The Tale of Little Dragon.

Once upon a time, there was a little dragon who was very thick and wide.  She would crouch in the rocks by the big blue house and sit and listen.  Sometimes the noises perplexed her and she was compelled to see what made such strange noises.  She would scuttle and scurry, but if the people from the blue house came out, she would lie low and pretend to be looking elsewhere.  She didn't want the people to see her, to know she was watching.
Days would go by and she would inch closer to peer near windows, and then scurry off at the first sign of activity.  Curiosity was too much.  There were so many interesting sounds.  Children laughing, phones ringing, games whirring and beeping.  She felt compelled to see these people.  Yet she knew she shouldn't.
Today she made it to the arbor door, and as I stumbled upon her, she gave me an "oh-you-don't-see-me-I-am-not-going-anything-wrong" look.
I flicked her with the hose and she scurries away.
But like a good little bug eater, this little dragon, both thick and wide, will scurry back, drawn to the noises of my home.

I love fabric!

I love fabric.  The colors, the designs, the textures......
Here is what I ordered for the coming holiday season:

An ugly ugly thing.......

A person who destroys another's reputation may be referred to as a famacide, defamer, or slanderer.

 Slander is the spoken or transitory form of defamation of character, a legal term that refers to a falsehood presented as true which could harm the reputation of a person or entity. Slander also encompasses body gestures as in the case of sign language. If defamation of character is placed in a fixed form, as in the case of a sign, published paper, film or recording, it is considered libel. In short, slander is temporarily uttered or gesticulated, libel is published or otherwise fixed.

Eye Spy.......

I woke up today with Pink eye.  So annoying.  I hate how I constantly feel gunk build up and smudge up my vision.
So, I spend part of my morning wiping my eyes and putting in the burning acidic drops.  Caitlyn calls to me from her room, can I tell her what animal is down in the grass, outside her window.
My eyes blurred I looked down from her second floor window and said, "That is a baby bunny eating grass."
Caitlyn squeals with glee, announces she is going to catch it and runs downstairs.
Since we live out in the country, catching wild animals is considered a normal activity, nothing of concern.
I go downstairs and Caitlyn comes back in, flushed.
"That was so NOT a baby bunny"
"Well what was it?"
"I went to catch it and it turned and I saw it's long skinny rat tail.  It was a RAT!"

I think I need more eye drops.

And how was your day?

What is brown and white and smells all over?

Ugh.  Dogs.  What is with their choice of canine cologne?  Our darling dog, Holly, went out in the back yard.  This is a normal activity for her.  There is sun, there is shade, there is grass to eat and birds to chase and a much better choice of spiders than are in the house.  So, the kids and I made second breakfast (yes, I am raising Hobbits), and afterwards, I went to let the dogs back in.
In walks Cricket.  I wait.  No Holly.  I call.  No Holly.  I go into the back and there are only safe and happy spiders.  No Holly. 
I scan the pasture for where she would normally be and where our brother ducks were out in the tall weeds playing "Whack a Duck".  No Holly. 
I gather the kids, all hands on deck.  The children are well trained.  They put on shoes, grab leashes, my purse and the van keys.
We start cruising.  Where would a tired (I walked her a mile this morning), well fed (somewhat fluffy), neurotic dog go?
We go to the turkey farm in case she has a death wish.  No Holly.  We go down the street to where there are some dogs behind a fence that she never gets to play with.  No Holly.  We drive around the old wheat field, down the dirt road to the other house with a dog.  No Holly.  We drive up the highway and around to Mom's because she has a canine visible cosmic sign over her house that seems to beckon all dogs to come and live with her.  No Holly.  The one dog in the world that hasn't shown up on Mom's porch??
We drive back toward our house, past Joan's.  No Holly.
As we pull up our street I see a blur of brown and white, running, four on the floor, across the pasture it runs, flies through our front yard, jumps the fence and sits on our back porch.  Holly.

I am not sure if I want to hug her or hurt her.  Then I lean down, thinking, hug and the smell hits me.  I look closer.  Yellowish brown smears on her ear and neck.  One side of her body is smothered in.....ick.  Spooge. Vile offal.  The cast off of a large herbivore.  The remnant's of the south end of a north bound bovine.
Cow pie.  Buffalo chip.  Meadow muffins, land mines.  On my Holly dog.  She doesn't understand my confusion.  She doesn't understand my instant revulsion.  I choke back an instant gag reflex.
"YOU NEED A BATH!"
I couldn't have said a harsher thing to her.  Her eyes widened, her ears went from pricked to drooped.  She dropped to her tummy and wiggled her slathered self at me adoringly, given homage to the alpha female.  I wasn't buying it.
"Bath".  I only said it to drive home my disgust.
  It worked.  So, because I am heartless, I said it again.  At this point she looked ready to jump the fence again.  So we leashed her.  And filled Cricket's wading pool with water.  And got the "good" shampoo.  And hauled her smelly self into it.
Defeat.  She stood.  We scrubbed, we hosed, we rinsed, we lathered.  We squirted, we rubbed, we scraped, we gagged, we soaped some more.
In the end, Holly now smells like oatmeal and coconut.  Her coat is back to her normal color.  She is walking small.  But she is home and safe.

And I now smell like wet dog.

And how was your day?

Pico, Pasta Salad and 'Pologies

My kitchen has new counter tops. In my joy of having the command center back, I took the time to make Pico and some rocking pasta salad. Since the kids are in a summer program and I had the house to myself, I cranked up the Beach Boys and let my fingers fly.
Pico for me is an easy thing. Chop, chop chop, mix, set.
Pasta salad, too, is a time tested tradition. While I chopped and sorted, scraped and cut, my thoughts flit from place to place. By the time I had set the pasta to cooking, my thoughts drifted back to my father.
You see, yesterday, he came out to inspect the tile. It met with his approval, which is a strange thing to say, considering it is my house, but I respect and value his opinion. Then he gave me a "dad-look" and said that he heard I wrote about him on my blog. He didn't mention if he had read it or not, or had merely heard about it from someone else. My blog apparently gets around.
I went back while the pasta boiled (may I suggest fiori pastas the next time you make salad, they are really pretty for summer) and re-read my blog.
So I am writing an apology. This story wasn't really about my Dad asking for help. It was about my father and I learning together and mastering a new task. I love my father beyond measure, warts and all.
He is often not an easy man to get along with. But never have you met a more generous person. He will open his house, his tool box and his wallet. He will give you help and oh, yes, his opinion.
He makes a mule look biddable, but an ox look under worked. He has never been one to shirk. He worked longer hours and more days ( except for maybe Steve and there are a lot of similarities there!).
Now in his retirement (which he still grumbles about) he is not above learning. And learning, as he will tell you, learning is a life long process. He plays golf and dotes on his grandchildren.
So my previous blog was meant to show that Dad and I both learned this new chore. We both brought something to it. I didn't work with Dad much in the office (ask Jennifer) but I have been my Dad's side kick on so many other projects.
From my Dad's side, I learned to paint and wall paper. I learned how to transplant trees in the fall. I learned out to use a hose to get PVC pipe under a sidewalk. I learned about changing tires, loading moving vans, household chemicals, how to conduct yourself in an interview, the nature of softly treating animals, how to play tennis and how to love.
I saw him love my mother (still does). Not with overt displays, but sometimes with extreme subtly. I have seen him love my sister and myself. We were everything to him and he worked hard to make it so. But he still coached soccer and helped hold horses at shows.

So as my pasta has now come to full al dente (another Dad thing), I leave you with this.











My father, flawed as he is, is a great Dad, Pop-pop and man. He has imperfections, and as we know, there are NO perfect people. Dad had no sons. He had two daughters. He couldn't have been happier.
I am a lot like my Dad. And that is just fine by me.





And how was your day?

Practice Practice Practice

This is a tale about patience. This is a tale about knowing when you are wrong and can't go any further. And above all of admitting when you need some help.

The enemy:




A very simple and valuable thing. A round bale of wheat hay. An item of importance to most people who own large herbivores. An item that stand over six feet tall and weighs about 1200 pounds. This item cannot be picked up and tossed into the bed of a pickup truck.



This is the tool. A simple and very creative trailer/hauler. The hauler is backed up to the bale, the forks are slid under the bale. A hand crank pulls the bale up into a semi reclining position. The bale is driven to where it is needed. The hand crank lowers the bale in place. The trailer is pulled forward about three feet. The crank is used to lift the forks, flipping the bale onto it's flat surface. The end.
Or so it should be.

Enter my father. My father is an intelligent man who took up hobby farming in his golden years. He, with the help of a knowledgeable friend, grew wheat on his 40 acre plot. That is a postage stamp in these parts.
Good snow. Good sun. Good rain. Good wheat.
Cutting. Curing. Baling.
Hungry horses.
Borrow a hay hauler.
Dad has an older tractor, hence forth be known as Gertrude, that is almost as old as him. It has grumpy gears that don't like to catch, a halfway clutch (won't engage until halfway or better) and a very reluctant fuel gauge.,
Dad had me come out to the field while he drove Gertrude. He had me sit and watch as he tried over and over to line up the trailer with the bale. Gertrude turned left, Gertrude pulled forward, Gertrude turned right, Gertrude backed up. Miss, miss, miss, miss. I sat on the little lawn tractor, which I used to get out in the field because Dad doesn't allow hitchhikers, texting and playing sudoku on my phone.
Finally Dad reluctantly agrees that no, he can not line this up. I casually mentioned that I loaded the last one, with the truck when I couldn't see the trailer. Steam slowly seeped from his ears.
He climbed down (a feat in it's self, considering his bum hip) and grumbled about the nature of poor Gertrude. A tractor has no safeties, a tractor is raw power, it will kill you. Then he was angry that I was "doing the gears wrong and it was scaring him". I tried to not breathe fire back and calmly mentioned that this was my first time with Gertrude and that maybe if he would explain the gears, then maybe I would know them.
More steam, head shaking and some mild stomping. I know there were a host of swear words waiting expectantly at the gate, but my Dad has always been a gentleman about not swearing in front of the ladies of the family. Steve has informed me that he knows enough words and phrases to make a drunk marine blush.
Swearing aside, I take ten minutes to undo his line up and to catch the bale. It is cranked up. I am dismissed from Gertrude with a jerk of the thumb and remanded to my lawn tractor.
He takes the bale out of the field and down to the turn out for his horses. He moved Gertrude along the fence, turning the corner and I am beginning to wonder if he is just going to keep circling.
Through hand signs and yelling over Gertrude's cranky roar, I learn that he wants to back the bale into a corner. I sigh. Two and a half hours have passed since he needed my help in this. It was past 6:30 and I had four kids that were starving for dinner because all of the yummy but nutritionally vague snacks my mother provided were not filling the void that only whining to mom can fill.
Tack is gone, subtly has flown the coop. I yell back to him, "We just spent 45 minutes proving you can't back up!"
He gave me the patented "dad look" that said my complete lack of respect had been noted. He did, however, put Gertrude in park and we went to lower the bale. I leaned on the crank, and the lock didn't budge. I leaned harder and lifted both feet off the ground. The lock didn't budge.
Because I know when I am up against the wall, I called out, "I don't have enough mass to unlock the gears!"
Dad yells back, "That's a first". Lovely.
He climbs down, once again, a long procedure and we fix the locking mechanism. I lower the bale as he starts the process of climbing back up. I then ask him to pull forward three feet. He fights Gertrude into gear and pulls up six, lurches back one and motions for me to lever up the forks to tip the bale over. Crank, crank, crank, slip. Too far forward and the forks don't have any leverage and the bale rocks on it's rim. He makes a face and I think I see a thought bubble above his head, mixed symbols floating, #@$%$%^. Maybe I was wrong.
We both take up the task of pushing and leaning on the upper edge and manage to heave and push the bale over. Hay slivers and chafe filter into my hair, my eyes and worse, my bra.
Dad then announces that the round bale holder needs moved into place.
I loose my patience and inform him that I have four hungry kids waiting in his backyard and a husband who has contacted me twice, wondering where I was. I was granted mercy.

The following day, I get the phone call. I can have a bale of hay. Yipee! I have to help again. Yikes.

Dad pauses and yells, which way should I turn?
Angels trumpeted from the heavens, planets previously lost, found alignment, millions saw the face of God in the clouds.
We managed to load the bale in record time.  We haul it to my house, the horses welcome it with fast and happy teeth.
We off  load the bale and manage the flip, prefect.  Dad never had to dismount.  He cranked Gertrude into high gear and sped her home at an amazing ten miles per hour.

In the end, Dad has learned to ask and accept help.  I learned to have patience with him.  In  the end, I think we both should practice more so we can get our time down even better!

Practice, Practice, Practice.

And how was your day?