Bye Bye Borders

As a lifelong bookworm, I was saddened today to read that Borders is closing all of its stores. Until moving to the farm, miles from any bookstores, I dropped by our local Borders at least twice a week. I just love bookstores and libraries! Mom-and-pop bookstores are the best, of course, but I don't turn up my nose at the big box bookstores. I buy a lot of books, and I justify the expense as one that is practically virtuous--I'm supporting authors.

All this Nook and Kindle nonsense has me worried as of late. I love the crinkle of book jackets, the stitching on hard covers, the feel of the pages and the sound of them turning, and the smell of both old and new books. I hate computers, even iPads, and don't want to read books on them. I know it would be easier to "get with the now" and start e-reading. When we moved, I couldn't deny the somber fact that I had 65 boxes of very heavy, very space-consuming books. I still have my favorite books that I read as a kid, some with missing covers or tattered pages or my name or notes written on the inside cover.

I suppose the day is coming when I'll be forced to curl up with a darn computer, but I'm going to hold out for as long as I can.

The Wool Lady

As a future shepherdess, I feel that it's my duty to master at least one wool craft. Accordingly, last weekend I paid a visit to the The Wool Lady in Old Town Temecula. The Wool Lady, otherwise known as Ruth, was friendly and helpful and took the time to explain with enthusiasm several different types of wool crafts--rug hooking, punch needle, felting, and wool applique stitchery. I wasn't a huge fan of felting, so I'm pressing onward with this chicken-themed wool applique project. It calls for hand-stitching rather than a sewing machine, which is good because I've completely forgotten how to wind a bobbin or thread my machine.

I just need to check YouTube for instructions on how to do a blanket stitch, chain stitch, French knot, and back stitch, and then I'll be good to go. Oooh, as I typed this, I starting feeling a little overwhelmed. It wouldn't be out of character for me to end up just straight stitching the entire thing.

Breaking Ground

Today we broke ground on the future residence of our intended flock of Ameraucanas, Buff Orpingtons, and Rhode Island Reds. After a lot of thought, we decided to put the coop in an abandoned dog run on the property. The run is approximately 45 x 30 feet and enclosed by a 10-foot high fence. It's not much to look at and, sadly, it's in an area that we can't see from the house. But given the coyote/fox/raccoon/opossum/skunk/hawk/owl situation out here, it's the safest place for the ladies and won't require a lot of new fencing. There's a water source in the run, and the perimeter is tightly sealed around the bottom with an extra ring of 2x4s. The chicks will get some nice sun and shade. Except for the fact that I can't see it from the house, it really is a perfect place for the coop.

The run currently has a layer of gravel atop a layer of paper mulch, but the Wrangler uncovered some nice reddish clay/dirt beneath the layers, and we're going to scatter some grass seed in a 15x8 foot patch.

It's a little late in the year to start with chicks, but we stopped by the local feed store today and were happy to see that it has some hens ready to go. Incidentally, the feed store had lots of interesting animals--all kinds of geese, turkeys, and ducks. It was hard to resist a pair of miniature goats. But first things first.

Tuning Out

Turns out, we might have been a little couch potato-ish when we lived in the cottage. As we were sitting outside by the fire tonight, the Wrangler and I realized that we never watch TV anymore. We do, however, play more music--on the iTunes but also on our instruments. There's just something about rolling hills, dreamy sunsets, and crackling campfires that make you want some background music instead of background chatter. We can strum our guitars as loud as we like, or we can crank up the volume for our speakers until the bass rattles. The coyotes probably think we're rude, but they can't call the cops.

Saturday in the Country

Even out here in the country, it's hard to find time to relax. (Real farmers probably would say, "Especially out here in the country, it's hard to find time to relax.") My day started with an early morning orientation for volunteers at Zoofari, the non-profit organization dedicated to housing non-releasable or confiscated wildlife.

The Wrangler and I spent part of the afternoon walking the farm's five acres. Sporting our new muck boots (mine are a pleasing hot pink) and wide-brimmed hats, and armed with the walking stick formerly known as a golf club, we checked the state of the gardens, fencing, orchard, and avocado grove. Our friend, an expert gardener, from Laguna Beach is stopping in tomorrow to give us some much needed direction on mid-summer planting. From what I've read, it's not too late to plant tomatoes, squash, zucchini, peppers, and watermelon, but we'll see what our green-thumbed friend says tomorrow.

In preparation for our visitors, the Wrangler and I dashed over to Temecula this evening to round up some local ingredients: olive oil from olives hand grown, picked, and pressed by the folks at the Temecula Olive Oil Company, a bottle of wine from a nearby vineyard, fresh honey, and strawberry jam. I'll make popovers and a caprese salad (with homemade mozzarella, heirloom tomatoes, and home grown basil). The Wrangler purchased some locally made salsa to mix in with his fresh guacamole.

Tonight I still have to make flashcards to learn the names and species of all the exotic animals at Zoofari, finish up some lawyering, and sketch a blueprint for the barn owl box. It could be a long night. I'm brewing some (caffeinated) tea.

Sights for Sore Eyes

Everyday I see something new and interesting that reminds me I'm a country gal now. Whether it's the rotund California Toad sitting on the Welcome mat in the courtyard, the family-run heirloom herb and vegetable stands on the side of the twisting, scenic road into town, or the man in a cowboy hat, suit, and tie sitting on his horse next to us at the stop sign, the Wrangler and I are utterly charmed by our new 'hood.

Tonight on our way home from the neighboring city of Fallbrook, we noticed a stretch of road adopted by Backyard Barn Owls. The Wrangler recalled an amusing barn owls video that had gone viral a couple years ago. Sure enough--when we looked it up, we discovered that Bert Kersey of Fallbrook produced the Backyard Barn Owls video. He also provides some interesting information on the benefits of building an owl box to encourage a barn owl family to nest on the farm. Not only are they amusing to watch, they provide excellent rodent patrol. (They're also pet-friendly--the average barn owl is only one pound and can't abscond with my Russells).

You guessed it. Building a barn owl box is next on the list.

Pitch Black Nights

Pitch Black is a sci-fi Vin Diesel thriller (circa 2000) in which space travelers land on a planet that orbits three suns. The planet has perpetual daylight except during a one-month eclipse once every 22 years. And when darkness does fall, things get crazy. Creatures that survive only in the dark emerge from their dens, ravenous after 22 years of hibernation. This does not bode well for the space travelers, of course.

We've got our own Pitch Black situation here on the farm. I'm being a little dramatic, but the Wrangler and I have been marveling at the level of activity outside once night falls. At dusk the coyotes start their radio show; the howls, growls, and yips tell a story. Sometimes the coyotes sound happy and excited, as if they're at a party. Sometimes they fight--nasty, terrible-sounding skirmishes that end with a lone coyote crying in the dark. As we settle into bed, we hear the comforting hoot of a spotted owl and, now and then, an odd rustle in the bushes outside our window. In the middle of the night, Dash growls when he hears the banshee shriek of a screech owl. Our motion-detecting flood lights are activated, and as I peer through the window I see a small animal dart down the hill.

By sunrise the world is quiet again. The Wrangler sees remnants of the past night's multiple battles: a dead mouse by the gate, animal tracks in the garden, a fresh burrow. But the red-tailed hawk soars gracefully overhead (the farm seems to be located right in the middle of his territory) and all is calm.

Unlike the space travelers in Pitch Black, I'm unafraid of what goes down on the farm after dark. In the city, nocturnal clanks and shuffles on the patio were cause for alarm. The Wrangler kept a golf club by the side of the bed. (Can you see him confronting an intruder? "Stop or I'll swing!") Out here in the sticks, nighttime stirrings feel natural. If animals can't live in the country, then where can they live? When we moved in, they probably sighed, "Well, there goes the neighborhood."

Amid all the country noises, I've never slept so soundly.

A Year of Grace

A year ago today I fell off Moto. I'm about 95% as good as new, and I feel very, very blessed to have had so many shoulders to lean on this past year.

Small Town USA

We're getting to know our new town, population 1800. The town consists of two strip malls, which boast a surprising number of convenient stores--a small but well-stocked and reasonably-priced grocery, a gas station, a McDonalds, a Mexican restaurant, a Chinese restaurant, a pizzeria, a breakfast cafe, a wine bar, a dance studio, a yogurt place, a spa, a veterinarian, a donut house, a tack and feed store, and a movie theater! There's a public golf course in town, with fine dining in the country club. So all in all, we've got pretty much all we need within an easy five-minute drive to town. We saw a movie tonight and were pleasantly surprised by the small but high-quality theater. Before the movie, the manager came in and gave a little welcoming speech--something we've never seen done.

The Wrangler is officially a country guy now, so I presented him with a pair of Hunter wellies to protect him from rattlers and the like. It's a good look on him.

Zoofari

I haven't volunteered at the Ocean Institute since my accident last year. Working as an aquarist aide involves a lot of bending, stretching, and lifting, and I needed the break while I recovered. I do miss the sea stars, cucumbers, jellies, and giant lobsters. But I'm signed up for a new adventure. After an orientation next week, I'm going to start volunteering at Zoofari, a non-profit organization just down the street from the farm. Zoofari rescues non-releasable or confiscated wildlife and sponsors wildlife education programs. Zoofari volunteers work a four-hour shift each week and assist the staff with the feeding, cleaning, and socializing of the animals. The resident animals include a chinchilla, python, wallaby, alligator, tarantula, boa, porcupine, lynx, bobcat, and cheetah. No sheep, though.

Skeletons in My Closet(s)

As I sort through things for the upcoming move, out of every closet that I open tumbles remnants of unfinished projects and boxes of abandoned supplies: a few pathetic rows of the crochet cowl, 3/4 of a knitted scarf, placemats that I started during my artfelt days, a rolling suitcase of mysterious-looking, unopened scrapbooking tools, binders filled with pages of recipes, DIY ideas, and hobby farming how-to articles torn from magazines, a bucket of beads and jewelry-making tools, a violin, a sewing machine, bags of fabric, Ball canning jars, blocks of glycerine and molds for soap-making, gardening gloves and muck boots, mosaic tiles...and I haven't even started on the attic. Yikes!

The problem with moving to the farm is that I can no longer sit idly watching The Office reruns and HGTV House Hunters marathons while lamenting the lack of proper space for things like gardening, baking, canning vegetables, sewing, learning to play a new instrument, and writing. There will be no more space limitations--and no more excuses! What have I gotten myself into?

We Got the Farm!

View from the kitchen window of the villa on the five-acre avocado farm

It's official! Next Friday we will begin our nine-month experiment in country living, of which we already are getting a taste--we just learned that the area does not have cable access and, thus, has very limited options for speedy internet connectivity and phone service. Bummer. But discoveries such as these are what make our decision to lease, rather than jump right in and buy, a five-acre avocado farm in rural San Diego county so valuable. I have to give myself mad props for my forethought. My younger self was more impetuous when making major decisions (e.g., dropping everything to move to Las Vegas for the millennium).

Slow internet aside, I'm eager to head for the country. And it really is country--we have to swap municipal services like sewer and gas for septic and propane. It's coyote territory; fencing will be key to our pets' safety. Now that it's actually happening, I'm startled by how comforted I feel to know that it's only for nine months...we have an out if we need one.

On the other hand, we could discover that life outside the city is amazing. In that case, we have nine months to think about how many acres we want (will five prove to be not enough?) and where we want them.

I guess we'll learn a lot about ourselves between now and next March. In the mean time, if I had to say "where my head is at," perhaps William Butler Yeats said it best in 1892:

I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made;
Nine bean rows will I have there, a hive for the honeybee,
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.

And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,

Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;

There midnight's all a-glimmer, and noon a purple glow,

And evening full of the linnet's wings.

I will arise and go now, for always night and day

I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;

While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements gray,

I hear it in the deep heart's core.

Can't Teach This Old Dog New Tricks

I tend to raise a brow at self-help books and the people who read them. I'm skeptical whether, barring some kind of Krakauer-esque Into Thin Air type of accident while climbing Mount Everest, people really can change. But I stumbled upon Live More, Want Less while looking at chicken books in the homesteading section of the bookstore. After skimming the first few chapters, I was rather alarmed. Book's got my number. For example, it asks and advises:

Do you start but then abandon projects? If so, you are influenced by outside stimuli rather than inner passion.

Do you have numerous "some day" projects lined up? If so, you are planning for the future rather than living in the moment.

The book seemed insightful. Alas, true to form, I started reading it but haven't gotten around to finishing it. Rest assured, it's on my "some day" list.

Looking Forward

It's good to have something nice to anticipate, and I'm looking forward to two events this fall: round-up in Montana at the Mountain Sky ranch, this time with the Wrangler instead of the Six-Button Cowgirls, and Jenna Woginrich's Backyard Farming Workshop in Vermont. I just put down a bunch of deposits, so we're all set. It may seem odd to plan for fall before summer has even begun, but that's how I feel about summer--I just wish we could skip it altogether.

The Backyard Farming Workshop is a two-day event that will cover: chicken basics, sheep basics, beekeeping basics, cheese making, lumber-jacking (wood lot management, tree selection, and felling), hand wool processing, canning, bread-making, turkey butchering, winter greens/extended growing, pumpkins, and a field trip to the Merck Forest and Farm Center to observe the sustainability projects and heritage livestock operation. Jenna also promises an autumn campfire with mountain music and home brew.

It also may seem weird that I'm spending my time planning vacations while a certain housing matter looms large. We're moving out of the cottage in the next month, have two sheep on the way, and haven't the faintest clue where we're headed. I'm assuming that, come vacation time this fall, we'll be flying in and out of John Wayne airport. But I decided that it might be a good idea to wait and book our flights in a month--just to be sure.

Gooaaal!

That's me as a fearless rider in last year's show.

It was a little bittersweet attending the home show at the barn today. In last year's home show I proudly placed third and fourth in the walk/trot flat classes. (My lofty goal was simply to not finish in last place.) This year I sat on the sidelines as a spectator. Far from having improved as a rider in the past year, I'm now much worse. Due to my lack of confidence and fear of breaking more bones, I've developed a slew of bad habits: hunched posture, timid commands, and improper hand and elbow positions, to name just a few. I wasn't ready for the show this year.

I haven't even tried cantering in the arena since the accident. I did lope (which is the same as cantering, but in the western saddle) a little on the trails in Montana last month, but it doesn't really count when you're gripping the saddle horn for dear life. If I'm going to progress, I have to canter again sooner or later. I was hoping that it will be much, much later than sooner, but the Wrangler is encouraging me to set a goal.

"When do you think you're going to try cantering again?" he asked, as we watched nine-year-old riders skillfully change leads at the canter in the flat medal class today. "It looks like a lot of fun."

"Well, you know, I'm just going to do it someday when it feels right," I answered. "No sense in rushing anything, right?"

"I don't know. You seem to do really well when you set a specific goal." In truth, I don't necessarily do "really well" when I set a goal, but I do accomplish more when I set one than when I don't.

"How about you set a goal and, when the time comes, if you haven't met the goal, you can just set another one?" the Wrangler suggested encouragingly.

Eghh, all right. I'll take the bait. My goal is to be ready for the walk/trot flat classes in the fall home show in November and to compete in the flat medal class (which includes cantering) at next year's home show in June. I guess it feels good to have a goal.

Home Safety

I'm convinced that cell phones cause cancer, although purportedly, there are no studies that show a direct link. In the absence of anything conclusive, isn't it logical to just use your common sense? And common sense tells me that holding a device that emits and receives electromagnetic radiation near my brain probably isn't the best thing. At any rate, I've taken an interest in reducing everyday toxins and health risks in the home.

I found an interesting book, The Healthy Home: Simple Truths To Protect Your Family from Hidden Household Dangers. I like the book's approach, which recognizes that completely eliminating health risks from the modern home isn't practical. Instead, the book suggests little things we can do to reduce risks. For example, toxic or not, nonstick cookware is here to stay. If I have to soak and scrub a food-crusted skillet every night, you can bet that I won't be doing much cooking. And eating out is probably worse for us than aluminum-laced home-cooked meals. But I'm phasing out plastic storage containers in favor of glass containers. Little steps.

In the interest of full disclosure, I must tell you that this newest mission is driving the Wrangler absolutely crazy. At least five times a day, I spout wisdom from the "Home Safety" book:

"The Home Safety book says that your brand of deodorant is the most toxic," I yelled to the Wrangler through the bathroom door this morning.

"The Home Safety book says that you should avoid microwaved popcorn because of the chemicals in the lining of the bags," I informed the Wrangler, shaking my head in disapproval, as he looked for snacks in the kitchen cabinet.

"The Home Safety book says that if you can't avoid wearing dry-cleaned clothing, then you should sleep on organic cotton sheets. That way at least one-third of your day is spent without chemicals rubbing against your skin," I explained earnestly, as we headed to the store in search of new bedding.

"The Home Safety book says that..." I began, as the Wrangler poured himself a bowl of cereal.

"Okay, Sweets. Enough of the Home Safety book," the Wrangler interrupted. "I can't stand that book," he added, with considerable feeling.

"It's just that the Home Safety book says that many so-called "healthy" cereals have a high glycemic index," I said very, very softly. I couldn't help it.

The Wrangler looked me squarely in the eye and took a huge bite of cereal. Point taken.

Apparently, reducing household toxins may be harmful to household relationships.

Cross Country Cake

I've previously blogged about my cake fixation. In sum, there's a particular cake made by a grocery store in Minneapolis that I love, and no other cake will do. This past weekend I attended a wedding back in Minnesota, and I ordered one of those special cakes to bring home on my return flight to California. The Wrangler doubted that TSA would allow my precious carry-on cargo, but I planned ahead. I printed and highlighted the relevant parts of TSA rules stating that cakes are allowed. I scrunched my fancy wedding attire into a ball and jammed it into my backpack along with a pair of jeans and a shirt. So what if my cocktail dress was wrinkly and that I'd be wearing the same jeans and shirt the rest of the weekend? The airline permits only a carry-on bag and one extra item. And that extra item would be a cake, no matter how unkempt I looked.

We picked up the cake at 2PM today, but we still had three hours before our flight. "We best go straight to the airport," I insisted. It was a muggy 86 degrees in Minneapolis, and I didn't want my cake melting in the car while we traversed down memory lane at the Mall of America or arcane places from our yester-years. The Wrangler didn't hide his annoyance. I could tell he couldn't wait for TSA to confiscate my cake and eat it in front of me. He didn't get his wish. The cake sailed through security with no problem and, in fact, received many oohs and ahhs.

When boarding began, I jostled my way to the front of the line to preboard with the "passengers with children and anyone else who needs a little extra time to board." After all, which is more difficult to carry, a kid or a cake? Did I mention that this is a large cake--serves 24? "Here, I'll put the cake in this special cabinet to keep it from sliding," the flight attendant told me, as I boarded the plane. I looked frantically from my cake to the flight attendant to the Wrangler. Did I dare risk leaving my cake in the galley kitchen of the plane with this stranger? I gave in. "I can't believe you let it out of your sight," the Wrangler marveled, after we'd settled in our seats. He scanned the front of the plane. "I think I see the pilot with a big piece of cake."

I made it home with a perfectly intact cake, and I intend to freeze it and eat one piece a day for 24 days. It's going to be a good month.

From Chaps to Chanel

When I arrived at the barn this morning, my instructor had a western saddle on Francie and we had a great lesson! I respect and admire English equitation, but I'm not nearly as nervous in the western saddle. My instructor, who is all too aware of my fear of falling, often gets creative. Today in the western saddle I felt confident enough to ride with my eyes closed and without reins while my instructor led Francie at the trot. The point of the exercise was to learn to feel the horse's strides and movement, and I would have freaked out (FREAKED. OUT.) being led at the trot with eyes shut and no reins in an English saddle.

"I love the English style of riding, but I think I might be a cowgirl after all," I told the Wrangler as we waited for a price check on western riding chinks at the tack store this afternoon. (Chinks are similar to chaps but hit the mid-calf instead of running the whole length of the leg. They fasten behind the leg with a few buckles above the back of the knee, which allows the chinks to move more freely below the knee.) After buying my chinks, which can only be described as effing awesome, we swung by the mall on our way home. As I handed the salesperson my credit card at the Chanel store, I briefly wondered if AmEx would flag my account for unusual activity. Chaps and chinks and Chanel...well, I always said that I was an urban cowgirl.

While my riding chinks would have come in handy last week in Montana (you really can tear your jeans on those mountain trails), I'll admit that they're perhaps not a huge necessity here in the OC. But that didn't stop me from wearing them around the house the rest of the day.

Follow the Herd

This year at the Mountain Sky Ranch a few of us assisted with round-up. Actually, real cowboys don't use the term "round-up" anymore; they call it gathering. Four of us, including a wrangler, rode slowly into a pasture to locate unbranded calves and their moms in a herd of hundreds of cattle. The goal was to move each pair into a separate pasture for vaccinations and branding--without startling the herd. If the cattle are riled up, the entire herd runs to the far end of the pasture. When you ride slowly through the herd, the cattle don't mind you much.

Each cow and calf has a tag in its ear with a number, and the mom's number is the same as her calf's number. We had a list of five numbers to look for. For example, we had to find pair 331. We spotted calf 331 and then searched for its mom. The moms usually aren't too far away from their calves, but they're not always easy to find.

When the four of us sort of circled calf 331 on our horses, the other cattle moved away but the mom bawled for its calf. We allowed the calf to run to its mom, and then we rode in a wide circle around the pair to guide them into the other pasture. The moms always looked for a hole in our circle to escape through and sometimes made mad dashes for freedom. A bit of a scramble would ensue as we tried to cut them off. Other cows followed the action, and we clucked them away. When we had a mom and calf near the gate, the wrangler rode over to open the gate and the mom resigned to her fate. At that point, the cow willingly walked through with her calf in tow.

We identified, separated, and gathered five pairs; one pair at a time. About midway through, a soft rain fell but we paid no mind. It took us a little under two hours, but it seemed like 10 minutes.

Change

Big news: we're officially moving within the next two months! Goodbye Laguna Beach cottage.

I'm just back from another wonderful trip to Montana and the Mountain Sky Ranch. I'm in love with that Ranch. I love it so much that I can never to move to Montana; if I lived there it would be sort of impractical to spend my vacations down the road at Mountain Sky. But my annual tradition is going to become a semi-annual tradition. While May is for us cowgirls only, I'm planning a September trip to the Ranch for the Wrangler and me.

In the mean time, there's a lot to accomplish. We've got to work out the details for the move, plan for the sheep, and make some big decisions. Change is in the air.