Once upon a time, my college roommate and I both blogged on a little site called Xanga. She was way more popular than me…you know, on the internet and all.
Now she’s writing about an invisible unicorn endodontist that sabotages her work. Yesterday, I wrote about the weather…
Ladies and Gentlemen, your new blog friend, Kristen.
The snow falling outside my office window in the Heights probably means many things to many people. For me, it’s a gently falling reminder that old man winter beat us back to the ranch. We still aren’t moved back out there.
Just a few days ago, temperatures hovered between 55-60 degrees in our little corner of the planet. Now we’re in the 20s, complete with two days of snow. Illinois is like that, almost specializing in drastic weather changes that come in the night.
For the past few weeks, we’ve been expecting the cold. Our winter supply of hay–minus one flatbed load that we still need to pick up–is safely tucked away, either in barns or under tarps. Our grain room, likewise, is nearly full.
And, yet, the cold hit yesterday, and I found myself running around like mad trying to tie up loose ends.
I ran from store to store. At the first, I picked up a heated base for my chicken water, a sinking heater for my horse trough (the one from last year is toast), and cracked corn.
Then to another store for winter gloves that stand a chance against ranch life.
Back at the ranch, I noticed a shivering alpaca, just one, so I dug the winter coats out of the feed room
Eventually, several of our animals will be in coats, but I prefer to wait to put them on until they act cold. The more they regulate their own temperatures without help, the better.
We also dug out heat lamps, and, before leaving for the night, we shut our old men into their stall with their very own heat lamp.
Today, we will head out again, buying posts at Lowe’s for a pony shelter that needs to go in yesterday and winter clothes for Jeremiah. (Do you believe he went through all of last winter without a heavy winter coat? Said that if he bought one, winter won.)
And so begins another season out at the ranch. Hopefully, the big snows hold off for just a bit longer, and we can get moved back out before the roads get icy. We shall see.
Also, since I’m new at this one, does anyone want to share some friendly advice for keeping chickens nice and cozy? I have two that have bald(ish) backs from getting picked on, and I’m afraid of frostbite.
Let’s just start here, shall we?
The above might just be the greatest picture ever taken…In the history of all of ever.
The 25th marked our first (hopefully annual) bonfire party at the ranch. The week leading up to it marked 7 days of complete insanity trying to prepare for our first (hopefully annual) bonfire party at the ranch.
I will admit that I sort of scheduled the party as a shove; I knew that we would work harder to finish things if we had some sort of deadline. And we did. I was under the (incorrect) impression that we would work harder over the course of 6 weeks or so. No. That is not how we roll around here. Mostly, we let things roll into major crunch time.
Guys, four hours before the party starting, I was painting baseboards. The morning of the party, I was still hanging and glazing cabinet doors. The night before all of this went down? This is what my kitchen looked like.
(And then Jeremiah photo-bombed things.) 
(I would like to point out that we don’t live like this; we still don’t live here at all, and about every corner of the house is undergoing renovations.)
Miscellaneous boxes were still piled high in the living room. Any and all dusting that I had done days before had been rendered pointless as Jeremiah had drilled through drywall and installed new light fixtures since then. (Drywall dust…everywhere…)
I spent Saturday morning working on the house. When I left at 2:00pm (to go back to the other house, fix food, and shower), the house was still a mess. However, as I was the one in charge of feeding all the people, I couldn’t stick around. So, I took a deep breath in, explained to Jeremiah what was still left to be done, and prayed for a miracle as I walked out the door.
When I got back, carrying large quantities of food and fearing that I would be met with chaos, I found my miracle wiping down the counters of a mostly spotless kitchen. Jeremiah’s mama to the rescue!
There is no way to tell this story without mentioning that my mother-in-law completely, totally saved my butt. Seriously. Unequivocally. She showed up early and finished all the cleaning…without even being asked, by the way. (I think I hugged her about ten times over the course of a half an hour…I honestly could have cried.)
Anyhow, thanks to her (and a lot of help the day before from siblings, cousins, parents, etc), we had a very presentable home when most of our guests began showing up.
Our tiniest guest showed up with his mama and dad early in the evening. He and his parents were treated to a private tour, complete with pony introductions! 
Isn’t this the cutest! Violet and Slash love ALL tiny humans, but they seemed to take an extra liking to this little guy. He loved them right back with grins and pats and giggles. It was adorable. Jeremiah and I gave a lot of farm tours over the course of the evening, but this one was probably my favorite. It was definitely my bitty babies’ favorite.
Of course, farm tours notwithstanding, the main event of the day was the bonfire itself…and holy cow was it a fire.
Have I ever mentioned that Jeremiah used to be a professional fire officer?
Did you know that basically all firefighters are pyromaniacs who have managed to productively channel their “interest”?
Well, now you do. There were no fewer than five firefighters present at the bonfire. I was briefly afraid that we would need all of them involved in some sort of professional capacity. 
The guy walking around in bunker gear is my dear, sweet husband/personal pyromaniac.
At one point, he brought out the big guns to push the fire around.
(We actually had to build a secondary, smaller fire to roast marshmallows and hotdogs. The actual bonfire was way too big and way too hot.)
Around 30 people came by over the course of the evening. Friends from college came down and stayed the weekend. My grandparents even took the time to travel down several hours to check things out. (Grandma, I know you read this, so I thought I’d let you know that your pumpkin bars were a major hit!)
Good food. Great company. A fire that will probably live in infamy. For a bonfire, that equals success.
I am so glad we had this party. (I am also so glad that it’s over and the pressure is officially off.)
(By the way, the watermarked photos of the fire were taken by an incredibly talented friend of mine, Bob, who actually takes photos semi-professionally. Big shout out to Bob for letting me use these photos on my humble little blog! Also, if any of you are into web design and would like to trade for pictures, he’s your guy!)
(Second by the way, all of the animals were way out of the way of the fire. Even though it looks from the photos that the flames were rolling towards the pastures, I assure you that everyone was perfectly safe. The llamas weren’t even that interested.)
Sometimes, barn chores suck.
There is nothing fun about hauling individual water buckets down a frozen lane to fill a 100 gallon water trough because your water spigot froze (like it did last winter). There is nothing fun about going out to the barn with a headache, or head cold, or stomach flu. (I’ve done all three.) And there is nothing fun about forgoing potential plans with friends, or trips, or vacations, because you have to take care of the ranch.
Occasionally, taking care of the critters is the last thing I want to do.
Here’s the trick though: sometimes, when hauling my butt to the barn to do what needs to be done, and I’m grumpy and irritated, I let my inner 8-year-old give me a pep talk.
Everyone has that kid who they used to be buried inside somewhere. Mine just happens to be a horse obsessed little girl in pigtails.
From whatever age I was first self-aware, I was obsessed with horses and ponies, but when I was 8, I started actually riding horses. I wore pale pink cowboy boots with fringe and glitter; I’m pretty sure they were never intended to see the inside of a barn. My pint-sized helmet made my head look huge, and my parents had to buy me a ring to wear on one of my fingers because I was still really bad at telling my left from my right.
I still have memories of that first ride, the first time I ever settled into a saddle…and walked around in a circle. I mean, if we’re being honest, there was nothing at all exciting about those first few rides. The horses played follow the leader, and I sat there, thinking I was riding but in reality I was only sitting. Still, I was thrilled!
As a kid, riding lessons were absolutely the highlight of my week. I adored all of the horses I rode, even the more difficult ones, and I wanted a horse of my own more than anything else on the planet.
So, on the days when barn chores suck and my head hurts and I want to scream for things not going well, I try to channel that eight-year-old who would have given up every last material possession she had to have her own horse.
A few weeks ago, when one of my horses had an absolute hissy fit during our lesson and I couldn’t decide whether I wanted to scream or maybe cry (it hadn’t been a great week before the lesson either):
Me: “I hate this. I hate this. I hate this. One easy horse. I just want one easy horse.”
8 year old self: “You have a horse!”
Me: “Yup. I have a horse…one who is acting like a complete turd.”
8 year old self: “But you have a horse.”
Me: (With a notable sigh and shrug…) “Actually, I have five…”
8 year old self: *Jaw drops to floor.*
Me: “…and llamas.”
8 year old self: “You should never, ever be sad.” (Life is simpler when you’re eight.)
Nothing is ever all good or all bad. Most of the time, by a landslide, the farm and my critters are good. Sometimes, they aren’t, but when they’re not, it helps to remember that they are literally my childhood dream come true.
And that I, and my inner eight year old, love them to absolute pieces.
When you have as many animals to care for as we do, it seems like there is always something. Usually, that something is fairly little: horses need worming, llamas need toenails trimmed, one of the barn cats has an owie, and by the way did I notice that one of the chickens was walking funny?
It can get overwhelming at times, and I’m not always as on top of it as I should be, but generally, we keep up pretty well and nothing too catastrophic happens. Until…well…
Meet Amelia
Amelia is one of my two dogs. A rescue of mostly unknown origins–we were told a lab/shepherd mix, but there is more going on there than that–she is my “puppy,” only a few years old. She came home with me as an itty bitty baby from a local animal shelter. Since then, she has grown taller than our full-blooded German Shepherd. I have seldom met a dog with a sweeter disposition or higher energy; I have never met a dog with less natural grace. She is a big, bumbling oaf, but everyone who meets her loves her for it.
Tuesday night of last week, however, something was very, very wrong. Amelia was slow to stand up and generally looked miserable. When she and our other dog, Piper, came in from outside, she stumbled into the bedroom and parked at the foot of the bed (see below). Then she gave me a puppy dog look that can only be translated as “Mom, I don’t feel good!”
I assumed that she had a stomach ache–she is known for eating things she shouldn’t–so I gave her a bit of Pepto and hoped she would feel better. She didn’t like that and went to her kennel for the rest of the night. She refused to eat (which is not at all like her). I briefly considered taking her to the emergency vet, but she didn’t seem in dire pain, so I decided to wait to see how she was in the morning. (After all, if I had a stomach ache, there is no way I would immediately run to the ER to treat it…)
The next day, Wednesday, she was worse. Not only was she moving even slower, her face was majorly swollen and pained. I called the vet as soon as they opened, making the first available appointment. About an hour later, I loaded Amelia into the car and drove her to see her doctor.
It’s remarkable, if you think about it, how much dogs trust their people. Amelia felt horrible, and she hopped into the car, followed me into a strange place, and let a strange man with latex gloves poke and prod her all over, all because I said it was ok.
But anyway, the man with the latex gloves started exploring around her face; it was obvious at that point that she had a mass infection in her face and throat, one that hadn’t really been there the day before. When he lifted her tongue, he saw a pretty good cut. From there he began feeling around for foreign material stuck in her mouth. (Apparently, the tongue is pretty good at cutting open, then sealing back behind, foreign material.) He didn’t feel anything to suggest that anything was stuck inside her mouth; rather, it seemed that something had cut it pretty deeply (chewing on a stick maybe???) then it had become infected by some of the bacteria that is already pretty pervasive inside a pup’s mouth. Let me tell you, it smelled miserable (and I am no stranger to questionable smells). I felt terrible for my puppy, but I was happy that it was something that was easy to treat.
They sent me home with antibiotics and pain killers for her, with an appointment to check in again on Friday.
For the next day and a half she seemed to be improving very slowly. The swelling in her face went down as the antibiotics did their work. She still wouldn’t eat–even though the vet had prescribed a diet of cooked chicken and rice–but she was slightly more active. She hated getting her medicine though. I couldn’t coax her to eat it in pill pockets, or peanut butter, or cheese, so I had to manually open her mouth and stick them down her throat. She looked at me like I had kicked her and started running away whenever my hands reached up to the cabinet where we kept her medicine. That was vaguely weird, as I had given Amelia sea-sickness meds as a puppy anytime we went on a car ride, and she had always been pretty good about it. (She had a habit of vomiting in the car if we went too far, but didn’t want to be left at home).
When Friday morning and her appointment came around, I decided to forgo medicating her, hoping that the vet would be willing to give her fluids and an injection of medicine instead.
We waited our turn in the “dog” waiting room (to be distinguished from the cats’ waiting room on the other side of the building), heading in to see the vet once they called her name.
When the doctor came in, he and I spoke about Amelia’s progress for a few moments.
“How’s Amelia doing?”
“She seems better, but she still won’t eat or drink. I was hoping you could give her some fluids again?”
“That shouldn’t be a problem. Let’s take a look.”
And, with that, he opened Amelia’s mouth, just like I had done the night before, just like he had done two days earlier.
Guys…there are no words…
Right there, in the center of her tongue, something was sticking straight out, something that definitely shouldn’t have been there.
“Holy cow.” The vet looked about as shocked as I felt.
“That wasn’t there last night! I would have noticed.”
I kind of felt the need to jump to my own defense; I had been medicating that dog twice a day…if that had been there, I would have seen it.
“I looked for something last time…there was no indication…but either way, we’ll need to keep her for a while. I’ll have to sedate her and remove this, then take an x-ray to make sure everything is out.
The vet tech scooted Amelia away in a flurry of paperwork and consent forms. I arranged pick up for her, as I had plans to head out of town for the afternoon with Jeremiah. She was in exceptionally good hands.
Later, in the car as we drove along the interstate, I got a phone call from the vet.
“Amelia is in recovery. She will be fine. We ummm…well it was the strangest thing, but that little bit you saw was really just the tip of the iceberg. We pulled a chunk of wood out of her tongue that was about three and a half inches long. It just kept coming.” Then he added, “I thought my vet tech was going to pass out.”
Yup. Best we can figure, she had been running around the yard with a stick pointed straight out, and she hit something. That impact drove the stick under her tongue and it broke off. And the tongue, being remarkably resilient, closed back up behind it in a matter of hours.
They photographed the surgery, which I considered having them email to me so I could share it with you, but then I realized that many of my readers haven’t been around livestock for twenty years and that many of you probably wouldn’t appreciate how cool it was.
But they saved the stick to show me. And I saved it to show you…
That was inside her tongue. Ouch. No wonder she didn’t want me to open her mouth to give her medicine.
Given the depth of the foreign object, and the surgery required to remove it, the vet suggested we leave her with them overnight.
The next morning, I picked her up, paid one of the bigger vet bills I’ve ever seen, and she came home. Since then, she’s recovered nicely, enthusiastically eating her antibiotic laced peanut butter and charging around the yard as though nothing had happened.
The vet confided that it was the strangest thing he had seen in all his years of practice, but Amelia has always been an overachiever.
So, for all of that, we have a happy ending and a healthy pup. If the stick had gone in at a different angle, it might well have killed her immediately. If I had waited to take her to the vet, the infection or dehydration might well have killed her.
But neither of those things happened. She is lucky, and I am grateful.
I rolled over and checked the clocked at 4:22 am. My alarm was set to go off at 4:30, but I had been lying in bed awake for some time. I will never understand why my internal alarm is so “on it” for early mornings, but if I want to get up at 7:30, I had better set an alarm or I absolutely will not wake on time. This time though, I was fortunate. My phone charger wasn’t connected quite right and the battery had drained down to 6%. It’s more than likely that the 4:30 alarm wouldn’t have gone off at all.
As I rolled out of bed, I heard a less-than-half awake Jeremiah roll over beside me.
“Wha time ‘sit?”
“It’s about 4:30, love. Go back to sleep. I’ve got this.”
“You sure?”
“Yup. Go back to bed.”
He did so without ceremony, muttering a thank you as he pulled the covers up. Under normal circumstances, Jeremiah is infinitely easier to get out of bed than me, but he had only crawled under the covers after midnight. The day before, he had been on the road for an obscene number of hours, shoeing horses 5 hours away in Columbia. He deserved to sleep.
I wandered into the bathroom, trying to keep the doors and the dogs quiet. Throwing on yesterday’s barn clothes without a sniff check, I dressed quickly and made my way into the kitchen. Only then did I flip on the lights, punching the power button on my Keurig and waiting for it to warm up. Lights in the kitchen wouldn’t stir the dogs in their kennels to go outside, and 4:30 am is way too early to even think about bothering the neighbors.
I rustled through the cabinets looking for one of my travel cups only to realize that the only ones still at the house had been half-moved; their lids were at the ranch…somewhere.
I was too tired to care, and for the first time I was thankful that my Keurig doesn’t actually brew enough coffee at once to fill a large travel mug. The somewhat anemic fill power gave me two inches of buffer between my hot beverage and the likelihood of a spill.
As quietly as I could, I made my way out the front door and into my car. I turned it on, set the seat heater, and took off toward the ranch. It was just before 5am.
I know that there are certain people who are always up by 5am; I am not one of them. I was first introduced to 5am, and earlier, during high school when I would regularly drag myself out of bed in what I considered the middle of the night to compete at a llama show. L and I would load animals in the dark, grab breakfast at some nondescript interstate McDonald’s, and spend the day fluffing wool, cleaning dirty knees (they always get dirty knees), and prancing our prized pasture poodles in front of judges who often liked them almost as much as we did. Later, when halter classes were done, Minnett and I would throw grooming to the wind…sort of…and head into performance classes where he would prove that he was just about willing to follow me through fire. (Don’t worry, there was never actually fire at the shows, but you try convincing an adult male llama to follow you up and down steps (one at a time), under tarps, and into tunnels, and then tell me it isn’t sort of the same thing.) I always loved showing, even considering it’s early wake up time.
I haven’t been to a show since undergrad, but I have had plenty of cause to wake up at 5am. Whether catching an early flight for my job or tagging along with my husband on one of his shoeing runs (which almost never start after 6am), I still set my share of 4:30 alarms. (In an effort towards full disclosure, I really do try hard to avoid anything that makes me get up before 5am…) Still, this time, I wasn’t up early for any of those things. This time, I was meeting the vet.
Some of you might remember back in June when I was on vacation with Jeremiah and our stud got out with the girls. (Ah vacations…) It was determined that he had probably been out with them for 12 hours or so… I can’t say I know for a fact what he spent his time doing, but I have some very strong suspicions.
I got to the ranch about 20 minutes before the vet, flipped the lights on in a barn, and was greeted with some very sleepy, and very familiar, expressions. (Llamas have this uncanny way of asking why on earth you would disturb their slumber at such an unholy hour without saying a word.) Six of our females were shut up in a stall. In truth, any female in the herd could be pregnant, but those six were the “concerning” ones. I had two maidens, one that has a hard time keeping weight on, and three with genetic issues.
They watched as I got things set up, pulling the ultrasound out of the tack room and setting it up in the aisle. I haltered each of the girls, finishing about the time the vet pulled up in his diesel truck.
“Good Morning!” I yelled from across the barn feeling oddly chipper; I sometimes go through that phase when I’m stupid tired. No way it would last
“Morning. Thanks for coming out so early.”
I responded with a quick “no problem,” even though I would never have come out this early by choice; our llama vet only makes farm calls before dawn or in an emergency. I’d take the former over the later any day.
Without much ado, we pulled the girls out of the stall. By now I should know that it is worthless to try and predict their behavior. I apologized for one girl in advance; she had been born on the farm but come back as a rescue and could be very scared. She, of course, was perfect. I deemed another an “old pro” before we started. She was the only one of the group to spit.
In quick succession, they were pronounced “not pregnant,” and I breathed a sigh of relief. For the females with genetic concerns, a pregnancy would have meant a termination, and that is a serious deal for llamas. The vet explained that the drug could make them hypothermic. For the other three, it would have meant a lot of fuss and worry, especially come next Spring.
The vet turned off the ultrasound. I let the girls back outside. Everything was said and done before dawn.
“Well,” I told myself as I ran through barn chores after he left, “that’s one less thing to worry about.”
In truth, I will still be watching for baby bellies and udders come late May of next year. The possibility of a pregnant female is still reasonably high (and if there is a cria–cria, by the way, is the proper name for a baby llama or alpaca–next year, I’m still planning to name it Orlando), but all of my high risk girls are happily baby-less right now.
And that, my friends, is one less thing to worry about.
Hey Guys! This is the guest post I promised you, written by the talented and beautiful Amy, one of my dearest friends and a great blogger. I took over her blog for the day as well, writing on the same weekend. You can check out my post at Mouse of the House. And, while you’re over there, read and subscribe to her blog too! It doesn’t disappoint.
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My good friend, Cherity (you know her, I presume), and I spent the last weekend in September with two of our other friends (Katie and Kristen) at the lovely Farmers’ Guest House in Galena, IL. It was our second, hopefully annual, such trip. While we were there, Cherity approached me with the idea of doing guest posts about the weekend on each other’s blogs. Since Cherity is a talented and experienced bloggstress and I am a fumbling novice, I found the idea to be a bit intimidating. But I figured, why not? Could be fun! But then I really struggled when it came to actually writing this post. Guest blogging for someone that I have long believed to be a better writer than I am just freaks me out a little bit. I know, I know…it’s not a competition, but that doesn’t keep me from wanting to bring my “A game.” Problem is, I haven’t been doing this very long, so even my “A game” isn’t much to speak of at this point. But I promise I’ll do my best not to bore you!
There are two things that I remember most clearly about the weekend…
First… I was away from my 6 month old son, overnight…for two nights, for the first time ever. A year ago, when we first planned the trip, I thought that after 6 months of motherhood I’d surely be ready for a weekend away to relax and spend some time with friends. That assumption seems laughable now that I actually have a child. In reality, despite thoroughly enjoying the company of my good friends, I still lost track of the number of times that I caught myself thinking, “I wish my baby was here.” I also spent a lot more time than I anticipated looking at photos and videos of him on my phone, while at the same time worrying to myself that my friends would think that I’m crazy/obsessed with motherhood/no fun anymore. Additionally, I had to fight the urge to refer to myself as “mama” or “this mama,” as I’ve recently grown accustomed to doing. Even I think that’s kind of annoying, but it’s a remarkably hard habit to break once you’ve started! My friends are very gracious, though…if they got sick of hearing me talk about Sammy, they never let on that they did. And they looked at all of my photos and videos with nary an eye roll.
Being away from my son wasn’t JUST an emotional hardship. There were some logistical burdens as well. Like pumping around the clock. Now, being a mother that works away from home 3 days a week, I’m no stranger to pumping. It seems like the time it takes to pump is a small price to pay in order to keep my son nourished when I can’t be there to nurse him. It’s also way cheaper than buying formula. But on the days when I have to pump, I typically only have to do it twice in order extract enough milk to cover the 4 feedings that I miss while I’m at the office during the day. It’s not that big of a hassle. Pumping around the clock is another story. I felt like I was constantly having to stop whatever I was doing to go back to my room at the bed and breakfast and hook myself up to the pump for a good 15 or 20 minutes. I’ve never felt more like a cow. Only instead of cud, I chewed on chocolate chip cookies from the B&B’s bottomless cookie jar. On second thought, I guess it wasn’t ALL bad.
I also had to hide my milk. The bed and breakfast provides a fridge and freezer for their guests to use, but since there are some people that get all weirded out about human breast milk, as a courtesy, I decided to disguise it somehow. I started off by putting my milk bags into an empty plastic ice cream container. It seemed like the perfect solution, at first, since the plastic was opaque and no one would think twice about seeing an ice cream container in the freezer. It also seemed like a great way to justify my extreme levels of ice cream consumption in the last six months…”See…it’s a good thing I bought and ate all that ice cream…I really needed those containers!” But then I got to thinking…what if another guest sees the container and assumes that the B&B has upped their game to provide not only a bottomless cookie jar, but also complimentary ice cream? I could just see another guest grabbing two cookies and then opening up the container with the intent of making a delicious ice cream sandwich, only to be surprised by a two day supply of my breast milk. In attempt to avoid that awkward moment, I decided to further disguise my stash in a reusable Piggly Wiggly bag. Every time I came down from my room, I’d stop by the freezer to covertly slip a couple of bags of milk into my hiding place. But it’s hard to be “covert” when handling a bag with a giant pig face on the front of it. I’m sure no one was fooled. But I tried.
The second thing that I remember most clearly about the weekend was that I was sick as a dog. I had come down with a sinus infection earlier that week and, despite being on antibiotics, still wasn’t feeling much improvement. I try not to let sickness hold me back when I have fun plans, because you can either be sick and doing something fun, or be sick and doing nothing. I’d rather be sick and doing something fun. Still sickness has a way of putting a damper on even the most enjoyable situations. Over that weekend I popped a lot of ibuprofen and had several, “ugh…I feel like death” moments. It wasn’t ideal, but I’m still glad I went on the trip. I just hope I’m healthy when we do this trip again next year. Last year I was pregnant and battling morning sickness. I really don’t want me being sick to be part of the tradition.
I’m realizing that I’ve told you very little about the actual trip. Sorry about that. Honestly, the first time I tried to write this post there was a lot more about what we did on the trip, but then I decided that if there’s one thing more boring than writing a play-by-play of my weekend (even a fun weekend), it’s reading a play-by-play of someone else’s vacation. Since I promised to try not to bore you, here are just a few highlights.
1). My friends. These girls are so much fun. I’m so glad that I know them. Even though one of our conversations alternated between the topics of health insurance and the fact that we’re so old and boring now that we choose to converse about things like health insurance, I still enjoy talking with all of them! Another one of our conversations during the weekend involved determining which race we’d belong to if we were characters in The Lord of the Rings. These girls are just the right amount of weird for me! If you care to know, it was decided that despite my height and love for singing, I would be hobbit. As I sit here contemplating second breakfast, I have to say, I agree.
***Almostfarmgirl’s note: It was decided that I would be a woman of Rohan…because, like Eowyn, I have an affinity for horses, and, of all of us, I was voted most likely to hold a sword and scream “I am no man!”***
2). The Farmers’ Guest House. Do go if you get a chance! This place is amazing! I already mentioned the bottomless cookie jar. But there is also wine and cheese time every night at 5 PM. On the first night that we were there, I had actually arrived before the rest of the girls (a statistical rarity) and was able to enjoy the wine time with some of the other guests. Then, when the rest of my friends arrived, the innkeepers, Don and Susan, sent up another bottle of wine so that the other girls could enjoy wine time, too, even though they had missed the official gathering.
The inn is beautifully decorated! Last year we planned our trip in the summer, so it was a nice surprise this year to arrive and see the whole place decorated for fall. The rooms are beautifully decorated, too, although not seasonally like the rest of the inn. They’re also very clean (super important to me) and comfortable. I just feel so relaxed when I’m there.
And I can’t forget the breakfasts. They are phenomenal! One morning, as just one part of a delicious meal, Susan baked little individual apple pies for everyone. They were lovely. Don and Susan are so very accommodating when it comes to catering to dietary issues. Our group had a few and they never made us feel like we were inconveniencing them in any way.
3). We went for a lovely bike ride on a trail that ran through the woods parallel to the Galena River. I hadn’t been on a bike in over a year, so it felt great! And it was a glorious day for a bike ride…sunny and cool! Halfway through the ride we stopped for a picnic lunch at a conveniently trailside located picnic table. We didn’t discover the wasp nest that was attached to the roof over the table until we were just about to leave, but luckily the wasps never discovered us either.
I would have been happy to bike all afternoon, but sadly the bikes the Katie and Cherity had rented were terrible. The seats wouldn’t stay in position, so every mile or so one of them would have to stop to readjust their seat. I couldn’t blame them for not wanting to put up with that all day, so we decided to spend the rest of the day shopping.
4). Shopping in downtown Galena is so fun. Being a Midwestern tourist destination, it gets a little crowded on the weekends, but it’s so quaint.
And the shops have some really nice stuff. I was able to find fun and unique birthday gifts for both my niece and nephew, an anniversary gift for my husband (better late than never!), and a really cute dress that my aforementioned good friends helped me justify purchasing. I’m really excited about the dress. Katie even bought me the scarf that the shop had accessorized it with as an early Christmas gift. Now, if only I can find some time to shave my legs, I’ll have a really cute outfit to wear out somewhere this fall. Or maybe I’ll just buy some leggings. That’s probably more realistic.
While shopping, we also came across some interesting books, including this little gem.
5). The restaurants did not disappoint. We ate at a place called Green Street something-or-other twice. Both times I had something fish related. First it was the Friday night fish fry, and the second time (Sunday afternoon) I had the fish tacos. Both were delicious! Another night we ate at Vinny Vanucchi’s Little Italy. I remember the name of that place because it’s my favorite restaurant in Galena. It’s reported to be haunted, but we think the building is just so old that the floors are slanted, which causes things to fall off shelves. Regardless, they have awesome food! I don’t remember what my meal was called, but it had pasta, chicken, a spicy cream sauce, broccoli, tomatoes, and mushrooms….aaaand now I’m hungry. So good!
6). Lastly, I would be remiss if I didn’t mention playing the game Cards Against Humanity. I’d heard about the game before that weekend, but had never had the pleasure of playing it. What a blast! For those who have never played it, be warned…it’s not appropriate for children or people who are easily offended. But, if you’re like me and my friends, and you have a somewhat twisted sense of humor, you’ll probably get a kick out of it, too. I laughed so hard while playing this game. I’m going to credit it with helping me finally start to get over my sickness, because I felt considerably better the morning after we played it. That can’t just be a coincidence, right?
So…that’s about it. We had a great time and I can’t wait to do it all again next year. But for now, I’m back home with my adorable baby boy and my husband. Home is where hobbits feel most comfortable, you know. If you care to read any more about my “domestic musings,” you can do so by visiting my blog: Mouse of the House. Thanks!
Ever since we moved our horses to the ranch (very early in the pre-buying process), Jeremiah and I have been talking about, finally, being able to entertain large numbers of people. For the first time in our married life, we finally feel like we have the space to have big get-togethers.
A few weeks ago, in my eternal optimism, I decided that we would definitely be moved back in by the middle of October. (I have no idea why I thought that, but I did…) With that in mind, I decided we should hold a bonfire/housewarming at the end of October. You know, really celebrate moving back in after all of the set backs and “rug pulled out from under our feet” moments along this crazy ride. And what’s not to celebrate? We are, after all, moving onto our dream property. Our horses are there! Eggs are fresh every day! I have little ponies! I’m taking care of llamas who I have LOVED since I was a teenager! This place, and everything it is and can be, is amazing and beautiful and a huge gift to our lives.
I figured we could have a lot of our projects done by then. We could be moved back in. All would be more settled and right with the world.
But, the thing is, we’re not actually moved back in yet. And, the more I think about it, the more I have no idea why I thought we would be.
So that started me thinking. (I should not be allowed to do that…)
It’s going to get cold soon. In fact, the cold settled in for a bit over the last few days. Thus far, it hasn’t gotten cold enough to require turning on the heat in the big house, but it will. (And never mind heating a house I don’t live in…) Once it does, we won’t be able to vent out the house like we have been; since we moved out, it has been shut up a few times, and each time the mothball smell and mold issues came back like a raging flood. Jeremiah and I can’t even really work in there when the house is not venting. There is pretty much no chance we can consider moving back in, with the cold, until we can bring Serv-Pro in to clean up the basement.
And while we’re on the subject of things I’m vaguely panicked about, I’ve had Jeremiah’s truck for several weeks while he’s been running around God’s Half Acre with my car. And suddenly I’m realizing how much it costs us to keep the vehicles running back and forth to the ranch every day. (I think it’s around 10-15 dollars a day for the truck…) I could do the math, but I really don’t want to. I am pretty sure that amount would more than pay for our hay for the winter though…
Oh, and speaking of panic, the snow is coming guys. According to the Farmer’s Almanac, who totally nailed their predictions last year, the snow in my area is going to be another snowmageddon… Last year, going back and forth during the worst of the winter was pretty bad. There were times when the roads were so bad that it took over an hour to make the twenty minute drive to the ranch. We were hauling water from one barn to the other, coming out multiple times a day to knock ice off the horses (who didn’t want to go into their nice, bedded stall with the heat lamp), and the only thing that made all of that ok was the knowledge that we wouldn’t have to do that routine from the Heights again. And, it seems, maybe we will.
And, so, I’m panicking a bit over here.
I think I’ll go breathe into a paper bag now…
Ever have so much on your plate that even sleep seems to get bumped out of the way? Not on purpose, mind you, just as an effect of your brain’s constant motion. For me, sleep has been tenuous for about 2 weeks,.
Maybe it’s the stress of everything–the move, living away from the ranch, buying Jeremiah’s new shoeing trailer (hopefully next week), renovations, caring for all the animals, work…believe it or not the list continues–but sleep has not been my friend of late.
Yesterday, I came home from morning chores and crashed for nearly two hours. Naps are one of those things that seem like they should help…but then actual sleep time comes around and you’re like, “Eh, I’m good. I took a nap.” Then you’re tired the next day, and come midafternoon you probably really feel like taking a nap again. (Don’t do it. It’s a trap.)
Usually my solution to temperamental sleep is to make myself busier, but I’m not sure that’s possible at the moment.
For those of you interested in updates, the new floor was put into the master bedroom about a week and a half ago. That is a huge sigh of relief for me, as it indicates that one room is basically done. (Hint: If you’re renovating the entire house, like we are, you need at least one room that doesn’t remind you of all the work yet to be done.)
The old, leaking window in the living room was removed and replaced. It was super weird to see the giant hole in the house while the contractors worked. The good news? Turns out, while the leaking did rot out the floor, and some of the sub-floor, the studs were in perfect shape. (Meaning we did not have to cut a giant hole in the living room down to the basement.) The bad news? According to the contractor, we definitely need to replace the roof ASAP. That is now on the top of the list of Spring projects. Luckily, our contractor is awesome and the price is pretty reasonable.
We’re also hoping to wrap up the dining room soon. Two days ago, I worked on pulling up the floor with a claw hammer. The floor that’s currently installed was popping up in a lot of places, some tiles were water damaged, and there wasn’t any flooring in the center of the room (where an area rug used to go). We will be putting in bamboo, the same floor we put in the bedroom. I got about halfway through before I had an ADD moment and started another project. Jeremiah finished before I came back to it.
And, on the ranch:
Remember how I wasn’t going to have any roosters but then ended up with one? Make that two.
Turns out my pullet, “Henny Penny,” wasn’t so Henny. His name is now “Frack” to match the other rooster “Frick.” Frick is pretty cool; Frack is kind of a jerk. All I’m saying is he better shape up; Jeremiah has nearly ended him at least once…
Also, awesome news, I’m riding Cinco! I’ve been having a trainer come and work with us once a week for a about a month now, and I’m fairly thrilled. (Of course, yesterday he was pretty much a turd, but we won’t talk about yesterday.) Now, after all these years of wishing I could keep my horse at home, I’m considering boarding him over the winter at the trainer’s. Somewhat ironic, I know, but I really would like to be able to keep working with him over the winter, and without an improved riding area at my place, it won’t happen unless I move him.
We’ve done a lot of work together this summer; I would hate to have to start over in the Spring…
Finally, just because it’s cool…
Albino Clover! Isn’t it pretty? I saw it on the way to the horse barn yesterday and had to take a photo…
By the way, my next post will be by a guest blogger. I will be taking over her blog for a day as well. Stay tuned.
When I was a toddler, I was notorious for making messes. I was the baby whose highchair sat on a plastic drop cloth. On spaghetti night (my favorite!) I ate dinner in little more than a diaper, and I was taken straight from the highchair to the tub. I would have spaghetti in places my parents wouldn’t have thought possible, including in my hair.
Since then, things have gotten better, but, if I’m being completely honest, I never grew out of the mess making. I rarely eat without dropping food on myself. I can’t cook without creating chaos in the kitchen. I am positively incapable of doing barn chores without turning myself into an absolute hot mess (and “hot” is probably wildly inaccurate).
So you guys can maybe imagine how painting turns out for me.
Two days ago at a restaurant:
“You have a mark on your face…?”
“Oh…I know.”
Yesterday at work:
“So what color are you painting your cabinets?”
*I search over my arms for a second, find a relatively large swath of paint, and point.*
“That color.”
So far, I have sacrificed two shirts, a pair of shorts, and a pair of jeans to the painting gods. I have found paint in my hair, but only once so far. I have also gotten paint on the floor, the countertops, a mirror, and the walls. (As well as on various limbs I can’t seem to scrub hard enough.)
But…so far…I am digging the new cabinet color. When I finish, which is a while off with my schedule, I will show all of you, but in the meantime, if I happen to cross your mind and you wonder what I’m up to, there’s a really good chance it’s painting…
Almost Farmgirl 