Hippies and horses

Dad, his friend Jenny, and I went horseback riding in Hastings today. Now we’re well fed and chilling. I have that loose feeling in my muscles from a good stint spent on top of a horse. Nothing like it. And Sonny, my paint gelding, keeps it interesting by going along fine and then kicking out when he’s pissed off about something. He’s changed and matured so much from the mental mess he came to me in. If horses and humans can ever be soul mates, he and I have that. Maybe less mates and more a shared piece of soul. All the Pretty Horses by Cormac McCarthy has a line (paraphrased here) that says the souls of horses are terrible to see, for all horses share one soul and go back to the spinning miasma of it when they die. That’s so beautiful and terrible to think about. But I’ve always loved that line.

So it was a good day. Most of the chickens were out when we got back. Zip and Maxine tried to help me, “help” me, get them back in. Actually, Zip on his own might be ok with herding chickens. Maxine is too aggressive with them and gets Zip too excited. But then, Zip is too hard on cattle, far too hard on sheep or horses, so I’m not sure that teaching him that it’s ok to herd the chickens is a good idea. He’s way too tempted to snap at them when they squawk. I’m trying to get geared up to work yet tonight, but it’s already after nine and I have no idea for a scene. My brain is all plastic from riding, all swooly and peaceful. I don’t want to lose that feeling. So maybe it’s a better night to read and let the muse just groove. (See where hanging out with old hippies gets ya?)

Cheaper than Sex

I’ve got a spider that lives outside my window. It doesn’t hurt anything, so we kind of have a live and let live policy. Another one was there earlier in the year and kept its web neater, but it must’ve died or something. Anyway, it prompted me to find out what kind of spider it was. Near as I can tell, it’s an orb-weaver. It moved its web around the window until it figured out the best place was right by my lamp, so we have a symbiotic relationship that is very new for me and a spider. Cool.

Orb-weavers are non-poisonous and non-aggressive, according to termite.com. They are light brown and prefer garden areas or windows where they construct large webs, even 6 feet or more, to entrap their prey, like flies and mosquitoes. We’ve got enough of those around here. It’s actually not bad as spiders go, small and interesting to watch. As long as there’s a pane of glass between me and it.

It was a library day today. I love libraries. I call it my crack. I’m that addicted to books. They don’t even have to be good books, just the prospect of the written word, especially in university library quantities, leaves me with that childlike sense of wonder that I remember from my earliest reverence of books and libraries. Some people must feel that way about church or deity, but I have that reverence for books, like my god is books.

Yeah, I be a geek.

Oh well. It’s cheaper than coke or ex.

Farm Living

Busy week last week. I almost never have that much social shit going on. I almost missed quiet nights at home. I got one yesterday though. Of course I had a vascular headache (near as I can figure) to go with it. Uck. But I’m back at it today and looking forward to Thursday when one of my dad’s friends is flying in for a visit.

Has anyone else out there noticed that there’s not much info out there on rewriting? I mean there’s tons on writing, but what about after the first true complete book is done? Do you just hand it off to someone else? How do you evaluate what to keep and what to trash of that first complete book? What 70% or more gets axed? I’ve heard that a final manuscript is the original minus X percent. Who makes that call? The author? Sometimes that feels like the least useful person to make that call. I guess that’s where the men and the boys separate. Or a really good first reader comes in. And research. Good research. Maybe I’m just cranky and should be done for the night.

I put the chickens to bed and got the bull fed and watered. I’m almost afraid to walk out and look at the cows. They always want fresh pasture and while it’s keeping up so far this year, it’s hardly scrumptious anymore. The damn bull keeps rubbing his way out the gates, still pissed off his boyfriend is gone. I didn’t think cattle moped like this. Even cows get over losing their calves after a week at max. Maybe the bull just misses the cows. He can see them, but can’t get to them. Namely because he would breed his daughters and a cow we’re giving a dry year and that would be bad. But the bull is staying in the barn for now and that’s all anyone can ask for.

So I’m gonna try to get to bed early tonight and hit it hard again tomorrow. If rewriting doesn’t kill me, character profiles or the bull will.

Homesteading Again

The chickens have escaped already this morning. They flew the coop in search of grass and bugs. So long as they don’t go from Gram’s flowers, all will be good. I can’t account for their safety should they press the bounds of her flower beds.

I baked like a fool yesterday. French bread, bagels, and cookies. Then I got 1900 words so my baking theory worked. Also steamed and froze three quarts of peas and much spinach. So much spinach. It was after dark when I got out to water my hot tub garden, which is in bad need of repotting or real ground. My feet hurt from spending so much time standing in the kitchen. I’d also put together what Dad called gourmet quesadillas, adding another hour to my kitchen time. So I was pretty sick of the place by dark. But I was watering and realized that I wouldn’t want to spend my day any other way. That’s why we farm or homestead, or whatever it is we do I guess. Cash flow would be nice though. But selling the little bull helped with that.

I have plans to go out tonight, which I’m looking forward to. Barring any disasters of course. And hopefully this weekend Dad and I can wean the steer calves so the bull has someone to play with. He’s been downright sad since the little bull left. ASA is charging an obscene amount to register cattle these days and the new owners want the little bull registered. Which is completely reasonable with a purebred herd. But the Simmental Association looks to be going the same way people said the Quarter Horse Association was going, that is, charging so much to register animals and farms that no one bothers. It’s hardly worth $60 to register a $500 heifer, especially when you could put that money toward feed or fuel. Anyway, that’s my rant for the day. Don’t even get me started on the whole herd database.

Bulls and peas

The big red bull is in jail this morning. He’s been there almost since the little red bull left. I let him out in the exercise yard yesterday, but he got to pushing the fences so bad Dad had to put him back in his cell last night. All reports are the little red bull left without a problem, but Big Red is moping that his boyfriend is gone. Poor guy. But he seems content enough in the barn, so he’ll stay there until we can figure out what to do with him. The problem is that if he really wants to get out, there’s no electric fence on the place that’ll hold him. Dad said if Big Red escaped, just saddle Sonny and take Red all the way to Lake Odessa to the sale barn. There isn’t a fence to stop him from here to Grand Rapids if he gets on the river.

I shelled peas for nearly three hours last night. I shelled till I couldn’t shell no more, then shelled some more. It was a ten pound bag of peas, I swear. It was peaceful picking though, with the chickens making soft noises and fluttering around, with the wind and the sun, and the dogs pacing and wrestling around. Shelling was peaceful too in its own way, but took forever. Luckily I had The Tutors Showtime series to keep me company. I didn’t like the series at first, but I got wrapped up in the characters. Not sure how accurate the history is, probably only loosely, but it’s everything one thinks of with the Tutor dynasty, political, sexy, extravagant, and lush. I can’t remember if I already raved about Love and Other Disasters with Britney Murphy, but I’m loving that film too. Like right up there with High Fidelity and that’s one of all time top fives.

Psyching up to bake bread today and perhaps cookies, not sure yet. Maybe the baking will help me find my way into a scene today. At least I’ll have time to work while the bread rises.

A very late happy Fourth of July to all

The chickens are taking over my life. That’s my only excuse for such laxity around here.

Hope everyone had a great fourth. We did. We worked. Dad constructed a chicken pen and I drove to Toledo from Gram. I got a free breakfast out of the deal so it’s hardly all bad. I highly recommend the Fowlerville Farms restaurant in, you guessed it, Fowlerville, by the way. I’m not much of a large breakfast person, I prefer small meals throughout the day, but their eggs, sausage, hash browns, and country toast were excellent. It actually tasted like food and was filling, both of which are good points where food is concerned. Toast was great. Homemade maybe, but I’m not sure. Can’t speak to the coffee. Gram and I stopped in late and what she got must have been on the burner awhile. I’m sure before 11:30 in the morning it’s great. The service was quick and pleasant and two breakfasts only cost $15, leaving neither of us needing to eat again for awhile. This was Sunday though so it was good to go home and drink though, let’s not get stupid. It’s a long drive and a holiday weekend after all.

2T, my little red bull, found a new home over the weekend. YEY! The new owners are very pleased with him and I’m glad he found a place in the world. He’s the first bull I’ve sold, even before I moved down here, so it’s made me feel really good about what Dad and I are doing with the cow herd. Kind of an affirmation that someone else out there wants our genetics. Very cool.

Them chickens' jackin' my style

Okay, first off, my post got lost somehow, disconnect between blogger and laptop, last Thursday and I never got back around to posting again since I worked with Dad painting on Saturday and, well, I'm lazy lately. So here's the old post.

Thursday:
Lost my fucking post. Grumble grumble. The one time I don’t save it somewhere else. Okay, I’m cooling down. Not. It’s too hot to calm down. My chickens are panting and I’m still crabby from sweating out my brain cells last night in Lansing. Ran the gauntlet to Toledo today with Gram so she could go visit the family there. My cousin’s getting married in North Carolina so everyone but Dad and I are off to the Outer Banks.

I read The Spanish Pearl by Catherine Friend over the weekend. Really good read. I had this whole thing about how the characters are interesting and can sustain themselves through more books, unlike most romance novels where the characters lose it after they ahem lose it. But of course I don’t remember what I said. That’s why I wrote it down. Stupid computer. Stupider technology.

And today:
Okay, so missed last week due to I’m not sure what. But it’s raining today and I have no ideas for a scene. Good time to catch up. Been making 500-2500 words a day for the pirate novel. It’s bad when you’re 40,000 words in and still aren’t sure what’s going on or what’s going to happen. Oh well.

Dana and I made soap today. Yup, lye and lard soap. It smells a little funny, but it’s setting up and hopefully the second batch turns out smelling like roses…err… rosemary and spearmint. It was a fun project, even if it did take forever to stir and stir and, well, you get the idea.

The chickens, the baby barred rocks, have an outdoor exercise yard now. Actually, it is the yard since they fly over their pen and just go wherever they want to. Chaos. Fucking chaos. But they aren’t eating three coffee cans of feed twice a day anymore so whatever the little shits…er, tykes, gotta do. Let’s just say much beer gets drunk waiting for the chickens to go in at night and catching the ones that decide they want to sleep rough.

It’s rained the last couple days so the garden and my hot tub herb garden (which Dad says is the best use our hot tub has ever been put to) have both exploded. The spindly little piece of dog shit tomatoes are dense as any purchased plant and up past my waist. It was definitely a worthwhile experiment.

Molly, my grandma’s Jack Russell/mini Aussie, has been staying with us while Gram’s away. Let’s just say the old lady’s dog doesn’t understand why the heeler’s keep trying to play with her. Of course, if my heelers did manage to get her to play, she’s probably be the fetched object rather than the fetcher. Chaos.

So that brings us about up to date. If anyone reading is interested in homemade soaps, drop me a line. Or beef for that matter. Or chicken. We're getting a product list together, including seasonal availability, and plan to be ready to take orders in the near future. Anyone interested, or who has questions, please leave a comment and I'll get back with you. Thanks.