Sunset, Morning Deer, A New Fire

I was not easy in my mind at keeping a fire in the fireplace after the glass door shattered.

We kept the fire well back, pulled the mesh inner guards, J. swathed the broken door in aluminum foil--but it was a temporary measure.

He had been eyeing fireplace inserts on craigslist and after taking all sorts of measurements he called regarding one for sale in Berea, KY.

It sounded possible.

The route is one we have been over twice already during the week.

As it was a lovely bright day I decided there was no need to break my record of traipsing about merely to stay home and clean house!

The stove proved to be usable and after a great deal of determined hoiking by J. and the seller, it was lashed onto the back of Snort'n Nort'n.

Our favorite restaurant chain, Cracker Barrel, has one of their distinctive eating places in the area, so we stopped for a meal before heading home.

We were given a table at one of the large front windows and sat enjoying tea and food with gentle late afternoon sun spilling in.

We were about 45 minutes from home when the sun disappeared in a fiery sky.

We were headed southwest and it seemed that we were enveloped in the colorful clouds; trees, buildings, bridges stood in black outline.

My photos were taken through Nort'ns' pocked and streaked windshield as we roared down the parkway at 60 mph.

The last of the afterglow had faded as we turned into our driveway, the moon rising behind us. 

A bit before midnight last night, half-asleep, I heard a wild and lonesome howling from somewhere outside.

"Coyotes," I thought, and burrowed deeper into the quilts.

The cry came again, sending prickles down the back of my neck. The cats nestled beside me tensed into alertness, making disturbed whiffling sounds.

Several of them followed me down the hallway and circled my feet as I drew back the heavy curtain and peered toward the woods. The yard light flung a yellow haze over frosted grass.  Nothing moved within my line of vision. I considered slipping on boots, pulling on a jacket to step outside.

Even a few moments outside would send me shivering back to my bed so I resisted the impulse for a midnight reconnoiter.

In the darkened back bedroom I opened the shutters, trying to locate Pebbles.  Here moonlight was dominant, away from the artificial glow of the yard light.

Frost sparkled on the cold grass. The branches of the ancient apple tree were charcoal-smudges against  the sky.  Neighbor's lights were reassuring beacons along the hidden bends of the road. No sign of Pebbles, likely munching hay in her barn annex, or standing guard in the back pasture.

I listened, but the wild yapping did not come again.  The coyotes had evidently continued on their

nocturnal way.

This morning, as I stood looking through the sliding glass doors at sunshine on frost crystals, a group of white-tail deer rounded the tobacco barn, frolicking and bouncing like young colts.

I snatched up my camera and eased out the side door as soundlessly as I could.

The deer always hear me--or hear the click of the outer door as it settles back into the latch.

I pressed the zoom lever, managed to focus as the deer scattered into the edge of the woods, their coughs and snorts of alarm carrying in the morning stillness.

J. lost no time in tackling the dismantling of the damaged fireplace doors.

Furniture was shoved aside, a path cleared. Ignoring my suggestion that he wait for Devin to help, J. maneuvered the heavy stove off the truck and in at the side door.  I was required to slide a length of heavy cardboard under the back of it, and then to tug on the old furniture quilt which was under the front.

J. created a crude but effective lever arrangement with a heavy plank balanced across a chunk of wood.

My job was to put my weight against the end of the plank as the stove slowly rose even with the hearth.

D. walked in the back door just as the stove came to rest against the bricks.

I left the men of the family to wrestle it into place while I made them a hearty breakfast of steak, baked stuffed potatoes, butternut squash and cole slaw.

[Yes, I know, not your traditional breakfast fare, but it was by now after 10 a.m. and I felt we needed hearty nourishment!]

The stove in place, hearth swept and a fire built.

We will miss seeing the flames.

Eggnog, my dear elderly Siamese, loves to sit on the hearth and watch the fire by the hour.

Here is Willow, cautiously inspecting this new large source of warmth.

Having furniture dis-arranged was a good prompt to vacuum up dust, scrub some baseboards and clean the kitchen floor on hands and knees.

Leaving me to deal with dust and wood chips, J. and D. decided to 'hoe out' the garage.

With the kitchen more or less in order, I turned out a batch of molasses/ginger cookies with lemon icing.

D. wolfed about 10 cookies before heading home.

I set out sliced apples, chunks of Cabots cheddar, and cookies; tea for me, instant coffee for J.

A satisfying warmth spread from the new stove as the sun disappeared behind the leafless trees.

I brought a book with me to the table, content to call it a day.

Our Time for Snow

Nearly balmy temperatures on Saturday morning gave way to clouds and wind by mid-afternoon; before dark the rain swirled in, pelting from a leaden sky which blurred into the grey murk of twilight .

We heard the rain faintly through the night, but woke to the silence and white light of falling snow.

The glossy leaves of the magnolia tree wore white edgings.

The red berries of the dogwood were dots of color in a grey-white landscape.

Willis greatly hampered my efforts to clump about in the snow and take photos, here inserting himself in the branches of the dogwood.

At the boundary of the woods the snow-fall added to a mysterious and gloomy setting fit for a winter's tale.

The one spot of color along the line of the boundary fence, a maple still clings to rusty leaves.

Sadie the barn kitten.

The three kittens have grown luxurious winter coats.

Sally in the barn ell where we have laid down old sleeping bags as cat beds.

Sometimes the kittens appear to prefer making their own beds in the hay.

Pebbles, hoping for a second breakfast.

Her hay is now served in the barn ell which is adjacent to her yard and shed.

Thyme, dark green and aromatic beneath a fluff of snow.

There were two dried blooms on this dark red achillia.

The ginger cat, here seen through the kitchen door is one of three known strays which we are, willy-nilly--feeding.  We have seen them at a distance in the yard or barn since we moved in last spring.

I don't begrudge them a morsel of kibble in this cold weather and I regularly put out warmed buttermilk or skimmed milk.

But....we don't have the means to spay/neuter yet more cats and I have a fear that at some point a feral female will deposit a litter in the barn.

J. arranged a covered carton against the warmth of the chimney which rises from the carport floor.

The girl kittens seem to prefer shelter in the barn, but Willis pops out of the cozy box whenever we open the kitchen door.

J. going out to get wood this evening informed me that one of the two ginger strays was in the box

with Willis.

[Sigh!]

I took this photo while trudging up from the mailbox about 11 a.m.

The mail was late and we have been told that this [to us] small amount of snow causes all sorts of delays and cancellations.

Granted, there was just enough snow and cold to make for some slushy spots on the road, but having lived for years in New England and then in Wyoming, the weather doesn't seem that daunting.

The little house looks snug and inviting on a cold day, with a stash of wood handy in the carport.

Snort'n Nort'n, the old Dodge, waiting for another day of wood hauling.

Juncos have been bouncing about the yard for about a month now.

Their heads are differently marked than the western juncos.

I spent about an hour, bundled head and foot, plodding about the yard, rummaging through some bins which J. moved to the barn, accompanied at every step by the kittens.

When I heard a harsh gabbling sound I looked at first toward the woods thinking that the wild turkeys might be feeding there.

The cronking voices ebbed and then strengthened, and I looked above to see two gatherings of sand hill cranes wheeling and swirling in the lowering sky.

The presence of sand hill cranes was familiar in Wyoming. Early last March as we drove between Wyoming and Kentucky we saw great flocks of the tall brown birds who were wintering, with Canadian geese all along the North Platte River in Nebraska.

I had not expected to see cranes here and I stood bemused, noting the stretched necks, the long bodies like attenuated strokes of black ink against a canvas of mottled grey.

I watched and listened until the two groups melded into a purposeful flock and headed southward, their

strident calls fading in the cold air.

We bought two bird feeders today and two sacks of  feed, one bulging with grey striped sunflower seed and the other a mixture of seeds which should appeal to many of our dooryard visitors.

J. suspended the feeder from a pole screwed to the trunk of the maple which is directly in line with the kitchen window.

We hope that the combination of birds and outdoor cats won't result in too many casualties amongst the bird-kind.

Dory the Cow

J. has had a "bee in his bonnet" for some time regarding the acquisition of a dairy cow.

For those unacquainted with the man, it needs to be set forth that once J. [or any of his maternal line] has embarked on a quest there is little that can be said to disuade, discourage, dislodge or alter the mindset.

J. has been aided and abetted in his reasoning about a family cow by Joseph Yoder, who yearns after the way of life he knew growing up on his father's Amish farm in Ontario, Canada.

J. has spent hours online viewing milk cows for sale, he has phoned sellers, he went to visit our neighbor Edward who has a herd of Jerseys.

Joseph very helpfully informed him of the cattle auction near Smith Grove and nothing for it but off we went last Tuesday to the livestock sale.

I knew better than to go.

J. and I owned [along with the bank!] a Vermont dairy farm and spent nearly a decade of our young lives believing that sheer hard work and dedication would result in creating and maintaining a viable business.

A farmer of any type is so very dependent on factors beyond human control.

 Drought, when needed crops won't grow.

A wet year when crops grow rankly and cannot be timely harvested.

The fluctuation of prices and markets which always means that the goods and services needed are high and the product by which one hopes to make a living is in decline.

Repairs to machinery and buildings;

disease or injuries that take a toll on a herd.

As I followed J. into the semi-circular gallery of hard seats which over-looked the auction ring, I found memories lurking that I would have preferred to banish.

They aren't all bitter memories, of course.

There were the summer mornings when being sent to search for a cow who had "freshened" over night in the pasture were a joy of birdsong, glistening dew, discovery; the doe-eyed calf cannily hidden behind a screen of shrubbery, so new.  A heifer calf would be raised as a replacement in the herd, a bull calf was destined for a short life--a trip on the cattle truck to just such a sale as we were attending.

The sale had its moments too. I enjoy "people-watching" and noted the trio of Mennonite males, obviously father, son and grandson who took seats across the aisle from us, arms crossed on their chests, peering from under their straw hats in a comically identical fashion.

There was the portly woman in a flowered skirt and a lime green blouse who flopped heavily into the seat beside me, causing me to pull in my elbows.

Within moments she began to struggle out of a white windbreaker.  When I turned to her, she stretched out an arm and with flapping motions indicated that I should tug at the jacket cuff while she wrenched her arm free.

One by one the "fresh" cows were driven into the ring, their calves shoved in behind them, bawling.

I had soon had enough.

J. came home convinced that the auction wasn't where he wanted to buy a cow.

On Thursday afternoon I received an e-mail from a young neighbor woman whom I had met only through her blog.  She asked if I was aware of the Mennonite quilt sale in the next county on Friday.

It was an event she hoped to attend but didn't think it would be possible as she was about to bring home a COW which she had just purchased.

"Cow?" I typed back--"My husband wants a cow--where are you buying one?"

Within moments the answer flashed back.

She had a friend in the northern end of the county who had been keeping several milk cows but chose now to sell his stock. His animals had been gently handled, were accustomed to be hand-milked, he was anxious to sell and the price was good.

Knowing full well that I was aiding in a project for which I lacked total enthusiasm, I went outside and bellowed over the roar of the chainsaw,

" I know where there is a COW for sale!"

J. made a phone call, flung on clean shirt and jeans and we went hurtling up a series of winding roads into the dusk.

Emerging from a tunnel of trees we pulled into the gravel drive beside a tidy small barn.

Framed in the headlights was a cow.

We both began to laugh, she was such a comical sight.

The next morning found us on the same  road in the old Dodge with the horse trailer trundling behind.

Dory the Cow must have wondered why she had been milked and left to stand in the barn!

A black cat twined about our ankles while we talked with Dory's owner and his sons.

Dory was persuaded to enter the trailer for her journey home.

Safely landed in our dooryard, I suggested J. use Pebbles' lead rope, but he had a stiff western lariet in the truck and felt it would work to unload Dory and get her into the pasture.

It worked--for about a minute.

Unfortunately the stiff loop which you see flattened nicely through the ring on Dory's halter when she gave a tug!

As I snapped this photo Dory broke free and began to amble determinedly off to the north of the house.

Glaring at J. I declared, "There was no need of this happening!"

[Exactly the thing to say to a husband who has just been out-witted by a bovine!]

J. snatched up a bucket of grain.  I circled to the south side of the house.

Dory who had been ambling, broke into a trot and headed down the front lawn toward the road.

There is a delicate art to rounding up a bovine. Get too close, hustle the cow and she will bolt.

Lag too far behind and she'll head down the road or across it and into an endless swamp.

Huffing along at a discreet distance, I sent up fervent prayers: "Please head that cow back where we can catch her."

Dory swerved around the mailbox, trotted a few hundred yards down the highway then capriciously began zig-zagging up along the line fence.

"Jump the ditch, " bellowed J. " Follow her up toward the fence corner!"

I do not jump, leap, or lightly traverse ditches.  I skittered down in a shower of gravel and clambered up the other side.  Dory had nearly reached the fence corner.

"I'm going to fetch Joseph", I shouted, my thought being that Joseph had more business on this cow chase than I did.

"I don't need Joseph!" roared J.  "She's in the fence corner, come get the other end of this lariet!"

I labored up the fence line to where Dory, wary-eyed, was backed into a stand of prickly wild rose bushes which rimmed the woods.

I picked up one end of the lariet and we advanced slowly, rope held chin high to create a visible but flimsy barrier.

Dory, munching weeds, watched.

I prayed.

J. shook the grain bucket invitingly.

My prayers must have been heard, for Dory stood still, nostrils flaring at the scent of grain.

J. slipped his end of the lariet through the ring and made a determined sqaure knot.

Dory parked behind the trailer with a bale of hay.

The idea behind this venture is for J. to supply cow and hay, Joseph to supply grain and housing, and he and Delilah to milk Dory. Milk to be shared.

Joseph couldn't ready the accomodations until Monday afternoon, so J. took on the milking here, well supervised by Pebbles who had misgivings about sharing her pasture with a mere cow.

When I commented that I had never seen a milker kneel to accomplish the task, I was informed that while Dory the Cow has short legs, J. does not and so adjustments had to be made to the conventional mode.

"Got milk?"

We have milk!

I am frantically thinking custards, cream soups; I have a small hand-cranked butter churn purchased yesterday at the Mennonite mercantile.

Dory is a Normandy/Jersey cross.

We hadn't heard of the Normande breed so I did a quick search.

The Normande forerunners were brought to France by the Vikings.

At one point the breed had nearly died out but now, through careful cultivation is flourishing in France.

Normandes are prized for the richness of their high-butterfat milk which is favored by cheese-makers and for their solid blocky bodies which make them a good beef animal.

They are known for placid dispositions.

Dory calmly stepped into the trailer yesterday afternoon to be moved with her sack of grain the mile and a half down the road to the Yoders.

I have ordered a 3 gallon stainless steel milk "tote" with a secure cover to convey our share of the milk from one house to the other.

Time to brush up my yogurt making skills

and think whether I want to attempt the production of cheese.