First Test
Despite my desire to get the already too long grass mowed yesterday, due to an all-afternoon soaking precipitation on Thursday that delayed getting started early, I ended the day without ever having turned the key on the lawn tractor. As so often happens, activities unfolded with total disregard for my feeble plans.
Knowing we had an appointment scheduled for George to trim the horse’s hooves at noon, I chose to dip into a project down at the barn, finally assembling the shade gazebo that we purchased over a year ago. I threaded nuts on bolts for hours on end throughout the intense afternoon heat.
Cyndie provided valuable support, including going to the trouble of making a temporary fence to enclose the horses on some of the too-long grass outside the paddock, so they could do some “mowing” for me.
At the end of the day, we decided to save the work of stretching the canvas over the top for this morning when we would have fresh energy. That turned out to be a really smart decision, especially since I have yet to drive the anchors into the ground.
In the middle of the night, we were startled awake by an incredibly intense storm. We both fully expected to find the spindly frame tossed into a tangled mess, pressed up against the round pen rails nearby. Lightning flashed at a shocking rate, wind stressed our house, and the power went off for a couple of hours.
The generator kicked in perfectly, but the sound of it tended to fuel the dramatic feeling of alarm over the significance of the storm raging outside. Alarms chirped occasionally within the house, at the sudden absence or intermittent return of AC power during the outage. There are only a few essential circuits that the generator maintains, so much of the rest of our electronic devices remain at the mercy of the power grid.
Getting back to sleep was a challenge. I always think about how the horses are faring when the level of intensity of thunderstorms is so extreme. By the time we find them in the aftermath, they always seem so unperturbed.
This morning they were happy as could be. I wondered aloud if Legacy knew that today was his birthday. The elder statesman of our herd turned 19 today.
To our joint surprise, as we came around the woods and the new gazebo frame came into view, it looked exactly like the way we left it last night. It survived its first test with an excellent result.
Now we need to walk the trails and see if all our trees held up nearly as well.
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Dust Busting
It’s funny how much clutter we tolerate, until we can’t. Or we don’t have to. Sometimes the tolerating is born of a necessary survival mechanism of prioritizing.
When Cyndie was working her previous day-job, her efforts often overflowed the office hours and consumed vast amounts of her time in the evenings and on weekends. Putting energy toward areas of personal interest became a luxury that she rarely had time to indulge. She has been home now for less than a month and in that time has begun to shake the dust off a surprising number of things and places.
The dustiest of them all is, without a doubt, our barn, with its sand floor and the lime screenings surface under the overhang, toward the paddocks. Daily, the horses kick up dry clouds of dust that waft into the barn, covering absolutely everything. Keeping surfaces clean is a losing battle in the barn, so I rarely bother trying.
Last Sunday, late in the afternoon, when I was winding down toward gathering my thoughts of returning to work the next day, Cyndie began moving things out of the barn. We definitely operate on different schedules of inspiration. The hose came out and the barn received a serious makeover for the next few days. 
All that remains outside the roof now appears to be objects she left as a hint to me that she’d rather we find a different place to store.
Last night, about the time I was considering turning in for the night, Cyndie began moving things out of the over-packed storage room in the basement. Dust and clutter are no longer safe around here. Cyndie is home!
It has been a rude awakening to me of how much I was comfortable tolerating during the time I was home full-time. I had no problem overlooking clutter in some locations while I focused on projects in other areas of my interest.
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Thrilling News
We are giddy with anticipation over our good fortune to have our friends, the Morales family, returning to visit us again in a few weeks. Since we have adopted each other as family, it is like a reunion of precious relations. Cyndie has unleashed her irrepressible inspirations and fearless energies toward making plans and preparations that have me questioning how she intends to bend time and space in her physics-defying scenarios of everything she wants to happen while they are here.
If you are one of the crew of local followers of “Relative Something,” this is your chance to get in on the action! For those of you who won’t be able to join us, you can trust that my stories and images describing the summer spectacle will be the subject of posts in the days that follow…
.We feel incredibly blessed to live in this wonderful place with our special animals, and it brings us immeasurable joy when others are able to be here to share in the experience along with us.
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Baggage
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lately
it’s as if
everything that ever was
perpetually lingers
unresolved
in a present tense
dreamlike
yet anything but a dream
and despite my urge
to embrace and inflame
some perceived affront
threatening my peace of mind
..a choice is available
free and unencumbered
. . .to not
and in this moment
to choose instead
noticing the sunset
painting the evening view
casting a golden hue
riding the evening breeze
into a summer cool
a welcome soothing balm
breaking imaginary locks
likewise invented chains
releasing concocted bonds
allowing unrivaled gains
filling here and now
with an absence
of baggage claimed
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On Hold
All activities are currently on hold or significantly curtailed —including writing blog posts— because of Delilah’s (too) close encounter with a skunk last night. Welcome to dog ownership in the country, John and Cyndie.
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High Balance
It has been a while since I cleared out the pine trees that died in the last year, leaving 6 or 7 feet of trunk standing from one of them, in hopes of creating a balancing rock sculpture on top of it.
Yesterday, I got my chance.
I hadn’t set out to accomplish that when I started the day, but activity has a way of evolving here, if you let yourself go with the flow.
I was trimming the growth beneath our fence line along the perimeter of the hay-field, and decided it would be worth getting the tractor to cut some of the areas of tall grass left after George cut the field for hay.
While out there mowing, I took advantage of the opportunity to move out some large rocks that had been left in a corner of the field last fall by the crew we hired to fence in the back pasture. I had wanted to get that done before the field was mowed, but this was the next best time to do it, with all the grass now short.
The first set of rocks I picked up were smaller than the one in this picture, so on a whim I decided to drive up and see if I could maneuver the tractor in place and roll one onto the waiting tree trunk.
Despite a few precarious moments, including one where the small rock tipped over in a breeze just as Cyndie had bent over pulling some weeds so I had to startle her with a warning, the process worked as I had envisioned.
I put the small rock back up, in a more secure position, and we now have the tallest installation of curiously placed rocks that I have ever done.
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Bales Stacked
The day after the classic scramble to get a full field of hay baled and stacked under a roof has a disorienting feel to it. There is an obvious sense of relief in the reality that the shed is now stocked with provisions to feed our horses all winter. It’s like everything that needs to be done, is done.
But, it’s not.
It feels sort of comical to now have to mow the short grass of the lawn, a mere pittance of a harvest compared to that hay-field.
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Baling Hay
It was an epic day focused on hay yesterday, and the weather was ideal. We probably could have cut one day out of the process, but some of the bales might have bordered on still having too much moisture in them, so waiting allowed me to work the day-job on Thursday and then pack the bulk of the work of baling in about 12-hours of effort yesterday.
I started the work in the morning using George’s rake behind our tractor to create the windrows. My skills, and thus, confidence, were much higher than last year, but I still haven’t figured out the ideal pattern for our irregularly shaped field. 
It took me until half way through the job to discover I was making it harder on myself by dragging the rake along the previous windrow. If my steering is off the tiniest bit, the rake will catch the row I just created and mess it up.
If I simply rake from the other direction, I am raking the untouched grass with a clean space between me and the previous row. That provides much more room for normal variations. Duh!
While waiting for George to arrive with the baler, I hustled to move the remaining bales from last year that were stored on the right side of the hay shed, in order to make room for the new bales we were about to create. Hustling to exert yourself is not really well-advised when you have a long day of effort ahead on a hot summer day. I think I threw myself out of balance, probably getting too hot while also still trying to figure out a reduced-sugar diet. Getting the right sugar balance is proving to be a challenge for me.
When George arrived, he mentioned that he had forgotten to grease the baler, so I volunteered to hoof it back to my garage to get my grease gun. After that long, hurried walk, while chatting and watching him hit the multitude of grease fittings, I felt myself growing sicker and sicker. 
I got light-headed and nauseous. It took almost too much effort to walk all the way back to the house after he started baling, where I could cool off and taking in some sugar and fluids —which was a challenge since I was also fending off the nausea.
I never really felt fully back on top of my game, but recovered enough to function and returned to help with the hardest part of all: tossing bales. Cyndie stepped up heroically and moved more heavy bales than I could believe, heaving them around to unload the wagon while I stacked them in the shed.
We weren’t able to unload fast enough to get the wagon back out to George by the time he could have used it, so he just let the last bunch of bales lay on the ground and we drove out to pick them up at the end. I haven’t counted yet, as we finished after dark last night, but I think we got another high yield off our little plot.
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George graciously returned after needing to rush home to feed his animals, and helped us stack bales in our shed to get them off the wagons. Cyndie served up dinner for us all around 10:00 p.m. and we got a chance to celebrate the huge effort of summer: putting up hay that will feed our horses all winter.
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Can You?
If you look closely, can you see how much growth has occurred on the spindly little fingerling of the volunteer oak tree to the right of my balancing stone since that first picture on the left was taken back in May? I’d love it if we could get that same amount of new growth every year. We’d have shade on that side of the house in a couple of years.
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Missed Chance
Choreographing the transition from me being home full-time to manage the ranch, to it now being Cyndie, is proving to be a struggle for my inner control freak. Believe it or not, she doesn’t do things the way I do. If I want things to happen the way I would do them, I need to do it. The other option is that I relax my urge to have things run like I would do it, and let her do things any way she wants.
Yesterday provided a fine example, and I totally missed my chance to hand over management of composting manure. Cyndie had made a pass through the paddock with the wheelbarrow, cleaning up fresh droppings, and came to check with me on where in the compost area to dump the load.
There was my opportunity to invite her to do it any way she pleases, but I couldn’t help myself. I walked with her over to the piles and began to give instructions on how I do it. What was I thinking?
When she rolled the wheelbarrow up, she came in on the wrong end of the piles. It felt like a “Mr. Mom” moment when Micheal Keaton’s character, who had traded roles with his wife, drove the wrong way in the circle of cars taking kids to school.
In the middle of trying to describe the process I have developed and my methods, I realized the folly of my thinking. I could tell by her reaction that this wasn’t going to happen. The job would remain mine. She offered to scoop up manure and stage it for me in the wheelbarrow, but I would maintain ownership of doing the compost management.
I can be my own worst enemy.
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