I used to think that I was self-disciplined. Ha! Think again! I have post holes to dig, panels and planks to put up, hay bales to elevate into the barn loft, and what am I doing? I'm painting yet another foul fowl. Despite the fact that I loath roosters, I couldn't resist the challenge of a Hen House Tango.
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Surely some folks must like roosters, but I hate them. And I don't use that strong word lightly in regard to those cocksure cock-a-doodlers with their beady-eyed bravado, over-sized machismo, and creepy feet. However, I'm having so much fun painting pictures of roosters that I may yet find a place in my heart for them.
From my perspective, anything goes: tail feathers of schnazzy violet and cerulean, 5-star epaulets of bronze and gold, gaudy combs of crimson and alizarin, high stepping struts, mincing side-passes, and full-throttle sprints . . . so many juiced up possibilities that my head spins just thinking about them. In fact, I've arrived at names for paintings that I've only begun to visualize: "Rooster Tango, " "Rooster in Drag," "Rooster Masquerade" to list but a few. This flamboyant deviation from my usual sober subject matter is a result of the MT Watercolor Society workshop that I attended in early October with Bev Jozwiak. I played catch-up during all four days, always one project behind Bev's demonstrations, but I was determined to complete each one of her challenges, even if I had to do so at home. In my first effort to take rooster extravagance over the top—"Two Steppin' Rooster"—I underpainted gold metallic gesso here and there. Wowzers! It looked like gold leaf, without any of leaf's tedium and expense. Like a gateway drug, my two-stepper demanded a second dose. "Rooster Steppin' Out," is the consequence. I hesitate to 'fess up, but it's true—roosters are pushing me to lighten up and revel in more splash, even as they energize my hours and brighten our grey November days. We continue to yearn for Indian Summer to lure us through autumn and buttress us against encroaching cold. The year feels drab without those jewel-like days, sparkling nuggets of azure and gold that shunned us in September and elude us yet. The sanfoin hay Jim cut in mid-September languished in windrows for nearly two weeks, held hostage by fog, frequent showers, sopping nightly dew, and still air—all nearly unthinkable on our Front Range island. A single afternoon of sun and wind offered a brief window for wrapping it into rounds and hauling it to the stackyard before three more week of moisture and drear descended. Meanwhile grizzly bear troubles rattled our routines and our psyches. Whether it was a sow with cub(s) or a solitary migrant, after killing two of our neighbor's ewes, it/they hunkered into some brush 150 yards from our driveway and haystack. The neighbor had been checking ewes on his bicycle because both his pickup and 4-wheeler were out of commission. Upon finding the first kill, he pedaled home to get a tarp to cover the site in order to protect it from birds and preserve evidence for the predator control folks. While he was gone, the bear(s) returned to the site and tried to haul the skeleton over the top of a fence, but the bones hung up on the top wire. I can only imagine his adrenaline-driven, frantic retreat from the freshly-moved kill after realizing that the bear(s) was close and observing his every move; the thought triggers my own adrenaline moment. I'm not sure if my 4-wheeler could outrun a charging bear, but I think I'd blow out any carbon accumulation in cranking it to lift-off speed. As for trying to escape on a pedal bike, I'd be best served by silent prayers from a fetal position. We responded by locking the ewes and replacement ewe lambs into barns for a couple of nights, flood lighting the corrals during the night, and keeping an all-night radio station blaring into the corrals. We pushed ewes into the shelterbelt for daytime grazing until they pruned all the low vegetation and brush that obscured clear lines of sight. We shook apples out of our many apple trees and gave ewes time to eat them before corral lock-up. We picked up windfalls from under all of the trees not accessible to the sheep. Jim rode shotgun, literally, while I took pups out for their late night piddle run. The snare set by predator control agents came up empty, so we assume that the bruin(s) moved on. Knowing well the adage about assumptions, we continue to keep corrals flood-lit at night and our vigilance dialed up, and I illuminate after-dark pup piddlings with an industrial-strength flashlight. Speaking of pups, the two of them continue to make us laugh and bring great joy. Dot is fierce, quick, independent, and aloof—a master of physics, levering her lithe body at just the right angle and speed to knock Dozer awry in most of their nearly-constant competitions. Dozer is content to be a jovial good fellow who brings up the rear in any race. He has acquired numerous nicknames: Do Si Dozer, based on his imagined preference for straight-forward square dancing rather than nuanced ballet; SpongeBob, for his boxy square-pants build; Double-Dump Dozer, a consequence of his robust appetite; Diesel Dozer, for his Mack Truck sublety; Big Bud, for his congeniality and those mighty MT Highline tractors used for huge, dryland farming; Bull Dozer, for his stereotypical bull-in-the-china-shop blundering. Case in point: yesterday, Dozer ventured boldly into a culvert, followed more cautiously by Dot. They could be heard splashing about in the water left standing within before Dot turned around and emerged from the end she'd entered. Not so Dozer. Eventually, his head popped out the far end and he tried to scramble out, but his exit was restricted by thick lumps of rhizomatous grass. After he began whimpering, I tried unsuccessfully to pull him out by the nape of his neck. Finally I reached into the water and stretched out first one front leg and then the other, altering the bulk of his shoulders so that I could pull the rest of his body free, rather like pulling a calf that's hung up by the shoulders in a cow's birth canal. Black sulfurous goo coated his legs and most of his body but not to worry, it was all good and a jolly adventure. We assume that their mother, Toot, is very young, for she plays hard with them, delights in out-gunning them on high-speed high-jinks, and leads them on our merry jaunts out and about. I'm proud to report that she is finally making herself useful off-leash with sheep chores. Both pups and Toot were neutered in mid-September and recuperated quickly. Though pups are fun, we won't be contributing to the nation's over-supply of them. We will take the pups to at least one series of obedience classes before the year is out, and I plan rattlesnake aversion training for both of them next spring, plus, perhaps, an update for Toot. Along with neighbor friends, I attended a hands-on training session in FAMACHA eye scoring, a technique for evaluating internal parasitism in sheep based on the color of membranes inside the lower eyelid. If the cover-push-pull-pop FAMACHA routine reveals lively crimson membranes, the ewe need not be dewormed; if the routine exposes insipid pink, she is anemic and should be dosed; paler membranes suggest that a burial hole should be dug in anticipation of imminent death. Having dewormed our entire crew earlier in September, I'll review the technique in February and try it on ewes during lambing season. Katrina and her friend, Omowumni, overnighted with us at the end of September, long enough to help harvest the last of the garden, help separate the ewes into three breeding groups, and help do routine maintenance on our oldest buck—driving him into the corral, pushing him down the crowding alley for deworming, and constraining him against the fence long enough for me to trim his feet. Deep mud and wind-driven sleet throughout made for numb hands and feet, towering heaps of wet, richly ripe laundry, and gumbo-gobbed boots. Heat from the woodstove surely felt good! A day later, Jim and I hastened to add hot wire to the eight strands of barbed wire separating two of the breeding groups. We maintain empty corral spaces between those two groups and the third, and we follow a regimented sequence of AM turning out and PM corralling in order to minimize overlap and destruction. Despite our efforts, the bucks have their beady eyes ever-peeled for opportunities to engage with forbidden ewes and kill each other. Lovely creatures, eh? A few days later, I escaped to a fabulous watercolor workshop in Kalispell, four days free of all responsibilities and immersed in painting, critiques, and demos by instructor, Bev Jozwiak. Late Friday afternoon I met family in Big Fork—both sisters and their spouses from Missoula, brother and his gal from Dayton, and Katrina with her dog, Merlin, from Bozeman—to attend the opening reception and banquet celebrating MT Watermedia, a national juried show. I finished these three paintings before heading home late in the afternoon on the last day of the workshop. The drive was glorious, though twice I had to brake hard, once to avoid a fat black bear charging full-tilt across the highway, and again, after dark, at the top of Rogers Pass, for a deer standing in the middle of the highway licking salt from the asphalt In the time I've spent working on this blog, our forecast has brightened, promising blue skies and daytime temperatures in the 60's for the upcoming week. Maybe I'll set up my easel outside and take a second run at the sunflower lamb painting. Or maybe not . . . that would require construction of a stout pup exclosure around my setup, and I don't want to paint in a pen. Alternatively, perhaps I'll read outside in the sun, welcome distractions from our trio of merry pranksters, and save the painting for days of grey.
How can it be that our shelter belt ash trees glow more golden than green, that blackbirds gather and fatten on our garden corn before I can claim the ears for personal enjoyment, that this week's flip of August will reveal September's hopes and happenings? I note these autumnal omens only peripherally, for canine commitments have driven my routine and continue to be my focus. My promised birthday gift to Katrina, honoring her late cocker spaniel, Ash, is matted, framed, and delivered. Katrina provided the photo--taken on a special camping trip that she and Ash shared during her senior year at U. of Puget Sound--and asked that I render it in a blue medium. Katrina visualized the scene in colored pencils; I pictured the moment in watercolors. The finished piece satisfied both of us. Additionally, Toot and her duo of pups--Dozer and Dot--are on track to share life with us forever. All three had their 8-week check-up at the animal shelter early this week. Toot received booster shots, and her pups each received preliminary shots, de-wormer, and an identity chip. Dot weighed in at a sinewy 13 pounds, while Dozer crushed the scale at 16 pounds. Their vet appointment, set for mid-September, will squelch any further puppy mill nonsense. In the meantime, Jim and I, both neophytes to puppy rearing, have learned the following: 1. Cucumbers, nicely chilled in the fridge, are the best sort of chew toy. Here's Dot resting with one that she claimed. 2. Serious dogs need serious toys. Dot's on the skull while Dozer deals with a cow's leg bone. Both toys arose from an ancient cache that Toot discovered I know not where--certainly not Petco. 3. Barricades and closed doors are essential. Behold Dot resting ever so angelically behind the porcelain throne, shortly before attacking its tempting soft hose. 4. Consummate foodies beget consummate foodies. I have no pics, but Toot's frequent forays to the basement--where we have stored a box of nectarines and a box of peaches--confirm her love of fruit; Dozer stations himself underfoot to catch and devour any cherry tomatoes that roll off the counter during their sorting and washing; windfall apples inspire fierce battles between the pups; as for Fritos . . . they are best dropped on the floor if one values ones fingers.
5. Weaning house pet pups from house pet mum demands more energy than weaning either lambs or calves. Thankfully, both Jim and I are retired from 8 to 5 routines so we can focus on 24/7 canine responsibilities. We hustle puppies outside to tinkle, toilet, tear at each other, tread water in their feed tub wading pool, terrorize low hanging branches, and traumatize our flower beds until they are exhausted and ready to return to their kennel for a nap. In between, Toot is out and about with us. Of course, we could relegate either the pups or mum to a barn, but that would entail hard-hearted self-weaning from the joy of their constant companionship. It ain't a gonna happen! For now, Dot and Dozer respond to "No", "Out", "Come", and "Kennel up." In the upcoming days, they will experience a collar, a leash, and a few more voice commands. Toot kinks and high-jinks in anticipation of her role in our morning and evening sheep chores. She remains too eager to charge and move the ewes too fast, so when we're trailing out to pasture early and back to the corral at dusk, she must be leashed, but within the constraints of that leash, she sweeps back and forth and moves them effectively. She's not the quick, eager-to-please, strategic thinker that Weed was, but she's devoted, she's trying, she's helpful, and I am grateful to have found her. My story starts in early July, with a visit to both of Great Falls' animal shelters. I was not yet ready to make room in my heart for a new dog. Jim, however, was determinedly scouring Craig's List for a dog that might make up for our best-ever dumpster dog, Weed, and I decided to try to make something canine happen for his July birthday. Only one of the incarcerated dogs nudged me toward commitment, a female due to whelp soon and, thus, unavailable for adoption. Nevertheless, I filled out adoption papers and prepared to wait. The shelter staff mentioned the possibility of foster caring for her until her yet-to-arrive pups were old enough to wean; I chewed on the idea en route home. Surely this gentle quiet dog deserved better than a series of temporary homes, starting with abandonment and proceeding through institutional shelter, to foster home, to yet another stint at the shelter, before landing in what would hopefully be a permanent home. Visualizing foster care, followed by seamless adoption, I filled out the on-line foster application. The 4th of July holiday, shelter staff vacations, and their requirement for a background check on me all served to slow-track my application. On July 9, after receiving a call from the county shelter, I dashed to Great Falls for an interview, received approval, and came home with Toot and both of her six-day old puppies. What winsome little sausages they are. Just this week, their eyes opened. If they were not so fat, they could probably gain mobility more quickly. As it is, they have much pudginess to hoist on legs not yet fully under them, so they continue to mostly swim along on their bellies and occasionally toddle. They are too chubby for Toot to encompass with her jaws, so when she feels compelled to move them, she rolls them or gently drags them short distances by their skin, accompanied by much complaining. We will have to make a serious change in accommodations when they are off and running, but for now, our big dog crate is perfect for the small family. Both Jim and I like Toot, and she seems devoted to us. Yes, she wants to chase the sheep anytime they move, but we are working to squelch that before it becomes a habit. She is keen to learn commands, increasingly responsive to them, and I am hopeful that she will help in the fields and corrals, rather than hinder and worse. Yes, she likes to recline on our bed. That, too, we are working to squelch, even as we laugh about a recent scene. Let me digress. On several mornings last week, Jim got up at 3:00 to bale our over-dry hay, hoping for dew to keep leaves intact on the stems within the bales rather than pulverized to dust on the ground. One morning he returned to bed shortly after he left. There was no dew and no baling to be done. I popped out a short time later to offer Toot a piddle break. Though the night was dark, I could see that she was acting very playful, holding something between her front paws, and inviting me to chase her. At that hour, in my slippers and PJs, annoyed by clouds of mosquitoes, I was not in the mood, and we hustled back inside. Toot rushed to the bedroom with special eagerness and jumped onto the bed, with me in hot pursuit. I swept her off and as I crawled in, Jim roused enough to say, "I hope you didn't step on the little bird that was sound asleep on the garage floor." Two hours later, in the full light of dawn, we were horrified to find his little garage bird lying between us in the bed, rather permanently asleep. Toot is also a foodie--begging for fritos, crackers, cheese, etc.--and is very able to put her front paws up on the counters to inspect what those surfaces might offer. (That, too, is being discouraged.) This afternoon I left our first, four, fresh-picked, garden-ripe tomatoes on the counter, before making a run to a valley post office. Upon returning less than an hour later, I noted that only two tomatoes remained on the counter. I found one of the escapees, unscathed by tooth marks, on the living room carpet. Toot joined me to search for the other runaway. I did not see her pick it up, but she pranced ahead of me into the bedroom, leaped onto the bed, and then offered me her prize after being sternly ordered off the bed. Though somewhat the worse for wear, her tomato was not so damaged that I couldn't enjoy it for lunch, cut into wedges atop a bowl of cottage cheese. And then there is the Irish Cream. Again, I must digress. The week has been one of irrigation problems: not enough water in the canal to keep our pump running, on-again off-again wheel line, and no water delivered to the 80 acres that we flood irrigate. That last required an all-day repair of the buried pipeline recently installed to get rid of the delivery ditch that flowed through the neighbor's pasture; Jim worked alongside three irrigation project employees, the neighbor, the project's backhoe, the neighbor's Bobcat, and the owner of the business that supplied the pipes and fixtures. Gaskets twisted and re-twisted and seals persistently leaked, but finally, at 5:30 water began flowing to our parched 80. Well after dark, after pushing hard to make as many sets as possible before calling it quits for the night, I poured a celebratory shot of Irish Cream into my favorite coffee mug, tucked it onto the edge of the bathtub, between layers of the shower curtain, and stepped into the shower to luxuriate in hot water and pleasurable sipping. Hearing a bit of clanking, I wondered why Jim was sweeping the floor and rattling the dust pan so late at night. Silly me. When I stepped out, there was Toot, tipped mug beside her on the floor, licking up the last evidence of her tipple. I trust that she slept soundly. Glorious greens fill every view. Sparkling, juicy, saturated, verdant, lush . . . all my green adjectives fail to express this land's explosive response to serious rain. As Nettie sang in Carousel, "June is bustin' out all over!" (Although our corn remains far short of the "elephant's eye" in Curley's Oklahoma!)
That recent moisture, the passage of time, and a few days away from 24/7 reminders of Weed have encouraged me to emerge from sadness and anger and choose optimism. My getaway was five days in Gillette, WY at the National Columbia Sheep Show and Sale, traveling and sharing expenses with two friends who also raise Columbia sheep. We lugged bags of fleece with us, four from Eller ewes to be used in a skills contest for junior Columbia Association member and two from one of my companions to enter in the competitive wool show. Those latter two earned 1st Place Ewe, 1st Place Ram, and Overall Grand Champion fleece awards. That Montana sweep of the fleece show and our relentless evaluation of the show sheep as a threesome led us to be referred to as The Montana Mafia. We enjoyed touching base with MSU's former sheep specialist as he ultrasound scanned ribeye areas of the production ewes and rams. We spent the better part of a long afternoon at a remote ranch south of Gillette to look at a pen of impressive Columbia non-show rams. We enjoyed pricey dinners out, followed by M & M's before bed. None of us followed news from D.C. The break was much-needed by all three of us and we all found sheep to bring home. Of the four I sought, all exceeded my price ceiling during the auction, but I negotiated for a fifth one, a yearling ewe from the same producer as the four that were too rich for my pockets. (Now, a week later, that ewe remains in the trailer parked under a tree while I continue efforts to win her acceptance. She tolerates me as her sole source of feed and water, but does not appreciate my overtures of companionship. I'm thick skinned, however, and unfazed by her selective rejection. In five days, she gets a second dose of pour-on insecticide; then, and only then, can she join companions more to her liking. In the meantime, I shall persevere with my efforts.) Bidding at the banquet fund raiser was brisk and I was tickled with the price paid for my donated drawing and painting. Equally pleasing to me was a commission that resulted from my donation. After the auction, a woman from Illinois, unknown to me, told me that she loved my watercolor and asked if I would paint a similar piece based on the sort of sheep that she raises--Dorpers. She subsequently sent photos and I have been immersed in efforts to capture the sturdy heft of a Dorper ewe with twin lambs on my new favorite gesso-coated paper. I may need to tone down the blues and purples on the ewe's nose and the center lamb's head, add a hint of foot on the ewe's currently-hidden hind leg, reveal a bit more of hooves in the foreground, tweak here, add a shadow there . . . but this is the state of the project as of today. I've filled recent weeks with distractions and chores: 1. Drawing Katrina's long-gone 4-H Breeding Project ewe, Baba, with a couple of her woolie cronies, for donation to a fund-raising auction at the National Columbia Show and Sale upcoming in mid-June. 2. Painting Curls, first revising my previously-done effort and then attempting a second version, trying in both to nail his amazing fleece, his classic profile, and his killer machismo. 3. Painting a yearling Columbia buck on gesso-covered paper, a first for me, and also intended for donation to fund-raising at the National Columbia Show and Sale. 4. Cutting mats and shrink wrapping all the above, plus my early-May workshop painting done on Yupo paper, another first for me. 5. Picking and dealing with vats of wild asparagus--blanching and freezing an ample supply for future use, and roasting, steaming, and souping to creamy perfection the on-going bounty of canal-bank gleanings for immediate gourmet dining, meal after evening meal. 6. Reading--a fabulous fiction by Mary Ann Shaffer and Annie Barrows, The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society, as well as an essential non-fiction for oldies and kids who might become their caregivers, Being Mortal, by physician Atul Gawande. 7. Gardening. Our previously decimated inventory of tomatoes and peppers, now augmented by greenhouse additions, is blossoming, and everything else has germinated. 8. Gopher trapping, with requisite twice-a-day checks. 9. The usual AM and PM chores--turning sheep out to graze, bringing them back in for the night, filling troughs . . . plus moving the cows to pasture and hauling the bull to market (good riddance to that fence-crawling peckerhead). Despite essential routines and temporary distractions, days continue to feel flat and empty without Weed. Weed was my best friend ever. She shared every aspect of my life with full gusto and keen intensity.
Gopher trapping was exuberant adventuring. Weed knew where all 30 traps were located and dashed ahead to check each and every one of them and signal excitedly at each catch. She would have warned me about the rattlesnake surprise on today's route. Instead, I shrieked and leaped from a high writhing strike. The remainder of my path, from trap to trap, hole to hole, was a plod without Weed's joyous companionship. Corralling ewes and lambs each evening used to be a favorite. I opened the gate, Weed swept wide, and the sheep headed in--no questions, no panic, no disobedience. Oh sure, occasionally half a dozen naughty lambs opted for freedom, squirting off in opposition to the flow. Those were moments Weed cherished, opportunities to test her savvy and show off her skills. Now I go forth armed with a rattle paddle. The ewes take note of me, listen, make preliminary moves toward the corral and then casually ignore me. I cut back and forth, shake my noisemaker, threaten them with whoops, and dread this late-day routine without Weed's eager and efficient command of the job. Even private moments--sitting on the throne, for God's sake--Weed shared with me. She insisted on an open door policy, guests be dammed, and locked her Border Collie "strong eyes" on me. Of course, that look is intended for controlling livestock. Ha! She used hers to impose her will on me and make sure that I did not read while perched atop the best reading chair in the house. She knew that The Economist news magazine was flaming liberal fake news or a commie pinko rag, and she distracted me from it, protected me from it. Now, I am free to read it cover to cover, but it's hard to read while weeping. My joyous, purposeful, little dumpster dog was fearless around kicking cows, charging rams, and fierce ewes, but she was afraid of thunder and gun shots. Saturday morning, while helping Jim feed cows, she heard a neighbor shooting gophers and sought safety under the tractor. Without her accompaniment, every step I take feels flat; without her assistance, every task I undertake is arduous; without her joy, my life seems dull. Her appalling death, crushed under the tractor, haunts me. Without her, I am desolate and so lonely. Early season snakes on Prairie Island are less precocious than our pestiferous gophers. In contrast to those cheeky rodents that pop forth with unwelcome predictability on sunny days in February, sometimes even January, our snakes maintain a thankfully low profile early on. We rarely see any before mid-April. Both rodents and reptiles are now in full bloom.
Today, while checking my gopher trap-line, I discovered a bull snake doubly caught in one of my traps. It (Note my politically-correct, gender-neutral subject.) must have had second thoughts about descending into the gopher hole, turned around before its tail cleared the gopher-sized hole in the guillotine trap, and sprang the guillotine when its head exited the hole. In short, it got caught about a foot behind its head and 18 inches from the end of its tail. I could see no sign of life, but . . . I don't do snakes at close quarters, dead or alive. I manned the camera while Jim approached the site cautiously. We both spotted a bull snake approaching from the west, six or eight inches from the hole entrance. Sounding relieved, Jim exclaimed, "You caught a slow learner. He escaped but now wants to return to that same hole." Wrong. My trapped snake, tail now flicking with obvious signs of life, was still caught, but a second bull snake was now intending to occupy the hole. What we had was a Montana style traffic jam. Jim pulled the trap out of the hole, opened the guillotine, and the formerly-incarcerated snake glided out, unfazed and undamaged, to join its comrade in subterranean comfort. May there be two gophers within--enough to provide a royal, reptilian repast for two. I wanted to capture a closer-up photo, but I caught what I caught. It should be noted that Weed is looking on at about the same distance as I. She and I have similar aversions. Recent weeks have felt jumpy. Scatter shot, but productive.
Calves are booster vaccinated and branded. With the exception of one lamb that seems chronically puffy, all are castrated, docked, ear-tagged, and vaccinated. Nearly all have received a 2nd dose of vaccine, a boost against Clostridial diseases and tetanus. That job sounds benignly passive until you understand that we function without any sheep facilities. Working Prairie Island lambs is, indeed, western. We snatch individual lambs from among groups of ewes and lambs, carry or pedal them into close proximity to the barn door escape hatch, and scoot them out the door after the doctoring routine. Thankfully, most of our ewes are docile; they form placid barriers to greased-lightning lambs bent on evading our snatching forays. As for the puffy lamb, he has received several doses of ginger solution, a dose of bicarbonate of soda, and a dose of Clostridial anti-toxin. I remain at a loss about what ails him, but I think a regular burp of cud would be a step toward cure, and he is feeling and looking better. Then there are the tomato and pepper seedlings mentioned in my previous blog. Nurtured through single-digit temperatures and blizzards, over half of them succumbed to what I suspect was a greens-hungry pack rat. All seedlings were thriving at my evening watering hour in late April; at dawn, 100% of the Early Girl tomatoes, 75% of our favorite Sweet Baby Girl cherry tomatoes, 50+% of the hybrid sweet peppers, and most of the hot pepper seedlings were gone, demolished, obliterated, with no remnant trace of leaves or stems. Our rat-bastard, dark-of-night raider left unscathed only a few, never-before-tried, full-sized tomatoes. So much for visions of summertime bushels of flavor-rich beauties to use liberally and share generously. We hastily moved our sparse inventory of survivors into a garden cart and the little red wagon from Katrina's youth. Depending on wind and temperature, we wheel them out of the garage during the day and regularly adjust their position to maintain all seedlings at an angle to capture sunlight. As for Jury duty, if the clerk of court (whose name I shall not mention) is vindictive, I may be saddled with duty until death removes me from the potential juror pool. As per instructions on my April summons, I called the prescribed phone number to receive a voice message with further instructions, As per those further instructions, I showed up at the courthouse bright and early Monday morning (after busting ass to get AM chores done before heading to Great Falls). At the appropriate office, I was pointedly ignored by employees. Finally, one of them, hands on hips for added emphasis, informed me that I should have read Step 2 in the instructions and called on Saturday. If I had, I would know that jury selection and the trial had been postponed. I whipped out my summons and read from it, aloud and emphatically, those Step 2 instructions telling me to call after 6 PM on Friday. "Well," she countered, "the message was changed on Saturday." How grateful I am to be retired and have no outside job demands, Because of that, I had time--time to document the dismissive insolence of said office employee and share my experience with the clerk of court. It was cathartic! Like I stated earlier, I may be a potential juror until eternity, but I will neither tolerate insolence in taxpayer-funded employees nor let it go without response. Though that trip to Great Falls was an inconvenient waste of time, it had one benefit: I picked up a case of Ménage à Trois Midnight wine previously ordered. Cheers to retirement and a judicial system that is the best ever devised, despite a bad apple employee or two. Having channeled my inner rage into a temperate and carefully-crafted letter to the clerk of court, I was energized to take a preliminary shot at a half-sheet painting of a sheep, one of my long-term subject matter nemeses. Fly-away Killer Curls is the result. As of now, I'm too close to it for analysis and critique, but it challenged me and brought back vivid memories: bringing Curls home from Canby, Oregon as a yearling comfortably ensconced in the back of my old Subaru Forester, his Overall Grand or Reserve Champion Fleece awards year after year at the State Fair. (Was it four or five years? I don't remember.), his gentlemanly manners when being handled, and, finally, his penchant for efficiently killing other rams, a skill that ultimately led us to cull him. He was quite a guy; I'm glad I have photos and a desire to capture his essence in watercolors. |
Margaret zieg ellerFor 25 years, Prairie Island has been my anchor, my core, my muse. The seasonal rhythms of land and livestock sustain me. The power of place inspires me. Archives
June 2023
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