Almost 46

When you read this tomorrow, I’ll be celebrating #46. My wish was to spend my birthday in West Virginia gardening for no less than 72 hours. Having started yesterday afternoon, I am well on pace. My feet are sore, my cuticles mustn’t be seen by anyone, I have various blisters and bruises and chapped lips, but I couldn’t be happier. Life feels simple. The work feels meaningful, an investment in future seasons and faith in nature and soil and the always march towards life.

I can hear the goat babies calling from some pasture. They got their two-month vaccines today and were absolute weenies about those, but I held each one close and kissed their barny-smelling necks and tried not to get a horn to the cheek. The vet and I scheduled Clyde’s castration for late May. No need for him to hump his sisters or cousin, y’all. I suspect that Rambo, our other castrated male, will be glad for a compatriot.

Oliver and his friends have taken great interest in this castration, perhaps for obvious reasons. Ol, Zaid, and Harold began discussing said surgery in February, and just a week ago, I again overhead them arguing the merits of banding versus surgical testicular removal. The surgery is quicker but risks infection during recovery; the banding is an uncomfortable 4+ weeks after which Clyde’s then-leathery-prunes just fall off in the field. Zaid is particularly horrified by the balls-in-the-field option. Oliver vacillates. I’m not sure about Harold. I have scheduled surgery.

Beverly is the friendliest of the kids. She would be held and petted all day if you wanted to offer her such. Clyde wants to be brave, but so far he can only comfortably let me scratch his head, which he kindly bows towards me when he’s feeling courageous. Skipper and Millie must be tackled stealthily from behind if you want any 1-1 with them. They are all precious, soft bits of magic jumping sideways down hills, atop any available stump or bench, and even, today, into the boys’ saucer swing.

Apple and her daughter, Beverly

Clyde is so handsome

Right now, I have a chicken pot pie from the farmers market in the oven, and two stunning woodpeckers are pecking at a suet slab. It is windy, windy, and the wind chimes are caroling. I am feeling my hours in the garden, and I am thinking of my mom and sister, aunt Renee, Nanny, and her mother and sister, all of whom love the land like I do, all of whom were and are strong women and gifted gardeners, all of whom inspire me as I turn and till and plow and plant.

You simply cannot beat the colors of spring, particularly the greens. One may think the largest Crayola box overwrought, but when you pay attention to spring, you appreciate the effort of providing as many accurate crayons as possible to try and do the spectrum justice. Ages ago, in anticipation of this birthday-in-the-garden plan, I’d placed orders from Rare Roots, Prairie Nursery, and Eden Brothers (my favorite online nurseries). All arrived on schedule this week and I came to WV awash in native perennials: lupine, penstemon, false indigo, liatris, various monardas (aka bee balm), anemones, and on and on. I did also order some annuals; despite my preference for things that simply return reliably, I could not find a summer complete without zinnias, cosmos, dahlias, and cornflowers. They are all such happy flowers, and even though dahlias are annoyingly high maintenance, they’re worth it in spades.

Today, I also thought of my dad, also an avid gardener. He and I are alike in many ways, and our willingness to pay attention and time to the minuscule in a yard is, perhaps, one of our greatest commonalities. He will hand-weed a one square foot spot for hours. HOURS. So will I. I was hellbent on making a pea-gravel walking circle today, and while I could have bought bags of gravel, West Virginia is completely made of rock. So, if I’m patient enough to sift through the “dirt” for bits of stone, I have all the pea gravel I need. This is, perhaps, one reason I am so damn tired today. Picking through “dirt” for tiny crumbs sounds downright North Korean, for pete’s sakes. I confess to enjoying it for at least five hours today, and no, I don’t know what that says about me. I don’t really care.

The thing about life is that if you pay attention, you come to deeply know yourself and what you want and absolutely don’t want or care about. I may absolutely get my nose pierced in the next two weeks because I have always wanted a little nostril stud, and although I know my parents will be horrified (and probably my kids, too), I feel like I’m probably halfway through my life, so really, who cares? I can always take it out. Also, I’m studying Ukrainian. Who cares if relatively few speak it and the alphabet looks utterly unknowable? The Ukrainian people are incredible fighters, they love their animals, and they are just so boss. I mean, did you read about this woman? I could not in any way find success with Swedish or Irish, but Ukrainian is beautiful and largely pronounceable, and the letters are like delightful brain-teaser doodles, and I’m not going to let Д or Ж or ф or even Ю do anything but make me happy. Slava Ukraini!

Another thing about life is that if you pay attention, you realize it’s really short for too many people. People who could be you on any given day. So, live it. Live your life. America is well on its way to becoming a psychotic, anti-woman Christian theocracy, so I’m gonna pierce my nose now, exhaust myself via perennials, keep sending money to Ukraine, and also give a ride to safe healthcare to any woman who wants it. #reprorightsundergroundrailroad

I am now full from chicken pot pie, and my god am I sore. Tom and the boys regularly note that I overdo it in the yard, but there is infinity more space out here than at home, and not one thing served as obstacle today, so really, I did overdo it. But that’s ok. The mark of a great day outside is when you blow your nose and dirt comes out, or when you take off your boots and socks and your feet are brown with earth. Both happened tonight.

I’m soon to be 46 and my double daffodils are spectacular, the baby goats are precious beyond compare and I hid a box of Samoas in a cabinet several months ago and they are calling to me. Life can be so hard. It can really break your heart sometimes. So, live it. Channel the elders and fly your flag and be kind.

PS at a much later time: Based on a review of my calls, I seem, this morning, to have confidently ordered a shit ton of mulch for delivery tomorrow. Hahahahahahaha!

The babies are here!!!!

I have been consumed by the situation in Ukraine, and while I do plan to write about that at some time, right now I must share the happiest news.

Late on Thursday afternoon, Jemima had triplets and Apple had a single. Amazingly, they gave birth within hours of each other, and both did so without assistance or any real to do. You GO, ladies! We found out because Tom was watching the goat cameras he’s set up in the barn. “Em, Em, the babies are here!” (Later, in trying to figure out the time of birth, we came across actual footage from one camera- so cool!).

Concerned about them -would they be warm, were they nursing?- Tom hauled arse to WV that very night. Ol and I headed over after school on Friday. And there we found the most darling little creatures, all bright-eyed, clean, and walking though just a day old. Three girls and a boy.

Four kids means each of us got to name one. Tom named the boy Clyde because he has white feet like Clydesdales; I named Apple’s daughter, a little blond nugget, Beverly; Ol chose Skipper for his girl (which turned out to be a perfect name because she does skip all about); and Jack chose Millie. Millie is chocolate brown with a glossy coat and the most darling bent ears, somewhat like a Scottish Fold. They are all absolutely perfect, and by the time I left today, all were bouncing and running around in full baby goat spirit. Apple is an excellent mama. Jemima seems slightly less patient, but the woman did have three kids and she only has two teats, so…

Enjoy.

newborn Millie sleeping in a blanket

Em and Millie

Ol and Skipper

Skipper and Clyde. That ear.

Beverly investigates Jinx.

attentive Apple and daughter Beverly

Skipper

Millie

Em with Jinx, Skipper, and Clyde

I am telling y’all, life on a farm in the sunshine with animals all around and newly-arrived babies is good stuff. I was deeply sad to leave the idyll today.

Here’s a video of Jemima’s kids bouncing and bopping along behind her.

PS: Russian warship, go fuck yourself!

I stand with Ukraine.

Free Covid tests, please donate blood, no "kids" yet but an odd burn pile

Each family can order four free covid tests, courtesy of the federal gov and delivered by the USPS. Ordering takes less than three minutes. Click here to request yours. They begin shipping later this month.

Meanwhile, you may have heard about the desperate nationwide blood shortage, the worst in more than a decade. Banks and hospital systems usually like to stock at least 5 days worth, but most are now running on a day’s supply extra. If you can, please consider donating blood. You can search for donation sites via this Red Cross link; simply input your zip code. Additionally, many schools and community centers are hosting drives, so you can look for those in your area as well.

Monday was Tom’s birthday. He is very difficult to shop for, so we often get creative. This year, the kids created coupons which Oliver then placed throughout a homemade newspaper (entitled Newspaper) because “that’s where you find coupons, Mom.” Adorable. One of Jack’s, for example, was “I will watch a movie of your choosing without complaining,” as that is a very rare occurrence.

my cake for T

One of my gifts was to arrange for the professional burning of the 4-year-old burn pile we inherited in WV. Everyone just says, “throw some kerosene on it after you’ve had some snow, and let it go.” But it was a big pile, and Tom tends to be nervous, and then when I started asking, people actually said, “Oh yeah, you should call the fire department to give them a head’s up.” And then I called the previous owners, and they (fonts of info as always) told me to call the local company and see if they wanted to use our behemoth as a training fire.

This was getting better and better. So I called the Hedgesville Volunteer Fire Company, and the guy with whom I spoke was so fabulous in all ways. Communicative, responsive, on it. Out they came last Saturday evening, with two trucks, a flame torch, some metal push rakes, and a leaf blower. I think they thought it would take a couple hours. They were confident and eager, we all bundled up to watch. Would the conflagration be exhilarating? Terrifying? We locked the goats in the barn, just in case.

Friends, I am here to tell you that after NINE HOURS, everyone gave up. By then Tom had set up a zero-gravity lounge chair to watch and help, the firemen had made multiple coffee runs and even assisted with a wreck-and-run up the road, and a not insignificant amount of various accelerants had been used. I went to bed at 11p; Tom came in just after 3a. The next morning, he told me that the guys were utterly demoralized:

“This is the hottest, slowest fire I have ever seen.”
”Jesus, you should build a house out of that wood. It does not burn!”
”I wish I’d brought my 50-gallon drum of used motor oil. Man.”

But, I’d say a good 75% has been reduced to ashes, it was a terrific entertainment, we learned a great deal, including how to till and snow plow a dirt ring, and we got to support the volunteers with a donation to the company.

The goats, unperturbed as ever, never made a peep and the next morning simply looked at the smoldering mound and climbed in the Gator.

Apple

No kids yet, y’all. But boy are we having fun thinking of potential baby names. I am hot on Beverly, Angus, and Ethel. Oliver likes Ethel, Skipper, and Belzar. Jack likes Belzar. Tom hates Belzar. We’ll see.

Lastly, an enormous round of applause for Australia doing the right thing and booting Novax from the Open. And yes to this timeline of the past decades. Good god.