A rare and perfect day!  It began with making a "to do" list, followed by briefly perusing the wares at a garage sale which netted three books by some of my favorite authors.  The seller and I had very similar literary tastes as there were many books that are already taking up shelf space here, but there's no such thing as too many good books.

Back home I confronted the tasks on the "to do" list and steadily ticked them off. One of the chores involved bathing all three dogs, but this tested last weeks plumbing venture and it pleases me to report success. Not being blasted with uncontrolled spray from the former malfunctioning system, the job was a snap and was completed in record time. Now all three hounds smell lovely and although I did all the work, they are all exhausted.

Other chores went equally well, so I felt no guilt lying on the porch with E. Annie Proulx's Bird Cloud.  She is without question my favorite contemporary author.  We are alike in many ways and her uncompromising observations resonate.  On the guest list for my fantasy dinner party Ms. Proulx is at the top of the list.

Lying on the porch I was suddenly aware of the absence of noise.  No one was mowing.  No one was target practicing.  Best of all no one on the other side of the hill to the west was riding motor bikes or 4-wheelers.  Only the breeze tinkling the wind chimes and a choir of diverse bird songs pierced the air.  Blue jays and cardinals stopped by for a snack on the refilled corn feeder, oblivious to the cats snoozing right below them.  The jays practiced their hawk imitations and dutifully responded to my imitation of their imitation.  Wrens twittered and one flew under the porch roof, surprising Peggy Sue who had ventured outside to join all the other dogs and cats.

Occasionally noisy trucks thundered up the road, but I couldn't really see them through the dense foliage and for just a little while it felt the way this old farm used to feel--isolated and peaceful.  To the east came a call I've heard frequently, but couldn't identify until last weeks visit by H. who is an avid birder and naturalist.  When I asked her what it was she told me it was a wild turkey.  How exciting!  Equestrians have been reporting turkey sightings in Ranger Rick's woods, but I haven't seen any yet, not there anyway, but it pleases me to think they might be visiting here.

Years ago I put this place into a legally-binding wildlife conservation trust. Hopefully it will remain a sanctuary long after I'm dead and my powdery ashes have been sifted over Oba Lake.  No doubt the restrictions imposed by this decision diminish the market value of the property, but I don't care.  I don't have plans to sell it anyway.  In relation to the habitat destruction that's rampant around here, this plot is a postage stamp, but it's a safe haven for so much wildlife; everything from the Eastern garter snake that got himself caught between the shingles, to the deer that stood watching the furnace installers a few months ago.  The leaking scummy pond is certainly a disappointment, but the frogs manage to survive there and birds still land at the edge to drink and bathe in the green goo, so I guess it still serves a purpose, even if it isn't a visual pleasure.

The fleeting minutes just at dawn and at the edge of dusk offer the kind of ambiance I've enjoyed all day, but to have the gift of quiet for an entire day has been almost too good to be real.  Life is good.

 

 

It wasn't even dark when I finished yesterdays evening barn chores. As I approached the house Rattycat was patiently waiting as he usually does, ready for his evening meal, so I went inside for cat food to refill his bowl in the garden shed.  Just as the Meow Mix hit the plastic dish I heard a noise.  Rattycat was standing in the open doorway with a nervous look on his face.  "‘Better watch out. He's right behind you," he warned.

Sure enough, effortlessly scaling the wooden wall was the Meow Mix bandit.  I knew a nocturnal visitor had been taking advantage of Rattycat's lodging because each morning his water bowl was a mess, but I wasn't quite sure if a coon or an opossum was responsible.  Mystery solved. 

Clambering up into the rafters, he knocked down skis and poles, an old floor mop and several pieces of lumber, but the fat raccoon that looked to be about half as big as Ernie was trying his best to be inconspicuous. He probably thought that since his fur was the same color as the wall boards I might not notice him.   

Oblivious to the avalanche he'd created he finally teetered on the 4" ledge at the top of the wall just above my head.  I ran for the camera, thinking he'd surely take advantage of my departure to beat feet, but he obligingly clung to his precarious perch.  He agreed to pose if I promised to post his picture on this blog, so here he is.

Rattycat will now be dining about the same time as senior citizens at Cracker Barrel.  Maybe an empty bowl will dissuade the uninvited evening guest.  RC does not like sharing and I'm not keen on feeding eight cats plus a big fat raccoon.

 

 

It's been an interesting day.  While working on an article about a pasture-raised egg farm in Kentucky Farmer Chuck stopped by to purchase some of my pasture-raised eggs.  He was getting them for Kenny's friend Wilson who is also an old eccentric farmer.  I requested that he tell Wilson to save the boxes for me because I never seem to have enough.   Eggs and money were exchanged, Chuck left and I returned to my writing.

A few hours later the dogs alerted that I had more visitors.  At the end of the drive sat an unfamiliar Mercedes station wagon and two men were just coming through the gate.  It was Chuck and Wilson, whom I'd never met before, but rumor had it that he's quite a character.  The rumors were right!

 "I'm Kenny's friend," said Wilson extending a hand.  A slightly-too-big bill cap hovered just above his bright blue eyes. He wore a plaid shirt and in his other hand he held a plastic bag of egg boxes (presumably the reason for the visit). He wanted to meet the "jack asses" and delighted in seeing the hen with her peeps. "That's how chickens should be raised," he said watching as the rest of the flock put on a show for him.  

Lamenting about his "bad knees," he said Kenny had given him some pills and they seemed to be helping.  God only knows what kind of pills Dr. Kenny gave him.  Considering Kenny's failed efforts to cure his sister's gangrenous leg or his poor old beagle that had heartworm, I'd be a little suspicious of his medical advice or potions.

Wilson is not a man to mince words.  He told me who he likes and especially who he doesn't like in the township and he had no kind words for the zoning inspector who got on his case because of "some stuff I had in my yard.... I don't like clutter inside my house," he explained. "So, I put it all outside."  (Currently there is a tractor parked under his porch along with some other peculiar items.)  He asked if I knew Charlie G. and when I said that I sometimes bought sweet corn from him Wilson offered.  "Well, he's a jerk!" Jerk or no jerk, it seems that Charlie has 200 chickens housed somewhere on Wilson's property.  That arrangement wasn't explained.

When my visitors left it was Wilson who crawled behind the wheel of the shiny newish Mercedes.  He turned the key and the engine ticked like very loud clock and then limped down the road at about 5 mph.  I enjoyed today's interlude with yet another of the townships old oddballs. 

 

New residents here at the Peaceable Kingdom are creating great excitement for the cats in particular.  The dogs have only displayed a mild interest in Chuck and Rita, the two groundhogs that are very busy in the lower pasture.  The cats are working in shifts, sitting in the middle of the field not quite sure what to make of the chubby new creatures.

Groundhogs are usually solitary critters that mate in March and April followed by a gestation period of just 30 days. The pairing of Chuck and Rita suggests that children are probably in the burrow that exists beyond the wild raspberry bushes.  I've found no information regarding parenting, but doubt that the male plays much of a role other than sperm donor.  This seems to be an unusual situation, but the cats are enjoying watching them.  I'm looking forward to seeing the babies for in my opinion nothing is cuter.

Groundhogs suffer the ire of farmers, but their ecological benefits go unnoticed and are certainly unappreciated.  Because they burrow and create multi-room warrens they provide shelter for other animals like foxes and skunks and the soil benefits by the aeration from their excavation.  I just hope they won't find my garden too tempting.

A few of the cats who are not on groundhog watch duty like to spend time at what might have been "the beach" if the pond actually held water.  As it is, it looks more like a meadow with an ever-diminishing puddle in the center.  I'm forced to admit defeat.There is no pond.

I try to ignore the roar, the buzz and all the other irritating power tool noises  that echo through the trees and disturb the peace around here.  But beyond the chain saws, the mowers and the leaf blowers is the seductive sound of gas-powered weed whackers and I admit it; I used to covet that tool. I wanted one of those gadgets that could make short work of cleaning up hard to mow places, so I finally bought one.  Unfortunately, it never made short work of anything for me.

For years I fought with the awkward and unwieldy thing.  I'd lay it on the ground as per the instructions with the choke pulled out just so and then yank the damned cord until it felt as if my arm might fall off.  Oh sure, occasionally it made a few teasing grunts, but it never started.  Frustrated, I'd call T. and he'd come over and with a single pull the engine would roar into an ear-splitting purr. He'd look at me as if I were insane and say something like, "So, what's the problem?"  I finally gave that weed whacker to the thrift store where some man was probably thrilled to find it at such an affordable price.  Ever since I have resorted to a simple, human-powered version; a long handle with a double-serrated blade.  Just like the hand saw I prefer to the dangerous circular saw, this simple tool gets the job done quietly, reliably and it doesn't provoke anger or personal injury.

No more spilled gasoline, no more swearing at the obstinate machine, no more calls to T. to come over and get it working, no more feelings of ineptitude.  All I have to do is swing the man-powered whacker and voila, weeds are gone.  Today I purchased a brand new one for a mere $15.00 and am happy to report that many multi-flora rose bushes and hardy stinging nettles bit the dust this evening.  It was an intensely gratifying feeling, but Poppy and Sissy were unimpressed.