Peppermint Pattie Goes Lawn Surfing

Here is El Husbando.  He is a man of dreams and ambition.  A man of plans and determination.  A man who would never let his desire to become a cowboy be stymied by the mere fact that WE HAVE NO HORSES OR COWS. 

Instead, we have rocks.  Periodically, we catch them and put them to work for us.  Here is El Husbando's most recent project:

It is not a holding pen for baby rocks.  It is, as you can clearly see, a fire pit. The rocks, large and small, were all organically grown and tamed by our own Rock Whisperer. They were  hand selected and arranged and rearranged and then re-rearranged to create the perfect pit.  They are the product of great labor and my husband takes knows each of them personally.

But sometimes the little rocks are not enough to fulfill the needs of a true artist.  What is needed is a Challenge.  An Everest to be scaled. ATitan to be battled.  A Moby Dick to be hunted.  What is needed, is a Peppermint Pattie.

Peppermint Pattie is the Rock Whisperer's personal Everest. She was discovered by the RW along the western border of our lands (sounds grand, doesn't it?  Really she was about 30 feet to the left of the driveway).  She was partly buried in the dirt, but the part sticking out was a perfect stone replica of the almighty mint candy itself. And all the RW could think was what a perfect seat Peppermint Pattie would make at the council fire. Unfortunately, PP is several hundred pounds of rock and it was not immediately clear how she would make it the quarter mile from the driveway to the fire pit.  Carried by hand? Nope. Pulled by lawn tractor?  Nope.  Levered out and rolled all the way home?  HAHAHAHAHAHA. 

But the Rock Whisperer is  a man of dreams and ambition, a man of plans and determination, and not a man to be defeated by a rock.  There may be no horses and no cattle, but the RW had a plan and the roundup was about to begin.

Meet the sled:



With a great deal of labor and a lot of rope, the RW did manage to lever PP out of the ground and on to the sled. 



The sled was then tied to the modern suburban substitute for the ranch horse, the minivan.



And off we went.  Above is Peppermint Pattie taking a little ride up the driveway.  Below is PP hauling @$$ across the lawn.



A ranch hand easing the mighty beast into her new home:



And the second in command showing poor Pattie who is boss:



Here is a dizzying picture of PP in her new digs. Considering that she spent the last bajillion years stuck in the ground at a 45 degree angle, this is probably a pretty accurate view of things from her perspective. The RW has taken good care of her, though.  She has been washed and polished and is now just waiting for us to find three more giant rocks to complete the seating.



In knitting news, here is the lovely Isabel showing off the latest in finished garments:



It is the Central Park Hoodie and it is DONE!!!  The only alteration I made to the pattern was to continue the back cable up the hood and over the top of the head.  Took a little fiddling, but I like it better than seeing a plain stockinette hood (and the hood seam, which was supposed to run across the top of the hood) blocking the back cable.  The sweater is extremely warm and it actually fits (me, not Isabel) and it is (did I mention this?) DONE!

The Healing Properties of Balloons

Monday's cookie-chocolate-all meals dessert  crisis has been resolved.  Unfortunately, the expedition to the grocery store--which is best treated like a battle-- was not without its casualties. Private Matthew DogSweater suffered a grievous wound to his right ring finger while attempting to down enemy signage in the produce section. Major Mommy failed to appreciate the full extent of the injury until several of the dogs on the sweater were decorated in blood, at which point medical supplies were requisitioned from the field hospital in Aisle 2A and the wound was cleaned and dressed.    Unfortunately, no amount of "Magic Cream" (aka Neosporin) and BandAids could treat the emotional trauma induced by the event.  Sympathetic locals, unable to bear the wailing, were forced to administer pink balloons to the poor little soldier, which were found to be most efficacious.*  He is reported to be feeling much better now, and is almost certainly plotting his next "injury" in the hope of receiving more pink balloons.


On the domestic front, the family made the fall pilgrimage to pick apples a few weeks ago.  We were pleasantly surprised to find that the last of the season's raspberries and blueberries were also ready to be picked and pick we did.  We came home with two giant bags of apples (mainly honeycrisp, which are outrageously tasty but at $1.65/lb --only 30 cents cheaper than the market price-- sort of defeated any economic arguments for doing the picking ourselves), a basket of blueberries, and several baskets of raspberries.  It is suspected that several of the pickers consumed a full week's worth of fruit along the way and are now completely anti-oxidized.


In celebration of this unexpected bounty, we made 6 jars of raspberry jam (seeds removed; they just spoil the whole thing for me) and 6 jars of blueberry preserves.  Although we were afraid initially that the raspberry stuff would not gel past the syrup stage, within 48 hours the stuff had firmed up to a respectably spreadable condition, which we will try to remember about next year.  The world's best applesauce followed; it is the only time my poor deprived children get applesauce with sugar in it, so they really really appreciate it.  I do too.

After the berry farm, we headed to Lake Ontario.  The whole field trip had been recommended to us by some friends who had done the apple picking/lake shore combo the week before and raved about it so much that my husband pretty much insisted that we had to go too. And who should we meet at this remote lake shore park but the very same friends who had sent us there.  This might seem like a small thing, but the part of the lake we went to is over 30 miles away from home and, at the time we were there, was inhabited by a grand total of 8 other people. 

We did what we always do, which is throw rocks in the lake.  All of the other people at the lake were doing this too. Most of us go for the wonderfully smooth, flat, and slightly rounded stones that litter the lake shore.  They make really great skipping rocks and even if you don't skip them well, they break the surface of the water with a satisfying PLONK.  Some of us, however, fear that the lake level is getting a bit low and feel compelled to boost the water level by heaving in boulders that are bigger than our heads. 


What you can see in all three of these pictures is my very favorite thing about the lake:  that it seems to go on and on forever. It has the mood of the ocean without the saltiness and (in most places) without the stink.


In spinning news, there is no spinning news.  I'm totally doing the knitting thing right now, although I have been washing  more bits of my Corriedale fleece now and then. In knitting news, I have started seaming my Central Park Hoodie. I realize that this is a tactical error.  The hood is not done and the button (or non-button, in this case) band is also still to be done; adding the sleeves on at this point will just give me a lot more sweater to deal with while I am adding those last features.  But, the flimsiness of the unjoined pieces was starting to bug me.  I've been working on the sweater for a long time and I really want to see a sweater now, not a collection of pieces.  Plus, sometimes when things around you seem to be coming apart, you just need to have something that is coming together.

I'm far enough along in the sweater that I can imagine it will be done soon and that has started the brain gears working on the next project.  I went on a sock riff in the spring, which has been tamed in the sense that I no longer have a burning need to knit socks.  I still have some on the needles, but I'm thinking sweaters now. I have had the pattern for the Patons Must Have Cardigan for a while, and just last week I bought enough pink Patons Classic Wool to knit the whole thing.  And then along came the Old Way Gansey by Ann Budd, one of this week's freebies from Knitting Daily.  I am absolutely smitten, and if I had the yarn I would knit it immediately. Since I am already up to my ears in spinnable stuff, I think I'll consider Rhinebeck a grand opportunity to scout some independent yarn suppliers for the perfect yarn.  If I don't find it, I know I can use one of the yarn shop staples (Galway? NatureSpun?) for this sweater.  Or (and no, I'm not really this ambitious now that I think about it) maybe I'll spin the yarn for this.  Or not (and please try not to guffaw in my ear like that). I'm thinking (relatively) instant gratification here. Doesn't that idea just make you laugh when it comes to knitting a sweater?

*BTW: Many thanks to the Extremely Nice Lady at Wegmans who was kind enough to supply the balloon.  It did the job admirably.

Crisis is Looming . . .

1. It is Monday.

2. I stayed up too late last night and (surprise!) didn't want to get out of bed at 5:45 this morning. By the time I got up, it was too late to exercise, but still early enough that I could sweep, wash dishes, and fold laundry. Wheee.

3. My son went to pre-school in his Power Rangers costume. Those are not his real muscles.


4. There are no chocolate chip cookies in the house. Now what am I supposed to have for my breakfast dessert?

5. There is chocolate, but only one day's worth. If I eat it for my breakfast dessert, what will I have for my lunch dessert?

6. The car, which is 8 years old and will soon need to be held together with Scotch tape, has an engine light on. And a flattening tire. And it needs an oil change. Hopefully it will not fall apart before I pick my Power Ranger up from school. Later today I will have to take it to the shop so Friendly Todd can fix it for me first thing tomorrow.

7. I'm sure it will rain while I am walking home from dropping off the car. It is only 1.5 miles, though, so how wet can I get?

8. In order to leave the car with Friendly Todd, I will have to postpone my regular Tuesday grocery shopping trip until Wednesday. This means that there will not be any cookies or chocolate for tomorrow's breakfast dessert either.

9. I am also sure that it will rain when I walk to pick up the car on Tuesday. And the car will probably not be done on time, which makes sense because Tuesday is the day that is booked so solid with activities that it takes years of parent training and a special driver's license to make sure that all the right people are left in all the right places at all the right times. And that they have all the right stuff with them. And you have to remember to go back and get them when there are done.

10. There is coffee, but when I opened the coffee maker to add fresh ground coffee (well, not fresh in the sense that I ground it myself this morning, just fresh in the sense that it had not already been used), I found that there were already coffee grounds in there. Only, they were not so fresh. The last time I made coffee was Friday. Did I mention that it is Monday?

11. My husband wants a cow. The kind that lives in your barn and poops in your pasture and moos at you. We don't have a barn or a pasture, nor will we until my husband gets over the cow thing.

12. I would prefer sheep. But we have no barn and no pasture, nor will we until my husband gets over his cow thing.

13. My husband still wants a cow.

14. The fronts and back of the sweater I have been working on for the last month came out perfectly for the size 38. The sleeves that I knit last January came out perfectly for the size 48. I was knitting the size 40.

15. When I made the shopping list last week, I failed to account for the fact that the car would need to see Friendly Todd on my regular shopping day and now there isn't really much to make dinner with and we will be eating Scrounge for the next two nights while I wear a sweater that can only be put together if I defy the laws of physics. We won't notice it so much on Busy Tuesday, but I'm not sure I can handle it today what with it being Monday and there being no cookies.

A Garden's Lament

This is my garden. From a distance, it doesn't look so bad.


But up close it is revealed to be a woefully neglected place.

It is overrun with weeds. Plants have collapsed like drunkards; they are untended, their fruits unharvested. Those that have not given up and vanished altogether might appear to have fallen off their supports, but the truth is that I am not sure I ever got around to putting them on their supports in the first place. I have been a lazy gardener.


I begin every year with such fine intentions. I will weed and dig earlier, select my plants wisely, and plant them on time. I love this part of gardening, where we go from quietly resting garden beds to a clean, raked, freshly planted garden. There is so much promise. So much belief in what the future will bring. My children help weed and rake and choose plants and we talk about what we'll do with our harvest. But in between the planting and the harvesting comes the part that stomps all over me every year. Weeding. Watering. Tending. Nurturing. The energy of spring and the promise of my garden are usually enough to carry me through the first round of weeding. But then come July and August, those awkward teenage months for the garden. My plants are not sweet young things any more and neither are their weeds, which have gone from minor nuisances manageable with a hoe to stubborn problems requiring hours with the garden fork. As the plants become bigger and wilder, I stay away for longer. It's too much responsibility. Then some of them start producing food and I'm OBLIGATED to do something with them. Pick the little buggers. Clean them and add them to dinner. Or preserve the little stinkers. I resent them for their claim on my time and energy. And then I feel guilty. I have neglected my poor little garden. Failed to fully seize the opportunity to produce wholesome food for my family. Failed to live up to my dreams for this year. I am afraid that my garden is not just a bunch of plants in the dirt, but an illustration of my flaws and failures.

This year was a particularly bad gardening year for me. After one round of aggressive weeding in June, I barely set foot in the garden for the rest of the summer. We ate a few cukes and tomatoes, but left most of them to rot in place. We picked a few eggplants and beans, but they sat on the kitchen counter waiting for me to cook them and finally ended up in the compost bin. The melons were ignored completely; we didn't taste even one of them. And once again I failed to trellis my peas early enough to keep them from being overtaken by the beans.

There are still a few bright spots. The sunflowers grew beautifully. The birds have eaten some of the seed, but there are still 5 or 6 flowers that haven't given up their seeds yet.



Although the peppers were nowhere near as abundant as last year, we do have some. This includes a bumper crop of hot peppers, although I can't imagine why I bought them since we never eat them.



Isabel opened a few of the bean pods. I have no idea what to do with the dried beans, but at least they are pretty.

The gardening season is pretty much over here, but I just can't bring myself to clean out the garden yet. I haven't decided whether this is optimism or plain laziness at work. The funny thing is that my favorite time is when we put the garden to bed. After all that rampant vegetation, the garden looks so peaceful when it is clean and raked and waiting for a new season. The chaos recedes and the promise begins to shine through again. I can look at it and believe that I will do better next year, just like I can look at my freshly bathed three-year old as he sleeps and believe that tomorrow I'll be a better mommy.

Catching up

Well, I guess it's been a while. School started, which has kept me surprisingly busy, mostly with paperwork and open houses, but also with the sheer energy and planning it takes to arrange my day so that I can actually supervise my kids when they get home. And work started again, which should have kept me busier but mostly has been making me feel like a waste product as I play my bajillionth game of solitaire in order to avoid the really boring parts.

In chicken news, we seem to have named the birds. Not one of us named the bird we originally thought we were going to name. I was all about the Buff Orpingtons (the tan birds) at first, but my girls fell in love with them as chicks ( when we thought they were actually the Plymouth Rocks, which are white now, but were kind of tan as babies) and named them Pippa and Gertie. The girls yielded the Plymouth Rocks to the boys, who named them JuJu and (Disclaimer: the three year did this) Mike. The boys, who were going for the manly black hens in the beginning, let me name the Australorps (the pure black birds), who are Rose and Lucy. My mother put in a vote for Lucy and Ethel, but it was too late. And my husband--who yielded all the birds to everyone else because he is just that kind of guy-- saved the Barred Rocks from being named Bea and Martha (after my great aunts -- the old biddies, right?). They are now called Laverne and Shirley. Nice work, Al.

Here are some pictures of the girls, hard at work modeling for the camera. They seemed to like it, but I think they really thought it might be something they could eat.





Matty likes to feed the birds. Here he is poking some oats through the fence.



Sometimes he puts his fingers in too far and doesn't like the results. The girls peck pretty hard when they are hunting for food.



Probably the biggest excitement around here recently was the surprise purchase of new beds. The kids have been sleeping on futons forever. We had been thinking that it would be kind of nice for them to have new beds. Real furniture. A mattress that didn't give anyone, including a parent dealing with post-nightmare kids, a crippling backache. But, you know, beds are REALLY expensive. Especially when you have promised the kid with the funky shaped room a loft bed. So we put it off. For a really long time. And then all of a sudden we bought not one bed, but a giant loft bed/desk combo. And bunk beds for the boys, since we had already taken leave of our senses. And mattresses for the loft bed and the for the girl who didn't get a new bed but wouldn't care as long as we replaced her crummy queen size futon mattress. Here, after a full 6 hours of labor on my part (which included some instructions that had nothing whatsoever to do with the parts provided), are some happy campers:

They love their new beds and I love how much nicer their rooms look. Even Matty likes to sleep in his bottom bunk. Although, when I asked him what happens when he is good and sleeps all night long in his bed (the answer is supposed to be "Stickers!" here), he said "I am all alone." So much for the incentive system.

Below is the latest in knitting news. Over the summer, I had an ever increasing list of works in progress. It was becoming both stupid and counterproductive. I got the urge to just finish something, %^%$ it! And so I did. The first thing is my new Zipped Vest. Great name for something that I have just put buttons on, no? The pattern is for a man's vest, and even though I femmed up the color, the fit was a little baggy instead of curvy. So, in place of the zipper, I added button loops and located the buttons in a gentle crescent shape partway across the left front. I am in love. The vest is cozy and warm and was worth the endless hours of moss stitch. Not that I'm about to make another.

Item two is two-thirds of my Central Park Hoodie. The left front is in progress and going quickly. In a bold and original move, it will be followed by the right front. Then a little finishing (quite a bit, actually, between the button band and the hood) and hopefully the whole thing will be done and wearable before I board the bus for Rhinebeck and the New York Sheep & Wool Festival in October.

As a warm up for Rhinebeck, I spent a few hours at the Finger Lakes Fiber Festival. As a member of the Genesee Valley Handspinners Guild, I got to volunteer at the festival and I chose to work at the fleece sales table. Bad move. I fully believed that, with all the spending opportunities on the horizon at Rhinebeck and all the stuff and fluff still waiting to spun from last year, I could restrain myself and really not buy very much. HAHAHAHAHAHAHA. Two hours at the fleece table gave me plenty of time to take a look at all the fleeces entered in the competition. Touch them . . . admire their fine qualities . . . and find one in my price range. About the only thing that kept the whole venture sane was the fact that you can't charge at the fleece table. Cash or check only. Still, with only $40 in my wallet (which is unheard of riches for a girl who never carries cash), I was able to sell myself a 5.5 pound corriedale fleece from Ewe #512. I must say, she did a fine job growing her wool this year. The fleece is a mix of dark, chocolatey browns, light grays, and a whole lot of in-between colors. On the left is the fleece sitting in my fleece basket waiting to be sorted and washed, which will take me a few weeks. On the right is the picture of me indulging my anal retentive side by organizing the fleece into uniform bundles ready to be washed. Below that is not a rack full of dead mice, but a lovely collection of soft and fluffy fleece bits drying in my office. I've stretched a few layers of blue mesh netting over my old quilt frame to serve as a drying rack. It makes a great tent for Matty to play under, but sometimes he starts to poke at the roof (who wouldn't, really?) and that's when it starts to look like all the little dead mice are coming back to life. Kind of makes you jump.

With a little luck and a lot of work, that wool will be spun up into a heathery brown-gray yarn and made into a sweater for my hubby, kind of as a thank you for not giving me a hard time every time I bring another bit of fluff into the house.

Last, Cody has asked me to give him equal time. He thinks the chickens and the strange brown stuff that smells like a sheep but doesn't move when he tries to herd it have gotten more than their fair share of press and he would like everyone to stop and appreciate him for a few moments. He also feels that it would be best if this could become a daily practice. Here he is giving me his best long-suffering-ever-faithful-canine-companion face. Don't ever tell me that dogs can't talk.

A new wheel and a very happy camper

This is the girl who started it all:



Two years ago we took a trip to the Genesee Country Village and Museum. I have loved this place since I was Isabel's age, but whereas I went and fell in love with the horse drawn carriages, my daughter became smitten with the spinning demonstration. She watched, absolutely mesmerized, as the period-costumed demonstrator took fluff and made yarn. It was pure magic and she loved it. At the end of the demo--and every 5 minutes for the rest of the day-- she announced that she wanted a spinning wheel. By the time we were ready to leave the museum, El Husbando and I were starting to think that this not just code for "how cool was that." We were witnessing the beginning of a full blown fiber passion. A quick trip into the gift shop produced a dream shattering case of sticker shock: spinning wheels cost hundreds of dollars. Now, I like to indulge creativity in my children. I believe in crafts and learning how to do things your self, etc. etc. etc. I also believe very firmly that most childhood passions are shockingly brief, sometimes barely outliving the acquisition of the beloved item. We've had cardboard appliance boxes that have had longer lasting entertainment value for my kids than some of their most ardently desired commercial objects. So a spinning wheel was clearly out of the question in the absence of at least some proof of fidelity.

Some wise and good-hearted individual was good enough to suggest that we look into a drop spindle. At a fraction of the cost of a wheel, we could be spinning real yarn and practicing the skills that would also be needed for a wheel. A quick trip to my favorite local yarn & fiber shop produced a $30 kit, complete with a spindle, some fiber, and a learn to spin DVD. The next step was to sign the poor child up for a drop-spindling class, and we were on our way.

Or not. Seven year olds don't really take a lot of notes in class and Mommies who Don't Spin can't really be very helpful when it is time to practice. Isabel tried with limited success to repeat what her teacher had shown her, but the result was snarls, tangles, lots of dropped spindles (hence the name, you know) and the kind of frustration that, in a less refined individual, would have produced language worthy of the golf course. This went on for several months until I woke up early one Saturday morning absolutely possessed by the idea that I would learn to use the spindle myself so that I could help my daughter. I plugged in the DVD, printed heaps of learn to spin articles (yes, the internet really does have everything) and locked myself in my "studio" with Isabel's spindle. Several hours and a great deal of golf language later, I had produced what is politely known as "novelty yarn." It wasn't pretty, but it was yarn and I was hooked. Isabel got a lot of "demonstrations" on how to make yarn, but not too much time with her spindle. A month later, I was asking for a spindle for my birthday and a month after that I had signed up for beginning wheel spinning. The good part is that I was able to teach Isabel how to spin with her spindle and it turned out that when I was using my spindle, she liked to use hers too. When I got my wheel, though, Isabel's crazed "gotta have it" look returned. She learned to use my wheel in about 5 minutes. It turned out she really did love spinning at the wheel and is pretty good at it. She hatched one scheme after another for getting her own wheel and was even (BRIEFLY!) willing to work for it. Most recently, she has engaged in a campaign of terror and torture, alternately surprising me with shouts or sustained (and REALLY annoying) chants of 'I want a spinning wheel.' It worked.

This spring, we began to check craigslist for used wheels. They turn up with surprising frequency but are usually outside our price range or gone by the time I call about them. Finally, last weekend, a used Babe turned up advertised at $80. I called as soon as I saw the listing and was told that there was already someone else interested, but if that person didn't get herself in gear soon, the wheel could be ours. The next day I got a call that the wheel had been sold. More golf language. $80 was a great price. The wheel might not be a 'forever' wheel for my kids (spinning fever was contagious, it turns out), but it would certainly do the job until they could earn their own money and buy their own expensive equipment. I would be lucky if I could find something under $300, never mind something in the $100 range. Golf language, golf language, golf language!

Three days later I was reading a Ravelry thread about finding used wheels and one of the participants had been giving a pep talk to another who was searching for a reasonably priced wheel. "Check craigslist every day," she said. So I took that advice, even though it wasn't for me, and there it was: a used Ashford Traditional for the low, low price of $120. The ad said to call in the evening to arrange to see the wheel. Golf language that! I called immediately. The ad was already a day old and I was sure the wheel would not still be available. But it was. And it wasn't too far away. And I had just received a paycheck in the mail, which seemed like a good omen.

So we went to see it. The wheel was from the late 80s or early 90s and had been in storage for 12 years. The poor thing was unfinished and a little cobwebby, but all the parts were straight and strong. We rushed it home and -- unusual for a pile of professional procrastinators -- cleaned it up immediately. We sanded and wiped and waxed and wiped again. Here are the before and after pictures.





Isn't it a beauty? A real-deal 'forever' wheel that can be upgraded to meet all of our --oops, I mean their -- needs. The few missing parts are on order and are nothing major; they can be (and have been) temporarily replaced by dental floss (no, I'm not kidding here and the cinnamon smell is kind of nice). My junior spinner is hard at work right now on her second bobbin of singles. There is still a little golf language involved, but less and less as she gets used to the wheel. Plus, when she runs in to trouble, she calls me over and says "can you help me" and then I claim that I have to sit down at the wheel in order to fix the problem and the next thing I know she's saying "Mom, can I have my spinning back now?" It really is a nice wheel, and suddenly I'm not sure which of us is the happier camper.

Monday with a Capital "M"

Today was one of those Army-style days. We accomplished more before lunch than we usually get done in a week.

Item 1: One adult and four children arrived at an 8:10 a.m. orthodontist appointment ten -- count them TEN-- minutes early. Under any circumstances, I would consider this an outstanding accomplishment, particularly when the appointment is a 20 minute drive away and the kids don't get up until 7:15. However, I am one of those people who believes, in direct contradiction of all the evidence I have ever seen in my life, that time can be compressed to suit my schedule. I also believe that I always have time to do "just one more thing" before I have to go. In short, I am always late. Compounding this problem is the fact that 3/4 of my children are cut from the same cloth and one is a toddler to boot (the Other One is chronically and painfully punctual and has found a way to make this otherwise fine characteristic a thorn in my side, but I won't go into this right now). So the fact that we were not only on time but early and for an early appointment, on a Monday, is nothing less than stellar. Yay me.

Item 2: One adult and four children, some of whom were slightly dazed by the exact monetary figures being proposed by said orthodontist (curse him and all his heirs and assigns), then went to a cozy coffee shop for breakfast. The total cost for feeding five people bagels, coffee, juice, a muffin and some crumb cake was a mere $13 and change. And we didn't spill any food and no one had to leave with their hands over their ears because we were so loud, because we weren't. Well, except maybe for one slightly sour looking gentleman, but I think he was going anyway.

Item 3: We went school shopping. In the space of one hour and 15 minutes, we fully equipped three students for the start of school. Nothing in the store was broken and no one had to sit in time out, although there was an unfortunate incident with a young man in the process of potty training. The people at the store were fairly good humored about it and we did have an emergency pullup in the van so no one had to go naked. All children immediately rose to the occasion by fetching items from the van, alerting the store personnel, and removing their sopping wet shoes. I didn't think to get a picture of Mr. Potty in his post-incident outfit (shirt, pullup and nothing else). Financially, however, the school shopping experience was only slightly less shocking than the orthodontist visit. First grade: $27. Fine, I'm good with that. Fourth grade: $47. Not as good, but still about $10 less than the cost of the "convenient" supply package the PTA was offering. Sixth grade: $100. WTF!?!?!? $100? What is going on here? And we're not done because the school "strongly recommends" an item called the locker ladder, which supposedly will set me back another $20 or so. Yikes! Still, I want my sixth grader to feel good about the start of her middle school career, so I will try to focus on the amazing fact that we managed to mostly complete school shopping before 10:45 on a Monday morning. And I will not buy her so much as another pen until she goes to college.

Item 4: A fourth grader was deposited at band camp within 4 minutes of the stated start time. I consider this a miracle in light of the preceding three events. And she had fun there and came out with a spiffy clarinet--courtesy of the school--and a big smile.

Item 5: During band camp, my very favorite first grader learned to ride his bike. Yes. Really. This is huge. HUUUUUUUUUUGGGE. The kids is 6 years and 9 months old and until this very day has had absolutely no success at bike riding. This is a tremendous shame because we have some fabulous places to ride and -- before now -- we could go only if Good Old Dad was available to tow Nate on the tag along. But no more! To be sure, there is some refinement needed. But the kid actually rode a bike and I am thrilled. Here is the man in action:



As if all of this were not enough, I took my kids to the playground. Admittedly, this was to kill time during band camp, but I still think it counts. By 1:00 we were home, having accomplished all this. The afternoon was a little quiet, but we topped off the day by building a compost bin so that I can finally clean out the garage. Sounds like a non-sequitur, but it is absolutely true and it makes perfect sense when you remember that the chickens lived in the garage up until last week. Unfortunately, it is now 8:15 and I've been ignoring the dinner timer for a few minutes. Time to go rescue the ravioli and feed the troops so they can be ready for another day.

Still here

Wow. I have been the anti-blog this month. And with good reason. It has been dizzyingly busy here. Work, chicken coops, work, chicken runs, work, and a big ole round of speed-camping-prep.

The chicken coop now looks like this:




It was finished at 8pm on the night before we were supposed to leave for camping. This was not really a big deal, because who doesn't want to stay up until the wee hours packing and pre-cooking and organizing for a trip on which you will not sleep well for three nights straight. Maybe next time I will plan a little farther ahead. That shouldn't be too hard, because two days before we were supposed to leave, we were still trying to track down (and purchase, at prices not at all consistent with the whole "cheap vacation" scenario that camping used to represent to us) all the necessary supplies. Like a tent. And bug spray. And maybe some food.

I am beyond pleased with the coop, though, as are the biddies. They still have no names, but they come zipping out the chicken door every morning like their tiny yard is the best playground EVER. Then, they suddenly scurry back inside because some blade of grass waved the wrong way and freaked them out. Loud noises set them off too, but they now know that I often bring goodies and they scoot right over to see me when I come visit. At night, they all crowd onto the same corner of their roost. Sillies.

We almost had an unplanned addition to the fence. Here is El Husbando engaging in more underpaid manual labor:



He slaved in all weather conditions to dig the holes for the fence posts. The boss from &^$$ insisted that the posts needed to be buried 2 feet deep. Our soil is nothing but rocks and the poor man was armed with nothing but a manual post hole auger and a giant pry bar. Plus, he was given a tight schedule for digging because the boss insisted that the coop had to be fully functional before we left for camping.

Once the posts were in, it was time for some big heavy pressure treated 2x4s. The strong man was engaged in other necessary work at this stage, and it was necessary for me to be marvelously creative in order to keep the boards in place while I was nailing them in. Enter The Ladder. It made a great set of extra hands and you can see how nicely it holds the board for me.



A little too nicely, in fact. Here is the moment where I was punished by the fates for excessive pride:



Can you see it clearly enough? I nailed both ends of the board without removing the ladder and thereby earned myself a tremendous amount of abuse from the parts of the family who were not busy being boneheads. The picture is nice and big to represent the extent of my humiliation.

Next time I build a chicken coop, I'll know better.

Diplomatic relations

Here is the view from the back yard yesterday. The cats look like they are watching the most amazing TV show EVER. Pure Kitty Fun. What could possibly be this interesting?



It appears we have some foreigners visiting. They require careful observation.





Relations between the nations are marked by quiet suspicion on one side and sheer obliviousness on the other.






The humans and the chickens thoroughly enjoyed the back yard outing. There were liberal amounts of grass eating, bug eating, pooping, and giggling. I will not insult you by specifying which species took part in which games.

Unfortunately some unnamed parties (coughthedogcough) could not be trusted not to eat the visitors and were placed under house arrest. The same unnamed party (cough%$@#@dogcough) was later jailed and given a stern talking to when it was discovered that he had expressed his feelings through acts of terrorism directed at some innocent curtains.

p.s. Regarding the staggering number of un-done to-do-list items: Garden: done (four weeks of weeds obliterated in one afternoon; there was even dirt in my scalp when I was done); Sweet little baby sweater: done (despite continuing absence of instructions; still has not been mailed, though); Shed amenities: done (roost [removable for cleaning and wonderfully simple in its construction], clever chicken door, and nesting boxes [except for their lids]); Shed painting: started (primer is done and main color should be done tomorrow, assuming work gets done); Dishes: mostly done; Grocery shopping: done; Whining: done!