Wake Up Little Suzy

I have found social networking sites to be helpful in so many situations but unnerving when death comes calling. I learned of my nephew's death when his sister posted in shock on her myspace. It was eerie to read his earlier posts knowing he had written them and his friends had responded not knowing they would not see each other again. Then to read the 'wall' posts as those same friends became aware of his passing and grieved publicly on the platform of myspace.

This week, I learned of the passing of a family friend, Sue (Eisele) May. Though we weren't best buds, we were classmates, friends, neighbors - it wasn't until she was in the hospital birthing her first baby that I learned from the OB nurse that her name wasn't even Sue, and I learned that only because they didn't have anyone there named Sue. Turned out her name was Carol. Her dad told me that he used to sing "Wake Up Little Suzy" to her when she was a baby and the name stuck. She was the niece of Mark's best friend. We were neighbors when we both rented from her parents in Santa Cruz. She moved (along with a whole caravan of us from Santa Cruz including her parents) to Nevada and wound up as our school secretary. Again, I remember asking one day when I was at school where Sue had run off to and they said, "Sue? You mean Carol?" Guess it never really worked for her because we met up again on FACEBOOK and, once again, she was Sue.

I knew she had a cancer diagnosis and would periodically fall silent on the chatter of FB then I'd spot a posting where "Sue May has become a fan of ....." and I knew she must been feeling a little better.

This week we learned from her Uncle that she lost her battle with cancer. Yet there she is on Facebook ... smiling in a photo with her husband, looking so good and deceptively healthy. I see photos of her. Comments she made. But on her "wall", the comments come in from friends who are finding out she is gone. Facebook, as Facebook is wont to do, beckons me from the right margin to "say hello to Sue". Hey Facebook...I'd love to BUT I CAN'T! Scrolling down her page, her comments remain to remind us of her so I suppose it's all good. It's like she's still out there. We talk to her as though she has computer access wherever she is and reads how much she is missed.

Hopefully she's feeling better, laughing with her dad, Don Eisele, and brother Eric, both of who went before her in the last couple years. Maybe there will be a heavenly social network that will allow her to "friend me" and be in touch again someday.

They're the First to Come and The Last To Leave

Bleary-eyed at dawn we, the first team of volunteers for Kinetics, were out and about the Arcata Plaza at 5:30 setting up barricades, collecting cones and preparing the town square for the insurgence of the fabulous machines that make up the Kinetic Grand Championship. I have attended most sections of the three-day race over the years but my husband's shop schedule leaves me to my own devises, wandering the Plaza alone on Kinetic Saturday mornings. This year, I threw out the possibility of using my time wisely and volunteering. I thought I'd pitch in for a few hours and ended up doing far more....there were sites beyond the Plaza that had to be prepared. Although the sculptures are what most people see, the volunteers....the Site Coordinators and Ground Pounders make it happen.

Honestly, it was an honor to wear the official uniform of the Kinetic Accomplice - the glory extends widely to the Ground Pounders for they are the 'doozers". We pitched in where we're needed...we answered questions of Glorious Spectators like "where should we go to see the machines after this?" and "Where can we watch tomorrow?" My favorite was an elderly lady who asked if something was going on...."why, yes, yes there IS a race going on". "A bicycle race?"....Not exactly but CLOSE, ma'am." I wonder where she thought she was.

The Ground Pounders are the roadies....we did the set up and tear-down. The "first to come and the last to leave"..... It is the Ground Pounders that ask, with a smile, that Spectators pull "feet off the street" in preparation for the LeMans start of the race, and are sometimes met with scowls....yet we soldiered on, collecting our bribes from sculptures for a job well done. I cherish my bracelet from the registration Goddess Jen-0 as well as my boobie button from the Classical Nudes and others that accumulated on my shirt over the morning.

The fun of this event is like an inside joke that not everyone 'gets'. The costumes of the teams AND the volunteers raise the eyebrows of the uninvolved. So many people, mostly long-time residents I suspect, roll their eyes at the thought of the race, a clear violation of Rules 1 and 10. ** Facebook and Twitter comments mentioned "those people" more than once.....some people just don't get it but I'm glad I do. I'm grateful for Monica, Rutabaga Queen 2004 and Queen President 3 for this year, for getting us further involved in the race. Gloria has been 'entourage' since Monica ran for Queen so has been a Ground Pounder by default since she was pre-teen.

Sitting on the rocks watching the water entry on Day Two, I sat with two couples visiting from Sea Ranch who were having SO much fun. They got "it" .... Francis asking "honey, did you get a picture of that?" every few minutes as the sculptures peddled past, giggling like a teen at the numbness we were developing in our butts from sitting awkwardly on the cold rocks. It's fun to see that joy and enthusiasm. It's fun to HAVE that joy and enthusiasm..to see adults not ashamed to be silly. As was Hobart's intent, the race is intended for adults to have so much fun that kids want to grow up to be adults.

I hope that, when you attend special events anywhere, always be aware that someone, probably a BUNCH of someones, worked real hard so you could enjoy yourself. I just hope they have as much fun doing it as the Ground Pounders do.

** RULE #1: It is mandatory that all Sculpture Pilots, Pit Crew, Officials, Spectators, Law Enforcers, Communicators, Volunteers, Merchants, and even innocent bystanders put great effort into having great fun for it is such Craziness as this that keeps us all Sane! If you insist on being a grumpy racer and not having fun, you may declare "diplomatic immunity" (since you are surely from another planet) and not be cited by overly excited officials for that infraction, but we reserve the right to adjudicate any such declaration.(NOTE: Rule #1 repeats as Rule #10...it's THAT important).

In the Jungle, the Mighty Jungle....

Saturday morning, having let the cats in for breakfast then letting them back outside, I was confused by the sound of Tyra “mrowring”. After checking around, I realized she was outside, calling at the back door. While she is normally a decidedly yakky kitty, it’s unusual for her to cry to come IN. The mystery was solved when I opened the door and found a dead finch at her fluffy black feet. *sigh* A gift like only a cat can give.

We’ve had dozens of cats over the years and have learned that this is really the greatest gift a cat can bestow on a human….or at least it is to a cat. The cat we had when I was growing up was a giver. Putsy was a prolific breeder and great hunter, a skill she would pass on to her spawn by maiming a gopher and allowing her kittens to ‘play’ with the quarry. She would finally go in for the kill and share the bounty with her babies. Great training. Unpleasant to watch but really the way to teach your children to hunt if you’re so inclined. If she was between litters, she would deposit portions of any variety of vermin on the back step. A cat we had in Nevada, Hawk, actually brought a jackrabbit home once and tore it open to share with his nieces and nephews. Surprisingly, Hawk was neutered but was helping to train the babies of a stray that came to our spawning grounds.

We acquired one of our best hunters in Camden, South Carolina in 1975 - that's him at the top. Torker was feral orphan left behind by his mom under a boat at the shop where Mark worked. I bottle-fed him and he grew to be an awesome cat, quite content to travel on the dash of our van (picture it - it was the 70's) but with still enough wild blood that the scent of eggs would drive him to a frenzy. If I was fixing eggs for breakfast, he would quite literally jump on the table and steal scrambled eggs from a plate and run to a corner to feast before you had a chance to react. I learned to cook him an egg of his own and serve it hot to slow down his devouring it so Mark could finish HIS breakfast in peace.

Torker came back from South Carolina with us, traveling on the dash most of the way. He hunted in Florida. He hunted in Texas. Once we got home to Santa Cruz, he went camping with us. In fact, we’re pretty sure he’s the reason the “All Dogs Must Be on Leash” signs in Yosemite were changed to “All PETS Must Be On Leash”. I remember a ranger stopping his truck as Torker chased a big bushy-tailed gray squirrel up a tree. Luckily, the squirrel was more agile and we did not have to hide the remains from Smokey Bear but most prey around our house were not so fortunate. He caught birds (big ones), gophers, mice….and he would bring those gifts to me. Unfortunately, we lived in an apartment at the end of the hall….and he would bring them alive. If I didn’t come home soon enough, he would kill it for me. If I took too long, he would eviscerate the little creature leaving me only the most delectable pieces….stomach, claws and face. Yeah…nice gift. Thank you, Torker. He would not do this without first bashing and tossing the carcass around in the hallway, leaving little red splats all over the hallway wall. The girl in the apartment nearest the door did not appreciate the bloody walls but she MUST have preferred them to the live mice that would run in the hallway. Again, “Thank you, Torker” for endearing us to our neighbors. Torker’s love for the road took him for rides in stranger’s cars….if a car door was left open, he would jump in. Three times he disappeared, twice he was returned. to the pound where we would retrieve him. I’m sure the last ride he went on was with someone who recognized he was a perfectly awesome cat and with a Southern drawl to boot.

Our most recent felines have been hunters but not eaters. More of the Garfield perspective…..”eww, Eat mice?” They will hunt, generally unsuccessfully but if they manage to capture something, they will simply run them to death and leave the carcass behind for us to clean up. I’m fine with nature taking its course, survival of the fittest and all, but I hate that they kill for sport. So, for the spring, while the baby birds are fledging, I will need to bell the cats. Or at least Tyra. And to the mommy bird, I apologize. I grieve your loss.

You're Not the Boss of Me....

Continuing on the theme of chicken-related phrases in common use, I feel compelled to discuss "pecking order' as defined in Merriam-Webster as:

1 : the basic pattern of social organization within a flock of poultry in which each bird pecks another lower in the scale without fear of retaliation and submits to pecking by one of higher rank; broadly : a dominance hierarchy in a group of social animals
2 : a social hierarchy

No matter how many hens I have at any one time, there is always a pecking order. Depending on the dominant...we'll call her the peckerhead....the severity will vary but there is always a 'squawk" to alert you to the fact that someone is at the bottom of the pecking order. I believe Ginger to be the lead pecker in my flock and she's a mean one (see previous post). As a result, I've done more doctoring of hen butts with this flock than ever in my years of hen-keeping. Well, a while back I DID have to deal with a little Polish hen with a prolapsed oviduct ....I won't gross you out but it involved the chicken equivalent of a uterus on the outside of the chicken having to be returned to it's proper location with a gloved hand, Vaseline and a horribly unhappy husband for a helper.

This flock has been dominated by Ginger from pretty much the start so I've been dealing with wounds. Chickens will commonly peck at anything.....rivets on jeans and my pretty painted toenails are generally enticing. Should a peer develop a wound of any sort, the others will peck at it - and the bigger the wound becomes, the more enticing it seems to be. I've read that they are attracted to red and others have told me it's the 'smell of blood'. Who knows what the the girls are thinking but they just peck at stuff. I've collected medications and treatments to try and help. Blu-Kote is a spray that has an antibiotic in it as well as drying agents but I suspect it's best feature is it's color.....It's a punky blue-violet color that is lovely when applied to a bare chicken butt. The blue seems to disguise any injury so allows the wound to dry and heal without further distress. I also have Rooster Booster that helps stop the 'cannibalizing" behavior by turning skin (including my hands) that dark purple but also has peppermint and aloe which must be soothing. Poor Mavis has had her neck and behind plum plucked clean and has become used to being hung upside down and smeared with purple goo so much that I don't think she minds. Hanging a chicken by the feet, by the way, relaxes them - makes `em "go nonny". If you've seen pictures of villagers carrying birds that way, it's just a way of calming them.

This is my little tribute to Ruby, who has been pecked at for the last time. For the last week, I've been spraying her with Blu-Kote but am pretty sure her wound actually was the exterior part of an interior problem. It was difficult to diagnose since it was quite bloody at times and hard to keep her sequestered. She seemed to actually be enjoying the attention since she would hide behind me when I was in the pen and actually leaned on me and dozed once. After days of treatment however, sadly Ruby has "gone on holiday" (a Chicken Run reference if you're not familiar). She has "bought the farm" and "gone to live on a ranch".... poor girl climbed into the nesting box and packed it in. Hopefully, I can keep Ginger under control so she doesn't do that to others in my flock. I really hate to lose my little feathered friends.

Leave Me Alone

If you check any dictionary, the word "broody" translates to moody, introspective, contemplative....which pretty much sums up a "broody" teen. Although people brood and teens are broody, the first and truest definition of the word "broody" is "being in a state of readiness to brood eggs that is characterized by cessation of laying and by marked changes in behavior and physiology....a broody hen". Aah, crabby, grumpy, full-with- child attitude...THAT I understand.

Ginger has decided to set (on eggs) and flat ain't giving them up without a fight. I've had broody hens before that made it their duty to hatch every egg placed in the nest. Never mind we had no roosters to fertilize the eggs - they're just the motherly types. Reaching under to collect the eggs caused little more than clucking and bothering. Never before have I had one quite this snotty. When I reach in to check for eggs, she pecks at my hand and I don't mean gently. I've finally taken to tucking my hand inside my shirt sleeve but she can leave a mark even then.

Now that Ginger has herself become broody, other commonly used terms that come from chicken-raisin' come to mind....This, for instance would be Ginger with "her feathers ruffled". after being physically removed from her clutch of eggs. Can you tell she's pissed?

When I decide to wash down the coop walls to remove webs, I will share with you "madder than a wet hen".

UPDATE: It is now one month later and Ginger is, once again, broody. Sitting on the daily clutch deposited by her coop-mates, refusing to give them up. One month pretty much to the date. Do chickens PMS?

This Could Be The Start of Something Big....

It's April already and finally April and for us on the chilly north coast, it's a wee taunt, allowing us glimpse at spring and the warmer weather to come. I flipped the page on the calendar at the start of this month and realized that Humboldt calendars really should have bigger squares during the doing-stuff season. There were SO MANY things squeezed into the tiny square of my calendar for last Saturday.So many activities but the Surfrider Beach Cleanup won out....we cleaned the entrance to Mad River Beach with magnets and rakes, scouring the sand of nails before that could puncture the tender feet of beach goers. The fire sites are normally fairly easy to spot the the winter's high tides had caught the cinders in their flows, spreading the nails and covering them with sand. For our efforts, we took six buckets of rusty nails, and other bonfire debris from the beach. I had to keep reminding myself to stop and smell the salt air and enjoy the waves while I was there.
The pre-printed start to the Farmer's Market on my CAFF calendar was almost buried...but it was on my list of things to accomplish so I packed my market basket before I left the house. After tidying up the beach, I joined the throngs of people giddy with the first Farmer's Market of the season. I made my first loop around to ponder the possibilities then ended up with a new marjoram plant from Flying Blue Dog Farm (I even remembered to bring the coupon I received by being Facebook buddies with the farmers.) , some honey from Reed's Bees, some salad greens and a couple enormous leeks. Next week, chard and carrots....and more herbs as the season progresses. I made a run through the Gem show at Redwood Acres, passing by the rock hounds, I was in search of beads for future projects. First I find beads that speak to my creative soul then a centerpiece that will work. The creative juices flow and the colors of the stones, drilled, strung and stacked is always so appealing, I couldn't resist snapping a picture until the craphead booth proprietor scolded me. I was a little embarrassed and explained I would never take a picture of his actual designs (though I doubt he actually created the pricey pieces he was selling) and was only entranced with the pretty colors. He admonished even more until I spewed an admittedly insincere apology and stopped short of calling him a dick...only muttering it under my breath as I slunk away. Didn't buy anything from him but I did find a nice string of red abalone chips to create yet another necklace I could do without....but they're so pretty.......

This weekend is another busy one. I was hoping to do one of the paddles with Kayak Zak's for Godwit Days but it looks like there will be moving assistance for Hope and another run through the Farmer's Market on Saturday. I took Monday off so Mark and I can make some headway on the entry project. I hope I don't miss anything - I repeat, bigger squares on the calendar.

She's Leaving Home....bye bye.....

So many changes have been taking place these last few weeks with all three girls in transition - one daughter is in the metamorphic stage of ending a relationship, another moving, yet again, this time back from McKinleyville into Eureka. And now, the old man and I are contemplating a life as empty-nesters as the youngest princess is embarking on a move out of the castle.

In a perfect world, we would return to something akin to our early days, the five child-free years between wedding and Ms. Monica when we could do what we wanted when we wanted...and do it naked if we cared to. If that included a spontaneous amorous encounter on the sofa, so be it (different couch entirely girls so get over it). Unfortunately, as boomers who chose to spread their child-bearing over a number of years, we're not as amorous, nor as limber as we once were. Our new life, once the urchin vacates, will probably involve eating what we want, when we want.... and that's about it.

Now that Glo is gainfully employed, her plan is to move in with her boyfriend. The conversations regarding our "no revolving door policy" have fallen on deaf ears as they have in the past with her sisters and she has begun to pack for this new phase of her life. No anger involved, just excitement on her part and sadness on ours knowing our baby has grown up and old enough to survive on her own. We remind ourselves (regularly) that I was younger than her 18.25 years when we got married and I left home. I survived. She will survive. And we will begin the transition to speaking to her as an adult rather than the child she remains in our minds.

When we were young and unencumbered by offspring, we considered no one other than ourselves. When he worked on City buses and had to run a bus from Santa Cruz to, say Watsonville to exchange for another in need of service, I would go along for the ride. Just two of us alone in a 50-passenger transit bus, cruising Highway 1 at sunset. Now, I will probably accompany him to tow a bike after he closes the shop and perhaps we'll grab dinner instead of cooking. And our dinners will probably include more sausage and pork and other things kids don't like. And we may return to a life with a little less structure and a little more spontaneity. We'll probably bicker more but...hell, maybe we'll bicker less.

Of course, the kids have lived for fifteen years in this huge rattle-trap of a house with peeling paint and sub-standard bathrooms and now that we're finally fixing these things properly, they're gone (not their fault we took so long). The goal is to finish it all, enjoy it for a time, then move to a smaller place without stairs in deference to our geriatric knees. and it will be in town so I can still get around when they rip my driver's license from my wrinkly little fingers.

Perhaps I'm thinking too far ahead; after all, Glo hasn't even emptied her closet and that alone could take a while.