Saturday Morning at Frogpond

With another hectic workweek behind him, Bruce relaxed outside.  

Coffee -- check  

Cat companion -- check

Picnic table with shade  -- check

Llama munching hay and supervising -- check

Pellet gun for murdering voles -- check

Wife dancing around with glee every time she hears the gun go "Crack!" -- check

More and more,  I wonder if maybe we've lived out in the country too long.  I can hear the banjos twanging.

Hecuba Zonked

What can I say?  This little kitty knows how to abandon herself to sleep.

The two kittens joining our family has definitely made life around here more complicated.  Logically speaking, adding two cats to the four we already have is so going in the wrong direction. That said, they have brought such joy and spark into our lives that I can't imagine not having them. We are smitten by kittens.

Discovering the Compost Playground

Hecuba and her Magical Lightning Bolt

We've been letting the kittens go outside for about two weeks now.  I would have preferred keeping them inside until they were full-size cats.  However, living in a small house with a cat door and four other cats, this grew more and more difficult as they grew older and more active.  I keep them under my eye as much as possible when they're outdoors and soon they'll be at a size where they won't be snack-sized for a hungry owl or hawk.  They do seem to have an innate sense to stay near cover and are aware and vigilant.  Perhaps this comes from having a feral or semi-feral mama.














 The compost heap exerted its charms on a new generation of Frogpondians.

 

 Both the hens and the kittens ogled each other  for a short time, no doubt each wondering if the creature they were looking at might be edible.  "Too big," seems to have been the joint conclusion.

The hens have accepted the kittens as part of their universe and now everyone mostly ignores each other as they forage.  There's more than enough compost heap to go around.

The Battle for Tomatoes

This is the second summer that cherry tomatoes have self-sown in the packed earth next to the carport.  Surprisingly, they bore more fruit than the store-bought plants in the raised beds.  I built on last year's success by preparing more of a bed for them and adding several loads of compost, a ring of rocks and fencing to keep the chickens out.  In the spring, seedlings again sprouted and the four I kept did splendidly (they are as tall as I am) until the rodent army descended.  After the voles and gophers had destroyed everything else farther from the house, this bed has become the last battleground. It's easier to guard because it's got the concrete pad of the carport on one side plus the back door is glass and looks right to it.  However, the enemy is sneaky and patient...

Voles adore almost-ripe tomatoes.  They scamper up, down and through the plants as they search for the largest fruit -- the same fruit that I've been keeping my own eyes on because I also adore tomatoes.  They also break and bend branches as they fill their bellies.

BV (Before Voles)

AV (After Voles)

Yesterday afternoon when I returned home from visiting Dorothea, the plants looked fine.  When I came back outside a few hours later, the plants had been ravaged -- branches bent down, bare stems where larger tomatoes had been and a scattering of small green ones thrown about the carport.


I stood there and felt the same helplessness and resignation that always comes over me when confronted by this destruction.  Then I noticed fresh digging at an old gopher hole on the edge of the carport and suddenly something in me snapped.  I got a shovel and stuck the hose down that hole and turned on the water.  Then I waited above the hole with the shovel head pointed down.  When that first vole stuck his wet snout out of the water, he never knew what hit him.  Ditto with the second vole that popped up a little farther down.  I have always shied away from killing, but yesterday something shifted inside myself -- I had no squeamishness or hesitation with that shovel.  And I felt absolutely elated afterwards.

This morning there was no vole damage.  Feeling incredibly competent and proud of myself, I went over to congratulate the tomato plants...and discovered the just hatched baby tomato horn worms.





The ones I could find have been picked off and dispatched with my foot.

 I'm curious to see what plague the universe has next in store for my last remnant of a garden.

Frogpond Hits the Big Screen

As promised, here are some pictures of the movie making at Frogpond last Saturday.  They really were a lovely group of people.  They absolutely loved what they were doing and had fun, but were totally focused on their craft.  This movie short is in the dystopian science fictiongenre and  will be shown at a competition in San Francisco this fall.  Although the entire movie is only going to be about twelve minutes long, it took them six hours just to nail down this one scene (I think there are to be three or maybe four scenes in the entire thing).

I wish them great success!

Drip-Drip-Drip

This godawful heat wave that has hit our little section of the planet has now lasted for about a month. Although summer rain here is a rare thing, that doesn't stop me from wishing, longing and praying for a bit of rain to come our way and cool things down.

Yesterday my prayers were answered, as we had our very own tiny (but significant) precipitation event: water was dripping from the light fixture in the hallway.  It appears that the air conditioner fan up in the attic sprung a leak from one of the pipes that drains the condensed water out of the house.  We climbed up there to see if we could fix this ourselves, but can't figure out where the water is coming from.  So a call will go to the nice air conditioner repairman this morning after they open.

In the meantime, I have the lovely sound of rain to brighten my Monday.

On Location

So after Bruce got home from the landfill this morning, the day took a surreal twist:  Bruce informed me that a small movie crew was showing up to shoot a few scenes for an amateur science fiction short.  Bruce had offered the barn as a location a while back to a coworker who is the producer.  He insists that he had told me that they were coming today, and I believe him -- but he never reminded me once last week.  He didn't even remind me this morning.  He reminded me as we were getting ready to eat lunch that they were coming at three in the afternoon.  I went a tiny bit ballistic.

The stall they wanted to use was the largest one on the end -- the one that the geese sleep and poop in every night.  I've been meaning to clean out the straw for an embarrassingly long time.  Well, now it's been cleaned.  Another thing I haven't done in a very long time is brush down the streamers of cobwebs that festoon the beams, light fixtures and every other surface of the barn.  We were asked to leave all of them, as they wanted the stall to look very old and disused.  Not exactly something to have me glowing with pride, but I will say that the film crew was very excited by the perfect look they conveyed.  So now the cobwebs in my barn have been immortalized and I'm sure the spiders are quite pleased.

Actually, the seven people who showed up to do this are all very nice (they're still outside finishing up)  and I enjoyed watching them at work.  It also did me good to hear the praise they heaped on Frogpond.  I've been so disenchanted by fire, smoke, gophers and weeds that my own eyes have been focused a lot on failure, disappointment, work that hasn't been done and ugliness.  Today was a reality check that Frogpond is an amazing place.  I needed the reminder.

Pictures to come.

Frogpond News

I just waved goodbye to Bruce, the boys, and the two dogs as they set off for the Milton landfill.  The truck bed was filled with trash and they pulled a trailer tightly packed with dry grass and branches.  Every load that leaves makes me a little more easy.

The Detwiler Fire has grown to 75,000 acres and taken 70 homes, but is now 25% contained.  People are being allowed to return to the town of Mariposa and the news is that the firefighters have turned the corner in containing this fire.  Hopefully they will have it completely out in the next two weeks.  Here is a link to a local paper's report on it:

http://www.sierrastar.com/news/local/article163045583.html


Even though the gopher huge population around here has gone down quite a bit (we manage to kill 15-20 a day), they still are wreaking all sorts of destruction on my plants.  A ten year old scarlet trumpet vine that climbed the fence and a four year old olive tree (that had just begun bearing olives) are the latest casualties.  Gophers also finally discovered my lilies, but at least they were through blooming.  I've decided that when the gophers have been defeated, I won't replant in the areas that are farther from the house.  For some time I've realized that I've given too much time and effort trying to keep the more distant gardens alive.  As long as the trees, roses and vines were doing moderately well, I found it impossible to give up on them, but now that the gophers have had there way I'll pull them up.  If I do replant, it will be with California natives that won't require much care from me once they get established.  With a less spread out growing area, I can then devote myself to more intensively tending plants close to the house.  At least, that's the plan.

Wildfires, gophers, and a heat wave that just goes on and on -- this is certainly not the most pleasant of summers, but I'm doing my best to keep a positive outlook on things.

The last lily to bloom

Plants on the back deck - relatively safe from gophers

The TimTom Tumbler

Ikea makes awesome cat toys:  not only are they responsible for the most fun wastepaper basket on the planet, but they also put out a carnival-worthy Kitty Tumbler.  The flexible wire sides give it a fine bounce and the orange-red color just makes us happy.

Both kittens are fine acrobats, but TimTom has shown an exceptional talent in the handling of this apparatus.  He's learned how to throw himself against the sides to tip it over.

Once he gets that thing moving, he can erratically bump and lurch it all the way down the hall.

Thank you Ikea.

Fire Season

Last Monday the large house that sits across the street and up the hill caught on fire and I didn't even notice.  I came home that afternoon and saw fire trucks, ambulances, and other vehicles in their yard, but there was no fire or damage  that I could see.  I didn't smell smoke, which one would think would linger.  There were a number of people wandering about, some in fire gear, but there was no sense of urgency in the scene.  It had the look of an emergency but not the feel of one.  I called Bruce and described what I saw and he thought it might have been a medical emergency and perhaps extra personnel came along for training.  As we have never met the people in the house, I decided not to go there to find out what had happened.  In retrospect, I'm rather amazed by my appalling lack of curiosity.  Eventually the fire crews and other people got in their trucks and drove away.  The driver of one firetruck saw me in the driveway (I was weeding as I kept an eye on things) and gave me a friendly wave and tootle of his horn as he passed.  

On Friday, when Jonathan and Joseph stopped by, they told us that, yes, there had indeed been a fire at that house.  It had started at noon in their attic but the fire crew had it completely out by the time I got home at four.  The flames had burnt through places in the roof, but on the opposite side of the house from where I was.  When I checked back online, there was information on it, including the fact that a full complement of air and land units was sent due to the extreme dryness of the vegetation and because our residential area backs up to wildland.  One spark, blown on the wind, had the potential to set the entire hillside on fire.  

Which is why when Jonathan and Joseph offered to work for us again, we asked if they could come the very next day to help load and haul away more branches and dead grass.  They did this, and came again today to finish clearing the dry litter and grass from the pad our house sits on.  They'll be back again on Wednesday -- this time to finish clearing dead grass from the sides of our driveway (and also  hunt a few gophers while they're at it).  

The threat of fire is with us every day.  Coming home from shopping yesterday, we reached the highway that leads to our home, and over the hills a thick plume of smoke drifted upwards.  From a distance it was hard to tell where it was coming from, but as we drove closer we determined that it was to the east of us.  Now we know that this fire is about 40 miles away, towards Yosemite and has already consumed over 7,000 acres.  As of the last report, there is zero containment.

The Detwiler Fire from Gopher Ridge

Today, the wind is blowing the smoke west over our hills and my eyes sting.  Every summer seems to be worse than the one before.  I'll admit that I'm becoming tired of this worry that hangs over me.  I dream of rain and greenness... but rain and greenness will come again.  And, lucky us; the reinforcements have  arrived!

Our two young heroes after clearing the hillside today 

Fleas and an Unexpected Blessing

Kitten Symmetry 

In KittenWorld, nothing remains the same for long.  They've been spending their nights in the living room, curled in the top level of their cat tree.  This sleeping arrangement suited me just fine.  However, for the past two nights, they've woken from their perch and come pottering in to be with their Mama.  Because I'm a fool for cuteness, I put up with their passionately purring little selves -- one pressed up against my neck and the other deep within the sheets.  My forbearance quickly ended with the stings from the fleas they shared with me.  I carted them back to their cat tree and went back to bed with the bedroom door firmly closed.  I'll be checking with the vet next week to see if they're old enough for a dose of Frontline.

Sparring on the duck raft just before they left for two years

Three years ago we had an unexpected blessing when a family with twin boys moved into a house up the road.  Joseph and Jonathan came knocking on our door one afternoon selling raffle tickets for their high school and looking for odd jobs.  We gave them a try and we were blessed to have them work for us for the next year.  They would take on any job that we pointed them too -- cleaning the chicken coop, weed-eating, raking, loading trash and debris into the trailer, and going with Bruce to the landfill to help him unload.  Their work ethic was amazing -- cheerful, energetic, and competent.  With them, our concern was never about getting them to get the job done but rather that they might overdo it.  Because they had just been accepted into the school's football team they were eager to build up their muscles and we were more than eager to pay them to do this (as long as they stayed safe, hydrated and fed).  Win/win.  They also loved animals and the dogs adored them.  And then, one June day they were gone.  The family moved away and we never knew where they went.  Two years passed.

So last Friday, right after breakfast, the dogs were barking at something and I saw someone walking up the drive towards the house.  I went out to see who it was, and it was Joseph.  Or rather, Joseph the tall young man as opposed to Joseph the lanky boy.  A few minutes later, Jonathan drove up and we got caught up on the news.  The family had gone to a small town about thirty miles away but moved back to their old house a few weeks ago.  They were very happy that they could have their senior year at their old high school and had come by to say hi and to see if we had any work for them.  Oh, miracle of miracles!  Any work for them?????

Yesterday Joseph and Jonathan raked the dry grass from the round pen and loaded up the trailer with grass and brush.  They hauled, cut up and laid oak branches on top of the pile in the trailer.  Then Jonathan took care of a few gophers with the pellet gun.  Bruce, the boys and the dogs all went to the landfill together and I baked oatmeal cookies for everyone.  Even if they weren't helping us, it would have been lovely to see them again to know how they are doing.  I had no expectation that they might be looking for work now that they were older and busy with school and their lives.  But there they were, ready to dig in.  Surrounded as we are by acres of dry weeds, their return is a blessing on many levels.

Haunted

Every so often I have a strong desire to stroll through an old cemetery, reading headstones .  I enjoy the melancholy.   Generally,  get-togethers that involve standing around,  getting to know strangers makes me anxious.  But in a cemetery it's different.  There, it's safe to get to know folks through learning just the most basic of facts about them: name, dates of birth and death, and birthplace.  Sometimes there's more information than that; sometimes less.  The dead are non-judgmental and have no problem with me pausing for long minutes, studying the few words that summed up their lives.

Oak Grove Cemetery sits atop a hill above the tiny town of Knight's Ferry and dates from the Gold Rush.  I'd been to this one before, but that had been many years ago.  In late June, when the urge to visit a cemetery hit, I invited my friend, Sally, to join me here.

View from the back of the cemetery

                                                                                                                                                                       

We chatted as wandered the paths, reading inscriptions -- it's definitely a more social activity when a friend is along. The morning was heating up and we were getting hungry for lunch as we got towards the far end of the cemetery.








This headstone faces outward towards the rolling hills and this was the first time I'd gone around to read the inscription:









                      Sacred to the Memory of
                                    MARY
             the beloved & devoted Wife of
                       CAPT'n THO's DENNIS

Born in London, England in 1805 & departed this Life at
Knights Ferry in 1866.

She died as she lived, peaceably & calmly in a Strange Land
in the arms of a Stranger.  Angels will caress the tears of
those few True Friends (for she had some) that loved her for
her real worth.
                   
{There's also a longish poem on the bottom, but I can't quite read it from my photograph.  I'll go back and get that}


On the back of this stone is another epitaph for her son:

           GEORGE DENNIS
Born in London, England 1831
Died at Knights Ferry 1860


This headstone's two inscriptions, have profoundly affected me and I cannot get them out of my mind.  I was astounded when I read Mary's, and the questions I asked myself then continue to tumble around my head.  Who was the Stranger who held her when she died?  Who were her few True Friends?  What were other people saying about her?  How did her son die?  Why is she at the back of cemetery facing out?  Where is her husband buried?  In short, what is Mary Dennis' story?  She has captured my heart and imagination.

Since that day, I've been on a sort of quest to learn more about this woman who has, in a strange way, become dear to me.        (more to come)

Horrid Kittens

These small kittens of mine -- like the little girl with the curl in the Longfellow nursery rhyme, when they are good, they are very, very good and when they are bad, they are horrid.



Yesterday this mess was waiting for me in the bathroom when I went in to get ready to go to town.  I'd wondered what the kittens were up to as I hadn't seen them in awhile.  It appears that they'd been quite busy.

The sanctimonious look on Arby's face as he checked out my reaction makes me smile every time I look at this picture.  He hopped up on the counter for a good view.




An unrepentant Hecuba wandered in after us and showed off her technique by batting the trash around some more.

Then she climbed back into the waste basket to remove the bits of trash that were still in there.  I think that TimTom might have been behind her (sleeping, perhaps?), because suddenly he appeared and had great fun annoying his sister.

Despite the kittens assistance, I got the garbage back where it belonged without too much difficulty.  Then I finally got ready to go to town.

Now the wastebasket resides on top of the toilet tank where it should be safe for another week or so...if I'm lucky.

Smoky Moon and Rilke

Fire season once again.  The intervals when it isn't fire season have grown noticeably shorter, but right now we are definitely in the heart of it.  Two evenings ago, when I went down to close the gate, this almost-full moon was just rising.  It was exactly the color of a Nabisco Vanilla Wafer.  I leaned my arms on the gate and gave myself time to simply watch this remarkable vision of a moon masquerading as a cookie.  

I had two conflicting thoughts as I stood there.  One was that this was infinitely poetic and yet, naturally, I couldn't remember any poems about the moon that fit this particular moon (it wasn't a Robert Frost or ee cummings moon, but that's all that came to mind).  The other was being aware that the moon was telling me, as clearly as a bulletin on the news, that wildfire was once again tearing through the thick vegetation of our  California bone-dry hills.  There's an irony that the heavy rains that we welcomed with such joy over the winter have created an even greater fire hazard now that the abundant grass has become tinder.  And now the hills (not here-not yet, but somewhere)  are on fire.  Well...

Several days have passed and I've gone through my poetry books looking for a poem that spoke to my beautiful/tragic moon of the other night.  Almost immediately I found it in The Book of Images by Rainer Maria Rilke translated by Edward Snow (not surprisingly, the book fell open to this poem, as it's one I've read many times).  It doesn't address the particulars of moons or fires; however it holds creation, destruction and eternity plus an uneasy but profound acceptance of it all.  That's close enough.

                                                   Evening

Slowly the evening puts on the garments

held for it by the rim of ancient trees; 

you watch:  and the lands divide from you,

one going heavenward, one that falls;

and leave you, to neither quite belonging,

not quite so dark as the house sunk in silence,

not quite so surely pledging the eternal

as that which grows star each night and climbs -- 

and leave you (inexpressibly to untangle)

your life afraid and huge and ripening, 

so that it, now bound in and now embracing,

grows alternately stone in you and star.

Here it is in the original German, from the same text.  I include it because I'm back to studying German through Rosetta Stone and want to practice my typing (it's very clear that the poem rhymes the original).  

                                           Abend

Der Abend wechselt langsam die Gewänder,

die ihm ein Rand von alten Bäumen hält;

du schaust: und von dir scheiden sich die Länder,

ein himmelfahrendes und eins, das fällt;

und lassen dich, zu keinem ganz gehörend,

nicht ganz so dunkel wie das Haus, das schweight,

nicht ganz so sicher Ewiges beschwörend

wie das, was Stern wird jede Nacht und steigt --

und lassen dir (unsäglich zu entwirrn)

dein Leben bang und riesenhaft und reifend,

so daß es, bald begrenzt und bald begriefend,

abwechselnd Stein in in dir wird und Gestirn.

{Typing all of that (very slowly, I might add) lets me feel like I actually know German.  However, when one is on Unit 2, Lesson 3 of Rosetta Stone, the only words mastered that are in the poem are:  der, Abend, die, ein, Bäumen, du, und, Länder, das, dich, zu, nicht, Haus, Nacht, Leben.  

That's fifteen words.  Well, it's a start.  The goal is that one day I will be able to speak with my dear cousin Anke in German and read Rilke in the original...surely the universe is big enough for that to happen.}  

Corny Enters His Fifth Day of Purgatory and His Prayers are Answered

Corny has been doing pretty well with his new weight loss/fitness routine (all four days of it).  Most of his work is without a rider -- walk, trot and a little canter while circling me on the lunge line, plus brisk walks for both of us around the pond.  Because he's so heavy and out of balance, his center of gravity has shifted far forward and he's very  clumsy on his feet and easily trips.  So I'm gradually  building his stamina up and he'll eventually start to move in a more upright posture as he loses weight and gains strength.  Of course, this is all in conjunction with smaller flakes of hay at mealtime (poor Corny!).  

I have ridden him twice this week and it sure was nice to look out (and down) at the world from the back of a horse again.  We kept our pace mostly at a walk with a gentle trot from time to time.  

Corny looking out at the pond

Chance getting a drink at the lower water trough

It grew hotter with each passing day last week.  I've been trying to get out early with Corny and the dogs before the heat of the day kicks in, but even so, by ten in the morning the sun is beating down like a blast furnace.  At that point, it's time to call it a day.



















Back up at the house, I can hardly wait to get the riding helmet off my head and peel out of my boots and jeans.







                         


Not to be outdone, Corny is dramatically wilting under his saddle and wool pad.

The poor guy can't even hold his head up as long as that damn saddle's on his back.  He's a bit of a drama queen sometimes.  Before he completely collapsed, I got him untacked and that big body was hosed off with lots of nice cool water.




Now we get to the part about Corny's prayers being answered.  Usually he's very good about dropping his head and opening his mouth so I can slide the bit in,  but when tacking him up at the beginning of yesterday's ride, he refused to take the bit in his mouth.  His head went up, his teeth clenched shut and when I did get the bit in, he spit it out again.  I grumbled about this new bad habit and worked with him until he grudgingly took the bit with a minimum of temper.

It wasn't until after I'd put him away for the day with a flake of hay that it occurred to me that Corny's behavior might be due to how the bit was feeling in his mouth.  I bridled him again right there in his pen and, sure enough, the rings of the bit were pinching the edges of his lips: his mouth had grown.  No wonder he fought having that that thing in his mouth...and such a patient boy to put up with it when I insisted.  I feel like a bad horse mommy, but at least I figured it out.

So a new bit (a size 7" -- that's big) has been ordered, and Corny will not be under saddle again until it arrives.  Corny is hoping that it's being shipped by very slow camel.