her investigation, she informed my spouse that Nanny may have a bacterial infection similar to typhoid that could prove fatal to humans in very rare cases.
If I died my husband would have to feed the goat, the dogs, the chickens, the horses, and our children everyday for the rest of his life. I firmly believe this realization created a sense of panic that totally rocked his world and I received a very ominous phone call from my significant other while I was enjoying a complimentary bottle of wine provided by Scott and Chris.
"Have you been suffering from any cold or flu-like symptoms?" he inquired without a lead-in, apparently convinced the dreaded goat flu was about to strike me dead at any given moment. Now, over the years my husband has asked me some pretty strange questions, but this one immediately soared above its predecessors. After garnishing a little more information, I reassured the poor man that I was feeling just fine. Taking comfort in his concern and the fact that no bacteria on earth could survive in my alcohol laden blood stream, I hung up the phone and returned home relatively healthy the next afternoon.
Nanny's boil did not prove infectious and she remains grossly overweight, but in good health to this day. Imprinted during her youth, the goat still views me as a bipedal parent and she enjoys an occasional stroll down to the house so she can visit the rest of her human relatives. I still return to Blowing Rock each summer for the same horse show that inspired the now infamous goat flu incident and much to my husband's relief, have yet to develop any cold or flu like symptoms while visiting there.
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
You Backed Into What?
My mother was a very wise woman and she once told me that when you have children that's about all you've got. It took me a while to understand exactly what she meant, but as time has passed and my kids have gone from infancy to adolescence I have come to grasp the true meaning of her words. When your children are born, you lovingly look at them in the hospital and are grateful they have ten fingers, ten toes, and a straight nose. From birth to toddler you are enthralled by their first steps and mesmerized by their first words. From toddler to adolescence you relish every phase and satisfy your offspring with relatively inexpensive toys.
Then one day you wake up and that beautiful curly headed child whose first grade drawings are still hanging on the refrigerator is verging on the age of independence. This doesn't mean they can legally buy beer or tobacco. It just means they are old enough to obtain a driver's license. Ergo, the State of South Carolina will not sell this minor child a lottery ticket, but it will grant them the privilege of operating a two ton, gas powered, metallic object capable of going one hundred and twenty miles per hour down a deserted dirt road.
Peace of mind is important and as responsible parents we try not to give this contradiction of logic too much thought. In addition, completely aware of their total ineptitude, but generally possessing a certain fondness for our own cars, most parents quickly become determined to acquire another vehicle for their young driver. We justify this irrational act by telling ourselves it will ultimately enhance our lives because the child will now be able to drive themself to school or run to the grocery store for that forgotten bag of sugar.
Needless to say, my oldest son, Austin, was the first of our herd to get his driver's license and like a right of passage this also meant he had to have his own car. I envisioned a small, old, safe, foreign model capable of getting at least thirty miles to the gallon while reaching a maximum speed of about sixty. My child immediately informed me that he had something very different in mind. I guess I hadn't been paying attention, but all of his friends drove trucks - really BIG trucks - and nothing else was going to satisfy this tenacious teenager.
Reliving his second childhood, my husband quickly joined forces with our eldest and the two individuals who had rarely shared a compatible thought swiftly merged into a single minded organism whose sole purpose was finding the perfect truck. Once they found it, the relatively harmless looking machine was unceremoniously converted into a lifted, mud-tire equipped, straight piped monster that violated every noise ordinance ever passed by county council. The powder blue product of their efforts was so tall the cab could only be accessed by a step ladder and this probably contributed to the unfortunate incident which our insurance company still uses to justify charging higher premiums for male teenage drivers.
Not long after the acquisition and metamorphosis of "Big Blue" my son was sent on an errand to mail a letter at the local post office. Now, like all good parents who give their boys large trucks to drive, we also made sure the kid had a cell phone so he could call home when he wrecked it. Old enough to pilot this vehicle, but obviously not yet wise enough in the ways of the world to understand the difference between stamped and metered mail, Austin called the house to find out which box he should put the letter in.
I told him to deposit the envelope in the receptacle for stamped mail and above the roar of Big Blue's engine overheard the words "I'm going to have to back up, Oh-!-!-! This was quickly followed by a declaration that Big Blue's bumper had just made contact with something significant. Well, the significant something my son had backed into was a Panoz Esperante and swearing he'd looked, but couldn't see it, Austin had collided with a sports car that cost more than the first home we had ever purchased.
Shortly thereafter, my husband sped to the scene of the not so minor fender bender. The driver of the injured sports car told my spouse that he and his wife had been on a cross country trip visiting their children who lived in New York and California. Safely returning home to our little community from their long journey, the couple had stopped at the post office to retrieve their mail. Tired and slightly irritated, this nice man also informed my husband that he too was the father of sons who had once been teenagers and kindly reassured him that our child had been very apologetic and polite about the regrettable incident.
The extremely valuable automobile damaged that day had to be sent to Atlanta for repairs, but I will always be grateful for the benevolent nature of its owner. It is true that raising teenagers is a lot like being pecked to death by a duck and at times can make you totally sympathetic toward the female guppy who avoids such tribulations by consuming her young.
Then again, when my patience wears thin I remember the gentleman at the post office who was able to afford my son the courtesy of understanding and forgiveness under difficult circumstances. Trying to follow his example, I reassure myself that my kids will eventually grow up and move away to New York or California. I know I'm going to miss them, but when this finally happens I think I'll sell this place and use the proceeds to buy myself a Panoz Esperante.
Then one day you wake up and that beautiful curly headed child whose first grade drawings are still hanging on the refrigerator is verging on the age of independence. This doesn't mean they can legally buy beer or tobacco. It just means they are old enough to obtain a driver's license. Ergo, the State of South Carolina will not sell this minor child a lottery ticket, but it will grant them the privilege of operating a two ton, gas powered, metallic object capable of going one hundred and twenty miles per hour down a deserted dirt road.
Peace of mind is important and as responsible parents we try not to give this contradiction of logic too much thought. In addition, completely aware of their total ineptitude, but generally possessing a certain fondness for our own cars, most parents quickly become determined to acquire another vehicle for their young driver. We justify this irrational act by telling ourselves it will ultimately enhance our lives because the child will now be able to drive themself to school or run to the grocery store for that forgotten bag of sugar.
Needless to say, my oldest son, Austin, was the first of our herd to get his driver's license and like a right of passage this also meant he had to have his own car. I envisioned a small, old, safe, foreign model capable of getting at least thirty miles to the gallon while reaching a maximum speed of about sixty. My child immediately informed me that he had something very different in mind. I guess I hadn't been paying attention, but all of his friends drove trucks - really BIG trucks - and nothing else was going to satisfy this tenacious teenager.
Reliving his second childhood, my husband quickly joined forces with our eldest and the two individuals who had rarely shared a compatible thought swiftly merged into a single minded organism whose sole purpose was finding the perfect truck. Once they found it, the relatively harmless looking machine was unceremoniously converted into a lifted, mud-tire equipped, straight piped monster that violated every noise ordinance ever passed by county council. The powder blue product of their efforts was so tall the cab could only be accessed by a step ladder and this probably contributed to the unfortunate incident which our insurance company still uses to justify charging higher premiums for male teenage drivers.
Not long after the acquisition and metamorphosis of "Big Blue" my son was sent on an errand to mail a letter at the local post office. Now, like all good parents who give their boys large trucks to drive, we also made sure the kid had a cell phone so he could call home when he wrecked it. Old enough to pilot this vehicle, but obviously not yet wise enough in the ways of the world to understand the difference between stamped and metered mail, Austin called the house to find out which box he should put the letter in.
I told him to deposit the envelope in the receptacle for stamped mail and above the roar of Big Blue's engine overheard the words "I'm going to have to back up, Oh-!-!-! This was quickly followed by a declaration that Big Blue's bumper had just made contact with something significant. Well, the significant something my son had backed into was a Panoz Esperante and swearing he'd looked, but couldn't see it, Austin had collided with a sports car that cost more than the first home we had ever purchased.
Shortly thereafter, my husband sped to the scene of the not so minor fender bender. The driver of the injured sports car told my spouse that he and his wife had been on a cross country trip visiting their children who lived in New York and California. Safely returning home to our little community from their long journey, the couple had stopped at the post office to retrieve their mail. Tired and slightly irritated, this nice man also informed my husband that he too was the father of sons who had once been teenagers and kindly reassured him that our child had been very apologetic and polite about the regrettable incident.
The extremely valuable automobile damaged that day had to be sent to Atlanta for repairs, but I will always be grateful for the benevolent nature of its owner. It is true that raising teenagers is a lot like being pecked to death by a duck and at times can make you totally sympathetic toward the female guppy who avoids such tribulations by consuming her young.
Then again, when my patience wears thin I remember the gentleman at the post office who was able to afford my son the courtesy of understanding and forgiveness under difficult circumstances. Trying to follow his example, I reassure myself that my kids will eventually grow up and move away to New York or California. I know I'm going to miss them, but when this finally happens I think I'll sell this place and use the proceeds to buy myself a Panoz Esperante.
Thursday, March 18, 2010
This Place Has Really Gone To The Dogs
(The Saga Continues)
About ten years ago my son Austin agreed to come with me to a horse show in Conyers, Georgia. I have always enjoyed the company of my children, but since the show happened to coincide with his sixteenth birthday I also had an ulterior motive for ensuring that Austin was present at this particular event. Now don't misunderstand me, it's not that I'm so sentimental I couldn't endure being apart from my son on his birthday - I just knew that during my absence the biggest kegger in the history of our little town would take place down by the burn barrel if this child stayed at home with his dad.
Unfortunately the oldest heir to the family farm does not possess an unbridled passion for horses and he quickly tired of watching the exhibition of American Saddlebreds or "shaky tails" as they are often referred to by the more reserved hunt seat crowd. There is no shortage of teenage girls at horse shows and during the event Austin attempted to alleviate his boredom by checking out some of the two-legged scenery. There is also no shortage of people trying to sell things at horse shows and as he wandered around the barns on Saturday morning, Austin met a man with a litter of eight week old Jack Russell puppies.
Up to this point I had never really cared for Jack Russell Terriers. Their temperament reminded me of hyperactive children in need of medication, but I obligingly went to see the dogs and found that my son had fallen in love with the least attractive one in the bunch. Short legged, stocky and solid white, except for one brown spot on her head, the puppy he had chosen looked more like an albino Dachshund than a Jack Russell Terrier. Ignoring my negative reaction, the boy continued to visit the dog man who had sold all of the puppies but this one by late afternoon. As the sun was setting my very persuasive child played the sympathy card and ended up with Dottie Russell as a birthday present compliments of the puppy peddler.
The dog slept in our hotel room that night and the next day we set out for home with Dottie snugly tucked in the back seat. When Jasmine, our Dalmatian, saw the spot on top of Dottie's head she assumed a kinship existed and immediately took responsibility for raising the ugly little dogling. The bob tailed compadres were inseparable. They ate together, slept together and played together.
Sadly about a year after Dottie came into our lives, Jasmine left us. This dog may have survived an encounter with a six thousand pound Suburban, but she didn't survive her attempt to chase a five-foot rattlesnake from the back yard. Broken hearted, Dottie and I missed our best friend and I genuinely began to worry about the Jack Russell who stopped eating or playing.
Concluding that Dottie needed a companion, I took her with me to visit potential canine adoptees at the humane society and local animal hospital, but none served as a suitable replacement for Jasmine. Finally, I searched the newspaper and found an ad for a two year old, housebroken, neutered, male Jack Russell named Patch. Making the necessary arrangements, Patch's downtown family brought him out for a visit. Unlike Dottie, he was an exemplary specimen of all things Russell. No dummy, Dottie knew a good thing when she saw it and as soon as Patch was released from his crate the two dogs bounded off together in a blissful frenzy.
Dottie's renewed enthusiasm inspired us to write a check for Patch and Patch's enthusiasm for marking all the rugs in our house inspired us to write many check to the carpet cleaners. Now most people don't get rid of a good dog and we quickly discovered that physically perfect Patch had many flaws. The worst of these was the urge to kill just about anything that hopped, slithered, crawled or walked.
Before we acquired Patch, my husband had become enamored with the idea of having fresh eggs every morning and he amassed a large variety of expensive hens that we kept in the abandoned greenhouse beside our home. Within a week of Patch's arrival the dog discovered the "free range" chickens. Realizing the mesh surrounding their coup was not an impenetrable barrier, the vicious mongrel set out on a chicken massacre that would have put Colonel Sanders to shame. With carcasses littering the yard and feathers still clinging to his mouth, Patch barely escaped this initial killing spree with his own life in tact.
Unable to help himself this dog then attacked and killed the family cat. Fortunately for Patch, no one was intensely horrified by this deed since the cat we called Slash had a propensity for leaving gaping wounds on the flesh of any individual brave enough to try and pet her. Slash was buried in a shallow grave close to the former chicken coup and all bad things were forgotten for a while.
Lulling us into a false sense of security, Patch didn't kill again for many months and harmony seemed to have been restored on the home front. Then, out of the blue the Jack Russell terrorist struck again. This time Ducky Duck was his target and we were forced to add our pet Pekin's name to the growing list of animals loved and lost. Realizing the duck had been mortally wounded, my husband attempted to put him out of his misery with a twelve-gauge shotgun. Intentionally or not, some stray shot struck Patch's rear end in the process. Fearing for his life, the dog ran off into the woods and disappeared.
Perhaps it's true that absence makes the heart grow fonder. Patch was a relentless, wanton killer, but he was just doing what instinct dictated. As the days passed we worried about the little dog's fate and doubted he could survive in the wilds around our house for very long. Amazingly, several weeks later my neighbor found him wandering up her driveway and much to our relief Patch returned home slightly thinner, but unscathed.
Needless to say, we no longer have cats or chickens and the migratory ducks that visit our pond do so at their own risk. We however do still have the little Jack Russell terrorist who wears a bright green collar with a tag that reads "Patch Chicken Killer Page." Having disposed of just about everything else, this dog spends his days chasing mice or lizards at the barn and his nights curled up next to Dottie on the foot of my bed. I guess it just goes to show that all flaws can eventually be forgiven when you are lucky enough to live with a family that loves you.
About ten years ago my son Austin agreed to come with me to a horse show in Conyers, Georgia. I have always enjoyed the company of my children, but since the show happened to coincide with his sixteenth birthday I also had an ulterior motive for ensuring that Austin was present at this particular event. Now don't misunderstand me, it's not that I'm so sentimental I couldn't endure being apart from my son on his birthday - I just knew that during my absence the biggest kegger in the history of our little town would take place down by the burn barrel if this child stayed at home with his dad.
Unfortunately the oldest heir to the family farm does not possess an unbridled passion for horses and he quickly tired of watching the exhibition of American Saddlebreds or "shaky tails" as they are often referred to by the more reserved hunt seat crowd. There is no shortage of teenage girls at horse shows and during the event Austin attempted to alleviate his boredom by checking out some of the two-legged scenery. There is also no shortage of people trying to sell things at horse shows and as he wandered around the barns on Saturday morning, Austin met a man with a litter of eight week old Jack Russell puppies.
Up to this point I had never really cared for Jack Russell Terriers. Their temperament reminded me of hyperactive children in need of medication, but I obligingly went to see the dogs and found that my son had fallen in love with the least attractive one in the bunch. Short legged, stocky and solid white, except for one brown spot on her head, the puppy he had chosen looked more like an albino Dachshund than a Jack Russell Terrier. Ignoring my negative reaction, the boy continued to visit the dog man who had sold all of the puppies but this one by late afternoon. As the sun was setting my very persuasive child played the sympathy card and ended up with Dottie Russell as a birthday present compliments of the puppy peddler.
The dog slept in our hotel room that night and the next day we set out for home with Dottie snugly tucked in the back seat. When Jasmine, our Dalmatian, saw the spot on top of Dottie's head she assumed a kinship existed and immediately took responsibility for raising the ugly little dogling. The bob tailed compadres were inseparable. They ate together, slept together and played together.
Sadly about a year after Dottie came into our lives, Jasmine left us. This dog may have survived an encounter with a six thousand pound Suburban, but she didn't survive her attempt to chase a five-foot rattlesnake from the back yard. Broken hearted, Dottie and I missed our best friend and I genuinely began to worry about the Jack Russell who stopped eating or playing.
Concluding that Dottie needed a companion, I took her with me to visit potential canine adoptees at the humane society and local animal hospital, but none served as a suitable replacement for Jasmine. Finally, I searched the newspaper and found an ad for a two year old, housebroken, neutered, male Jack Russell named Patch. Making the necessary arrangements, Patch's downtown family brought him out for a visit. Unlike Dottie, he was an exemplary specimen of all things Russell. No dummy, Dottie knew a good thing when she saw it and as soon as Patch was released from his crate the two dogs bounded off together in a blissful frenzy.
Dottie's renewed enthusiasm inspired us to write a check for Patch and Patch's enthusiasm for marking all the rugs in our house inspired us to write many check to the carpet cleaners. Now most people don't get rid of a good dog and we quickly discovered that physically perfect Patch had many flaws. The worst of these was the urge to kill just about anything that hopped, slithered, crawled or walked.
Before we acquired Patch, my husband had become enamored with the idea of having fresh eggs every morning and he amassed a large variety of expensive hens that we kept in the abandoned greenhouse beside our home. Within a week of Patch's arrival the dog discovered the "free range" chickens. Realizing the mesh surrounding their coup was not an impenetrable barrier, the vicious mongrel set out on a chicken massacre that would have put Colonel Sanders to shame. With carcasses littering the yard and feathers still clinging to his mouth, Patch barely escaped this initial killing spree with his own life in tact.
Unable to help himself this dog then attacked and killed the family cat. Fortunately for Patch, no one was intensely horrified by this deed since the cat we called Slash had a propensity for leaving gaping wounds on the flesh of any individual brave enough to try and pet her. Slash was buried in a shallow grave close to the former chicken coup and all bad things were forgotten for a while.
Lulling us into a false sense of security, Patch didn't kill again for many months and harmony seemed to have been restored on the home front. Then, out of the blue the Jack Russell terrorist struck again. This time Ducky Duck was his target and we were forced to add our pet Pekin's name to the growing list of animals loved and lost. Realizing the duck had been mortally wounded, my husband attempted to put him out of his misery with a twelve-gauge shotgun. Intentionally or not, some stray shot struck Patch's rear end in the process. Fearing for his life, the dog ran off into the woods and disappeared.
Perhaps it's true that absence makes the heart grow fonder. Patch was a relentless, wanton killer, but he was just doing what instinct dictated. As the days passed we worried about the little dog's fate and doubted he could survive in the wilds around our house for very long. Amazingly, several weeks later my neighbor found him wandering up her driveway and much to our relief Patch returned home slightly thinner, but unscathed.
Needless to say, we no longer have cats or chickens and the migratory ducks that visit our pond do so at their own risk. We however do still have the little Jack Russell terrorist who wears a bright green collar with a tag that reads "Patch Chicken Killer Page." Having disposed of just about everything else, this dog spends his days chasing mice or lizards at the barn and his nights curled up next to Dottie on the foot of my bed. I guess it just goes to show that all flaws can eventually be forgiven when you are lucky enough to live with a family that loves you.
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
Free To A Good Home
(A Continuing Saga)
When we bought the farm we had one dog and two cats. Our dog was named Pheebie. At least that's how we phonetically spelled it. Pheebie was a respectable, but small Boykin Spaniel who had been given to my oldest son as a birthday present. During this dog's adolescence we made several half-hearted attempts to turn her into a bird dog and quickly learned that the only thing Pheebie wanted to retrieve while on a dove field was an afternoon nap in the shade.
Chocolate brown with piercing yellow eyes, this dog just wouldn't hunt, but she became a beloved member of our family none the less. I was sure she would thrive in our newly found country environment and as predicted, Pheebie did flourish. She ran the pastures and jumped the fences. She stayed close to home and never destroyed anything. God bless this dog!
Unfortunately, when you live in the country you also assume there's plenty of room for more than one dog. I had always loved Dalmatians and had vowed to have one someday. As fate would have it, someday came about a year after we moved to Blythewood. My husband and two sons had gone shopping at the local IGA and a pet shop had just opened next to the grocery store in our new, upscale strip mall. In front of the pet shop sat a fully grown, female Dalmatian named Jasmine and the sign over Jasmine's pen read "free to a good home."
Never ones to pass up anything free, I received a telephone call from the male members of my family telling me about this dog. Beautiful Jasmine had me from the get go and in short order the dog of many spots was loaded up and on her way to our home.
Jasmine fit in from the beginning. This dog simply loved life and joyously filled her days leaping three feet into the air following butterflies or running through the fields literally swinging from the horses' tails. She would chase and be chased by the Pekin ducks who lived on the ornamental pond in our front yard. It wasn't uncommon to see Jasmine in close pursuit of Ducky Duck when suddenly the tide would turn and the proud white drake would reverse course to become the pursuer. Somehow Jasmine never harmed a feather on Ducky Duck's prominent tail and eventually tiring of the chase, duck and dog would stop to rest side by side near the water's edge.
Jasmine was a blessing with only one fault. She loved to chase cars and I knew this would be her eventual demise. Low and behold, one morning my husband burst into the bedroom yelling "where's my pistol?" Well, I wasn't exactly packing the weapon in my bathrobe pocket and since normal people don't start conversations out in this fashion, the nature of his inquiry did cause me a moment's hesitation. Noting the confused look on my face, my husband finally exclaimed, "I've hit Jasmine - she's in bad shape and I'm going to put her out of her misery."
Making a mental note of the man's crisis management skills, I reminded my husband that I too owned a gun and no one was going to shoot my dog. Rushing outside I found Jasmine lying helpless and bloody in the driveway. Still breathing, we took her to the local animal hospital, but the prognosis wasn't good. She had been run over by the front and back wheels of a Suburban. Jasmine had a crushed skull, broken ribs that had punctured her lungs, a dislocated hip, and her long spotted tail had been completely severed.
Resembling an actor in a medical drama, the vet gravely informed us that if Jasmine made it through the next forty-eight hours she might survive, but unfortunately she would never be able to have puppies. Miraculously our dog did make it through the first night and then the second. Grateful she was alive we visited her everyday while she was in the canine intensive care unit. Initially, my children and I cried as our Dalmatian suffered and then we smiled as the pain eased and she slowly recovered. Showing his softer side, my husband even shed a few tears as he watched me write the $1,800 check to the vet on the morning of Jasmine's release.
Two days after Jasmine came home from the hospital I was in the carport emptying the trash when I noticed Pheebie trotting down the driveway with what appeared to be a furry spotted stick clenched between her teeth. As if presenting evidence from a crime scene she proudly deposited the remnants of a severed tail right at my feet. Amazed that Pheebie had actually retrieved something, but realizing it was far too late to reattach the appendage, I picked up the tail and unceremoniously disposed of it in the garbage can with the rest of the trash. A few months after this Jasmine returned to her spirited pursuits and that's how we came to own the only $1,800, limping, barren, bob tailed Dalmatian in Blythewood - free to a good home.
Chocolate brown with piercing yellow eyes, this dog just wouldn't hunt, but she became a beloved member of our family none the less. I was sure she would thrive in our newly found country environment and as predicted, Pheebie did flourish. She ran the pastures and jumped the fences. She stayed close to home and never destroyed anything. God bless this dog!
Unfortunately, when you live in the country you also assume there's plenty of room for more than one dog. I had always loved Dalmatians and had vowed to have one someday. As fate would have it, someday came about a year after we moved to Blythewood. My husband and two sons had gone shopping at the local IGA and a pet shop had just opened next to the grocery store in our new, upscale strip mall. In front of the pet shop sat a fully grown, female Dalmatian named Jasmine and the sign over Jasmine's pen read "free to a good home."
Never ones to pass up anything free, I received a telephone call from the male members of my family telling me about this dog. Beautiful Jasmine had me from the get go and in short order the dog of many spots was loaded up and on her way to our home.
Jasmine fit in from the beginning. This dog simply loved life and joyously filled her days leaping three feet into the air following butterflies or running through the fields literally swinging from the horses' tails. She would chase and be chased by the Pekin ducks who lived on the ornamental pond in our front yard. It wasn't uncommon to see Jasmine in close pursuit of Ducky Duck when suddenly the tide would turn and the proud white drake would reverse course to become the pursuer. Somehow Jasmine never harmed a feather on Ducky Duck's prominent tail and eventually tiring of the chase, duck and dog would stop to rest side by side near the water's edge.
Jasmine was a blessing with only one fault. She loved to chase cars and I knew this would be her eventual demise. Low and behold, one morning my husband burst into the bedroom yelling "where's my pistol?" Well, I wasn't exactly packing the weapon in my bathrobe pocket and since normal people don't start conversations out in this fashion, the nature of his inquiry did cause me a moment's hesitation. Noting the confused look on my face, my husband finally exclaimed, "I've hit Jasmine - she's in bad shape and I'm going to put her out of her misery."
Making a mental note of the man's crisis management skills, I reminded my husband that I too owned a gun and no one was going to shoot my dog. Rushing outside I found Jasmine lying helpless and bloody in the driveway. Still breathing, we took her to the local animal hospital, but the prognosis wasn't good. She had been run over by the front and back wheels of a Suburban. Jasmine had a crushed skull, broken ribs that had punctured her lungs, a dislocated hip, and her long spotted tail had been completely severed.
Resembling an actor in a medical drama, the vet gravely informed us that if Jasmine made it through the next forty-eight hours she might survive, but unfortunately she would never be able to have puppies. Miraculously our dog did make it through the first night and then the second. Grateful she was alive we visited her everyday while she was in the canine intensive care unit. Initially, my children and I cried as our Dalmatian suffered and then we smiled as the pain eased and she slowly recovered. Showing his softer side, my husband even shed a few tears as he watched me write the $1,800 check to the vet on the morning of Jasmine's release.
Two days after Jasmine came home from the hospital I was in the carport emptying the trash when I noticed Pheebie trotting down the driveway with what appeared to be a furry spotted stick clenched between her teeth. As if presenting evidence from a crime scene she proudly deposited the remnants of a severed tail right at my feet. Amazed that Pheebie had actually retrieved something, but realizing it was far too late to reattach the appendage, I picked up the tail and unceremoniously disposed of it in the garbage can with the rest of the trash. A few months after this Jasmine returned to her spirited pursuits and that's how we came to own the only $1,800, limping, barren, bob tailed Dalmatian in Blythewood - free to a good home.
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
Career Bear
Not long after we moved to the country my son Kyle, who was a sixth grader at the time, informed me it was career week at his middle school. In years past my boys had always asked me to come in and talk to their class about my job, so I logically assumed this request would follow his announcement. Driving down the dirt road that led from his school to our home I was faced with an ominous silence instead of the interrogatory I expected. In an effort to clear my schedule for what I assumed would be the inevitable visit to his classroom, I resorted to asking my precious, curly headed son if he had volunteered me to give a speech about my career.
"Mom, I mean, you know, when you used to have a big office, go to New York, and like do stuff with power plants that was cool. Now, you're just sort of a blue collar worker," my dear boy replied, unabashed and barely raising his eyes to meet mine in the rear view mirror.
Fine I thought. This blue collar mama is somehow managing to provide you with a fourteen acre spread, complete with two ponds, a pool, a barn, and the burn barrel of your dreams. Economically speaking, time would show that Kyle was probably right and I should have kept my day job.
On the other hand, our daughter Gracie was only three years old when we moved to the farm and growing up with a mother who lived in manure encrusted boots obviously forced this child to set the bar on her expectations a little lower. She has always been more tolerant of my mid-life career choices and anxiously jumped at the opportunity to bring Career Bear home with her from school when she was in the third grade.
Prepared for a sleep over, the bear arrived in an Old Navy, leopard skin backpack complete with camera and a list of instructions. OK, I admit it - the only thing fuzzy Mr. Bear was missing was a red power tie and I felt slightly intimidated. In an attempt to bring him down a bit, I suggested to my daughter that we might want to dress the bear in some doll-sized overalls before his photo shoot at the barn.
As required we took pictures of the bear performing various duties associated with a normal work day at Melody Farms. Career Bear mucked stalls, fed the goat, drove the old backfiring garden tractor, and crowned his visit by sitting in the saddle atop a large chestnut gelding affectionately known as Sammy.
Now, when you agree to allow Career Bear to visit your work place you also agree to fill out a relatively simple form describing your job. Enjoying a glass of wine and the time I was spending with my daughter, Gracie and I breezed through the document until we came to the last question asking me to describe the level of education and training required to perform the duties associated with my career. Hum, this was a tough one. After all, the eight years I had spent in college were really pretty useless when it came to my current occupation.
On site training had taught me how to find the vein in a colicky horse's neck during the wee hours of the morning or how to melt snow with a blow torch when the pipes froze up during a winter storm and the horses needed water. More importantly, as far as I know there just aren't any classes in manure management offered at most institutes of higher learning.
It was getting late and my attention span for the exercise was beginning to wane. I decided an honest answer to the questions was in order and simply replied that all the years I'd spent in a downtown office dealing with New York City lawyers had taught me how to effectively shovel manure.
Neatly tucking Mr. Bear and the completed form back in his fancy knapsack, I then patted my daughter on the head. Being the forty-eight year old, third time mother of a third grader probably didn't lend itself to the proper state of reverence in this matter, but I felt pretty sure that Kyle would approve of this response from his blue collar mama.
"Mom, I mean, you know, when you used to have a big office, go to New York, and like do stuff with power plants that was cool. Now, you're just sort of a blue collar worker," my dear boy replied, unabashed and barely raising his eyes to meet mine in the rear view mirror.
Fine I thought. This blue collar mama is somehow managing to provide you with a fourteen acre spread, complete with two ponds, a pool, a barn, and the burn barrel of your dreams. Economically speaking, time would show that Kyle was probably right and I should have kept my day job.
On the other hand, our daughter Gracie was only three years old when we moved to the farm and growing up with a mother who lived in manure encrusted boots obviously forced this child to set the bar on her expectations a little lower. She has always been more tolerant of my mid-life career choices and anxiously jumped at the opportunity to bring Career Bear home with her from school when she was in the third grade.
Prepared for a sleep over, the bear arrived in an Old Navy, leopard skin backpack complete with camera and a list of instructions. OK, I admit it - the only thing fuzzy Mr. Bear was missing was a red power tie and I felt slightly intimidated. In an attempt to bring him down a bit, I suggested to my daughter that we might want to dress the bear in some doll-sized overalls before his photo shoot at the barn.
As required we took pictures of the bear performing various duties associated with a normal work day at Melody Farms. Career Bear mucked stalls, fed the goat, drove the old backfiring garden tractor, and crowned his visit by sitting in the saddle atop a large chestnut gelding affectionately known as Sammy.
Now, when you agree to allow Career Bear to visit your work place you also agree to fill out a relatively simple form describing your job. Enjoying a glass of wine and the time I was spending with my daughter, Gracie and I breezed through the document until we came to the last question asking me to describe the level of education and training required to perform the duties associated with my career. Hum, this was a tough one. After all, the eight years I had spent in college were really pretty useless when it came to my current occupation.
On site training had taught me how to find the vein in a colicky horse's neck during the wee hours of the morning or how to melt snow with a blow torch when the pipes froze up during a winter storm and the horses needed water. More importantly, as far as I know there just aren't any classes in manure management offered at most institutes of higher learning.
It was getting late and my attention span for the exercise was beginning to wane. I decided an honest answer to the questions was in order and simply replied that all the years I'd spent in a downtown office dealing with New York City lawyers had taught me how to effectively shovel manure.
Neatly tucking Mr. Bear and the completed form back in his fancy knapsack, I then patted my daughter on the head. Being the forty-eight year old, third time mother of a third grader probably didn't lend itself to the proper state of reverence in this matter, but I felt pretty sure that Kyle would approve of this response from his blue collar mama.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
