Archive for the ‘Chronicle’ Category
Rescued Forever
How long does it take to rescue an animal? I suggest that it takes forever. Once a horse is rescued, it is (hopefully) never not rescued after that.
Think of the hypothetical question: How long will you be a parent? Forever, of course. Kids don’t stop being your children when they turn into adults.
Every time we serve up the buckets of cracked grains in the morning and afternoon, I feel the sensation of rescuing these horses from a time in their past when they weren’t being given enough to eat.
In the three and a half years these horses have been living with us, we’ve witnessed a lot of changes in them. However, even after all that time, I don’t believe they have fully processed the neglect they suffered. They all still show disinterest in being hugged, although they now allow us to get face-to-face with them and occasionally accept some hand scratches.
Nurturing their horse spirit as often as possible is part of the forever rescue. I watched them strike poses of high alert when I showed up outside the back pasture fence line on the ATV pulling a trailer filled with broken blocks of the demolished old chimney crown.
I’ve seen them lay down to nap when I am roaring around on the 4-wheeler plowing snow so I don’t think that was what they were reacting to. It was more likely the trailer that was bothering them. Plus, I was lifting blocks and tossing them into the drainage ditch. That may have looked suspicious to them.
It’s good to see them run around and then move in for a better view. This is their environment, and they are policing it accordingly. If something potentially threatening is unfolding, they want to know as much about it as possible.
The good news is that they are able to settle down quickly and get back to lounging around like royalty once they determine the odd thing in the area is not a threat.
And isn’t lounging like royalty something every forever-rescued creature deserves to be able to do?
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Quality Hay
We received a delivery of new hay on Friday afternoon. Since we are caring for horses for the rescue organization “This Old Horse,” the hay was procured by one of their staff. I don’t believe we have ever received hay twice from the same source in the years we’ve had these horses.
Of the last two batches we’ve received, one was much better described as “straw,” and the other was primarily a hair-like grass blade of little substance. Each time, we believe it will be just fine, but the horses soon demonstrate whether they think it’s good hay or not.
Friday’s batch showed up in a hay wagon, not strapped to a flatbed trailer, and the farmer, Josh, radiated a feel-good energy that both Cyndie and I perceived. These were promising first impressions.
Johanne told us this was organic hay because the field where it was grown is leased from a farmer who operates under completely “organic” principles. Works for us.
We tossed and restacked 150 bales from the hay wagon to the shed, and I didn’t notice a single bale that looked odd. One thing Cyndie and I have learned over the years is that our impression of hay being “good” doesn’t amount to a hill of beans if the horses don’t like it. That would prove to be the ultimate test.
Once the wagon was empty, we swept up a full wheelbarrow of loose scraps that had fallen from bales. Cyndie then included a mix of those scraps along with the old hay in the nets she topped off when we served up the horses’ evening feed buckets.
When I checked on the horses later, I found them all feeding on the hay bags even though they hadn’t finished the grain in their buckets.
They must have smelled it and couldn’t resist. They obviously liked it!
I’ve written before about how much incidental grass grows in the packed gravel driveway where hay scraps fall in front of the hay shed. I couldn’t get grass to grow there if I tried, but doing nothing resulted in more turf than gravel.
That gave me an idea. In October, I added compost fill to the slope of our new lookout knoll to cover the barren, sandy edge of the slope and, ultimately, improve it to become a mowable grade.
We were planning to plant grass seeds on the improved slope in the spring, but why wait? Cyndie raked up as much of the leftover hay scraps as possible from the ground where the hay wagon had parked. Logically, much of the grass seed probably stayed behind to thicken the grass already growing there, but any fraction remaining is now moved to the lookout knoll.
We’ll still probably toss more seeds on the slope in the spring, but it feels like we are helping nature to work with us a little bit by covering the surface with hay scraps.
Especially since the horses are showing us that it’s good quality hay.
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Crown Replacement
The latest, and hopefully last, home improvement project of the fall is a replacement of the concrete crown on our chimney. The structure is 34 years old and was cracking and headed for increasingly problematic water penetration. On Friday, work began in earnest, beginning with the demolition of the old crown.
Just because it was starting to crack in places didn’t mean it was going to simply fall apart in Jason, the contractor’s hands, after a few blows from his heavy-duty hammer. The old masonry put up a fight that forced him to spend twice the time he expected the demo to take.
Watching his partner, Charlie, muscle the massive chunks down three ladders over and over again made my muscles ache in sympathy. Especially knowing he is going to need to muscle buckets of new cement up three ladders over and over again when they pour the new crown.
Luckily, he gets the weekend between each phase.
From a safe vantage point on the ground, I watched them work up there and several times felt my nerves wobble as they moved around in awkward positions with awkward loads or wielding power tools with dangly power cords.
As they cut into the point where stones end, and concrete began, the dust blew into the air, looking like smoke coming out the top.
When Jason finally arrived last Wednesday, several weeks after it was hinted they could fit us into the schedule, he was alone and warned he would probably only be able to complete initial preparations. His partner was out unexpectedly that day due to a death in the family.
The next day, Thursday, would be unavailable because of doctor appointments. I had told the company that Wednesday was a good start because we had company coming over the weekend, hoping they would be done by then.
What can ya do? On Friday morning, Jason checked one last time before showing up to ask whether I wanted them to wait until Monday to start making a mess of things since we had people coming for a visit.
“No!”
I didn’t want any more delays, and the weather was supposed to be perfect, and it was just Cyndie’s brother bringing his new “friend” and her kids to see the place for the first time, and it would be no big deal if the place looked under construction. Get ‘er done.
The original plan was to break up the old crown in the morning and pour the new crown in the afternoon, but that isn’t the way things worked out. After they got the old crown removed, they needed to do some additional grinding of the stones around the top to create a flat surface to secure the framing for the new pour.
It’s very satisfying to see that every aspect of this project is beyond my DIY capabilities. It makes the not-insignificant expense easier to accept.
In the end, it will probably be similar to the cost of a new crown from a dentist, which is a steal because these guys are installing a crown in the equivalent environs of a circus high-wire act.
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Long Trip
By the end of my third blissful day of isolation from any news, I was briefly thrown back into the repugnant reality of our election outcome by a video post someone shared with Cyndie. We watched it together. A man speaking directly to the camera, speaking to the majority who chose to elect a person who, in my opinion, is so unfit to lead this country that what just happened wouldn’t be believable as a plot in some fictional story.
The harsh reality of our situation –sane people, marginalized people, everyone in countries around the world who didn’t even have a vote– came rushing back to my consciousness in a flash.
I feel like I am living in the movie “The Sound of Music,” and a car of thugs from the new regime might be showing up any day to insist we fly their flag above our doorstep.
If I were to respond in the manner of my personal philosophy, I would conjure feelings of love for the people who have chosen the next President. I’m feeling rather hypocritical in my failure to achieve this for them as a group at the moment. Maybe on an individual basis, I could muster some meager successes. Love the person, not their intentions?
Stop the madness; I want to get off.
In an attempt to return to my happy place, my vacation from the daily news cycle, I recall camping trips where I was completely isolated. There would be no news if I were on an expedition to a remote place. I would be justified in a sole focus on watching my steps, guarding myself from the elements, eating for fuel, and absorbing the beauty and wonder of my surroundings.
I would like to get back to my odyssey of living free from depression on a small rectangle of forest and fields, caring for the land and a few rescued animals, and exploring ways to share love with family, friends, and strangers alike. I’m interested in returning to being able to sleep through the night.
I’m not confident I’ve amassed the necessary provisions. I’m not aware of having any trustworthy maps. I guess I haven’t really planned for this journey. It wasn’t my idea. I guess my expedition is more like being lost at sea.
Ah, but I’ve got my dignity. I’ve got my pride. I’ve got millions of like-minded people who know exactly how I’m feeling. I’m confident we can get through the challenges of the days ahead. But no one likes platitudes. We can’t phrase our way through this trip.
We need to feel our feelings and be honest with ourselves in our choices about what comes next. For my mental health, I intend to continue avoiding the site and sounds of one person in particular until such time I feel better able to cope.
I’m hoping the mountain I am about to climb will be for singing and not as an escape to a safer place.
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Appreciating Here
Day two of my intentional news avoidance exercise was a smashing success yesterday. The resulting calm was doubly rewarding when compared with the week before when junk mail and phone spam were at an all-time high. The morning began with a thick fog, which gave the early routine a wonderfully mysterious feel.
Sometimes, the fog puts the horses on edge because they rely on visibility to survey for potential threats. Yesterday, they weren’t showing heightened nerves and promptly buried their noses in their feed buckets, which puts them in an almost vegetative state after one mouthful.
Asher was incredibly patient with me as I traipsed around the paddocks, scooping manure into the wheelbarrow. I rewarded him with an extended walk in the north loop field before heading back to the house for his breakfast.
We revisited that field later in the afternoon, and he went wild following the scent of some creature. There were several circles where deer had laid down that interested him but it is known that bunnies live in that field, too.
Other visitors we’ve seen in that field include skunks, raccoons, foxes, pheasants, turkeys, and grouse. However, the culprit that probably most interests Asher is the neighbor’s cat that makes regular incursions into our territory.
Standing in the field while Asher rooted around, I felt a wave of renewed appreciation for this place we call home. We’ve had some rain to take the edge off the drought, and the sun was out all afternoon, warming things considerably.
We stopped for a pause in the rocking chair at the lookout knoll on the top of the first hill on the driveway. From that vantage point, we couldn’t see anything wrong with the world. We all know that isn’t true, but it makes the tranquility here all the more precious.
It practically obligates me to banish harsh news media from disturbing our peace.
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Utmost Avoidance
The extreme level of distress I’m feeling over witnessing the election of an authoritarian government led by such a jerk alerts me to my white male heterosexual privilege. I dared to hope. I assumed that an overwhelming majority of people in this country would choose the ethical leader and preservation of our democracy.
I am so aghast over the implications of having all the threats made by the Republican candidate for US President now able to be acted upon; it has me uncertain about how to cope.
That’s when it occurs to me that this is how it must always feel for the many oppressed people for whom this is just another Thursday. Generations of unjustly marginalized people have succeeded in carrying on in the face of enslavement, or their nation’s people being forced onto reservations or forced into internment camps, denied housing, denied jobs, and prohibited from loving whomever they choose.
At my first job after tech school, I discovered I had been lied to about a base salary. I quit on the spot. I knew I would find another job, a better job. I cold-called a company and was given an offer after one interview. No one ever hindered my ability to get a loan and buy any of the homes in the places I chose. No one follows me around a store, watching my every move. I’ve never been harassed or threatened on the street for the way I look, how I wear my pants or who I choose to love.
There is an SNL skit depicting the 2016 election night reactions of a group of white people in an apartment with Dave Chappelle (and eventually, Chris Rock) reacting; the majority being oblivious to their privilege, Dave and Chris commenting in ways that show the comparison of their perspectives and revealing the clueless viewpoints of the others.
I don’t mean to diminish the truly threatening prospects of allowing small-minded people to take control of our entire country. I don’t want my shock over the election results to dishonor others who have been living under unjust discrimination of any flavor throughout lifetimes.
It is what it is. I am resisting the urge to put up a billboard-sized sign on the back of a semi-trailer with a curse word in front of you-know-who’s name or “Not My President” like the ones that have soiled Wisconsin landscapes for the past four years, but I realize we need to be better than that.
I really do want to offer respect for those who have maintained their dignity throughout generations of oppression and rise above vindictive antagonisms at this point. As long as Cyndie and I are able, we will guard our precious property from rancor and resume cultivating peaceful and loving energy, which we will beam out into the world like a beacon of goodness for others to find and absorb.
If something happens in the news that we need to know about, we trust friends and family will let us know. Otherwise, we have decided to aim for the utmost avoidance of all news media. Luckily, we can still safely watch “Shrinking.”
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Needed Distraction
Today, we are granted a welcome distraction from election results in the form of chimney contractors reportedly planning to show up around 9:00 a.m. The crown of our chimney, which is currently more flat than crowned, is cracking to the degree that I have ordered it to be replaced.
This is an image taken by a drone, which, in addition to the cracking concrete, reveals the ceramic extension on the left is disintegrating. If the date on the side of the chimney by the floor inside the house is accurate, this masonry is 34 years old.
I’m almost twice that old, and I’ve only recently started to crack. I guess I find ways to shelter myself from extended exposure to extremes of hot and cold temperatures and prolonged abuse by ultraviolet radiation.
As long as they are climbing around up there, I’m having the entire height of stones and masonry freshly sealed against the elements in hopes of giving it another 34 years free from trouble.
Doing expensive maintenance projects in my mid-60s frequently brings me to the conclusion that I shouldn’t need to worry about it again in my lifetime. Our shingles are reaching the end of their life, so managing a re-roof will be another thing I can do for the last time in my life.
I need this distraction to keep me from perseverating on my chances of ever getting to vote for a woman for President again in my lifetime. Will I live long enough to see the Electoral College abolished? Will perception and reality ever become identical?
Never mind all that. I’m busy making sure contractors have everything they need to make quick work of this chimney job and get out of here without leaving a trace behind except for the smooth and shiny completion of their work.
Then, I’m going to hang out with our dog and the horses because they don’t know anything about an election or what difference the outcome will make. What kind of bliss that must be.
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Election Again
Every four years, whether people like it or not, our country holds an election for a President. Today, if you are a US citizen and haven’t already, VOTE!
Thinking about the last time the bum, whose name I don’t even like to mention, stumbled into an election win, I looked up my previous posts from November 2016 to see my reactions. I was too upset for words and simply posted an image two days in a row.
Reading old posts from 8 years ago, I was also reminded that that was when we transplanted the tree to the center of the labyrinth and finished building the chicken coop. At least I had good distractions back then.
Today, I am ready for a landslide victory for sanity and our democracy. Let the lying cease. Put an end to the political ambitions of the worst version of a candidate I’ve ever seen garner public support in my lifetime.
Cyndie and I plan to wait for the crowd of people voting before they go to work to thin out before we head to our polling place to join the crowd of retired folks showing up to beat the crowd that will show up over the lunch hour.
If the mean guy loses, he has prepared his followers for the old lie that the election was stolen from him. I’m busy trying to wrap my head around the inexplicability of him not being incarcerated for even one of his many crimes.
May today be the beginning of my phone no longer pinging relentlessly with desperate campaign pleas.
May the United States of America accomplish the milestone of electing the first woman President in our history.
May all the exaggerated fears of the cultish followers and spineless Republican politicians who have kowtowed to the mean guy for the last 8 years be swiftly proven unrealistic and overblown.
Most of all, may the outcome of the vote tally be so obvious that little delay is needed for the results to be made official.
Let’s do this thing.
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Perfectly Wet
Precipitation fell slow and steady all day yesterday, giving us the perfect moisture for growing roots to soak up before the ground has frozen solid for winter.
We didn’t let the shift of clocks back to standard time influence much of our normal routine, but our later morning arrival at the barn seemed to surprise a large rodent. We had entered through the back door, and as I was moving through the darkness toward the light switches, I heard a squeak and noticed Asher hop and twist.
A flip of the switches revealed a rat out in the middle of the floor. I suspect Asher had chomped the poor thing once as it was making no effort to dash for cover. I scooped it up with the manure rake and, after one last bonk to end any suffering, offered the barn pest a hot burial in a compost pile.
Based on the vast network of tunneling occurring in the sand floor, it is easy to assume that there is probably more than just that one culprit lurking about. It is really difficult to discourage unwelcome pests when feeding horses cracked grains that result in endless spillage.
The mares aren’t very fastidious about constraining the leakage from their mouths exclusively within the edges of the mats we put out for that purpose. There are cracked oats and corn scattered far and wide in the vicinity of the barn overhang.
The barn pigeons are in their glory, and the flock has grown to city park proportions with this abundance of food. The rats are probably getting their fair share.
We are employing a variety of attempts at eradication or, at the very least, discouragement to avoid the rats reaching a population approaching the pigeon flocks. Apparently, the neighbor’s cat that regularly prowls our grounds doesn’t put much pressure on rats residing in the barn.
Walking toward the house after chores, I noticed Cyndie chose the grass over the pavement. The wet conditions have left the paddocks muddy, so striding across the grass is a way to wash some of the grime off boots before entering the house.
The moisture was so needed, so perfect; I’m of no mind to complain about a little autumn mud.
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Random Distribution
Our wet driveway near the big willow tree served up an interesting display of randomly distributed fallen leaves yesterday morning. Nature providing opportunities for digital desktop wallpaper patterns or something along those lines.
By this morning, everything had dried up and most of those leaves had been scattered by the wind. What a difference a day can make.
Thursday, stepping outside was an exercise of stoicism in the face of 40 mph wind gusts blowing sleety rain and snow into our faces. Hunching against the onslaught, we wrestled our trash and recycling bins from the house to the end of the driveway.
The brain interprets the harsh conditions, triggering the autonomic response to put the body into survival mode despite the lack of that extreme level of threat. The difference this morning is striking.
Asher and I were on our own for morning chores and enjoyed calm and comfortable early November conditions. The horses were angelic and mostly calm. Mia was a little jumpy about approaching her feed bucket because it was hung under the overhang where we had moved her due to the rain and snow. The electric fence near there can be annoyingly snappy from moisture and she doesn’t like it when that happens.
I unplugged the power to appease her and allow feeding time to commence without further fussing.
On the way back to the house, as the sun’s rays were just beginning to appear through the thick pine grove that forms our eastern horizon, an almost perfect orange circle with a shadow in the middle lit up on the green shingles of our roof. It honestly looked like someone was shining the “bat-signal” distress alert on our house.
I wondered if someone had mistaken me for the caped crusader.
As I got closer and more sunlight was beginning to speckle other places along the peak of the roof, I could actually discern the outlines of the pine branch that was creating the bat-symbol-looking shadow across the curiously circular spray of sunlight.
Very unexpected from so far a distance to the trees.
A random distribution of a fascinating moment bestowed upon us to complement the wild weather conditions experienced just two days prior.
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