When Father's Day Was Every Day

I have long been interested in the ways that the Industrial Revolution affected family life and how our society might facilitate the return of the patriarchal family.   To my way of thinking, if you really want to do this, you not only have to bring mothers home, you have to bring fathers home as well, because home loses its importance when its head spends the best part of his day elsewhere.

About six months ago I discovered an article titled "Industrialization and Marriage" by Robin Phillips. 
Its main premise is that industrialization fundamentally changed marriage, and this paved the way for our modern de-functionalized homes and even the feminist movement.

Phillips writes that "prior to 1800, the vast majority of people lived and worked in the same place.  Whatever else a couple's relationship may have involved, they were quite literally in business together.  The home, in turn, was not a place where people 'lived' as a passive activity when they were not doing other things.  Rather the home was a small factory, a bustling hub of productivity."  This is how the wife felt part of something important, and she could truly fulfill her role as helpmeet.  I know that I feel  peaceful and am much more focused on what I need to do when my husband is home the whole day.

This idea of the husband and wife being in business together prior to the Industrial Revolution made me think of how we now have "bedroom communities", "media rooms".  Keeping rooms were a mainstay of Colonial houses because inhabitants lived and worked in them.  Keeping implies activity, as in keeping house.  

Here's the part of the article that really stopped me and made me think:  "The geographical proximity of home and work had an impact on how couples thought of their relationship to each other.  A man and wife did not think of their relationship as something that could be abstracted from their mundane life together in the world." He explained that marital relations and earning a living "were closely bound together, and both were situated within an ecosystem of obligations, responsibilities, priorities and expectations that were bigger than the couple's relationship.  Because marriage was understood to be bigger than the relationship itself, this helped to anchor marriage in a narrative external to the two participates (sic)."

Of course this "in business together" relationship extended to the children as well.  I am listening to an audio book on rhetoric by Professor Michael Drout.  He says that in Sanskrit, the word for daughter means "one who milks the cow".  The professor says that it is believed that Sanskrit and Greek and Latin sprung from a common language, so you can see how deeply-embedded these home-supporting roles were in our culture before Capitalism came along.

 I was stunned to learn about the role government played in promoting modern housing.  Silly me, I thought people just got tired of farm life and wanted to move to the suburbs, but no, the "Industrialization and Marriage" article reveals that "the concept of the family room originated from guidelines that the government issued in the middle of the 20th century when specifying how homes could qualify for insurance.  A new model of the home emerged which deliberately detached it from labor and functionality.  Government planners urged architects and home-owners to get rid of walls and doors, to eliminate various work rooms like the sewing room and the pantry and to focus the house instead around the type of domestic bonding that was supposed to occur in rooms like the family room."

Gee, this sounds like what happened to architecture in the Catholic Church after Vatican II.  The functionality of divine worship that was expressed by things like altar rails was destroyed in order to promote "community".

In the case of housing, this change was necessary to convert independent producers into dependent consumers of industrial goods.  It has taken a long time to accomplish, but we are there.  State governments implemented compulsory schooling to speed this along.  I imagine that once dad was gone from home, taking the children was a lot easier, especially as classical education was swept aside and replaced with the memorize-and-regurgitate-textbooks method.

Clearly we have been duped into destroying God's plan for the family.  If only we could see it.

Red Ranger to the Rescue

The answer to my prayers!  A meat bird that eats bugs like nobody's business, and it has a movie star name.

Bug Problems? Call in the Chickens

Red Ranger Chickens

Chicks on the Move

The mama hen and her four chicks have moved from the toolshed to the mobile PVC pen that my husband put together for us a couple of years ago.  It is wonderfully lightweight and has a handle on each end.  I'm not sure if it qualifies as a chicken tractor, because the bottom is covered in chicken wire too.  The pen has been sitting empty for a couple of years, so grass had grown up all through it.  That's why it looks like we put hay in the bottom.  Mama hen is happy with the new digs, her only complaint is that there is no roost.  Emma and I went to check on them the other night and discovered her roosting on top of the waterer, which you can see on the left end of the pen.  Her chicks were trying to stay under her, but parts of them were hanging out.  A couple fell off as we watched, prompting Emma to start singing, "There were ten in the bed and the little one said,  'Roll over.  I'm crowded.'  So they all rolled over and one fell out. . ."

A Fence Post

It's official!

The last fence post is IN, and my husband, with Emma's help, has started putting up the wire mesh fencing.  It shouldn't take more than a couple of weekends to get that done.  He has to do the east and the south sides only.  The east side is about 2300 feet I think.  The south side is much shorter.

No more breakouts through the electric fence.

I think this one will solve all our problems.  I will be so relieved.

This matter of having to tie cows grew old a while ago.  Fiona has a special knack for breaking hardware and somehow has managed to "untie" some of my very best knots.  In fact, I'm just back in from chasing her down.

She is hellbent on getting to Ferdie because we started weaning him yesterday.  To put it mildly, she is distraught.    My stomach hurts from the stress of hearing her bawling all day.  It is the most annoying sound.  The further out she stretches her neck, the more grating the sound she produces.  Thankfully, Jess the Cat came to my rescue and provided comic relief while Emma was milking this morning.  Jess is Miss Congeniality.  She hopped on Emma's back and stayed there about ten minutes, mewing contentedly.

Ferdie bawls some, but mostly he just acts depressed--with a capital D.  I wish I knew why we have not been able to do the once-a-day milking, where you separate the calf overnight, milk in the morning, then let them spend the day together.  Since the time he was born back in April, we have not been able to get more than a 1/4 inch of cream at the top of the jar.  Pitiful.  Not worth milking for.  We hope that once Ferdie has been weaned a few days, Fiona will stop holding back her cream.  She used to give two to four inches per quart.

Fortunately, there's no loss to us in all the milk he has been getting.  It has been converted to beef for our table.  I think he is a finer and healthier calf for getting to nurse this long.  After all, veal calves get nothing but milk.

Ferdie, the Milk Fiend

As you can see, Ferdie has GROWN and changed from brown to black.  Incredibly strong, he is also a notorious titty baby.  After a day of being separated from his mama, he becomes absolutely frantic to nurse.  I have given up trying to lead him in an orderly fashion when it's time to rejoin Fiona.  Maybe if I wore welding gloves, my hands could stand up to the friction he produces in the rope.  No, I just go ahead and untie him and say a prayer that no one gets in the way of his one-bull stampede.  He leaps to start, just like a racehorse out of the gate, and twists and kicks along the trail to his creamy goal.

Lord, have mercy.  He scares me.

He flies to this reunion in such extreme agitation, that he always tries to go through the chain link fence first, then finally bounds for the gate and does an epileptic milk dance before I can get it open, my own feet dancing dancing an Irish jig to avoid becoming targets of his sharp and heavy hooves.  He charges through once the latch is lifted, slamming the gate in his wake as he attacks Fiona's udder with such force that she stumbles backward.

You would think that he had been fasting in the desert instead of grazing all day.

Almost immediately upon latching on, a long cord of foamy milk and saliva mixture stretches from his greedy lips to the ground, breaking momentarily when he detaches to "butt the bag" so hard that I wince in sympathy for his mama.  He rotates through all the teats repeatedly, until he makes absolutely sure that no milk is left.  It's a long process.  That's why, on the rare occasions when I bring them together before I get Fiona back to the pen, I don't want to wait for Ferdie to nurse.

That's how I witnessed his best trick of all.

I had tied each of them to separate pecan trees near the road.  Close to dark, I untied Fiona and started leading her back home.  I decided to release Ferdie and let him follow on his own.  I knew that he would be desperate to nurse, but I resolved to give Fiona no slack.  She, however, wanted to stand still and feed her "baby".  I refused to give in; there wasn't any way that I was going to stand there for twenty minutes while Ferdie sucked his satisfaction out of Fiona.  I had other things to do.

So I started tugging her down the driveway toward the house.  I  tugged, and she dug in her hooves.  I felt like one of those pioneer horses, trying to tow a Conestoga wagon up a rocky mountain pass.  Sweat popped out on my forehead and pricked my underarms.  When Fiona managed to resist my pulling, Titty Baby dove for a teat.

As soon as I got her going again, Ferdie charged in front of Fiona and cut her off by turning his body sideways across her chest.  Once he stopped her, he plunged for her udder, a two-step play that up until then had been his best trick.

Again, I pulled hard on Fiona's rope, tightening her harness around her muzzle.  Reluctantly, she put her legs in motion.

That was when I turned and saw Ferdie's backside walking toward me.

He was walking backwards, in double-time, while nursing.

Weird, weird, weird!

It looked like a four-legged, headless body was following me.

I think it even frightened Fiona, because she started jogging.

At that moment, as the sun set, I wondered, "How did I get to this crazy place and why am I here in this carnival of animals?"

Then I just started laughing.

Chicks and Schemes Hatched

Yesterday we discovered that five chicks had hatched.  Apparently they had hatched a couple of days previously, but I never heard or saw any signs.  So one of them expired shortly after we found them.  Big lesson learned.  Go ahead and put chick food and water out when you don't know how long the eggs have been incubated.  It's good to be back in the chick business.

Emma and I are reading a lot about the financial crisis and are trying to guess what the most likely scenario will be after the collapse.   It's hard to know what to do.  I see a lot of people are emphasizing vegetable gardens.  I am not so concerned with vegetables as I am with having grassfed meat, eggs, and milk because they are densely nutritious, and the body can easily assimilate the nutrients, which is not always the case with vegetables.   Plus you need high quality protein to make neurotransmitters, and you need animal fat for satiety and to make sex hormones from cholesterol.  And after living on raw milk exclusively for ten days and feeling great, I just feel that animals are the more important food source to secure a good steady supply of.

What scenario do you envisage after the financial collapse and how are you preparing?

Moon Over My Homies

I went out early one morning recently to enjoy the quiet.

Too bad there wasn't any! 
The cows mooed.
The rooster crowed.
I couldn't walk without being tripped up by chickens or dogs.

 

Except here.  Shhhhh.  Here is my broody hen, quietly, steadfastly, going about her work of starting a family in the tool shed, by the light of the moon.  She, too, had trouble finding quiet.  She started off in a wild place behind the hangar but was discovered by the dogs.  They ate her eggs.  Then she searched out this safe nursery--where she comes and goes via an open window--and started over.  Soon she will have no peace again, but she will be content just the same in doing what she was designed to do.

See Ferdie Grow

My nephew Tucker Palanjian took this video with his iPhone the other day.  I thought my readers might enjoy seeing how much Ferdie has grown since I last posted pictures of him.  He is so sweet.  He loves to have his head rubbed, and he loves to pretend fight with posts, putting his head down and butting them and then dancing all around.  He cracks me up.

Well, There's a Bull on the Loose

I didn't see it happen when the water pipe from the well to the house got broken last week, but Ferdie adores scratching his head on faucets.  I had let him out to "play".  This is not what I had in mind, though.  Thankfully, my husband took off work and had it fixed in no time.

A Kitchen Pharmacy? Tell Me More!

I was at Moving on to the Past, and had just finished reading about Kathy's fabulous new chicken coop, when I spotted something in her blogroll that grabbed my attention, a post by Andrea at Frugally Sustainable called Creating a Kitchen Pharmacy.  This is right where my thoughts have been this past week, so naturally, I clicked on over.  Here's a snippet of what she said:

During these uncertain times – times of change – there are many individuals and families in search of an altogether different approach to treating minor illnesses and ailments.

For some, this is the next step in their natural-living lifestyle, for others it’s all about self-sufficiency, and concern over the rising cost of healthcare dominates the thoughts of others.

No matter what your motivation, the question remains – how can we achieve our goal?

I believe the answer to be in three parts:

1. We can add medicinal herbs and plants to our garden landscape.
2. We can learn the benefits of the plants that grow freely in our local and regional area.
3. We can create a kitchen pharmacy. 

I would have to say that for me, both of her reasons for "an altogether different approach to treating minor illnesses and ailments" apply.  I can't wait for the next article in the series!

One of the reasons why the timing of "Creating a Kitchen Pharmacy" is so perfect is that I finally got a dehydrator last week, so I'll be able to dry medicinal herbs in addition to food items.  While I have been busy experimenting with drying celery, carrots, and tomatoes, Emma has been researching, picking, and dehydrating dandelions.  I was vaguely aware of all their health benefits, but while I was processing my tomatoes, she read me an article about them that was just astonishing.  The plant seemed designed to meet so many of the common human health problems.  We should probably all be drinking a couple of cups of dandelion tea every day.  Learning about all the goodness in a simple dandelion was especially sweet because I had been worrying about Fiona getting enough minerals.  She has had really loose stools since she calved, and I read that it could be a copper deficiency.  When Emma read that dandelions are a good source of copper, I was able to relax and go with the diagnosis that a veteran cow man had suggested to me: It's most likely all the lush green grass she is eating right now, since we don't feed any her any grain.  Cows will eat what they need if it is available, and I have watched Fiona make her rounds every day to eat certain things around our place.  In addition to grass, she eats mulberry trees, clover, dollar weeds, blackberry vines, and various other plants that grow wild around here that I don't know the name of yet.  That's another thing, I just found out about Merriweather's Wild Plants of Texas this week.  He teaches classes at the Houston Arboretum on edible wild plants.  I'm hoping to be able to take one soon. 

I'm grateful to all the bloggers out there who enrich my life every day, practically and spiritually.  May God bless you all.  I will be remembering you in little prayers today as I practice dehydrating pineapples.

Birth Announcement

All brand new

Happy Easter everyone!  We felt especially blessed when Fiona birthed a gorgeous bull calf about 3:30 p.m. on Holy Saturday.   Emma named him Ferdinand Angus McBride. We missed the actual birth but did get to the scene while Fiona was alternately cleaning him and slurping up the umbilical cord like so much spaghetti.  Yum!

Cleaned up and ready to explore on his wobbly legs

I had just returned from a major grocery shopping trip and was bringing in the last few bags when I heard Fiona moo really low.  I left all the groceries on the floor in the kitchen and hotfooted it to the pasture where I discovered the calf.  An hour later, after taking pictures and video, I reluctantly dragged myself back home.  I started putting groceries away and discovered. . .

melted ice cream and defrosted vegetables. ugh.

Then I remembered the Easter candy was still in the back of the car, and it was like 85 degrees out.  Oh well.  We had a new calf, and it was exciting!  He is such a sweet baby!  As soon as he could walk he started following Emma around.  I think it would be great fun to train him to pull a cart.  I wonder if the description of how Almonzo did it in Farmer Boy would be enough direction?  If not, there's always youtube. :)  Now. . .we just need a cart!  The other happy news is that we've got milk again.  Emma and I are eager to be back milking and making cheese and butter and ice cream and creme fraiche.  Yay!  Oh! and Fiona is exceedingly happy and content with her new offspring.  I think her wanderlust may be over at last.

Ferdi on Easter Monday 2012 with his new halter and bell!

Joining The Milk Cure 2012 and a Fiona Update

Emma and Fiona enjoying the lush Spring grass yesterday evening

Today is the first day of the Milk Cure.  Emma and I are both doing it for our Lenten fast.  We practiced this week by drinking mostly raw milk, raw kefir,  and kombucha.  Ginger kombucha mixed half and half with kefir is tasty and refreshing.  We ate one meal with meat at suppertime.

Read about The Milk Cure 2012 here.  It's a 10-day RAW milk fast being organized by The Healthy Home Economist.  Make sure and read all the links, especially the inspiring story of the woman who is healing herself of Lyme Disease with a raw milk diet--100 days so far!

I am going to add another picture or two later.  My internet is super slow right now, and it is taking too long to add each one.  But just look at the grass in the one above.  It's a fabulous time for raw milk here in southeast Texas.  We have had lots of rain.  Fiona is loving having some juicy grazing after the horrible drought we had last year.  I'm sure her calf is loving it too.  I think it should be gaining close to a pound a day at this point.

We don't know exactly when she is due, but her bag is filling out, so we are guessing that within six weeks she will calve.  We will be so grateful to have our own milk supply again: I am having to drive to Winnie, TX, to buy raw milk from Pure Milk Farms.  It's really good.  We are especially excited about the prospect of a calf to keep Fiona company.  She ran off again last week to hang out with some horses down the road.  This time she escaped because a ground wire broke on her electric fence.  We have three strands of wire.  One day as we were driving home from a restaurant, my husband pointed out to me a herd of huge beef cattle.  Then he had me notice their fencing.  They were kept in their pasture by a single wire.  Hmph.


  

Shopping for a Donkey Companion for Fiona. . .

I thought I would just look at jennies (females), as we have had so many bad experiences with mean male livestock--from horses to goats to turkeys.  Interestingly, the first ad I read included this description: "Sweet, gentle and a great mom! Great guard donkey or companion animal too. She will trample and go after anything unusual or NEW that enters the pasture including newborn goats or lambs. . ."  

Try as I might, I could not get the "sweet" and "gentle" to go with trampling newborn goats or lambs.  I hope this is abnormal behavior.  If not, I think I'll give up on donkeys and get a calf of some sort.  Maybe I should start by researching feed consumption.  There's just about no grass left in Fiona's pasture, and hay is expensive because of the drought here in Texas.  I sure don't want to buy something just to keep Fiona company that's going to eat its way through my pocketbook.  I should have known there wouldn't an easy solution.  Any thoughts, recommendations are welcome.

Bad Cow Disease

Fiona and Friends

Emma's friend Kathy from Ohio visited us last week.  Of course she wanted to meet Fiona.  Everybody does.  That cow has her own fan club.  Anyway, I realized when I looked at the pictures I took of Fiona and the girls that having that wily bovine in a headlock is about the only time I can relax.  I am ready to install a 24-hour surveillance camera in her pasture.

Yes, her wanderlust continues.

Most recently, Emma discovered her missing just as my sister and brother-in-law had arrived for a visit from Birmingham, and just an hour or so shy of sunset.  We had no idea how long she had been gone.  I thought I had seen her the day before, but I wasn't sure. Emma had been sick, so she hadn't been out to the pasture.  Our only clue was a signature "pie" that looked pretty fresh.  My mom remembered seeing it there in the parking area that morning and wondered what it was.  She thought maybe it was a dead cat.  This must be a genetic defect, because that is always my first thought when I spot an unidentified inanimate object--why I don't know because we never find dead cats around here.  Dead possums, yes.   If Mom and I took one of those ink blot tests, I bet we would think each image was a dead cat.

Back to the discovery of Fiona's escape: It was "Hi" and "Bye" to our visitors.  Emma donned her boots and hurried across the 40-acre field to search an almost-dry pond, and I jumped in the car and drove to the pasture where Fiona had spent an afternoon with three beef cows the last time she made a run for it.  I did not find her, but I talked to the homeowner, and he remembered Fiona's last visit.  I left him a napkin with my name and phone number in case Fiona passed by.

I met Emma on the road back to our house and picked her up.  We decided to go to the house on the west side of ours where Fiona had run, literally, once before.  (At least that time we had her in sight the whole time.)  This was the house where she put her ornery head down like a bull and tried to butt the homeowner's dogs, all three of them, when they came out to defend their territory.  This time, Emma got out and talked to the lady of the house.  She had not seen Fiona.  We left another napkin.  I need to get "WANTED" calling cards made up with a picture of Fiona and my phone number.

We drove on, stopping wherever someone was outside, talking to them, and leaving a napkin.  We met some mighty nice folks we would never have met otherwise.  We traveled a semi-circle around the region north of our house.  The sun was setting as we turned back onto our road, Fiona-less.  About a half a mile from our house, Emma said, "I think I see her!"  She had spotted a cow in a back pasture.  I pulled into the driveway of  the property.  Luckily, two women were on the porch.  Emma got out and explained about Fiona.  One of the women approached the car and said, "I knew somebody would come after that cow!  She showed up here this morning, and I saw that halter, and I thought 'that's somebody's show cow or pet, and they're gonna be lookin' for her.'"  Her husband had taken one look at Fiona and said, "That cow's pregnant, so she ain't here lookin' for a bull."  Then he took her by the halter and put her in the pasture with their cow and horse, where from all reports, she behaved herself with her best company manners.

The man took Emma back there to where Fiona was socializing.  Emma got the lead rope on Fiona and started to walk with her when all of a sudden, Emma fell to the ground.  She regained her feet but had to tug Fiona away from her new friends.  When I asked Emma about it later, she said that she fell because Fiona stepped on her.  Thank goodness for boots.

We thanked Fiona's gracious hosts and departed, repeating the now familiar routine of me following Emma and Fiona in the car, but this time there was a new twist.  The sun had set.  So I drove with emergency flashers and high beams, which starkly illuminated Fiona's round belly. About halfway home, it finally began to do what a lot of Texans have been praying for.  It started to rain.  Perfect.

Emma flew with Kathy back to Ohio on Monday.  I'm stuck here with Fiona Houdini until her return next Wednesday.  Please pray for me.

Heaven Helps Me

Two or three years ago I learned about this book called Edible Landscaping.  I ordered myself a copy and carried it around with me in the car so I could read it whenever I had to sit and wait for something like a doctor's appointment or a music lesson.  I had barely dug into the book when it disappeared.  I waited so long for it to turn up that I forgot about it.  Probably this could have been avoided if I had thought to pray to St. Anthony.  Coming to Catholicism in my mid-30s, somehow I never developed that habit.  I am going to work on that, as I am now 51 and find my old excuse looks a little feeble.

Between the chickens and the drought, the few vegetables we attempted to grow this past summer produced nothing but blooms.  Then in August, I had Nathaniel till up the flower bed that borders our front porch.  I had intended to plant azaleas and gardenias there as soon as we got some rain and the weather cooled down.  That didn't happen in September.  Low and behold, a few weeks ago I noticed a volunteer plant flourishing there.  Now it is covered in yellow blossoms and looks lovely.

It's a squash.

This must be a magical squash, because it talks to me.  Every time I see it, it says, "Remember Edible Landscaping?"

"Yes," I answer.  "I'm going to order a new copy."

Well, this morning, I finally remembered to do it.  I ordered a shiny new 2010 edition from Amazon.  Then I thought, "Hey, isn't this St. Isidore the Farmer's feast day?"  I checked, and it is.  Hmmm.

I think he and St. Anthony are in cahoots.

Just Driving Through

Saturday morning I was out and about and went through the drive-through at a Chick-fil-A to get an iced tea.  I chided myself for not parking and going in.  I began thinking about situations when a drive-through is really necessary and/or beneficial.  Having just left instructions for Nathaniel to pick up some chicken feed, I thought of the feed store.  Now there is the ideal situation for a drive-through!  I don't understand why all of them don't utilize this feature.  How heavenly it would be if I could place my order from my vehicle, pay at the window, and have the feed tossed in the back of the truck from a loft.  It's one thing if you can actually enter an establishment and pick up the goods yourself, but if all you can do is pay for them, then why go in?  I can just imagine what the order taker would say if my dream were to come true:  "Welcome to Old McDonald's Farm and Feed!  What can I get for you today?  OK, ma'am, that will be two 50 lb. bags of laying pellets, one 50 lb. dog feed, and two bales of alfalfa.  You want salt blocks with that?"

Speaking of McDonald's, as I was getting ready to pull out into traffic, I happened to look to my left.  I saw the golden arches sign with a message entreating me to "try the new English Pub Burger".  Feeling rather saucy, I rolled down my window and replied, "Yeah, RIGHT!"  I know it was a silly thing to do, but I really did feel better afterward.   I have no idea what a real English Pub Burger tastes like or whether such a thing even exists.  This morning I googled "McDonald's English pub burger" looking for a picture of it.  Apparently this product is being test-marketed in the metro Houston area right now.  Illinois got to try it first.  Lucky them.  The funny thing was that I read the first six "hits", and they all talked about the new burger as food.  They pointed out that it has cheddar and American cheese on it, which they thought was funny because it's supposed to be an English burger.  I thought it was funny because I don't believe an English pub would use fake cheese, no matter what you call it.  I wonder if the marketing strategy isn't more about changing cash-strapped consumers' perceptions of McDonald's from a tacky "happy meal" kind of place to something slightly more intimate and sophisticated.  Maybe bringing out this English Pub Burger is really tied to the introduction of its latte and has nothing to do with whether the burger is actually English.  Maybe McDonald's wants you to think of their restaurants as your coffee shop and your English pub.  Good luck with that.

Perplexing Poultry Problem #573

How to Remove Chicken from the Freezer

I know.  You're thinking, "Just open the door, reach in, and remove the chicken."

That is always what I have done in the past, dear reader.  But not today.

No, today, the chicken is UNDER the freezer, and it is stinky dead.  The freezer is in the garage, where it is probably 110 degrees.

After studying the situation, Emma got down on all fours and tried pulling it out from the front.  "Ewwww!"  she cried, "WORMS ARE IN ITS EYE!"  Although she could see this appetizing detail, she could not extract the putrefied carcass. Tugging only loosed some feathers.

"Let me try pushing it to the back," I told her.  "I think that is how it got under there in the first place."

Wielding first a shovel and then a broom handle, I poked and prodded and stirred, all to no avail.  The chicken did not emerge from the back side.

"OK.  I guess we'll just have to move the freezer," I sighed.  Emma and I gathered our strength and hove into the mammoth upright.  It might as well have been a granite mountain.  It didn't even tremble.  We tried again.  Same result.  I appraised the situation anew and came to the firm conclusion that a dead chicken under the freezer is definitely a man problem.  I informed Emma.

"Let's go visit Grandma," she said brightly.  So we perambulated away from Perplexing Poultry Problem #573 and did not look back.

You Can Take a Girl Out of the Country. . .

Saturday morning I donned a springtime dress of wisteria blue with splashes of delicate pink and yellow blossoms.  I draped a  strand of pearls across my neck; matching earrings completed the look.  I placed a medium blue straw hat on my head and covered my feet in some adorable little Mary Jane black flats.  Feeling fresh as a flower from my punkin head to my twinkle toes, I joyfully betook myself to do my weekly shopping at the outdoor farmer's market in Houston, about a 45-minute trip.  I planned to make several other stops, but the farmer's market demanded first place, as I was on a mission to procure pastured pork bacon, a high demand item with a tendency to sell out quickly.  I felt incredibly light-hearted and gay as I perused the vendors' booths.

The first cloud appeared on my horizon when the pastured pork people told me that the only bacon they had left was mostly fat.  Determined not to let it get me down, I opted for ground pork and bratwurst and continued on my merry way.  The bee farm lady greeted me, "Hello, friend!", and I purchased six beeswax tapers, four votives, and a gallon of raw honey from this sweet lady.  I love farmer's market folks.  They're so sociable.

With pork products in one hand, and bee products in the other, I was now comfortably balanced and securely rooted to the ground.  It felt good, similar to what my dear husband does for me, who is serious, focused, and always plans his work and works his plan.  I have a tendency to get so happy that I begin to float.  Then, if I have a plan, I forget it as I ride currents of air wherever they may carry me and sing, "This is the day that the Lord has made.  Let us rejoice and be glad in it!"

I intended to shop some more after I deposited these goods in the car.  However, on my way there, I caught a glimpse of my right foot, and my light heart crashed suddenly to the ground, for behold, from my instep protruded several inches of this woodsy arrangement of oak leaves and pollen pods.  I shuddered.   Instead of an attractively-shod, civilized foot, I had an attractively-shod, savage foot that looked like it was part of a Sasquatch costume!

Dear me!

Humiliation is good for one's soul, I reminded myself as I hurried to the car.  After depositing my purchases in the cooler, I sat down sideways in the driver's seat with my legs out the door and studied the situation on the bottom of my shoe.  It appeared to be a giant oak debris bouquet, glued in place with a massive, moist chicken poop of reddish brown hue, a gift from our home flock.  Turning, I reached for the fast food napkin stash that we have traditionally kept in the glove box.  Egad!  The cupboard was bare.  "Oh, nooooo!" I despaired.  I blamed this nasty situation on the Specific Carbohydrate Diet, which required that we completely give up fast food.  And without drive-thru food, one no longer receives a steady supply of emergency napkins.

I searched frantically in crevices, pockets, and pokes for a used napkin or tissue, all the while contorting my body awkwardly as I  dangled the offensive foot out the door.  My efforts produced one small rectangle of a TJMaxx receipt.  I examined it hopefully.  Could it do the job?  Could it separate the unsightly arrangement from my shoe and yet maintain my hygiene so that I might confidently continue my planned itinerary?

I realized I had no real choice.  Grimly, I took a deep breath and ever so gingerly attempted to purge my sole of the wages of chicken contamination.  Immediately, I felt something dampen the index finger of my right hand.  I dropped the receipt, spread my fingers and examined the offended digit.  A reddish brown blob coated half of my finger nail.  Oh, gag!  Deep disgust churned in my delicate stomach.   Retrieving the receipt, I carefully folded it and attempted to remove the poop from my finger.  I succeeded in heavily outlining my nail with manure.  I stared at it in shock, my mouth open.  Feeling queasy, I decided to drive directly home and indulge in applying massive quantities of soap and hot water with a scrub brush.  I tossed the polluted receipt onto the parking lot and closed the car door.

Now, guilt as heavy as a Japanese sumo wrestler sat upon me, squeezing the last bit of lighthearted air from my lungs.  "Don't mess with Texas!" it declared unreasonably, "especially at the farmer's market, you idiot, where all the earth day people shop!"  Totally miserable, I pondered this message.  Slowly, I opened the car door and peered down at the brown-streaked receipt.  Yuck.

Rebelling, I closed the door again.

The sumo wrestler bounced.  "Think of the little children!" he demanded.

Dutifully, I imagined an adorable two-year-old, angelically radiant in his innocense, picking up my refuse and saying with a hurt tone, "Look, Mommy."

"Uncle," I squeaked, miserably.

I grabbed a plastic grocery bag, re-opened the door, leaned out, and snatched up the abandoned slip of poo paper.  I felt no relief, though, because the second I secured it, I felt something moist on my right thumb.

"This could not be happening," I tried to convince myself.

But it was.  I now had a brown thumb in addition to the brown outline on my index finger.

"Waaaaaaaah!" I cried, giving into total frustration for my situation.  I was unclean.

Then I remembered the Whole Foods bathroom, bountifully equipped with water, liquid lavender soap, and paper towels, and less than five minutes away.  I drove there.

 I sighed contentedly as I lavished my hands with the liquid soap and worked it into a mound of sanitizing suds so thick, my hands disappeared completely.  I rinsed and repeated.  I breathed in the intoxicating loveliness of the lavender and joyfully greeted the pink purity of my right hand's thumb and index finger.  My spirits soared heavenward.  Cleanliness is indeed next to godliness.

Resuming my errands, I took a side road through a classy old residential neighborhood in River Oaks, blessed with multitudes of mature shade trees and vast walls of giant azaleas, all abundantly abloom.  I felt the familiar lift of happiness.  As my feet lost contact with the ground, I pulled over and texted Emma excitedly:  "I'm on the azalea trail!  Yippee!"

Bad Cow, Bad Fence, Good Neighbors

After a long morning away from home yesterday, Emma and I returned about 1 p.m., tired and hungry.  Emma stayed in the car to finish something she was reading.  I hurried in to start lunch but was first greeted by the flashing light on the answering machine.  I pressed the "play" button.

 "Hello, Wendy.  This is your neighbor down the street, P____.  Your Jersey cow came down the road this morning headed for the highway. . ."

It was one of three messages, the final one informing me that her attempts to capture the wily Fiona proved fruitless and that she had given up and called the sheriff.

O help!


I hot-footed it to the car and told Emma.  The news shocked her so much that she denied at first that Fiona could be gone.  Then she recovered herself and ran for the lead rope.  I dashed back to the phone and called the sheriff's department to see if they had recovered the renegade Jersey.   I could imagine that scene: Fiona surrounded by squad cars with flashing lights, craftily assessing her options, then slyly distracting and disgusting them by plopping piles of splattery poop on the road, at which point she would break and run.  Ugh.

The sheriff's department dispatcher came on the line.  "This is Wendy Haught," I said.  "Did you catch my Jersey cow?"

"No, ma'am," the dispatcher replied emphatically without hesitation.  Apparently Fiona was the only Jersey cow on the run that day.  The dispatcher didn't need to ask me any questions.

"OK, thanks," I said, not the least surprised that Fiona had eluded them.

Emma came in to change shoes.  We both grabbed some of these little date/almond butter/squash/coconut balls she had made and ran for the car.  I had had one of these things for breakfast and nothing since.  Somehow running to the Honda with a handful of vegan treats seemed horribly inadequate for the high drama to which we had been called.  Surely this scene called for beans and bacon or jerky and biscuits and a pair of fleet-footed little Mustangs.  Oh, well.  As usual, Fiona was directing the show, not I.

We tore off down the driveway, praying fervently to St. Anthony, St. Francis, and St. Isidore.  Thankfully, my neighbor, P____, with the help of a friendly motorist, had been able to divert Fiona away from the highway and down a side road.  I planned to search there first.  If we didn't find her, then I would let Emma implement her plan of searching off-road on the 4-wheeler.

Right away we noticed that there was continuous pasture fencing on both sides of the side road.  Deo Gratias!  She would have had to keep to the road where she would be easier to catch.  We cruised slowly along, checking for any openings where she might get through.  We passed a small pasture with three fat cream-colored beef cows and one bony brown and white Jersey who was determinedly impersonating a fat cream-colored beef cow.

"There she is!"  Emma cried exuberantly.

We pulled in the driveway of the home that adjoined the pasture, hopped out and knocked on the front door.  No answer.  We waited a few minutes while I thought this over.  Should we go fetch Fiona without the owner being present?  This was indeed a dilemma.  I mean, after all, this is Texas, y'all.  You don't just go rushing pell-mell into other folks' fenced pastures.  They might think you're a cattle rustler and take a shotgun to your hindmost parts.  For all I knew they were in there right now, pressed against a wall, peering at us stealthily through a window.

Yikes!

Being the sensible, cautious person I am, I said, "Come on, Emma," and we headed for the pasture gate. We let ourselves in, and Emma quickly worked Fiona into a corner where she was able to grab her halter and secure it to the lead rope.  The other three cows moved close and watched intently.  It was a little nerve-wracking, especially since one of them had horns.  They followed us, jogging, to the gate.  Then they walked with us as far as they could inside their fence.  They didn't want Fiona to go.

Boo-hoo.  Or should I say Moo-hoo?

I followed behind Emma and Fiona in the Honda just to make sure no trouble overtook them.  As I inched along, I  counted our many blessings.   How lucky we were!  We are eternally grateful to P____ and whoever captured Fiona and locked her up in the pasture with the three beef cows.  Our story could have had a much different ending.

Mr. Haught returned home from work and promptly fixed the fence.  Fiona, just as promptly, hurried to the repaired area to inspect her options.  Hope springs eternal.  Even in bad cows.

From Full Skirts to Disposing of Chicken Carcasses

Gathering eggs in a full skirt pegs out my joy meter.

It's definitely on my top 10 list of Simple Pleasures, neck in neck with flopping down in the pasture on a sunny day and having a cat search you out and rub all over your face.  Oh, dear.  I must not forget the delightful endeavor of chasing chickens back in their pen while swooshing my skirt from side to side with both hands.  I don't know what it is about gathering up one's skirt and doing something purposeful that just pleasures me no end, but it does.  Then there's dumping a potful of used-up chicken stew bones in our two Black Labs' bowl and hearing them crunch like mad while my chimes float notes of delicate beauty upon the air.  Yes, I know you're not supposed to feed dogs chicken bones.  However, I've seen our Cowboy and Spats kill and eat chickens feathers, innards, and bones, so I don't worry my pretty little head about that.  Maybe that rule is intended for Chihuahuas.  It certainly doesn't apply to our Labs.  They inhale the bones, masticate like a commercial food disposer, and swallow. They don't give a fig about pausing to savor the nuances of flavor.  Terribly businesslike in their attitude toward food, they must be the capitalists of dogdom.