Sigh...my vacation is over...

I take January as my own personal little vacation. Not that I go anywhere or do anything that's extremely worthy of a month off. I still do the chores and think about cleaning the toilet (some day.) But I tend to put off anything that can be put off for an entire month...and while most people wouldn't consider the toilet one of those things, I've done my best!

The truth is, spring is lambing season, summer is the farmer's market, fall I'm busy spinning and coming to a desperate realization that I've not got enough product for the coming holiday season. And December? Well, it's just downright crazy. So when January rolls around, I hibernate. I take long naps right smack dab in the middle of the day. I take long, hot, luxuruious bubble baths and doze off in the evening. Then I sit and eat ice cream straight from the half gallon sized container...straight from the container, I tell you, which is something I never allow anyone else to do...

But in 25 minutes it will be February 1...and time to buckle down and get to work. No more putting off trimming the little sheepie feet (Taffy has just got to get done before she's too big to flip over.) No more looking at empty shelves where lotions or soaps should be sitting. No more ignoring the bags of wool that need washing, carding, and spinning...

No...in 25...wait, 23 minutes it will be a work day.

Unless I go to bed right now...then perhaps I can get just a few more hours sleep before that four letter W word slips back into my vocabulary.

All That's Left of Walter...

I was so excited to get my new little ram lamb, Walter! Oh, what a cutie he was. Most of my sheep are naturally colored, meaning anything but white. Which is nice, and I like it, but I'd been wanting white so I could do some fun dying. And Walter was white.

Walter was a young icelandic, and at the tender age of 6 months he knew exactly what he was there for. The girls insisted on a bit of courting first, though...they insisted on knowing him at least 24 hours before allowing him to do his studly thing with them. And once he'd made the rounds, everyone was content.

I had a ewe named Dolly who used to get out quite a bit, and Walter realized if he stuck close to her backside he could follow along in her tailwind. So before too long, instead of just Dolly out roaming my front yard, Walter was there, too. Walter, unlike Dolly, began to get irritated with the routine of getting loose only to be put back into the pasture. He began to object. When a ram objects, you're in trouble, even a little ram. And this little ram had horns which were growing longer each day.

One day Walter and Dolly were out grazing near the barn, but of course on the outside of the fence, when I went out to feed. I went to get some hay to toss to the sheep on the inside when I noticed Walter staring at me. It wasn't a pleasant stare; it wasn't even a worried "Darn, she's caught us again" stare. No, this stare was a challenge; a dare; a "Go ahead, make my day" glare that I was receiving. I had in my hand the top of the grain can, which was just downright lucky as Walter lifted himself up on his back feet, then did what I've only seen the sheep on National Geographic do...he tucked his chin down to his neck and thrust himself forward towards me!

That was that. I don't need a mean, aggressive ram, especially one that's just seven months old! New fencing was in order, and I made certain that all the girls had been bred. Then I called my friends at the slaughter house and made arrangements for Walter to go to freezer camp.

We'd never eaten our own sheep before that. City Boy wanted to see what pepperoni would be like, so we had that and sausage made. Darling found the whole thing rather amusing (warped child that she is) and called it Wausage and Walteroni. She'd offer her friends Walteroni when they'd come to visit, and since these weren't kids raised on a farm (it is to a farm, City Boy!), they'd often gag, and we'd never see them again after that. I think it became a bit of a game to Darling, to see how many friends she could go through before running out of Walteroni.

City Boy decided we oughtn't waste that lovely head of Walter's, since he had such nice horns. He wanted to find someone to clean it up, but turns out it's a do it yourself type job. So City Boy took Walter's face out back and hung it in the trees by his horns. Yes, it was his face. The hide was still on that head, and the eyes were still in the skull. Disgusting, really. I don't recommend this for the weak stomach crowd. In fact, I don't recommend it at all.

Anyway, I wasn't really sure exactly where Walter was, just that he was hanging from a tree. One morning I walked back there with the dogs, who were busy chasing a coyote. I heard a little noise behind me and, camera in hand, thought I'd turn to find the dogs and their little friend. Instead I came face to face with Walter! Yuk! His eyes had sunken back into their sockets, and the hide was still on his skull, but a bit mangy looking. Totally gross! Be thankful I was too freaked out to take a picture. City Boy was dismayed to learn that Walter wasn't decomposing as quickly as he'd hoped, while I was left I wondering how many years I'd be stuck with the image of Walter's head swinging from a branch in my mind.

Once I knew where Walter was, I was sure to avoid him when I walked out back. But that didn't keep Walter from coming to me... One morning I got up after a huge windstorm and found one of the dogs with something in it's mouth. I called her up to the door to see what she had; it was one of Walter's horns! I ran out back to the tree to see the only thing left, the other horn still swinging from it's rope. The skull was no where to be found.

And that's all that remains of Walter...two horns, a host of bad memories and a couple packages of Walteroni!

True Confessions of a Desperate Horsewife...

Or...

How to Use What You've Got To Get What You Want...

I was born with it, really. That thing known to the horsey community as Horse Fever. It's not something that can be shed, like the flu or a cold. There is no 12 step program (not that we want one!) It's more like a disease that eats away at your very soul...

Like many others who deal with this delightful disease, I managed to find myself in a position of bargaining with my parents in order to get what I wanted; a four legged equine. I mention four legs only because up until the time I was eight, they thought I could be appeased with the type of pony that had a cotton stuffed head and stick body. But that was just not going to do any more. And so I developed a plan...

I was in third grade at the time, and I spent my days as a member of Horse Crazy Day Dreaming Girls Annonymous. Unfortunately, we weren't so annonymous what with those little doodles on our papers of ponies instead of math problems. But then, that was all part of the plan. Fearful that their daughter would actually fail the third grade, my parents made me a deal. Pass, and we get you a horse of your own. A real, live, four legged, no cotton for brains horse! I spit in my hand and offered a handshake. They looked at me like I was from another planet and declined, saying their word was good enough. Okay, I'll take it!

And then I passed the third grade. And then I got my pony.

His name was Prince, and he was anything but. He took advantage of me every chance he got. One thing that my parents hadn't promised me was a saddle, so I learned really quick that a sweaty butt on a horse was actually a good thing as it worked like glue to keep you seated when your pony decided to make an unexpected left turn when you'd just asked him to go right. Or a hasty halt when you'd asked him to jump the ditch (trust me, one non-sweaty butt ride into a ditch full of water, and you make sure your butt's sweaty next time!)

But as nasty as that little Prince was, he taught me to ride. And instead of growing out of HCDDGA, I become the president of our local chapter.

Enter City Boy. Not a cowboy. I've never figured out why or how I ended up with City Boy. He just sort of appeared out of nowhere. Well, not no where. He was my mother's best friend's youngest cousin. He came up on vacation one fall and just never went away. He learned to ride a horse so we could go riding together. He mucked out my stall while I was in school. He drove a cool truck. Oh, yeah...that was it...he drove a cool truck! A truck that could hitch up to a horse trailer...I remember it all so clearly now.

City Boy and I, shortly after becoming engaged.

I'm sure it was the truck that snagged me...

And we got married. And we had a cool truck and soon, a red horse trailer that matched the truck. And then City Boy said, "But you'll outgrow it by the time you're 25." And I said, "Um...who told you that, City Boy?" And now my memory has grown a bit hazy again, but I don't think it was the most pleasant conversation we ever had.

When I was 25, I gave birth to a son, and my horsey life was severely crippled. Not that I resented it. Not much, anyway. Geek Boy was marvelous, he really was. But he soon began to grow older, and he went to school, and while I was alone the old fever began to creep back into my body. I began to travel south to visit my dear friend, Linda, where I once again climbed into a saddle and started riding. Oh, it felt so good! Yes, there was a twinge of acheyness to begin with, but my muscle memory was excellent, and it wasn't more than a couple days before I was back in the swing of things.

The adorable little Geek Boy and me (far thinner than today!)

I started daydreaming about buying a new horse. There was a lovely, coppery colored mare there for training; they'd had me riding her and keeping her legged up. She was nice, and I wanted her. I went and rode three or four times a week for about two weeks, and then something strange happened. I was sore while I rode. My breasts hurt while trotting. Now, this may be normal for some women, but it had never happened to me! And then...well...I was late. And pregnant! Again...

Okay, so the emphasis on the again part, when it was only my second child, may seem like overkill. But we'd tried for over a year with no luck at a second pregnancy, so I'd given up. My head and heart had switched gears. If I can't have a baby, I ought to have a horse. And, as experience had taught me, you can sell a horse when you get tired of it. Not so a child. But there it was...no denying it. I was having another baby, and another horse was slipping from my fingers. I think City Boy had something to do with it...

So there I was, raising two children with nearly an 8 year split. Geek Boy wasn't terribly interested in horses, and Darling was still a toddler. I'd been horseless for far too long. City Boy had been happy for far too long. Far, far too long. But then something amazing happened. Darling saw a horsey. Darling liked the horsey. Darling's daddy was wrapped tightly around Darling's little finger...

Darling riding the neighbor's horse, Boon. What daddy could resist?

And on an occasion such as this, all Desperate Horsewives find themselves re-developing the plan. Because the man in their life is no longer wrapped around their little finger, but the finger of their little girl, we find ourselves involving those little darlings in our schemes. And we're successful, too, because no matter if he's a City Boy or Cowboy, he just can't stand to see his little girl cry.

And that, my dear friends, is what happens when you're a clever and Desperate Horsewife!

Nameless No More

Darling has finally decided on a name for Nameless...or formerly nameless, now that she's got a name. We liked the idea of having a 'storm' theme. So here she is...

Sun Storm!

I'm waiting on the paperwork to get here. Supposedly it's on it's way. By the weekend, with a little luck, Sunny will be home where she can become adjusted to her new home. This will be her third home in just over a month! Poor girl. Quite the adjustment for any animal, really, let alone one that's still wild at heart. More than at heart, really, as we still can't catch her.

I've begun a new blog; one that highlights our adopting both Quiet Storm and Sun Storm. Not that I won't post here about my lovely ladies, but more detailed accounts on trainging and day to day mustang life can be found at http://mustangdiaries.blogspot.com/

Meanwhile....Back on the Farm...

Okay, I didn't say back on my farm, did I?

With no hay barn here, and just one small Ford Ranger for hauling, I don't tend to stock up on much hay at a time. Thankfully my friend Brigget doesn't mind selling it to me straight from her barn as I need it. Half the price, too, of what I'd pay at the feed stores. I'm not one who's fond of heights, nor ladders that climb up to high places, so the fact that the hay is up in the barn loft isn't something I'm all together fond of. For some reason, this granddaughter of a dairy farmer never did master climbing the ladder up to the hay...at least not when the ladder was alongside the hay mow door. So to help overcome this small issue, I've begun moving the ladder from alongside the door, to smack dab in the middle of the doorway. Then I climb the ladder and toss down my bales. Since I can't fit more than 8 bales into my truck at a time, and I feed a bale a day, I tend to spend a lot of time at Brigget's during the winter!

Brigget, I think I've mentioned, raises icelandic sheep. I love photographing them! Here she is feeding them this past summer. These sheep get magnificent fleeces on them. It's a double coat which grows a soft as can be undercoat known as thel, and a coarser, longer outer coat called tog. The babies only have the soft thel, as the tog doesn't come in until their first winter. Their fleece grows so much in a year that they get shorn twice; once in the spring prior to lambing, and once in the fall before the cold winter sets in. The fall fleece is the highly sought after fleece as it tends to be free of the typical winter debris. Below are two of her lambs from last spring. Yes, that spotted sheep is just a lamb, and a ewe at that! Icelandic ewes can grow horns just like the rams, and they grow them fast, too!

Since we were in the area, we decided to stop at Hovander Homestead Park. I say we, but really it was just me. Darling was riding shotgun, but wasn't too keen on my detour as it was quite chilly and she hadn't worn a 'walk about' coat. But she did hop out of the truck with me as I snapped a few shots of the barn and some of the inhabitants of the farm.

Quite some years back, the park employees showed up for work in the morning and found a few peacocks had been added to their menagerie. They didn't mind. Before long, a few more were added. Still, it's a big park, and people like peacocks. Today, Darling and I counted 9 adults hanging out near the barn. Who knows how many are really out there. Sometimes you'll find them on top of that big red barn! There are both the traditional blue shouldered peacocks, and there are white ones, and then there are some with stripes and speckles. I suppose the proper term is peafowl, as only the boys are peacocks, and the girls peahens. But I figure you know what I mean (don't you?) During the summer there are always little peafowl...peachicks?...running about. The park is open year round for visitors, with a great number of resident fowl there during all four seasons. Spring brings lambs, horses, pigs and cattle to the old farm as well. If you ever have the opportunity to visit, it's a terrific place for a picnic or feed the animals with your kids.

Waterville

Monument in Waterville

"Watervillewatervillewaterville!" The squealing, clapping, and jumping of my teenage Darling was beginning to drive me nuts. Why Waterville? There's nothing there but wheat farms, a cemetery and a creepy old hotel... And did I mention it was creepy? And there was nothing there?

Last May, Darling, Jen (a friend of mine) and I made the trip across the Cascades to Spokane where we attended Ride The West Horse and Ranch Expo. Of course, Darling and I had an ulterior motive; the BLM had their wild horses there that weekend, and we wanted to be part of that. So at 5 am, Jen pulled into our driveway, I hauled Darling out of bed ("No, no, don't make me get up! It's not noon yet!" I'm pretty sure that's what I heard from beneath the pillow.)

We travelled down I-5, then took highway 2 through Monroe and on through Wenatchee. It's a long drive, but we'd gotten an early start. The day was quite lovely, really; blue sky and sunshine. Jen's not a speed demon of a driver, which I was thankful for, as it gave me plenty of opportunity to get out of the car and take pictures along the way. We are also members of the weak bladder club, so frequent stops even without the camera were welcome!

Abandoned school house

Past Wenatchee is the little Bavarian town of Leavenworth. Accordion music can be heard from one end of the town to the other, and it's not uncommon to see people doing funny dances in lederhosen. Once down out of America's version of the alps, you hit the vast, rolling wheat fields of Eastern Washington. To those of us on the western side, it's such a fascinating site, to be able to see for miles and miles without your view being blocked by trees or mountains.

Looking out over farmland from the Waterville Cemetary

As highway 2 wound through the hills, Jen and I found ourselves in need of one of our bladder stops. About that time, the highway made a couple of sharp turns, and we found ourselves in the town of Waterville. Being that our bladders were so full we were nearly crying, we felt it in our best interest to stop. We ignored the tingles in our spines and the hair standing on end as we rushed for the only public rest room in town, which was a cinder building in the middle of a small park smack in the middle of town.

Jen ran on ahead as I waited for Darling to get her shoes on. She was already exiting the building as Darling an I walked in. She didn't say a word...so we had no idea what we'd be walking into...

I don't really even know that I can describe it well; I should have taken a picture, but didn't. I mean, who thinks to take a picture of rest rooms in city parks? But I should have. Like I said, it was a block building, or some sort of concrete, at least. Cold. There was a wide entrance in the front, with the men's room to the left and ladies to the right. The entrance had a huge, black, wrought iron gate with an enormous padlock, which luckily was open so we could get in. Darling and I stepped inside to find a couple of stalls...without doors! Confused, I asked her to check and see if we were indeed in the ladies room. Yes, we were. I looked for where there had been hinges, thinking that for some odd reason maybe they'd been taken off by vandals. Nope...not a mark to show that there had ever been a door! Now I ask you, is that strange, or is that strange? Or perhaps even downright creepy. I had Darling guard the outer door as I emptied my bladder, then told her I'd guard for her. Darling, however, has a bladder made of steel and said she could wait until tomorrow if that's what it took; she was not going to use a doorless public bathroom, mother guarding the door or not!

Once out, I asked Jen why she hadn't said anything. "Well, I figured we had to go, and it was the only option...but yeah, it's kinda wierd." We were back on the road in no time, but Darling, for some odd reason, couldn't get Waterville out of her mind.

Douglas County Courthouse

On our way home a few days later, Darling asked if we could stop once again in Waterville. Since we had the time, and our bladders had been emptied prior to reaching the town, we said sure. We got out and explored the couple of blocks that made up the 'city center'; approximately half the storefronts were empty with for sale or rent signs in their windows. The city park, aside from having doorless bathrooms, also had a large map showing local places of interest. Places such as the county courthouse and the local cemetary. I suppose this is in case you die there, your loved ones will know where to bury you and where to get the death certificate. I'm guessing the locals would die from boredom...as there really doesn't appear to be much to do in Waterville. For visitors, it's likely death by fright after visiting the doorless restroom and having a stranger walk in on you (I think if you live here, someone walking in wouldn't be a stranger as there aren't enough people in this town for you not to know everyone.)

Or perhaps you'd die at the local hotel. Now that place is just creepy. Bates-like creepy. I have no desire to spend the night there. One look at the place and I conjured up all sorts of spooky scenarios which involved axes and dolls heads and blood in showers. Well, take a look and tell me you don't get the same feeling! The sign says Vacancy...I wonder why? Good golly, there's a skull over the door! Creepy. Just plain creepy.

And this is where Darling tells me she wants to live. Well, not in the hotel (I don't think! I hope not!) But she wants to live in Waterville. Darling and my red shoes....

Creepy!

Tagged...

I've been seeing people with this posted, and wondered what the heck it was all about. Finally, someone's blog stated what really was obvious...if you read a tagged blog, you must play along with your own. So here it is, and if you've got a blog and have yet to play the game, Tag, you're it!

Ten things you likely didn't know about me:

1) I've got curly hair.

2) I've got just a wee bit of Ojibwe, or Chippewa, Indian in my blood (I think it's just a little finger, and possibly a toe...but maybe not the toe because I don't know any dances, or at least I don't think so...I've never really tried!)

3) My favorite comfort food is SpaggettiO's. No kidding! I love them. City Boy always says he can tell when I'm sick because the SpaggettiO's are out.

4) I grew up in this town. Never moved away.

5) I think my daughter is darling. Wait...you knew that. Okay, I think Darling is funny. Don't tell her, but she makes me laugh.

6) My parents own a home one mile down the road, but spend more time in Arizona than here.

7) When I call myself a cowgirl, I mean it! My grandparents were dairy farmers, and I learned to ride on a cow before I ever had a horse.

8) I've got three dogs.

9) Forget diamonds, chocolate is my best friend!

And finally...

10) I milk sheep, do ewe???

A beautiful day in the valley

Have you ever gotten out of bed and thought that the day is just too beautiful? That's what it was like here in the valley this morning. Sure, it was cold and there was frost on the ground...but, oh! It was bright and clear and just so darned pretty.

My neighbors are out of town for a couple of weeks, and they call on me to feed when ever they're gone. With the morning so bright and lovely, I just had to pack along my camera! Here are their two girls out frolicking in the trees. Well, perhaps frolicking isn't the correct term. Protesting that I wasn't there at day break, and that I had the nerve to taunt them and make them prance about for a photo shoot instead of feeding them is more like it!

Remember my posting about Pepper? Well, his mamma was over on this side of the state this weekend, so I drove down to meet her for lunch. After that, I headed off to see the nameless filly (who's paperwork from the BLM is nearly complete!) Silly girl had managed to get her halter off last night, so Steve had to haul out his lariat and rope her! I think he was concerned that it would all be too traumatic for her (um...or me...), but it wasn't. Not for either one of us.

So Nameless once again has her halter on her.

And that's about it. I made a frozen pizza for myself for dinner as Darling said she didn't really want anything (she'll likely make herself some frozen mac and cheese later), and the Boys are both working. If I could figure out how to work the TV, I'd watch something...but since I can't, I guess I'll just go take a bath...

It's Getting Late, And...

I may be having just a little too much fun here tonight, when I really ought to be headed off to bed. And yet, that's not where I'm at. Instead I'm still glued to the chair in front of this computer screen. I've decided that I need an education in how to use Photoshop. I mean, I've got it, why not use it, right? I belong to a photo forum and while they're ever so polite, my photos just don't stack up. Which means I've got to do something about it, which means learning a new program. If I've never mentioned that I don't like to learn new tricks, let me just say it right now. Old dog, no new tricks. Woof!

That said...here are the first fruits of my labor this evening. Darling has been manipulated! (Serves her right for stealing my shoes!)

I kinda like the last one, how about you?

What I Should Have Been Doing..

...but haven't, is trimming the sheep's hooves. I did manage to get them dewormed last week, and Quiet Storm as well. I'd planned on doing feet today with Darling, but she got a call from a friend, and next thing I knew she was spending the night. While sheep can be done alone, I just wasn't as motivated while alone (the internet just kept calling my name!) Here are my little dears outside in the fog. Tait is busy harrassing them through the fence where she knows they can't head butt her!

Unlike me, City Boy got busy during his few days off this past week. Inspired no doubt after watching Dirty Jobs, where they'd done some mule logging, he decided to go outside and do some 'logging' of his own. Or, cut down a few small alder trees. Either way, it was good. Those little alder trees can absolutely take over if given half the chance, and that's what they've been working on out behind the house. So out came the chainsaw and down went the trees.

We've had quite a bit of fog in the morning here in the valley. Had to go out and take a few pics. The creek is running pretty good this time of year, and despite the heavy rains, it's stayed it's course relatively well. Some years it cuts itself a new path, but apparently not this year; at least not behind our house.

Don't you just love this photo? I do...the way the treetops just sort of disappear up there in the fog... I'm thinking of have a 'name that photo' contest. What do you think? Perhaps this could be one that needs an official caption.

Golly, I love this one!

Those Boots Weren't Made for Walkin'

Okay, I'll admit. I'm a boot tramp. I like boots. Alot. Just try keeping me out of the western store at the mall; the smell of the leather sucks me right through the door and into the boot isle every time, where I touch, fondle and feel every pair of boots on the shelf.


I ran into someone online who was ever so excited about her honey bun buying her a pair of boots (hint, hint) at this delightful little online boot place: http://bootbay.com/ They can call it boot bay, I call it Boots, Baby! Oh, page after lustful page of the most enticing boots I've ever seen. I'm drooling over the keyboard as I type (City Boy will be happy to find that, I'm sure. But if he would just buy me the boots the salivating issue would clear up, I'm certain.)


I've got a great pair of Ariat boots, rather a roper style, that I use everyday here at the farm (yes, City Boy it is to a farm!) I also made a frivolous little purchase the other day of some shoes with a pointed, western type toe. They've got that little strap that goes around the heel...okay, I love boots but it's never occured to me over the years to figure out what a sling back or a mule shoe was...so bear with me in my ignorance. I just know that I love them!

The greatest Christmas gift I ever received was a pair of pink rubber boots from City Boy a couple years ago. He'd been unemployed and we were so broke; but that pair of boots just lit me up. I put them on and wore them all day. Even wore them to the grocery store the next morning! I loved my pink rubber boots, but eventually wore holes in them and had to put them to rest.

Yup, I love boots. But that's as far as it goes. The rest of the shoe world really does nothing for me.

Darling, on the other hand...that girl is a shoe horse! She's the Imelda Marcos of the Northwest, without a doubt! Ever since her arms were long enough to reach out beyond the edge of her stroller, she'd be snatching shoes off the shelves in every department store we'd walk through. Try convincing the clerk who's accusing you of shoplifting that it really was that sweet, innocent looking two year old that stuffed the shoes into the crevices and folds between herself and the stroller. Trust me, it's a hard sell.

The other day Darling and I were out and she spotted a pair of shiney, lime green sandals. She nearly jumped out of her skin with excitement, clapping her hands, jumping up and down. Something was coming out of her mouth...I'm not sure what, as it was high pitched and sounded rather like a dolphin. I think it was, "CanIcanIcanIcanI"...but I'm not sure. All I know is that I ended up with bright shiney sandals in my bag as I left the store, a pair that I'll never wear (not that I want to!)

Speaking of never being able to wear what comes home in my bag...the other day City Boy took Darling out shopping. They went to the Converse outlet store and bought three pair of shoes; two for Darling and one for me. The pair for me was a lovely red, the reminded me of a pair I had when I was younger. Upon seeing them I was nearly forced into Darling's happy dance, but I restrained myself. Good thing, too, as it would have been wasted. First day I put them on, Darling burst out laughing, telling me that there couldn't possibly be anything in my old fogey wardrobe that would match my lovely red shoes. And you know what? She was right. Dang, I hate when that happens!

So Darling ended up with the ruby red converse. But I still have my boots. I will not let her get her grubby little Imelda hands on my boots!

O'ppossum O'Power

Okay, who here doesn't love 'possums? Those cute, adorable little rascals...



What? You don't love them? You want to see them dead, which is why you swerve to hit them at night while driving home in your SUV?



Well, I love them. From their long, ugly snouts to their skinny, rat tails; and just look at those adorable little toes! I find them to be just charming little creatures. Okay, perhaps charming isn't quite the right word. But I do like them in an offbeat sort of way. I was even able to hold one once; a young 'possum who's mother had been killed had been taken in by an oppossum orphanage. It was so soft you just wouldn't believe it. Of course, if you've got tail issues, you probably wouldn't have enjoyed the fact that they wrap it around your arm just like they would a tree. But that little orphaned oppossum had me wrapped around his skinny little rat tail in a matter of moments as he snuggled down in my arms and dozed off just like a baby...



Last year one of the dogs was playing with a young possum outside and I put it into a tub. It took a few hours, but it's heart rate finally bumped up enough that it climbed out of the tub and wandered away.


This morning when I got up, I spotted Tait outside with something gray. At first I thought one of my chickens had gotten loose over night, but when I finally got the dog to drop it, I realized it was a young possum. Poor thing! Playing dead out there, trying to avoid getting eaten. I called the dogs in and left the baby on the lawn while I did my chores, hoping it's blood would get to pumping and it would get up and wander off before the dogs came back out.


No such luck. 'Possums take a long time to come back to 'life', especially on such a cold night as this one had been. This one evidentally had no desire to get up, so I went and got an old rabbit cage, put on a pair of gloves, wrapped the possum in an old jacket and put it in the cage, thinking I'd just put it out of harms way so the dogs could come back out and the little dear would remain safe. The best place I could think of was the back of my pickup. As long as it was in there, I figured I'd toss in a little hay and a doggie bisciut for when the little guy woke up. And then I went about my daily routine with the dogs happily trotting around wondering what had happened to their chew toy.



A little later, the men in my life were out of bed. The first thing they did was wonder outloud where the possum had gone. What? It'd been there last night? Yes, they said, it had. It was dead, they told me. I assured them it wasn't...it was playing possum...



"Nope," they said. "Not playing."



"Oh...but then that means..."



"You've got a dead 'possum in the back of your truck."



I'm still hoping he's playing....

Would You Care for Some Tea?

Geek Boy Grammar Nazi enjoys tea. Or perhaps it's become more of an obsession, I'm not sure. He handed me a catalog yesterday, pointing out a teapot and saying I could get that one for him. It came with tea and some tea bags...and it was only $90. Hmmm...alrighty then. I'm not sure when this tea thing began with him; perhaps it was when I used to pick chocolate mint from the garden and we'd make tea with it? I really don't like tea in the least, but he had fun adding a bit of honey and stirring it about.

I found this blog while skipping about the internet this morning and thought I'd have to share it with Geek Boy Grammar Nazi. You may enjoy it, too!

http://teapotsteapotsteapots.blogspot.com/

My grandmother one day offered me some of her teacups. Not all of them, she said, as she wasn't quite finished with them yet. But a few. As she pulled them out of her cabinet, she held up this little pink cup and saucer, saying that for some reason it gave her the warm fuzzies. She asked if I wanted it. Naturally, anything that gave Grandma warm fuzzies was something I'd cherish, so I said yes and she packed it gently into my box of newly found treasures. When I got home and began unpacking I tipped the pink cup over and saw a signature on the bottom of the saucer, Edris Fitzgerald, 1962. Oh My Word!!!! That was my other Grandmother! She'd died when I was about four, so I never really knew her. But she'd worked a bit in ceramics and this was one of her pieces. I was so glad I'd taken that precious cup!

Over the years I've picked up a few more little trinkets and treasures. City Boy found this terrific Cinderella teapot; it came with four cups that are designed as the stepsisters, the prince, the fairy godmother and of course, Cinderella herself. Since Darling collects Cinderella, she claims it as her's :) Darling enjoys a pretty teacup as well, and got the little rose one on the right, upon which sits a package of decorated sugar cubes.