Life....

We received the phone call in the wee hours of the morning the night before we were scheduled to leave on vacation. Glynn's 86 year old mother fell, breaking her hip.

Time has a way of slowing down and wrapping its edges around an event so that it becomes one's focus. Worrying about Ellen, ensuring she receives proper care, calming and comforting her consumes our time. Thankfully Elda happened to be in town visiting her mom for a few days before flying on to visit her grandchildren. Her bedside vigils have been a huge comfort to Ellen.  Elda plans to stay in Olympia for a few more weeks, until her mom's life 'normalizes'.

Surgery was successful. A heart murmur was detected and treated. This may be what has been causing her frequent dizzy spells and falls. Ellen was moved to rehab yesterday and the arduous task of getting her up and moving will begin today.

Ellen is spunky. A recent fractured rib only kept her down for two weeks. Our hope is that she will regain mobility such that she can remain in her independent living situation in her little apartment in town. We are holding our breath, knowing Ellen may have a new normal to adjust to.

Time will tell....

Here is a result of yesterday's therapy: creating.

Chicken fricasse

I'm still trending upward on the chicken raising learning curve.

I learned that introducing a rooster to the flock will help protect the hens from predators.

I learned (the hard way) that the Rhode Island Red rooster is notoriously aggressive.

courtesy of: farm6.staticflickr.com

I learned (the hard way) that carrying a shiny pan into the coop to treat my flock to leftover steel cut oats sends a message of danger: predator to the pea-sized brain of said Rhode Island Red rooster causing him to attack the back of my legs with a powerful WHOMP, causing me to drop the pan resulting in another powerful WHOMP.

My cantalope-sized brain instinctually tells me to 'let him know who's boss'  resulting in an aggressive stance on my part causing yet again one more WHOMP on the back of my legs.

Sigh.

As I walk back to the house, my tail between my legs, my mind is already creating the ad that will appear on Craigslist:  Aggressive rooster for sale. Will pay you to dispose of. 

courtesy of: l.yimg.com

While my racing heart calms, I google my latest chicken challenge and discover that although the RIR rooster is often aggressive, said aggressions manifests itself as he reaches adulthood. Since 'Randy' just recently found his voice, a rather pathetic cock-a-doodle, I realize he's nothing but a cocky, young dandy, strutting his stuff amongst his harem.

The article informs that bringing unusual items into the coop - like a shiny pan - causes his protective radar to ping.

It's all good.

To curb said aggression, one can hold the rooster in the crook of ones arm 10 minutes a day for one week. This allows rooster to learn that I, the ultimate coop master, am safe.

courtesy of:fellowshipofminds.files.wordpress.com

Stay tuned for more chicken raising adventures. Something tells me I'm in for a wild ride.

courtesy of: arcatapet.com

Enjoy the journey

Contentment

Last Saturday I experienced a fresh version of joy.

2.75 year old Cooper spent the weekend with us and when we awoke to sun, I knew Cooper would be delighted to run his little legs in the yard while I commenced cleaning my flower beds of winter's debris.

Imagine for a moment my enjoyment as Cooper willingly became my little helper; filling the wheelbarrow with dead branches, crumbling seed pods into dust, and discovering worms. He planted himself amongst  tall, dried out stalks of ornamental grass and shook them vigorously, laughing delightedly as they rattled and rustled. Cooper is just now finding his voice and he entertained me with a running commentary of melodious chatter, a diction only he can interpret.

An intense wave of tenderness toward this precious, little boy washed over me (again) that day. He has stolen this grandma's heart.

courtesy of 123rf.com

willy nilly journal

A challenge for this artist who loves order, routine and everything-in-its-proper-place is that such perfectionism hinders my creating. I find I labor over a project or page needing every brush stroke the same, each corner lined up, images proportioned properly.

This is fine and dandy if I were drafting.

But I am simply creating beauty to fill my own soul, not drawing up plans for the next downtown high rise.

I find the serendipity of the spontaneous often eludes my art. So, I'm on a continual journey, challenging myself to be a messy, finding happiness in an 'oops' or a stray paint smear.

photo courtesy of aliedwards.com

To further my education into the realm of whatever happens, happens, I completed an e-course by Mary Ann Moss (dispatchfromLA.typepad.com) in which she teaches one how to make a visual journal.

This journal is constructed with pieces of scrap fabric, bits and pieces of craft paper, ephemera, even security envelopes - anything one felt was too unique/good to throw away but has since been stashed in a drawer forgotten and unused.

Before I began the project I promised myself I would only use supplies on hand.  NO running to the craft store.

Here is the finished product. When my inner perfection demon scrunches its face now and then at a mismatch or crooked alignment I laugh it away!  Serendipity reigns and I am quite satisfied with the haphazard, anything goes look of my new journal.

I don't journal, per se. But I'm a HUGE lover of quotes and jot down snippets from books and articles which are found laying around on various surfaces, scribbled on scraps of paper. My intention is to keep this journal by my reading/computer chair and use to contain all that good wisdom.

Friend, Kathleen, helped me figure out the binding process when I visited her yesterday. I came home with three bags filled with more ephemera, lace, fabric, and doo-dads from her enormous stash.  Woot Woot! It feels like Christmas in February!

It is raining sideways today. The 'worst storm of the year'.  Considering it's only 2/22 (Nick's birthday!), that's not saying much. After errands I plan to hole up in my studio - again.  That's what winter is for, isn't it?

val·en·tine /ˈvalənˌtīn/

Many, many years ago, an early Christian saint named Valentinus was imprisoned for performing weddings for soldiers who were forbidden to marry as well as ministering to Christians, who were persecuted under the Roman Empire. During his imprisonment, he is said to have healed the daughter of his jailer. Legend states that before his execution he wrote "from your Valentine" as a farewell to her. Today, Saint Valentine's Day is an official feast day in the Anglican Communion as well as in the Lutheran Church. (thank you Wikipedia)

Since Valentinus was behind bars in a dank, dark dungeon, perhaps he bribed a guard to run to the nearest Walgreens  to purchase  a box of Russel Stover chocolates for the now healed girl. As the story goes, Valentinus healed the daughter.  Nothing is mentioned about his falling in love with her....

There is nothing wrong with fantasizing happy endings, however, so I'll continue to associate Valentine Day with little heart candies that say 'puppy love' and romantic candlelit dinners and dozens of red roses and.....

Since Valentine Day is a time to exchange tokens of affection I made some tokens from my stash of ephemera to send to a few special women in my life.

 Sweetheart Glynn's wall hanging valentine:

And the first Valentine I made for Glynn 34 years ago, a bit faded with age:

In closing, I'll leave you with a special Valentine poem written by blogger, Karen at theartofdoingstuff.com. I wholeheartedly relate to this love poem, unfortunately. It's titled, 'Carbs, a love poem':

My chicken saga continues....

A recent Sunday had tragic overtones when a hawk killed one of my two hens.  Little Lou, the survivor, was traumatized and would not venture outside the coop for a day. I either needed to find her a new home or replenish the flock. My girls bring much pleasure so I decided to start afresh...

Each Saturday there is a chicken auction in Chehalis. Although I've watched plenty of auctions on TV I've not experienced one first hand and experienced a bit of trepidation (fear of the unknown) at the thought of actually bidding, etc. But Little Lou needed companions so I pulled on my big girl panties and became a brave girl.

The auction began with eggs - dozens of them.  The auctioneer moved on to the baby chicks. Next came the rabbits. Then chickens, ducks, and even a turkey or two. Raucous describes the noise level.

We had 2.5 year old Cooper with us so as soon as the chickens came up for bid I started bidding despite eyeing a few chickens down the line that I would love in my flock. Next time.

You'd be proud of me, dear reader, holding up my #69 card, nodding quickly when the auctioneer looked my way for confirmation of a bid and giving a slight shake of my head when the bidding went too high. Within minutes I discovered that an auction can be quite addictive.  With heart pounding and adrenaline rushing, I felt The Power!

I came home with this dandy, Rhode Island Red rooster (he'll help protect the girls). I'll name him Randy for obvious reasons. Three Gold laced Wyandotes and this little buff colored hen, breed yet unknown, complete the flock.

 

 

Alas. Little Lou does NOT appreciate her new roommates and holds herself aloof. Here are the newest members of the flock crowded together in one corner of the coop while roosting at night. Little Lou chooses to roost alone on the other side of the coop. This in spite of a long roosting perch that would hold all of them.

Crazy chickens.....