Chickens and So Much More!

"I have to say, for a chicken blog--I don't see many chickens. But oh well; it's all good.
--Kate, The Manic Gardener"

Do I need a disclaimer? Should I tell my story, the origins of "Chickenblog," all over again? Is it time to revisit those Chicas... Chicas of the past and present?


Lady Betty Orpington. She's a big girl now.

In the olden days, before iPhones and Blue-Ray, I gave up handwriting letters and started learning how to email family and friends. Geoff had always been computer savvy. He used to read me Internet articles back in 1990, which is only recent in geological time, but not in the context of modern technology. So, Geoff was hip and cool, but I was a total newbie and using email was a gigantic tech-step.


Amelia, The Test Pilot. She's got her wings now!

Anyway, I was writing emails to Hawaii and Wisconsin and trying to keep family caught-up with our growing family. And it never occurred to me to cut and paste, to send the same letter to multiple people... that seemed like it would be impersonal, like cheating, and besides, I could never remember the keys for cutting and pasting. In 2002 Geoff thought it was time to update the whole communication system. He thought web-logging would be the most efficient and interesting way to share news and explore a medium that was just starting to take-off.


Amelia's feet are spotty and her beak has a Groucho-'stache. I think Betty could stand in for Harpo.


Not me. No, I am a resistant, foot dragging, fearful, shy, reluctant kind of being. I still pop my corn on the stove top and I am suspicious of new fangled things, like yogurt in a tube and online banking. Microwave popcorn is not right. Bank tellers should be better dressed than me and alive, because that is just what I am used to. I just know I've told this story before. I wonder if I am telling it the same, or dressing it up?


I was kicking and screaming, but Geoff dragged me into the 20th century. Then he pulled extra hard, and managed to get me into the 21st century. My first assignment was to choose a name for my blog. Having never seen any blogs, and still not understanding what the point of blogging could be, I felt unprepared and indecisive. I didn't feel like a person with an agenda or something to sell. I did not have a hobby I wanted to share or promote. There was no creative impulse to drive me, and so no inspired, literary, introspective, artistic or appropriate names came to mind. We had just adopted 4 chicks, the most happy and daring thing had done since having babies, and chickens were foremost in my thoughts. They were new and funny and a source of pleasure for our family, as we were beginning a new chapter in our lives. Our Rancho lives, living in a fixer-upper in the country, learning how to operate a tractor and battle gophers. Amused and distracted by our 4 chicas, I chose "Chickenblog" as the name of the blog.


I see Kate's point. There aren't many chickens for a chicken blog. And, sadly, there were many years with no chickens at all. Chickenblog is about my dreams of having chickens, it's about the whimsy of chickens, it's about me feeling giddy and optimistic when I think of chickens. Chickenblog is my letter to family and friends, a family journal, a way to connect. It's about chickens of the past, like the one we bought for a dime, when we were living in Guatemala, or the ones Santa brought us when my brothers and I were really little kids. Chickenblog is about the chickens we brought home in May 2002, and the new flock we started this year. Chickenblog is about not knowing better and thinking my blog needed to call itself a blog. Chickenblog is about me and us and our stories and deep thoughts and other musings, and sometimes I think I write like a chicken... hunting and pecking at the keyboard, scratching the surface and looking for good things, crowing and noisily clucking when I feel good or scared or excited.


I am amused when I think of how reluctant and confused I felt when I started blogging... Almost like a headless chicken. Just kidding. Creepy, I know. Sorry. (lol) I could not see the big picture or where things would head. There is a lot we take for granted about blogs now, and there are almost as many blogs out there as there are themes and motivations... it's funny to me, thinking about the early days. 6 years ago was a long time ago in the world of web logging. I wonder where we will be 6 years from now...


I know where we were 19 years ago. We were catching our breathes, grinning, happily just married. Happy Anniversary Geoff. Still grinning. Still happy. It is all good.

Maíz, Leña, Agua y Memorias


I should have learned to speak Spanish. I wish I were fluent. My mother insisted it would benefit me. My tias and tios implored me to learn Spanish, and mocked me too. I absorbed enough to ache for more. I learned enough to know that I am missing entire stories and insights. I understand enough to feel a profound connection to phrases and concepts, to emotions and spiritual convictions that I am powerless to explain en español or English.

I believe I am as much a part of Mexico and my family, the piedras del campo, as I am a part of my own children, my life in a suburban home with suburban experiences, but I do not know it.. I have always wanted to write about Mexico, El Valle, about border crossings and crossing cultural borders, about tortillas de harina, Seris, Opata, iglesia, and being an outsider here and there. I never have, not significantly, because I was afraid of messing it up, getting it wrong, missing important details, overstating insignificant bits. My story might be false memory and lies. My story might not ring true, or it could be too true.

I used to dream of knowing enough Spanish to glean the truth, the whole story, and I knew my abuelo was the source I needed to visit for those stories, for the genealogy, the adventures and history of a family and region, for a time rich in intrigue and improbable truths. I used to dream of writing all of it down and knowing the stories so well, that no one could doubt that I belonged too. No border or barriers, no lack of knowledge or cultural missteps would deny me access to that elusive feeling of belonging.


When I was a very little girl I was taken to El Valle de Tacupeto, 2 or 3 times. I don't know. I remember eating oranges and my first recollection of the smell of a cut orange is standing at La Mesita, with my Mom, waiting to board a small plane. I was there for my 5th birthday and received a harmonica. What happened to my harmonica? My brother Bill was a baby, we went to church, there was a wedding and a death. The river was flooding the dirt roads that cold winter. It seems like the river has always been flooding the roads.

I went 3 more times when I was a bit older... 11, 12, then 14 years old. By this time my parents were divorced, and I was traveling with my abuelo, then my tia Magali, then my tio Elias took us. Those first times were by bus. From Tijuana we traveled through the night for 12 hours to Hermosillo. It was hard to wake-up for the check-stops. I was always fearful of the bus leaving without us. We would be alone in the Sonoran desert, which wasn't really any less familiar than that bus. In Hermosillo we would wait to board another bus. The first bus was like a tired, old Greyhound. The next bus was like a tired, old, dangerous school bus. Not yellow and swept, but blue and red and yellow, dusty, crowded. We sat on fruit crates in the back. Were there live chickens on the bus? Is that my memory or something lingering from an old movie? I think there were live chickens. There were twine wrapped boxes, which served as luggage and there were stops in the middle of nowhere, so we could pee in the bushes. There were hours of narrow dirt roads, and river crossings. The entire journey was at least 20 hours long. One trip finished in the bed of a large truck, when the bus came to one river it could not cross.

On our last visit to El Valle we drove to Nogales, Arizona, crossed and continued to Hermosillo. No more bus rides. No more Sonoran summers and Sonoran heat. We went in November. Where is the bridge, the one over the river? Is it Rebeico? Is that where we cross, where the bridge is like a passage back in time and memory?


The new roads cut the travel time down to 16 hours. It's such a luxury traveling in our own car. This long ride is one that my abuelo made by horseback. There were no roads then. There were Yaqui to hide from. On this trip to El Valle we faced nothing more daunting than cattle in the road.


My grandfather was a musician and he travelled with a band, playing from pueblo to pueblo. Music for dances. Music in the placitas, for weddings and festivals. His father had traveled too and came home with a Bible. My bisbuelo Gabriel gave his land for the church. The church that shares the backyard of my grandparent's home today. And when my abuelo Ismael gave up being a musician, he came home to herd cattle, to milk vacas and to plant the mule-plowed fields. I remember shelling peanuts for planting, eating watermelon from the field, washing potatoes, picking chiles. I remember chewing on stringy, sweet cuts of sugar cane and watching my grandmother grind corn for tortillas.


When I see cows, I see vacas and I hear a guitarra. I see the nata scooped from the top of a pail of fresh milk... fresh, sweet cream. I can taste the cheese my abuela makes. The white rounds of cheese, the salty cheese crumbled over a bowl of beans. When I see vacas I think of my abuelo walking to the family ranch, El Ojo de Agua, early in the morning, returning with a pail of milk for our breakfast. It's a song, words I cannot speak, but the tune is in my soul.


We ride through many towns to reach home. Bacanora, the town, not the drink... though they are synonymous. Sahuaripa. And Arivechi. We get closer and closer. We see the Cerro Cabezón.


After Bamori comes El Valle de Tacupeto, and abuela and abuelo. There will be hugs and kisses and welcome. It is a comfort to find a familiar door and familiar faces, the same walls and trees, the sound of coros coming from the church, the certainty of a place that comes to me in my dreams.


November 2003. Alex in his abuelo's embrace. Home in Mexico, where we will cook by fire, and sleep on burlap cots. Where the doors are unlocked and every neighbor is familia or at least knows who I am related to... hija de... nieta de... sobrina de... Everyone knows the relations and connections. Home in Tacupeto.


They were married for 70 years. They have 8 children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren. I have never said it, but I feel a kind of pride and specialness, because I am the first grandchild. It doesn't matter, not really, but when I was a child it gave me tremendous pleasure to think of it. I held to a secret belief, unfounded by anything but my romantic imagination, that being first entitled me to something good, to a promise and security. Maybe someday I too would have a rancho and vacas, grind, corn, keep chickens, make tortillas. The clouded line between beliefs and knowledge can be untested, and now that I think on the truth, and not my childhood fantasies, I am amused and saddened. I am not sure why.


Catre. I wasn't sure I was saying this right... catre... cot. We slept on them for weeks at a time when we were children, spending summers in Tacupeto. My brothers and I each had a burlap cot to sleep on in the open patio. I remember we would pull thin sheets over our bodies, then turn on our flashlights to see what might be crawling across the ceiling. Think of the suspense and squeals as we lit a creepy crawly scene of overhead cockroaches, mosquitos, scorpions and beetles. We'd scream and pull our sheets over our heads! I do not miss the anxiety, the fear of something falling in the dark night, but I miss catres. I miss sleeping on the porch, hearing burros bray and abuelo snore. I miss waking in the morning to the music of crowing gallos, more donkeys, cows calling to be milked, and the beautiful rhythm of my abuela's hands making tortillas. There is more love, beauty and will, in the sound of my abuela's hands clapping masa for her wonderful tortillas, than in any symphony.


Her tortillas were never rolled out, but were formed between her soft, capable hands. My grandfather kept an ample wood supply available for cooking and baking, for heating water. And my abuela kept the fires burning so she could feed us tortillas, beans, enchiladas, gallina pinta, pozole, atole, empanadas. Food is more plentiful now, than it was in those summers when my brothers and I sustained ourselves with tortillas, beans, beans and tortillas, and either watermelon, or chiles or potatoes... whatever was being harvested at the time. And leche and leche con Nesquik. Markets and pantries are not what we are accustomed to here.


It is a strange gift to know hunger, or at least to know longing for something more. Now, when I cannot decide what to eat or what to buy, I can appreciate how ridiculous my quandary really is.

The summer that my tio Memo was growing chiles, chiles was all we heard about, saw or ate... besides the usual staples, and chiles were everywhere. We even tried our hands at picking chiles, a job whose appeal was lost very quickly. My cousin, RosaMaria and I were passing the hot, humid afternoon together, looking for places to be, for diversions. Times like these often found us down at the river, wading, or up to La Mesita just for the stroll, but on this particular day we were hungry. Having had fried chiles, roasted chiles, chiles con huevos, chiles con frijoles and every other kind of chile dish, we thought, "Why not raw? Crudos."

It was a good question, but not a good idea to execute. These chiles, mild, almost sweet when cooked, proved to be so painfully, fiercely hot when we bit into them, that we were overcome with the pain. It began on the tongue, a burning, like embers. Then we quickly realized that the sensation was moving to our throats, to our noses and up to our cheeks, so that our heads were blazing with cactus pricks, with fiery torture. Water only spread the fuel. We ran to the little store, and we stared at each another in painful sympathy when we came up to the shut doors... shut for siesta meant no chicle to cool our torment. I wonder if we told anyone. Our agony would have been a great amusement for everyone else.


My abuelos have a home in town. It is made of adobe, like all (most) buildings, and it has a walled yard. In this picture Geoff is walking toward the river, away from my tia Armida's home and towards my abuelo's home. This is the way RosaMaria and I travelled back and forth between our houses. With summer rain, the road can become a river itself, emptying out down the way, passed Ma' Juana and Pa' Chico's little house... where their little house once stood.


My great-grandparents, the ones that raised my abuela when she was orphaned as a baby, lived in a small adobe facing the church. I used to sit with Ma' Juana, in her cool, thick walled home. With a gourd she would draw cold water from a clay pot and serve it to me in a tin cup. The room where she cooked was dark from smoke, from years of fire cooking. In the corner was dry corn, and stalks of cane. I remember when she butchered a hog and was in the yard mixing soap. Soap that smelled of pork rinds and felt as greasy... eeew! I was so enchanted with her. She was small, her hair was long and still mostly black. She slept on a cot too, and had no more than 2 or 3 chairs, a small table. I promised her the moon and the stars. I wanted to bring her a prism, so she could have rainbows dancing on her bare walls. Pa' Chico was almost as small, but no less strong. He walked to his rancho too, every morning and it was further than Ojo de Agua.


In the walled garden of my abuelo's home is an orno, a clay oven, flowers, trees, and the pila where abuela used to wash clothes. I washed clothes there too. One side was filled with water and the other side had the lava rock that was there to beat the clothes upon, and water drained into the garden from the little hole at the end. Everything was hung in the sun and brought in before the monsoonal rains in the afternoon. My great-grandmother's soap was famous for getting clothes very clean, but with hunks of pork in it, one had to guard it from hungry dogs. It was poisonous of course. I like bacon, but I can honestly say I was never tempted to sample the soap.

When I was 11 years old, and my abuela did all of the washing, I loved to be by her side and watch her bale water over the sudsy clothes. It smelled good near the lemon tree, and felt cool with the water splashing. She washed and hung all of our garments and they dried quickly in the sun. They came very clean with her vigorous scrubbing on the worn stone of the pila. How many times had my dresses and p@nties been dashed and wrung by hand?

My abuelo brought us home on the 2 same busses we had ridden to El Valle, and we arrived in Tijuana so early in the morning that the sun was only beginning to show. We each had our own duffel to carry from the bus to the street, where we would await a ride from my tio. It took both hands to manage my duffel and besides this heavy load, I was really not all together awake. That may account for the fact that it took me a moment to realize that my p@nties were around my ankles, having slipped down. I hauled them up in a flash. I was confused and embarrassed, the bus terminal was mostly empty and I consoled myself that no one witnessed. And I resumed the task of dragging my bag, trying to keep up with my brothers and abuelo, and my undergarments slipped again. I caught them between my knees, shimmied them up, and shuffled carefully, keeping my legs locked together. Mine was a slow, awkward and mortifying gait, that I could not properly explain to anyone. It seems that 5 weeks of thrashing my underwe@r clean on a stone made of lava had completely undone the elastic in them.


Returning to El Valle with my own children, my husband, was one of the best times of my life. I happily found that very little had changed... some of the few changes were sad, like not being able to sit with Ma' Juana and Pa' Chico, or to chat with my tia Ventura... she and I liked to read Reader's Digest en español together. And it would have been a great privilege to visit Maria del Guero... she was one of the oldest woman I think I ever met and she sewed my clothes on a pedal machine. Her patterns for my dresses, skirts and blouses were in her head, she measured me with her fingers. I was keenly aware of the blessing that I could return to this place and still find both of my grandparents... still healthy, still smiling and eager to shower us with their prayers and affection.


I looked on this visit as a tremendous gift, for myself and for the boys. It was their second time in El Valle, and I loved that they were so receptive and enthused about all of the things and sights, the people and experiences that I held dear. We did and saw and treasured as much as we could.


We explored and hiked. We filled our pockets with flint and other pretty stones, crystals and pottery shards. Bits of our past.


We used to hike to this place, to swim. Oh my. The water was just as muddy and uncertain, but it was so hot and the walk home so far we drank this water too. It was delicious. I love how thinking about an event or place can lead to more curiosity. As much as I remember, I am aware of how little I know. How far is this place and how do I spell the name of it?


We sat together. We remembered other days, other nights, other faces and their laughter. I remembered how wonderful it is to sit together... just talking, just sharing each other's company.


I just got a call... everyone is back from Tacupeto, abuelo's funeral. There are many more memories I plan to write about, many more pictures I want to share, but right now I am going to my tia's house, where my abuela is.

A Post So Happy, It Bears Repeating!

Pulled from the archives and presented in all it's glory, I offer you:

From Sea to Shining Sea: California

Happy Fourth of July and Welcome to California!
This is a post about California, in conjunction with the "Pikes Peak Promise Project."



California is big. This isn't bragging or merely stating the obvious. This is a disclaimer, because I can hardly hope to write a post that represents or summarizes an entire state as large and varied as this state. If you need a history refresher, I offer this Wikipedia link for a California overview. My post is personal and reflective, a pictorial tour of places I've seen and people I have met in California.

California A-Z


A is for Apples

There are apple orchards in California. I've been to several in Julian, where we picked our own apples, and where they are famous for their apple pies. Last year we discovered Gizdich Ranch in Watsonville, where we saw apple trees and ate Olallieberries. While in Watsonville you may want to "Drink Your Apple a Day... Watsonville is home to world famous Martinelli's Sparkling Cider. I still enjoy drinking their apple juice and remembering how much I loved having it as a treat when I was growing up. Wherever you live, it's a treat to eat locally and discover what's growing in your state and community.


B is for Balboa Park

Balboa Park is a cultural haven located in San Diego. It's home to the San Diego Zoo, museums and theaters. It's the kind of place you can go and find something to do or see, something to appreciate, no matter the time of year, no matter your budget. I used to volunteer at the Old Globe Theater, where I could see live theater and enjoy evenings with my boyfriend. We were married in Balboa Park. Now we take our children to the museums, the gardens, the playgrounds and to this reflection pond. Walking alone can fill an entire day.


C is for Cannery Row
For me, John Steinbeck's writing evokes California, the beauty and the darkness, the promise of its fertile valleys and bounty of the rich coastal waters. I learned about my home state from his tide pool descriptions and my compassion for men and women deepened from reading his stories about Cannery Row. True, Cannery Row today is a tourist destination and souvenir shop-riddled-jumble, that Steinbeck would have scorned, but if you've read his books, if you've pictured the places he painted in words, you can still find his Cannery Row. I still find it worthwhile to visit.



D is for Daniel
Daniel cuts our hair, and he has been cutting our hair for 8 years. He knows our names and remembers our interests. He's one of those people that makes you feel at home, like a part of the community. I like to set aside time enough for haircuts and for visiting when I go to Daniel's. Someone always pops in and then we get to meet someone new from the neighborhood. There are cold sodas and water in his mini-fridge and he keeps a great selection of magazines next to the bench by the window. It's so nice to slow down and enjoy the company at Daniel's.


E is for Eureka
This quote is from the California State Library web page, where they describe all kinds of state symbols: "The Greek word "Eureka" has appeared on the state seal since 1849 and means "I have found it". The words were probably intended to refer to the discovery of gold in California. Archimedes, the famed Greek mathematician, is said to have exclaimed "Eureka!" when, after long study, he discovered a method of determining the purity of gold. In 1957, attempts were made to establish "In God We Trust" as the state motto, but "Eureka" was made the official state motto in 1963." I found our "Eureka" on the side of the San Diego Museum of Man building, in Balboa Park. I guess it's been there since the Panama-California Exposition of 1915.


F is for Flowers
There are a lot flower fields in California. These flowers are growing in Carlsbad. They're ranunculus, which bloom in the spring. It's amazing to be in the center of these fields, with acres of bold color all around. The California Poppy is the state flower. I can't think of a flower I haven't seen growing in California, from commercial grower's poinsettias and the beautiful floral bouquets that are grown organically to the backyard roses, zinnias, sunflowers and bouganvilla... I love the bounty and variety of flowers we get to enjoy.


G is for Guest
Maybe you have family or friends in California. It's so nice to be a welcome guest in someone's home. We've had the pleasure of being tourists in our own state and we once were overnight guests at the historic and beautiful Hotel Del Coronado. It was an anniversary celebration, and yes, we brought the children. The Del sits between the Pacific and the San Diego Harbor, and the sights are wonderful. We rented a boat and toured the harbor, where there are fishing boats and Navy ships. At Christmas the Del sets up a skating rink, so that it's possible to walk on the sand, then ice skate, then enjoy a sumptuous brunch in the Crown Room. Okay, so this isn't something to do every weekend, but as a special treat, it doesn't disappoint.


H is for Horse
How about "H is for Humor?" There's plenty of good humor in California, and I thought this was a particularly artful example. Last year the children and I were visiting the Central Coast and we stumbled on this horse on the porch. I never tire of the drive from Ventura County along the 1 or the 101, right up to San Francisco. In between the sight of small farms, the rugged coast, the majesty and serenity of Big Sur, the rolling hills dotted with oaks... it all inspires me. I marvel at the abundance and variety that is represented in this small section of California. I think how luxurious it would be to visit the entire state, driving and stopping as the mood hits... it would be a very long, very full road trip. It would take a good deal of humor to manage it with four children.


I is for India... The Star of India
The San Diego Maritime Museum is home to several historical ships, including Star of India, and from "Master and Commander," H.M.S. Surprise. We've toured these ships with the children... it makes for a fun explore. Grade school students sometimes have an opportunity to spend a working night aboard Star of India. I've heard it's quite an experience and one that teaches tough lessons in ship life. The times we've been aboard these ships we are always struck by the tight quarters and the challenging circumstances people must have endured during long sea voyages. After the discovery of gold at Sutter's Mill thousands of people 'rushed' to California from all over the world on ships like these.


J is for Juggle
I guess California has a reputation for being hectic... it's true for the big cities where people are juggling a lot of things, and staying wired. Probably places like Santa Monica are most notorious for a rat race pace. Traffic, cell phones, agents, personal trainers, life coaches, nannies... it's all there. It's fun to visit. It's fun to see the Santa Monica Mountains, Malibu, the Beach and the Canyon. There is a strange buzz there, an expectancy. There are paparazzi lurking, waiting, and then there are homeless people lurking and waiting. And then there are the People Magazine cover people slipping past in fast cars, strolling in dark glasses. Seen and unseen. Societal extremes are existing in the same square blocks, together and yet far apart. I get the feeling that if you could package Hope, you could sell it in Santa Monica.



K is for King
My apologies. I haven't got a king. I offer you a Queen: Niki de Saint Phalle's "Queen Califia's Magic Circle." We discovered this and more sculpture in a neighborhood park with winding trails, that went on seemingly forever. Everything was still under construction and we felt like we had discovered a magical land. They were building a fantasy of shapes and colors, all from the imagination of Niki de Saint Phalle. We haven't been back to see the finished park. I kind of enjoy remembering it in the twilight, when it was emerging and we were alone to unravel it's magic.



L is for La Jolla
The Jewel. Joya is spanish for jewel and this coastal community is quite lovely, especially from the water. We used to snorkel and dive here. Jumping from the cliffs was strongly discouraged then and it's illegal now. For a small fee you can climb the stairs from the Shell Shop that lead down into the cliff where you can look out the cave and to the sandstone cliffs of Torrey Pines and Scripps Institute of Oceanography. It's a marine sanctuary and still a wonderful place to snorkel and swim.



M is for Mariachi
California was once a part of Mexico, and it wasn't so long ago either, so the music of the mariachi is very much at home here. We like Mariachi Divas. The day we saw them performing our daughter, Maria, stood up and danced to every song. She was in love with their powerful voices, the rich music from the violins, guitars and trumpets. She danced and they played for her. Because children can be so enthusiastic, sincere and expressive, it became one of those unique experiences that is emotionally moving and happy.


N is for November
This is the sunset from last Thanksgiving. I can enjoy Thanksgiving anytime, anywhere. Like the 4th of July, it's one of those holidays that most of us, as Americans, can enjoy and appreciate together. We have our individual traditions and expectations, but for the most part the rituals are universal. For Thanksgiving it's all about the shared work of preparing a feast and then sharing our gratitude for all we are blessed with. Thanksgiving in California has all the usual trimmings. I know it's just as special in Wisconsin, and Ontario, Canada, Oregon and Hawaii.



O is for Oaks
A few years ago I bought a book all about oak trees in California, and as soon as we unpack it, I want to read it and finally learn all about one of my all time favorite trees. I feel like I am not doing the tree justice by merely stating that I really, really love oak trees. I do really, really love them though. They strike me as wise and weathered, enduring. They are not smooth and welcoming, in a "climb me" sense, but I do feel invited to sit beneath their broad and shady canopy. In noon day sun or in morning mist, they stir my soul with romantic notions of Old California, pioneers, and ranchitos. If I could fly, I would be over the rolling hills and visiting the oak trees.



P is for Pipes
If you come to California, make your way to the coast and when you get hungry talk to the surfers. The surfers know where to find affordable, tasty food served by people who understand Aloha. Surfers work up an appetite, they live to surf, so money can be tight and the aloha? Well surfing is Hawaiian, so I guess they just pick it up along with the waves. We like to go to Pipes. Everyone likes to go to Pipes. The service is always with a smile and sometimes with music too, and the food is tasty.


Q is for Quiet
Mountain quiet. Idyllwild is a place with mountain views and quiet forests. We like to go there in hopes of finding snow. When we haven't found snow, we've still enjoyed hikes, playing games in front of a cabin fireplace and walking in to town for dinner. We like to meet friends there and enjoy a long weekend of breathing pine scented air and wearing wool socks. It's nice to find a place different home, and yet not so far away from home. California offers plenty of choices when you want to enjoy something different.



R is Rocks
We take them for granite! All over California, there are a lot of big granite rocks. No, I don't really take them for granted. I love them. I love the bold boulderness of them and how much fun they are to climb, cross, jump, and sit on. When our youngest son remembers this county park, he always mentions the huge rock he climbed, without any help. I hope he always enjoys that sense of power and pride that comes from climbing something that seemed insurmountable.


S is for Swami's
Dude. All long the California coast are hot little surf spots, where the locals chill and the surf is superfine. Check the surf report before grabbing your board, but you don't need to surf to enjoy the view. When the tide is low, you can visit the tidal pools. Animals are protected here, so no souvenirs, but take plenty of pictures. Watch for dolphins, and in winter, gray whales migrating south.


T is for Tall Trees
These are the big trees of Calaveras Big Trees State Park. California is blessed with big trees and big, tall trees. On the Northern California coast are the world's tallest trees: The Coast Redwoods. They have been verified to be as old as 2,200 years old, and are as tall as 350 feet. Inland, around the Sierra Nevada Mountains are the big trees, where one tree, the Discovery Tree, was measured to be 24' in diameter! We walked across the stump of the Discovery Tree, where many years ago they used it as a dance floor. We hope these trees can be left to grow, protected and appreciated.



U and V for Unbelievable Views
There is a great little mountain I know of where the views are big. It's called Stonewall Peak and if you're lucky enough to know some climbers, or you are one yourself, then you can enjoy the added bonus of doing some rappelling. My brother has taken me twice, and though I have no natural inclination to drop from great heights, I have to say rapelling is an awesome way to spend the day. Not far from Stonewall is a place where you can stand on the mountain and look straight to the desert floor below. The views from there are quite dramatic.



W is for Wild Sage
If I closed my eyes I might still know I was in California, if I could smell the sage. It grows wild and the fragrance of it is spicy, herbal, almost pungent. It is a sacred plant and used in healing and cleansing rituals... I thought I'd include a link here, but all the sites I found were supposedly spiritual and yet they all too anxiously rushed the customer to the Paypal button. My mother taught me how to gather small, personal bundles of sage, not harvest it for commercial profit, and to keep it handy, for use like incense.



X,Y and Z are for California
This van was parked in Santa Barbara, and I dare say it must have an X, Y and Z on it somewhere. It had something all over it. California... I've heard we're like granola, a bunch of flakes, fruits and nuts! That's cool. I love it here. I love the people and the optimism. I love the creativity. I love that we are home to research centers, technology and development, that we make movies and music, and waves and we ride out the storms, earthquakes and fires. It's not just for this state that my heart feels a kindred tug. All these 50 states, each blessed with strengths and grace, are good and beautiful and home. We like to feel a sense of pride for where we live and grow, and I like to remember that our greatest blessing is our union, as a country, as a society. We are more capable and more beautiful when we unite... "America, America. God shed his grace on thee. And crowned thy good with brotherhood, from sea to shining sea!"

House Hunting... From Chickens Who Blog

Riding home from Oregon, we couldn't help but do a little house hunting. We should have asked to ride down some country roads, because we think it's farm houses and off the beaten path kind of places we are really attracted to. However, if offered a home in town... say a place with integrity and character, something with history and interest... we could be persuaded...


Big enough? Likely, yes, but a bit ornate. Besides we don't think that fence would keep the riff-raff out. Pass.


This may be too small, but it does have its charms. We wonder how far back the yard goes? Is there room for a workshop, a pool, veggie beds, goats, an orchard?


If there's no yard in the back, then forget about it. Otherwise We kind of like the side by side aspect. One for us and one for guests? Wonder if we could modify them and create a secret passage between them? Secret passages, attic rooms, gables, window seats, built in shelves, natural light... bonus points for all of the above.


Hmmmm... too many floors. We know very well those extra floors would be an unwelcome obstacle on cleaning day(s.)

Next.


Modest. We like the colors... very fresh and cheery. Looks well built, but not over built. There's still room to add our personal touches. Secure, snug... good and good.


We'll take it! Love the kitchen, the yard, the open floor plan... the whole look of bringing the outdoors in... we love that look!


Oh, and it's mobile. Unexpected, yet practical. Somewhere the grass is always greener and we'll have the option of moving there. Hard to believe this was a picnic table. We really must thank the architect and the builders. Our new home is just right.

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Playing a Meme with Anne.

A. List seven habits/quirks/facts about yourself.
B. Tag seven people to do the same.
C. Do not tag the person who tagged you or say that you tag "whoever wants to do it."

Here goes, and mind you I have decided to really let it all hang out... it's what girlfriends do.

A. Habits, Quirks and Facts
1. Even though I am fat, I secretly feel happy and comfortable. Why secretly? Women are trained to be small, admonished and ridiculed for being bigger than they are... When I forget that I do not look like a supermodel or like the many residents of our body conscious neighborhood, I feel just fine, curvy and capable, strong and full. When I see that clothes made for the masses do not fit me, when photographs of me do not match airbrushed celebrity faces, then I feel ashamed and low, and very small.

2. My chickens blog. Actually they have to tell me what to say and I post it for them. They make a mess of the keyboard, otherwise I'd let them take care of the whole thing.

3. I am censoring myself, because a surprising number of habits/quirks and facts about me, at this time, are not happy. I am trying to avoid these facts, but I will acknowledge that it's an issue.

4. Every time I type "chicken," it comes out cchiekcen, chikcen, or chckine. It never comes out right the first time. Same with "because." "Because" always comes out becuase.

5. My highest Tetris score was 154,000 and I love it when the rocket launches.

6. I have 2 beautiful quilt tops waiting to be quilted.

7. I wish I could fly. Me. Over hills and along the coast, just flapping my arms or floating magically. I dream of it. I know what it would feel like, as though I am missing something I used to do all the time. My second wish is to be able to sing. I imagine singing would be like flying.

B. 7 People to Play Along
1. Tarie
2. Amy
3. Em
4. Pam... She did it!
5. Carol. Carol, you should have a blog. I think you would have such excellent things to share.
6. JenniferYes, she did it too!
7. Cristina

C. I do tag "whoever wants to do it," becuase I am a rebel.

Looking back... 6 years ago today.

Pistol River State Beach

I feel like I am posting just for Geoff today. We were all up very early yesterday, to take him to the airport for his flight to Chicago.
Sigh.
I really wish we were with him. He's gone to be with family, in remembrance of Jim "Corm," who passed away last February. It is strange and indescribable... the countless ways our lives have changed since that sad and unreal day when we first got the news. I could hardly say what happened; it was too painful, and even now, I find that there is still a great deal of disbelief and grief.

I find myself thinking Everyone in Chicago is going to have so much fun, and we'll be missing out on all of that family time, and then I am taken aback when I realize, again, that it's a memorial, that we have lost someone. It won't be all fun and levity, and the fact that I forget is very telling of how hard it is to believe, to really know that he is gone. I do not think that time eases pain. I believe that time is what it takes to learn how to wrap the pain and hide it from our heart and thoughts, otherwise it cannot be tolerated. When I turn off the noise of everyday tasks and chores, when I quiet the daily din of rambling thoughts and remember that Corm is gone, the pain unfolds and I am devastated all over again.


I still wish we were with Geoff. Everyone will be having fun. There will be fun and healing and wonderful memories to share, new ones in the making. And even when it is painful and sad, I wish I could be with Geoff, and Ruth and Holly, Paul, with all the people that knew Corm and loved him, because time does not ease pain... family, friends, love and sharing ease pain.


I still remember the first time I met Jim and Ruth. It was 1982. I hardly knew Geoff and came to their home as a guest of a mutual friend. I think it was my huge crush on Geoff that made me take everything in and preserve it all in so much detail. Geoff introduced me to "Mom and Corm." I shook their hands, "Hi Mom, hi Corm." Even then I was struck by the familiar and easy way I felt. They had company and were finishing a spaghetti dinner, and Geoff was really excited about his sister being home. Holly had just returned from a year in Wisconsin.

I can picture the dining table, the soft evening light of summer. I can even smell Corm's spaghetti. I can remember the relief at realizing that Holly was Geoff's sister! Geoff was so sweet and attentive, and until I was introduced to her I thought she might be his sweetheart! She lent me a swimsuit, so we could all swim at the neighbor's pool. Now we share baby clothes and holidays, and sisterly love.

And in 26 years I have had the pleasure and blessing of becoming a part of a family that feels as much my own as the mother and brothers I grew up with. I was a child when I met Corm, with a child's limited perspective, and I cannot say when this changed, but I see so much more now and it breaks my heart to realize what we are missing.


My husband, his integrity and skills, his tender devotion... I can see that Corm influenced these dear qualities.

My cooking... turkey burgers, chili and spaghetti are some of the mainstays of our favorite family dinners.

Love. I can say that Corm has been a significant teacher about love. I realized this too late to thank him.

He loved music, and he could play instruments and sing... I used to sit in Geoff's room listening to Corm sing to his parrot, Pablo, in the shower. I adore this memory, and can still recall the happy sensation of enjoying those loving (private) concerts.

He loved language and art and craftsmanship and he applied himself skillfully to all of his interests and endeavors, so that his work and his home, his cooking and conversations were all artful, intelligent, well made. I will miss walking in the house he and Ruth built, appreciating the views they chose, the quality of the construction and the beauty of their work.

He loved Ruth. He loved her in private ways. He loved her with his heart on his sleeve. And it was not about flowery declarations or material gifts... it was about sharing the workload, listening to her needs, honoring her beliefs and sharing his own. His love was about being constant and dedicated to Ruth as his partner. He went to work to provide for their goals. He came home to share in the making of their dreams, to be in her company. I never heard him speak to Ruth or about Ruth without at least a hint of reverence, a protective tenderness and affection. Especially in recent years, I would be so touched by his giddy exuberance when he told me how much he loved her, cherished her, appreciated her, and it was with unchecked candor that he shared his love of his wife, and his awareness of her love and devotion to him. I thought A person could be sustained and carried through anything with this kind of respect and affection. It's a beautiful gift that he can feel this way and share these feelings and acts. And when he died, I thought How sad it is that we cannot witness this love, this outspoken regard and tenderness any more.


I think, perhaps at the memorial, in the next few days, Corm's love and devotion, his dedication, will be witnessed once more, because he touched so many of us and we can each of us carry some part of him with us. When we tell his stories, and share the memories, we will evoke the qualities that were a part of him and that he imparted in us.



I hope Geoff will come home and share many of the details of his time in Chicago, so that we can have some idea of what we are not there to be a part of. I realize that we are missing not only Corm, but in not being at this memorial we are missing all of the people that knew and loved him and that were an influence and inspiration to who he was. Even as a memorial, how can it not be a wonderful time? Everyone there is a part of a circle of people that influenced or were influenced by a wonderful person...


I really hated to leave my Mom and Ron. More than ever, I am keenly aware of the frailty of life. Nothing is constant on this Earth. I tried not to cry as we drove away, or during any of the 1,000 miles driving home... the children have seen too much of that already. I have tried to let Corm's example move more consistently in my life, so that I share my love out loud and wear my heart on my sleeve. I love as much and as sincerely as ever, but now I consciously endeavor to say what I feel, to honor what I feel and to treasure the time I do have with the ones I love. So, as sad as I was to leave, and even with my fears and worries, I found some comfort in knowing that I love my Mommy and Ron, that I have shared my feelings and said my piece... it's not the same as having them close by, being able to drop in on them any time, but it's good to love and be loved, and share those thoughts and feelings often.

On our way home we stopped at Pistol River Beach State Park. It was an unplanned break at the start of a long and arduous trip home. There are about 42 or more places that I would have loved to stop and visit, such is the beauty and attraction of the miles between here and there, and it's hard being very pragmatic and merciless about not visiting every park, viewpoint and farm stand.


Ah, but it is so worthwhile to stop, to quiet the din of everyday chores and appreciate the beauty in the world, the humor, art and language, and the people in our company. So, we watered the chickens, and found the trail to the beach. We let time pass unaccounted and played at being treasure seekers, and pirates. We planned picnics and camp-outs and noted the size of rocks, the sound of the waves. Geoff, you would love this place. We were looking for agates and imagining having a home on the forested bluffs overlooking the ocean. As happy as we were to be there, we were even more anxious to come home to you, because we love you.

Coos Bay Sights


In Coos Bay farmer's market days are Wednesdays, May through October, from 9 a.m. until 3 p.m. Arrive early if you have your heart set on cranberry walnut bread. We came for fruit and baked goods, to leave a message with a gallery owner for my Mom, to visit "Threads That Bind", a wonderful quilt shop that sits right in the heart of the farmer's market, and to take in whatever sights there might be to enjoy. Sights like a tall sailing ship in the bay, slipping by Commercial Avenue.


Just behind the boys is the gallery where my Mom has jewelry for sale... Bay Moss Studio is a beautiful gallery, with many lovely examples of Oregon art. And those tables you see there are laden with all kinds of breads and nutty, fruity treats. I liked the cranberry-apricot bread I sampled.


And speaking of good food, Alex remembered our visit last year to Foodies Grill and we had to go back. Before I launch into gastronomic praise of Foodies: I am so tickled because when I Googled "Foodies," my recent post about them came up... I am happy to spread the good news about good foods! So, I was wrong about there only being 3 menu items. Did they expand? I dunno, but you can see for yourselves that the menu is small. Do not be dismayed... small menu, big flavor! Oh, I wonder if I can order some of that Blackberry Barbecue Sauce? Savory and sweet, and full of berry delectability. So, half a block up from the farmers market, just across from the fire station, look for a stand (bigger than a bread box, smaller than our minivan) and inside they are cooking delicious food and serving it with smiles and style. Max recommends the freshly blended strawberry coconut lemonade.
I recommend arriving hungry!


Honestly, we could have spent many days seeing sights just in Coos Bay and North Bend, and in the few square blocks where we went to the farmer's market, Threads That Bind quilt shop, Foodies, Bay Moss Studios and Leaf's Treehouse, we were not seeing all of the sights. It would have been fun to spend the afternoon in The Pottery Company, on Anderson Avenue, where we could have painted pottery. I think it could be fun to paint my own teacup and saucer, then turn it in to a bird feeder, like this one I saw in Leaf's Treehouse, "Your this-n-that Store."

In The World article about the reopening of the "Flea Market," the Leaf's said, “(We) live locally, and want to see this historical town noticed in people’s travels." Well, I certainly noticed. Their shop is full of old stuff, cool stuff, funky stuff, and it was a nice place to browse and treasure hunt. I had to bring home some those bird feeders and Maria found an armful of books she could not part with.


And yes this is the same place where we came across the Polish hens I posted about. Maria was so excited to have her picture taken with them. If ever a hen dressed for high tea, it was a Polish hen for sure. You might think I am satisfied with the zoo I have already, but seriously... I regret not bringing these 3 hens home with me. If you know where in So Cal I can get Polish chicks, please don't let me know!

Frosty Campers and No Spell-Check!

The boys insist they've been warm enough, camping in the tent. This morning there was frost on the ground, and all night there were no clouds to blanket the Earth, so I am sure it was very cold. Still, there are no complaints... not about the cold anyway.

Alex has been discovered by the local mosquitos, and even with only 2 bites his forearm is swollen, red and painful. I guess there is at least one reason to be thankful Chickenblog is not posting pictures! There are no mosquitos in the tent. Unfortunately the sneaky suckers have been finding us during the day, when we go on walks, and sit in the yard.

I wrote several posts yesterday, but obviously never got to a wifi spot. So, I have to debate with myself whether or not to post old news, or stick with current events. Most of yesterday's post was my long suffering tale of woe, becasue I lost, then found my original post. The subject gets redundant and boring, facts which I am compounding as I explain all of this, so I am going to drop it now...

Yesterday we made it to Coos Bay, to the farmer's market, and Foodie's. We sampled varities of cranberry breads, and bought sweet strawberries. Foodie's is the smallest, the most tiny restaurant ever and all 3 menu items are incredibly delicious. The parking lot hut serves Caribbean tacos and beef or chicken sandwiches, all with a homemade blackberry sauce, their speciality. Oh, so good.

Just around the corner from the farmer's market and Foodie's we stopped in a new antique mall. Sitting outside, waiting for a new home, what do you think I saw? Hens. Lovely, gentle, Polish hens! Oh my goodness was that a sight, and a temptation. The shopkeepr must have seen me coming; he was determined to convince me that 3 more hens in the back of mini-van, driving south for 20 hours was a perfectly reasonable proposal. Not sure how I walked away from that one. Have you seen Polish hens? All black with a ball of snow white feathers cover their heads, like a lady's hat. Adorable.

My visit to the feedstore outside of town gave me another point of view... I am trying to find a place that will sell chick feed by the pound. Most places want me to take home 25 pounds at once, which is a bit much to travel with. So at this last place the woman kept asking about my circumstances... "How many chicks? How big?" Finally she concluded that 25 pounds is not too much for 3 chicks, but when I explained in more detail that I will be taking said chicks and 4 children in our family car all the way back to So Cal, she finally got the picture and she said, rather matter factly, "Oh. You're crazy."

Yes, just a bit crazy, and also a bit worried. I've mentined my concerns about Amelia behaving like a rooster... well Pip is looking and behaving like a rooster. It's the tail feathers. They are not round at the ends and standing pertly. They rise up then taper to points that fall in little curled tail arcs... very telltale of a rooster's tail. I know Pip has been a favorite of many, and s/he is certainly dear to us, but anything that crows at 0-dark hundred in the morning will not be tolerated by anyone in our tidy little neighborhood. How much sooner would we be found out if there is a cocky-doodle-doer crowing?

Not all roosters are aggresive, and if we were in our own home I would gladly give Pip a trial, an opportunity to prove himself a mild and docile fellow. As it is, living in our rental palace, there is little choice but to begin a search for Pip's new home. I write this tearfully. It was foolhardy of me to jump into this venture. I should have known better. Sigh.

Even now, Geoff is working on the aforementioned lot with trailer... I would give it a more dignified title, if I weren't so determined to remain indifferent. It's a big lot and it has a small house, and if I enjoyed shopping for paint, flooring and bathroom fixtures, then we could call it a real gem! Let's just say it is full of potential. If only all of that potential and space were ours now, but short sales are not so short, and can actually take months before we even know whether we have a chance. Otherwise, there is very little to give me hope that we will be moving to our own place anytime soon. Our friends say how great it would be for us to stay in the area, but my enchantment with So Cal has long since waned.

Gee. This would be such a nice place to stick a pretty picture... something striking to lift the mood.

Back to Coos Bay... we made a stop at the children's resale shop, the one where 90% of Maria's clothes come from. We came packed for summer, but's still early spring here, and too cold for her favorite dresses. Fortunately, I had my usual success at the resale shop and Maria now has warm clothes to wear during our stay here, and for our winter ahead back home. Places, like Oregon and Wisconsin always have the best clothing for children in their thrift shops and resale stores... it must be the 4 seasons and real weather that account for the greater variety. Anyway, I am happy that Maria is snug and comfortable for our afternoon walks, and we'll be able to enjoy a beach day too.

It's already afternoon. It's has been a warm day, with a clear blue sky. It might feel late in the day, if it weren't for the fact that the sun will not disappear until long after 9 p.m., which is a funny thing. Even at 10 p.m., when I went to check the chicas, the sky was still faintly lit. William read several chapters of "Pippi Longstocking" to us last night, and I suppose we were staying up too late, but the internal clock cannot be persuaded to believe in bedtime, when the sky is luminous.

Delia is remarkable. As serious as her injuries are, she is taking the steps she can, and making the slow and steady progress that will lead to recovery. I know she is in pain, and I can imagine she has her fears and disappointments, but she is not letting much get her down. I think it is with a mix of humor and gratitude that she is coping with her circumstances. I wish the circumstances were much different. One day at a time. Thank you for all the prayers and kind words. Every bit helps. She has said, everyone should be praying for Ron. True, he could use our support and praise. He is caretaker #1, and we are thankful for his diligence and steadfast devotion.

Just for the sake of marking time:
June 18, 2008

Just Like The Old Days
No pictures, just like the early days of Chickenblog. Initially we had no photographs at all, and then we posted a select few. After awhile Geoff showed me how to encrypt the photographs and they could only be seen with a password. I still need to go through archives and unlock those. In recent years Chickenblog has been a photo bonanza, but until I get back to Garage Mahal and our lovely iMac, I will have to paint my views with my fancy way of talkin'.

Last night was the boys' 3rd night sleeping in a tent in the yard. Cold nights, down in the 40's, have not discouraged them in the least. There's is plenty of room in here to roll out their sleeping bags, but happily they are content to enjoy a classic summer vacation tradtion of comuning with nature, being one with the wilderness, even without the benefit of a campfire and marshmallows.

What they do have is a flashlight and a well-worn copy of The Lord of The Rings. Last summer they camped with The Hobbit. William and Alex take turns reading aloud. At home Max has been reading to Maria. When the house gets very quiet, I often find them together in Max's bed, and Max is reading from their favorite books. Campers reading in their tent, Max and Maria snuggled with a stack of books... those are 2 pictures I would love to post and remember for always.

In North Bend there is a wonderful children's resale shop, and today is farmer's market day in Coos Bay. See, I am trying to work myself up for a bit of shopping, with 2 things in mind: warm clothes for Maria and some cranberry-hazelnut bread. We came ready for summer weather, but it has been windy and cold, and not the least bit comfortable for sleeveless dresses. Most of Maria's clothes have come from the North Bend resale shop, so hopefully I can pick up some pants and sweaters and she'll be warm now and prepared for our colder season this winter. The only rationale I can think of for the farmer's market is that bread... it's so nutty, chunky, cranberrylicious. My mom says it's early in the season for fresh produce, but there is some chance farmers from warmer areas could come in.

And this is what I wrote when I couldn't find the above installment. Later, when I can sit in my own house with a full computer and other conveniences, I may delete all of this.

June 18, 2008... 12 minutes later

Arrggghh
This is nothing like the poetry I wrote and lost!! Geoff suggested I write my posts in the mail and then save it until I get to the wifi cafe. The idea is perfect, but my execution of the plan has been less so. Trying to find a way to save my descriptive, thoughtful and eloquent submission for Chickenblog, I managed to *blip* the entire entry. All gone. Vanished. Don't think I didn't gnash my teeth and cry a little. Now, instead of making an impression of sublime beauty and painting images of quaint days in meadows, and children reading beneath stars and moon... instead of all my deep thoughts and musings, we are left with me: Cranky and bitter me, typing up a cranky, bitter post about technical woes. Whaaaaa

I think I said something about not being able to post photographs, and how that's how Chickenblog began... with no pictures. Then I sentimentally described my brave sons sleeping for 3 nights in a tent, reading The Lord of the Rings aloud by flashlight. I talked about the cold and Maria's lack of appropriate clothing, and how I thought I might drive to Coos Bay, to the farmer's market and the resale shop. It was all so eloquent, so thoughtfully composed. Trust me... it was good stuff.

I know, the lack of photographs is a bummer, especially when my writing is so limited and hindered. Every 3 minutes Max or Maria feels compelled to ask me something, show me something or tell me something, and so my train of thought is derailed, detoured and deleted. Even now, I cannot write this paragraph without 9 varities of interruption. The lack of photographs is nothing compared with the lack of deep thoughts, continuity and focus.

Sure, maybe it's obvious to you that this might not be the right time to selfishly retreat to words and deep thoughts, to turn my back on precious children who are bound and determined to regale me with detailed descriptions of Earthworm Jim, but I am obviously not as clued-in as you are. I keep hoping that my firstpost will pop-up on the screen, or that I will suddenly feel comfortable and familiar with the strange laptop keyboard, so that I can type faster, with fewer errors. Yes, you probably can see what I cannot: It's time to call it quits, to set aside blogging and give it a rest already. There is no point in fighting the tide, in trying to reach for the Pulitzer, when I am destined for bathroom graffitti.

I'll try to save this post, such as it is, and maybe later I can say something pretty, and find a wifi spot, run spellcheck and post my deep thoughts and other musings. In the meantime, I am going to fold laundry. And if I cannot save this post, it might be for the best. Honestly.

Access!
We are here. "Here" being the Oregon Coast, grandma and grampa's house. We pulled in to the driveway Sunday afternoon. My Mommy was standing on her porch, and it was welcome sight. The chicas survived and so did we, and at last we were able to give Delia gentle, loving hugs, to see for ourselves that in time and with tender care she will be well again.

Geoff is back at Garage Mahal again. He flew south early Monday morning. We miss him already... imagine how much more I will miss him when we drive home without him. Sigh.

So. I have about 42 different things and thoughts I would like to share and record, but there are obstacles in the way. For one thing, I had to drive in to town, find a wifi cafe and figure all of that out. The children are settling in to their lunch, Maria has stopped whining about the strange pizza. Everything is "strange" when you are 3 years old and far from home, missing your daddy. The dial-up modem at the house is s l o w. (Sorry Mom, Ron, but it has to be said.) I can't post, because the cookies are disabled and the Internet service times-out in between pages. It gives me a tremendous appreciation for my mother and the fact that she manages to read Chickenblog at all.

Ironically, having 42 things I want to post about, I cannot decide on 1 subject to post about. It's hard to get in to the groove sitting in a public place, with my salad staring at me.

It's cold here... warmer today, but still colder than what we are used to.

I saw a 7 or 8 inch banana slug.

There are many, many flowers in bloom.

I came to see my Mommy, to help, to comfort. I feel like I could leave in a few days or stay the rest of the summer. You see, Ron is taking really good care of her. He is methodical and protective, nurturing. It is very comforting to me, to know she is loved and in such good care. She will need constant assistance and attention for many months. I think I am being helpful somewhat. Cooking, and retrieving this and that is good, and I plan on vacuuming, cleaning the fridge and doing some laundry, but... I dunno. I can see where we might be disrupting the rhythm they need to establish. The children are being good, and we are managing to not get in the way, but sometimes one person's idea of being out of the way cannot match another's. Does this make sense?

So, I need to find the balance: Stay long enough to help and leave before we impose, or wear them out.

Who wants to hear about the feed store at the end of the street? Alex, Maria and I walked there this morning. It's very close, and a dear place to visit. It's not at all fancy or meant to impress with first impressions, but the people that run it take in abandoned animals and to the best of their ability make them comfortable and safe, feed and shelter them. We were approached by a coal black pot bellied pig and Maria was astonished by the sight of her. She made a constant snuffling noise and lookied imploringly at us, and Maria launched in to a full scale dialogue with "BP." When BP ran along the fence line, trying to follow us, Maria pulled my hand and said, "I have to tell her sumpting." So, we paused, and Maria consoled BP, "You live here. I'm sorry. You cannot come to grandma's house. This is your house. Sorry pig."

We also met a very purrfect momma kitty and her woolly black kitten. We saw 3 rabbits and a few hens, 3 horses and a dog. The feed store is full of old things and collections, odds and ends, it smells sweet of alfalfa, there are treasures to be discovered. Walking back to Ron and Delia's Alex saw a quail, and we anticipated the buckets full of blackberries that will be coming. Now the spiny shrubs are full of blossoms, but we remember the sweet black jewels we enjoyed last summer.

Uh. What is free wifi protocol? We did order lunch and we aren't takng seats during a busy spell, but I do feel as though we should move on. Yes, time to move on. The children are looking at me a bit desperately, a bit b o r e d.

Geoff hopes I will do this everyday, but I think when he sees what we paid for lunch, he might settle for every other day!

In Case of Fire...


Happy Birthday Alex!

That's not what Alex woke to this morning. No, what he and everyone else woke to was me calling, "Geoff! There's a fire in the kitchen! Help!"*
My thoughts were immersed in a phone conversation with my grandmother, as she gave me the details and discussed her concerns about my mom's condition, when the pre-heat bell on the oven sounded, I turned to see huge flames coming from the oven. "Uh. Grandma, I have to go. There seems to be a fire."

Alex's single wish and specification for his birthday was croissants for breakfast. Sweet boy. Easy request. But the proofing croissants dripped butter, apparently, and the butter pooled on the bottom of the oven, and that is what caught on fire. The house filled with smoke... interesting to note we do not have smoke detectors. Stinky, stinky smoke and the croissants, that had looked so puffy and ready to bake, collapsed in a dejected heap... they looked sad, but not as sad as Alex.

Everyone put on shoes, drag a comb across your head. We are going to the French bakery. Thank goodness we have a French bakery to go to.

I cannot shelter them from the sad news, the series of unfortunate events. I cannot hide my anxiety and gloss over the setbacks, though I do try. Believe it or not, I do spare even Chickenblog all of the tragedies and gory details. But life is an uneven journey and in case of fire, gather your loved ones and make a new plan. Never give up. Never surrender!

*Geoff said, "You should have taken a picture of the flames for Chickenblog."
I laughed and said, "Oh, yes. That would say so much about me: I didn't have the wherewithal to throw baking soda on the fire, but here's a cool picture I took!"

Thank Goodness For Gardens, Water and Light


My mommy was going to be here today, for my brothers' and son's birthdays and for a promotion, for hugs and catching up, before she had to go back to Oregon to start a new job. Sunday night we got a call/s... it's a blur. Geoff told me she'd been in an accident, "She's okay." That's what we have to hear to save us from collapsing: She's okay. He's okay. It's okay. And considering what happened it is a miracle she is okay, though she is a long way from all better. My dad drove through the night to be with her, and my brother flew the next day. My other brother (happy birthday bro!) is going to be with her today.


Your prayers and healing thoughts would be much appreciated. For her, for me.


It's amazing how many times my mom has made the 20 hour drive, to come and see us, to help with babies, to visit and celebrate, to connect, and I always worry about those winding roads, the logging trucks, the long days... I think of how much love she has for us that she does this so regularly to see me and the kids and my brothers, their families, her mom and sister. We always wish for an opportunity to find some place where we can all be neighbors. We think it would be so wonderful to find each other in the same town or neighborhood, just around the corner, a short walk away.


It's a tremendous comfort to me that her husband is with her and caring for her. And I was glad Bill could fly up for a quick visit, to hold her hand. If she didn't have their company I would not hesitate to abandon everything and be with her. Instead I am trying to get my ducks chicks (thanks Pam!) in a row.

Fortunately we do not have to move. Garybob, the landlord, was appeased with an increase in the rent. We are still trying to make our trailer on land deal happen. It manages to get more complicated by the day. I say "I am detached," but of course that is a lie. In truth, my heart is saying Please, please, please let us make this our home. It's a mess, but we can fix it in time. Please. Please... I dunno.

So, let's see... I got the car serviced, which was a bit overdue, so that's good. Today I go to get my tooth serviced... somehow I don't think this will be as fast and easy as the oil change and tune-up. My visits with my crappy dentist of 4 years ago are haunting me again... have I ever shared the story of how he drilled through to my sinuses? He didn't say a thing and only stopped when Alex asked, "Why is my mommy bleeding so much?" Yeah, that's a good story!

There is an overwhelming amount of cannot be postponed school paper work that has to be turned in, checked-off, stamped and triple signed.

Alex's birthday is Thursday. He already knows his modest party is going to be postponed. He didn't complain at all, but I saw that look... the one that a mom always wants to turn into a smile. I can tell he's bummed.

My best friend didn't wait to be asked. She'll watch the cats, the 2 birds, the rabbit. I'll take care of the chicks. Don't ask. Seriously. I have some hard decisions to make.

I will not be driving to Chicago. For months I have been drawing up itineraries and deciding on routes, and I have also been thinking, Am I nuts?! Yes, a lot of waffling, but with strong leanings toward being with everyone in Chicago and then Wisconsin. Geoff is going and he'll be gone for a week. The children and I will be missing Geoff and a Midwest family memorial for Jim, Corm.

And in Mexico, my abuelos will have family, except for us, gathering to celebrate their 70th wedding anniversary. S e v e n t y! !Setenta años¡ Felicidades abuelos.


I hope I can get those chicks in a row, tie up loose ends and be ready to leave to Santa Rosa, then Oregon, by Friday. I think my screaming tooth might be the biggest obstacle. The children are such good travelers, so helpful and easy. We'll pack the bare minimum and be prepared to go with the flow, hopefully making things easier for my mom by cooking and cleaning and renting lots of movies, adjusting pillows, pulling slugs out of her garden!


Lola's Garden is looking so beautiful. Did you know that cosmos are drought tolerant, that they even thrive in bad soil? It's comforting, somehow, to know that good things are possible, even in less than ideal times and places.

Chickens Make Me Happy



A few years ago, missing our 2 acres and the 3 chicas we left behind, I decided to search the internet for other chicken bloggers. I Googled "chickens," "farmgirls," "cowgirls," and "garden loving, quilting, blogging women who miss their 2 acres and the chickens they left behind." I found so many lucky ladies, so many talented women, so many backyard hen farmers. It was sweet and sad. Makes me ashamed to admit, but I would pout and sigh and mumble, "They're living my life!" It's true. Sometimes I throw the saddest pity parties. But the sweet part kept me coming back for more and my appreciation and admiration grew.

I could not resist seeing what new ventures Farmgirl Susan and her sheep and chickens were up to. And I could practically smell good stuff coming out of her kitchen.


Then I would head over to "I Heart Small Farms" and posts like this would make me swoony and melancholy, and give me a yearning to know where and when and how I might find my way back to a garden of my own, to critters and free range hens. Other people's blogs open the world to me, and the best ones make me want to be better.


A good friend, smart and very well traveled, once said something like this: The highlight of any trip abroad is meeting someone from your own neighborhood. I love this. It rings so true and sweet. I remember when I was 10 years old and walking around in a tiny city in Central America. My brothers and I wandered into a barber shop, where an old (remember, I was 10) guy was enjoying a haircut. How did we figure out he was from the United States? I don't recall. But when we did figure out he was our compatriot, we were unmerciful. We could not be dissuaded from asking him everything under the sun about home. Even at my tender age I was aware that he was pestered by us, but it didn't matter... the 3 of us did our level best to get him all caught-up with our latest obsession. How could he not want us to tell him the entire plot of "Star Wars?" We were more than happy to reunite him with the bliss of American media and pop culture. OKay, maybe that isn't the best example of meeting someone from home while abroad, but it's the story I think of.


I think discovering some blogs is like traveling abroad and coming across someone that is just like me, or like the me I would like to be. I have had this lifetime of interests and quirks that I thought were mine alone, that I rarely shared anywhere or with anyone, and then in the blogosphere I kept encountering all of these people who were quirky like me. Frankly, I still find it shocking... not only are there other women who love aprons and vintage things, old sheets and mismatched dishes, crochet and patchwork, backyard hens, teacups, embroidery, taking pictures of anything and everything... not only was I finding people that shared all of these interests, passions and obsessions, but they were celebrating their interests. They are publishing, making, collecting, writing and enthusing their dreams and ideals. They are writing about creativity and conservation, about gardens and home schooling, about cooking and making and loving home and family.


Sometimes I feel like that 10 year old me, aching to connect with someone, anyone that speaks my language. Aching to share what I know, to point out how much we are alike. I feel that way when I visit "Posie gets cozy." It's like, "Hey, Alicia! I love what you do," and I am waving my arms in the air. "You and I have a lot in common. We could be friends!" I laugh out loud, because I recognize that yearning to feel connected and I know how funny it can seem too. So, when "Red Hen Studios" posts about old pillowcases and baby birds and boys and thrifting, I feel like I am visiting with a friend, a compatriot. I could say, "I like what you've done, and I've done something like that too," and she'd get it.

All those links in the sidebar lead to friends and strangers, and inspiration, to people who raise the bar, open doors, flip a switch and shine a light. The list keeps growing.

And truthfully, sometimes I still open a blog and sigh, she's living my life. I want so much and I want so little. I cannot apologize for wishing and hoping and wanting the things that I want. I can pause and give thanks for the good I do have, for the health of my children and the love of my family, for the community I enjoy in blogging.


This is one of those pauses. I have been hearing from other bloggers about the chicks and how much they want chicks, and I want to say, I recognize you. I know how you feel. I've been there. I am so lucky, I know. Laugh out loud with me, would you? Those chicks are so cute and stinky! They make the hugest mess, and I change the papers 2 and 3 times a day. They aren't half as cute as they were the 1st day, and they are growing so darned fast! Seriously, what was I thinking?! Sure, I am being daring and bold, but this might backfire at any moment, if we can't find a house of our own or if the landlord makes one of his unannounced visits. I keep having panic attacks about Benjamin taking advantage of an open door and a free moment alone with the chicas. How would that post read?: "The cat ate the birds. All are sad. Bad mom, bad." Gad, wouldn't that be horrible?! Enjoy the chicas with me and I will try to keep it real!


So, there is the 'whole picture' and still, I love my chicas. The chicks make me so happy. And there was a time when I would have said little or nothing, just downplaying my interests and happiness, but I don't want to be that way any more. On the contrary, I am seeking more opportunities to say I am living my own life! My own quirky life. My life with cowgirl boots and suburban chicks, with graying hair and thrift shop skirts, with homeschooled children, and big dreams. Gee, I just love these moments, however rare, when I feel like I might possibly be progressing, maturing, learning. And I hope you find ways to live your very own life too. It's a hoping-wishing feeling, because I think it would be wonderful if we could all enjoy the things that make us happy. So, I hope you can make some dreams come true and find friends to share your quirks with, and if we have some things in common, I hope you'll visit again and we can laugh out loud together.

Descendants of Dinosaurs
There are, of course, many alternate titles for any given post, but I had to use this one sooner or later. When we see them run, that ungainly, pedaling motion... when we see their falcon-eyed stare, watch them stalk a fly... we laugh and say it: Descendants of Dinosaurs!


We are still calling her Amelia, and it seems to suit her. I suppose, like most pets, she will acquire nicknames. Her salt on pepper speckles are appearing. She looks more and more like a Plymouth every day. She looks more like our Luna, our little moon bottomed chick of years ago.


Why do I love these funny faces? The stern profile, the flighty demeanor? They are messy. Oh so messy, with no regard for dedicating 1 corner to bodily functions. They scratch their floor in a constant quest for something, anything to peck at. Peck-peck. Peck-peck. Peck, peck, peck, peck, peck.


Pip. Pippi Longstocking. And she is peck-peck pecking, which is all she does, when she isn't trekking off in search of new places. She is the adventurer, the intrepid exploradora. Is this the nature of Ameraucanas? One guide calls her personality "fun." Yes. Yes, Pippi is fun. Messy and fun. Messy and brave. Messy and cute. And messy too.


Pretty Pip. Her feathers are still downy, still silky and light. It will be interesting to see what patterns emerge, and what color her