Without A Point

Some days it is so quiet, there is so little traffic in my cyber world, that I feel as though I am alone. Unseen. And then I feel as though I am at liberty to say or do whatever I please.

Quick. No one is looking. Say what you really think.

Then I think of other things, like chickens, and raised garden beds, the leaking roof, cleaning.


Before the rain, the days were like spring. There was a warmer sun. We were weeding this week, and pruning roses. We have nine roses, and now, thanks to Karen, they are all pruned and fed and ready for the real spring.

Anyway, before the rain, I was stretched out on the lawn and watching Betty have a dust bath. And I had my camera with me.


She looked left. She looked right. She looked right at me and she did not seem to mind that I was close and admiring. She did not seem to mind my big, black camera.


Oh Betty. I love you Betty.

You should see the pictures I took of Max. He's even better looking than Betty, but he won't let me show those pictures.

Geoff and Max are going to Parker's birthday party. Two years old already? Maria and I are sniffling a bit too much for public interaction. I hope people are grateful for our polite sacrifice, as we are very sad to miss the fun. *sigh* Alex is off to robotics, and maybe William is under the weather too, because he did not sleep well.

Why do we say under the weather? Are we ever above it? I wonder what it could mean if we said "I am in the weather."

Utterly pointless, which is my prerogative, and it is also my special right to include links to the dictionary, when a word strikes a chord.

I can almost suppose why we use the expression strikes a chord, but I am not sure it is a good expression; not for me. I do not play.


However I am feeling about the world, or my life, or the day, when I see Betty run, when she comes to my call, I feel happy. Truly happy. And the happiness lifts me, or heals me, or simply makes me laugh in spite of anything else hanging around my heart. And for my own gratification I would like to write this down: I love you Betty. I am so glad you live here, and that you eat grubs, take dust baths, give eggs, run around the yard, and clean my kitchen floor. You are simple, yet lovely. You are messy and silly. You are something inexplicable, which is good. I like a little mystery.


I may go for a walk. I am meaning to put things away. Kitchen things and backyard-camping things, laundry (clean and dirty), toys, papers, shoes and mud seem to have gathered, converged, and spread all over our home. Not even Betty can help me with this. I may walk, then put things away. I may skip the walk, and watch something on television. I may change the subject, because even I am getting bored with the pointlessness of this...


Isn't she fortunate? I cannot escape my deep thoughts and other musings, but she can. And she does. Run, Betty. Run!

Playing With Hearts


My creative mojo skipped town, and left no forwarding address. And even though I have the urge, the compulsion, not much has come out of my crafty corner. No quilting. No dresses. No felted thingies, or new scarves. No seashell clocks or macrame mug holders.

Remember Valentine's Day? Some of you never forgot it, I am sure, but I have not dabbled in the Romantic Era in a long time.

Disclaimer: This is not a pity party.

I remember the antsy anticipation, gathering paper, scissors and glue, and a long list of classmates to make Valentine greetings for... hearts, stickers, glitter. I loved seeing the teacher's bulletin board, favoring red and pink, the calendar day marked with a heart. And there were class parties. Punch. Cookies. Candy hearts. And the mail boxes or bags, filling up with treats and greetings and innocent visions of sweet romance.

I don't know how or why, but it seems like there was a lot riding on those tiny cards, the candy hearts with messages. It was fun. Thrilling even.

Makes me smile.


Maybe that is why I answered Bitter Betty's call for an old fashion Valentine exchange. And ever since I asked to play along, I have had hearts on the brain. I look for hearts and scope out the seasonal holiday aisles in the stores. I have been trying to find that feeling, that grade school age giddiness that came with the countdown to Valentine's Day. And I have been trying to zero in on what kind of Valentine I can make and send.

Folding laundry, I found hearts. Then I wondered what other hearts happen to be in and around our home. So, I went looking.


Some hearts are actual "hearts" and some hearts are a feeling, an act that speaks of love, a picture of romance. The times Geoff has filled my car with fuel... I put a big heart around that. When the children are together in the tent, reading aloud, laughing... I put a big heart around that too.


This is the very first time I put a heart on a door. Maria saw the wreath at the craft store, and recalling my own thrill for the holiday, I let her add it to our cart. The bow from our Christmas wreath is getting a second life. Wouldn't the wreath look amazing completely covered in red roses?


Here is another heart that could hold roses, or sweet peas. Sweet peas are my idea of a romantic bloom.

What I need is an idea for a Valentine card... homemade, well made. Not "show-off" well made... just thoughtfully, sweetly well made. I've got "thoughtful" covered. I am thinking about this all the time. But the time for action is upon me.


I even bought heart doilies. I remember when I first saw paper doilies, I felt as though a Queen might enter the room, as though the hostess had magical powers... how else could she conjure such an elegant piece of fancy decor? Nowadays I could probably find a "How It's Made" episode to explain how millions of red paper heart doilies are cut and shipped, but I will never do that, because I like the magic, the mystery.


Inspired by love and by talented women, like Grandma Nancy, I want to make a special Valentine. Several special Valentines. Maybe with fabric, maybe with paper, maybe with photographs... I do not know.

I was kind of amused, sort of surprised, to find as many hearts as I did. Even blossoms in the garden suggested hearts, and Maria running around the house playing... she's like a heart in motion, pink and bursting with a love of life that is quite inspiring.


Nine ringing, tingling hearts. Chiming in the garden.

Betty, I suppose this is my first WIP, my progress report for the Valentines Trade. I am on the verge of making something. Nearly, nearly. I am putting my heart in to this.

Another Six Weeks of Glorious Winter


(image borrowed from the World Wide Interwebs)

In the timeless spirit of making a big deal out of nothing, we are commencing a family tradition of celebrating the fairly unremarkable calendar event known as: Groundhog Day. It is our intention to break up the monotony of a "long" winter, with frivolity, randomness, song and hoopla.

For many years the boys have inquired about this second day of February and the rumored observation of the behaviors of a certain Marmota monax, aka Punxsutawney Phil. Ironically we have consistently marked the occasion by realizing on the third day of February that we had forgotten to tune in and join in the celebration-observance-calendar event. The realization is generally followed by a discussion about the injustice of this not being a real holiday, and school break.

No more. We are taking charge and from this day forward Groundhog Day is real. It will mark the time when we look to the ground and think of the whistle-pig, the tree climbing, able swimmer, burrowing sciurid. We intend to write songs and sing them aloud, preferably around a campfire on Groundhog Eve. We will develop decorations and finalize what will henceforth be traditional Groundhog Day foods.


Ground hog has been suggested as a tasty, if somewhat insensitive, offering. We did have a vegetarian option this morning: Groundcakes: Groundhog shaped pancakes. While they did tend to resemble gophers, cats, bears and rats, we are certain that over time the form and flavor of Groundcakes will become distinctly Groundhoglicious.

I thought I might have to resort to Groundhog initials if my Groundcakes were going to look like bears.


Ooops
This won't work.


Holidays don't just happen. It takes thought and effort.


So, while I was whipping up a steaming, golden platter of Groundcakes, the boys were waking up in the tent. They spent the night camping in the backyard, a few feet away from where we spent the evening before gathered around a campfire. Smiley and Junie were over for a visit and joined us roasting marshmallows and counting stars.


Real campers, winter campers, deserve Groundcakes for breakfast. And I think this groundhog profile really captures the tasty beauty of the whistle-pig.


A herd?
Flock, covey, posse?
What do they call a pack of groundhogs?
******************UPDATE************************
"The collective name for groundhogs is "repetition". The easiest way to remember that is to think of the movie Groundhog Day :)" This came from Jill of "Because the Alternative is Unthinkable."
Awesome, Jill. Thank you.

Yes, we have a lot to learn, a lot to work out in terms of our theme and purpose.


Or do we?

Seriously. I think we are going to accept Groundhog Day as our very own sanctioned yet uniquely personalized unserious calendar event. We have six more weeks of winter, so there may be rain in our future and there may be mornings when we cannot sit on the lawn eating our breakfast. We will bear this as best we can. Do not pity us, please. And we have a whole year ahead of us in which to anticipate the next observation of Groundhog Day... we are very excited about this. Will there be costumes, a band? Maybe just top hats... Should we always pitch a tent, no matter what, and be super obsessive and formal? Is prognostication and weather lore the emphasis, or are we all about enjoying any weather, any season? The possibilities are limitless and so is our humor. I foresee a bright and absurd calendar-event future for us to enjoy.

Las Chicas Norteņas

My prima-once removed was posting the cutest pictures on FB, and I had to ask her if I could please, please have Guerra and Negra over for a visit?


Then I realized Beckie might be thinking that I meant for her to actually drive down from Pasadena with Guerra and Negra, so I went back to FB and clarified that I was thinking of them visiting on Chickenblog... you know, like a guest spot.

But wouldn't it be kind of hilarious if they did ride down, stopped at In-N-Out for a veggie burger, then got here in time for a light dust bath, and a bit of chisme with cracked-corn?

And isn't it nifty that FB can keep family and friends chatting and exchanging deep thoughts and other musings? I think so. Especially when we are far apart. Geoff's FB status is blank, but I see he did pop in to thank everyone for their birthday wishes. Near or far, FB keeps us in the loop.


I am guessing that Negra is the hen with the black scarf. Isn't she elegant? Her fair feathered sister must be Guerra.

Hola Guerra.
Hola Negra.
Pretty chicas.

I think Guerra sees something good to eat.

They remind me of our dear Gracie. She was an Ameraucana, and laid green-blue Easter eggs just like Guerra and Negra. Those colored eggs are so pretty.


Baby pictures.
Even this small, I can see which one is the blondie, and little Negra has her sharp eye on the camera. When Maria sees these she is going to renew her pleading for baby chicks. She really, really wants Betty to "get married and have some babies." Oh my. But when I see these itty-bitty chicas, I kind of think the same thing. Wouldn't some tiny, peeping fluff balls be lots of fun running around the garden...

Besides giving fresh eggs and beautifying their garden, I know that Guerra and Negra hold a place in my cousins' hearts for other reasons. Beckie shared a bit with me:

My Mother got them for her 89th birthday. So, she enjoyed them for more than a year before she passed and went to heaven. They were so tiny and delicate, both could fit in the palm of your hand. They brought her so much joy because they followed her around while she did her yardwork. When she would sit down and take a break, they would happily jump up on her lap...just like a cat! Well Negra and Guerra are wonderful egg layers...gorgeous grade AAA blue green eggs. They are inseperable yet competative should you treat them to a hand full of crickets.

Reading this made me happy, and a bit sad. But mostly I smile and think how wonderful life can be.

Also, if the chicas from up north ever do come to visit I am going to be sure I have a supply of crickets on hand. I never thought to provide such delectables for Lady Betty, but now I know... thank goodness for FB.

Sweet Memories


Writing my last post, I realized that many of our beach adventures were not labeled "beach." Every now and then I try to organize the archives, which is a huge undertaking. I look at old posts and make sure the code is holding up, the images are still publishing and consider what labels are best to categorize the posts in. It's time consuming.

So, anyway... I was keeping an eye out for stray beach posts and I figured there must be tons from our Hawaii days, and that is when I made a surprising discovery: I could not find a post for our summer 2005 vacation. That was a big deal. The trip was made with our best friends, James and Deanne. It was our last time vacationing in Hawaii. How could there be no post? I was rummaging through the archives and trying to piece this mystery together. I could see from other posts that I had had some computer failures and of course life itself was keeping me very busy. Then I remembered that I did devote a huge chunk of time to making a DVD of the memorable trip... but no post? Hard to believe. Finally I found two image heavy, semi-posts. This old one is slightly wordier, but still a bit brief.

It's ironic that I sometimes think of quitting blogging and then I find a gap in the journal keeping and find it totally unacceptable and disappointing. Yes, Chickenblog is a journal, our family scrapbook. I forget this sometimes, and it was many years before I even recognized that the blog is a record keeper, a memory book. Then instead of quitting, I want to work harder to organize archives and do more for the blog overall.

And gee whiz, aren't you glad that I print my entire thought process before launching in to the actual point of my post?
Ramble, ramble, ramble.

Basically, my memories of this time in Hawaii, indeed all time in Hawaii, are so precious that I knew I would have to post more pictures and talk story about that visit. I also know that this is going to be an emotionally wrenching journey.

I miss Hawaii. I miss the dreams we nurtured, the plans we made. I miss what we had there...


Sweet Memories
I will remember you long after this endless summer is gone. These lyrics from Gary Haleamau, and Darlene and JJ Ahuna's album were some of the very first I ever heard from Hawaii... they still stir my soul. I just never expected them to be so bittersweet, not this soon.

James and Deanne had already vacationed on Oahu and loved it, so we knew we would have to go to Hawaii together some day. We got our chance the summer of 2005. Maria was eight months old. The boys... oh my goodness... I wish I could go back in time and hold them one more time. I am blessed to be able to hug them today. My mom came to Hawaii with us in 2000, and we had a couple of visits there with Holly and Rich. I always imagined there would be more times like these. Anyway, our week long stay, playing tourist and just plain playing with Deanne and James, was a lot of fun.


James and Deanne were all for seeing the sights and exploring the Big Island. We had such thorough tour guide training with Ruth and Corm, that we were thrilled to be sharing our second home with friends. Waikoloa Resort is a must see for Island luxury and amusements. If you don't know this already, you can explore the resorts and all of the amenities without actually staying at the hotels. Often there is art, entertainment and cultural events to enjoy. Some things may require a small fee, but the boat ride through the resort was free and the views were free too.


We had fun finding the Chinese zodiac statues, and rubbing Buddha's belly.


When we weren't mooching off of the freebies at other resorts, we were submerged in our hotel pool... sweet luxuries.


Ten year old Alex. His smile still melts my heart.


Max had just turned six years old. That steady, studied gaze. He is taller, but the gaze, the intentness is still there. Check out the sandy bottomed pool. Love.


Now Maria is sitting on my lap and asking about these pictures. "When did that happen? Where were we?"
I wonder where the DVD is.


This was a fancy dinner. Deanne may remember which hotel we splurged at for this meal. I remember the cool drinks, with the buzzy hit, the setting sun and the pleasure of being in a beautiful place with family and friends. Of course in Hawaii we have always found cool drinks, a dreamy sunset and the beauty of being with family and friends... the fancy dinner is optional, not necessary.


So, I know some of these pictures have been published before, but I feel remiss in our story telling not recalling the trip (some more), and the special moments we enjoyed. It's not as though we cannot go back to Hawaii, but we know it cannot be the same. I don't believe there is a more dear way to be welcomed off a plane, home, than with a lei greeting. This was the last one, and I am glad I can recall the fragrance, and the kindness, the aloha.


From the airport we went directly to Tutu's office in Waimea. Had Maria started chewing on her dendrobiums by this time? I don't think so.


Shaved ice. Not a snow cone. Not a smoothie. Shave ice is the best, and if it is not memorable and a delight to eat, then you might not be eating a good one. Best on a hot day, but even on this cold day I could go for some li hing mui.


It makes me so sad to realize I am already forgetting places and names. Tutu, where is this place? On the way to Hilo... is it Honomu? Yes, the small town before Akaka Falls.


We went to Hilo and Volcanoes National Park. We hiked through the Thurston Lava Tube.


I still feel bad that we didn't make a second pass through the ancient lava tube, like Max wanted. What was our hurry? Seems silly now.


No hurries on this day. Sitting next to Max is the B&B kitty. There was a sign in the parking lot asking guests to please check their car for the curious cat... curious hitchhiking cat, I guess.



On the Kona side I took the children to their favorite park, Higashihara Park. I think the boys would still call it their favorite and Maria would absolutely love it there. It was community designed and built, and all of its fun and unique details make it favorite for many.


Another Kona favorite is Turtle Beach :: Kahaluu. This is the same beach where William learned how to swim, where Geoff and I first swam in Hawaii, where we celebrated Alex's fourth birthday. Where James lost his wedding band... okay, so not all memories are "sweet." But hey, technically they do know where it is. It's at Turtle Beach. I wish we were at Turtle Beach.

William, remember snorkeling here? Staying out until sunset? You probably remember best of all.


Hoppin' all over the Island. Back to Hilo side, to Honoka'a, to Tutu's house.


Maria, Geoff, Corm and James. It smells like sweet grass and coffee flowers here. All over the five acre ag lot are the trees that Ruth and Corm planted and tended. The boys know where the guavas grow. I know how to cross the gulch. I cannot say more... some day the children may want to know more, but for now the emotions these memories evoke leave me in a puddle of tears.


Love.


My favorite drive. And I have been on some good ones.
Unbelieveable... I went to Google this and two Chickenblog posts came up under "highway between havi and waimea." Seems, I have written about this drive before. Well, the best drive in my whole world is the 250 from Havi to Waimea. And now I cannot think of anything else. I want to drive it right now and stop to take hundreds of pictures, then do it again.


Maybe starting at the top of Waipio Valley.


Definitely including a stop at Spencer Beach County Park...


with a hike to Ala Kahakai.


Yes. This is the beach I was thinking of when I began this memory journey.


I will remember you,
long
after this
endless summer
is gone.
I will remember
too
every bright star
we made wishes
upon...

There. We have one more beach post.
Now, was there anything else I needed to do today?

Feeling Low
How low? How about -1.9? That is a very low tide. This afternoon the tide will slip away almost as much as it did yesterday. And if you can slip away, you should... down to the beach and the rocky places where the ocean is leaving a world to discover.


Uplifted by comments left on Chickenblog (thank you: Jennifer, Zan, Star, TCavanaugh, Andylynne, and Judy) and sporting a new pair of earrings from my mother's airlift emergency package, I mustered the gumption to get my feet wet.


Some days it is all about resolve and inertia, pushing through, just to get things done. But other times, or most times, luck is involved. We got lucky yesterday. Lucky the tide was low. Lucky the weather was fine. Lucky we are healthy. Lucky that for the first time all year, everyone was released from schools early.


Freedom


We shared a picnic lunch and watched the tide, an entire ocean of water, move gradually to the south and west. It made room for exploring and finding shells and for dancing. It made room for renewed energy and a sense of wonder.


Last year we were not so lucky. Every low tide came after dark or when we were immersed in other obligations... something always managed to keep us from exploring. As we taught Maria how to navigate the slippery rocks, to be aware of the anemones and scratchy barnacles, I realized it had been a very long time since Maria was in a tide pool.


Max loves the beach.


Alex loves the beach.


Maria loves the beach.

William loves the beach. We missed William.


Yes, it is January, our winter. Yes, we are really lucky. I love this picture for all it recalls, for the happiness, and I appreciate that mostly it will make people ask: What was the water temperature?! I believe it was about 59 degrees Fahrenheit, and the air temperature was roughly the same. We were cold-ish.


I love the beach. I love low tide and the things we are privileged to see when the sea is away. The wavy rocks.


Sea stars, orange and bumpy, hiding beneath a ledge, waiting.


Sand and water, discovery, freedom, even the cold... it's so invigorating and good.


We walked to the edge of the world, looking in to pools, finding crabs and fish, stones, shells, and life. Then we came back to our spot on the beach.


Alex and Maria brought out their pencils and paper.


And Max followed the tide.


I think he could use a wetsuit. His rash guard and shorts are fine in Hawaii, but 59 degrees is cold.


Beneath the clouds and sun, in the breakers, Max is floating and splashing and begging to stay out a few more minutes.


Freedom and Joy

It's Either This or Quit
Here I go again. Every now and then I feel this powerful urge to quit blogging.
Enough already. I am getting so little done around here as it is, and even what is accomplished is uniquely mediocre. I don't even know what it means to be "uniquely mediocre," but sometimes talking fancy satisfies an itch.

So here I am in the midst of an "I should quit" crisis. Then I thought that I could not possibly finish blogging when my last post was a romp across the fields of Narcissia. So, naturally I have been trying to think of brilliant and insightful, humorous, sentimental, intelligent, thought provoking, creative and artful stuff. Something really good to blog about. I got nothing.

Okay then. Nothing it is. Here goes.

Some of my children have been academically remiss lazy negligent challenged absent indifferent uninspired. It's an issue. I am not proud. I am confounded, and also embarrassed and disappointed. Honestly, for me, it is not about the grades, which is perhaps a source of the trouble. My foremost interest is in maintaining their interest in learning, but schools have expectations and make demands (that are not always aligned with my ideals,) and so deadlines, percentages and goals must be met.

Well, that was not so much "nothing." It was actually a whole lot of something. Something I am sure will make a couple of people around here uncomfortable, but life is uncomfortable sometimes, right?

Besides feeling the angst and late nights of navigating academic frontiers, I have my own shortcomings to contend with. I think my biggest personal challenge is making thirty six hours fit in to twenty four hours, and making at least twelve of those hours actually productive. In other words: I am behind. I am neglectful. I am looking for a time machine.

I would like to go back to about December tenth or eleventh.
Nah.

Maybe that wouldn't make any difference, but I do need to find a way to make a difference. I cannot seem to get over myself and the feeling that I am effectively, systematically failing. I want to be settled in our home, in such a way that I am not starting from the beginning, learning where the cheese grater is and where we put the three ring hole punch. I want all boxes unpacked, pictures, hung, trees planted, garden beds made and ready for seeds... why? Why, because I have achieved those things before. I have unpacked and settled in and made planters and set up house, but all of it was torn down... many times it has been torn down, and I feel like if I cannot get to that place where we are within a space close to balanced or semi-normal, that I will never succeed. Just making lunches and keeping a good supply of clean socks manages to fill my days and the rest is left undone or done very mediocrely.

Wishful, silly me keeps thinking that if it were still December, if we hadn't got so darned sick, then I could send Christmas cards and hang those lights. I want that. That idealized picture of peace in home, and home all clean, children joyful and thank you cards sent. Then, then maybe colds and homework and getting to the post office would not be so daunting... if the foundation were there, dependable and trusted, then I could build up. At least that is what I imagine.

Move forward. I know. I have to just keep moving forward. I may be afraid. I think I am scared that any progress, any success in making things beautiful and moved-in will result in another tear down, start over move. I think I do not know or trust how to be at home. I am confused. Gee, it's hard enough without being scared.

Yesterday I planted four bare roots trees. And I may have done it wrong, or at least not as perfectly as in the garden book illustrations. Mediocre Me. Two more trees and a lot of grapes need to get planted, but I need more wire baskets and holes. I also need to volunteer in Maria's school, reconfigure the barn, pay the bills, organize my office, thank Jennifer for a dear gift, get the cats to the vet, clean the moving van a lot, and send Euro-Valken swag to Wisconsin.

And that is why I should quit blogging. Because obviously I have too much to do and blogging is one of those things that gets in the way of getting real stuff done. And that is why I will not quit blogging... because under duress, I cannot resist the compulsion to hang my dirty laundry high on the line, where I can gaze on it and reflect and try to make sense of it all.

Oh dear. Look at it all hanging there and flapping in the breeze.

What Not to Wear I Wore It


This is a whole new theme. I am going to either shame myself in to a real makeover, or resign myself to embracing my "inner" beauty. I am not so shallow as to propose that nice clothes and a hair brush are above kindness and good deeds, but something tells me I could do better.

My intentions are to:

1. Learn how to use my Christmas tripod.
2. Amuse myself.
3. Confess. We are talking full disclosure.
4. Challenge myself to graduate to a mature-sophisticated-aware state of being.

Issues:

1. I have not located/unpacked my earrings.
I know this is a minor factor in the overall problem subject, but wearing earrings is a small yet effective means of caring about one's appearance, I think.

2. I am not a morning person. I should quantify that... I am not a person that cooperatively and enthusiastically rises and agrees to submit to the timetables and rigors of school schedules.

3. Morning is my time and my time is never-ever-ever dedicated to:
a. ironing, unless for sewing
b. brushing my hair
c. being uncomfortable
d. applying make-up

4. All of the above would go a very long way to making me look less... Sasquatch.


I know.
I could do better.
I should do better.
It's an issue.


The hat. Well, the hat is cute. I made it. But it is, of course, hiding the hair that went unwashed... I could blame the septic system this week, but honestly, most mornings my shower comes late.

I do wear sunscreen, but obviously I have not located/unpacked my make-up. No mascara or foundation or concealer or lipstick or airbrushed shellac.

The brows. Well, yes, I shouldn't leave home without tweezers and a fine toothed comb. Enough said.


Sure, I can let iMac run the airbrush over my picture, but family and neighbors don't get this glossed over version, so it doesn't really count.

Step this way, if you will...

These shoes looked good. They looked good last June. Without socks. I think wearing my heavy wool socks with these summer shoes may have stretched them too much, because my feet are coming way forward and frankly, I don't think they look any better without socks. (Last pedicure: May 1998.)


The pants work for one wearing. One. I must not treat them like my farm-girl jeans that I won't wash until they can stand freely. These pants get wonky and wrinkled after a day and slipping them on for speed and ease is fashionably criminal. Even I can see that. Also, the big red stain on the hip... it's fading, sure, but it is there. Note to self: Lose these pants.


First of all, I want to congratulate myself for putting on a bra. Small measure, huge difference. The T-shirt is another matter. For one thing it is not my T-shirt, and that means one or two things: I am raiding Geoff's side of the closet because my diet is fail, and I have not kept up with laundry. So, as much as I loved SIGGRAPH, I am not wearing this ginormous T-shirt as a geek statement.

I like the coat. The coat is thrift shop vintage... White Stag, Portland, Oregon... in case that means something to real fashionistas.

I like my tripod. Thank you Geoff.


So. This is what I wore today when I dropped Alex, then Max off at school. I came home and, technically, I had time to make certain improvements before taking the next shift, but I did not. This is what I wore when I dropped off William, and I actually walked Maria in to her classroom wearing exactly this outfit. If I hustle, I can shower and change before I pick Maria up. We'll see.

Did I mention... ? I find this amusing. I see what can be done, but there are so many other ways to pass the time, that my personal style will only improve with significant effort. "Significant effort" may not be too big a deterrent, because studying these images I can see that I am closer to Crazy Chicken Lady than Uniquely Herself. I think my goal should be a Uniquely Me look.

The Chicken's Court and Extreme Makeover :: Barn Edition


So. Last we saw our feathered friend, she was hanging out at the kitchen door, eye-balling Maria's boots and making a heartbreaking appeal to be let in out of the storm. She wanted me to be sympathetic and kindly, willing to bring her indoors, and pour her some tea, offer her the recliner, let her hold the remote. She refused to get back in her coop and I refused to open the kitchen door, so she braved the 80 mph wind gusts and weird weather almost all on her own.

I figured she was safer at the back of the house as any place and I wasn't going to worry about her or Joe, too much, but then came the alarming upgrade... the news that the storm was packing not 60 mph gusts, but 80 mph wind gusts and then I didn't feel like a hard-nosed farmer any more. Even though I had been monitoring the situation closely and regularly securing their "shelter," knocking barrels of water from the nylon covering, propping it up, it was obvious that my perspective has become a bit skewed. In fact she was probably much safer at the kitchen door than in her coop, because her coop has become a horrible, shameful, sorry sham of a shanty town.

Exhibit A :: The horrible, shameful, sorry sham of a shanty town-chicken coop and rabbit hut: West facing.



Prosecution: People, this is an outrage. This is not fit for a chicken, let alone a Lady. We can hardly make heads or tails of this cattywampus conflagration. Is it a shelter, or a scrap heap?

Defense: Hey. Hey. Settle down there. Our client has been working diligently and under tremendous duress, and she has made terrific allowances for Lady Betty Orpington. The family table was volunteered for a coop. They even brought Betty along on the Emergency road trip to Oregon. And what about the swift action taken to protect Lady Betty from those two freaky fowl who tormented her?

Exhibit B :: The horrible, shameful, sorry sham of a shanty town-chicken coop and rabbit hut: East facing.



Defense:Oh, gee whiz. We motion for a recess.

Prosecution: Willful and blatant podunk farming methods. This is a travesty. This hurts the eyes, and gives new meaning to embarrassing.

Defense: Bad weather. The weather beat the tar out of the shade, which was put up in consideration of the pets. This unfortunate image was taken after two storms that came in succession and in the midst of a third storm. While it may appear as though the farmer has been thoughtless and less than skillful in her barn raising, please do note that she made every effort to beautify and enhance the environ. Her resources, both monetary and skill-wise are, obviously, limited. But her intentions have been noble.

Exhibit C :: The horrible, shameful, sorry sham of a shanty town-chicken coop and rabbit hut: South side.


Defense: Alright already with the parade of ugly. She will make amends. Honest. On the first clear day, when she isn't sitting at robotics or folding socks, or loading the dishwasher while trying to figure out Kanji characters and detangle her daughter's hair, or making enchiladas for thirty people... on that day, she will make all of this beautiful. And safe. And lovely to behold. And until amends are made and the Suburban Farm Guild is satisfied, Betty is more than welcome to stay at the kitchen door with impunity, coddled even, and of course adored.


Agreed. Maria and I even put Joe in our mini hut and set him next to Betty. Out of the wind and rain, together and content, for now. The winds are howling and the "shelter" gets uglier with every blast.

What was I thinking? Honestly, it looked better before the bad weather, but clearly we are in need of an extreme barn makeover. At least I know my heart is in the right place, and once upon a time I did make them a respectable home.


Don't worry Lady Betty. We love you.

*> *> *> *> *> *> *> *> *> *> *> *> *> *> *> *> *>
Update: At approximately 10:57 PM, Thursday, January 21, 2010, amateur farmer, Natalie, left her bed and covers to rescue one rabbit, Joe E. Bunny, and a Lady Betty Orpington, from gale force winds, driving rain, hail, lightning and thunder. Assisting with flashlight duty was William, kind and tenderhearted son. Her husband, amateur farmer Geoff, stood in the kitchen thinking supportive thoughts. Betty and Joe slept in the bathroom. Betty is reported to be asking for a canopy bed.

Not One Bit of Progress
I hate to admit it. I hate for it to be true.
I have made not one bit of progress since my minor pity party post from yesterday.
It's sad.
It's true.
It's pitiful.


Hey.
Maybe it's a bit harsh... maybe I have made some headway.
For one thing I took pictures around the house.
And I have been in the yard several times, checking drains and raising the roof. Not our roof. Over Joe and Betty's homes is a "protective" shelter and it has become more like a suspended pond as water fills up in the slack nylon. I get up under the shelter and push it from beneath, which causes a tsunami cascade of water to pour over the sides.


Yes, it's been raining.
Yes, there is mud and there are downed trees.
And yes, the rest of the nation must shake their heads and wonder why a little rain and wind can cause such a fuss. Why So Cal must be in the news at all just because of some precipitation.

Well, it's all relative. Consider our dry-droughty rain fall total last year was in the 5 inch range. Five inches es muy poco for a whole year. This week alone parts of our county have seen 2 inches of rain. That is a torrent in relative terms. And the wind has even kicked up a couple of tornados, and wind gusts of 60 mph. 80mph!! So, while this may be typical for some places, it is the atypical nature of these conditions that make it a rough ride, for us weather sheltered folks.

And the falling trees. Always a bit hairy, and, unfortunately, sometimes fatal. Once upon a time, a long time ago, some enterprising citizens thought they could cash in on a rail opportunity by growing timber for the railroad ties. Their tree of choice? Eucalyptus. It grows fast, tall too. So, they planted eucalyptus all over the county, which if you have ever driven around San Diego, you will remember seeing eucalyptus trees all over. Frankly, they grow like weeds. But they do not grow like railroad ties... meaning the lumber was not good for making those ties. So, no quick cash for the entrepreneurs, but lots and lots, of fast growing, quick spreading, good smelling, but local plant obliterating trees... trees that have an extremely shallow root system and tip over in water logged soil, especially in the wind. Also the branches snap like... like eucalyptus limbs. The end.


I have just one more flora trivia... I remember reading that humidity levels could be read by the look of pine cones. Tightly closed pine cones signified high humidity, and the open pines were dry and indicated low humidity. Like the eucalyptus story, I stored this tidbit away... maybe for a rainy day?

So, guess what?
It's true. It's visibly, amusedly true. And I realized it when I stepped out the front door and noticed my pine cone collection not looking like my pine cone collection...


One week ago I snapped a picture of my pine cones. At the time I was thinking of how much I wished it were still Christmas. How I still did not want to sweep away poinsettias, wreaths, pine fragrance, and snowmen dolls, peace on Earth and carols. It was a dry day and the pine cones looked just as I am accustomed to seeing them... open and almost parched in a grey dusted way.


Not today. Just where I left them, with one blown to the ground, they have shut themselves up. They are saturated with water. Just like our yard. Fascinating.


Is she still there?
Betty. Go home. Take shelter woman. Shoo.


Oh.
I see.
Betty wants boots.
Dear Betty. Those boots are not your size, and think the pink would clash with your golden hue. Go home. I don't have time to coddle you. I have laundry to ignore, and other things to attend to... things left undone since yesterday and last year.

January 20-Something


Very cold.
Well, not "very" compared with all points east and north of here.
But for us... very cold.


Between storms.
Between loads of laundry.
Between drop-off and pick-up.


After Christmas.
Before Geoff's birthday.


Raindrops on roses.
On unpruned roses.
Roses bright as the sun that is not shining.
Raindrops and puddles and mud,
and roof tiles all over the lawn.
Raindrops on the bathroom floor, below the leak.


Betty layed leid laid lathed left gave an egg.


After school, before homework is spread across our table, we will indulge in a Betty-Brownie confection,
so I must remember to grab some milk at the market.
And I must remember to bring Pepper's Ghost to William.
And I must remember to file one more school bulletin announcement for robotics.
And I must remember to... hmmm... something I've already forgotten.
I must not forget to take the brownies out of the oven.


I am so far behind in the list of forgottens, that lately I have felt like raising a white flag.
I surrender, I cry.
Because I suspect that I am in over my head.


It's going to rain again.
I am not sure the shelter over Betty and Joe's house is going to make it through the next storm.
Did you hear there were tornados in California?
Betty and Joe could have wound up in Oz.

Yeah. Now I am just avoiding.
I know.
Back to the laundry.

The Trouble With Travel

It's not that I have any regrets about traveling. Truly. La Paz, BC, 1987, may be the only regrettable trip we've ever made and yet it recalls priceless memories. Heat, hunger, illness, flood, boredom, and *"Rosa Salvaje."

No, mostly travel has never been regrettable, and yet it is not without its risks. The trouble with travel is that sooner or later I have to go home, and eventually when I think on my experiences, the new things I discovered and tried, it will stir feelings and desires. And there is nothing to quell the stirrings, the antojo, except more travel, to return... It may be true :: Un poquito de lo que te antoje te hace sentir bien, but having a little bit of Europe is not as easy as I wish it could be. Oh, those cruel cravings.

Maybe because it is breakfast time and I am hungry, I am missing dinner in Bruxelles.


Salad at T Kelderke, Grand Place.
Fruit and nuts and a toasted cheese over a bed of fresh greens.
I miss salad at T Kelderke.


I almost skipped this one, because thinking of it really makes me want to insist to Geoff that we go back. Now. How else to satisfy the rumbling ache of desire? Okay. If you get to go to Bruxelles consider sitting for a slow dinner. Never mind the slow part... bring a book or just sip your beer and gaze at the crowds in the Grand Place. Just be sure that you order this soup. It is so good. So good. It's all about warmth and cheese and stuff... whatever. I don't need to take it all apart. Whatever they put in there works. Geoff and I shared a bowl the first time and we managed to be dignified, but the second and third time we definitely ordered two bowls.
I miss this soup.


I miss this beer.
Stunning. I am not a big drinker. For one thing it does not take a big drink to effect affect me, and otherwise few alcoholic drinks really hold my interest. My brother Hans said good things about Belgium beer, and I have found him to be a dependable guy, so I made a point of ordering beer our first night in Bruxelles. Maybe it's being on vacation, sitting amidst beauty and history, and next to my sweetheart, maybe I was super thirsty... or maybe Belgians really make awesome beer. Whatever. I drank two Grimbergens that night. I miss this beer. Solely for scientific purposes, of course, I would like to research this point, to better understand the deliciousness and thirst quenching satisfaction of this particular beverage.

Moving on.


I miss slow dinners. The T Kelderke easily takes the prize for slowest service in Europe. Oh. So. Slow. And yet... oh, so good. So, who cares? The waitstaff looks indifferent? C'est la vie. No one comes to take our order? That's fine. We can outlast them. It's worth it. And initially it does feel like some kind of contest: Our will and patience vs. their neglectfulness. But eventually we learn to go with it, relax, sit back. Bring out a book, start a conversation or several conversations. Make new friends. Organize the backpack. Scroll through pictures in the camera. Sip another Grimbergen. It gets so mellow and... and ... what's that word? Relaxed. Yes, I missed relaxed, slow, delicious dinners, with cranky waiters.

I miss Belgium. Even the waiters.


I miss red geraniums. And flower boxes. And Paris. There were red geraniums all over Europe and flower boxes too. I noticed flowers everywhere. We come from an area that prides itself on its flower heritage, but our town needs to step-up, because the flower gardens and borders and beds and windows and corners of Europe were more abundant and lovingly tended than any place I have ever seen. I miss the alpine flowers in Switzerland and the miles of sunflowers in France. And I miss the hundreds and hundreds of window boxes I saw, everywhere we went, overflowing with brilliant, red geraniums.


I miss this dancer. Well, not really. She's here, in the next room, and she still dances. All the time. Everywhere. It was so sweet and amusing to be in the Louvre, at the Eiffel Tower, in the Alps, on a train... anywhere and see Maria overcome by a song, a melody, a distant tune, and begin to dance. She cannot help herself. She dances all the time. Unless she is talking. Or drawing. Or making wishes about God sending ponies to her, over rainbows. So even when the Venus De Milo was in the room, I could not keep my eyes off of Maria.


I miss sailboats and Jardin des Tuileries, and Max's away smile. It started in Paris, and maybe that is because we had finally shaken our jet lag... Max started smiling. He works so hard during the school year, trying to exceed his own rigorous expectations of himself, that I think the vacation part of our vacation really did him a lot of good. I love that I have dozens of smiling Max pictures, more in those three weeks abroad than in a whole year of at-home-time photographs. It's an away smile, at ease and confident. He loves Paris, and Rabbit Hill, and he mastered all the metro systems and switching languages. He had a good handle on Euros, gladly calculating exchange rates for me. He was no chicken abroad. He excelled and exceeded all of my hopes for him.


Speaking of Rabbit Hill, I really miss the Netherlands and Landal GreenParks. I miss bunnies frolicking with bunny abandon. I miss the total rest and ease of feeling at home, while traveling aboard, that one can enjoy at Rabbit Hill.


I miss our cute little home and the fun modes of transport at our disposal. I miss the respect and space given to cyclists and pedestrians. Sure, I would love to see new places and have other adventures, but ooh... ooh, I could totally spend another week or two here again. Maybe like an annual thing, or every other year.


I would have no trouble at all convincing the children.

I miss the places we went, the things we did, the fun we had... I miss Europe. All of it.


Okay. Maybe not all of it.
But enough of it, that I would even face three weeks of doing this by hand, if we could go back. That's the trouble with traveling... it makes you miss a lot of stuff and then you gotta figure out how to go back. I did have my doubts, but that's okay. I like to keep it true.


*The World Wide Interwebs are amazing. After twenty three years with the theme song and basic narrative haunting the recesses of my cerebellum, there she is: Veronica Castro and the whole telenovela outline. Bill... hey brother, can you still sing the song? Want me to make you a Pinesol-lemon-lime margarita, hold the ice, so you can have total recall? Good times.

Bare Root Season
Oh the fruits. The fruits. The miraculous fruits. Last week we paid a visit to the nursery, where they had signs posted announcing the imminent arrival of stone fruits and other bare root trees and shrubs. Roses too, but I already have more than I can handle there. Of course *having more than I can handle* does not instruct me in an appropriate course of non-action... no, I have too much going on and I am taking on even more. Because the fruits, oh the fruits, the miraculous fruits... they have arrived and they want to come home with me!


If the gophers could read they would be as eager and excited as I am, but I have plans to foil their feast. Back when we were Jolly Green Ranchers I learned that tight wire baskets dropped in the planting hole kept vicious pocket gophers from spoiling all our fun. Even here, the battle of the gopher is still being fought, with deadly accuracy I am happy to add. Baskets are right now being assembled. Many hands make light work... such a lovely truth.


Such a lovely barrier. One more screen at the bottom and we will keep our trees safe and sound.


Alex and Maria were with me at the nursery and were we ever astounded at the variety of trees and plants. The delicious possibilities are greater than I had hoped. Pear, three apple varieties, several plums, an apricot, and nectarine, pomegranate, persimmon, and figs. There were also cherry trees, varieties of berries, including blue, black and rasp.
Mouth watering.


Mom and I have discussed grapes, and I will be on the lookout for those too. In the meantime our family is weighing the options, discussing the merits of each choice. Apple and cherry are the two favorites, and Maria would very much like to have a "black apple tree..." she was eager to bring home the tree with the picture of a dark, luscious Santa Rosa plum as soon as possible.

It's too drizzly to prune the roses, a task that keeps facing delays. At least I have some heavy gloves and fresh lopers. The drizzle is not keeping us from digging holes though. Five holes are ready for those baskets, and when Geoff and I figure out where else we want trees, I think we will dig more holes. A lot of fruitless, dull, water sucking shrubs are going to have to make some kind of appeal to me or face the axe.


Poor Benjamin. As though fancy hooded rats aren't torment enough, now he has to be on the lookout for the gopher he fears dug this hole.

A Photo Booth
Dear Geoff,
Thank you for finding a battery replacement for my camera. It's such a pleasure to be able to use my camera again. You know I love my camera. Our separation was painful and now more than ever I want to learn how to use my camera, so that when I pick it up I know what all the numbers and buttons mean and do. All in good time, right?

Geoff, this is kind of fun. Now you are in crunch mode at work and in robotics, I have to find creative ways to spend time with you.

With my new battery holding power in the camera, I was finally able to get some pictures taken. So, when cousin Becky came to pick up grandmother, I grabbed the camera and persuaded William to be our photographer. He did a good job. It reminds me of photo booth shots. I think it would be fun to make a photo-booth... or just create the feel of taking funny close-up portraits.

*click* *click* *click*


I want Becky's lipstick. My cousin is bellissima. I thought it was enough to remember to brush my hair. But I think I need to step up my game.


Maria is the Self-Rescuing Princess, and Becky and I are the Self-Amusing Diva Cousins. Grandmother is simply her wonderful self.


Definitely. I think it would be loads of fun to make a funky-cowgirl-quilt draped, straw bale photo-booth... I can totally picture it. Can you detect a party in the plans? Pony rides. Chicas running around. Mint lemonade and hot tortillas, fresh salsa... friends and music.

Maybe it's time with family, or time in our beautiful home, but new ideas and fun, inspired fantasies keep skipping through my head. I like this feeling of happiness seeping in to my pores and soul... more happiness.


More family time and photographs. More besos and laughter. More princesses and cowgirls, aprons, scarfs, tea and chipotle-apple pie. More flowers and hand holding, hugs and long visits. Mas, por favor.


It makes us bloom, I believe.

The Many Facets of Geekdom
In the sidebar you may have noticed a long list of labels, with names like Chicas and El Rancho... those are a way for me to bring some order to 7+ years of Chickenblog posts. Click on the link and you get oodles and oodles of posts about my Chicas, or our lives as Jolly Green Ranchers. One of the labels is Geek, which I figured would cover all the areas of our lives where we get Geeky... Legoland, SIGGRAPH, Comic-Con, Robotics...

Hold on... we really get geeky a lot, and in many ways. I think we are going to require a Geek subheading or two. Yes. One for Comic-Con and another for Lego business, and now, one exclusively for FIRST and robotics. Obviously the beams will cross occasionally, but I think we have enough robotic material and future robotic plans to make this category worthy of its own Chickenblog label.


January 9, 2010. Launch.

So. Last year Alex was a visiting student, who joined the high school robotics team, which is part of FIRST :: For Inspiration and Recognition of Science and Technology. It was obvious from the start that we had found a special program and an awesome team. And by the end of the build season our whole family was on board.

This year we actually know what's going on. Or at least we know more than we did this time last year. It's hard to contain our excitement about this build season... the next six weeks of intense-full time robot design, building and team building.


There are a lot of new team members, and this year the team is helping bring a new team up to speed... yes, we share tips, advice, support and spirit with other teams... it's all a part of the program. "Gracious Professionalism" might sound like just a "nice" idea, but in FIRST and with this team, Gracious Professionalism is a working-living-competing attitude in the arena and out. The notion of "good sportsmanship" could learn some things from robotics' Gracious Professionalism.


Yesterday the new season launched, which means teams around the world tuned in to the live NASA feed for a first peek at this year's robotics competition arena, rules and theme or game. It marks the very beginning of everything that will lead to competitions, when the team brings a completed robot to a regional event to play. With videos to watch and thick, heavy manuals to read, the team spent the entire day learning, planning and preparing for what lies ahead. It's just the beginning.


I won't be posting specific details about our team, because I am not an official media-representative, with permission to share personal photos or names... but the specifics aren't even necessary. All the teams matter. All the teams represent dedication, hard work, brain power, and the spirit of robotics. It's a Geek thing.

We Need to Ratify a Pet Policy

It's not that the children are obsessed with adopting kittens, bringing home stray dogs or raising llamas. It's their mother. Lord help us, their mother is the weakest, silliest, most pagan (from Latin paganus, meaning "country dweller", "rustic"), farm-wishingest citizen in suburbia. And if this post does not turn away lurkers and readers alike, well maybe nothing will...


Here is Benjamin Franklin Thunder-Cat. He is a bad kitty. It says so on his passport. He gets nippy and scratchy. He thinks he's toilet trained. He is not. Maria knows I call him my furry baby. I also call him beast, monster, and Woodgie-woodgie love muffin. He is more than enough pet for any family. And yet we have another cat and a hen. We had a parakeet, but he got wise and gave us the slip. Easy come, easy go. I thought about getting Maria a fish for her birthday, but I resisted.

Just because I resisted buying a gold-feeder to swim in a bowl of water, does not mean I have good sense.

I am the weakest, silliest, most pagan (from Latin paganus, meaning "country dweller", "rustic"), farm-wishingest citizen in suburbia.

And I am a rat wrangler.


Meet Pepper, fancy rat and nose wiggler.
She is curious. Scurious. Sweet and docile and fun to watch.


Hello Polly.
Polly is timid, sweet and docile. She loves to take her lunch in to her hut with her.

Pepper and Polly are my Winter Solstice gifts to the children, who all agreed that Maria's class rat, Cheddar, was great fun to have over for a weekend visit. When I tell the story I emphasize the children's love and fascination with the cute, scampering critters known as "fancy rats." But the children tell it another way... affectionately, a bit warily and with humor they say, "Mom, you're crazy, you know."

At least Gretchen gets it. When I was debating my impulse, she came on board all the way and said that rats are great pets. She wistfully recalled a childhood practically overrun with pet rats. When she said she and her sisters had twenty-one rats, well I felt positively sane for only wanting two. And she is right. Rats are great pets. Easy to care for. No biting. No barking. They like to visit and explore, but are happy too in their modified bird cage.


Benjamin agrees... Oh, never mind. Who cares what he thinks?


Meow.
What?
I love rats.
They're delicious.

No. The real experts are little girls. Izzy and Maria know a fun pet when they get their hands on one.


And just before Christmas, when little girl excitement and energy was at a high watermark, Izzy and Maria were tickled pink to take turns loving and feeding and holding Pepper and Polly.


Rats give you the giggles.
Their tails wiggle and their whiskers tiggle.
(sorry :: poetic license)


"Soft voices" and "gently" were the words of the day.


The "Ratty-Rats," that's what Gretchen calls Pepper and Polly. Izzy called them Polly-Holly and Peppermint, which I thought was awfully clever.

tap-tap-tap... hello?
Is anyone here?

Hmmm.

Either they've all rushed to their local pet shop, because they see what fun we are having, or Chickenblog is being cut from blog lists everywhere.

Come back. We don't bite!

Must Glue-Cut-Glitter-Stitch Something

It's almost overwhelming how crafty I feel. Not sinisterly coiling a handlebar mustache-kind of craftiness. I need to make something.

Maybe I should sinisterly coil my own mustache. Bitter Betty is crafty that way.

Unless I clean my office/studio/nerve center first, I will be putting the cart before the horse, but it's almost overwhelming how crafty I feel and I cannot wait. Something whimsical is bursting to get out of my head. And inspiration is calling.

And if my crafting is justified and purposeful, something hyper organized for say... next Christmas, then I can have fun and relish that elusive sense of accomplishment.

I'm going to do something. Seriously. Must. craft. create. make. I'll download Lady Harvatine's "O, Holy Night" and start basting and snipping to her lovely voice and the ukuleles strumming...

Woosh
Who knew the new year would be so full?
Tomorrow is Maria's day to bring snack.
Yesterday I made spaghetti from Monday's meatloaf.
Today I wrote for an hour and then decided to let "it" go unsaid.
Saturday is the launch of FIRST build season. Go robotics!
My mom was here.
Grandma is here.
I brought home a worm wrancher's compost bin.
Must order worms.
There are two new mammals living in the Bird House.
Every day I do something new to settle in to our home.
Every day I pause, in disbelief, and revel in the joy of being home.
My go to daily uniform is in a sad state and I will have to buy another pair of jeans. ASAP.
I want to blog about Betty and Joe and Chango and Benji and Pepper and Polly, but I first need to resolve my pathetic camera situation.
Good things are coming.
This post is kind of spastic.
So am I.
I hear coyotes.
I awake to the calls of barn owls that sit in the pine trees.
How are you?