The Gathering

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I had already titled and loaded the photos for this next post when I received word that I had lost a special old friend to cancer. I have not suffered well the loss of precious old allies in this new millennium and my thoughts and writing reflect that troubling sorrow too well this time so please forgive any typos and disjointed thoughts from my deep distractions of the last week. I decided to leave the title as it was and add my recent loss to "The Gathering".
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May was always a bittersweet time of sudden activity out at the ranch. It was a time of fresh life bursting out in new greens and bright colors but also a time for the Colorado cowboys to wrap up their winter graze and head home. By June, the canyons and mesa tops would be empty of cattle and their rowdy, adorable caretakers and then remain deafeningly void of that delightful cowboy mischief until their eventual return with the first signs of early winter.
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So, this time last year, Terry and I headed 'up top' to meet up with Slim and a rep from a gas drilling corporation. We would take a hard right at the foot of this mesa after leaving our place and continue on some eight miles or more before arriving at Slim's place. He was either our second or third closest neighbor, depending on what roads you took. If you counted in the adjoining property lines, I suppose he was our second closest. Today would be a smooth ride up to the top; no mud bogs and the deep sands on the hill climb section were unusually agreeable to traction. The sun was hot on our arms that rested on the truck doors as breezes wisped up tiny dust rodeos around us - it was one of those many ranch days that filled us with easy and deep contentment.
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Slim's cattle dotted the fields of both our ranches and the driving was slower now due to the arrival of frisky new calves who might get a wild and exuberant hair to leap out into the road, all just for young calf grins. The anti-neighbor's ranch matron mother had warned me repeatedly that the bull calves were the dumbest and most foolhardy when it came to such things.
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While Mama Cow might be traffic wise, you don't count on her calf or the ones she might be babysitting to behave.
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This little calf had just burst from the sage and dashed across the road in front of us to join its mother. It could have easily been road kill with such a stunt and, every year, some are lost to such traffic mishaps. The gas field is probably 98% of the vehicle traffic out there and, except for the odd idiot, they do a great job of avoiding collisions with livestock. Beyond such vigilance, the pumpers (the fellas charged with the regular well maintenance) usually go the extra mile and alert the rancher to any problems they see, such as a cow bogged down in waterhole mud or caught in a cattle guard. Of course, that fine relationship depends on neither the pumper or the rancher being a jerk.
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Here is gas company rep Mike meeting with Slim. Terry and I both enjoyed dealing with Mike since he was an engineer by original trade even though he was performing the much reviled task of playing 'land agent' here. A 'land agent' is the guy who is supposed to grab your surface land into perpetuity for as little as possible. That company had bought out an outfit which had abused us shamelessly before we were able to get down there and become acquainted with price realities. Mike entered the picture later and I loved to watch him and Terry, two highly intelligent Dilberts, enjoying a fine game of cat and mouse. They each had a fine, dry sense of humor and kept the proceedings ever civil and gentlemanly.
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While Terry and Mike were using Mike's tailgate as a desk in the foreground, Slim got on to more serious cowboy matters. Here is a Colorado camera crew recording scenes from the cattle gathering. If the series ever shows up on TV, I will certainly let you know. You just won't see me in any of it. When I did an obvious duck and cover from the cameraman, Slim exclaimed "Ah-hah! I knew it! Why else would anyone live out here in the middle of nowhere ... you're in some kinda witness protection program, ain't ya?!!" Well, that got me to laughing. I guess it would seem odd to most folks that I really dislike having my picture taken and that I don't like having neighbors close enough to see them from the front porch or even in a five minute drive. Terry loved that seclusion as well and a big part of our spirits are still out there.
.After a winter of having the range to themselves, some of the horses were not keen to get back into the whole cattle work scene. Here is one of Slim's horses expressing contempt at being saddled up again after a long season off. He's heading for the secret critter escape trail up the mesa wall from Slim's fenced compound.

The gathering will continue on through that week. Slim's friends and family will help him gather in the cattle from the far reaches of the grazing lands, corralling them in for the next phase - the roundup weekend when all the new calves will be branded, counted and prepared for the big ride back up North for the summer. It will be the time when a rancher can get a first glimpse of whether he will be running in the black or the red, if his cowboy passions pay off that year.

Next post - the branding party.
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An Old Friend Gathered In

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Before pulling down the driveway for the last time as we headed off to New Mexico, I checked the mailbox one last time. I retrieved a small box and hastily put it under the seat in my Dakota. It would remain there until we could settle into the Rat trailer a month later.

When I opened the package, I beamed with a chill of delight. Two small jars stated that they were from "Bob's Kitchen", the line below further announcing that they were "handcrafted by Bob Sinclair". On his last visit, shortly before we made the big move, he said that he would send us a little something that he had made and here they were in the fruity flesh, two glass jars promising a tangy joy within. Terry laughed as I stowed them away on the new pantry shelves he had just finished building. "Saving them for the Queen's visit, are you?" He knew me so well, that boy did. As my grandmother and mother before me, there were just some things which were too precious to consign to the mundane. I had many such things that we so regrettably never got to enjoy; rather, they disappeared down the driveway of the old life with acquaintances when the moving van supposedly ran out of space. These precious jars had survived only by fate of timing and they would be the start of my comforting new 'save for best' collection.
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Since the first week in May, I had watched this borrowed television set with dread. The graphic news coverage of the Santa Barbara fires brought horrid thoughts and worries with it; I had an old friend out there, one who was battling cancer.

Being the fighter he was, he had surpassed the original due date offered by the specialists by over two years already. But it became apparent in the e-mails of the last two months that he was slowly losing the fight when the cancer started to metastasize to other regions. It had attacked his brain with that stunning 165 IQ and my heart knotted up in sorrow as his once meticulous written English started to decline in recent messages. I wanted to scream and pound the ground with outrage at this sadistic, unjust turn of fate.

I e-mailed both Bob and his wife, Anne, with my concerns but I held the dreaded suspicion that only Anne would reply this time. I waited and worried and the reports of the raging fires taunted me with every new report. My heart ached in agony for Bob and I imagined dear Anne dealing with so many losses at once. Then I got an e-mail reply from Anne last week which started off with "It is with a heavy heart that .... ". The fire had started just one road over from their house and Bob had to be evacuated to a hospice facility for his last days; he didn't even get the chance to remain at home, surrounded by his family, his border collies, his native fish collections or his garage full of vehicles he enjoyed so much. Damn this mortal realm, damn it all to Hell anyway. Yes, I have anger issues with life and fate right now - psycho-babble sound bites of the moment be damned - deeply do I live, feel, care and hurt over others. I will painfully miss genuine old allies when they depart. I care not to change that ever.
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Here are a couple of photos that Bob had shared with us over the years.
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This is Bob and Anne at a Saab Rally in New Zealand a few years ago. He was such a dedicated auto enthusiast that they popped up all over the world to join other like-minded souls.
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Here is Bob on the East coast, picking up his last two-wheeled acquisition before riding it back to California. His passion for riding and driving had him crossing the continent several times a year as much for the pleasure of each road mile as for any destination itself. He told me about driving his 360GT across the country and back and how it got sand-blasted in a freak New Mexico sand storm on the way home, playfully adding that he now called it his 'Ferrari beater'.

If you enjoy reading about amazing people, please try this link which I hope will remain active for some time to come:
Legendary Saab exec Bob Sinclair dies: AutoWeek Magazine
This is one article where even the comments are worth reading through for more insights.

On his last visit, he kept us spellbound with stories of his adventures and years in the auto trade. Despite my best badgering attempts, he would not consign his incredible memoirs to paper and I consider this as an incredible loss to us all. Now, Anne, I will tattle on Bob and I know that his devilish humor will have him chuckling at the very idea; we happened to have an unopened bottle of Courvoisier around and cracked it open that night. Terry grinned and whispered that the visit from the Queen had finally arrived as I quietly handed him the dusty bottle from the cabinet. Although he protested at first, Bob would impishly sneak back to the kitchen later for a little refill with that naughty cat-like grin. The tales got even more spell-binding and I think he slept very well that night before his planned 800 mile ride the next day.
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Last weekend, a rummage through the refrigerator had that last jar of Bob's preserves pop into view and I picked it up and cupped it in my hands like a gold chalice as I thought about the events of the last weeks, of the last few years and of the last 30 years. I reflected sadly "It's just time, isn't it, old friend?" as I reverently emptied the last of the precious contents onto some beautiful sesame seed Italian bread toasted. I had saved it for the best of best reasons. God luv ya, Bob, and thank you for remaining a keenly astute, faithful and understanding long term friend, even after Terry left us. Not all did.

But I will leave you with a bit of good news here. Despite their home sitting in the birthplace of the fires, it survived. I had to thank God profusely for sparing Anne yet another heartbreaking upset to deal with.

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And I will now pass along a so timely bit of sentiment that I just received from my old friend, Moose in Alberta, here. This is belatedly for Bob and also for my true friends that remain. God bless you all, especially in this interesting year ahead.

There comes a point in your life when you realize:
Who matters,
Who never did,
Who won't anymore ...
And who always will.

So, don't worry about people from your past; there's a reason why they didn't make it to your future. Give these flowers to everyone you don't want to lose in 2009, including me, if that's what is in your heart.
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Free to a Good Home

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"Free to a good home" ... if I was a truly pragmatic soul, this would be an ad for myself rather than for the offspring which have been liberally falling out of almost every animal which the previous owners had left behind. As adorable as these plentiful little creatures are, I am somewhat overwhelmed by the activities it has involved.

And I just realized that I dieseled on well past a monthiversary of my last post. I should be doing some crow bar and hammer work and some framing work before the drywall guy shows up tomorrow but I wanted to let you know that I am still breathing.
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The Panda update: As you can see, the pups have grown enough to start wandering out of their original nest behind the skid steer. The look on Panda's face tells you that she is nearly as tired of being mauled by ten adorable little furballs as I am. This is the puppy stage that I have dreaded, the one where you cannot walk beyond the yard enclosure without the likelihood of drop-kicking or running over a zealous little fuzzball ... or four ... or ten.

The bad news is that W&G have not been proactive about dealing with their dog and her pups as originally promised. The good news is that I inadvertently swiped a copy of a regional newspaper from the zoning and planning guy at the county seat and later found a phone number for a dog rescue in it. The bad news is that the lady said the pups will need to stay with their mother for another two rambunctious weeks to learn "manners and discipline" from their mother. The good news is that she will take them all thereafter. The bad news is that they now respond to the sound of any critter feeding at all with earfuls of high-pitched yipping joy and a full tumbling assault in my direction. The good news is that keeping ahead of this fuzzy pack is becoming a regular source of speed training for me despite any bad knees.
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Thankfully, it's been a fairly quiet place since I arrived. I missed last year's stand-off between police and a guy who used to, most disturbingly, ride his bicycle around the area in the nude and eventually created a pillbox within his decrepit old trailer with concrete block, leaving only Medieval arrow slots in place of the original windows. W&G said that it was quite a show and a few friends joined them with lawn chairs and popcorn for the big smack-down show that day. This story pointedly reminded me of why we so enjoyed being five miles from the nearest neighbor out at the ranch.

The only run-in I have had so far was with a chubby gangbanger on foot who was far too nosy, glancing back over his shoulder as he passed and then flashing me those moronic, belligerent gang signs when he saw me watching back. He returned later that day with a full carload of his buddies, cruising at case-the-joints speed, all rubber-necking at every house. My new friends filled me in on many useful details about such vermin and were greatly concerned about my old habit of facing filth head-on. Not to worry though, I haven't seen this gangbanger crud since.
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And so it was unusual to have the quiet recently broken by a helicopter landing in a field not far from here. Brou was beside himself with excitement ... finally being able to alert me to genuine low incoming air traffic at our new pumpkin shell of a residence.
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Great amusement indeed for both of us as one red-suited occupant of the helicopter jumped into a Sheriff Department SUV and disappeared westwards down the dirt road to our north. Then, despite a loud explosion which may or may not have had anything to do with the helicopter landing, the activity dried up and scattered away piecemeal on the dry winds of the day.

It was the winds that day which sadly reminded me of Slim, our cowboy /grazing tenant at the ranch /fireman /EMT. He had told us a story of a rescue incident in the Colorado mountains which continues to haunt me. They had to call in a helicopter rescue for a badly injured logger. As the helicopter was about to touch down, it suddenly flipped sideways and fatally crashed into the mountain. More upsettingly, as the follow-up helicopter arrived, the crew flew over and saw the first wreck just before it also flipped and crashed. No chance, no survivors. Slim may be that classic tough cowboy who doesn't like to talk much about bad things but you could tell that those people who died that day while trying to help others would be riding not too far behind him, forever. I hear the low thump of helicopter blades quite differently now.
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The winds of Spring: Yes, the winds have been impressive for the last month but I've only had one sizable tree limb fall so far and it landed in a very benign place. I did have to correct some of W's ten penny nail work with screws when the homemade doors to the shed blew open and threatened my truck parked right outside. Nails should be abolished, period.
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This small pile of tire-killing debris which I had been slowly picking up since my arrival caught me off guard. It had originally been carefully deposited in an old galvanized tub which came with me from the ranch. What a minute ... where did the tub go?
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I finally located the tub; it has been blown along a good hundred feet before it's airy journey ended abruptly against a section of wire fence. The tumbleweeds, however, will see much more of the world before stopping, especially if I toss them up in the air during a good wind after they have piled up against the fences. This sport requires thick leather gloves since many of them have very vicious barbs - the goats-head bush is truly vile and its spikes will puncture thin-walled tires (or shoes!) without hesitation.
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Here is a view of how the tumbleweeds typically pile up. The puppies have heard me and are now piling out through the gate to help me take photos ... oh joy of joys.
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More tumbleweeds, more puppies - both are omnipresent lately.
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I had often wondered where these tons of weeds end up and I just found out, thanks to 'Jimmy the drywaller'. They come to rest up where his brother bought a house east of here, often covering his house up well above the eaves. I had driven nearly out to that area in the plains one day but the dust storms were so bad that I could not see the road in front of the truck 30% of the time. I have been in white-outs and fog-outs aplenty before but never in a dusty 'brown-out' like this one and I cringed at what was happening to the air filter on the truck.
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While Jimmy was working here last week, I pointed out the above dark plume to him and asked what he thought it was. His first guess was a fire (not a good thing at all since the region is a dry, dry tinderbox at the moment). Then he noticed that it was moving along quickly. "Wow, THAT is the biggest dust devil I have ever seen!" Unfortunately, I only caught a photo of this devil in its waning stages. It had been so dark and distinct that you would have expected to look up and find it connected to a black tornado cloud but it climbed upwards to connect to nothing but the blue sky above.

In this photo, you can also catch a glimpse of the mountains living far to the East of here. There have been days in this windy season when everything beyond those buildings has been obliterated by a dense curtain of brown dust. Thankfully and forever what reason, this small pocket on the plains is sheltered from the worst of the wind's bluster ... so far at least.
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And here's John, eighty years under his belt already and still kicking butt. He still has the fortitude and pluck which secured him a spot on the US ISDT team years ago on a BSA. God bless him, he remained a friend to both of us and he stopped over on his way West recently. I felt so bad that I still don't have a guest room set up but he was reassuringly gallant about sleeping on the too short Chesterfield even though he takes more of a set overnight these days than he used to.

He was the first contact here to want to sit down and encourage me with positive dialog to get me up out of my slump and consider the future again. I so hate to ask for unpaid help but he also insisted on helping out where he could. He helped me move the 100 plus pound dressers and unwieldy building supplies that have been forever in the way of my next projects and then went out to start up Terry's truck and check it over. He would have kept going and going and going had I not felt so awkward about his very welcomed thoughtfulness. While I no longer miss human company other than Terry's now, I have never felt so all alone in my life and his arrival was a true blessing. John has always been a deep and independent thinker, always observant and sensitive to the big picture and the priorities of the here and now and Terry and I always respected his thoughts and opinions completely. God bless him indeed for showing up when he did in my darkest hours.
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I've got lots of photos and updates that have been languishing amidst my doldrums and sorrows but I will try to post again in the next week if all goes well. I have been beset by a couple of physical maladies which even I can't ignore too much longer but watch for my next post soon ... God willing and the Creek don't rise. And, very genuinely meant, thanks for sticking by me.
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And a P.S.: Alltel absolutely sucks ... more details and rant likely to follow (it's not just their TV commercials that irritate beyond belief).
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Treading water in a clawfoot tub

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The single highlight of this week was the return of the prodigal tub. With any luck, it will assume its permanent place in this house, likely the last place I will do a house make-over since I now consider this house and locale quite temporary. Back in the 70s when house restorations became popular, someone wrote "There is really only one house restoration in all of us." Some five or six house projects later plus those done for a living, I am finally running out of heart and steam.

I had looked and looked for a four foot long cast iron tub for ten years before finding this one. The four footer is ideal to serve as a period shower base in a small bathroom. There were ample supplies of the five foot long tubs but not the more coveted four and six foot lengths, at least none that hadn't been buried vertically and converted into a yard shrine housing a Madonna years ago. I once knew a fellow who had photographed each kitschy tub shrine he found in New England and he had contrived a hilarious although sacrilegious title for each one in his collection.

This one was remarkably well preserved when I found it; usually abrasive cleaners and unchecked faucet dips ruined the porcelain over time. I had found this one at a remote rural old hippie yard sale. It even had the hard-to-find brass drain plumbing on it and, for $75, the guy even helped me load it into my tiny pickup. This was not a find that I could stash away in the barn/work shop by myself so, after giving me 'the look', Terry helped me unload it. I spent considerable time slowly rasping away with a metal file during the following weeks to wear down many casting glitches on the tub and legs. The big moment of satisfaction was when I was able to apply primer to all the parts to stop further rusting.
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Long story but a couple of acquaintances showed up this week with the tub and I cannot tell you how excited I was to see it again! Yes, like the Katlady, I have a passion for iron castings, truly, literally a heavy burden if you ever have to move. The return of the tub brought nothing more than later having to pry out a chunk of white porcelain from my forearm after a warning of a leg falling off went unheeded. No back miseries ... delightful!

I am kicking myself for not taking pictures of the incredible DC motor driven lift platform that Brian had placed in his standard pick-up rear receiver for the event. He even had me stand on it for a demonstration and gave me a lift up and down. After having a 130 pound can of turkey feed drop off my tailgate, effectively taking the skin off my lower shin and ankle upon landing, I was all ears about this incredible device. He said that it was rated for lifting up to 500 pounds to tailgate level and that it was able to heft a refrigerator with no problem at all. Better still, he had found it on sale from Harbor Freight for $199. Of course, we had to discuss all the mods and tweaks to cater to specific needs. As of that visit, the Harbor Freight catalogs will definitely find their way back to the toilet tank library.
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Catching up on old news, here is Wayne demonstrating the right stance for catching chickens, ducks and pigeons. It's not as easy or pleasant as you might imagine.
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And here is Gayle tackling a reluctant turkey. They were ALL reluctant in reality. Her grimace reflects the joy of being whipped in the eyes by sturdy feathers. Not being involved, of course, I found the whole process hilarious. Then Gayle let out a whoop of despair when one turkey hen escaped. When I said "Oh my, now how are you going to catch and cage her?" she replied "Uhm, actually that's one of the ones you own now" as we stood there and watched this hen take off like a road runner to parts unknown. When I suggested that the turkey-obsessed Brou be let loose to tire her out, Gayle noted that the wings on these birds had not been clipped and that we might be staring up at a turkey high in the treetops if he startled her. Really, what was I thinking in adopting inedible old turkeys in the first place?

After an hour of sprinting after a turkey adept at ducking and dodging, we herded her back towards the trailer and Wayne was able to corner the bugger and toss her back into the pen.
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Here is Wayne stuffing the first of the highly resistant turkeys into the cage on their trailer. You have to give W&G an 'A' for tenacity and eventually all their flying stock was captured and loaded up.
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You met Hannah already, now here is the rest of my turkey homies. This is Romeo (hey, I did NOT name these birds, okay?) . He is the Tom (male) of the pair of NM natives. This time Gayle reiterated their species name loudly and clearly as if addressing the profoundly deaf and daft - it was fitting and much appreciated. "THEY ... ARE ... RIO GRANDES!" And so this time, the info stuck.
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Here is a close-up of Romeo's plummage. A photo simply cannot do justice to the effect of the bright New Mexico sun reflecting off his feathers when he struts his stuff. I rather like that boy since he never fails to answer my "Booga-booga-booga!" when I walk out to the pen. And if the sun is out, it's likely that he will puff himself out as shown above and drum me an almost ELF ranged "shtooommmpphhhh!". A turkey hunter would know and love that sound well. He's a pretty cocky, cool bird.
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And here is the third bird. Again, don't blame me for the names ... meet Rita! She is the Rio Grande hen of the pair. She is the one who had us playing turkey round up when she escaped and the only one who ducks into the coop when I arrive with food. Rita definitely has a stubborn, defiant mind of her own.

According to W&G, I now need to find some good nesting straw and they will start laying eggs. While I really enjoyed the duck and chicken eggs that W&G shared with me before the bird exodus, I am tempted to raise enough native turkey hatchlings to release them out at the ranch some day. It's either that or (as I discussed with Harmonica Joe) raise and train turkeys as bird of prey substitutes just to utterly annoy elitist falconers. After being the only volunteer to ride in the back of a station wagon with the hooded falcon in Utah once, I became thoroughly enchanted with falconry. Being the frugal and pragmatic sort though, I think I might be able to replicate the same hunting function with a vaguely domesticated turkey, thus avoiding all that long apprenticeship and pricy licencsing ... whaddya think? I know, I know; they look more like a buzzard than a hawk but they sure can kick butt when motivated ... just ask Gayle. And it appeals to my growing eccentricity to ride the ranch someday on a Percheron, in a suit of armor with a faithful turkey of prey perched upon my gauntlet. If you are going to offend or annoy everyone eventually anyway, you might as well do it with an outrageous flare.
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The puppy update: Panda is definitely a deca-mom. You may not be able to account for all of them from this photo but there are ten little pups all piled on here. Panda has been doing an excellant job of taking care of them. That's a good thing since W&G have silently dropped below the radar since I sent them an e-mail announcing their arrival. That e-mail also contained a compilation of your many congrats and well wishes on Wayne's surgery and I am sure that they were very appreciated.
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And I discovered today that Panda is a shameless photo ham. Upon hearing her name, she presented me with new poses for every camera click until the batteries wore down.
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And to wrap up this photo tour, here is a snap of the wall that I stare at a lot when trying to write a new post. The student lamp, the wall clock and the pheasant all contain pleasant memories. The pheasant, in particular, has its own very special place in the memories that Terry and I shared. We called him Phred and no one can dampen or take the joy of that particular memory from me ... thank God, truly.
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The Problem with Panda

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The majority of W&G's livestock and creatures have now been moved over to their new place. What remains are eight barn cats and . . . Panda.

Panda was a young dog that a friend had brought them from his very remote ranch, a pup born to a stock dog who took her patrol job seriously and generally had very little exposure to humans. It was rumored that there was some strong Great Pyrenees in Panda's genes - a most beneficial and admired breed of hound for livestock stewardship. What W&G weren't told was that they instinctively have a much wider territory range than W&G's five acres. Out at the ranch, it was not unusual to see the anti-neighbor's great hulking woolly white Pyrenees a mile or more away from their ranch house so I was not surprised in the least.
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And, to their frustration, that she would be incredibly aloof. To my frustration as well. When I arrived, no one could get closer than four feet from her before she would bolt like you were wielding a butcher knife with deadly intent like a scene from Psycho.

It was agreed upon that Panda move to their new place ... IF they ever caught her. They continued to bring her dog food for a while but after a stunningly ill-conceived attempt to place her food in a large cage and rope-snag the door closed behind her, she never entered the cage again and eventually they stopped bringing her any food at all. Being a fairly recognizable sap, of course, I began to take up the slack while fervently maintaining the "That's not my dog, monsieur" position, especially for a hound with obvious magnetic pole repulsion syndrome.

Age and eccentricity allow me to converse with any critter I darned well please and, frankly, they are generally much more polite listeners than humans. And so Panda got an earful at each feeding about how I was far too pragmatic to feed anything 'just because', that there would have to be some other reason to keep an aloof stock dog around on a property that no longer had stock. Maybe she understood her new state of unemployment because she eventually started to edge a little closer in towards me and I tested the waters occasionally with a hand while talking gently and casually to her. She finally realized that I would not abuse this newly forming trust by grabbing at her.
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Then came the breakthrough one day when she came in close enough that I was able to reach out and scratch her benignly as she wolfed down the food I brought her. All in patient baby steps over the course of many weeks but now she will come over for scratchies even when I don't have food for her. W&G showed up at feeding time one day and Gayle let out a loud "I don't believe it! Wayne, take a look at Panda!" as Panda ate, unconcerned that I was scratching her ears. Gayle's next shout was "So ... you have a new dog now?" N-n-n-ope. I usually avoid inheriting stress from other folks' bad decisions whenever possible. I certainly do not keep un-neutered pets around since I don't like loitering around high traffic areas with a box that reads "Free puppies" or 'Free kittens."

Now Panda even knows to make one full circle while I put her food down. It was a family tradition which Brou, Daisy and even Beautiful Dave the Cat and Ming abide by. It gives me a chance to put down food without a bowl being knocked out of my hand and they all politely oblige. What is most curious is that the two dogs have interpreted this ritual as a form of saying 'please' and will spin around wildly to confirm when they want something badly. I'm easy, that works, too.
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I let Brou and Daisy out as usual this morning but, rather than bark with the usual exuberance, Brou ran to the far end of the yard nearest the open shed with Terry's skid steer in it and stood fully upright against the fence with his head adorably cocking from one side to the other, listening intently to some new and totally baffling noise. Since the eight barn cats were also oddly absent, I went out to investigate.
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So here is octo-mom this morning with at least eight new puppies. I really don't hold it against her ... she has the expected intelligence and instincts of a dog, of course.
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Wayne's final surgery occurred last Thursday. The operation was a smashing success considering all the unknown possibilities before going in. They are comfortable that they got all the bladder cancer and Wayne will not have to live with any external bladder replacements. Yessuh!!! Better still, they announced that he would not have to alter his diet and intake permanently either so I can stuff them with whatever I darned well please when they show up.

Now ... how do I break it to them that Panda celebrated by making them doggy grandparents eight times, possibly plus? Ahhh, oui ... mais you forget ... that is NOT my dog, monsieur!
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Better times and make-overs from the past

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The days have turned into weeks and now months as I sit here waiting for any labor help with good references to catch up on their backlogs. It's hard to believe that there is a severe recession upon us but perhaps those people with a good work ethic, skill and pride in their work will never run out of work, no matter what.

Terry and I had accomplished some wonderful make-overs together in the past and although he would say "You are the mechanic, the visionary, the carpenter - I am just the brawn so hand me that wrecking bar and tell me when to stop", he had developed so many skills and a laudable finesse over the years we were together. He was truly a man who could have mastered anything he set his mind to, an impossible act to follow when I look for hired help now. It doesn't help that the few times when we contracted out a task, we often ended up doing it over again ourselves after paying shamelessly high amounts for very shoddy work.

So we'll look back at brighter times; I will take you for a tour of our last project in the home we sold to move to NM. It's a warm and quiet Sunday here and I'm in the mood to wander back into very satisfying memories.

Below is the dining room of the old place as it was when we first moved in. It was a lifeless room done in the long-faded pop culture flavors of the 70s. Neither of us spent much time in there, just threw in some antiques to get them out of the unheated barn really.
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The four soul-less Anderson windows had always bothered me. I was inclined to more interesting fenestration, especially in a 100 year old house as this one was. With this modern arrangement, all I saw was four lash-less glaring eyeballs staring back at me. And while pricey barn board may still have its comfortable place, I prefer it where it belongs ... outside, on an old barn.

Oddly enough though, it was that plastic-bumpered metal spiral staircase on the left of this photo that initiated a make-over after an unsettling incident which could have claimed my life except for the help of strong unseen hands. Then, after hearing stories from the original owner about greasing the heads of small children who had become lodged in the iron balusters, it seemed a good idea to eliminate this ugly hazard once and for all.
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Since we both had a great fondness for Medieval, Gothic and Renaissance styles, we decided that our last room make-over would be a fun and whimsical exercise ... but done on a shoestring budget as usual. Oddly enough, as soon as we decided to do it, suitable furniture, lighting and accessories started to show up at yard sales and on serious retail clearance so I was already having a blast before it had even begun.
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Above: Here is the same room view as the first but after we finished the project.

The project started with Terry carefully removing the fake box beams from the ceiling and the barn board from the walls. Then he cut and hung drywall over the exposed stud walls and I taped and mudded the seams. I chose a Ralph Lauren crackle finish in claret over gold, broken up by rectangular panels of solid gold metallic latex paint. There are much better quality metallic latex paints available now but I was stuck with Lauren's product at the time. It had so little pigment for coverage that I had to resort to scanning a sample of that gold and have them mix up a flat, solid color to use as a base first. That saved many, many applications of the thin and expensive metallic paint later.

Once the entirety of walls had been coated in the opaque base and then with the metallic gold, I marked off sections to be left as gold panels and applied the crackle-effect medium to the rest. Drying time and thickness on the crackle base coat was critical before applying the top coat of claret paint - OMG, I had never been so pressed and stressed with a paint job in my life - the one armed paper-hanger was blessed by comparison!

We decided to go with a textured wallpaper on the ceiling. As someone with that experience under his belt once said "Hanging wallpaper on a ceiling is the ultimate test of team work and ANY relationship!" As with many challenges, amazingly, we survived it in our own odd way and went on to paint it in a flat grocery bag beige but Terry came into his own with the final touches. With his six and a half feet of height, he was able to apply metallic gold to the raised highlights with a hard roller without the aid of any ladder or milk crate. The same task would have taken me three times as long by having to move around height aids, interrupted by frequent trips to the chiropractor for stirring up old whiplash injuries.

It's a shame that these textured wall coverings have all but disappeared now. They were the poor man's substitutes for the traditional Anaglypta and Lincrusta papers from eighty to one hundred years ago. These modern papers were also so much easier to work with since any traditional embossed papers could easily flatten out and stretch if you were not quick in setting them in place once they were wet. This new style was ingeniously made by applying a layer of thermally expanding foam on a flat sheet and very, very hard to mess up while applying. And all you needed was patience, imagination and a hard roller to create some incredible color effects. You could even paint the wall rolls and borders as they lay on a table before hanging them. I truly lament their decline.

Next, we installed full thickness solid oak flooring. Rather than hammer slam it in with nails as is the standard, we carefully pre-drilled each piece and used small-headed Roberts (square drive) screws to secure each piece to the floor. There wouldn't be any loosening and squeaking in OUR wood floors! I finished off the floor with a light golden oak oil stain and let it dry and harden a long time before the final urethane finish.
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Then I started on the wood work. I was determined to break up the look of the old windows into something that looked more like two smaller windows side by side. I made grills (faux muntin bars) for each glass panel and devised a larger frame separating the halves of each window. I band-sawed out Gothic ornaments for the corners of each and a friend sawed out opaque cathedral glass for each quatrefoil cut-out. All the woodwork would be made with off-the-rack pine lumber to keep the price down. I had picked up a set of molding cutters for my table saw at a yard sale (dirt cheap!) and that supplied the incised cuts to take the lumber beyond the mundane.
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Later on, I added material window coverings for more softness and privacy. Walmart's reasonably priced crushed velvet stock at Christmas supplied the swags and I bought an airy gold metallic material to sew up into sheers.
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And, finally, the lethal spiral staircase was tamed! The now solid surrounding walls were nearly a foot taller (to preclude any absent-minded perching of posteriors) and the corners were cut-off to regain some floor space at this upper level. These solid walls were also a great place to hang more theme decor to ponder as you descended into 'the well'.

As I noted previously, between the oddities I had already amassed and was able to rework along with the items which showed up at yard sales, auctions and retail sales as we went, we were able to redo and furnish this room on the relative cheap. There really is something to be said for your own determination, patience and faith in your own abilities; if you don't count the labor of our own hands, we had less than $1,200 in the make-over of this room, from the materials in the room itself to all the fun furnishings and trappings.

Well, I guess the whole point of this tour was really to explain why I am so plagued by angst with the prospect of hiring outside labor to help me now. Oh, if only I had the strength and stamina I had thirty years ago, I would do it all by myself rather than tempt the unknown for disappointments.
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Unintended Turkey Pets

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About a month ago, I became owner of the two 'querkey turkeys shown above. No, not in my wildest dreams did I ever fancy owning turkeys some day. But W&G needed feed money and their turkey buyers had not shown up as promised so ... well, you get the idea. I said I would buy the two above since they are supposed to be native to New Mexico but don't ask me what they are called because I've already forgotten as I do with so many details lately. They are all too old and tough for dinner and they may or may not be young enough to even produce offspring. Just consider them corn-burning welfare pets as I do. The Katlady might at least get some good feathers for her costume projects.
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Now meet Hannah (above). Okay, so she might not be a classic good-looker unless you are another turkey but she at least has a personality and has become my turkey pet number 3 and my favorite homely bird.
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It all started when W&G asked me if I would feed their remaining critters here one day. Hey, I'm willing to try anything once so I marched out to the two pens after Gayle gave me instructions on who gets what quantity of cracked corn, etc. The first enclosure held assorted ducks, chickens and MANY flying rats (W&G call them pigeons) which flapped around with horrendous noise and air currents in front of my face as I tried to dole out corn in many small piles. It soon became obvious that any orderly distribution of feed was lost in the flap and I retreated after flinging the remainder of the corn in a broad pattern as cover fire.

The turkey pen was a little more civil although they have a number of pigeons, these are a racing breed, in there as well. Have I already mentioned that I really don't care for pigeons? It has something to do with Terry and I once donning surplus Israeli gas masks and ascending into a 120 degree barn loft to shovel a hundred or so pounds of pigeon guano out the second story window, guano laced with histoplasmosis which had nearly killed the pigeon owner who left that mess of crusty turds and bird skeletons in situ. But that is another story from another time.
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I didn't know her name (or that she even had one) at the time but when I told Wayne about the unusually tame white hen turkey who had let me pet her incredibly soft white plumage in return of a heads-in first dibs on the corn and later went wild over the black banana which I had sliced up skin and all, he told me all about Hannah. She had been a spoiled pet until she got huffy when the fellow didn't share part of his lunch with her as was customary. She thrashed and clawed him about the head in a vicious tantrum. W & G ended up with her and had let her have free run of the yard until she also attacked Gayle who was innocently milking goats at the time. Gayle said that Hannah became a regular penned turkey from that very day forth. They noted that Hannah had lost a lot of that rude-itude once she was demoted to joe average yard bird and forced to keep the company of other turkeys but that she still has her testy moments.
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Above is Hannah working on an attitude. They warned me to watch for this telltale sign of blustering and puffing up. The advice was well taken and I left the coop immediately after taking this photo. My face and limbs had endured enough fang and claw attacks that I have little interest in tempting fate.

After I told Wayne about Hannah's mad obsession with banana slices, he rechristened her "Hannah Banana". That name is a definite keeper.
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A friend sent me a collection of cute critters expressing various sentiments. I liked this one the best:
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Snow, Pigs and Slackers

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We finally got a snowfall that stayed around more than a day. The usual for this new place has been an inch, maybe slightly more, but it melted away the next day. This is the third day after and it is all pretty much still there. Fortunately, I had decided to make the bi-weekly supply trip as the clouds were beginning to press in over the far northern mountain ranges. I called it close enough that the snow started coming down while I was only 4 miles from home but an inch of snow had already fallen by the time I got the truck unloaded. It would be a fine night to try out the wood-burning stove for coziness. Just the day before, Red had stopped out on his monthly rounds and spotted a wood seller on our way back from a lunch outing. Within two hours, the man had delivered a New Mexican cord of wood (one a little shy of the genuine 4x4x8 full cord I am more familiar with and considerably more expensive and one composed of soft wood that any self-respecting Northerner would consider unburnable). At that rate and price, I doubt it will save any substantial money on heating but we will just have to wait and see. In the meantime, it is a great incentive to fussy around with the vacuum cleaner more than I have been. Time is not so kindly that I have forgotten the ever-present ash dust and bark rubble nor hauling in 300 pounds of good red oak (at 100 pounds to a sling-full) each evening to heat a three-story Victorian. We would have gone through this pile of NM wood in about a week!
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Above: one lone gray barn cat on a mission in the new snow.
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Above: three fours-leggers hoping that I emerged from the warmth to bring hay. Sorry, not my table. Wayne & Gayle still show up every day or two to feed their remaining stock here. I feed their eight barn cats and, very thankfully, that's the extent of it.
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Go figure, we finally get some real winter weather and the cranes decide to head to the Northwest today, by the hundreds! I was able to catch photos of them thanks to Brou's 'heads up' bark. He's been a little put off by the lack of low flying military aircraft that we both loved to see out at the ranch so migrating birds will have to do for excitement now.
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Above: W&G getting ready to lure those greedy little pigs from their pen with a bucket of cracked corn.

The previous Saturday was a great day for progress. W&G showed up with a borrowed trailer to move the pigs (4 each) to their new place. They had already relocated two dozen goats but I reminded them that I considered removal of those pigs as the main priority. These creatures offended my sense of decorum on a regular basis, especially after the introduction when they flicked blobs of pig dung on my scarce 'go to town' clothes. And I grew to resent their crucial role in putting off most previous interest I had in pork products with an overwhelming raft of indelible visual, audio and olfactory impressions.

Now I can hardly wait for them to remove the Angora rabbits plus the old Morgan stud who is creating vast ponds of urine and hard matter in the stalls which I need in order to store our unsheltered lumber. They did clean out most of their belongings in the big out-building last week but the cold weather will keep me from moving much of the 45' trailer contents into it until Spring. With Wayne's long needed surgery now scheduled for the 15th, they have a lot on the plate to finalize before his long convalescence hits home.
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Strictly a W&G Service Announcement: Anyone interested in buying a 1954 Chevy dump truck project for 2 grand? I like having this classic bit of New Mexico yard art around but they are short on cash right now, even more so than usual. If you leave me your contact info in a comment, I won't publish it but will pass the info on to W&G.

It looks like I might be a little scarce on new posts until summer. It's not that there isn't plenty of news to share but that I am going to need more time to organize, settle and deal with the many, many pressing legalities and business that the hired guns have not. It's a hideously daunting prospect that has caused the stress levels to build up to panic levels. The few pros that I have hired have only increased the stress by doing jack - what this here country needs is a one-stop bonded service for the bereaved which takes care of every daunting matter quickly and properly while hand-holding and reassuring. If there is such a service, I certainly haven't found it but rather a vast and confusing a la carte menu of nose-pickers supreme. It is heavily tainting and retarding the progress and enthusiasm for this new place and this new uninvited and unwelcomed life. Wish me luck ... at this rate, I will most certainly need it!
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