How we welcome this brief respite from ongoing wintry sequels. Our thermometer registered 60 degrees today as I transplanted the last tomato and pepper seedlings into larger pots in the greenhouse. Heat lamps suspended overhead and a furnace-like heater underneath are my weapons against another convergence of arctic air and Pacific moisture forecast to arrive shortly. Last week, when we dropped to single digit temps at night, my greenhouse watering bucket froze over, but the earlier-transplanted tomatoes survived. If no bulbs burn out, if no fuses blow, and if no power outages sabotage my insurance plan, I look forward to a bountiful harvest: bushels of bite-sized "Sweet Baby cherry tomatoes", boatloads of juicy red slicers, and enough peppers to eat fresh like popcorn and freeze for future use. But first . . . some sunshine.

Our last-born lamb, out of a first-time yearling mom, arrived late Sunday afternoon, freeing me to luxuriate in bed, uninterrupted by 2:00 and 5:00 AM alarms jangling me into yet another barn check. Sleep is welcome, though I miss those pleasures unique within the barn at night--moments of humor as groups of like-minded lambs in mixing pens race at top speed, bank off reclining ewes, and use them as launch pads for moves worthy of gold medals, as well as moments of peace among cudding, contented ewes awaiting delivery. 

Early morning and late afternoon chores and mud management remain arduous, but mid-day hours feel miraculously free to focus on my watercolors; a perfectly timed show in Lewistown has provided impetus and a chance to submit up to five mini pieces. Feeling that small might be safe, I dug into watercolor combined with collage, and completed several duds, along with a couple that I thought were display worthy, including this hot orange/cobalt violet mirage piece. That was before learning that collage pieces will not be accepted into the show. Oh well, working small has bolstered exploration beyond collage--new pigments, new combinations of pigments, and a subject that has given me fits in the past: sheep. Working from photos of our old Border Leicester buck, Curls, I managed a couple that I think are keepers. Visions of a larger painting of the old boy now keep me awake. I'd like to get one done in time to submit to our state watercolor society's juried fall show. 

Until then, sleep can wait.    

I'm resigned to yet another blast of what NOAA is labeling, "wintry blend." Such a creative turn of phrase from sober-sided meteorologists! I prefer Dr. Seuss's expression for such unwelcome precipitating yuck from on high: oobleck.  (Writing of precipitation reminds me of a cartoon that I always displayed when launching into general concepts of solutions, cellular equilibrium, diffusion, etc. in my high school Biology class. I paraphrase the caption: "Don't be left behind as a precipitate; be part of the solution." My students rarely laughed, but I always chuckled at the joke, as well as their failure to appreciate its humor.) In any case, our wintry blend consists of north-wind-driven snow, a repetition of the same old/same old that we've been receiving for what seems an eternity. I again fed in crowded corrals and spread fresh straw in barns to encourage lambs to spend the night inside. My grim mood lightened amidst their joyous response to dry bedding: cork-screw sun-fishing, high leaps and fancy arabesques, madcap relay races into and out of their respective shelters--once in pursuit of a sad killdeer trying to huddle unobtrusively under shelter. Though I dread yet more precipitation and cold, though my legs ache from slogging through ever-deepening mud, though the job of digging out accumulated layers of wet bedding will be daunting, for the moment, I'm trying to "be part of the solution." That effort fuels my optimism. So, too, does this photo of triplets hunkered into their cozy and exclusive nighttime digs.