A TIME TO REAP

                 The haying is almost done.  Put in by my 74 yr old neighbor who has been kind enough to help since we moved here.  He's wiry with skin as weathered as the old equipment he drives but still moves with that spring in his step.  His favorite sweat encrusted hat is turned up and patched this year where it has frayed.   Around his neck is an old rag that he dips in the brook to cool himself.  I see him stop the tractor several times to look for pheasants in the tall grass and watch him pop a few babies in his shirt pocket. 

          " I can't save them all"  he says.  But he tries.

                I like him. He is an ad for the values I've come to appreciate as I get older.  Hard work,  tenacity,  perseverance.

           The two lads that show up to help stack the barn are a quarter his age but he can out do them both.  They sweat profusely,  guzzle water,  and compare blisters while he works around them. 
             
           I'm probably riding in a small pocket of misfortune right now but I've had a hard time getting good young men to help out.  They lack strength,  fortitude,  foresight,  and plain old common sense.  They should know how to stack wood,  fill gas tanks,  tie a slip knot.  These are things they should have learned from their fathers and grandfathers.  They complain of allergies,  bad backs,  fear of heights.

           One young man left the top two feet of our barn doors unpainted as he was afraid to go up the ladder further.

           I wanted to tell him that when I was his age I went sky diving.  I jumped out of a plane at 3000 feet.  I was scared too.   But it was Sunday and I spread open to the silence and finally descended close enough to hear the organ playing in the little country church far below me.    I wanted to explain it all to him.   To tell him there is nothing to be afraid of in this great country of ours,  our charmed world.  The only thing he should fear is that extra 85 pounds he was carrying around,  the little fat globules clutching the side of his young arteries.

          But he is not me.

          I tell the young men to go to the swimming hole to cool off.  I bring lemonade and more water.  I ponder over how much I will pay them.  I worry the hay will not be all in before tomorrows rain.  But then the miracle happens.  A car drives in the yard.  It's the neighbors wife and she's here to help.

WHEN I AM AN OLD HORSEWOMAN

Jake and I love this little poem by Patty Barnhart.  What an appropriate last name she has...


             

When I Am An Old Horsewoman

I shall wear turquoise and diamonds,
And a straw hat that doesn’t suit me
And I shall spend my social security on
white wine and carrots,
And sit in my alleyway of my barn
... And listen to my horses breathe.

I will sneak out in the middle of a summer night
And ride the old bay gelding,
Across the moonstruck meadow
If my old bones will allow
And when people come to call, I will smile and nod
As I walk past the gardens to the barn
and show instead the flowers growing
inside stalls fresh-lined with straw.

I will shovel and sweat and wear hay in my hair
as if it were a jewel
And I will be an embarrassment to ALL
Who will not yet have found the peace in being free
to have a horse as a best friend
A friend who waits at midnight hour
With muzzle and nicker and patient eyes
For the kind of woman I will be
When I am old.

-Author Patty Barnhart

CONVERSATION WITH A PONY

JAKE

CONVERSATION WITH A PONY

 It's true what people say

that you can talk to the animals

but the thing is

you must listen first

for that faintest whisper

subtle, precarious

like tendon sliding over bone  

Today he tells me that he will trust

this one encounter

shift his weight toward me

offer something up

beneath his eye a muscle shivers

It is not with words 

but the space between them

where animals speak

if you listen carefully

it will be a song

like the prayer of horses

in their own tongue 
poem by Annie and Jake the pony 

I DON'T GIVE A RATS ASS.....OR DO I?

Rats giggle when you tickle them

They're voices are so high pitched you need special instruments to hear

But when you do they're laughter becomes immediately evident

               I take pride in the fact that on my little farm I treat my animals with respect.   Not just the animals I own but also the ones I encounter.   I am not a practicing Buddhist but I appreciate some of their teachings,  and I like the phrase that we are "all sentient beings."   Yes, I have been known to carry a wayward spider outdoors to safety.   Yes, I have brought in a sick chicken and nursed it behind the old wood stove.   Yes, I have trapped invaders and spent hours transporting them to more remote areas.

               The exception though is rats.

               I had no idea the damage rats could do and their speed of reproduction until the winter they invaded the barn and feed room.  At first I thought I might be imaging it . Maybe that gnawing and tunneling was a weasel and I could just set a trap and problem solved.  I went out one night with my trusted 3000 candle power flashlight and there they were.  Rats.  Feasting,  frolicking,  hosting open sexual orgies in the storage room.

                                   

               What would you do?

               I put out rodent bait, the stuff that says it works quickly and waited.  In three days I found dead rats, and a few more staggering weakly in the yard wondering what had gone wrong with their ideal life.  Shortly my rat problem was over.  Or so I thought....     

               In mid April I called in our neighbor with his front end loader to move the manure pile next to the barn.  He was almost finished and was lifting the last bit of steaming goodness  next to the barn wall when I went out to pay him.  I saw something drop out of the bucket of his loader.  Two baby rats.  Two pink... hairless creatures... eyes closed... squirming and nudging each other.  Newborn baby rats.  Out of the corner of my eye I could see the loader heading with the last load out to the far pasture.  The ground was clean now, and there were no siblings, no mother, nothing scampered near by

               What would you do?

               Rat Facts:     
                                      Rats can become fertile at 5 wks and   have five litters a year of 7 to 15 pups
                                      They can chew through wood, metal and even concrete
                                      They can swim half a mile
                                      They can fall 15 meters and not be injured 
                                      They can go longer without water than a camel
                                      A rat can survive a large amount of radiation
                                      Rats can kill small baby animals and pets

              What I did was walk quickly over and raise my oversize five pound thrift  - store rubber boot over their heads.
              But I couldn't bring it down. 

              Why?  Life is a paradox sometimes.

              What I did was go to the house and make a nice cup of chai tea.  The mother rat would come back and get them, and I would get what was left of the poison and put it out.

               Murder by accidental poisoning is easier.  I must remember that for future reference.

               When I came back an hour later they were still there. I glanced around but only the pony was staring suspiciously through the smoky barn window.

               I ignored all those rat facts above, bent down and slipped them quickly in the left pocket of my jacket.

              According to the Comprehensive Manual of Rat Care you can't just feed newborn rats anything.  So much for my plan of just blending up  leftovers with the sour milk in the fridge.   They need something close to their  mothers milk, and you can give them a little dilute pedialyte to hold them over so I headed off to the drug store.  I searched through no less then a dozen cans of infant formula, reading the ingredients, hoping to find something that said 'Recommended for Rodents.'  A helpful clerk approached.

                "How old is the baby" she asked 
                "Newborn" I replied. 
                "Has the mother been breast feeding ?" she inquired                  "No,  I think the mothers dead"  I said 
                She gave me the 'look' and stumbled back a bit into the display of breast pumps.  
                "You think?"  she gasped.

                 Shortly I headed home with my supplies :
                 Bottle pedialyte   $7.95
                 Syringe                  $2.98   
                 Isomil Advance infant powder  32.95!!

                 At home the babies were wiggling around in their new shoebox home and I found it remarkably easy to flip them holding the loose skin on their neck and give them their first feeding. 

                 Like I'd been babysitting rats all my life.  

                 I will tell you proudly that the rats lived.   At first I fed them four to six times a day.   In eleven days their eyes opened.   They grew fur.   They started to come out and anticipate their mealtime.   They 'held' the syringe and sucked greedily.  I started giving them pieces of fruit and seeds and dry bread.  They started to play with one another and they ran up the sleeve of my sweater.   Yes, they became cute.   I mean, look at the picture again.   What amazed me the most was how clean they were.  They were constantly washing up.  Disturbed when I spilled something on them they washed each other.
 
                It was cold and damp that spring and I kept them longer then I should have.   I moved them to a larger cage and started introducing bits of meat and bugs.   The one weekend hubby and I got out of town my trusted neighbor friend helped look after the place.   We had loaded the car and I was shouting last minute instructions.

               "Oh, and I forgot to mention the two rats in the back porch.  "Instructions on the cage,"  I yelled.
    
                We knew her well and we felt confident as we sped quickly away. 

                It was a warm Sunday in late May when I scooped the little creatures in my jacket pocket and headed toward the river on our old A.T.V.   About a km from our house I put them carefully at the base of an old hollow log.   I deposited enough dog food and scraps to last them about six months.   Although I knew they wouldn't stay around it made me feel better.

                 Rat Facts:
                                      If a member of a rat pack becomes ill they will care for it
                                      A lonely rat becomes depressed 
                                      Rats like chocolate
                                      Rats are affectionate, curious and intelligent.  They love games
                                      Rats are an important part of Eastern spirituality
                                      They have been used to sniff out land mines and have been found to be able to detect tuberculosis
                                       95 % of wild rats don't make it through their first year

                  As I drove away I looked back to see them scampering around the tree.  I know I imagined it , but I thought I heard a giggle.

                 Over head a hawk circled.
                                        
                                       
  

ART IN THE DARK

                      A few days ago I thought I would do something I enjoy so I went to an art show sponsored by V.A.N.S. (Visual Artists of Nova Scotia)

                It was a disappointment.   There was little there that appealed to me and this organization should really change it's name because we had to view the exhibit in the dark.  Yes, you read it right.   We viewed it in the dark.   There's an oxymoron for you. 

                The show was held in the basement of a lovely old building  (no windows) and on entering we were told to put on these mini headlamps and stroll through the exhibit like miners.
                I didn't really understand it all but the show was about narcissism and seeing things in 'a new light.'   I know one thing for sure.   I'm too old for this faddy art and conceptual stuff where  'you'  are part of the exhibit.

                I hung around for almost and hour hoping the lights would come on so I could speak to some of the artists and ask them what the hell they were thinking.   The artists were supposed to be wearing name tags (go figure).  It didn't happen though and it turned basically into a groping session.

               "Oh sorry," said the voice from the male firefly standing next to me. (see photo)   "I didn't mean to touch your breast."

               "That's o.k" I said.  "What's annoying me most is there's supposed to be punch and finger food somewhere, but I'll be damned if I can find it"

                His EverReady flashed back at me!

                "Veer left he said, and feel along the wall until your thigh hits the table" (I thought I heard him moan.) 

                "Thanks," I said

                 I'm really nervous I might end up here next http://youtu.be/avZ6reofkoQ

THE RED WHEELBARROW

                                                      



                                                               

                               

                                                                                              

                               

                                                     

So much depends

upon 

a red wheel

barrow

glazed with rain 

water

beside the white

chickens

      William Carlos Williams 

                   I have always loved that little poem.  I have heard that it has been analysed to death for all it's possible subtle meanings but because I like color and art I appreciate it for it's simple visual image.

                   I happen to own a red wheelbarrow and some white chickens and I know exactly what the man was talking about.

                   I tend to like narrative poems.  Something that portrays an image or a moment in time.  Something I can identify with.  Not too long ago I came upon another little poem about a red wheelbarrow by an author named Gabriel Gadfly. (Yes, I guess that's his real name)

                   At the time I stumbled upon it (literally) I had a broken right leg in an awkward leaden cast and was unable to do my usual tripping through the woods and gardening that I very much enjoy.  Because of my venerable state I thought  that was why I was so open to the sentiment he stirred up in this poem.  I thought that was why a little tear stained my eye as I read it.

                  However, long after my leg had healed I read it again and felt that same little pang of connection.  Was it because it was now ingrained in me and my experience, or is it simply just a damn good little poem... a love poem.  Whatever,  I'll share it with you

                    

I Have Put The Red Wheelbarrow To Use

Since your leg is broken
and you cannot easily go out,
I have brought the garden
into your bedroom.
I have emptied your
chest of drawers of your
underwear and your shirts
and filled it with clean
black soil, with explosions
of yellow red chrysanthemums,
clustered bellflower,
stalks of bright snapdragon.
There are sunflowers
standing in the closet
where you hung your
summer dresses
(it was the only place
the sunflowers would fit.)
It has taken me hours
to cover the floor with
dark sweet earth and
fill the carpet with
fresh shoots of grass
(yes, I even brought
the green beetle,
the wriggler earthworm,
the polka-dot ladybug,
because I know
how you love them.)
Be careful with the
wisteria hanging over
the bed. It is tacked up
only precariously,
but it was a necessary
final touch.

This poem © Gabriel Gadfly. Published Aug 12, 2011

See more of Gabriels poetry  Here