April Showers Bring Flowers, Right?

Tomato seedlings in their tiny peat pots are showing rudimentary 3rd and 4th leaves; sweet pepper seedlings, though slower than tomatoes, are emerging; gopher trapping has commenced, and at least one meadowlark has returned. It's solo trill—liquid notes of pure gold—overwhelmed whatever urgent task had my attention yesterday.  Burbling sand hill cranes also pause my compulsive, chore-driven agenda. At last, spring is busting its buttons, and we are oh-so-ready. 

In my rear view mirror is Western Art Week, and I'm bidding it, "Good riddance." The MT Watercolor Society (MTWS) room had lots of traffic but few sales, and I achieved a personal low in having NO sales. In my imagination, I replay the moment when former Intel CEO sent his scouts into the MTWS room to ask about young, up & coming artists, and then selected a piece from one of those youthful, up-and-comers. I visualize myself saying to said former executive, "Hey, I remember you from International Science and Engineering Fair 2008 in Atlanta, when Intel was the premier sponsor. You swept down the atrium of the giant, convention-center venue with Montana's high school competitors in tow. My daughter was among that group, back in the day when you were THE CEO and I was a proud parent and chaperone. Well, now you are the Ex-CEO and I am up and coming, despite my wrinkles and sags. Hey you, take a look at my work." Needless to say, that scene exists only in my mind. In reality, I have licked my wounds, paid my framing bill with proceeds from retirement, and moved on. 

Of the five mini-paintings I've completed since Western Art Week, intended for the annual May MTWS Member Show in Lewistown, I think one is a bit weak, one is a bit trite, and three are totally ME. They are too small for me to photograph well, but one—based on evening highlights and shadows on drifts building around our lower pond—called me to attempt a larger version. Here it is, as yet unnamed. I welcome your suggestions.  (Few would understand if I titled it, "Martha Who?" for the name of the knob that we know as "Martha's Nipple" on the east slope of Shaw Butte (above and to the left of the barn roof in my painting)   

Further back in my rear view of March, are lambing scenes that remain indelible. One features a Columbia ewe, R-76, who raised triplets last year. As her 2019 belly grew ever larger, she became ever more slow and fragile. On March 7, in the rush of leaving the barn for feed, she went down, a victim of icy footing and pushy yearlings. Because she was slow to get up, I was able to get ahead of her and send her back into the barn. She spent the day restfully, with easy access to feed and a heat lamp-warmed, deeply bedded jug. Late in the afternoon, we dosed her with a high energy drench and gave her a shot of dexamethazone to induce dilation and labor. At 1:00 and 3:00 AM she was cudding and seemed comfortable. Had I checked at 4:30 AM, her quads would have lived. At 5:00 I found her first born in the lane, laying in a sack full of fluid, but with head up and blatting loudly. Surely R-76 had mustered the energy and time to stand up, break open his sack and lick his head. Lambs # 2 and 3 must have arrived shortly after and in quick succession. Mom had plopped them out, one after another, as she moved into the jug. I found each one sealed in its sack and drowned. By the time I arrived, R-76 was up and licking lamb #4, too late to keep it from drowning, but giving it all she had. I am haunted by my tardiness and humbled by the grace of that ewe's maternal strength. Her story epitomizes the glory and agony of lambing.