Daunting project...

 It's been a month since my life changed in a missed heartbeat. A month without hearing his gentle voice, reading a mushy text message, holding hands. Thirty days without planning and making him a meal to share. Snuggling. Washing his big clothes. Cleaning up after him. Laughing at his jokes. No, "I love yous." My chest literally aches, as if something were broken inside. 

I've learned to keep a tissue with me at all times. I have not learned to take those tissues out of my pockets, so now I am constantly picking paper segments from my clean laundry.  I'm getting used to being unable to speak because I get choked up. When people are kind (and they have been SO kind), my eyes leak, and my throat closes. 

I've surrendered to letting people help me. My son-in-love has been astonishingly wonderful. My daughter, too, amidst her own crushing grief. Siblings, nieces, and other family members have flocked here to care for me (us!) in so many amazing, generous, and thoughtful ways. So have neighbors, friends, casual acquaintances, customers, and even total strangers. I have received a mountain of cards, with the most thoughtful handwritten messages. And plants and flowers, a gorgeous weeping cherry tree, and so much more. 

I cooked a real meal tonight. People have been oh-so-sweetly cooking for me, my refrigerator filled with quiche, soups, stews, and casseroles. I like to cook, but have had no desire to do so. I made simple comfort food. Enough to eat for several days. I need to learn a different way of cooking.

My new normal is odd. Quieter. Tidier. Punctuated by bouts of weeping. Sleep is elusive. I am the most tired I have ever been. I hear grief and stress do that. 

I'm trying to focus on the good. Chris's sudden death was absolutely devastating for us, but for him, probably (hopefully) not so bad. He never had to suffer the infirmities of old age. Never had a lingering illness. He died quickly, in the middle of a very good day. I think about the decades of joy we shared. The easy camaraderie, the daily laughter, the kisses and cuddles, and the deep appreciation for the rare relationship we created. I had a gift in him, and I cannot be anything but grateful for that. Most of all, I am thankful that he didn't have experience this sense of loss. We had a favorite song by Jason Isabel, If We Were Vampires. One stanza goes like this, "I'll work hard 'til the end of my shift, and give you every second I can find, and hope it isn't me who's left behind." Being left behind is the most difficult thing I've ever experienced. I am so glad he never knew this pain.

Without Chris, my heart and our house are bizarrely empty. I've had a recurring thought since he died that goes something like this: "I'll find joy again someday." A few days ago, I chatted with a woman who lost a son to suicide. I told her about my above thoughts. She firmly said, "Oh NO. You need joy. You deserve joy. You must claim it. You see a blooming flower? That is your joy. Does your puppy make you smile? Claim it." That's a change in thinking. I'll add it to my list of adjustments. My son-in-love said, "Reimagining your whole life is a lot of work." That sentence took my breath away. 

My job now? Reimagining my whole life and finding joy. Seems like a daunting project. 

Impossible things...

I wrote my husband's obituary yesterday. It felt like an impossible thing to do, like something I should never have to even contemplate.

A week ago, we discussed our plans for the day and opted for a very quiet Sunday. I spent the morning in the living room watching puppy training videos. He drank coffee by the fire, made himself an omelet, and listened to music.  

We had a family dinner with our daughters' crew planned for 6 PM, roast lamb, summer squash, and zucchini sauteed with onion, garlic, and cherry tomatoes. I thought I'd bake some focaccia for a treat. Chris loved family supper nights and was happily looking forward to the meal, conversation, and time with the grandgirls. After our peaceful morning, we took a nap. My man loved a Sunday nap. There was pillow talk and snuggles, and at one point, he said, "I cherish our time alone together." I did, too. We were the best of companions, our time peaceful and tender. 

Later, while I began to cook, he started the blower to move the inch or two of wet snow that had been slowly falling for hours. He came in after a little while to warm up. "My asthma's bothering me," he said, and used his inhaler. Then he fiddled on his phone for a few minutes and said, "I just ordered pirate hats for the girls. They'll be here on Wednesday. I can't wait to play with them. You know what kind of vehicle a pirate drives, right?" I rolled my eyes and shook my head, "Tell me." He grinned and said, "a cARRRR!" 

He leaned against the counter, watching me knead the dough for the bread, "Look at you," he said. "You are a marvelous cook, you are beautiful, you create a wonderful home, and you make me the happiest man alive." 

Then he went back out to finish up the snow removal. Within moments, he had a fatal heart attack. A kind passerby saw him lying there and thought perhaps he had slipped. He came to the door to get me. We both performed CPR while we waited for the ambulance, but my love was gone. In one awful instant, every single thing about my wonderful life changed. 

Two days later, a strange man appeared at the door. "Are you the woman who just lost her husband?" he asked. He handed me some donuts along with that new title. They both felt heavy. 

 

Fate...

 When we found out that Bravo was going to be leaving us far sooner than we hoped, I was forced to think about a future without him. He is more than a pet; he actively helps with the livestock. We also depend on him to alert us to people arriving, chase foxes from the pasture, and so much more. The thought of having no farm dog around was very hard to imagine.

I began to think about what dog should come here next. I thought about a variety of breeds. There are several on my life list, but really, Bravo has been such an incredible addition to the family, I felt driven to try to find a dog as similar to him as possible. One nice thing about having a purebred dog is that they tend to share important characteristics. Since Bravo's intelligence and personality suited our life so very well, I decided another English Shepherd was the best fit. 

I reached out to people on an English Shepherd social media page I belong to, and many kind folks shared suggestions for breeders. Suddenly, I had pictures of sires and dams, information about temperaments and accomplishments, and planned litters. It was all rather confusing and a bit exciting. The thought of new life and love is always joyful and hopeful. When facing the loss of a beloved pet, joy and hope are welcome things! 

Yesterday I was contacted by a woman I have known of since I began looking for Bravo eleven years ago. She is a well-known and highly respected advocate for the breed. She messaged to express sympathy about Bravo's diagnosis and to say she had some puppies available. She lives far from us, but has two puppies heading to New England on a transport later this month. 

I wanted a female puppy this time, and she had three available. One is a sable, a color I particularly admire. She said the sable puppy is very sweet, deferential to the big dogs, and she thinks her personality will be a good fit with our family and farm. Her dogs are farm-bred and raised for their ability to work stock and be marvelous companions. The parents have all of the appropriate genetic testing done, and the pups have been raised in the home and well socialized. 

I had not planned to bring a puppy home quite yet. I imagined a long hunt before I found "the" one. But all the pieces fell into place, and this baby will be coming to FairWinds just in time for my birthday. 

Every step of the way felt like fate. Chris and I have been discussing potential names. I think we have settled on "Fae." Thebump.com says, "Fae is an enchanting, short name of Old English and French origin meaning "fairy" "fate" or "faith". As a gender-neutral or feminine name, it evokes magical, ethereal, and nature-inspired imagery. Popular variations include Faye, Fay, Fée, and Faelyn. It is often used to symbolize mystical charm, loyalty, or a connection to nature." 

Every dog I have had the privilege to love has taught me lessons. Too many, too much for me to articulate.  Right now, Bravo is teaching me how to let go gracefully. How to live in the moment. How to not wait to celebrate being together. What will Fae have to teach to me? I can hardly wait. 

Storm Prep...

This time of year, I tend to think about food more than I do in the summer. When it's easy-breezy grilling season, supper most nights consists of some form of protein on the grill and a salad or a side vegetable. Quick and simple. But when the thermometer registers "brrrr!" and the view from every window is white, my thoughts turn to soups, casseroles, and baking. 

              

 I get the happiest of feelings when I bring my old recipe file out and rifle through it. It's terribly disorganized, so finding the recipe I'm looking for usually entails a bit of a hunt. It is then that I find cards written in familiar penmanship from loved ones no longer here to enjoy the tastes they shared.  Barbara Jackman's "Hungry Jack Casserole", my mother-in-law's recipe for "million dollar pancakes," copies of favorite recipes cut from magazines or printed off the 'net. It's always a walk down memory lane. Since a major storm is coming to visit tonight, I have my eye set on a new stew recipe that looks delicious and will reheat nicely on the woodstove if we lose power. 

We had snow on Friday night, too.  It came down fast enough that when we let the dogs out for a last potty break before bedtime, they came in frosted in a layer of cold fluff after only a few moments outside. We did a lot of shoveling and snow blowing on Saturday morning. I love winter, but even I am cringing a bit at the thought of dealing with more white stuff on top of what we already have. 

When you live in an area that gets a lot of snow, you learn how to prepare for predicted storms. In my case, most of that preparation includes getting the animals ready. Friday, I did a deep clean on the goat room, filling their bedding area with bright shavings and fluffy straw. 

Saturday, I did the same thing for both chicken coops. 

None of the animals choose to leave their houses when the snow is flying, so it's important that their spaces are extra clean and dry. 

The preparations for humans entail filling the wood crib to the brim, laying in groceries, and making sure all the laundry and dishes are clean in case we lose power. And cooking, which brings us full circle to thinking about food. I have a loose menu sketched out for the week, and Chris is off at the store procuring ingredients as I write this. Before the first flakes fall, animals and humans alike will be settled in cozily, bellies full. I can't speak for the critters, of course, but I will be dreaming of spring. 

Sad news and new things...

 Two weeks ago, Bravo, our almost ten-year-old English Shepherd, had a bad case of digestive upset. I tried my normal tricks, but he still felt crummy, so we went off to visit the veterinarian. They did all the right things to make him feel better: subcutaneous fluids, anti-nausea medication, anti-diarrheal medication, probiotics, antibiotics, and a recommended bland diet. They took X-rays of his tummy, and he compliantly lay on his back for them to do so. They tested his blood and gave him a physical exam. To my abject horror, the doctor found that his lymph nodes were dramatically enlarged. I know from my many years working with dogs that this can mean lymphoma, an incurable disease. They took a sample from one of his nodes and sent it off. The results were positive, and I am bereft. 

I often quip that Bravo has been my reward for all of the often naughty dogs I've had in my life. He is almost a perfect pet. We can safely leave rib-eye steaks (or any tempting food) on the counter, knowing he will never help himself. He's perfectly housebroken and has been since he was 10 weeks old. He is polite with the customer dogs, affectionate with every human he meets, biddable, and kind. He is trustworthy around infants and toddlers, guards our livestock, and barks politely to announce guests. He's a happy dog, a joy to be around, handsome to look at, and silky to pat. I adore him, and he adores me right back. He's been incredibly healthy his entire life, never having so much as an ear infection. He looks and acts much younger than he is, running and leaping to catch his frisbee. Many dogs of his breed live well into their teens, and I fully anticipated he would do the same. I have looked forward to years more of enjoyment with him. Now with this new diagnosis, I am sharply aware of the limited days we actually have. I cannot imagine my life without him, but I'm having to try. Meanwhile, he is feeling fine and acting completely normal. We are slathering on the love and letting him eat too many treats. We play his favorite games and go for walks. And I try not to cry.  We've shared many adventures. He's introduced me to new friends and brought me happiness in more ways than I can count. I wish he could live forever. 

We've had weeks of bitterly cold weather. Negative and single digits. This brings worry about all my animals. Homer, the "barn cat," has moved himself into the grooming studio during the cold, basking in front of the heater and looking smug. I've taken all the recommended steps to keep the chickens and goats as comfortable as possible, and they have all fared well. The chickens have even been laying lots of eggs, a sign that all is fine with them.  We have the goats' house bedded deep with shavings and straw, so they can snuggle in. I have a camera in their house and peek in at them at night, pleased to see them all cuddled together, sharing body heat. 

When goats are concerned or fearful about something, they stamp their front feet and loudly snort an alarm sound. They do this if they see a strange animal, like a fox, in their pasture, or if an unfamiliar dog visits. On the bitterly cold mornings, I can't help but laugh when I open the door to their cozy barn, and they flood out. They look around, feel the icy air, and in unison all stamp their tiny hooves and snort. They clearly don't approve of the cold and let me know it. I dish out a big breakfast, and that cheers them up a bit, but I know they will be glad when the cold abates. 

My neighbor took this lovely photo of our house one morning after a recent snowstorm. It looks so cozy that if I didn't live here, I'd wish I did. 

It's especially cozy inside, because after two years of looking, I bought a new sofa. It's not only a lovely color (French blue) with deliciously soft fabric, but it's also designed for homes with kids and dogs. If a toddler happens to dump a drink on the fabric, the liquid wipes right off. Every single bit of the fabric can be removed and tossed in the washing machine if needed, and pet hair wipes off like a dream. The cushions are memory foam, and once I get myself ensconced, I absolutely do not want to get up. The 4-year-old Owlet has dubbed it the "Snuggly Cuddly Couch" and has given up the portable crib she's napped in since infancy to rest on the couch at sleepy time instead. Wise choice. 

I treated the windows to new lace panels, and niece Aimee found me pretty "new" end tables on Marketplace for a bargain. She fetched them, freshened the paint, and delivered them to us. What a gal. I think of her with deep gratitude every time I enter the room.  I love the way the space is looking. It still needs a few tweaks to be "just right," but it's definitely headed in the right direction. Cozy, comfy, and practical. 

While life is riddled with wrenching moments of sadness and loss, it is equally filled with beauty, kindness, comfort, and the chance to find things to be glad about. Three pairs of Eastern Bluebirds have arrived here despite the weather to feast at our feeder (more mealworms, please!) and check out the local nest boxes. Their brilliant feathers and cheery song take my breath away and remind me that spring is on the horizon, with the promise of new life, beauty, and anticipated bliss. 

Rest...

 After a few lovely days of "January thaw," winter returned yesterday morning in the form of snow flurries. 

They flurried and flurried all day, a soft, gentle, fluffy snow that exceeded the forecasters' predictions by several inches. The goats, who will not tolerate so much as a drop of rain falling upon them, didn't mind the snow a bit. 

For no apparent reason, I had been laid low by back spasms for two days. My body needed to rest, and Chris declared that rest was what I would do. He made me breakfast. He took care of all the animals. I sat by the fire and drank tea. Then I sat on the sofa and surfed the net. Chris ran all the typical Saturday family errands, hauled in wood, and even went out to clean the goat cozy for me. I have cameras in the goat house, so I stayed in my warm living room and watched him, feeling incredibly blessed. 

My Aunt Pearl used to say, "You found a real helpmate with him," and she was so right. I didn't do anything more strenuous than start a load of laundry and empty the dishwasher. I took a nap and went to bed early. Chris took care of everything else.

The goats always look pleased when they find their house freshly tidied. They were even happier because my guy brought them a treat ball. This is a rock-hard goodie made of oats, seeds, and a sweet substance that holds it all together. It is hung by a rope from a beam in their house, and they nibble and lick it as it swings about in the air. Imagine a big caprine lollipop.  It keeps them happily entertained on these long, dark winter days. 

I felt much better today and was glad to walk out and see and take care of all my animals, throw a toy for Bravo to chase, and breathe the crisp air. More snow is coming down tonight. Tomorrow I'll accomplish all the things I should have yesterday and today, renewed and recharged from the gift of rest. 

Surprise..!

 It was well after dark when I went out to take care of the animals tonight. I stuffed the goats' hay bags full and locked them up safely in their cozy. I checked the little chicken coop and emptied their water bowl so it wouldn't freeze overnight. I peeked in on the big chickens; all eleven of them were calmly nestled on their roost. I locked them in, then went to the side of the coop and lifted the lid that covers the nest boxes. I peered in with my flashlight. The first box has two lovely eggs. The second box had one. I gasped when I glanced into the third box. 

A wee opossum. I closed the lid and hustled back to the house. Rachel had not left for the evening yet and excitedly came out to see. I wasn't quite sure how to proceed, but she didn't hesitate. She took my warm winter gloves from me and reached right into the box, lifting the little thing out. It didn't seem terribly upset by the close contact. 

She gently set it down, and it scurried off across the snow at a rapid rate, disappearing into the darkness. I hope it doesn't come back. I don't want it to get any ideas about my hens, but it was a fun surprise to see it. I don't envy the nearly hairless thing living in this climate, but it seemed healthy and well-fed. May it find shelter and food, but not in my henhouse.