Yesterday, Jack, asleep at the foot of the bed, suddenly raised his head, and let out a long, mournful howl. He was asleep, and didn't wake up until he stopped howling. I spoke to him, he looked at me. He got up and lay down at my shoulder. I spoke soothingly, and stroked his head.
The buffington hen is brooding again this year. She is sitting on at least three eggs. We'll see.
Thursday, May 7, 2015
Sunday, April 5, 2015
Painting
Last December, I realized the chicken house was in bad need of a new coat of paint, so I bought five gallons of green house paint. The weather was great for painting, so I gave it two coats, and had plenty left over. So I painted one of the old dog houses, the little cover over the well pump, the address sign that I built, and the little post nearby. Also the gate to the garden, and the one to the (useless) fruit trees. (As I type, some very fine spring snow is falling).
A place should have a signature color. Goose Ridge is green. It starts out rather bright, which at first gave me some pause, but as it dries, it darkens to a very agreeable shade. Now, the place matches.
Here in the high desert of extreme NE California, Spring is basically a slightly warmer version of Winter. The flakes I saw a few minutes ago are but a memory. Nothing now. Dim, and while not really cold, definitely not warm. At least the high winds that had been predicted have not as yet materialized.
The standpipe near my trailer is dripping. I brought this to AJ's attention, but she did not seem to really get what I was talking about. Couple of years ago, she told me she has a real thing about wasting water. Now, I can't get her to understand this drip needs to be fixed. I might have to take matters into my own hands, and call the damn plumber myself. Hell, it took some time to get her to understand what I meant by "standpipe".
When I came here, (this July it will be three years) AJ still had her wits about her. Basically the same sense of herself, and all. But I can see how she has deteriorated. I have to watch her more closely. Not long ago, she left a stove burner on. There have been other things. Makes me wonder how I'll be later
on, after she's dead, and the place is mine. If that even takes place.
I doubt anybody will read this, or any of my other blogs. Nobody really gives a shit. It's the same principle as nobody wants to see your vacation videos. Well, maybe a sibling or two might see, but...I don't know. I'm on my third Guinness, so I'll soon get a little splotchy.
My attitude is that this is my place. I don't flaunt it, I just mean my inner attitude. I take care of it. I buy the chicken feed, I buy Jack's food. Except for the basic house bills (I give her $150 a week for my electricity use) I'm effectively running this place. If not for me, AJ would not be able to stay here. She wouldn't even be able to wheel the weekly garbage out the front gate. She sure as hell wouldn't be able to heft those fifty-pound bags of chicken feed, haul them down to the coop, put it into the cans. There was no agreement RE my buying feed for Jack or the chickens...I just took it upon myself to do it, because she was forgetting half the time. I had been giving $100 a week, but I decided to increase it this Winter.
Somebody, most likely one or all of my siblings, will read that and think I'm bragging on myself. Fuck you. I took this place in hand, by-God. I trimmed trees so the fucking state wouldn't cry about fire danger; I painted, I took the little dog in hand, because I knew he'd otherwise be an obnoxious shit. Because of me, he's a good dog, and I love him dearly. I sweated over this place, worked hard enough that Dad told me he was proud of me. I love this place. I'm gonna die on this property.
Well, now it's snowing in earnest. Definitely spring. Should spring be capitalized? Hell, I don't know, as Mom used to say. Mom said a lot of things, like, "Immediately, if not sooner!" And, "I hate that with a purple passion!" This should be another paragraph, but as I said, Guinness #3. Okay, 4. These don't count, really, because they're bottles, the Westernized version of Guinness. Over-carbonated, bastardized. The canned Guinness is where it's at. The black and gold. Original G, with that great head. Got plenty of that, and it'll be next. Fuck, I drink too much.
Speaking of Mom, she was a multi-faceted character. Norman Rockwell called her one (pretty sure it was a Sunday) morning to say he admired her sketches. She was taking the Famous Artist Course. She was particularly good at sketching. She also did oil painting. Anyway, Rockwell was on the Board, or something. But he did call Mom, and said he liked her work. That happened.
Mom told this story more than once: her daddy worked for the federal government as a civillian contractor. Grandpa was a very silent character, minded his own business. He was in a pool of drivers for the US Air Force, when James Stewart was a colonel. Stewart (yes, that Stewart) always requested Grandpa, because he wasn't star-struck.
A place should have a signature color. Goose Ridge is green. It starts out rather bright, which at first gave me some pause, but as it dries, it darkens to a very agreeable shade. Now, the place matches.
Here in the high desert of extreme NE California, Spring is basically a slightly warmer version of Winter. The flakes I saw a few minutes ago are but a memory. Nothing now. Dim, and while not really cold, definitely not warm. At least the high winds that had been predicted have not as yet materialized.
The standpipe near my trailer is dripping. I brought this to AJ's attention, but she did not seem to really get what I was talking about. Couple of years ago, she told me she has a real thing about wasting water. Now, I can't get her to understand this drip needs to be fixed. I might have to take matters into my own hands, and call the damn plumber myself. Hell, it took some time to get her to understand what I meant by "standpipe".
When I came here, (this July it will be three years) AJ still had her wits about her. Basically the same sense of herself, and all. But I can see how she has deteriorated. I have to watch her more closely. Not long ago, she left a stove burner on. There have been other things. Makes me wonder how I'll be later
on, after she's dead, and the place is mine. If that even takes place.
I doubt anybody will read this, or any of my other blogs. Nobody really gives a shit. It's the same principle as nobody wants to see your vacation videos. Well, maybe a sibling or two might see, but...I don't know. I'm on my third Guinness, so I'll soon get a little splotchy.
My attitude is that this is my place. I don't flaunt it, I just mean my inner attitude. I take care of it. I buy the chicken feed, I buy Jack's food. Except for the basic house bills (I give her $150 a week for my electricity use) I'm effectively running this place. If not for me, AJ would not be able to stay here. She wouldn't even be able to wheel the weekly garbage out the front gate. She sure as hell wouldn't be able to heft those fifty-pound bags of chicken feed, haul them down to the coop, put it into the cans. There was no agreement RE my buying feed for Jack or the chickens...I just took it upon myself to do it, because she was forgetting half the time. I had been giving $100 a week, but I decided to increase it this Winter.
Somebody, most likely one or all of my siblings, will read that and think I'm bragging on myself. Fuck you. I took this place in hand, by-God. I trimmed trees so the fucking state wouldn't cry about fire danger; I painted, I took the little dog in hand, because I knew he'd otherwise be an obnoxious shit. Because of me, he's a good dog, and I love him dearly. I sweated over this place, worked hard enough that Dad told me he was proud of me. I love this place. I'm gonna die on this property.
Well, now it's snowing in earnest. Definitely spring. Should spring be capitalized? Hell, I don't know, as Mom used to say. Mom said a lot of things, like, "Immediately, if not sooner!" And, "I hate that with a purple passion!" This should be another paragraph, but as I said, Guinness #3. Okay, 4. These don't count, really, because they're bottles, the Westernized version of Guinness. Over-carbonated, bastardized. The canned Guinness is where it's at. The black and gold. Original G, with that great head. Got plenty of that, and it'll be next. Fuck, I drink too much.
Speaking of Mom, she was a multi-faceted character. Norman Rockwell called her one (pretty sure it was a Sunday) morning to say he admired her sketches. She was taking the Famous Artist Course. She was particularly good at sketching. She also did oil painting. Anyway, Rockwell was on the Board, or something. But he did call Mom, and said he liked her work. That happened.
Mom told this story more than once: her daddy worked for the federal government as a civillian contractor. Grandpa was a very silent character, minded his own business. He was in a pool of drivers for the US Air Force, when James Stewart was a colonel. Stewart (yes, that Stewart) always requested Grandpa, because he wasn't star-struck.
Cottontails Under the Deck
About a week ago, I caught sight of the gray back of a critter as it went around a corner of the deck. I could tell by the way it moved, that it was a rabbit. Then Jack started spending a lot of time under there. He'd whine and bark.
Turns out there was a litter of kits. About four. I tossed them some lettuce yesterday. But this morning, I found one dead. Evidently the cat got it. No sign of the others. Maybe the mother, which I haven't seen since that one quick sight, came back and moved them all out. Or they are too scared to come out.
Turns out there was a litter of kits. About four. I tossed them some lettuce yesterday. But this morning, I found one dead. Evidently the cat got it. No sign of the others. Maybe the mother, which I haven't seen since that one quick sight, came back and moved them all out. Or they are too scared to come out.
Friday, March 27, 2015
Happy Birthday
Fifty-eight today. Seth said we'd all be better off to forget about age entirely.
Drank too much yesterday. But I did start cleaning the trailer.
Drank too much yesterday. But I did start cleaning the trailer.
Saturday, February 21, 2015
Jack, and other things...
AJ set it up to take Jack to the vet for a teeth cleaning. He had to spend the night there. This was the other day. I missed him. At least it wasn't his first time. AJ was at the counter when the girl brought him out. I knelt, and he came to me, his brush tail moving swiftly over his back. He licked my face and whined happily. I took him out to let him pee. He squatted, held forth for some seconds. Now he is curled up beside me. He is watching me.
It feels odd. He is effectively my dog. He spends most (99.99%) of his time with me. But he is still officially AJ's dog. I buy his food, give it to him...but she pays the vet bills. Eventually, when AJ dies, Jack will be mine. If not for me, and the strong hand I provided him, Jack would be the most obnoxious thing on earth. Not through any fault of his own, but because he is too much for an eighty-six year-old woman.
He is now in the habit, every night, of going to AJ's chair to say good-night. I rise from the couch at eight, put on my jacket, grab my Mag Light, get Jack off the couch, and he goes straight to AJ to be petted. He's so smart. Once he learns something, he really learns it.
Aj is fading. Slowly. She fears death. Always been enamoured of the physical. Comfortable in her own skin. Thinks the physical is where it's at.
I guess all people, except for me, fear death. There is no death, because this physical farce is unreal.
Nothing unreal exists.
What I call "AJ" is a figure in my dream. So is Jack, of course. So is everything I think I see. In the part of my dream where I am a child, AJ was our favorite aunt, my siblings and I. Driving up from Los Angeles in her yellow Austin Healey. She was exotic, smart, opinionated, and seemed magical to us...and the neighborhood kids who gathered around her little convertible to gawk.
But today, she's a tired old woman, a shell of a shell of the dynamo she was back then. It wears her out to drive into town to do her library duty. Her back hurts almost constantly. Good thing she isn't real. Good thing this is all in my mind. Good thing I'm drunk.
Goose Ridge. I built a new sign for the house number. Painted it green, from the left over paint I used on the chicken house. I attached it to the stump where the old numbers were. This is much more visible. The old dog house, and the little cover for the pump, I also painted green. The address sign is great. I did a good job. AJ likes it. Four geese flew over this morning. They nest on the two respective ridges, north and south. They're noisy, but I love them. Every year they come, like old friends.
It feels odd. He is effectively my dog. He spends most (99.99%) of his time with me. But he is still officially AJ's dog. I buy his food, give it to him...but she pays the vet bills. Eventually, when AJ dies, Jack will be mine. If not for me, and the strong hand I provided him, Jack would be the most obnoxious thing on earth. Not through any fault of his own, but because he is too much for an eighty-six year-old woman.
He is now in the habit, every night, of going to AJ's chair to say good-night. I rise from the couch at eight, put on my jacket, grab my Mag Light, get Jack off the couch, and he goes straight to AJ to be petted. He's so smart. Once he learns something, he really learns it.
Aj is fading. Slowly. She fears death. Always been enamoured of the physical. Comfortable in her own skin. Thinks the physical is where it's at.
I guess all people, except for me, fear death. There is no death, because this physical farce is unreal.
Nothing unreal exists.
What I call "AJ" is a figure in my dream. So is Jack, of course. So is everything I think I see. In the part of my dream where I am a child, AJ was our favorite aunt, my siblings and I. Driving up from Los Angeles in her yellow Austin Healey. She was exotic, smart, opinionated, and seemed magical to us...and the neighborhood kids who gathered around her little convertible to gawk.
But today, she's a tired old woman, a shell of a shell of the dynamo she was back then. It wears her out to drive into town to do her library duty. Her back hurts almost constantly. Good thing she isn't real. Good thing this is all in my mind. Good thing I'm drunk.
Goose Ridge. I built a new sign for the house number. Painted it green, from the left over paint I used on the chicken house. I attached it to the stump where the old numbers were. This is much more visible. The old dog house, and the little cover for the pump, I also painted green. The address sign is great. I did a good job. AJ likes it. Four geese flew over this morning. They nest on the two respective ridges, north and south. They're noisy, but I love them. Every year they come, like old friends.
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