Surely these lambs express our hopes better than words.  

May sunshine continue to bless us, for the sake of lambs, calves, and our plans to get to a grocery store, restock our diesel tank, buy dog food and lamb pellets, and exhibit paintings during the Western Art extravaganza next week in Great Falls. Jim has skidsteered our monumental driveway drifts into a passable state for at least the thousandth time. We have dozed, shoveled, and carted away by calf sled tons of snow avalanched off roofs.  We've pry-barred panels entrapped by ice and snow to free them for use in barn pens. We've shoveled and pry bar bashed to free every gate and door that must swing open or closed. Cockeyed optimists we are, ever hopeful that sunshine will thwart our demon drift-winds and that our earnest efforts will prevail. Yup, they will! 

The lambing barn is full, with mixing pens at maximum capacity and only two small lambing jugs available for newborns. With only six ewes yet to lamb, I feel reasonably confident that accommodations are adequate for the night.  By next week, I hope to have shuffled the mixing pen ewes and their lambs into the old barn and be ready for those last newbies.

My paintings are framed, entitled, and ready to hang, though I have not yet made labels or priced them. I plan to display three from my Cock-a-Doodler series: "Two-Steppin' Doodler", "Doodler After Curfew", and "Last Tango at Dawn Doodler  

Also on board are a triad of horse paintings. I think I've loved horses since birth, all sorts of horses—dressage horses, draft horses, cow horses, hot bloods, warm bloods, cold bloods, fine-pedigreed blue-bloods and non-pedigreed, red-blooded working stiffs. Here they are: "Dressed for Work I", "Dressed for Work II", and "Niarada Cowboy". (The latter is really about the horse, a nondescript gelding that I admired for his quiet, hand-in-glove partnership with his cowboy.)     

Of course, there are sheep paintings. I love sheep, those uncomplaining, unsung heroes who provide amazing fiber and fabulous meat. who survive nights of -32 degrees after being sheared, and then deliver twins, triplets, and even quadruplets, and mother each one of them like special favorites. "Savoring Summer's Bouquet" features a weanling, one of a dozen ewe lambs that plundered our sunflowers before the seeds had a chance to ripen. "Yearling Ewe" looks like a keeper to me, feminine, clean-faced, and stylish.      

I'm not sure whether my landscape paintings fit the display I've visualized. I hope they work; I like each of them, but . . .

Should you be able to visit our Montana Watercolor room, this poster gives the scoop. 

Last night we bombed to -32 degrees. Checks every two hours got us through. I was quietly grateful for family at nearly every moment.

With each buzz of the alarm clock, I slipped into an incongruously fancy pair of chartreuse velour lounging pajamas. Mind you, velour lounging is NOT me, but this Christmas gift from my sister Carolyn is my comfy cozy version of long johns. Atop my fashionable velour, I don a pair of sweatpants worn by my late brother, Philip. That, plus a vest, hoodie, scarf, gloves, and muck-boots, is night-check garb. The ewes approve of my style; they groan, burp, and cud, and the friendlies come over to share their cud-breath. Sweet! 

I also inherited from Philip a collection of pocket knives, Old Timers. I carry one of his always-sharp knives in my snow pants, in my regular work pants, and in my night-check sweatpants. (I'm resisting the urge to call them "night sweats".) Of course, I use one during the day to cut hay bale twines, open bags of dog food, and shave ice out of frozen hose attachments. Additionally, I use them In the lambing barn to puncture ewes' water bags. Yup. At -30, that matters because dry straw matters. Better to leave the fluid somewhere other than the jug and give those newborns every chance to be comfy. 

Because of the extreme cold, I am "wrapping" jugs, blockading them from drafts and trying to maintain the warmth from heat lamps. Two canvas pup tents, from my earliest memories of family camping trips, are my first line of defense. They have sturdy loops that hook over the jug uprights. Then there is the sparkly gold, foam-insulated couch cover from my parents. It is nicely long because it accommodated the extra-long couch on which my Dad, a tall man, napped. Also pressed into service are three patchwork wool blankets from Nana, my maternal grandmother. Although oddly sized—like blankets for single beds or sleeping bags—they work just fine and add a party touch with their festive sateen edging, two in green and one a rosy pink. Lastly, there is the quilted sleeping bag that I made for daughter Katrina for our earliest camping trips. It's small, but, unzipped, works as a cozy lateral.

Beyond creature comfort, our own matters, too. A vat of lentil soup, made several days ago, is so welcome—hot, hearty, healthy, and ample. The recipe calls for numerous bay leaves. An old Christmas herb bowl from my sister Katherine supplied that good-luck flavor. 

How grateful I am for such family treasures. I am confident that Nana, Mom, Dad, and Philip, all deceased, would approve of my unconventional use of their former possessions. Surely, my sister Carolyn knows that her lambie loungers are ewe-phorically comforting, and of course my sister Katherine realizes that there is no expiration date on bay leaves. Hint: my inventory needs replenishment.