Black-cap raspberries abound on these acres, available to little hands. A caveat to the “wait until it turns red before picking” rule, these raspberries are not ripe until their redness turns dark – the color of blackberries. Of course, the rule that supersedes all picking: get the approval of a grown-up to make sure berries are safe to pick and eat.
If you would have asked us about our guineas a month ago, we would have described them with a bucket-full of adjectives tinged with irritation. Loud. (we even called them The Louds, inspired by this children’s book) Skittish. Foolish. Stupid. As for their tick-eating abilities, the real reason we invited them to shack up here, we had a vague suspicion that they were helping, but jeered at the claim that 90% of their diet was comprised of bugs. Because they ate a lot of feed.
And if you’ve picked up on my use of the past tense in describing The Louds, you’re rather astute. Because plural is no longer needed when referring to the guineas; now there’s only one. And not because the other nine are in our freezer.
We’ve been robbed. By raccoons. And we caught them red-handed. In case you, like so many we’ve told the story to, thought raccoons to be harmless or vegetarian or at the very least, no threat to poultry, I offer this tale as a public service announcement.
I was deep in the throes of the Twilight* series one night, reading frantically, enjoying the fresh breeze from the open windows. A banging noise outside briefly penetrated the Vampire haze of my awareness and I recognized the chatter of raccoons. No doubt they were getting into the garbage cans again. A few more times the noise persisted, until I thought I heard a chicken cluck. At that point, I jumped out of bed, put my ear to the window, and soon heard a commotion in the chicken coop. I yelled for Andrew, fast asleep, to wake up and raced down the stairs and out to the coop as fast as I could to head off as much damage as possible. Once in the coop, the beam of my flashlight swept the perimeter, assessing the damage. And there, in the chicken-size doorway, was the tell-tale bandit’s mask of a raccoon. Busted. I soon discovered two guineas lying injured on the floor of the coop and that several more birds, chickens included, were missing entirely. We quickly learned that the block of wood we used to haphazardly secure the door shut was easily pushed aside by the string of neighborhood raccoons, lined up for their free chicken dinner. Without our knowing it, the coop had turned into something of a soup kitchen.
You may or may not know that this is a bitter deja vu. Last year too, we donated many from our flock of chicks to the rural raccoon population. How easy it is to be lulled into a false sense of security and let the guard down. We had gotten lazy and overconfident. Again.
So now we have only one guinea remaining. He has been dubbed Vinny, now that he is identifiable and able to be picked out of a lineup. He’s taken to hanging out by our front and back doors, never venturing very far. That bucket-full of adjectives reserved for describing the guineas – it’s been emptied and refilled with endearing exclamations for Vinny, frequent, neighborly greetings, and lots of sympathy. Does he feel all alone? It breaks my heart. Just yesterday I noticed him trying to put some romantic moves on a hen. Is interspecies dating feasible? Allowed? Perhaps Vinny should take out a personal ad or give eHarmony a try.
Brownie, named by Isadora before she had a solid grasp on her colors, is a survivor of that night. Somehow she was bitten in the head and lived to tell the tale. That hit a little too close for comfort; Brownie is the absolute favorite of Daddio, the apple of his eye. In the ranking of his female sweethearts, Brownie sometimes (jokingly) ranks above me and Isadora, so you can understand how it was necessary for me to call in with daily updates on her healing progress. She appears to be just fine and healed up.
And where was Chuck Norris in all of this? Isn’t the rooster reputed to be the appointed one to face off the intruder and sacrifice himself, if necessary, to protect his flock?? Or at least to defend the honor of his lady, as Brownie clearly is? “Where were you, Chuck Norris?” I ask, part disappointed in his apparent cowardice and part relieved that he was unharmed. What are those spurs for, if not to head off would-be assassins? Where is the chivalry?
Despite this, or perhaps because of it all, Penny has stopped roosting in the now safer, fortified walls of the coop. She has a roost someplace we’ve not been able to find yet, out in the open. While that makes her completely vulnerable to all of the furry and winged predators of the night, she’s somehow managed to survive a few weeks on this program. Our last sighting was 2 days ago yesterday, so she’s made it for some time now. I’ve been scratching my head, concocting theories of why she might be doing this. Does she have a nest somewhere that she’s sitting on? Is she afraid to succumb to the vulnerability she’s witnessed in the coop? Is she living at a nearby coop and just visiting us occasionally? We usually only see her in the early mornings. I hope she comes to her senses soon. By this I mean the very, very limited senses our chickens seem to have. Or not have, as the case may be.
* It’s mostly with self-conscious guilty pleasure I admit to my obsession with Twilight. While I’m normally much more of a book snob, it turns out I’m a sucker for a good love story peppered with vampires. Normal daily life was suspended until the series was complete. And now, with no more tales of Bella and Edward to read, I wander lost and hopeless in the world of literature, ruined.
Two short days after agreeing that our window air conditioning units would not be necessary this year, we witnessed the folly of such a ridiculous thought. It was hot. For days and days. Or more importantly, it seems, it was humid. So humid that our furniture, a classy blend of college chic futon and grown up, we-have-a-baby-now plush, revealed the pet odors lingering just below the surface.
So humid that I declared a beach emergency and we met Daddio at the closest sandy respite. So humid that I ignored the important concept of Bedtime, on a day that had missed the other critical component of sanity, Nap, inviting too-tired, shrieking Crazy Girl to take the place of my sweet daughter. Heat clearly makes us do crazy things, like forget Daddio’s swim trunks at home, inadvertently making him do penance at the beach in jeans. Still sorry, Daddio.
But it was the perfect opportunity to try out the beach bag I made days before. It features a burlap coffee sack and a repurposed tablecloth gleaned on a romantic “Date Night at Goodwill” excursion (the first, and still only, foray out sans-children since Baby 2). A quick project, meant to scratch the “instant gratification” itch and give me a sense of satisfaction, it instead served to knock my over-confident Sewing Swagger down a notch and remind me of the importance of measuring. A bag is a bag, right? The bigger the better? Not with skinny little straps like that, you silly fool. Filling it even close to capacity will render it too heavy for even your pack-mule shoulders, trained relentlessly by the baby/diaper bag/canvas grocery bag combo. Let this be a lesson to all you would-be cargo bag sewers: you can aim too high. Bigger is not always better. It’s a friendly reminder about sustainability. A reminder which hangs from my wall, drowning out the other bags and carrying devices, shouting loud and clear the dictate to build within your means.
The next day, still hot, still humid, deflated by sewing folly and beach tantrum blow-out, I gathered my brood and headed to the nearest purveyor of kiddie pools, swallowing my pride and temporarily ignoring my Walmart boycott. It was humbling, yes, but oh-so-refreshing.
Small clutches of treasure make up the landscape of our home. Our windowsills are dotted with child-size mittfulls of amber colored polished stones. Pants pockets are lined with an assortment of pebbles, stray buttons, a few coins, some dice. Random vessels are strewn about, housing these priceless treasures. Wallets or jars or envelopes are stuffed with the same as we rush out the door to head into town; these portable collections are no less necessary for travel than the diaper bag or water bottle or even car keys. Upon napping, the clutches are placed for safe-keeping alongside the bed.
I’ve tried to capture some of these random, fleeting landscapes over the past couple of weeks, tried to record for our posterity the gradual migration of our driveway into the house, handful by handful, each prettier than the last.
I try to remember my own childhood fascination with stones, my own tendency to collect little things. I try especially hard after stepping on the forgotten stones that often dot the kitchen floor. I struggle with the lofty intention of supporting her exploration while still maintaining a shred of sanity. Or at the very least, a tidy kitchen table.
I had a brief flash of sewing deja vu last weekend. Like that glorious period of prolific creative production that blazed through the greater part of my pregnancy, I sat in front of my sewing machine and whipped out a stack of new things. Or rather, I sat in front of my new serger and masterfully turned knit shirts and skirts into smaller renditions. I use the adverb “masterfully” with a silly smirk on my face; my new serger was adopted into the family for its spectacular ability to do most of the work for me, especially the pesky tasks of threading and tension-regulating. This is entirely appropriate and necessary, I argued, considering the ever increasing demands of my time elsewhere. He agreed, and now I’m making baby pants with abandon.
And transforming thrifted knits into attire that is pretty enough (thankfully) for the newly-critical fashion sense of Miss Isadora.
Dog butt sold separately.
You’d think we had a mandatory “stripes only” dress code around here, but I assure you that’s not the case. As far as I know.
Fashion tip: wearing your heels on the wrong feet allows for a more flattering fit.
And, obeying the age-old adage “Make hay while the baby sleeps,” I’m off to said serger to whip out some summery pajama pants.
Have a lovely weekend!
Drip, drip, drop. All night, all day.
“Quite enough, thank you,” murmur the cedars.
“Wheeeeeeeeee!” squeal the daylilies.
Laden, so heavily, the roses still manage to waft their fragrance, albeit within a much smaller radius.
Cozy and dry, nestled in a sturdy bed of clothespins, Wren Momma sings her lullaby to Wren Babies. Until the Giant approaches, again, that Nosy Thing. This time with her camera.
I took a string of photos trying to capture Wren Momma, but this was the only one in which she wasn’t shouting expletives at me. “But I’m a new momma too!” I assured her, to no avail. You’re right, Wren Momma. Then I should know better. But being that this is your family’s second summer in the Clothespin Cottage, I had thought we could be on a more neighborly level. Would a pie have improved my chances?
These five green acres have been a flurry of activity lately. Sewing, sowing, serging, printing…baby giggling, pebble collecting, sandbox playing, rummage sale-ing…flock decimation, flock defending, reality checking. Details to come, I assure you.
To begin: printing.
I was reminded of my desire to try my hand at block printing by the luscious printing at Maya*Made. Go ahead and check it out – I dare you to not be similarly inspired to try it yourself. Whiney aside: It is so hard to read these fantastically crafty and inspiring blogs day after day and not want to duplicate each and every awesome thing I see. Sometimes I triumph and come up with an idea purely my own; other times I succumb to the inspiration, creating my own designs from the very fertile soil laid down by another crafty soul. This is one such time.
So here are the facts:
Due to overwhelming inspiration, block printing is now compulsory.
The sandhill cranes have returned from their wintering to their familiar soft spot in my heart, begging for some sort of artistic tribute.
Our shower curtain, inherited with the house, has become so foul and offensive to the senses (nose and eyes and touch) that even Andrew speaks up. He’s usually much more tolerant of these things than I.
Hemp canvas is ordered, chosen for its amazing antibacterial properties. The hope is to avoid using a disgust-o vinyl liner while simultaneously keeping the mold count down. Fingers are crossed; we’ll let you know if it works.
This is the outcome. Delicious.
Block printing is rather addicting, it turns out. Feeling the love of the white on blue, I made a handful of prints on linen which are on their way to my etsy shop. I also ordered a box full of assorted blocks to carve other images into, so I’ll be using all of my available restraint to keep from pouncing on the FedEx delivery truck this week.
I’m totally hooked.
Now that summer’s almost upon us, I’m consumed by a desire to build a summer wardrobe. For each of us. In all my sewing time. Perhaps the sense of urgency I feel to do this stems from the fact that I’ve not yet unpacked the bins of summer clothes that have been retrieved from the attic. It seems that we were adequately clothed last summer, and I would imagine that most of those clothes are still suitable for wear this year, but…Isadora’s grown, I’ve grown (and hope to continue ungrowing as the summer progresses), and Mr. Errol was only a twinkle in our eye. So I have grand visions of shirtdresses for me (allowing Errol easy access to the all-you-can-eat milk buffet), sundresses and skirts and pj pants for Isadora; rompers and pants for Errol. For Andrew, there’s still the I.O.U. for one birthday shirt that needs to be fulfilled. Rather ambitious goals for someone who goes to bed before 10 pm each night, often with her children.
Clearly a compromise is in order.
So I’ve changed my focus from garment construction to garment reconstruction, starting with existing clothes and making a few key changes to turn them into wardrobe cornerstones. The above skirt (for me!) was transformed from a sleeveless blouse and the waistband of some leggings which were not cutting it in the flattery department. That was easy.
It’s the perfect time of year for this kind of thing, too, with thrifting opportunities at almost every corner, announced by big, fluorescent signs pointing to a garage or yard near you. My epiphany, however, hit me on a Wednesday, with no rummage sales to speak of, so the Goodwill had to suffice. I’m notoriously lacking in patience.
The Princess of Skirts shall have many to choose from this summer, after these lose the grown-up waist and adopt that of a 4T. They will be plenty twirly, too, which will please the Princess, though it would be easy enough to bring in the side seams, should she have a change of heart.
Most importantly, they’ll all go perfectly with the new (free!) tap shoes scored at a church rummage sale. Which, of course, is the most important criteria right now.
Sometimes, when words are elusive, it’s an immense relief to just sit back and let the pictures do the talking.
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