Ten years ago in June, I first wrote about our little house in the country. Not a house yet, just a piece of beautiful property on which slumped an old house and a sturdy barn. That was the beginning of The Wood. So it’s an appropriate anniversary to bring our little house in the city onto these pages. It’s not a house, never will be, and not a condo either. At best, it’s an apartment in the old folks’ home. Park View at Terwilliger. We stumbled over what to call it, and Allison had the idea to simply name it 862, its address in the building. Maybe that will come to be. Right now, we just say Portland. As in, we’ll take that to “Portland.” Time will tell, right? The surprise is that we are coming to love it.

Why do we have an apartment in an old folks’ home? Because we’re old? Well, yes, that. No, we’re not moving! We’ve just found that, having sold the condo, we like a place to spend the night when we’re in town to see friends, for the symphony and play tickets. And, honestly, it’s an insurance policy. Farming really is a dangerous occupation and we just may need a place where we can land when the day comes . . .

Anyway, no photos to show you, but it’s on the 8th floor, has a nice view and a tiny deck. A living room, kitchen, dining space all in one, two bedrooms, two baths. The second bedroom is now an office space. We hired a designer, so have a sofa and a couple of chairs, a fake fireplace, and are beginning to give it some personal bits and pieces to make it seem homey. Well that sounds perfectly awful, and it isn’t. Honestly.

Daughter Jenny had planned to spend the weekend at the farm, so we suggested that she get as far as Portland on her way from Seattle, then stop at 862 to have a look, spend the night. She was surprised to find that it really was better than she’d expected! So that’s good.

Then we all caravanned to The Wood on Friday morning. We did have some chores for the weekend, but first Jenny wanted to make the acquaintance of the chickens:

“You can’t really pick them up,” we told her. Jenny didn’t listen, and here she is with crabby old Grace. Jenny and her brothers didn’t grow up on an actual farm, but we did live out in the country, and her roots are showing here. Speaking of country bumpkins, if you notice that her shirt appears to be inside out, it isn’t. Look at the buttons. I guess it’s a thing in Seattle to construct clothing seam side out?

Friday was apple picking day. We have three trees that are bearing credible, edible fruit, so we got busy and collected three baskets. There are Honey Crisps, another whose name Larry will have to go upstairs to find, and Granny Smiths. Here are the Grannys:

We left the apples in the wheelbarrow by the shed, and Jenny and her dad went out to attend to the bees:

Jenny was the photographer here, so no pix of her. Everyone safe, and on to Larry’s garden to harvest whatsoever there may be:

That thing is a cucumber. A very mature cucumber. Some exotic strain, and at first I was reluctant to try it. But it’s awesome. Crunchy, fresh-tasting, mostly flesh with a small center core of seeds. You do have to peel it, but one cucumber will practically feed the whole family.

In the evening we introduced Jenny to Jeremy Clarkson, Clarkson’s Farm. It’s so damn funny, and she’s a convert. Says she’ll watch the remainder of the series at home. Sidebar: Larry and I are working with designer Chris to see if we can retrofit the Wood with a TV set in the living room. Will make it easier for 3 people to watch Jeremy, if Chris can figure out a plan.

Next day we had to do something with the apples. First choice of the resident parents, make mincemeat. Jenny was somehow born with the gene for sugar missing. Dessert? Meh. But she had to pitch in. We have a little machine which cores, peels, slices the apples, and Larry mans that on the assembly line. I curate the arriving slices, chop out the worm holes and etc., and feed them into the next machine. A doo-dah which levers the slices through a grid into small dice. Jenny mixes together the sugar, brandy, spices, and the whole recipe gets put into sterilized jars, heading for the freezer. Tiring, but so rewarding. For those of us who do like dessert. Me, for example. (Ah, Larry has just come downstairs with the information that our third apples are Gala.)

Out to dinner. We like a local restaurant, Castor, which serves up Cajun food, so Gumbo for two of us, shrimp and grits for me. (OMG. Next time you come and visit us, we’ll take you there.) The Beavers were playing at Reser Stadium, crazy crowd, but we made it back to Llewellyn before the game ended, and we climbed up to Larry’s office to watch another episode of Clarkson. I know. We’re simple people.

This morning, Jenny gathered herself and left for the trip back home to Seattle. Larry and I are left alone to manage the rest of all those apples. Just an observation. We worked ourselves through pickle season and tomato season, but another hand in the kitchen in apple season is a rare and fine thing! Come back soon, Jenny!

Okay, test passed. STILL AUGUST published. So I will try again to post all the lovely photos I tried to show you yesterday:

But first, a little note. I thought it would be fun to search back through the blog and see what was happening back in, say, August of 2020. Seems we were having chicken drama: Apparently Burnt Toast was attacking, and hurting, the others and we determined that she had to go. Yep. To the vet, where they “euthanized” her. Cost $243. We won’t make that mistake again. The present-day chickens will simply have to learn to get along.

Anyway, here are the latest photos of the downed trees:

This is an operation run by one of Allen’s friends from church. He and his dad have a business of moving these 13 thousand pound logs to the mills. Wow.

So while this has been the Year of the Ice Storm, it has also been the Year of the Tall Grasses. In the land immediately around the house, we are advised by Jarod from Fish and Wildlife in the cultivation of wild flowers. One such being Checker Mallow, whose nectar is particularly attractive to wild honey bees. It was a lush crop, and we would want leave it until the seeds for next year were set before mowing. Thus the grasses were at least waist high when Larry climbed on the tractor:

The second shot is a turkey vulture searching the newly mown field for dead mice or similar. She’s big, huh?

Larry has been afraid that he’ll have to trade up for a bigger tractor, as this little green guy keeps over-heating. Luckily, our neighbor Ted, who is a total gear-head, volunteered to have a look and will be coming over this afternoon to help Larry take the radiator apart to see if anything can be done. Fingers crossed!

As this is actually a “working farm,” we get a tax deferral on the property. Sweet. However, we have to prove that it is, in fact, a working farm, and for this, Larry suddenly needs a copy of the contract he and Ryan, Cow Guy, have for the grazing lease. Oh. It’s just a verbal agreement. It’s worked this way for 7 years, but now the gov needs a signed document. That’s okay, Ryan says, why don’t you stop by and we’ll write something up. And you can pick up another box of meat while you’re here.

See, we do get paid in cash, but also much beef as we want, whenever, as part of the deal. So from time to time, we pick up a box, mostly hamburger and stew meat, a few roasts, and keep it in the freezer. Larry came back from their meeting with a huge box, this time including quite a lot of lamb. Where’d that come from? Anyway, now we’ll have something to use with all the tomatoes we’ve been canning this year. Hamburger hot dish! Chili! (Wonder how I can work all the zucchini into the deal.)

I should report on the bees, having mentioned them earlier. They seem to be thriving, and if all goes well, we could harvest the honey next spring. Well, that was said lightly. I have no idea what harvesting the honey will look like. I’ll let you know.

Today is Larry’s birthday. To celebrate, he wants a loaf of pineapple zucchini bread, with a candle stuck in the middle to blow out for a wish. Yes, that is a little specific for his b-day cake — perhaps he heard me groaning when he brought in yet another specimen of the vegetable that will not stop?

So now I’ll try again to post this. Deep breath. Fingers crossed!

Oh what? You allow me to open my Word Press site? Shall I try again? Fooled me once? I wrote this whole blog yesterday when it was still, actually, August, and when I tried to publish, was informed that I was apparently “off-line.” Whereupon the entire thing vanished and I flung myself about in a fit of annoyance/anger/frustration.

Seems that Verizon, my web provider, may not recognize Word Press. So I’m going to try to publish this bit and see what happens. I am definitely on line. (I was definitely on line yesterday as well) IF it goes, I’ll get back to you with the real blog, complete with photos. Here goes:

Again with a post? Already? I know, but I wanted to get these photos registered. Alan, one of the landscape guys (the cute one) has started his own business, Stone, Soil and Wood, and has contracted with us to clear the huge mess left by the ice storm.

I’d like to get these side by side, but my program won’t let me, so:

Big job, and this is just the west side along the fence. On Friday he started down below in the riparian area, where there even more downed trees. He’s making huge slash piles, which he will burn when the weather and the county permit. Taking the wood suitable for his mill, stacking the wood to be cut into fireplace size and sold. Wow.

So back to the tomatoes. Larry’s garden is just now providing an enormous crop. Of course I want to get them canned and/or frozen. This means strapping myself into the kitchen with a long rope that does allow me access to the garage pantry and bathroom breaks. But whew. First batch, I put up by the “open kettle” method and scored 7 pints, cooked and slightly muddled with a stick blender. They all sealed. Went out to the garage and looked at the jars of frozen tomatoes already there from years past. OMG. We will have to eat tomatoes every night for the forseeable. But one does not complain of having too much food. Right?

We were talking to son David on the phone this afternoon, and Larry had the floor. He talked about the cat he’d seen in the orchard this afternoon. Which, on seeing Larry, ran, leaped to the top of the 12 foot fence post and disappeared.

“Cougar?” David asked. No, Larry said. “Long tail, but just a feral house cat. Gray.”

Parenthetical aside: “Grey” is meaningless when reported by a color-blind person. I’m sitting in my chair thinking that was no feral house cat. It probably wasn’t even grey, and what house cat can leap 12 feet in one bound? But I’m not a female cat person, so what do I know. “Probably a cougar,” I said. But Larry’s sticking to his story.

I was talking with my sisters this afternoon, as usual on Sundays, and we wandered into a conversation about religious faith. How had Mary chosen to become a Quaker, and why do we — some of us — insist that this is a “Christian” country. Mary is the smart sister and her knowledge of Christian history is vast (Martha and I just listen). But I remarked that we had not experienced a particularly religious upbringing, did not, for example, say grace before meals.

“Yes we did,” Mary claimed. “Of course we did.”

“No we didn’t,” Martha said, in a kind of snorting way.

So I know memory is fungible (does that word work here?) But’s so odd. Three of us, living together all those years, and we don’t agree on this simple thing.

So now it’s completely dark, one of the cows is calling her calf, the wind is still, and let’s all go to bed.

Started last Sunday when Vik and Gordon arrived at the farm with 10 pounds of pickling cukes from Sauvie Island, our historic supplier. The cucumbers have to soak in salt water overnight, so we left them in the sink and went off for dinner.

Vik and I have been making pickles for decades, I think. Maybe not, but a long time. We got to work Monday morning, and put up 24 jars of dills, and were rewarded with the pops of sealing lids on all but two. The pickles have to cure for some weeks, so they’ll be stashed for a while, and thus I can’t now report on the quality of year’s crop.

Would have taken a photo, but Allison (d-in-law for those of you don’t know her) arrived Monday afternoon. Allison is the most organized member of the extended family, and on seeing the jars on the kitchen counter, began to plan their correct placement in the garage pantry. I would never complain, she’s amazing, but I didn’t think in time about a photo for the record.

Amy and Charlie arrived the next day, and we got to check in on the grandkids. These two are both living and working in New York, both love it, although Charlie is newly arrived there. He hasn’t as yet found work in his chosen field — musical production — so may have to set up on street corners with his violin. The gig economy?

They all left for Black Butte, meeting up with Peter and Andrew, who had driven up from Altadena. After music lessons on Friday, Larry and I joined them for the weekend. Love it! Family!

Back on the farm, though, it’s still Pickle Season. Now Bread and Butters. And I took photos:

Larry and I had taken a trip to the Peoria Road Farm Store and bought another batch of cukes. Funny, you buy them by the each at this store, so we got exactly 17 for the batch. You have to process these guys in a boiling water canner, so a bit more work. But they all sealed, and we’re good for the cold winter ahead. Fourteen pints. Yum.

And there’s more kitchen news. As an early birthday present, the California kids purchased a pizza oven for their dad. Here it sits on the patio table:

It’s pretty cool! You put kiln-dried wood pieces into the burner, light it, and the thing gets up to 900 degrees. The pizza takes 2 minutes. Okay, some trial and error expected, and the first attempt was, not surprisingly, a little sketchy. Tasted good, though, and we’ll get better:

Chicken news:

Yes, the babies are laying! At least one of them is. Pretty little brown eggs. Not as big as Gracie’s, the white one, but we’re very proud. She, whichever she is, is even using the correct nest in the new little coop, so all good.

Widening the scope, on August 2, a crew from NRCS, a national conservational resource group, met here to assess the problem of the trees in the “copse.” Specifically, to see if they can find funding to have the stand of oak on the slope east of the house thinned. No word yet, but they’ve offered some names for us to contact.

Alan, one of the landscape guys, has newly formed his own company, and has begun work on the massive job of clearing downed trees after the spring ice storm. He has an excavator down along the fence line and the slash piles are mounting. He’s salvaging all the trunks of some determined width, and will use them to make lumber. Also is stacking any wood useful as firewood, which will be sold in some fashion. Then, come winter, he’ll professionally burn the slash piles.

Larry’s garden is, and has been, producing. Fennel! Cabbages! Zucchini! And now, finally, tomatoes! The apples in the orchard aren’t quite ripe, yet, but all this bounty does mean that I’ll be in that kitchen trying to “put by” the produce. Freeze most of it, but the tomatoes will have to be canned or frozen as sauce. Don’t know how to keep fennel over the winter . . . any ideas?

Until next time, be well, eat your green veggies, stay in touch.

Right. Been awhile. When we last talked, a screech owl was looking at you. To continue the theme:

This is Rhodie. Their names have become known, and they are Rocky, Rhodie, Lacy, Gracie, and Black. If said in the correct order, there’s a certain poetic lilt, even if we are talking about chickens. No longer cute, little, fluffy.

Rhodie is my fave because she will come and eat out of my hand. The others can’t be seduced. Yet. But they were here preparing to move to their new home. Choice of the new site had become challenging, as each of us, Larry and I, had our own opinions about the better option, and had retreated to our corners. Fortunately, neighbors Ted and Marjorie offered the use of one of their vacant dog crates as a possible home site, to be inside the orchard, but safe from Gracie.

This was promising, and in fact, proved quite helpful in carrying the birds, but during our on-the ground examination, it became obvious where they should go:

Of course. The plant box Peter and Larry had built several years ago, this year as yet unplanted with the tomatoes which would follow. You can’t see, but the top is screened as well, and water can be turned on to fill the canister which would now be hung from the top. Brilliant!

With them settled, let me back up a couple of weeks. Larry had planned to go on a trip with The Nature Conservancy to Southeastern Oregon, on May 23, specifically to Fields, a wide spot near the more well-known Burns. I had meant to go, but learned that 1.) I would be the only woman on the trip, and 2.) that there would be no bathroom facilities during the 8-hour or so excursions into the mountainous back country. How was that going to work?

On further thought, I guessed that Larry would enjoy the trip without my companionship, and settled in to spend the few days at home on the farm. Complete with running water. However, he had been on the way for about 10 minutes when I paused, reconsidered, put on my big-girl pants and called him. Could I change my mind? Could he come back and get me?

He could. The country is glorious, empty, vast, and certainly worth the money and attention the Conservancy is spending to influence the way the land is used. It is currently grazed, (over-grazed, actually) and planted with alfalfa. Which is mostly sold to Asia as fodder for the cattle raised there. Does that even make sense? Yes, economically. But otherwise?

Here’s the buggy in which we were to spend the next couple of days:

Not the most luxurious! Here’s the terrain:

What they mean by back-road, off-road travel. I know. But I would not have seen this stunning landscape without having manned up and gone along.

In the evenings we were fed delicious food cooked by — shout out here to Garth Fuller — East Side land manager for the Conservancy. The bedrooms in the newly acquired farm house were fine, and if the slope to the ceiling caused Larry a few head bumps, he soon learned.

The talks after dinner taught us what the program hoped to accomplish. Here’s one innovation. They can attach a sensor to the cow’s neck collar, which controls her/him by a virtual fence, as defined by a satellite. No literal post and wire and electricity fencing necessary. Sort of how your i-phone knows where you are. That’s the limit of my understanding, but it did give me pause. How soon before they learn to control women in the same way? Okay, just wondering.

Another photo of the moon rising over the desert:

Back home, Larry packed up and left for 5 nights at Black Butte for the famous B.B. Invitational. Men only. This time I did not pick up the phone and ask to be included.

Five days home along flew by. I was busy binge watching Netflix to find a movie for the Chicks and Flicks to watch this following Thursday afternoon. This is a way I usually do not spend my time, but it was fun and relaxing. No dinners to cook, hence no clean-up. Not much laundry. Read until my eyes closed in the evenings. As I have been disappointed in many of the books I’ve been reading, I did find the same lack of depth in the films. Fine. Entertaining. But.

Then Larry came home and daily life as we know it resumed. Work to be done. I’ve decided that we don’t really live on a farm. We live on a ranch. Cows and all. Not that we have to do anything with/for the cows. Still. See what I mean? The garden is providing its abundance and I am back in the kitchen wondering what to do with all that escarole. The berries are ripening. I made a batch of kumquat marmalade, which didn’t set up and thus must be reconsidered jar by jar as we come to them. The kumquats, btw, did not come from this ranch, but from our son’s tree in S. CA. Just so you know.

And now it’s lunch time. We leave for Portland in an hour for a performance at Portland Center Stage, and an overnight in our “apartment” in Park View. I told Peter I’d include an in-progress shot of the little sweater I’m knitting. Here you go, Peter:

Pretty sure it’ll be cuter with the sleeves.

Til then, see ya!

Didn’t mean to startle you, but don’t worry. He’s about as big as a robin, hunts at night. This image is from Animal Spot, courtesy of Google, and he’s the one we’re hoping will move into the box we hung in one of the oak trees just behind the backyard fence. Here’s how that happened:

That’s Mitch, saving Larry the necessity of working 10 feet above ground with a ladder. Whew!

But now a little quiz: What word describes the relationship between this owl and the oak tree?

Mutualism, Parasitism, Commensalism, or Predation?

The answer is Commensalism (we all knew it wasn’t predation, right?) Commensalism applied here means that the owl derives benefit from the tree, and the tree neither gains from nor is harmed by the owl. Learned a new word!

I found this on a site called Brainly, which is pretty cool when you don’t feel like asking Google every last thing.

A little time off, and we spent a morning at the dentist, got our teeth cleaned, and kept going on to Portland. As this was a Tuesday, we had the good fortune to enjoy Tuesday Tunes at Mirabella’s Bistro, guests of Vik and Gordon that evening. And on to hear a talk by Molly Gloss. I had known Molly years ago and loved the chance to catch up. If you haven’t read her books yet, get going. Start with The Jump Off-Creek and go from there. For some reason I hadn’t read her Dazzle of Day, but when, in her talk, I learned that it was a novel featuring Quakers in space, I sent for the book the morning I got home. From time to time, I talk to my sister Mary, herself a Friend, on the subject of Quaker philosophy and practice. So far she hasn’t kept me up to speed on their activity in space. I will let you know.

You all knew we are going to raise some chicks for our flock. We stopped in at WilCo the next morning to find and purchase a Starter Kit, which would provide some housing, water and feed dispensers, and a stand for a heat lamp. Fortunately we decided to go home and set up before selecting our new little residents.

Fortunately, because the starter kit was pretty lame. We realized that we could use a stock tank for the base instead of the kit, but the only place we could site this great awkward thing was in the garage. So my little car gets bumped outside for the duration.

Larry cobbled together the post, took the heat lamp from the greenhouse, and put the Starter Kit back into the car for its return to WilCo when we picked up the chicks the next day. Here what that looks like:

We’re advised to hold them every day, to establish our ability to hold them when we need to when they are adults. (Just try to catch Gracie. Guess she didn’t get cuddled as a baby.)

These are about a week old, and include two black, one speckled, and one red breed. Sidebar: it was fascinating to watch them as they were put together from differing tanks at WilCo. One immediately began to peck at and chase the others. Guess she’ll be the boss lady. The little Rhode Island Red has apparently been assigned the bottom rung of the ladder, and often goes off and takes naps away from the others. Hmm. A week old and they know to do this! Does it remind you of people, for example?

Last time I mentioned the Corvallis Community Thrift Shop. Yesterday I took some items over and met Bonnie there. She took my stuff, and when I apologized that Great Aunt Clara’s tea pot had not been polished, she laughed and informed me that unpolished silver is now a “thing.” Awesome. Who ever thought of that one? An influencer somewhere on Instagram or X or? Seriously. That’s brilliant. Women everywhere thank you. “Don’t polish that, you’ll ruin it!”

She went on to talk about the carved figure of an Indian that had washed up in the shop. A volunteer at the shop is a member of one of the local Tribes, and she had said that the figure must not be sold. It was highly disrespectful, and it should be burned. Bonnie volunteered to take the thing to her home, from where she’d find someone with a burn pile who could take it on. That’s where we come in. Of late, we have many, many burn piles.

Not up to me to judge what may or not be respectful in this case, but if burning is the appropriate disposition of this guy, we can only oblige. Someone has spent hours carving that head-dress, that sad face, and I wouldn’t suppose it was in order to laugh. Or so I hope. Anyway:

R.I.P.

See you next time! 😊 Ha! Wanted to see if my blog would accept emojis. Guess so.

Larry cooks dinner. Gotta love it! This beauty is chicken thighs. Having overnighted in white wine, they were sauteed along with the endive. He added a chopped salad? Oh, maybe I made the chopped salad. Anyway, delicious! I always thought endive was pronounced “en-dive,” right? But learned from one of my more sophisticated friends that it is correctly pronounced “on-deev.” You can decide for yourself . . .

In farm news, the cows are back. Probably at least 50, yearling steers, chewing down the westside pastures up to and around the barn. I’m glad to have them back, but it does give me pause when I want to take my morning walk down the road. They see me coming and rush over to the fence, then start to follow, moo-ing, plainly wanting something from me. Whatever that might be, I don’t have it. Out? They just want out? I do think that, when they see a person, they believe that change is coming. And they are certainly eager for it.

We’re about to make the leap into raising chicks. Gracie-the-chicken has been living alone for several months now, and although she faithfully lays her egg every day, I’m sure she’d like company. She needs her flock. To this end, we need to improve the environment where the birds will be safe. This means tackling the run, which is lumpish, weedy, impossible to mow (must be weed-whacked) and, acutally, ugly.

So Mitch is here today. He wrestled the rototiller around in there yesterday, is raking it into smoothness today, and will help plant lilacs along the west boundary for shade, and then build a cage for the young birds when they’re old enough to be outside but still need protection from Gracie, if she doesn’t get broody and imagine that they’re hers. Could happen, we’re told.

So what have I been doing while Larry is farming, and cooking dinner? I’ve been struggling to dispose, one way or another, of the baggage we’ve been hauling around all these years. Not just from our lives, but those of several generations back:

You know the kind of stuff I mean. The tea and coffee service from Great Aunt Clara. Cut glass pitcher. Sterling silverware. Mom’s diaries. Larry’s and my high-school annuals? All those photos! Twin bed sheets and blankets. A roasting pan for a twenty-pound turkey. Okay, easy. Donate this stuff!

Last night we went to a meeting for One Hundred People Who Care About Corvallis, and heard about the Community Thrift Store. They take everything, and the proceeds go back to the community in the form of grants to various local NGO’s. Open Wednesdays and Saturdays from 8 to 6. Yes they’ll take my old Nikon camera. That sweater I knit but haven’t worn since Jenny was a baby.

Jenny successfully divested her family’s dining-room set, a grand piano(!) and other treasures, with the help of on-line markets when they moved to their new house. Even got a little cash for it. Maybe a little easier when you live in a huge city, but maybe that’s just an excuse.

And now it gets a little harder: What about my MFA thesis? “Who are these minor characters and what are they doing in my novel?” The vase etched with Larry’s name, presented on retirement from Columbia Management Company. The framed illustrations I did for the children’s book which never got published? The children’s stories I wrote but never submitted. Don’t think the Community Thrift Store is the answer here. But still. Throw them away?

I don’t know why my mom hung onto her diaries. Sister Martha keeps a daily journal of her every day’s life. Don’t know what Mary is up to, but she has a lot to write about, if she isn’t. And isn’t this blog a kind of diary? Hmm. I guess so. But. Ha! “But” means I’m about to argue my own position. See, I mean to entertain you with this record of old people who take up farming. I don’t think Mom had that in mind. Nor does Martha. But, if I don’t get around to tossing my MFA thesis, kids, just do it.

Changing the subject: About the new truck? We’d said we wanted Grandson Will to be in charge of naming the vehicle, and he obliged with the name Bob Junior. We’ve shortened it to L’il Bob, which sounds more down country. Larry says it isn’t a farm truck because it isn’t dented, rusted, dirty, but it’s getting a farm-truck name anyway.

Tonight we had the pleasure of Face Timing with David and Caroline. They’re in Wanaka, New Zealand, it being Friday afternoon where they’re living, Thursday evening here. We get used to it. Caroline is still recovering from a ferocious bout with Covid, but is up and around a bit. We had a long discussion about their plans, which more or less boil down to “we don’t know.” Apparently they can live in both NZ and the US alternately, so long as they don’t trigger some clock ticking with regard to which state gets to tax them.

Tomorrow, I plan to start a knitting project — a sweater for a baby boy. I love this! I love to knit, especially things tiny enough to be completed within the space of, say, a couple of good novels I’ll listen to on Audible while I work. This is for the expected grandchild of one of Allison’s great friends. No, you don’t know her and neither do I, and it doesn’t matter. I wonder. Maybe someday, in some future, a woman somewhere will be wondering if she should just keep this cute little blue sweater or take it to a neighborhood thrift shop. I hope so!

If you were with me last time, you may remember that we were pleased to be contributing to the well-being of the red-breasted sap sucker Mitch found in the trees down by the barn. Hmm. See photo:

“Sorry to say that your tree probably can’t survive this,” Darren, the arborist-guy at Shonnards Nursery, told us. “That’s a sap sucker’s work.” But this tree isn’t down by the barn. It, and the other two similarly afflicted Mountain Ash, are right up in the front lawn. Well. What to do? First we’ll probably do nothing. It will have to be up to the trees’ own defenses. Here’s what Google has to say on the subject: The mighty Mountain Ash tree is the tallest flower in the world. Native to Tasmania and Victoria and soaring to heights of over 100 metres, they are the second tallest tree species in the world. The tallest flower in the world? Guess we’ll hope for the best.

See this guy? It came down in the recent ice-storm, crushing the fence and blocking the road:

I loved to walk down and see this stump. Just the power and beauty of the thing. Obviously, we had to have help clearing it, and the others, from the fence and road.

But damn. No-one consulted me, they just hauled their equipment in and got to work, and took the stump with them. Of course they did, who would care about the dumb stump, and anyway they would take it to the chippers who would grind it up and it would be useful in all sorts of applications. Wonderful.

So, trees. This morning, Ryan (cow-guy) sent Keaton over to survey the damage to the all the fences. He’ll come back next week with appropriate machinery to clear the fallen trees from the Eastern pasture and re-wire the hot line. I’ll be happy to see the cows come back, and don’t have any particular fondness for any of the fallen timber down there. He’s also going to install opposing gates so that Ryan and crew can move the animals from one side of the driveway to the other. I wish you could be here sometime to watch the cattle drive! Wild-wild-West.

What else is new? This:

Yep. The white one (Bob) had been seriously underperforming for months, refusing to start, for example, and Larry had been all over CarMax to find a replacement. Then this weekend we were on an errand in town and had the bright idea to scan the local dealers, and here this little beauty was. Dodge Ram 1500 for those of you who might know what that even means. 2015, and perfect, inside and out. Yes, it’s littler than Bob, but considerably younger (Bob was a 2002, 187,000 miles). We’re waiting to hear from Will, grandson who named Bob, to see if he has any inspiration for this one. I’ll let you know, but apparently Will is somewhere in Europe on Spring Break, so it may be awhile.

Yawn. Not enough sleep last night. Larry’s in the kitchen baking bread. Don’t you love it? I sure do!

But back to a little story: He, Larry, had gone to a meeting of the Bee-Keepers Association the other evening, and didn’t notice until he got home that his phone had apparently jumped ship somewhere while he was gathering stacks of bee info from the table on his way out. We tried calling the phone, but whoever had it didn’t answer. Next morning we got on our computers and located the number of the man who had run the meeting, and from him, did get the name and number of the guy who picked it up. Of course, the phone is locked, so nothing that man could do but wait. We drove out to retrieve it, and had a nice conversation. He asked me if I’d read my blog that morning — what? No, I don’t usually re-read after the first day to see if there are comments. He said that in looking up “Viehl” which was all he had, he’d come across the blog and had commented his contact info there. Didn’t see it, but I’ve been through several updates and will have to see if there’s something I can do to facilitate comments at this point.

Larry’s garden is up and running. Cabbage, peas, onions, potatoes, lettuce all planted and up. He has a light installed in the greenhouse, and it’s on automatically until 10:00 every evening. It’s fun to see it after we turn off the inside lights to head for bed. Sweet. Oh, and the fennel is planted, Larry has commented in passing.

We’re planning to start a new little chicken flock in a couple of weeks. Walking up the road the other day, I saw Gracie wildly squawking and beating her wings, safely in the run. But as I got near, I saw a cougar? bob-cat? mountain lion? standing at the fence. Seeing me, he took himself off across the orchard, leapt up onto a post and so out into the woods. Obviously, he who’d taken our other two. Poor Grace was much upset and took herself into the coop for the rest of the day. She’s been laying every day, now, bless her heart, and already we have more eggs than we need. But a flock is more than one, and she misses the others to boss and scold and teach their place. We’ll do what we can.

Dinner tonight? Pulled pork enchiladas. Courtesy of our last visit to Costco, where we’d acquired a 2#package of the pulled pork. Also picked up a stack of corn tortillas. In our freezer I found a half-pint of tomatilla sauce, made either at the inspiration of, or recipe for, from Tom a year ago. Never made it before and hope it will stand in as enchilada sauce. Oh, btw, we divided the 2 pounds of meat into four packets and will proceed with our usual m.o. of making several batches from the first half-pound, which will last us until the next full moon, or the anticipated eclipse of the sun. How it goes in Chez Viehl.

Bon appétit, and see you next time.

THE LORD GIVITH . . .

You know the rest. But first:

Yes! Friday afternoon, on our return from Portland, we heard Goldie singing the “I laid an egg” song. First time! This chicken is she who has the charming voice of a rooster with a sore throat, but still. I’ve learned to trust this song, and there they were. Two eggs! One crushed, but one lovely specimen. Of course, they might have been courtesy of Grace, but that song? On Saturday we found another, and are hopeful that the long pause in production is over.

Mitch came over on Saturday to help Larry with the tangle of downed trees by the barn. He’s a wizard with the power saw, and the boys spent the morning lumber-jacking. Results:

More firewood and several huge burn/chip piles of branches. They left three stragglers standing because of the red breasted sap sucker Mitch id’ed working the trees.

And now we come to the second phrase in the title’s quote: He taketh away. I, having spent the morning doing inside chores, opened the door to the storage space in the garage, and found the pipes for the tankless water-heater happily dripping. The floor flooded, along with the stash of exotic alcohol (what is Manzilla La Gitana and why do we have it?) Costco supplies of paper towels, and etc.

I immediately turn this sort of emergency over to whatever men may be on hand, and in this case, there were two of them available. They did what they could, turned off the system, helped move all of the sopping etcetera out into the main body of the garage, thereby blocking access to refrigerator and freezer, of course, and went off to move the bee hives, or whatever else they had been doing. Sigh. It’s Saturday. The plumber’s shop is closed. They will put us on the list for Monday morning. Can I call this an emergency? Yeah, no. We will just do without hot water for a day or so. Didn’t we just have a water emergency a couple of months ago? We’re fine.

Backing up, we had spent a couple of days in our apartment in Portland, and I was able to spend time with Chicks at a happy hour and movie. Our designer had scheduled a crew to hang our “art” which had been in storage, and it was fun to revisit the old favorites. Not all of our collection will work in this new space, so we’ve brought a few things back to the farm to enjoy here. And now I’m back to where the Lord givith:

For some month I’ve been unable to find a book that I loved. Didn’t like Colleen Hoover’s It Ends With Us, Kristin Hannah’s The Women, Jilly Cooper’s 915 page epic Riders (actually read all of that one as it’s so famous). Anyway, there, in Portland, was a cardboard box of my books from grad school in North Carolina. My books! Andrea Barrett, Rick Bass, John Barth, Charles Baxter! Barrett and Baxter were both on the faculty of my school, and all were examples of great writing to study. OMG. I’ll be good for months. Years. Yes, of course, I will have read them earlier. No worries.

Now I’m back up to the present. The weather is lovely, the daphne is blooming and that lovely scent fills the room with clippings. The daffodils are in bloom. I have a massive week-whacking chore waiting in the chicken’s run, but can’t do that without the man here to start my f-ing machine. The power cord of which is built for longer, stronger arms than mine, so oh well. Where is he? you may ask?

He has driven the truck, which happily started this morning, off to the recycling stations around town, to Wilco for more chicken feed, to Safeway for sundries, and should be home in time to take me out to lunch at his golf club. Some of the things you can’t/don’t want to do when you have no hot water: take a shower. Wash your hair. Run the dishwasher. Yes, I can still cook, but am laughing at how many times I turn the handle for water and nothing appears. Have to turn the cold water faucet, dummy.

I can still iron, though. Make a cup of coffee the old-fashioned way and sit on my porch swing enjoying the peaceful, quiet morning.