Scarlett

Wonder of wonders.... Scarlett has eased up on her southern-belle style. Yesterday, our Rhode Island Red hen Scarlett plopped herself down near my feet as I was getting the hens into the coop. As with Dolly (our first red hen of last year who was taken by a hawk, damn it) Scarlett just sat there and waited till I picked her up. First time Scarlett has done that, and I was really surprised.

The three other hens watched as I scooped up Scarlett and held her yesterday, all the while talking to her and telling her what a pretty girl she was. These chickens tilt their heads to one side while they're listening to you, and I swear they get to know the sound of your voice if you talk to them enough.

When I put Scarlett down yesterday, after holding her for about three minutes or so, she flew up to the roosting bar where the other hens were-- and Prissy started to peck at her, squawking and clucking and carrying on. My husband was right outside the coop and saw all of that, and he thought maybe Prissy was jealous because she wasn't getting extra attention. Prissy hasn't ever let me pick her up, except for those broody days when I had to keep lifting both Scarlett and Prissy out of the nesting boxes for thirty days.

Tonight before dark, when I went out to lock the gate of the coop, Scarlett was still out in the courtyard and instead of walking towards the coop (which she had been doing just then) she turned around and walked right to me, and plopped herself down by my feet and just looked up at me. What a sweet chicken she's turning out to be. I picked Scarlett up, and carried her into the coop, all the while telling her what a good girl she was, what a pretty girl she is, what pretty feathers she has. And Scarlett just sat there in my arms, happy to be carried into the coop like the southern-belle princess she believes herself to be. Prissy didn't raise a fuss in the coop when Scarlett got up to the roosting bar this time.

Two of our neighbors had told me about their chickens..... how they all had different personalities. I have to admit that I didn't believe them last year, but I quickly changed my mind after we got chickens of our own.

Our across-the-road neighbor asked us yesterday if we would like one of his roosters. He had bought 20 baby chicks this past April, and he thought he had just one rooster in that group.... turns out he has 8. All of his Rhode Island Reds are roosters, and he didn't find out till just recently because they're full grown now and all rooster-feathered-out and starting to crow. I was willing to try a rooster in the coop, but my husband wasn't excited about that idea. He stands by the theory that the rooster will make too much noise, plus the rooster will be bothering the hens, who seem pretty content to be the boss of their own coop. Add a rooster into the mix, and there goes the dynamics of the coop.

So our neighbor will be giving the roosters away to any of the other neighbors who would like to have them. The roosters could end up in various coops, or they could end up in a roasting pan. Ouch. Not something I would like to think about.

Martha's Bloomers.

No, I'm not writing about under-clothes. Isn't that a cute name? Martha's Bloomers is the name of a cafe, nursery, and country gift shop complex in Navasota. That's where I had lunch today, along with our next-door friend and neighbor V from our old house in Clear Lake. V had told me about Martha's Bloomers a while back, but it's a chic place, which my husband wasn't interested in trying, so V and I drove there to see if it was as good as everyone seemed to think.

And it was. Beautiful grounds, filled with flowers and waterfalls and all sorts of do-dads for your garden..... and there was a huge waterfall in the front of the main store that I wouldn't mind having on our property. I can just see the cats and the chickens playing around in a fountain that big. Although, maybe that's not such a good idea..... our own fountain out in the front courtyard is now cat-proof and chicken-proof, so they can get in without getting hurt, and get out without sinking to the bottom. So maybe a waterfall isn't the best idea for a cat-friendly and chicken-friendly property.

The cafe was too cute for words..... all yellow and white, with fresh flowers on all the tables. And before you even order your meal, they bring you little cups of orange spice tea and raspberry and chocolate scones to pick on. Lots of delicious menu choices, quiches and sandwiches, homemade soups and all sorts of salads. Everything fresh and homemade, and the spinach in the salad looked as if someone went right outside to the nursery and plucked the leaves from the garden.

We talked all through lunch, got caught up on news from here and news from there, solved a bunch of the world's problems but none of our own, tickled the toes of a tiny baby at the next table, and had to catch our breath from time to time because we were both talking so much. We've kept in touch with V since we moved, but there always seems to be a lot to catch up with when we see her face-to-face.

The waiter took our lunch plates away and asked us if we wanted dessert. V said "No dessert, no thank you," and I said the same. The waiter wasn't four feet away from our table and V whispered Of course, if you would like dessert, we can share something. We got the waiter back to our table, asked him what the dessert choices were....... then told him he needed to give us some time to think. Cheesecake? Much too heavy, too many calories. Chocolate pie or chocolate cake? Way too many calories, much too rich. Cobblers... three kinds: pecan, blackberry, cherry. That sounded do-able. V told me to choose. Pecan: too many nuts. Blackberries: not my favorite berry in the world. Cherry: perfect.

We ordered one cherry cobbler, which came in a cute little round baking dish, topped with a small scoop of ice cream and a dollop of fresh cream. The waiter put it right in the middle of the table. We each dipped a spoon in and tasted...... V's head went right down on the table, as if she were giving homage to the dessert gods of the Hill Country....... and all I heard was Mmmmmmmmmmmm. I told her it sounded like that scene in the movie "When Harry Met Sally" -- and told her if she didn't stop, everyone in the cafe would be saying "I'll have what she's having."

For two people who really didn't want dessert, there wasn't a smidge of the cherry cobbler left in that cute little bowl.

We browsed around the nursery and the shops after lunch... lots of cute things, but the price tags on whatever I looked at was way more than I would have paid for the items. Which surprised me, because the cafe prices were very reasonable. We both decided that we didn't need to be bringing home any more stuff that our husbands would look at and say Well, what are you going to do with that?!

The afternoon flew by, as it always does when V drives up here. I sent her back to Clear Lake with a shopping bag filled with pecans from our trees. I told her there were enough pecans in the bag to share with the other neighbors on our old street.

When V first got here this afternoon, she walked up on the porch and sang out "Helllllloooooooo" just like she did on our old porch back on our old street. When I heard her out there this morning, that sing-song hello made this porch sound like our old porch....... like home.

Chickens-- a broody bath?

Now I've heard everything..... at least about chickens. My friend V tells me that in order to get a hen out of her broody stage, you have to give her a cold bath. She said that students who raise chickens and then show them in the FFA (Future Farmers of America) competitions (beauty pageants for chickens?) will bathe them, blow-dry their feathers, and then attach bows to the female's feathers. What?!!

The hens that are in a broody stage have elevated body temperatures (needed for hatching eggs) and a cold bath will lower their temperature to a more normal level, shocking their system back into a non-hatching mode.

I can just see me explaining this one to my husband..... who thinks I'm crazy as it is because I talk to the chickens when I'm outside, and I talk to the cats, and I always talked to Gracie. I even talk to the birds outside in their nests, telling the mama birds that the babies are safe, that I'm not going to bother them and I'm doing my best to keep the cats away from the baby birds when they get out of the nest. As a result of all of that talking, the chickens know the sound of my voice and will come running from wherever they are as soon as I call out to them, the cats seem to know what I'm telling them (even though they don't always choose to listen), and Gracie always did whatever we told her to do, whether they were spoken words or hand signals (she was such a smart dog). As for the barn swallows outside-- they all just look at me with their heads tilted to the side as I pass by their nests.

But... giving the chickens a bath? And then blow-drying them and putting little bows in their feathers? Pink? Yellow? Polka-dot? Do I coordinate the bows to their feathers? Or to the colors of the coop? Should the bows match the seasons? Patriotic colors for July? Red and green in December?

Out in the back yard under the mesquite tree, there is a vintage claw-foot bathtub.... original to the house, we think. The previous owners must have put it out there when they installed a new tub in the main upstairs bathroom. The vintage tub is very small, and sort of cute... they filled it up with topsoil and planted flowers in it. We had a nice surprise of yellow mums in there this past Spring, and my husband planted some red ground-cover type of flower around the edges. That old tub looked beautiful, all in bloom under the mesquite tree. With the tub's proximity to the coop, it would be the perfect place for bathing the hens. Of course, we'd have to remove the flowers, take out the dirt, wash it out and plug up the drain..... then we can fill it with water and get the hens into it for their baths.

Not, not, NOT going to happen.

The chickens, by the way, were having a hissy-fit (hen-fit?) yesterday. There is one nesting box in the coop, which has four separate nests-- two on top, two on the bottom.... a mini hen-condo. Usually, Scarlett is in the upper left nesting box when she lays her eggs (which she's been doing every day now, being that her broody-stage is over). Yesterday, Scarlett chose the upper right nesting box for her egg.

Well, that was just fine for a while, till Prissy walked into the coop to lay her egg, and saw that Scarlett was in her favorite nesting box. Did Prissy just fly up into the box and take another one of the three empty nests? Of course not. She paced back and forth around the coop, yelling and squawking and carrying on as if someone was pulling out her feathers. She yelled so loudly that I went out there to see what was going on.... as soon as I saw Scarlett in the "wrong" nesting box, I knew what the problem was.

Prissy looked at me, then looked up at Scarlett. Then she started pacing again, while Scarlett just sat there on the nest and followed Prissy with her eyes as that displaced hen went back and forth, back and forth. "Just pick another box, Prissy... there are three more up there!" Squawk!!!!!! Cluck!!! Screech!!! Cluck!!!!!!

I was not going to stand in that coop and try and convince Prissy to use another box, nor was I going to lift Scarlett out of Prissy's spot and put her on another nest. "Both of you just work it out!" And back I came to the house. A few more squawks and clucks from Prissy (so loud that I heard it all inside the house) and then Prissy flew up into one of the other nesting boxes. (I heard that from the kitchen door-- Prissy was so mad that she was using her feet to re-arrange the hay in the unfamiliar box.... scratching at that hay till it sounded like she was going to dig right through the metal bottom of the box.

In both of my books on raising chickens, there isn't a chapter that tells you that the hens will sometimes behave like four-year-olds. Nor does it give instructions on bathing them, drying their feathers, and the placement and color-coordination of hair-bows.

Books.

"Give a gift that keeps on giving.... give books." That was on a bookmark that I got from a bookstore a long, long time ago. The bookmark is worn now, with a little crease here and there, and it seems to be much thinner than it was when it was brand new, but I still use it, along with at least a dozen other bookmarks that have found their way here over the years.

My husband and I were talking about addictions not too long ago... how just about everyone on the planet has some kind of addiction, whether it be food or drink or cigarettes, music or travel, or any number of things. When my husband asked me what I thought I might be addicted to, my immediate response was Books!

I've been reading books since I learned how to read, and before then, both of my parents used to read to me, from a collection of children's books that I wish I still had now. My mother would read to me from a huge book of "Mother Goose Nursery Rhymes." It was a large thick book with a white cover, and there was a lithograph of Mother Goose on the front, and she was actually riding on a huge white goose as if it were a horse. Dad used to read me the Golden Books, and the Disney-type books, and (unlike my mother who would read a book like a school teacher), daddy would add different voices and accents to each character. And I remember one particular story that daddy made up, about a fox and a pig who would sneak into a butcher shop every night to eat up the meats. The fox would eat just enough for the night, but the pig would eat enough for a week and he got too fat to be sneaking into the little hole behind the butcher's store. Sometimes, the fox would have a French accent; other nights, the fox would be Italian. And the pig-- the fatter he got, the deeper his voice.

In our old house in Clear Lake, we had three huge built-in wall-to-wall bookcases... two in the living room and one in the TV room. Those bookcases were filled with books, both mine and my husband's. In this hundred-year-old home, there are no wall-to-wall bookcase units, so I've had to be creative with my book collection. Before we moved here, I went through each of my books, only packing my favorites, plus the ones that I knew I would re-read... so that thinned down the number of books a bit.

But still.... no built-in bookcases, and we just never found bookcase units that looked antique-y enough for this house. (We found a couple, but they were way off the charts in price-- antique dealers who love their displays too much tend to over-price their items, and we've learned to walk away.)

Out of necessity, comes creativity. I separated all my books into categories when I got to unpacking my books last year when we moved here. All my vintage classics are between bookends on a long triple-dresser in the dressing room. I have already re-read "84, Charing Cross Road," "A Night to Remember," and "The Age of Innocence" since those books were unpacked. My cat books are on the top shelf of my writing desk; my collection of Christmas books are on the bottom shelf of a sofa table.

All of my modern-day hardcover fiction is on a bookcase in my sitting room; the softcover modern-day fiction is on a smaller bookcase in the dressing room. The large bookcase came from our neighbor V's house, who was trying to de-clutter one of her upstairs rooms before we moved. The smaller bookcase is vintage mahogany, from our friend J, who was downsizing from a house to an apartment around the time we were moving.

My collection of non-fiction is in the breakfast room, on the open shelves of a hutch that was once in my husband's mother's home on Long Island. I've re-read five of the books from those shelves since they've been unpacked, and my next one to read again will be "The Diary of Anne Frank," a volume that we bought in Amsterdam, in the actual house where Anne's family was hidden during the war. I read it coming back on the plane, the story being all the more real because we had been in those very rooms that she wrote about.

I have books on the British monarchy and the Royal Family....... all of those are in the living room, along with the travel books... tucked away on the bottom shelves of end-tables and on the bottom shelf of the music box table. If my collection of books on the Royals gets much bigger, they will find themselves on the mantel over the fireplace. The dining room serving table holds my collection of decorating books... table-settings and centerpieces and fine china and vintage linens... beautiful books to page through on a rainy day. And my full set of beautiful leather-bound books by Charles Dickens is in the upstairs hallway, protected in a glass-fronted curio.

My country kitchen has shelves built into the island for my cookbooks, and the vintage china cupboard (original to this house) holds my collection of Mary Engelbreit books, all of which can make you smile as soon as you look at the front covers. A very small ladder-type bookcase in the kitchen holds all of my tea books, and two books on raising chickens and one book identifying the local wildflowers. My Texas gardening book is always ready to look into, as is an etiquette book published in 1907, the year this house was built.

A cost-conscious book splurge this year was a complete set of vintage Nancy Drew hardcovers, found on eBay for a ridiculous low price because the seller only posted one picture of the 56-volume set. (I'd been looking for a complete set off and on for a couple of years now.) I think buyers were afraid to bid on this low-priced set, and I was too until I eMailed the seller with some questions. I've already read the first one in the series, and I intend to read them all. I used to read Nancy Drew years and years and years ago, late into the night, under the covers with a flashlight. "Are you still up in there?" Shut off the flashlight, quick. "No, I'm not." Put the flashlight back on... turn pages quietly.... prop up a pillow so the light doesn't shine through underneath the door. Remember to confess on Saturday: "Bless me Father, for I have sinned. I lied to my mother every time she asked me if I was still up. I was reading and I didn't want to stop." Now I can read them all again without a flashlight. The vintage Nancys are in the bookcase/desk right here where my laptop is. I plan to gift the set to my cousin's little girl when she gets older...... she is already a book-lover, and she's barely six years old.

I am still finding books.... every week at the thrift shop..... beautiful non-fiction volumes about Texas.... historical fiction.... vintage books from the 1940s and 1950s, and some of the new best-sellers that I wouldn't even pay half-price for at the bookshops. We do have a library in town, but I save that for books I don't want to have on my own shelves. The thrift-shop books are all under a dollar or two, and the money goes to charity.

What to read... what to read..... I had to come up with a system so I could read the newly-found books while not neglecting to read the books I've vowed to re-read. Into a little box, I put slips of paper with the titles of the just-bought books written on each. Added to that are slips that say re-read a classic, re-read vintage fiction, re-read new fiction, re-read non-fiction, re-read Dickens, and the newest slip that I've added says "Nancy Drew." What I've been doing is just sticking my hand in that box and pulling out one slip of paper... whatever is written on the slip is what I choose to read. It's been a good method, because newer books were getting buried under a pile of books that have been there for months--- I keep a pile of "books to be read" in a corner of my sitting room.... those are just-found books that will either make it to one of my shelves, or they'll go into the guest cottage, for our friends to read and to take home with them when they visit.

This entry has gone from "just a few words about books" to "more than anyone besides me would care to know about my books." And why is that? Because.... I am addicted to books, plain and simple. And it saddens me to hear about things like the Kindle...... my husband had asked me if I wanted one of those things when it came out. Are you kidding me? That's not a book! It's a piece of electronics! Where on earth would I shelve it?

Fab 5 weekend.

The last couple of days have been busy...... we had friends visiting from downtown Houston..... K & B were here with K's grandson, and a lunch for five turned into a lunch for seven when K's two friends drove into town on an errand. They were so close to our home that we asked them to come and see the house and stay for lunch as well. We all had a nice long visit..... the weather was hot but not broiling, and there was a nice breeze all day long. Not breezy enough to eat outside... that's not going to happen till at least October. Maybe by October, all the spiders will be gone, too, along with the high 90s and low 100s temperatures. One day on the news this week, the weather wizard at the Houston station told us "Hang in there, folks, today's temperature is cooling down a mite... the high will be just about 94 this afternoon."

We were in town tonight for one of the "Hot Nights, Cool Tunes" concerts. The music was a group called "The Fab 5," from Houston. Wonderful music..... mostly Beatles classics, with a little bit of Rolling Stones, Chicago, and Moody Blues tossed in here and there. They played for three hours, with just three ten-minute breaks in each hour. Great band...... everyone was clapping and tapping, and people were dancing....... kids were playing and parents didn't have to worry about them because the main streets in town were closed off to traffic.

The town has these summer concerts every weekend and they are very popular. The park-like wood benches that are scattered all over town are brought into the square where a stage is set up for the band, and people bring their lawn chairs and blankets and everyone just has a good old-fashioned great time. Everyone is smiling..... everyone picks up their trash when they leave..... the kids all get along...... it is Mayberry, come to life.

My friend B in Florida tells me that this town sounds like a throw-back to 60 years ago on Long Island, where the towns were small, the neighbors knew one another, and no one locked their doors.

As we sat there listening to the music tonight, mostly all of the adults our age were singing along with the band...... amazing how you can remember lyrics from so long ago. Was it because we listened to those records over and over again way back then? Or was it because that music came along at an impressionable time in our lives and it just stayed with us all these years?

One of the band members talked about the first time The Beatles were on the Ed Sullivan show in the 1960s. Surely, everyone who was a teenager back then will remember that night...... music changed forever during that one television show. The first time my dad heard The Beatles on the radio, he told me "Those guys can't sing. And besides that, they all need haircuts. They're not going to last long, believe me."

A few years ago, we saw Paul McCartney when he did a concert in Houston. He came to Houston twice, and we saw both shows. I never did see The Beatles in concert when I was a kid, but I had all their records, bought all the teen magazines, and even tried to learn to play the guitar.

I gave all my Beatles records to my cousin F when I turned 18; I don't remember what happened to all the teen magazines and the hundreds of pictures I had of Paul; and the guitar ended up in the back of a closet somewhere. I cried when John Lennon was shot in NYC, and I felt sad when George Harrison died. I'm happy that Ringo is still making music, and who isn't thrilled that Paul is still Paul, just older. And he's Sir Paul, according to Queen Elizabeth.

The Beatles have out-lasted everyone. Their music was earth-shaking in the 1960s and their timeless style is still shaking the earth now. Even in Mayberry.

Another day on the ranch.

A year ago at this time, I was probably hanging mirrors and pictures all over the house. I left those for last, after all the boxes were unpacked and everything was in its place. Then I took one mirror, one picture at a time.... walked around the house with it, going in and out of each room, deciding where that mirror or that picture needed to be. I took my time, wanting to be sure, because I didn't want to be leaving holes in the walls if I hung something up in the wrong place. I must have done a good job, because I haven't had to change anything.

And why bring that up now? Because at this time last year, being so busy with mirror placement and picture hanging, I had no idea that there was an army of spiders outside building enough webs to span the globe. And not just little spiders....... but huge black ones with yellow legs, so large that they can probably wrap themselves around a jumbo-sized egg and still be able to touch their front legs to their back. And the webs..... an intricate kaleidoscope of sheer webbing with a long thick spiral curlicue in the center... so big that you could wrap a compact car in it.

I find these web masterpieces every morning, and that black yellow-legged spider is always right there in the center of it, with the thick curlicue of webbing right underneath him. They must build them all during the night (moonlight web-spinning) because I know they're not there in the late afternoons. Usually, these yellow-legged spiders build their webs in hidden spots-- behind the bushes, in the trees...... I've yet to see one covering a path or shimmering in one of the courtyards. I don't disturb their webs as long as I can see the spider sitting in them. Seems to me that once these huge spiders build their Rhode Island-sized webs, they just stay put in them and wait for their meals to get caught in the web. I keep these web locations on a mental map, tucked away in a corner of my brain so I don't forget where they are. The only thing worse than finding a spider web is walking into a spider web.

When I was a kid, I used to watch "Bonanza." Not the re-runs, but the actual Sunday night shows, when Ben Cartwright was the ranch-wise dad to Adam, Hoss, and Little Joe, and Hop Sing was there to keep house and cook meals. Not once did I ever see Little Joe get caught in a spider web as he walked around their ranch. Hoss did have problems with stubborn horses, and Adam did shoot a rattlesnake from time to time. But never once did anyone get stuck in a thick web constructed by a black spider with yellow legs. And never once did Hop Sing jump on a chair yelling Scorpion! Scorpion! while he was trying to get dinner together in the kitchen.

When I was a kid, I thought it would be so great to live on a ranch. So here we are, along with coyotes who howl in the night, snakes that slither along in the flowerbeds, scorpions with curled tails ready to sting, raccoons who eat our corn, skunks who eat the zucchini, possums that just look weird, armadillos that dig holes in the pine mulch, tarantulas that sun themselves on the porch railing, wasps that build condo-nests in every nook and cranny under the roof lines, and steroid-soaked spiders that can build a web the size of a small island overnight.

And me? I'm just trying to stay out of the way of all creatures and critters great and small, and I'm still looking for Hop Sing so he can cook the meals and keep house.

Dr. Seuss

I don't know which Dr. Seuss book the following lines are in, but I happened across this paragraph on a web-site:

"Be who you are, say what you feel..... because those who mind don't matter, and those who matter don't mind."

I won't add another word..... how can you debate with Dr. Seuss?

A two-egg day.

Wonder of wonders... there was a brown egg in one of the nesting boxes today. Second tier, left side-- Scarlett's favorite nesting box. This is the first egg she has given us since she went into her moody-broody state about six weeks ago. Along with Scarlett's egg, there was also an egg from Prissy in the right-side second tier nesting box. Two eggs. Haven't seen that in nearly two months now. I thanked both of the hens for their efforts. I swear, they know when I'm talking to them because they make little sounds right back at me, which they don't do when I'm out there talking to the cats.

Talking to the hens. Talking to the cats. Life on the ranch. Either that, or I'm losing my mind, one feather and one whisker at a time.

The cats...... the stray cat is gone, and we hope it finds a new home. I kept my promise to not keep any more stray cats, but this little stray's fate was sealed not just the first time he bit me (on the right hand) but the second time as well, when his teeth found my right leg. The bite on the hand was worse and took longer to heal, but the little puncture marks on my leg didn't exactly make me want to rehabilitate that cat.

That particular stray cat had a meow that never did sound very nice. He was very much a street cat, and most likely feral for all of the six to eight months I'm guessing he was. The bites were his way of letting me know that the food he was finding on my porch was his, and he wasn't smart enough to know that I was his food source!

I'm guessing, along with my cousin F up in NY, that the puncture marks on Gatsby's head and neck a couple of weeks ago came from this gray and white stray. No wonder Gatsby didn't want to stay outside, particularly at night. Gatsby looks like a big old farm cat, but he's an indoor pussy-cat at heart. The Cowardly Lion....... the cowardly Gatsby. He has proven time and again that he's a gentleman cat, and I'm sure he didn't leave any teeth marks on that stray. You want my food? Go ahead and take it... I know where to get more.

Chickens and cats. Not a dog in sight, though. I'm getting used to not having company in the kitchen as I'm cooking and cleaning in there. All those times I used to say out loud to Gracie: "We have 23 acres here and you are always two steps behind me!" Gracie would look at me with her jaws open in that doggy-smile they all know how to do. No Gracie. No doggy-smile. When I vacuum, I can keep going all around the room, never having to stop as Gracie moves from one spot to another spot, then to another spot, always keeping herself three or four steps in front of me. All these years, and she never did want to stay behind me as I vacuumed.... she had to stay right in front, in the path of the vacuum.

It's going to take a while, to not walk down the back stairs into the kitchen and expect her to be there. To not save the little bits of leftovers and gravies to mix in with her dog food. To not call her to lick the cats' dishes clean after I've given them canned food. I think that was one of Gracie's favorite parts of the day-- when the cats had their canned Chicken & Tuna and she got to lick the three little bowls because heaven forbid a cat should lick a plate clean. Go ahead and eat up those little bits, Gracie-girl.... we know where to get more!

Don't forget the flashlight.

When you visit a neighbor's house here, you cannot forget to bring a flashlight if you know you'll be leaving there after dark. When it's dark up in these hills, it's Dark. Capital D, without a doubt. A few times, when we've gone to J & J's house in the late afternoon, I had forgotten the flashlight because the sun was still out when we left the house. Now I keep a little purse-sized flashlight in my bag.... it's like the American Express card: Don't leave home without it.

Trouble is, even with the flashlight, you don't know exactly where to point the light. Do you shine the beam at the ground first, to make sure a snake isn't in the same spot your foot is going to be? Or do you aim the light at eye-level, to make sure a spider's web isn't going to wrap itself around your face like sticky shards of Saran-wrap?

I couldn't decide which was more horrible.... stepping near (or on) a snake, or walking into a web, so my flashlight beam began at the ground and worked its way up near the trees. It was slow walking, from J's front door to our car, and my husband was way ahead of me. He never even notices all the creeping crawling things in these woods, just because he's never looking for them. Maybe that's the secret? If you don't look for them, you won't find them? Somehow, they always seem to find me.

The six of us played a card game called "Shanghai" last night. You need one deck for every two players, which makes for an awfully thick wad of cards to shuffle for six players. With each round of cards, you have to come up with certain matches, like three of a kind, five of a kind, a set of four, a run of six..... the 2's and the Jokers are wild cards, so that makes it a little easier, but still, it's hard to remember from one hand to the next what you're trying to get out of the mountain of cards in the middle of the table. During the game, we were busy with guacamole and chips, fresh cherries and homemade brownies, so all of those distractions kept us looking at the printed sheet of instructions every three minutes. J said that the game would be more interesting if we were drinking glasses of wine instead of bottled water.

Glasses of wine. I don't drink wine anymore. Sometimes a sip or two, if any at all. But it does make me wonder......... how many sips of wine would it take for me to walk in the dark of night (with or without a flashlight) and not worry about snakes on the ground and spider webs dangling from the trees?

As we made our way home last night, my husband and I in our car, and J & J walking (walking!!) from J's property to their own, I didn't know whether to applaud their bravery or tsk, tsk at their wanton disregard for all things creeping, crawling, prowling and slithering through the fields. J & J did indeed have a flashlight, but I can tell you this: it would have taken an acre of airport runway lights for me to be walking from one part of these hills to another in the dark (Dark) of night.

And we haven't seen J & J at all today. For all we know, they're still out there in the pasture somewhere, either stuck in a massive spider web, or glued to a fresh cow-patty as big as a turkey platter.

Walking a straight line in the kitchen.

The kitchen in our old house in Clear Lake was small. Adequate and efficient, but on the small side because of the attached breakfast room. I was so happy to see the kitchen in this house.... about four times the size of our other one, with such long counter-tops and even an island in the middle. Finally... a really big kitchen with more cabinets and more work-space than I'd hoped for. I was in heaven. Until Gracie claimed the kitchen as her favorite place to be in this house.

And her most-favorite place in the kitchen was two steps behind whatever part of the kitchen I happened to be working in. By the sink? She was right behind me. Mixing up cookie batter on the left side? Gracie was right there. Making salad on the island? Fine.... she was three steps to my right. Peeling vegetables near the sink? There was Gracie, three steps to my left.

So there I was, in my huge kitchen, having to take baby-steps either around or over Gracie as I cooked or baked or washed or cleaned. I can't even begin to count the times I nearly tripped over that dog as my kitchen kept shrinking because Gracie kept moving to keep close by my side. My thought was that Gracie kept close to me in the kitchen because she knew I was working with food (people food!). If my husband happened to walk into the kitchen, Gracie would move from my side to his, never taking her eyes off of him, no matter what kind of food I was cooking. I was her food-source, but my husband was her god.

We had four of the neighbors over for a pot-luck dinner last night. We had invited them before Gracie had to be rushed to the vet, before we knew there was anything even remotely wrong with her. I had asked my husband if he wanted to cancel the dinner last night, but he said no, everyone had been invited nearly a week ago, so he thought it best to just keep things as they were. Whenever we had company for dinner, I would put Gracie in the TV room with the cats. She was always very good and very quiet, she loved being with the cats, and our friends were just used to not having her around while we were eating.

I was hoping that no one would say Are you going to let Gracie out now? after we had dinner and dessert. No one did... the conversation kept flowing and going, and we were all solving the world's economic problems, comparing wildlife and insect stories, and trying to keep a sense of healthy reality about snakes and scorpions. No one mentioned Gracie. Which both saddened me and pleased me. Part of me was thinking "Don't y'all realize that someone is missing in this house?!" And part of me was thrilled that no one asked about Gracie because I knew both my husband and I would just fill up with tears and start boo-hooing, as my friend J would say.

A few times each day now, my husband and I will walk down the stairs saying Gracie-boo, which is what we usually said to Gracie first thing every morning. Gracie slept in the kitchen at night, never able to climb the stairs to the second floor. After spending 13 years of her life in a one-story home, she was probably wondering why we bought a house with two floors and two stairways. I thought she would like the smaller stairway from the kitchen, but she never even tried that one. And after falling on the main stairway shortly after we moved here, she stayed away from that one altogether.

"No matter what happens, life goes on in sensible way." My husband's mom always said that and it's a phrase I try to keep in mind. Life without Gracie. Life goes on. In a dog-less way. I can walk all around my big country kitchen, walking in straight lines, not baby-stepping over and around a 46-pound dog sleeping or curled up right where I'm trying to work.

And that's where I miss Gracie the most: in the kitchen. I miss the zig-zag trips around Gracie.

Gracie.

On a sunny and warm October 12, 1996, my husband and I went to the local shelter near Clear Lake to look for puppies. We looked at big dogs, little dogs, tiny puppies, older dogs...... we basically looked at every canine in the facility.

One black and white Border Collie/Black Lab mix fixed her eyes on my husband and it was love at first sight. They took that ten-week-old puppy out of the cage and she followed my husband all around the yard, never once taking her eyes off of him. "This is the one, without a doubt." I remember my husband saying that to me. I asked my husband how big he thought she would get, because I had always been used to small cuddly dogs. This dog's paws weren't tiny, but they weren't that big either. "She won't get too big," he said.... "She's going to be the perfect size."

And she was. Never getting heavier than 46 pounds or so, Gracie was a medium-sized dog with large-sized energy. Such energy that I couldn't control her in the beginning, and it was either bring her back to the shelter or invest in a dog trainer. The trainer it was, and it was the best money we ever spent on a pet. We learned how to cope with and control the boundless enthusiasm of a Border Collie/Black Lab puppy.

Gracie was the perfect dog. She never destroyed anything in the house, she didn't over-step the doggie-rules, and she truly loved the cats to the point of over-protection. Had we not had her fixed, she would have been a good mama to a litter of puppies, but we never had intentions of raising puppies, we just wanted a dog. Gracie loved everyone, and everyone loved Gracie. That's just how it always was.

We had to put Gracie to sleep this afternoon. The tumor that had been growing underneath her skin (for who knows how long) suddenly broke through her skin yesterday. The visit to the vet yesterday was a disappointment because we weren't happy with the facility there, and we wouldn't have left Gracie with them for any sort of procedure. Today, a different vet, a much more organized and nicer facility, and a doctor who told us what we needed to hear for Gracie's sake.

The tumor was a fast-growing aggressive kind of cancer. Yes, he could remove it, but because of her age, and because the tumor was located next to vital organs that kept her continent, there was no way to remove all of the growth without removing everything that would sustain her dignity. We originally had a late afternoon appointment with the vet today, but Gracie's tumor started bleeding at noon-time. A lot of her blood ended up on the kitchen floor. I called the vet and they said to bring her right in. Three minutes into the examination, the vet told us that more blood loss would put her into shock, and she wouldn't make it through the night without bleeding to death.

Gracie was always, beyond question, my husband's dog. He was the only person in her doggie-world. I was just a body who ordered boxes of dog food and gave her fresh water, and I happened to be there so she could get outside when my husband was working. I was not going to make this last decision for Gracie.

As the vet spoke to us, I kept thinking of that book "The Art of Racing in The Rain," by Garth Stein. I told my husband about that book when I read it and asked him to read it last year. I was so happy that he did, and I was hoping this afternoon that he would make a good decision for Gracie, no matter how much it was going to hurt both of us.

Put to sleep. Such an odd expression, but somehow, a gentle one. We stayed in the room when the vet gave Gracie the injection. I was behind my husband, holding on to his back, but unable to watch. Before they put Gracie up on the table, I told her what a good girl she was. I told her she had been the perfect dog. Not just the perfect dog for us, but the perfect dog.

The dynamics of a household change when someone leaves, when a dog is put to sleep. And a dog, especially one that has been part of your home for 14 years, is like a person, is someone, a member of the family. A dog is not just a dog, especially when she's been the perfect dog. And she was, and we'll miss her. But we also know that we did the right thing. Not for us, maybe, but for Gracie, and that's what she always counted on.

Baby birds and old dogs.

The five baby birds in the nest above the back porch have grown so big that they are practically sitting on top of each other. I go up and down the back steps countless times during every day, and each time, five little heads peek up and over that nest, looking down at me. I talk to the baby birds as I pass the nest, telling them their mama is off getting bugs for them and will be back soon.

When the baby birds were smaller, they would peek over the nest rim, look down at me, and then put their heads back into the nest. They're too big to do that now... when their little heads peek over that nest, there isn't enough room for all five of them to get back down snug in the safety of the nest.

This evening after dinner, one of the baby birds was perched right on the edge of the nest. He has clearly proclaimed himself the leader of the nest, and I'm guessing he'll be out and flying around the yard tomorrow, followed soon by the other four.

Baby birds. We're on the second or third generation now, in a little over our first year in this house. A few more years, between all the bird houses here and all the comfy places for the Barn Swallows to build their nests, and we can declare our property a bird sanctuary.


Old dogs. Oh my. I think both my husband and I are in denial about that. Our dog Gracie is 14 years old. We had to take her to the vet today because she has two growths above her rear right leg. One growth is about pea-sized; the other is the size of a golf ball. Not good. The vet says cancer, especially the larger one. It should come off. They can send it to the large veterinary clinic in College Station, connected to Texas A&M, and the doctors there can let us know what type of cancer it is.

Does that really matter? And if they're going to remove the growth, what difference does it make what type of cancer it is, especially since they can't guarantee that other growths aren't already forming inside of her. We weren't too pleased with this particular vet's office in the first place. They were "under construction" on the inside, with yellow tape strung along most of the outside of the building. Major renovations, thirty years overdue, they told us. It was so noisy and confusing in that office that I wanted to ask them why they weren't handing out hard-hats. Gracie was very uncomfortable there, but I can't say that it was due to the construction or simply due to the fact that she was in a vet's office. And all dogs know right where they are, as soon as you open that front door. Or, in this case, a side delivery door, because the front door was under construction.

We're going to another vet tomorrow, for a second opinion. I have a feeling that he will tell us the same thing. This vet today, I'm sure, has seen enough cancerous growths on animals to know one when he sees one. And the fact that Gracie is an older dog was pointed out to us in a very subtle way--- "Have y'all noticed that she has cataracts in both of her eyes?" Well, of course we have.... we look at her every day and see those cloudy eyes. And we also know she doesn't hear as well as she used to, nor walk as fast, and she can't manage very many steps, and she sleeps like a brick these days. Translation: we know she's old. And do we really want her to go through an operation at her age, which might give her six more months or so before the cancer inside of her erupts into another red and angry-looking growth?

As I said, we're both in denial. My husband gave Gracie some spaghetti after dinner tonight, then a little bit of ice cream. Are all the don't-feed-the-dog-people-food rules going out the window now? If what Gracie is facing are cancerous growths, should those silly rules still apply?

Denial. Right about now, my cousin R would be saying "Denial is a river in Egypt."


And the stray cat...... he came back last night, to eat the dry cat food I left on the back porch for him. I didn't go out there to pet him, but my husband did. My hand is still a tiny bit swollen from the bite of that cat, so I didn't want to take any more chances. He's very scared out there, but he seemed to do well with my husband. Still, that cat doesn't come around during the day. He probably knows that we're going to put him into a cat-crate and bring him to the shelter. We don't want (or need) another cat in this house. And I am standing firm on that rule, I can tell you that.

Stray cats and bandaids.

I'm sitting here typing with a bandaid on my right hand.... that fleshy part of the hand, below the thumb.... no matter what you do with your hand, that part of it comes into play. Keeping a bandaid on there isn't easy.... and with Sweet Pea trying to get the bandaid off all the time, it becomes nearly impossible.

The stray cat was back last night..... definitely a boy-cat (not fixed, of course). He ate the food I left out there for him, then just sat next to the bowl. Is that it? I'm starving out here, you know. I've had enough cats along the years to understand what they're wanting...... so out I went with more food for him. Before he started eating again, he rubbed up against my legs, howling and meowing and ye-owling loud enough to wake up half the county. Rub, rub, rub, ye-owl, ye-owl, ye-ooowwwl. I told him how cute he was, told him we didn't need another cat, told him to just eat his dinner and find his hiding place again.

It was right about then that this cute little bundle of teenaged boy-cat clamped his teeth down on my hand. Needless to say, no one ever told him Never bite the hand that feeds you. Cat-person that I am, I knew enough not to pull my hand away, because then they bite down harder and try to capture you. In the three seconds that he had my hand inbetween those sharp lily-white teeth of his, he was able to make two neat little puncture marks... one in the fleshy part near my palm, the other on top, under my thumb.

His cat-fate was sealed at that moment. I said goodnight to him and left the food bowl out there. The next twenty minutes were spent washing out the cuts and covering them with Neosporin and bandaids. When I woke up this morning, Gatsby's outside pillow was on the deck again, turned upsidedown like the first night, and there wasn't a drop of food left in that dish out there. After I finished the morning chores here, I got out the Neosporin and bandaids again.

The shelter isn't open on the weekends, but we will be bringing that cat to them during the week, whenever we can catch him and get him into a carrying crate. After another night or two of feeding him on the deck, I will be able to put his dish of food into a crate and hopefully, he'll go in there to eat and I can just close the little door. Just in case, I think I will wear those two long oven-mitts that I use for picking up the chickens.

I can't really fault that cat for biting..... he's terribly scared, and very young..... and heaven only knows what he faces every night out there on the property. Then again, neither Gatsby nor Sweet Pea tried to bite, and they were both strays. A couple of weeks ago, when Gatsby was staying outside overnight, he turned up on the porch in the morning with a cut over his left eye, and two cuts under his chin. Gatsby, our normally street-wise, country-wise cat, came into the house that morning and didn't want to go out for the rest of the day. He's been out in daylight since, but he doesn't move far from the porch, and I haven't had the heart to make him sleep outside since that night.

I am a total mush when it comes to these cats. I seem to remember telling my husband that Gatsby and Sweet Pea would be "barn cats," "outside cats." Let's see now.... how long did that last? When the normally cool weather turned frigid last winter, in came Gatsby. When the vet told me that Sweet Pea had a heart murmur, in he came. Even Mickey, my once inside-cat who would prefer to be outside all the time.... I am constantly looking for him and making sure he's okay and not going too far away from the house and the porch when he gets into one of his Marco Polo moods.

It will be easy to bring this latest stray cat to the shelter. Not only do we truly not need (or want) another cat, but I certainly don't want a cat who will bite when he gets scared. A cat's personality is formed at a very early stage in their little whiskered lives... and what they are at 8 weeks is what they stay till their 8th or 18th year. I have enough to do without trying to rehabilitate a stray cat who thinks making puncture marks on the hand holding the cat food is a smart way to establish ownership.

As I type, I can feel the two bandaids on my right hand. The puncture mark on the inside of my palm will throb when I try and grab or lift something. I'm going to keep re-applying the Neosporin and bandaids..... at least until we have brought this cat to the shelter. I guess we won't be telling the shelter people that we thought of naming him "Jaws," and I will make sure the bandaids are off before we even walk in there.

Deliver me from stray cats.

Night before last, there was a gray and white cat on our back porch. Larger than a kitten, smaller than an adult cat. A teenager? Cute as a button, but aren't they all? And skinny, skinny, skinny.... so of course I went out there with a bowl of dry cat food. (Took me all of three seconds to get from the kitchen window to the bag of cat food and then get out on that porch.... such a knee-jerk reaction to lost and lonely furry animals.)

The cat jumped off the porch when I opened the door, landing in the flowerbeds and meowing all the way. "Ye-owl" is what it really sounded like. Either the cat hadn't yet learned how to pronounce meow or the ye-owl was actually meow with a west Texas twang. I did my Kitty-kitty-kitty call to her, but all she did was ye-owl back at me from underneath the bushes. After the second mosquito bite on my ankles, I just put the bowl down on the porch and came back inside. (I think it was a girl, but I made the same mistake with Sweet Pea.)

Quick as a flash, that cat was back on the porch and munching away on the dry food. Starving cat, for sure. Stray, for sure. Why must the stray cats find their way to our porch? I told my husband about the cat, telling him in the same breath that we're not keeping it. No way, no how, no thank you. Off to the shelter it will go, if we can catch it.

"But first we'll get some meat on those bones," my husband said. He agreed the stray would have to go to the shelter..... it's young enough and cute enough to get itself adopted. I looked at Sweet Pea and told him "You are the last cat. Go look in the mirror-- you are the last cat."

Last night after dinner, I looked for the stray. Not a sign of her. Or him, whatever the case may be. But I put out a bowl of dry cat food, and made sure there was water out there in the large bowl meant for the cats but used mostly by the chickens when they're in the side yard and don't want to walk back to the coop for a drink.

I kept looking out the kitchen windows last night, wondering if the stray would come back, but hoping it had somehow found another cat-friendly back porch. By the time we went up to bed last night, the dry food was still untouched and I left it out there. Just in case. This morning, the little dish had just three tiny pieces of cat food in it, and the water bowl wasn't as full as I had left it. And Gatsby's pillow, always on a chair near the backyard deck, was upside-down on the porch, toppled from the chair just as it was the first night when the stray pulled it down. Either the stray was trying to get into Gatsby's pillow, or that was the stray cat's way of letting the other cats know they've got company.

Haven't seen a whisker of the stray cat today, but the same thing happened the first day. I even looked all through the barn yesterday, hoping to find its hiding place. Either he's off in the woods in the shade of the trees during the day, or he's found himself a good hiding place on our property. Safe and hidden from the hot sun, then coming out for his dinner late at night.

Truly, we will not keep this cat. I won't totally ignore it, because it's starving and hungry, and bowls of food and fresh water on the back porch every night is the least I can do.

We have enough house pets (the dog and three cats). We have enough yard pets (the chickens). We (I) have enough to take care of when it comes to mouths to feed, fur to brush, litter boxes to clean, etc., etc., etc..

With house pets, it's always the etc. that comes back to haunt you.

"The Help"

Just a little while ago, I finished reading The Help by Kathryn Stockett. I discovered this book in an "O" magazine article and the premise of the story prompted me to immediately go to Half.com and order a copy. 1960's Mississippi.... the housewives are white, the help are black... their lives are desperately entwined, but decidedly separate. I grew up reading To Kill a Mockingbird over and over, and I'm still re-reading that book to this day. I knew The Help would need to sit on my own bookshelves.

What I didn't know was that I would be reading chapter after chapter as fast as I could... and then having to put the book down some so I could think about the characters and their lives. I could have finished this book two days ago, but I slowed myself down... reading two or three chapters and then leaving the book on a table and walking away from it. This morning, I could have gotten to the last page of that book right after breakfast. I made myself read some, then walk away, read some more, walk away. An hour ago, I read the last page, the last sentence. Then I read every word of the author's acknowledgements. There isn't one sentence, one word, one letter that my eye did not find from the front cover to the back.

The book is now sitting its place on the bookshelf that holds my collection of modern fiction. I was tempted to shelve it with my non-fiction volumes, but that would be so un-librarian of me. During this book's chapters, I see-sawed between crying for the help, and wanting to shake the shoulders of the housewives. Not for their ignorance, but for their acceptance.

Their acceptance of the way things were done, without even thinking that those things could -- and should -- be different.

I will read this book again. And just like Mockingbird, it will haunt me for days and weeks and months, begging me to read it again.

Extra! Extra! Read all about it.....!

Remember those old black and white movies from the 1940s? A ragamuffin newsboy would stand on a crowded city street corner and yell Extra! Extra! Read all about it! .... and in his arms would be so many just-printed newspapers that he could barely hold them all.

So this afternoon, when I pulled out the "Extra!" edition of the local newspaper from our mailbox, I had to laugh at the photo and story that was on the front page, above the crease, which is prime real estate in any newspaper.

The picture shows half a dozen kids marching down the middle of a street, all wearing identical patriotic tee-shirts. Along the sides of the road are the on-lookers, watching the kids and trying to keep cool while the parade passes by. And those kids? None other than "...members of the world famous Chappell Hill Marching Kazoo Band" as they took part in this past weekend's July 4th parade. And we were there at that parade.... and I was loving every second of that kazoo band's glory. Looking at this newspaper photo now, it still just makes me smile. I wish the photographer had his camera pointed at a different angle, to get in all the kazoo players.... there must be at least 25 or 30 of them.

This photo makes me think of my cousin L up in NY, who keeps telling me that not only do we live in a "nice little bubble" out here in the country, but she has also told me time and again that it must be like "living in a snow globe out there in the hills."

Yes indeed. And there is nothing wrong with that, in my humble opinion. One of the best parts of that parade on July 4th was something that just caught my eye because we were in the right place at the right time. My husband and I were walking down the middle of the street before the parade started, looking for our friends and neighbors so we could all sit together. As we were walking down the street, a little boy (about 7 or 8 or so) was running, flying, kicking up his sneakered-feet as fast as he could, with an ear-to-ear smile on his face and arms that were stretched out as far side-to-side as he could possibly get them. As he ran, he was saying "Nana! Nana! You're here!" I looked behind us and there was his nana, also with an ear-to-ear smile, and her outstretched arms were there, ready to catch him in a hug that only a grandma can give.... and that's just what she did. That little boy's feet just lifted him right off the ground and he jumped up into that hug and she grabbed hold of him and just hugged him to pieces, telling him that she promised him last week that she'd see him at the parade.

In those split-seconds of time, someone walking near the grandmother asked her "Goodness gracious, when was the last time you saw that boy?" Her answer: "Just last Tuesday is all." So from that Tuesday to the parade day of Saturday, all of that joy and anticipation built up in that little boy to the point that he couldn't hold himself back from running into his nana's arms when he saw her walking down the street. I have no idea why that touched me so, but it did, and that scene has been playing in my mind over and over since the weekend. It was a Norman Rockwell moment, if ever there was one.

So yes, and yes, to my cousin L up in NY. I am indeed living in a bubble out here, and I am indeed living inside a snow globe. And I'm happy to be here. Thrilled to be here. And this newspaper photo of the Chappell Hill World Famous Marching Kazoo Band-- I have cut it out of the paper, and it's hanging up near my computer desk. I intend to keep it close by, so on those days when I've seen a snake hiding near the back porch, or there's a black fuzzy tarantula perched on the railing of the backyard deck.... I plan to look at this picture of the kids with their kazoos and remember just why we're up here in the first place.

Round Top Festival for the 4th.

We drove to Round Top this afternoon for a 4th of July concert...... another tiny town with a wonderful surprise -- a huge concert hall tucked into the woods. This handsome theatre is filled with hand-carved wood walls, ceilings, trim-work, windows....... a piece of art in itself.... and it is acoustically correct-- I would imagine even one plastic kazoo in that place would sound like a symphony.

Today's concert was all about the 4th of July. There was enough red, white and blue clothing in that jam-packed audience to make American flags for everyone in the state. The concert started off with one man (wearing a red/white/blue sequined vest over his white shirt with black slacks)..... he came out to sing "The Star Spangled Banner," and at the second note, the entire audience started to sing along. The louder he sang, the louder we all sang, and by the fifteenth note, he must have known we were all going to keep on singing, so it became a magical performance by everyone. And there wasn't a dry eye in the theatre when we all got to the last note. Tissues were being passed along the rows as everyone sat back down.

The music was excellent.... John Williams, Aaron Copeland, Richard Rogers, Leonard Bernstein, John Philip Sousa, to name a few.... and tunes from the Glenn Miller era had the old soldiers and their wives dancing in the aisles. American flags all over the theatre, and red and blue and silver streamers popped out from the upper balconies at the close of the show. The July 4th concert was sponsored by the BlueBell Ice Cream Factory, and as we all left the theatre, BlueBell ice cream cups were handed out to everyone.

Being so close to Royer's Cafe, we went there for dinner after the concert. So did a lot of other people, but we were lucky.... when we arrived at the cafe, we got the last table so we didn't have to wait. Royer's is always a fun place to eat. No matter how many times you go, you will notice something new hanging on the walls or from the ceiling in that tiny little restaurant. Today's surprise were the vintage cat-clocks hanging on the walls..... the kind with the eyes and tails that move to each of the tick-tocks of the clock. Bud Royer must collect them, because there were quite a few, in different colors.

On the way home, my husband went to buy fireworks at one of the stands (Buy 1, get 11 Free!)...... we brought them over to our neighbors, J&J...... we sat with them at the concert, and we went there for dessert and fireworks just before dark tonight. Bottle rockets, flares, Roman Candles..... the guys lit them all up in J's yard..... the girls sat on the lawn near the house and clapped at the ones that exploded in the sky and burst into colors...... and we covered our heads and our eyes at the few that went sideways. When my husband and J's son-in-law came back to the porch, their fingers were black with firework-powder.

There are a billion stars up in the sky tonight, and it's so clear outside that we could see them all. The night sky was a beautiful back-drop for the fireworks. The concert was a magical musical tribute to a country that is often-times questioned, but never equalled. Say what you want about things that go wrong from coast to coast here, but honestly-- would you truly want to live anywhere else on this planet? (And if you do, well-- go there. Or stop your complaining.)

Happy July 4th...... I hope it was a happy and a safe one for you and yours...... and I hope that everyone had colorful fireworks to oooh and aaah over, and soul-stirring music that brought at least one tiny tear to your eye.

Chappell Hill

We drove to the teeny tiny town of Chappell Hill this morning, for their annual 4th of July parade-- this year held on the 3rd because on any given Sunday, I would imagine everyone who lives in that town is singing hymns in church.

Chappell Hill is even more Mayberryesque than our own small town, and I don't mean that critically. Actually, my husband and I have wondered why our town doesn't host a July 4th parade, but maybe they don't want to compete with the goings-on in Chappell Hill.

The parade started promptly at ten o'clock this morning, with one lone gunshot going off to let the first "float" know that it should start moving down Main St. (The actual name of the one main street in Chappell Hill isn't really Main St., but it should be.) That gunshot not only startled all the on-lookers, but there was one huge collar-less German Shepard sitting near a vintage fire truck that was so scared that he took off running down the middle of the street with his tail between his legs and his ears laid back flat on his head. My husband, always quick with a comedy-routine-worthy remark, quietly called out "Run, Forrest, run....."

And then came the parade..... new and vintage fire trucks, the town ambulance, the town sheriff and deputies, a boy's club, new tractors and old cars, a brand-new spiffy truck-cab with all the bells and whistles available-- so high off the ground it must have had an attached ladder to get up into the driver's seat. This year's parade had more horses and riders than last year's, and after the horses passed, everyone in the parade quit tossing out candy and beads to the children. (Every child there left with a stash of candy worthy of Halloween.)

The highlight of the parade for me was the same as last year--- "The World Famous Kazoo Band," which consists of about thirty kids of all ages wearing matching tee-shirts and holding plastic kazoos between their lips, belting out every imaginable melody you can think of as they went marching down the middle of the street while trying not to bump into the kid in front of them. The magical musical noise coming from all those kazoos just makes you smile, and if you can't smile at that, then you may as well just pack up your lips and send them "on a slow boat to China," as my dad would say.

The Bank of Chappell Hill (established in 1878, according to the date engraved above the brick facade of the building) gave out fresh lemonade for drinking, American flags for waving, and red, white and blue beaded necklaces for blinging yourself out for the 4th. The only thing missing from the parade was the same thing as last year-- a high school marching band. But they may not have a high school, and if they do, there may not be enough musically inclined kids to form a band.

The town of Chappell Hill truly has just the one street where everything seems to take place when there's not a parade marching through. There is one cafe, a couple of antique and resale shops, a little store that could be a barber, a church big enough to hold everyone in the town, and that's about it. There is definitely a quaint factor in that town, because anyone driving up into the Hill Country is going to have Chappell Hill on their must-see list of towns to visit.

I would guess that everyone living in Chappell Hill was at the parade today, along with some of us who live close enough to drive there and take part in the Mayberryness of the morning. Our neighbors were there.... as we carried our lawn chairs and walked down the street, it was easy to find them, just like we did last year. There wasn't a spot for our lawn chairs where they were sitting, but as soon as the people next to our neighbors saw that we were looking to set our chairs down, the rest of the people there just stood up moved their chairs down enough for my husband to fit our two chairs into the line.

And that just about sums up the character of Chappell Hill and the people who live in that teeny tiny place. Which is why it really should be on your must-see list of Hill Country towns. It is pure Mayberry, and there ain't nothing wrong with that, Barney, is there?

Chickens, cats, and crawling things....

The chickens.... Scarlett and Prissy continue to sit in their nesting boxes, trying their best to hatch imaginary eggs. I keep going into the coop and lifting them out of there, and they have gotten quite used to the extra attention. I had been wearing elbow-length oven mitts when I picked up those hens, but now I just put my glove-less hands in there and pick them up.

The two hens aren't even pecking and fighting and trying their best to stay in the nesting boxes now. The three of us seem to have a schedule. I lift them out of their boxes..... they go hunting around the yard for worms and bugs and bits of grass.... they run back to the coop and fly up into the nesting boxes..... I go back to the coop and lift them out..... they go hunting.... It's a sort of coop square-dance, all day long. Grab your chickens and doe-si-doe....

The cats...... Mickey continues to go outside in the morning, and the Marco Polo side of him still comes out now and then. Like this morning, when my husband walked halfway down the hill because Mickey was on his way towards the pond. There is also a wide drainage pipe down there, which goes underneath the road and comes out in the neighbor's pasture on the other side of the hill. Mickey has already gone through that, and found himself in the midst of the neighbor's horses and goats. Neither the horses nor the goats seemed to mind, but Mickey was bewildered and confused, and when I called out to him that time, he sped through the pipe and didn't stop running till he was back on his own porch again.

Sweet Pea goes outside along with Mickey, and those two are still chasing butterflies and dragonflies around the yard. It's a wonder we have any of those insects left. And the grasshoppers--- every once in a while, I find a bright green grasshopper that is missing a leg.... it tries to crawl on the porch to stay out of the way of the cats, but more often than not, one of the nesting barn swallows swoop down and capture those crippled grasshoppers. (Can you use the word crippled with insects? Or are they, too, physically challenged?)

Gatsby sits on the porch all day long and watches Mickey and Sweet Pea running around in the heat. The last time I saw Gatsby moving fast was that day a couple of weeks ago when the snake was by the porch steps. I guess Gatsby saves his energy for the big things, and just can't be bothered with butterflies and dragonflies. The other morning, Gatsby was limping a little bit, and he had a tiny cut on one side of his face. I've been bringing him in at night now... heaven only knows what's out there after dark, and maybe being outside at night isn't the best place for that big old gray cat. The Gray Gatsby. The name still fits him.

In the last week or so, I haven't seen any more tarantulas (and yes, I have been looking, if only so my husband can see how huge they are). There are been (thankfully) no more snakes, not even after the hay was cut and baled in the pastures. I'm hoping the snakes simply slithered towards the pond when the tractors and balers were out there.

On one of my braver days (translation: a day that my mind wasn't functioning properly), I "walked the property" with my husband. We started out behind the barn and went all around the perimeter of that pasture there, then walked around the perimeter of the pasture behind the cottage and the garage, then ended up in the pasture in front of the house and around the pond. As we walked, I was wearing red leather western boots (at least I remembered not to wear low shoes, even though this was after the hay had been cut and baled).

When we got around the pond (I was carrying my spider-web stick, by the way), the grass was still high on the one side near the fence because the mowers couldn't get on the sloped side of that land. In order to get back to the house, we either had to walk through the thigh-high grass there (not a smart thing to do) or we had to "hop the fence" (as my husband called it).

You want me to hop the fence? "What's wrong with that? Haven't you ever hopped a fence before?" I told my husband that in all my 58 years on this planet, he can bet the ranch that I haven't ever hopped a fence before. My husband said I didn't know what I was missing. He asked me if I wanted to just walk back around the pond and back across the front pasture, and back up towards the house. I looked....... it was nearly 100 degrees that day..... that was a long way back, and the fence was right there in front of us. I was wearing western boots.... perfect shoes to hop a fence, if you ask me.

I watched my husband get himself over the fence. Piece of cake, or so it seemed. But when I tried it, my mind couldn't wrap itself around the fact that I had to lift myself up onto the second bar of that fence and swing myself over. Western boots and spider-stick notwithstanding, I guess I'm still a city girl at heart. I did make it over the fence, though.... my husband held onto me as I climbed to the second rail of the fence, he held me as I slowly swung myself over to the other side, but then he picked me up from that fence and got me down to the ground. So, actually, I never really did hop the fence. (My city girl status is still intact.)

What we truly need is a little golf cart thing...... some of the neighbors have them: two seats, with a little storage spot on the back so you can carry things around the property if you need to. And the little cart gets you all around your property without having to walk in 100-degree heat and without the necessity of hopping fences to get back to where you started. I wonder what colors they come in? I've only seen army-green ones around here. Would they be available in hot pink? Spotted leopard?