8/28 Restoring Honor Rally

The media initially reported that there were over a thousand people who attended the rally. If you look at the picture I'd say that was an understatement! They did later keep upping their estimates but I'm not sure they even came close to how many people were there. The reflecting pool area holds 200,000 people. Another field holds between 250,000 to 300,000 people. Those were full, as were the areas behind the memorial and people were filling up across the street and filling in around the Washington Monument. My husband, his son with wife and daughter, another grandson, my daughter and her 2 children with her uncle and aunt, are all in that crowd somewhere, looking like ants at a family reunion picnic. In DH's very eloquent words "It's AWESOME!" I can't wait to see all the pictures he took and hear about it in more detail, but in the meantime I got this picture from Glenn Beck's website. For those who want to watch a great video about this incredible event click on this C-SPAN link.

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Camera-less

Well, folks, here I sit—camera-less and teetering on the brink of a full-blown nervous breakdown. Two solid weeks like this. Fourteen whole days in rural America with animals, unpredictable weather, and a daily chance of headline-making chaos. . . and the only thing I’ve got to document it is a dusty old cell phone that should be in a museum.

Jim left for work Monday, which is normal. What’s not normal is that he packed up my camera and my video recorder like he was heading o
ut to film National Geographic: The Untold Squirrel Wars. He’s off to Washington, D.C., for the 8/28 Restoring Honor Rally, and apparently, restoring my sanity didn’t make his to-do list.

Now, I do technically have a phone with a camera. But let’s be honest—it’s a dumb phone with delusions of grandeur. It takes photos that look like they were shot through a potato. And worse, I have no clue how to get those photos into the computer. Does it use a cord? A cloud? Carrier pigeons?

In my moment of desperation, I turned to my grandson—the resident tech guru and the reason the cordless phone system survived instead of meeting a hammer-related fate. He’s the one who figured out the DVD player, the TV with three remotes, and the defrost feature on the microwave. If anyone could help me, it’d be him.

Nope.

He looked at the phone, scratched his head, and said, “Yeah. . . I got nothin’.”

Excuse me? What. Do. You. Mean. You. Got. Nothin’?

This is the same kid who built a gaming PC from scratch and programmed the thermostat to turn the heat up at 6 a.m.—but apparently, getting a photo off this relic is beyond his powers.

To be fair, cell phones don’t really work out here unless you climb a tree, hold a metal bucket over your head, and sweet-talk a passing satellite. So I guess I shouldn’t expect him to work magic with a device that probably runs on coal.

So here I am—technology-challenged and trapped in what can only be described as Polaroid Purgatory. If someone were to ride a goat bareback through the garden wearing my Sunday hat and belting out “Yankee Doodle Dandy,” all I could do is try to remember it later. And given my memory, it might not even last past breakfast.

If anyone out there in the digital ether knows how to coax photos out of an ancient cell phone and into a Windows computer—without sacrificing a floppy disk or firing up a dial-up modem—I’m listening.

At this point, I’d happily mail the phone to someone and have them fax the pictures back to me.

Because, as we all know, Murphy’s Law of Farm Life is crystal clear:
If you don’t have a camera, the pig will dance, the goats will juggle, and the barn cat will give birth to kittens right on top of your best lace tablecloth. . . while wearing a tiara.

And I’ll miss it. Every. Last. Bit.

So until my camera returns, I’ll be documenting life the way our forefathers did—by shouting across the yard, "Hey! Remember this later in case I forget!"

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Bored Kids

Ahh, the dog days of summer. You know the ones—when it’s too hot to do chores without melting, too early for school to rescue you, and too late for the kids to remember how not to die in the pursuit of fun.

So what do you do when you’re a teenage boy with time on your hands, a bike, a few equally deranged friends, and access to every scrap piece of lumber on the property? Why, you build a ramp, of course. A ramp that launches you and your Walmart special straight into the pond. Bonus points if you can do a flip. Triple bonus points if you don’t knock out any teeth.

This particular adventure features my grandson Nathanael and his two partners-in-chaos, Roger and Michael, who, despite having survived ceiling demolition with their heads and other such near-death experiences, still seem determined to give Grandma a heart attack before they graduate.

As I stood there watching them adjust the incline, add "just one more" board for extra launch power, and test it first by sending a lawn chair down the ramp (may it rest in peace), I thought to myself, do boys ever grow up?

Only if they live long enough.

And just so you don't think I'm exaggerating, there's video evidence attached. Yes, actual footage of these three daredevils taking flight like caffeinated ducks on a trampoline. There’s yelling, there’s a splash, and there’s one triumphant, dripping boy shouting, “I made it!” (The bike did not.)

By the way, if anyone finds a bicycle helmet floating near the cattails, please return it to Michael. He swears it came off after he hit the water. Uh-huh. Sure it did.

Stay cool out there, folks. And keep the ER on speed dial. Because summer boredom is the ultimate extreme sport!

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Sheep Withdrawal

I sold the last of the sheep yesterday. Just loaded them up, gave them a nod of thanks, and waved goodbye like they were heading off to college. Honestly, it was a practical decision. We originally got the animals to manage the land—goats for brush, pigs for stumps, and sheep to mow the pastures like wool-covered Roombas.

But last year, we brought in a horse. And here’s the thing: horses and sheep eat the same vegetation, and we don’t have enough pasture to support both. So it came down to a choice: the nervous little lawnmowers or the majestic, carrot-demanding hay burner.

Let’s face it—you can’t ride a sheep. You can’t harness a flock of them up to a buggy and take the grandkids out for an afternoon drive (well, you could, but it would involve YouTube, duct tape, and a very flexible definition of “fun”). On the flip side, you can’t eat a horse. I mean, technically you could, but unless you’re stranded in the Yukon, it’s frowned upon. So yeah. . . I picked the one with the saddle and the dramatic flair. Bye-bye, sheepies.

That said, I didn’t expect to miss them. Sheep, after all, are afraid of everything—including me. Even after years of feeding them treats and talking nice, they still looked at me like I was Hannibal Lecter holding a lamb chop. Living with that level of suspicion would hurt a less secure woman’s feelings.

Goats—now they are more my speed. Bold, obnoxious, curious, and bent on mischief—basically my spirit animals. They ignore fencing like it’s a polite suggestion, think “no” means “try harder,” and approach every task with the enthusiasm of a toddler who’s just discovered permanent markers. They are chaos in hooves, and I love them for it. They may eat your roses and your wiring, but at least they do it with confidence.

But even surrounded by all that goat-fueled energy, this past week just felt. . . off. No real reason—nothing tragic, just one of those weeks where you’re mildly grumpy, your head feels like it’s hosting a Morse code convention behind your eyeballs, and you catch yourself muttering at chairs.

I blamed the weather (85 in the sun, 40 in the shade, and the bugs have unionized). Then hormones (at my age, if any are still hanging around, they’d better be doing chores). Finally, I chalked it up to farm stress: ongoing projects, a garden under siege since the Great Goat Escape of July 4th, and a creeping suspicion I’ve forgotten something important—like my own name.

But then I went to the feed store.

I walked in, shoulders slumped, probably looking like someone who’d just lost a staring contest with a fence post. Doug, the owner and resident philosopher-in-overalls, looked up and cheerfully asked, “How’re you doing today?”

I replied with a sigh so deep it probably disturbed the tectonic plates. “Honestly? I’ve been out of sorts all week.”

Without missing a beat, Doug said, “Ah, sheep withdrawal. I’ve heard of it. Never seen a live case, though. Should I call a vet? Or maybe a shepherd?”

That did it. I laughed so hard I scared a display of fly spray off the shelf. My headache, sensing it was no longer welcome, packed up and left in a huff.

The truth is, Doug might be onto something. Maybe I am going through sheep withdrawal. The barn’s too quiet. The pastures look freshly mowed, and not a single soul is giving me the “I know what you’ve done” look when I walk through the gate. For all their skittishness and that eternal sense of doom, the sheep added a certain. . . ambiance. A woolly Greek chorus bleating in judgment. A steady, if paranoid, presence.

Now it’s just me, the goats (agents of entropy), the pigs (bacon with opinions), the dogs (always hoping for extra points), and the horse, Talon, who thrives on drama, carrots, and admiration. Nobody runs from me anymore. Nobody trembles when I wear a raincoat. Nobody stares at me with eyes that say, “Please not today, I have plans.”

I’ll admit it—I kind of miss being feared.

So yeah, maybe it is sheep withdrawal. Or maybe it’s just farm life doing what it always does: surprising me, challenging me, and occasionally handing me a week where everything feels just a little sideways.

But even in those moments, I’m grateful. Grateful for sarcastic feed store wisdom. Grateful for a barnyard full of four-legged weirdos. And grateful that when one species leaves, something else is always ready to step up and chew on the barn door.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go shout “Baaa!” into the pasture. If nothing answers, I’ll just shrug and feed the goats—because around here, silence never lasts for long. 

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Obituary

Today we mourn the passing of a beloved old friend, Common Sense, who has been with us for many years. No one knows for sure how old he was, since his birth records were long ago lost in bureaucratic red tape. He will be remembered as having cultivated such valuable lessons as: Knowing when to come in out of the rain, why the early bird gets the worm, life isn't always fair, and maybe it really was my fault. 

Common Sense lived by simple, sound financial policies (don't spend more than you  earn) and reliable strategies (adults, not children, are in charge).

His health began to deteriorate rapidly when well-intentioned but overbearing regulations were set in place. Reports of a 6-year-old boy charged with sexual harassment for kissing a classmate, teens suspended from school for using mouthwash after lunch, and a teacher fired for reprimanding an unruly student, only worsened his condition. 

Common Sense lost ground when parents attacked teachers for doing the job that they themselves had failed to do in disciplining their unruly children. It declined even further when schools were required to get parental consent to administer sun lotion or an aspirin to a student but could not inform parents when a student became pregnant and wanted to have an abortion. 

Common Sense lost the will to live as the churches became businesses and criminals received better treatment than their victims. He took a further beating when you couldn't defend yourself from a burglar in your own home and the burglar could sue you for assault. Common Sense finally gave up the will to live after a woman failed to realize that a steaming cup of coffee was hot. She spilled a little in her lap, and was promptly awarded a huge settlement. 

Common Sense was preceded in death by his parents, Truth and Trust, by his wife, Discretion, by his daughter, Responsibility, and by his son, Reason. He is survived by his 4 stepbrothers: I Know My Rights, I Want It Now, Someone Else Is To Blame, and I'm A Victim. 

Not many attended his funeral because so few realized he was gone. If you still remember him, pass this on. 

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Sccool?

I found this just over the border into Vermont. I think the painters need to attend the nearby school for spelling lessons. Now this brings a question to mind - when you misspell a word on the road do you use black-out to correct it? Apparently this road crew didn't have any so they just painted over it, probably hoping no one would notice.

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SUCCESS!!!!!

Ahhh, the sweet, sweet smell of success. Or maybe that’s just the fly spray, sweaty saddle pads, and a whiff of manure that somehow made it onto my glove. Either way, SUCCESS!!!

After two and a half months of what can only be described as the equine equivalent of kindergarten drama club, Talon has finally done it—he’s officially hitched to the cart and being driven. By an actual human. Who’s sitting in the cart. And not being dragged, trampled, or ignored. Cue the trumpets! ?

Now, to be fair, Talon’s journey into cart horse-hood wasn’t exactly the straightest of lines. This is the same horse who, when asked to walk across a tarp, acted like it was a portal to hell. A few highlights from his "training montage" include:

• Fly spray:
  “You want me to stand still while you coat me in the smell of betrayal and broken promises? No thank you. It feels like a million tiny ninjas attacking my skin. Hard pass.”

• Plastic bags:
  “Why would a bag make that sound? That is not a noise things should make. That’s the sound of danger. Of doom. Of something that wants to EAT ME WHOLE.”

• The bit:
  “Excuse me, but I’m not a sword swallower. You could’ve at least warmed it up, or dipped it in molasses, or something! You want me to carry metal in my mouth while I work? Would you like to carry a spoon around all day? No? Then hush.”

• Group turnout:
  “I know those other horses. They looked at me funny. I saw one flatten his ears. I'm pretty sure one of them mouthed, ‘Nice legs, loser.’ So yeah, I hid behind the trainer. That’s called strategy, not cowardice.”

For a while, it was starting to feel like Talon might only ever drive me crazy and not, you know, an actual cart.

But then—breakthrough!

A few days ago, the trainer hitched him up to the cart and decided, with the calm confidence of someone who knows what they’re doing (unlike me), to climb in. I held my breath. Talon didn’t. He just flicked one ear back like, “Finally. I’ve been waiting for you to catch up.”

I swear, if horses could talk, he’d have said:

“Oh thank heavens, you're finally doing something that makes sense. I’m a Gypsy Cob, for crying out loud. Cart-pulling is LITERALLY in my job description. What did you think these feathered legs were for? Ballet?”

And just like that, he was off—ears forward, legs moving with purpose, chest puffed out like he was on parade.

You’d never know this was the same horse who once tried to hide behind a boulder because a pony two paddocks over sneezed.

Apparently, he’s decided that everything else we tried to teach him was optional. Lunging? Optional. Standing tied? Optional. Not flinching when the barn cat sneezes? Optional. But the cart? Now that was finally worthy of his attention.

“Now that we’ve gotten past all the nonsense,” he said (probably), “let’s proceed with my career. I expect carrots, applause, and a dramatic entrance at every outing.”

So now, with blinders on, reins over the rump, and just the slightest air of superiority, Talon is officially a driving horse. Or, in his words:

“I am now Talon the Magnificent. Cart Horse Extraordinaire. Ambassador of Swagger. Destroyer of Plastic Bags.”

Well, okay, he still flinches at plastic bags. But hey—progress is progress.

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Grandson's Eagle Scout Project

Click to enlarge so you can read it:

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Farmhand Follies: Why Good Help Is Worth Their Weight in Dog Food

If the sun’s up, the animals are up—and if the animals are up, so am I.

Mornings on the homestead are a whirlwind of chores, as any self-respecting farmer, homesteader, or country-dweller with more animals than sense will tell you. There’s feeding, watering, cleaning pens, collecting and washing eggs, milking, mucking, and making sure no one ends up on the wrong side of a fence (again). It’s a full production, and that’s all before breakfast.

Thankfully, I’ve got help. My 17-year-old grandson takes the lead, flanked by our English Shepherds: Roxie—also known as The Red Rocket, and Jack, her loyal sidekick who takes his cues from her like he’s trying to pass a final exam he never studied for.

First stop: the pig pen. Now, if you’ve never tried feeding a bunch of porkers who think every second between snacks is a personal insult, let me paint you a picture: it’s a bit like walking into a Black Friday sale with arms full of electronics and no security.

Enter Roxie and Jack.

They fan out like seasoned bouncers at a dive bar, keeping the pigs politely distanced until the feed is safely dumped. No one gets knocked over, no boots are lost in the mud, and the pigs live to eat another day.

From there it’s off to the buck goat’s domain. Now, our buck thinks he owns the place. Struts around like he’s some kind of land baron. But Roxie’s got zero patience for posturing, and Jack, bless his blank little head, backs her up like a well-trained but slightly confused bodyguard.

At milking time, the dogs become goat traffic controllers. Each goat files from gen pop to the milk stand like it’s a TSA checkpoint, and back again in an orderly line. At least, that's the plan. One time a goat decided she was done following rules and made a run for the other side of the barn. Roxie spun into action, cutting her off mid-stride with all the authority of a drill sergeant. Jack, naturally, ran in right behind her, ready to assist in whatever was happening. I’m pretty sure he had no idea what the plan was, but by golly, he was gonna do something.

Once everyone’s fed and milked, the dogs sweep the barn like a couple of living leaf blowers. “I said OUT! NOW!” Roxie charges down the aisle barking orders and clears the barn like it's closing time at the bar. Jack follows suit, barking two seconds behind her like an echo with fur. In less than half a minute the barn is empty, orderly, and silent—except for the triumphant panting of two very proud dogs. Efficiency at its finest.

Now, about those eggs. Roxie and Jack haven’t quite figured out how to collect them. In fact, they seem to think “egg collection” means “egg sampling.” And by sampling, I mean slurping. But at least they make sure no hens wander into forbidden zones. Any chicken caught sneaking off gets herded back with a “Don’t make me come over there” look from Roxie and a frantic bounce from Jack, who just wants to be helpful.

Roxie and Jack don’t punch a clock. They don’t ask for overtime. And they sure don’t take coffee breaks. But they do earn their pay—two squares a day, all the praise they can handle, and the occasional strip of bacon slipped under the table.

Good help is hard to find. But a good dog, especially one with a rocket for a nickname and a sidekick who thinks she hung the moon? Worth their weight in dog food, belly rubs, and the warmest spot by the woodstove.

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