My One Weakness...

Once upon a time, not so many moons ago, I was roped into doing some chores for a relative. He had a gaggle of almost-grown chicks out in the cow pasture in a chicken tractor that he moved around every day to let the brand new chickens get used to life outside, while also keeping them safe from hawks and other unsavory characters.

One of my chores was to go out and feed and water those newly minted chickens thrice a day. This was my least favorite chore, because the chicken tractor was quite wide, but not very tall; more than adequate for a dozen or so chickens, but not so accommodating for a full grown girl. 

Now, that was all well and good, but you see, these chickens were not alone out in that cow pasture. There were cows there as well! This may come as something of a shock, for, as we all know, cows are grade A escape artists.

Provided is a list of places one might safely expect to find a cow:

• In the road.
• In the garage.
• In the tool shed.
• In your yard.
• In your neighbor's yard.
  
• In your neighbor's tool shed.
• In your neighbor's corn field.
  

The astute reader will notice that cow pastures are not on the above list. This is not a coincidence.

However, despite the improbability, my relative had somehow managed to cow-proof his fences long enough to keep them in their designated pastures long enough for them to make my life thoroughly miserable.

You see, these cows (their names were Oakley and Remmington) had a grudge against humanity as a whole, and me in particular. Any time I tried to enter that pasture, they would rush for me, trying to corner me up against any available surface, be it fence, tree, or chicken tractor, and take by force anything I might happen to be carrying in my buckets, whether it was for them or not. (Spoiler: it was not. It never was. I fed them first thing in the morning in buckets attached to the fence so I couldn't be trampled. Anything I brought into the pasture in my own two hands was for the chickens. But did they care that they were depriving the chickens of their meal? Not they!)

I began to plot my chicken feeding expeditions with all the careful diligence of a general planning out an assault on enemy territory. I would wait until I saw them in a far corner of the pasture, arm myself with my buckets and sally forth at a dead run.

If I was lucky, I'd make it to the chicken tractor in time to duck inside and fill the feeders and waterers before the cows even knew I was there, and by the time they'd caught wind of my deception, I would be beating a hasty retreat, escaping their bovine clutches and live to fight another day.

If I was unlucky...

Oakley would catch up and pin the tractor door shut while I was inside and hold me hostage until I'd fling enough chicken feed out the mesh sides of the chicken tractor to distract her.

If I was really unlucky...

They'd catch me before I even reached the chicken tractor and spill my buckets, and I'd have to make the trip again knowing that this time they were waiting for me.

This only lasted for three days, but consider this, fair reader: I had to feed the chickens three times a day. Three times three is nine. (Aren't you proud of me? I managed some basic multiplication!) Nine times I went out into that pasture. Every time I set foot beyond the gate, I was taking my life into my hands. Truly, one of the more harrowing experiences of my life.

Then my relative returned form his sojourn in far off lands and asked, "Why didn't you feed the cows first and then feed the chickens while they were eating?"

And I realized that I was not cut out to be a farm girl.

 

Jump cut to the present day, where my family has made the ill-fated decision to get two Holsteins (pictured above). Elbi and Bibi may look very pretty and picturesque, to be sure, but they have murder in their hearts, and they have it out for yours truly.

Today, I decided I was going to be a big girl and take a walk through the 12 Acre Woods. But to do that, I have to pass through the valley of the shadow of death...pardon me, the cow pasture.

The Good Shepherd comforts the Psalmist with his rod and staff, so I decided to take a page from the bible (metaphorically speaking) and arm myself. Having found an adequate staff in one of the ever present brush piles that is a staple of every homestead, I once more took my life into my own hands and set forth in great fear and trembling. 

Doesn't this cow-stick strike fear into your heart?

The cows shook their heads, snorted angrily, stamped their hooves, and then both came galloping straight for me. Surely I was a goner. None could withstand such a charge!

I stood my ground and shook my newly acquired weapon in their general direction. It was like  switch had been flipped. They both took one look at me and my cow-stick and halted their headlong charge, decided I was far too fearsome a foe and surrendered on the spot.

They really are sweet. Bibi's a bit shy, and won't say hello, but Elbi came right up to me once I offered a handful of grass, and let me pet her. 

I think I'll keep a cow-stick on my person when I'm in the pasture, just in case. Cows can be sneaky after all! But maybe, just maybe, I've made some new friends? 

 

 

 

Independence Day 2019

John Adams wrote, of Independence Day:

[Independence Day] will be the most memorable Epocha, in the History of America. I am apt to believe that it will be celebrated, by succeeding Generations, as the great anniversary Festival. It ought to be commemorated, as the Day of Deliverance by solemn Acts of Devotion to God Almighty. It ought to be solemnized with Pomp and Parade, with Shows, Games, Sports, Guns, Bells, Bonfires and Illuminations from the End of this Continent to the other from this Time forward forever more.

Forth of July fireworks seem like they would be right up his alley. 

Seeing as how fireworks are such an important tradition, we planned, as a family, to go and see some. It wasn't going to be something fancy, just a relatively small show in an obscure little country town.

I worked all morning, but got home late afternoon in time to go swimming. I thoroughly enjoyed myself, in spite of myself. What do I mean by that? Well, let me elaborate. About half-way through our swim, I managed to trip over an invisible rock (boulder, really) in the river and skinned both my knees practically to the bone, and then as I scrambled out of the water, I tripped again, landing--on my freshly wounded knees, no less--in a patch of stinging nettles. I reached for something, anything, to pull myself up with...and grabbed another patch of stinging nettles. Ah me.

After the disastrous swimming excursion, we had dinner and packed up to go see the fireworks. Mind you, the fireworks weren't supposed to start until dusk, which in our part of the world is roughly 10:00 pm at the moment. We got to the general viewing area not long after seven thirty and set up camp, right across from a Dollar General. This was fortunate, because we'd forgotten to bring any water bottles, so I sallied forth across the road, followed by my vast hoards of siblings and purchased soda and arizona tea and lemonade.

We waited for an eternity. Reggo, Krisbe, and Kennedy got out a board game. Hobbi and I got out our books. We waited. And waited. And waited some more.

Before the "real" show started, there was the occasional firework sent up, probably for experimentation, I suppose?  We were all watching the skyline, eagerly awaiting these, when suddenly, just as it was getting suitably dark, the skyline lit right up, and a gigantic fireball rose heavenward, burning red-gold against the horizon.

We all sat there for a heart stopping moment, knowing this wasn't right, and wondering if in the next moment we would see fireworks or if we would hear sirens and see the lights of emergency vehicles begin flashing a patriotic red-white-and-blue.

Thank goodness it was the former. It couldn't have been more than fifteen or twenty seconds after the fireball had dissipated that the first of the fireworks were set off. It was a rather surreal experience. It took some time for me too sit back and enjoy the show, but gradually the shock of it wore off.

Like I said earlier, the show wasn't a particularly grand affair, but it was lovely, nonetheless. The evening was cool, there weren't too many mosquitoes out and about, and I was actually able to get some pictures of the fireworks on my phone. Most were pretty terrible, but some of them were legible enough to merit showing them off. (Note: From my vantage point I was seeing the fireworks right above that Dollar General with some frightfully obnoxious and bright lights in the parking lot. I tried to avoid them as much as possible when taking pictures, but the lighting at the bottom edges of the pictures suffer, and that's why.)

These first two look like dandelions, do they not?

A Small House and Large Garden

I've recently been reading through Gladys Taber's Stillmeadow series, which I've really enjoyed. I like stories about people who live a-way out in the country, living quietly interesting lives, tending a garden and keeping animals. I was looking for another Stillmeadow book in the library when I came across A Small House and Large Garden, by Richardson Wright. 

The title captured my attention, and the first page stole my heart.

Mr. Abraham Cowley is responsible for the title of this journal, Mr. Abraham Cowley and a gentleman in a certain bookstore. Finding from his list (the bookstore man's) that, for a consideration, he would part with a venerable edition of John Evelyn's "Sylvia"--a kingly quarto bound in full and ancient leather and with a red-and-black title-page--I was seized with an uncontrollable craving. I coveted that book as I had rarely coveted anything; with one fell wish the Tenth Commandment was shattered. And yet I knew that, despite my concupiscence, I would go on coveting it until the end of time because the "consideration" which stood between my desire and its fulfillment was an appalling number of silver dollars. 

As a book lover, I could relate. I was fired with a great curiosity to discover whether or not he ever got his hands on that venerable edition, and added the book to the pile already filling my arms. (I cannot leave the library without getting at least seventeen books. I know. I've counted.)

Taking this newfound book home, I read the first chapter and then, alas! put it aside to make supper. One thing led to another, and before I knew it, I had to go to bed (for I worked early in the morning) and could not read on.

However, on my day off, the instant I awoke, I rolled over and grabbed A Small House and Large Garden off my bookshelf and read until it was nearly eleven! Shameful, I know, but it was such an entertaining book that I simply couldn’t put it down.

I’ve looked this book up, determined to get a copy for my own…only to discover that A Small House and Large Garden is my Sylva. It is out of print, and the consideration which stands between my desire and its fulfillment is an appalling number of silver dollars. Woe is me.

Anyway, since you are probably not as fortunate as I am, and your library probably does not have a copy, let me share with you some of my favorite excerpts from this delightful little book.

There was a time, in mid-Victorian days, when householders suffered a veritable motto complex. In the parlor God was asked politely and in cross-stitch to bless that home; the dining-room of a house I knew used to display the suggestion—fitting and seemly—“Wait on the Lord and He will serve you.” One could have a lot of fun selecting the motto for the bathroom (I would suggest the seventh verse of the 51^st Psalm), but in those days bathrooms weren’t so common as they are now.

And

This age also saw the rise of the fireplace motto, those cozy little sentiments about a friend and a nook and a handy book, about none coming too early and none staying too late. I’ve always suspected the hospitality in houses with those greetings; I’ve feared to come early lest the hostess wouldn’t be finished dressing and haven’t dared stay late lest she yawn. And, as for the houses that have the mottoes about books—did you ever look at the books those people read?

And

Taking these up in due order, we have discovered that certain people apparently think that there is something unrefined about eating one's fill. There are especially insistent and reassuring about breakfast. "We only have toast and coffee," or, "We just have black coffee." Never take such people at their word. 

And

In a footnote to an ancient edition of the “Spectator” I came across this delectable reference: “A Mr. Montgomery, a gentleman in the mercantile line, of an amiable character , an enterprising spirit, and great abilities. He traded to Sweden and his business carrying him there, it is said, that, in consequence of something between him and Queen Christina, he was obliged to leave that kingdom abruptly.

         

Not all nephews can be so fortunate as to have an uncle who was obliged to leave a kingdom abruptly in consequence of something between him and the queen. They can at least aspire to an uncle who was obliged to leave the family abruptly in consequence of other things.

And

There is one final mark of the ideal uncle—he remembers his nephew handsomely in his will. Nay, there is a further mark—he dies within a reasonable time, or , as Mr. Montgomery would put it, abruptly.

And

Although he had the memory of a garden to console him, Adam, it seems, was the only one who couldn’t say it was his grandmother’s.

And

It’s a pretty poor grandchild who can’t boast an expert gardener for grandmother. But if some of these florally inclined old ladies could come back to see the flowers their grandchildren are raising, they would doubtless return to the shades silent and ashamed.

And

This, however, is not a disquisition on furniture styles. It is intended to be  (as the title suggests) a few hints on how to know the authors from the furniture. Such knowledge is not superfluous. For it would be an egregious blunder, a fatal faux pas, if, at some select gathering such as the annual banquet of the Authors’ League or a soiree of the poetry Society, you should Mistake Irvin Cobb for a bombé-front secrétaire, or turn on a switch in Bliss Carman’s back and expect him to light up like a floor lamp, or take Miss Amy Lowell for a settee, or accidentally stuff Charles Hanson Town behind your neck for a pillow. They might resent it. Such errors can never be made, if one has a working knowledge of furniture. The following simple suggestions may be of assistance when determining the different between furniture and authors:

Most furniture is made to sit on. It is quite difficult to sit on an author. A few brave souls have invariably tried it, and invariably they came off worsted,. No one ever successfully sat on Mr. Louis Untermeyer, for example. Therefore, when you enter a room, look around for what appears to be a chair. If you can sit on it, then it is a chair. If not, it is likely to be an author.

Are you not excessively diverted? I think everyone should call up any and every publisher they know and demand that they put out a new edition of this gem of a book posthaste. It would be a great service to the public. Obviously.

By the way, for those of you who are curious, Psalm 51:7 is "Purge me with hyssop, and I shall be clean: wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow."

Obligatory "It's Been A While'

Well, I think I covered all that in the title. I don't really feel the need to go into a long-winded, two or three (or ten) paragraph apology for not writing that most of you will just skim anyway. It's been a while. I'm sorry.

A recap of my hitherto undocumented life:

June, 2018: Went back West for two months. Got my first “official” job at a restaurant and loved it. Now I have dreams about owning my own restaurant. It’ll be a lot of work, and frightfully expensive, so I have yet to see if this dream will take me anywhere, but it’s always there in the back of my mind and I can’t shake it.

August, 2018: Came back to the East and got sick. Really, really sick. I stopped eating and lost almost twenty pounds. (I had cheekbones for the first time in my life. It was weird.)

September, 2018: Got my second “official” job. At a big supermarket. The Supermarket That Shall Not Be Named, or TSTSNBN, as I call it oh so affectionately.

February, 2019: Finally left my teens behind. Not sure how I feel about that, but, ya know, it could be worse.

March, 2019: Started trying to work out my taxes. Gave up and let my mother work the paperwork out. Maybe next year I’ll be able to figure it out for myself.

April, 2019: Some bad family news hit. Easter week was pretty rough. Had to juggle work, siblings, dogs and campnano. Dropped campnano like a hot potato and haven’t been able to write anything since then.

May, 2019: Started working full time. Suddenly there is no time left. Zero. None.

June: Decided to try my hand at writing again, because I miss it.

So yeah. I exist again. Hello to my old friends of blogspot, if you’re still around. I've missed this place.

~Lissy

PUPPIES!!!

Dear Folks,

An exceedingly wonderful thing has happened in the Millah household. My darling Maddy has given birth to pups, and the most beautiful pups you ever did see. There were never cuter puppies in the world. I mean, just look at them! Are they not the epitome of perfection? (They are, and if you think otherwise, I'm sorry, but you are wrong.) 

They are mini golden doodles. Golden doodles are wonderful, because they are hypoallergenic, because of their poodle half, but they have the calmer temperament of a Golden Retriever. I do not much care for poodles myself, they are too energetic and even a little sneaky, and they are not my Style, but I cannot help melting when I'm around a golden doodle. They really are the sweetest things, and they aren't as excitable as poodles, for sure! 

This little guy here is Blondie. He is, as you can see, the only gold in the litter. He's an extremely vocal pup. If you hear outraged Squawks coming from the puppy crate you can bet your buttons it's Blondie, annoyed that one of his brothers is sitting on his tail, or that his mother shifted position and interrupted his dinner. 

He loves to be held. He is the one puppy that just adores being petted. The others tolerate our attention, but Blondie basks in it. He will complain loudly and vigorously for minutes at a time until someone comes and picks him up, where upon he snuggles up in your arms and falls silent. 

This here is Blackbird. He looks remarkably similar to his brother, Starling, but is distinguishable by the white strip on his chest. He is a precocious youngster, and was the first puppy to learn to walk. On the first day he mastered the art, he waddled out of the crate and carried on the time honored tradition of soiling my bedroom rugs, like his mother and father before him. 

This lovely little lady is Magpie. My dad is earnestly petitioning my Mum to let him keep Magpie. "You have a dog, and Lissy has two dogs. It's my turn to have a dog." He says. Magpie is the smallest pup in the litter, and we were a little worried for her at first, but now she is as lively as the rest of them. 

She is very wigglesome, and if I forget to secure the puppy crate she gets out and crawls underneath it. I have had to rescue her twice already, because once she squirms under, she cant figure out how to turn herself around and get back out. 

This little guy--or maybe I should just say "guy" because he is not little--is Starling, but his bulk prompts us to call him by his nickname "Lardo" most of the time. He is a fat little feller, always the first at his mother's side.  He likes belly rubs, and we've found his "kicky" spot. He likes to cuddle up under your neck and fall asleep. 

Isn't he adorable? Just look at his little face!

Maddy is an excellent mum. My friend, May, compares her to Jesus, because if you pick up one of her babies and carry it off, she forsakes the three that are safe in the crate and seeks after the lost one. She follows you very closely and calls out advice. "Hold him carefully! Don't drop him! Maybe I should take him, he looks a bit insecure. Be careful with my puppy human! Give him back!" It is ever so touching. I love it. 

To All the Blogs I Have Ever Loved

Just so you know in advance, this is NOT a farewell post!

I love the blogging community. Of all the social media communities, the blogspot (and wordpress etc.)  community is the nicest. It's friendly and personal and warm and welcoming, that's why I wanted to start my own blog so badly. (Unfortunately, when I started this blog I didn't fully comprehend how bad I was at keeping a writing schedule. I sincerely apologize to people who follow this blog, I ought not to be so remiss.)

This week, however, I am rather melancholy. Another of my favorite blogs has been ended, and so I am awash with sad nostalgia.

One of the main reasons I don't do much blogging is because the blogsphere has been changing. I started blogging just as my favorite blogs were closing down, going on hiatus and joining the other lovely, dusty blogs that haven't been updated in years and whose last posts were "I Promise I'll Blog More From Now On."

I love the community I'm in currently. Some of my favorite blogs are still up and running and I follow them with great relish. But there is a difference, and I can feel it. All the teen bloggers whose blogs I loved so much when I was younger have grown and are getting married. Their blogs are changing.

This is a fact of life. People change. Blogs end. It still makes me sad. The worst thing is when the blogger deletes her blog, because then you are left hanging, and a little piece of yourself seems to be gone. I hate that.

The olde blogs of yesteryear that are now on permanent hiatus that can still be viewed are my solace. I look them up every now and again. I read the old posts and relive old memories. It hurts a little bit, because those blogs were often a big part of my life. I remember the things I was doing on the days certain posts were published, I checked my email constantly waiting for notifications that the blogs I loved the most were updating. I commented under assumed names, and literary-inspired aliases. It hurts, but it is a happy ache. I still have the posts to remind me of what these blogs were in the golden days in my teenage years.

I miss the old blogging world. The new bloggers that keep coming will fill in the gaps left by the old ones, but the demographics are changing. I watch as the blogs shift, little by little. It's not a bad thing, but it still makes me a tiny bit sad. This is a melodramatic comparison, but I feel a bit like one of Tolkien's elves, watching the old age become the new age, and seeing the old things disappear, bit by bit.

This is not a post of complaint. It is simply something that has been weighing on me. I love the new blogs, and the new bloggers. They aren't the same as the old, but they have a special place in my heart. Not the same place, but a special one none-the-less.

To everyone who blogs, whether your blog is ten years old, or only a few months, thank you. Bloggers don't know what impact they have on other people's lives. The blogs I read had a profound impact on me. I went through a very difficult move a few years ago, and one of the things that sustained me through that period when I was acclimating myself to a new environment was a blog that posted several times a week and was always warm and sweet and upbeat. It made a huge difference to have that familiar presence in my life when every other thing was different and strange and new.

I love you guys. Thank you. Thank you for just being there.

Berlyne

I have a new puppy.

This was her when we got her. Look at how tiny she is!

Her name is Berlyne, (after one of the characters from this webcomic) and Dad and I went to get her on the eve of Christmas Eve. She cried almost the whole way home, until she fell asleep, drooling onto my leather jacket. But once we arrived, she settled right in.

The trip made her a bit sleepy, so she settled down into her comfy new bed to rest.

It's been four weeks since we brought her home, and I take pictures every Saturday to document her growth. Since I have my newly made resolution to keep, I thought writing a post about my pup would be a good way to start it off. 

(Also, I apologize in advance for the poor quality of these pics, she's very wigglesome, and the lighting at our house in the winter is just atrocious.)

Berlyne is a very smart pup. She already knows the really important commands, like "come" and "sit" and "Leave it!" She's also semi-potty trained. I'm trying to get her to ring a bell when she needs to go out, and she does that about 37% of the time. The other 63% of the time we find her accidents under our beds. I should probably be very thankful for this experience, because I am learning patience. By the time this is over I'll have oodles of it. It'll be practically coming out of my ears. 

Berlyne loves music. She is particularly fond of Gregorian chants. If I happen to be listening to something where there is a soprano singing high notes, she'll cock her head one way, than another when the notes change. It's very entertaining. 

My family is learning the hymn "I Then Shall Live" to sing at church, and we practice it every evening, and every evening, Berlyne nods off to our singing. 

Berlyne loves my other dog, Maddy, who is a full grown. Unfortunately, Maddy does not love her back. She is of a slightly jealous temperament, and isn't overly enthusiastic about sharing her humans with this new black imp. 

Berlyne does not love Mum's little poodle dog Cassie though. The feeling is mutual. The two of them are always at each other's throats (metaphorically of course). They are extremely petty. If Cassie has a chew toy, Berlyne steal it. If Berlyne has her stick, Cassie will take it. 

At meal times, Berlyne will ignore her own food to go get at his food bowl, and Cassie returns the favor. They think they're getting away with something special, but in reality, they are both just eating the same kind and the same amount of food. 

Berlyne just adores my dad. She will get super excited when he comes home, and will dance around at his feet, impatiently waiting for him to get out of his coat and boots so he can pet her. Dad has had his head turned, and keeps threatening to steal her from me. 

She loves the snow. She'd stay outside all day if I let her. But I get cold somewhere between five and ten minutes, and have to cut her fun short. 

At night she sleeps on my bed, but she's a bit finicky. She'll decide she wants to sleep on my right side, then she decides the blanket looks softer on my left side. Then she decides she doesn't want to sleep next to me at all and goes off to lie in the far corner of the bed...but no, she does want to sleep next to me after all. But just being next to me isn't enough, no, she must sleep right on top of me. 

NEVER MIND! The foot stool looks comfortable. Or not. Maybe the floor then. Oh look, there's Maddy, let's sleep next to her. Well, she growled when Berlyne tried to snuggle up, so back onto the bed she goes. Except she isn't quite big enough to make it, and needs her human to help her. Okay, now she wants to sleep on my right side. But wait, the blanket looks softer on my left side...

 These are pictures of when we'd just got her. She was tired and hungry

but couldn't decide whether she wanted to eat more, or to sleep more, so she 

just stayed in bed and ate out of her bowl at the same time. 

As you can imagine, I have not been sleeping super well since she's been around, but it's worth it. I love her too much to complain. Or at least, I don't complain that much. 

So that's your introduction to Berlyne, aka Baby. Isn't she sweet?