Going home...

 This weekend, I did something that not very many 64-year-old people can do: I went home. And by "home," I mean the house I came to from the hospital where I was born, riding in my mother's lap because there were no car seats back then. By "home," I mean the house my father built, adding a room each time another child was due. The place where he laid every brick on the three chimneys, sawed every board, and even dug most of the well for our water by hand. My sister and her husband live there now, and though it looks different in many ways, it still feels the same. The water from the artesian well is still delicious, too. 

I was with my daughter and her two babies, and seeing the Owlet toddling on the same hardwood floors where I learned to walk was a treat. I took her for a little stroll and let her sit on the enormous boulder in the woods I spent hours perching on, pretending it was a tame elephant named Mia. The Owlet didn't see the appeal, but it made me grin to lift her there and remember. 

We were there to celebrate the impending birth of a new baby. My niece and her husband are expecting in December, and we are all so excited to welcome a new little one to love. There was a shower at a beautiful yacht club, and the weather was perfect. My niece was indeed showered with support, love, and gifts. Her sister made incredible efforts to decorate the place beautifully. Her mother and mother-in-law made more magic happen.  The food was delicious, and the tribe of women gathered to support the parents-to-be delightful. 

This weekend, I did something that left me awash in waves of nostalgia while welcoming magical beginnings. It was punctuated by time spent with my favorite people and the giggles of children. I loved every single second, and then I got to come home to my practically perfect husband, my cozy home, and all my critters. We sat in the backyard, shared a little wine, and I reflected on the sweet trip down memory lane while enjoying the bliss of the marvelous present and home we have created. I am so lucky.

Joy and feathers...

 Our little chicken coop has been empty for a few weeks. A friend took my little flock of Cochins to live at her house. Yesterday, Chris and I drove down winding roads past rolling fields and sun-spangled woods to Penobscot Poultry, where we often buy birds. I had arranged to bring home eight rare breed chicks, Olandsk Dwarfs. This breed of tiny chickens originated in Sweden. They have brightly colored speckled feathers in shades of brown, black, grey, white, and tan. I think they will be charming bustling about in the backyard. For now, they are in a brooder in the kitchen, and I am finding it hard to get much done because I sit and stare at them every time I pass by. 

Summer is winding down, and my favorite season is beginning. I love the cool mornings, the grass heavy with dew and spider webs glistening under the slanted rays of early sun. The gardens are covered in rollicking waves of flowers, and roadside stands are laden with pumpkins and colorful gourds. I can't help but bring some home.

 I saw my first wooly bear caterpillar of the season yesterday. Legend has it that they forecast the winter weather by how broad their black bands are. This one predicts we will have a lot of cold and snow. I am pleased to have our firewood in, and the chimney cleaners will come tomorrow. Soon, we will have fires crackling in the stove, and it will be so cozy.

                                                     

I hired a painter to patch and paint the ceilings in our front, dining, and living rooms. They all look bright and clean now, and I am itching to do fall cleaning and decorating. While he was here, I asked if he could give the stairs a fresh coat of paint, and he made them look so pretty. 

We've been blessed with company the past few weeks. Angel from NC with her daughter Sabrina, who works in a museum in Washington, DC, and another daughter, Fields, who is working in Maine this summer. They no sooner left than sister Deb arrived for a quick visit. Good meals and laughs were shared, and everyone enjoyed the Owlet and Cygnet's antics. 

Today, I will pick bouquets of flowers and bake something tasty. I will be grateful for the arriving autumn season, the loved ones who visit, and my snug little home. And new chicks, peeping under a heat lamp and adding joy in the form of feathers to my life. 

Spice of life...

 They say variety is the spice of life. This weekend, we went to two parties, one to celebrate the life of a friend who just turned 90. She sat rather regally on her deck and happily greeted her guests as they came to honor her. 

Born and raised in Maine, she taught music at the University of Maine until she retired. She has had Scottish Terriers for something like seventy-five years, and that is how I met her fifteen or more years ago when she brought a dog to me to be groomed. She's a delightful person and has joined us around our Thanksgiving table for the past several years. 

Her cousin cooked up a storm for her and her guests, and we had perfect weather to sit in her lovely yard and enjoy a fabulous lake view. At one point, she took the Owlet and me into her living room, where a grand piano sits in front of a wall of windows. She sat down and began to play. As if drawn by a giant, unseen magnet, people started to wander in from outside, settling into the comfortable pink upholstered furniture and enjoying the impromptu concert. It was magical. 

The next day, we attended a party for a little girl who bounced up to our car wearing a lavender tutu and an enormous smile when we arrived: "Hi, I'm Daphne. It's my birthday—I'm 5!" The neat yard had multiple wading pools, a slip-and-slide (with bubbles!), a splash pad, a bounce house, a ball pit, and a trampoline. The Owlet made a beeline for the ball pit but also tried a trampoline for the first time. The Cygnet giggled delightedly as she observed the goings on. 

I enjoyed sitting quietly and holding the Cygnet as her big sister explored and played. The yard was filled with shrieks and giggles as well-behaved children enjoyed the smorgasbord of fun things to play with and explore. 

The two events could not have been more different, but the joy was similar. There was admiration for a long, well-lived life and excitement for a new life filled with potential. There was love, singing, and cake. We were so pleased to be part of the celebrations. 

Questioning my sanity...

 `I feel good. I am pleased that I can sling fifty-pound sacks of feed around, work a full-time and part-time job, and wrangle farm critters. But honestly, I am at the age where one begins to worry about senility. Most of the time, I don't worry much, but occasionally, I become concerned. 

Here is an example. Last week, I was trimming my goat's hooves. This is a job that I do every four to six weeks. It does not take me very long, but it can be a little tricky moving goats from their cozy to where I do the work and back again. I have a new hoof trimmer, which is a game-changer. I've used a variety of other trimmers over the years, and they worked okay-ish. I kept hearing about a superior brand, and one day, I ordered them. When I used them the first time, it was as if a choir of angels began to sing, and light broke through the clouds. They are nicely balanced, easy to use, and sharp, making excellent, clean cuts in the hooves. They make hoof trimming much easier and even a bit more fun. 

So, on this day, I was happily trimming each goat. I moved one off the milk bench, put her back in the cozy, and brought the next goat in. She hopped up to snack on grain, and I reached for my beloved new trimmer. It had vanished. I had used it mere moments before, but now it was gone. I recently cleaned the milk room where I trim, and it was completely tidy. There was not so much as an errant pine shaving on the floor. There was no clutter. I looked on the ground to see if the trimmers had fallen. They had not. I peeked behind the grain bin in case I had put them on the slanted top, and they had fallen. They had not. I looked on the cute vintage shelf where I store things. No trimmer. There was a slight possibility that I had put them on top of the gate when I was swapping goats, and it had fallen into the shavings in the cozy. I carefully swept the shavings away from the gate. No trimmer. I began to question my mental health. 

I finished the job with my old, inferior trimmers. The entire situation made me unhappy and confused. 

When Chris got home, I told him my tale of woe. He likes to try to solve problems for me, so together, we headed right out to the goat cozy. He looked on the floor. He looked at my shelf. He gently swept the shavings away from the gate. He looked behind the grain bins. Then he went outside. As he did a cartoon light bulb popped up over my head. There is a good-sized window next to the milk bench. The obvious thing for me to have done was to place the trimmer on the window ledge. The window is covered with wire hardware cloth. Somehow, the trimmer had slid between a gap in the wire and was trapped against the outside wall of the building. I suspect it got pushed there when the goat I was preparing to trim hopped up on the bench. I was so relieved that it was found and that I could not blame its loss on an aging brain. It was just an animal-related accident, and my brilliant husband solved the mystery. 

Then... last night, I locked the chickens up. I do this every night. The chickens enter their coop at dusk, and Chris or I tuck them in, fastening the doors so no predators can get in to eat them. When it comes to predators, all of them like chicken. My coop is well-built, and no poultry-eating critter has ever gotten in. 

When I went out to lock them up, I did what I call "counting beaks." All twelve of my birds were accounted for. For the past few days, the two white hens that hatched out the one white chick have abandoned the nest box where they have been sleeping since the chick hatched and have resumed their habit of roosting on a perch. I was unsure if the chick could get up on the roost with them. So, last night, I took a hard look. One hen was holding her wings out away from her body. The little chick poked her head out from under one wing when I peeked. I was pleased to know the funny family were all safely cuddled up and shut the doors to the coop. (The picture below is a few weeks old. The chick is bigger now.) 

This morning, when I went to release the birds from their home and give them fresh food and water, I heard a sound from under the coop. To my shock, I saw one of the white mother hens poke her head out from under the house, followed by a second one and the tiny chick. Right then, I was ready to sign up for psychological testing.  I knew I'd seen the mother hens and chick on the roost before I locked the door, yet here they were, scratching about, while the rest of the flock was locked up. 

When Chris got home, I told him the story. He thought about it and asked, "Did they get out a window?" I went right outside. Our coop has two small windows set down low. I usually keep them closed because I am worried a raccoon will break through the screen and get in. But two days ago, it was hot when I cleaned the coop, so I opened the windows while I worked. Then I forgot to close them again. For some reason, the two hens and their chick pushed through the screen this morning and were out running amok when I did chores.  I shut and latched the windows tightly and did a little happy dance. My brain is still mostly ok.

Sometimes, I wonder about my brain, but so far, I seem to be firing on all cylinders. It's all the animals' fault! Hah. 

Important things...

 There is always more to do on a day "off" than we can ever accomplish, but little by little, we nibble away at our list. One thing on that list for a few months was setting up a way to feed my goats the new mineral buffet I had purchased. For all the years we have had goats, we have offered them goat minerals that come pre-mixed and supposedly balanced. One of my goats showed signs of zinc deficiency this spring, even though I provided mixed minerals in multiple forms. I bought a special zinc supplement, and soon, the symptoms (patches of hair loss on her face) disappeared. But it got me thinking that there had to be a better way to get balanced nutrition to my herd. I looked and found a company that sells packages of individual supplements for hoof stock. The idea is that the goats will ingest what they need. There were many photos of how creative people had set up ways to arrange how to feed the buffet. Chris and I brainstormed and had some ideas, and today, in the hot sun on a muggy day, he made the magic happen. He cut sturdy wire mesh (the kind they use for lobster traps) to fit a space against the back wall of the goat cozy. He found a way to snugly attach the little individual dishes I had bought, but I can still remove them to clean if need be. 

We stood back and let the goats in, and they had a veritable party with the new addition. It was fascinating to me to see what they found most enticing. Today, iodine and silicone were at the top of the list. 

While Chris assembled the feeder, I scooped and swept the floor. It was hot out, so I sat on a bale of shavings and drank some water before I moved on to my next task. Little Charm, now seven weeks old, came over to say hello. 

I scooped her up, and she snuggled down on my lap. She nibbled my shirt, snuffled my face, and tickled me with her long whiskers. Then she put her head against my chest and shut her eyes. Productivity went out the window for a while. 

When she hopped down, I was ready to get up and get back to work, but just then, little Merriweather, who has only lived here for a few weeks, brought her four-month-old self over for some attention. She was a little shy when she arrived, so this pleased me. I lifted her up gently, and to my surprise, she settled down calmly in my lap, just as Charm had done. 

She stayed a long time, and I had to weigh what was more important: enjoying this sweet snuggle or weed-whacking the paddock. I decided the whacking could wait, and it did for a while. 

We didn't accomplish all that we might have this weekend. 

But at the end of the day, all of the important things were done. 

Sweet Sunday...

 I hit the ground running this morning. The goats cheered on my efforts. 

 I cleaned out the goat cozy and then tackled my little milk room. It was a job long overdue. I evicted untold numbers of spiders and brushed their webs from the ceiling and walls. I swept the floor. I organized feed and tidied supplies. Everything looks bright and clean. 

The last load of hay was delivered, and the cats are so pleased. 

We had the Owlet and Cygnet here for several hours while their parents attended a funeral. The wee one took a two-hour nap on my chest, and that was precious. It was the longest she'd ever been apart from her parents, but she barely fussed. 

Chris and I ended the day hip to hip at the picnic table, dining on fresh wax beans from my generous neighbor's garden, new potatoes, and excellent steaks perfectly cooked on the grill. 

It wasn't the most productive day, but it was sweet. 

Hay, pizza and beach day...

 Although it is high summer here in Maine, we need to plan for the long, cold months ahead. Our firewood has been delivered, and we made space for hay, which began to arrive Friday. 

The garage now smells like summer condensed, and the cats are happy to have bales piled high for climbing on. 

It is a comfort to know that my goats will have plenty of food during the winter ahead. Every year I see people on the internet begging to know where they can get some hay for their livestock once the leaves fall and cold winds begin to blow. I feel sorry for them and for their livestock, but I also feel slightly smug to know that I have hay to the rafters because I planned ahead. 

On Friday, a friend sent me a message about a food truck in Belfast that has especially good pizza. I texted Chris and asked, "Want to take me to dinner here?" He said, "Sure." 

The view was unmatched, and the pizza, cooked in a funky old bus, was sublime. We had salmon with pesto—perfection. 

Today, we planned to take the grands to the beach. The Owlet has enjoyed the beach before, but the Cygnet has never been dunked into the Atlantic. We went to Birch Point State Park, a small beach well off the beaten path. The Owlet explored a warm tide pool, dug for "treasure" with her little shovel, threw rocks in the water, and then waded out to find them and throw them again. And again. We showed her how to make a dribbledly sand castle, and some bigger kids introduced her to several crabs they had captured before they set them free. There was stomping and dancing and splashing and joy.

A seven-year-old girl introduced herself to us, "I am Austin. Not like Texas, like Jane Austin the writer." She did cartwheels at the water's edge and told me she lived in California, where it hardly ever rains and is like heaven.  She hung out with us, chatting. Later, she said, "Your legs are cool." Her little hand splayed out against my thigh. "I don't mean cool like in temperature; I mean, they look cool." I looked down at my 64-year-old legs, lumpy, pale, I looked at her legs, tan, slim, unblemished. "Is it because you are old?" she asked. "Yes," I told her. When people get older, their skin changes. My legs used to look like yours." She patted me again, "I like them. It's nice you have legs like that." 

The Cygnet was dipped like a tea bag into the sea. At first, she was not amused, but then she began to kick and laugh. Rachel brought her a little floaty with a cover, and she loved it as we towed her through the sea. 

The weather was perfect, the water was lovely, the kids were a delight, and my thighs were cool.  So far, this weekend has been a win. I can't wait to see what tomorrow brings.