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| Whatcha writin'? |
I don't know exactly when the swallows return to Capistrano, but they have returned to the barn at Bywater Farm. I'm convinced that it's the same Sam and Sally Swallow who took up residence here last spring. In fact, they've set up housekeeping in the same nest they built last year on a rafter over the barn aisle. They are not at all bothered by our presence. They circle and swoop and flit over our heads as if they own the place.
They're sprucing up the nest. When you've been gone from your summer place all winter, I guess things get a bit untidy. They've been shopping for building material - just as they did last year - in the hay stall. They do a lot of chattering to each other. I chat with them and their twittering responses sound sensible enough - even if they are speaking a different language.
I'm writing this in my barn "office." It's nothing fancy - just Jerry's old red desk chair and an old folding table in front of the window in the tack room. If the furniture is old and outdated, my writing equipment is the latest thing. I'm typing on my nifty Apple wireless keyboard and watching the text appear on my iPad in the "Pages" app.
The tack room window is open and there's a nice little breeze. The horses are grazing just outside the window. In fact, Rocky has already visited me by sticking his nose through the open window. He's not fooling me though. His visit is not as much affection for me as it is curiosity about what's going on in the tack room which happens to be where his feed is kept. Tesoro stopped by, too - and when Fay came, she lingered long enough for me to take her picture.
We sold our party barge yesterday, ending a very brief nautical adventure. I have a vivid imagination, and sometimes it gets me in trouble. I imagined that having a party barge would be great fun since Bayou Plaquemine runs right behind our house. So we bought a used party barge, complete with a trailer and an aging motor. We had the motor tuned up. The seats were in terrible condition. We ordered new seats and had some custom upholstery done. We put new carpet on the floor. I say "we," but it was Jerry who did all the renovating work. I was chief cheerleader, gopher, and bill payer.
When it was finished, I thought it was a thing of beauty. And I loved cruising the bayou on it. I hate a little boat that requires you to sit still to keep from tipping it over. A pontoon barge is stable, allowing you to get up and walk around on it. We have a dock on the bayou, and I thought we would be able to keep the barge in the water, next to the dock. It would be really handy to jump in and go cruising on the spur of the moment.
Now I'll get to the reality part of this story. Outboard motors don't get very good gas mileage. Gasoline almost reached $4.00 a gallon the first summer we used the barge. It seemed like every little outing we took up or down the bayou - barely out of sight of the house - cost us at least $25.00.
Then we started to realize that this nautical toy wasn't going to be a thing of beauty long if it stayed in the water. Pretty soon the new white vinyl seats were beginning to grow greenish mold. The pontoons collected some kind of scummy film. So we took it out of the water. But we could see that it wasn't going to fare much better sitting on the trailer in the yard. If the trees weren't raining leaves down on it, the sun was baking it. We decided the barge would just have to be kept in the barn - not so handy for spur of the moment trips.
Even in the barn with plastic sheets covering it, the darn thing wouldn't stay clean. A barn is built for horses and people, not boats. In the summer the barn doors have to be open for ventilation so - like most barns - our barn is a dusty place. And the barge seemed to be a dust magnet.
We had to admit we were in a nautical nightmare when we woke up one day and realized that we were paying someone to maintain a barge that we weren't using. Why weren't we using it? Because - since it wasn't in the water - it couldn't be taken out on the "spur of the moment." Driving to the nearest boat landing and getting it launched was a project that we never seemed to have time for. Maybe we would have had time if we had sold the horses, given up all our other hobbies, and devoted ourselves to the party barge.
Trying to keep the barge was a nightmare, but getting rid of it wasn't a piece of cake either. It took us a year to sell it. I hate having something for sale. You spend a lot of time answering phone calls and waiting for people who say they're coming and often never show up. If the item doesn't get sold right away, all your friends start offering their opinions as to why it's not selling. I heard a lot about how old and outdated the motor on the party barge was - something about two strokes vs. four strokes - or was it one stroke vs. three? Even though the motor worked, some of our friends couldn't believe that anybody would ever buy the barge with that motor on it. I thought the renovated barge and trailer - without the motor - were worth what we were asking, which wasn't much.
The party barge is gone now, and I was never so glad to see something go. We didn't make a profit. In fact, I'm not sure we broke even. Jerry certainly didn't get any compensation for all his hard work. I think the people who bought it got a good deal. I hope they enjoy it. And I hope it's their only hobby.
The words "cold" and "spring" are seldom spoken in the same sentence in Louisiana. Our springs usually start warm and end in blazing heat. But this morning the temperature was 47 degrees, and I couldn't resist firing up the gas logs in the kitchen.
I got a notice from the post office today informing me that my post office box rent is about to go up. As far as I'm concerned, I'm already paying far too much for an unfurnished box with no curtains, carpet, or furniture to make my letters and post cards comfortable while they wait for me to pick them up.
I'll never understand why the post office will deliver letters to the box on the road in front of my house for nothing, but they charge me an arm and leg if I go to the post office and pick up my own mail. Oh well, since when can you expect logic from a government agency?
A little research on the postal service website showed me that I can rent a post office box in the neighboring village for a third of the cost of the one I'm renting in my home town. It would be interesting to know what twisted logic accounts for this diffence in box rent, but I'm not even going to ask about it. Whenever I ask a question at the post office, the answer usually gives me a headache. Anyway - since I pass through the neighboring village often on my way to Baton Rouge, I decided to drive there this morning and rent one of their inexpensive boxes. The amenities are all the same. If you'd like to be part of the box-warming, drop me a line at P. O. Box 836, Addis, LA 70710.
I groomed the horses yesterday. I especially enjoy spring grooming when they're losing all the winter hair. They like being groomed. I guess it feels good to have all the loose hair roll off in big wads. Right now they have that mangy-dog-look because in some places the winter hair is still hanging on while it has come completely off in other places. I guess that's why some people keep the winter hair shaved off. But then if the weather gets too cold, you have to keep a blanket on the horse. All that sounds like a lot of trouble, not to mention expense - horse blankets aren't cheap. So we let nature take its course around here. In another week or two the winter hair will be all gone and they'll have their satiny summer coats.
Yesterday I spent a ridiculous amount of time on the telephone, making arrangements for my second knee surgery. It's scheduled for the end of this month. Since the knee surgery I had last August was a roaring success, I'm not too apprehensive about this surgery. Still, I'm glad I'm not a centipede with multiple knees.
A few weeks ago I bought a Kindle. This is a big step for a book lover. Wonder how long I'll feel like a traitor? Did our ancestors feel like traitors when they switched from scroll to codex? I don't know. What I do know is that - sooner or later - space becomes an issue for most book lovers. It has certainly become an issue at my abode. That's what makes the Kindle so attractive. It will hold about 3,500 books! It's less tiring in your hands than a big thick book. With a few finger taps you can make the font as big as you'd like. You can highlight passages and make notes right there on the Kindle. And you can read outdoors without any annoying glare. What's not to love?
I learned to be an afternoon napper when I was a piano teacher. I always napped from about 2:00 to 3:00 so that I'd be rested when my first student arrived at 3:30. Since I retired I've continued the afternoon siesta, but it's not as satisfying as it used to be. I wonder why? These days I usually get up from a nap feeling worse, not better. Jerry says it's because an hour nap is too long. He's a 20 minute power napper. Maybe I'll give power napping a try.
We decided early this morning to go on a day trip - a photography jaunt to the St. Francisville area. The weather is perfect, and everything is blooming. Jerry got everything squared away in the barn while I packed up my camera and the technological gadgets that we can't function without.
We did a last minute walk-through the barn area to be sure everything was secure - gates closed, stall doors bolted, and tack room locked. Everything was done and we were ready to get in the car. There was just one more thing - be sure that Teche, the resident house cat, was on the kitchen side of the french doors where he has access to his litter box.
I went through the usual routine - calling Teche while shaking his bag of treats. That usually brings him ambling into the kitchen. He's too dignified to come racing into the kitchen like he's desperate for treats. But today he didn't come at all. Where was the darn cat? He had been in the bedroom with me a few minutes before.
We did a full-fledged house search, checking all Teche's favorite hiding places - with no success. Jerry remembered that he had seen the back door ajar earlier - this must have been the means of Teche's escape. It's a pity we don't have any children around here to blame things on.
Actually, the fault lies with the small cable that goes through the back door. One end is connected to the rabbit ears on the TV. The other end is connected to something outside - I don't know what. This less-than-satisfactory rigging is so that we can watch the local TV channels when the weather is bad and the satellite signal is not available. The cable's presence means that the door doesn't always close like it should. It needs a good slam, but doesn't always get it.
This whole tale has a deja vu quality about it. Last November Teche made an exit under these same conditions. When we went to bed that night, we noticed that he was not snoozing in his favorite living room chair - but we assumed he was in one of his hideouts - under the upstairs bed or in my sewing closet.
When we got up the next morning and he wasn't waiting for us at the french doors, we knew something was wrong. We searched the house, combed the neighborhood, put out an APB to friends and family. We even posted Teche's mug shot on Facebook.
At about dark that evening when the frantic searching had exhausted us, that rascal of a cat showed up at the same door where he made his exit. He strolled in and looked at us as if to say, "What? Is something wrong?"
Needless to say, we've cancelled the photography jaunt. Neither of us would enjoy it for wondering where Teche is and when he's going to come home. I hope this little adventure of his turns out as happily as the last one did. Jerry has removed the cable so now the door is closing like it should - after the cat's gone.
3 hours later . . .
Teche is stretched out on the floor at my feet. So far I have resisted the urge to commit catacide. It wasn't long after I posted the tale above - in fact, I was still at the computer - when Teche strolled into the room. Is he not the coolest of cats? The rascal had been in the house the entire time that we thought he was outside.
But where exactly was he? We had searched every nook and cranny in the house - or so we thought. Wherever he was, he laid low and ignored our calls. He even ignored the rustling of the treat bag. By seven o'clock he will be on the arm of my recliner, watching TV with us as if this has been an ordinary day at Bywater Farm - as if he didn't derail our photography trip.
Technology is a wonderful thing. For one thing - it means things happen fast. If there are uprisings in northern Africa or riots in Wisconsin, we see them as they take place - on cable TV's never ending news coverage.
If you use your debit card to buy something, money comes out of your checking account immediately. If you have a hang nail, you can post it on Facebook and all your friends - no matter where they are in the world - will know about it now.
This speed means a lot of things, and one of them is that we can see civilization deteriorating at warp speed right before our very eyes.
One of the tell-tale signs of a declining civilization is the break down of its language. And when television puts its mind to it, it can do serious damage to the language.
A few years ago, any little kid knew what "reality" meant - it meant the way things actually are - in other words - for real, not pretend. But now we have "reality shows." They have very little to do with reality, so what will "reality" mean to the kids who are cutting their teeth on reality shows? And I guess they had better be cutting their teeth on reality shows because the SAT test for college bound students now has questions about reality shows. Don't tell me civilization is not falling!
We all know what "history" used to mean. But what does it mean now that the History Channel has abandoned history? I love Pawn Stars, Swamp People, and Ax Men, but what do they have to do with history? You don't have to tell me, I know about that little slogan the History Channel has come up with - something like "History - Made Everyday." They're really straining to connect their shows to history. Why don't they just change the name of the channel? That would be easier.
The Arts & Entertainment channel used to be - well, artsy. Dare I say "high brow?" Not anymore. With shows like Criminal Minds, Breakout Kings, and The Sopranos, Arts & Entertainment is anything but artsy.
Those of us who grew up with National Geographic magazine knew that we could expect to be educated about the world by perusing its pages, filled with breathtaking photographs and detailed maps. What kind of education are we getting from the National Geographic channel now with shows like Detroit Gang Squad, Tijuana Drug Lords, and Bloods and Crips?
Mind you, I'm just talking about the violence that's being done to the language by television. To address the effects that these shows are having on morality would take another blog post.
Ausonius, the Roman poet, decided to retire to his villa, write poetry, and await the inevitable. I'm writing blog posts while I await the inevitable crash of civilization, curmudgeon that I am.
I was a tomboy and Easter was not my favorite holiday. That’s not to say that I didn’t enjoy anything about Easter. I liked to dye eggs. I liked to get up early to see what the Easter Bunny had left in my basket. I liked to hear my Sunday School teacher read the Easter story. And I loved singing the Easter hymns, especially the one that says “Up from the grave he arose with a mighty triumph o’er his foes.”
So, what was it that I didn’t like about Easter? The clothes. The clothes started to torment me a month before Easter when the endless shopping trips started. I feel privileged to have had my childhood in the 1950's, America’s Golden Age. But that era wasn’t free of insane notions and one of those notions was that everybody in the family had to have fancy new clothes for Easter - right down to your underwear. It was usually impossible to get all of this on one shopping trip so you had to start at least a month in advance along with everybody else in America. And believe me, it seemed like all of America was shopping in our town. It was almost impossible to find a place to park on either side of our main street. The stores were so crowded that you had to wait in line for a dressing room.
My mother may not have enjoyed the crowded stores, but she did enjoy getting new clothes. She had given up a career as a department store fashion buyer to get married and raise me - a tomboy who cared nothing about clothes. I must have been a disappointment in that respect. Mama came from a family of seven where each child had what he or she needed, but not much extra. She could never understand why her only child didn’t like to shop.
One particular Easter stands out in my mind. I was eight years old. The shopping trips that year were particularly annoying because they took me away from my two new white kittens - Fuzzy and Fluffy. But at length the new outfit was assembled. It consisted of a sleeveless dress with a full skirt and a fitted bodice. Under it I wore my new slip and frilly panties. My straw hat was round with streamers down the back. I had white shoes and lacy socks. I wore white gloves and carried a little white purse with a lacy handkerchief inside.
Mama thought I looked adorable - except for my skinned shins. I loved to climb trees and always had a few scrapes and scratches. Fuzzy and Fluffy had added to my collection of blemishes that year. Three well-placed band-aids hid the worst scrapes on my shins and at last we paraded out the front door to go to church.
Mama and I waited on the front steps while Daddy went to start the car. When he turned the key in our 1946 Plymouth something didn’t sound quite right. He turned the car off, got out, and raised the hood. He peered inside. Then - to my horror - he lifted Fuzzy’s lifeless body from the engine-works of the old Plymouth.
I cried. I screamed. I didn’t bother to take my lacy hanky out and wipe my tears. They tumbled down my face onto my dress. Mama and Daddy tried to comfort me. They explained that a belt had hit Fuzzy when Daddy started the car. He had died instantly and felt absolutely no pain. And - had I forgotten? I still had Fluffy.
None of this information had the desired calming effect. I continued to bellow until a most unusual sound reached our ears. We had never heard anything like it. It whirred, it clacked, it roared, and it grew steadily louder. It seemed to be coming from the highway in front of our house. Daddy put Fuzzy’s little body down and followed Mama and me to the picket fence that marked the boundary of our front yard.
To our great astonishment an airplane was rolling down the highway as if it belonged there where we were accustomed to seeing cars go! Although it was a small plane, its wings spanned more than the width of the two-lane road. The pilot waved gaily as he passed our house and continued on toward town.
In spite of all this excitement, we arrived at church on time. Fuzzy had a nice funeral that afternoon, Fluffy and I spent many happy times together, and - to this day - I don’t know what became of the pilot and his airplane.
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| Judy and Fay |
Jerry and I were hovering on either side of sixty with very little horse experience when we decided to become horse owners in 2004.
I’m not sure what made us want to keep horses. Maybe it was the Westerns we grew up watching on television in the fifties - Gunsmoke, Rawhide, and Tombstone Territory.
Traveling photographers and their ponies nourished our love of the Old West. My husband grew up in southern Louisiana and my childhood was spent in northwestern Florida, but we both have pictures of ourselves at about six years old - each astride a brown and white Shetland pony with a fancy Western saddle and bridle.
Then too, I think Silver marked me for life. In the rural Florida of my childhood, stock laws - if there were any - were not enforced. Pigs, cattle, goats, and horses roamed at will. A big white horse frequented our neck of the woods. We never knew who he belonged to, but he often jumped over our cattle guard which was installed at the driveway gate to keep him and other roaming animals out. We called him Silver.
One of my earliest memories is waking to a noise I couldn’t identify. I could tell it was outside, so my tiny feet padded over to the open window. As I gazed out, Silver’s large white head appeared, illuminated by a full moon. He looked me in the eye as he munched on grass that had come from below my window. I cherished the nights when I fell asleep to the sound of Silver snorting and champing grass. His presence was comforting.
When I was about twelve years old, my parents started taking me to a riding academy on Sundays. It was run by a friendly young couple. They had several horses that they rented out to anyone who wanted to ride over their acreage which was bounded on one side by a sleepy bayou. They also gave lessons. I learned to ride at a trot and a canter and to weave in and out of barrels.
Sometimes we rode out on the trails in a group, and occasionally my parents joined us. My mother usually ended up on a horse named Toby who liked to try to get her off his back by rubbing her against a tree. Looking back, I doubt that these outings were much fun for her. But for me those were glorious days. I thought I was a great rider and nothing much scared me.
When my parents thought I was ready, they bought me a horse - a stallion that couldn’t have been more than three years old. He was reddish brown with a white streak down his face. I named him Blaze. He stayed with his previous owner - about five miles from our house - until we had a place ready for him. My father fenced a portion of our five acres. We cleared out an existing out-building and used it to store feed and tack.
While these preparations were going on at home, my father made arrangements for Blaze to be gelded. I didn’t understand exactly what this meant, but my parents said it would make him easier to handle and I figured that would be a good thing.
Every morning for two or three weeks after the surgery, my father and I got up at five in the morning and drove to the place where Blaze was stabled. We exercised him by walking him up and down a country road for thirty minutes. It was winter and cold enough that we could see our own breath as well as Blaze’s. We returned home every morning just in time for me to catch the school bus.
Eventually Blaze came to live at our place. His previous owner delivered him in a trailer. After that, I was on my own. I didn’t have brothers or sisters, and evidently my parents thought I was experienced enough to handle this young horse by myself. They didn’t know much about horses, and I think they believed that Blaze’s surgery would give him the temperament of the old seasoned horses at the riding academy.
I remember taking care of Blaze's needs - feeding and watering him every morning before school and again in the evening after school. And of course I remember that fateful day that led to our separation.
I had saddled Blaze and was riding on a sandy road not more than a half mile from our house. All of a sudden Blaze arched his back like a Halloween cat and all four of his feet came off the ground at the same time. I was terrified. To this day I don’t remember if I rode him home or led him home. But when I got there, I told my parents what happened and said, with all the rashness of youth, “I’ll never get on that horse again!”
Of course, I didn’t mean it. I was frightened, but - more than that - my feelings were hurt. I couldn’t believe that Blaze had wanted to get rid of me. I thought we were friends, buddies, pals. How could my parents possibly think that I never wanted to ride him again? How many times had I been mad at my best friend, Anna, and swore that I’d never speak to her again? Surely they had noticed that I was often chatting with her shortly after making this rash statement.
No, I didn’t mean it. I wasn’t a quitter and neither were my parents. I fully expected them to say that I must not give up, that maybe I needed some help - some guidance - some support - but I must not give up.
But to my horror and surprise, there was no effort to talk me out of my resolve to give up my partnership with Blaze. It was decided immediately that he had to go. Before I had time to sort through my emotions, my father was on the phone talking to Blaze’s previous owner who agreed to buy him back.
The next day my mother tried to comfort me while Blaze was loaded into a trailer, never to return. But I wept bitter tears, and I knew in the depths of my young heart that this was unfinished business.
