George Breaks Down Ballet Class

I'm doing a relevé in this photo. I learned it in ballet class. At my dance school, there was a huge mirror. Dancing is so nice.

Item #1 There were girls.
Item #2 And a teacher
Item #3 I kept dancing.
Item #4 The girls & me kept dancing.
Item #5 When the hour was over, I found my dad.
Item#6 I loved it.
Item #7 My dad drove the car.
Item #8 I told my dad that I did great.
Item #9 And Perfect
Item #10 It was an excellent job.
:-)

Tails and Tidings: The Ovoid of Life

 It is the end of winter. The migrating birds are migrating, the crocuseses are crocusing,  and the air is filled with the sound of squawking hens, and the neighbor, pounding on the back door, shouting, "Your dog got out and she's killing your chickens!"?

 Yep. I'm sad to write, last week started with our big, muddy, puppy giddily galloping around the yard, snapping our hens' necks with a playful snatch n' shake technique we dog owners recognize from any game of tug-o-war. The whole event was shocking, and left us mourning the ladies we loved so. There were five casualties, when all was said and done.

Silver Lining: In times of strife, you learn a lot about the people around you. We would have lost our whole flock that morning, if our neighbor hadn't come to alert us. Also, Zelda's victims were cleaned, plucked, and given to a family who really appreciated the free organic food, thanks to my friend and farm wife mentor, Tawnya. The most helpful thing any of us can have on a journey of learning is someone who knows what they are doing and is inclined to help. We are humbly grateful for the smart, kind people in our lives. They kept a bad situation from getting worse, and even made the best of it.  

Back to Bloody Monday: At first, I was thinking like a pet owner. My girls! No more would I giggle at the sight of Rosalyn's cheekpuffs, or marvel at Pilar's beautiful silver-laced feathers. Anya, known as Onion, was our successful attempt to bring a Buff Orpington into the mix, without having  her end up a rooster. Pippi, who came to us in a post-rooster backwoods-style chicken trade, and fancied herself in charge (although we all know Hot Sauce is running the joint.) And the lovely Vilma, Blue Wyandotte who classed up the yard with her distinguished demeanor. I was heartbroken that I didn't do a better job of keeping them safe.

Then I started thinking like a farmer. A hungry farmer, who hasn't paid more than $20 for eggs in the last year. Five birds left, but six egg-eating mouths. We'd like to get an egg per person, per day, so we'd need at least six chickens. You do the math. Unless the guinea pigs suddenly start laying, we're in need of more fowl.

So we got two new chicks, because you just never know.*

*Step one in the process of starting over: When planning for the future, factor in a little failure.**

**Since beginning to compose this blog post, right after getting the chicks, we also lost Hot Sauce, our Rhode Island Red. The despondency-turned-resiliency cycle that kicked in around here went by so quickly, I nearly scrapped this whole post to make a big lofty one about never giving up. Instead, I'll just say that here, quickly. Never give up. Not until you're dead. If you give up while you're living, your days after that will be miserable disfunction, even if they aren't chockfull of frustrating failure. A dream, burning within you, is your best fuel. It may never be realized, but you are better off  powered by that than hapless resignation for the rest of your days.R.I.P, Hot Sauce, you elegant backyard boss. 

 Yo, you just got a blog post in your blog post, dawg.

 Returning to the issue at hand, and the regular-sized font: This was supposed to be the first year in a few when we would skip the fun of bringing chicks home from the farm store, Sure, they are cuteness walking, and I love that spring around the corner means the cheeping of fluffy little baby birds, but we were at capacity, until last Monday, that is. So, after feeling sad for a bit, I redirected my energy, dusted off the heat lamp and the tiny feeder I made years ago, and set up a brooder (a good place for chicks to stay warm during their first few weeks.)

Chicks need warmth, but they also need their area to have a cool spot. This is because they need to be able to find the right spot that's just the right temperature. During the day, the temperature around them fluctuates, and they will keep the all-important correct body heat level if given freedom to move from one temperature to the another. This is why they have a heat lamp focused on only one half of their cage.

The cage is the other thing. Usually, a high-walled container is ideal for a brooder, especially if it's going to have more than two chicks in it. I opted to put a high-walled area in the cage for them: an old basket with a door cut out of the side. They like to perch on it, and nap.

On the other side of the cage, we have the food, and grit, and water. The cool side of the cage is the best place for these things because the water can get murky under the warm light. I suspect all sorts of microscopic life forms might flourish in both their food and their water if it's warmer than necessary.

The sudden loss of most of our flock still makes me sad, but it's hard to stay that way when watching Parkour and Sasha, (Gold and Black Stars). Chicks are entertaining and engrossing. They're kind of reptilian, despite their eye-searing fluffy cuteness. Just like miniature chickens, they cock their heads, perch, scratch, preen their wing feathers and do battle: hilarious, wee warfare in which there is cranky peeping and tiny wing flapping. We call them our little dinosaurs.

They make me think of death and life. You usually see those terms reversed. Life, then death, right? But what if death is put first? Get out your mental pitchforks and help me turn this compost pile of ideas. Flip the cycle upside down and think of it that way, death almost seems like birth, because it gives way to what is next. As John Lennon said, "Life is what happens to you when you're busy making other plans." I agree with John, even when what happens while you're planning, is death. So, while I feel sadness at the unexpected end of something, it is me mourning a lost plan, and plans are just plans. They aren't life.

Life is waking up and stretching your wings. It's tunneling your way out of a boring place, to run free. It's sensing danger and acting instinctively to save yourself, even if you can't. It's sensing food and acting instinctively, to hunt. It's running and hiding in fear. It's running and hurting with glee. It's helping and comforting those around you shocked by a day's events. It's thinking of tomorrow, with your stomach. It's starting over and over again, and getting better at it each go-around. It's a flow of behaviors that continue as the organisms who carry them out cyclically appear and recede. People will always make plans, dogs will always chase things,  and chicks will always be cute, and welcome.

Bring it, Father Time!: Musings of a Birthday Girl

It's my birthday!

Today begins the last year in my third decade of life, and can I tell you something strange? I'm actually excited about that. Why is it strange to be excited about your birthday? You aren't asking that if you're an almost or over forty year old woman. We commonly react to birthdays as if they are postcards from the Grim Reaper, evidence that our prettiest and most oblivious years are behind us.


But, as far as I can tell, this whole life we get is a big chance to learn as much as we can for as long as we're here. Why would I want to freeze it in the middle, when I only knew what I knew then? She was nice and all, but I have no interest in being this girl again.

She had no blog, and would have laughed at the sound of that word.

Sure, she could brag that she was merely twenty something, but she couldn't play the accordion, or go a few hours without smoking a cigarette, or talk civilly to someone who angered her. She also hadn't met her four most favorite people in the world, poor girl.

Now is where it's at for me, and I get a feeling I'll still see things the same way if I am lucky enough to get really and truly elderly. This clock goes one way, not backward, not forward, but inward. Living is about mastering the moment right before me, as me; a skill honed with time. There is no shortcut to this vista, it's enjoyed only by those who have done the climbing.

So, welcome, wrinkles and gray hair! Have a cup of tea, random shooting pains and disconcerting skin discolorations! I am ready for you. You are evidence that I am still here, part of the scene, the old lady in the back of the room, with a lot to say.

And scary lipstick.

Because when you're old, nobody will tell you your lipstick looks scary. So many unforeseen benefits to this gig, I tell you.

The Garden Dirt: Growing Home

It started, as so many good things start, with a bean, a cup of wet dirt, and a warm windowsill.

I always wanted to grow food, and I didn't even know it. When I was a kid, I did know that I loved sprouting pinto beans from our kitchen pantry, and growing them into leggy vines in my bedroom. Not only did I marvel at the magic act of germination, I got the strangest feeling from having a green living thing in my window. It felt like I was home in a way I had never experienced before. I used to open my window on sunny days, and lean on the window sill, with the leaves of my bean plant in my peripheral vision, listening to the radio; pretending that I was a grown lady, with her own apartment and a plant on her windowsill, naturally.

Here I am now, with many windowsills, a whole house, a big family, and a massive yard; and I still do the same thing: find a unique sense of home by tending little sprouts. Even before attempting this whole homeo-schooling thing, getting the kids involved in gardening early was a must. How else to get stuff done than to keep the little hands busy?

All you have to do is just break everything down into tiny one or two step tasks, commit to a set up and clean up time, and figure out where to store everything in the meantime. And when you do that, please make a blog about it so I can read it and figure out how to do it myself.

 Chicken observer: optional

Just jesting. I'm actually starting to get the hang of this growing little growers thing. It starts, as many good things start, with a box of dirt. I use one of our large recycling bins, but anything waterproof with a tight-fitting lid would work. The box of dirt is handy for a couple of reasons. It makes a nice spot to fill containers without worrying about a mess. Later, when you need to transplant seedlings, or if something dies and you need to empty the container, you'll be glad to have a place to work, or dump your dirt. Unless they're looking infected with something, all the roots, stems, and leaves of fail plants can also go in there.

Now that you've got the dirt, decide in what you will plant your seeds. Please, believe me when I say, you can start a seed in anything. Paper towels, boots, ice cream containers, yogurt cups, egg shells, your ear, you name it. Different plants have different needs, but, keep in mind, planting in a small container usually means you'll need to transplant to a bigger container soon.

 Yes, a walnut shell.

What to plant? That's up to you. At this time of year, most gardeners are planting onions, leeks, broccoli, hard greens, radishes and carrots, to name just a few. Read the seed packet for how deep to plant whichever seeds you choose. Cover with a little dirt, and water gently until the soil feels lightly, but evenly, moist. As they say, "like a wrung-out sponge." After that, it needs a few days somewhere warm and draft-free. We have a cabinet above our oven that is just the spot. When you see sprouts, set them in a sunny window, and water as needed. What next? Well, sheesh! It's only January!

Here, George uses a salt shaker from our table top, rinsed out well and filled with water, to rain on his carrot seeds.

The last thing you'll need is patience, and a keen ability to harvest the process, if there is no fruit. Playing in the dirt is good for kids, and somewhat difficult for some who like to keep their hands clean.

Seeds require dexterity, and operating an eye dropper or shakerful of water demands an advanced understanding of hydromechanics. Most of all, kids love to work on something that they can tell is important. Letting them try their hand at horticulture lets them see what they're capable of, which cultivates real confidence, regardless of the result.

A few Septembers ago, when I had a new baby on my lap and was staring wistfully out the window at a winter garden that wasn't getting planted, a young Thomas came to me, in need of something to do. I figured I would plug two problems into each other, in hopes of a synergistic solution. I gave him a packet of radish seeds, pointing through the window to the bed, saying, "Sprinkle these all around that dirt and poke each one down with a stick." He dutifully ran out in his little raincoat, grabbed a stick, plunked all of the radish seeds in one dense wet clump, stabbed it repeatedly, and looked up at me through the window, beaming proudly.We didn't grow more than two radishes that winter, but I think I planted a gardener.

The Muddy Kitchen: Subject to Change

Just who do you think you are, anyway?

Are you a lady, or a kid, or a cat who wandered in front of a laptop?

Does thinking about your identity trigger a cascade of memories in .jpg form, all seen through your eyes only?

Or would you answer differently? Would you say, I'm a pastry chef.  I'm a competitive jump rope jumper. I'm a manager of many underlings. I'm a student and a big sister? I'm an iguana handler? Aristotle said, "We are what we do repeatedly." Are we?

The fact that you alone can answer that question about yourself is kind of huge. That means there's one unique story that nobody but you can tell. It's your story, and you don't have tell it in written, oral, or pantomime form, but you put it out there everyday. Just by being you.

Mr. Rogers was right!

If you know who that dude is, you've probably heard all of this before. Just be yourself and make the world a more magical place! Right? But what about....everybody else?

They seem to be convinced that they should just be themselves too. Oh boy. That sounds like a recipe for disaster. How to be me while letting you be you? This is at the heart of  my experience, raising young humans, but it's also the constant challenge for anyone dealing regularly with, well, everyone.

In this house of growing creatures, change is the order of the day. In order to govern lovingly and logically, there must be freedom to be, but there must also be freedom to be something else; to change. To say that that mental potential, to be a princess one moment, and a frog the next, is necessary to our survival, is no overstatement. In the big biogamble that is life on this side of the carbon cycle, flexibility is a highly valuable strategy. Freedom to determine for yourself just who you think you are on a moment by moment basis is crucial; so it stands to reason, allowing those around you the same liberty is only fair.

And it is with that that I make a major, earth-shattering confession. We have changed. Remember? Way back when we first met? And I said I was a vegetarian? Raising li'l vegetarians, with my vegetarian man? Yeah, about that.

We all eat fish now. And crabs. Weekly. We even hope to begin snatching these creatures from their nearby watery homes soon too. That's right, nearly vegan to stone-cold killers in a matter of months!

I don't want be a bore and list all of our reasons for this change, just like I never felt like lecturing the world on why I was a vegetarian for nearly ten years. All of our dietary decisions are based on a complex amalgam of responsibility, convenience, and self-interest. Even though I eat according to ever-changing self-imposed rules, I firmly believe in my tendency to screw up, so I can't assume that others should adopt my way.

You should, however, adopt the following recipe. As a novice, I'm not about to give out advice on how to prepare fish. It's what I add to it that makes it special: a very simple salad that makes undressed fish flesh and cold quinoa taste like a party in your face. I learned to make it many years ago in Ecuador, on a little adventure there. Ecuadorian people from one border to the other, up high in the mountains, or down in the jungle, ate one dish regularly, and fed it to me often. It was a cold chunk of tuna fish, right out of the can, next to a scoop of rice, with a side of what I'm about to share with you. Feeling sorry for Ecuador yet? Well don't. Just:

Slice equal parts tomatoes and peppers very finely.
Add half that quantity thinly sliced red onion.
Drizzle with lime juice, vegetable oil, and salt, to taste, and that's it! Stir and let sit in the refrigerator for an afternoon, and enjoy getting blasted in the mouth every time you use it. Oh, and you will use it. Not just on fish, but on whatever animals and plants you are at peace with eating.

Here's what it all looks like, minus the fried egg. Because, as everyone knows in Ecuador: you want to make sure someone likes their dinner, you slap a fried egg on it.  Plop it right on the quinoa in this case. Just puncture the egg yolk and enjoy the muy rico sabor.


Or don't. It's up to you.

Brain Storms: Our Cracked Up Advent Calendar

This one goes out to all the baby mamas out there. You know this sharp clean little internet world, where the screen is bright, the spaces clear, and you can escape the cluttered imperfection of life?*
 This place is a web of lies! My blog included!

 * as long as you don't check your inbox.

Well, maybe the word "lies," is a bit much. I don't think it's intentionally misleading to put your best foot forward in life. To remove the cobwebs from one's hair and brush the teeth isn't exactly lying. It's courtesy. And most of what I'm talking about is that. In the world of blogging moms and momming bloggers, there's a bit of tweaking, a bit of fudging, to make sure that the whole world doesn't have to see the bedhead and chihuahua droppings. Unless you want to see that sort of thing, in which case, find another blog, sicko.

No, the lies are not being told to you by that reschooling stay-at-home bloggermom, with her 25 days of handmade organic nature solstice crafts, performed by angelic children who stare at one thing forever and never whine. They are in your own mind, being told to yourself! If you look at that blog, with its lack of sticky places and noise and think, "Well now I feel like dirt." you have a couple of choices.

 

Sure, you could get up, and do some of the stuff, sitting around you, waiting to be done. That's always a good approach. But the easier, pettier option would be to remind yourself that the online mom in question is hiding her imperfections, and is probably standing on checkers and doll clothes, yelling "JUST A SECOND!" upstairs to a kid on the toilet while she snaps that perfect shot of her rustic hand-hewn Legos. If you think she's any better than you at keeping an even temper, or a clean counter top, it's just because you are only seeing what she wants you to see.

Now, officially, I advocate the first reaction, in all areas of life. Proactive, productive, and just plain good for you. I employed it often when I got that familiar drowning feeling, looking at Advent calendars on Pinterest. Get up, dance with a kid, do some dishes, glue googly eyes onto something: the choices are endless.

The second approach, well, we've all done that; reminded ourselves that the people around us aren't as perfect as they would have us believe. And I'm about to surprise you, because I want you to do that with me. Spot the stains! Smirk smugly at the smudges! Revel in my short-comings, for they are many. I'm about to make it really easy too. I'm here today to share an idea for an Advent calendar. It's odd and fun, and way too late to do anyone any good for nearly another whole year! That, my friends, is how I roll. And it gets better. We didn't even get the Advent calendar made on time this month.

See, this family loves to anticipate a big date, and counting down with fun and candy just seems like an automatic win. So Advent calendars always caught my fancy. My friends have lovely ones, and I've considered making one according to one of the millions of adorable homespun ideas out there, but never even remembered they exist until sometime around the first of December. Then, with a Christmasy feeling just starting to motivate and inspire me a million different ways, the idea of squeezing in another project seems impossible, so we manage another year without counting down our December.

 

Four days into this December, I was telling Thomas about Advent calendars; their origin, and all of the variations on the idea. I ended up saying, "We need twenty four of something that we can put something in." which is when Thomas' eyes lit up and he said, "EGGS!" That was such a great idea, it didn't matter that we'd be almost a week late by the time it was implemented. We blew the contents out of twenty four eggs and marked their numbers with melted beeswax and a paint brush. The wax is clear and resisted the dye with which we were about to color the front of the egg. We set the blown egg, number side down, into a little dish of food coloring, water, and vinegar for a few minutes. Then, onto a dry towel. They sat on the woodstove afterward, to dry, and the heat helped melt away the beeswax, leaving a clear number. They were then strung up, but not before stuffing each egg with a rolled strip of paper. A button strung under the egg helps keep the string in place, and adds a bit of zazz.

All of the eggs were hung on our big Christmas tree, and each day, we broke one. Starting a week late meant that we enjoyed a major smashing of six eggs on our first night. Some papers read, "Make cookies with Henry," "Make a wreath," or "Watch the Nutcracker," but the favorite ones exclaim "CANDY!" and everyone gets chocolate.* Each day, a kid cracks an egg and we obey, slavishly eating our chocolate and celebrating together. It was great fun, and helped the younger two wrap their little minds around the remaining chunk of time between that present moment and the approaching Christmas morning.

 

I know we'll do it again next year, and maybe we'll even get it made in November!

*I learned pretty quickly that if this crew of mine didn't get chocolate each day, things would get riotous. So, in the interest of Peace on Earth and all that, I gave out candy whether the egg ordered me to or not. I also gained five pounds, but that's for another post.

Tails and Tidings: Eight Puppies are One

Today is many things. It is the seventh of December, one week into the last month of 2012. The small print on today's square inch of your nearest calendar will tell you that it is also Pearl Harbor Day, a significant day in United States history. Seventy one years ago today, a U.S. Naval Base in Hawaii was bombed, setting off U.S. involvement in what was our planet's second World War.

One year ago today, history was made here at the BU. Our house was puppy-bombed, and I met this lovely lady.

Zelda, our youngest, biggest dog, was born in our living room one year ago, along with her seven brothers and sisters. Their mom was a shelter dog in need of a foster home with room for nine, as she was abandoned while pregnant. We loved her right away, named her Holly, and did our best to take care of her. There was even a time when we thought she might stay with us after her puppies left, but it didn't work out that way. She needed us for a short time only, and now lives near Portland. I contacted her new humans back when she went to live there, and she seemed to settle in right away.

 PUPDATE:

Jimmy, one of the two boys, is living it up a few miles north of me, at the Sea Haven Motel & Guest House, with his devoted parents, and big brother, DJ. He is a lucky boy who runs on the beach and meets new people regularly.

Judy, the firstborn, made a big move to New Mexico, where she is making me jealous, getting to spend so much time with my friend forever, Leah, and her magical wonderful family of beautiful interesting people. Also, of the pups, Judy probably enjoys the most sunshine.

The following pupdate about Maggie Mae is lifted from Maureen's (who adopted Jimmy) comment below.

"Maggie Mae is happy, safe and living the ubber urban life in PDX with her owners, Sue & Rich, and their complement of cats. She has traveled to the San Juan Islands and other points north, alas, still staying in the cooler, less sunshiny, NW."

 I appreciate the information she can provide, as close friends with Maggie's adoptive parents. It was delightful to meet Sue and Rich, and feel so good about a puppy's future.

Zelda stayed here and has proven herself to be smart, sweet, and able to fold herself into a flattened dogpacket so that she may will herself through the centimeter of space under the fabric of a pig wire fence. I need to find a use for that talent of hers.

Good thing she is abundantly charming; always coming when called, even when liberated from leash or backyard. She is brilliant, and can access that intelligence for quick learning, even though her brain has been a clanging storm of puppy for the last year. I love her dearly, and feel fortunate that she came into existence in our home, like two of my kids.

I also marvel at her size and strength. It's been said before, but what hasn't? They grow so fast.

The remaining pups:

Unfortunately, two of the female puppies are not still with their adoptive homes. They were returned to the care of the shelter. As much as I would have loved for it to work out, I have been in the position to have to return a dog to the place from whence it was adopted. I hated myself too much in those moments to bring up judgment for those people who had to admit that they could not own their puppy forever. At least they didn't just leave it somewhere.

And the other two, (a female and a male) I have no idea about. I wish them well, and hope they have a happier than usual day today. Perhaps they were adopted by someone who knows they were born on Pearl Harbor day, and will toss an extra scrap their way.

I think about Holly most of all. At the time, it was very difficult to admit that she could not stay here, and when I see her in Zelda, I feel a twinge of something.

It's not really sadness, because who knows how things are supposed to happen? It's a feeling of awe at having touched that flow of time and matter we call birth. She reminds me so much of her mother, but there's something else there. The genes of another dog, and her new personality, having known only this family as her people, and our dogs as her pack.

Alright, I'm putting on the puppy-dog face for some shameless begging, so watch out:

For some of us, this time of year is for acting on good intentions. If you live in a fairly clean and safe neighborhood, chances are, you have your local animal shelter, in part, to thank for it. Not only did our Tillamook Animal Shelter take in a pregnant dog and find us to care for her and her puppies, they provide a valuable service for our town, daily, nightly, no matter what it demands of them. And they are always in the mood for a contribution. Volunteering, fostering, donations, sharing animal postings from a shelter's Facebook page: animal shelters rely on the generosity of their community, as do the animals in their care, as do all of us who don't have to contend with stray pigs in the streets. So, if you love animals, or if you hate them and hope never to encounter a stray one, show some love to your favorite local shelter. Do it because it's a holiday. Do it because you get that giving really is better than receiving. Do it for all the puppies.

And that business about giving beating the pants off of receiving isn't just a bunch of puppy piddle. Being there for Holly and her puppies brought our family a strong feeling of harmony. Through all of the ups and downs, we as a family pulled together and never felt the burden wasn't being paid off exponentially. We'll never forget the Christmas when we hosted a litter of chocolatey sweet puppies, and when we look at Zelda, there is proof that all of that wasn't just some slobbering stinking dream.