Good Fences Make Good Neighbors

So, we thought we were done making fence last year. "How much pasture can two horses mow down?" we thought. Mother Nature, however, laughed at our naivete and sent a wet, rainy fall, followed by a wet, snowy winter, and a wet, rainy spring. "It's okay," we thought, "all that water will just make the grass grow." And, it might have, had the grass not had eight hooves slogging through the mud in which it was attempting to root and grow. Thus, it's high spring, and once again, my horses have eaten their pasture to dirt.

Recently, we've been letting the horses out into the yard to eat when I'm home to supervise. This works well, since they're really not going to go very far away from their barn. All it takes to get them flying back into their pasture is the sound of grain being poured into their feed pans. I just let their lead ropes drag on the ground and let them eat down the yard. It was actually working pretty well to use them as our organic weed eaters for a while -- they were keeping the sides of the driveway and side walks nicely trimmed for us. The only real drawbacks when we started letting them out were the fact that Lucy and Tucker thought that Ginger Chasing might eventually become a Canine Olympic sport and decided to practice running after her every chance they got. I feared that my little horse would be scarred forever and totally afraid of dogs for the rest of her life, until the afternoon when I watched her go up to the deck where Lucy and Tucker were snoozing and whinny at them, then turn around and run off, then come back and try to get their attention again when they ignored her. The second disadvantage was the fact that our swimming pool is perfectly-sized for Angel to use a watering trough. I don't know if there will be long-term effects from the horses drinking chlorinated water, but I'm not too worried -- I'm not always very good at keeping the chlorine levels high, and she's pretty picky about her water being clean; thus, she'd rather drink from the swimming pool than her own watering trough.

Eventually, though, all chicks must leave the nest, and Angel and Ginger decided to get adventurous. After yet another trip down the road to retrieve the girls from Steve and Lin Masterson's back yard, I finally convinced Paul to let me fence off some more of the top pasture for horse use, even though he is highly unwilling to give up the prairie as a wild critter habitat. Honestly, I don't mind having as much of a buffer as possible between our farm and the next place over -- that neighbor likes to dump his deer carcasses on the tree line that separates our properties, and walking the dogs out that way is always an adventure -- I never know what they're going to get in to when they wander. But, the farm girl in me says it's just silly to let land sit fallow when I've got hungry livestock. The conservationist and the farm girl compromised, though, and we sectioned off some more of the upper pasture to fence off and use as a day pasture for the girls. I'm really hoping that if I block their access to their current pasture, and just turn them out in this upper pasture in the mornings and evenings (I'll put them back in their barn pasture during the heat of the day), the lower pasture will grow. Of course, after the threatened return of Noah and the Ark this spring, we've now gone two weeks without any moisture at all. It's been great for working on my tan, but we could definitely use a nice soaker.

We tackled pounding the fence posts on Sunday morning. Paul, bless his heart, was the one who pounded them all in. Thankfully, the ground hasn't baked too hard yet, and it wasn't nearly as tough a job as last summer's fencing turned out to be. It was hot work, but we (okay, he -- I just carried the fence posts and held them while he pounded them in) go it done in just a few hours.

This morning, I finished it off.

Now, for those who haven't "made" fence before, it's quite a process. We use electric tape fencing, which is suitable for horses and is relatively easy compared to stretching wire and making old-fashioned tensioned electric fences. Pounding the posts in the ground is only half the battle. Once that's done, plastic insulator clips have to be put on the posts at the appropriate heights. The first time I made fence (and special thanks go to neighbor Claud, who showed me how to do it), I measured very carefully from the ground to make sure that all of my clips were precisely at 2 feet and 4 feet. I'm so over that now -- today, when I put the clips on, I put one at knee height and one at boob height. That will just have to do. So the clips are meant to just slide on to the "T" post and wrap around the other side. I suppose they do that on nice, shiny, new T-posts. I'm working with rusty old ones from someone's back yard, though (thanks to my dad, who found them for me cheap -- they're not pretty, but they're functional.), and the insulator clips don't just snap on. After I put the clips on, I had to take a flat blade of some sort (I just used the scissors I took with me to cut the electric tape) and grab the plastic wrap-around section, then maneuver it over the third edge of the post. Not exactly a mental challenge, but still a pain in the butt, considering that I put posts every 14 feet, and there are two clips per post (technically, I should have put the posts every 10 feet and put 3 clips per post, but I'm running out of fence posts, and I'm calling this a "temporary" pasture, so I cut a few corners. I'm sure I'll regret that decision when the horses laugh at my attempt to save money and walk through the fence as if it were spider web). After the clips were on the posts, I had to start stringing the tape. For this project, I used 1/2" electric tape, which is actually plastic threads interwoven with fine metal wires that conduct electricity and pop inquisitive horses on the hose with an electric charge if they decide to try to go through the fence. Electric tape is pretty east to work with -- I just had to tie it to the end post in a knot, then feed it through the clips on the fence posts, stopping at every other post to wrap it around the clip. It's important the tape be taught, so wrapping the tape keeps the tension in the tape. Eventually, the plastic stretches and the fence has to be re-tensioned, but this is just a matter of wrapping it around the guides on the clips to take up any slack in the tape. Once I came to the end of the fence, I had to use an insulated gate handle to make a gate. This meant that I took the end of the tape and tied it to a piece of metal with a hook on one side and a rubber grip around it. I made an "eye" on the existing fence to hook my gate in to, and then I went back and did it all again for the second line of the fence.

Not such a bad job -- three hours of fun in the sun (and yes, I used sunscreen, but I'm still pretty rosy). I only had one tick crawling on me when I was finished, which was actually quite a surprise considering how many thousands of the little fiends are in the grass. I did have an -- ahem -- encounter with a legless occupant of the pasture. When we were out pounding posts on Sunday, Paul was fascinated to find a long snake skin in the pasture line. At that time, he remarked, "Ooooh, I wish I could see the guy who left this." Unfortunately, he was at work this morning when I got that very opportunity. Mr. Humongous Black Snake was sunning himself next to the very fence pole to which I needed to attach clips and fence. I know snakes don't hear well, but I thought that surely he would hear me very politely saying, "Go away, Snake." After all, I repeated it several times, and increased my volume with each repetition. Since he refused to give up his tanning bed and I refused to walk any closer to where he was, I thought about just abandoning the fence project until I had my own personal snake mover home from work. That would have been admitting defeat, though, and I reallly wanted to get this project out of the way. So, I called in reinforcements. I went over to the Mastersons (again -- the horses had wandered over there two times already) and collected my ninja warrior snake-scaring Foxtrotters and sent them down the fenceline to show Mr. Humongous Black Snake just who would be claiming this fence row for the next hour or so. He was gone by the time I got back with the girls, so I just made sure I stomped on the ground really hard whenever I walked through that area. The horses, of course, obliged me by running down the fence row and then hightailing back over to the neighbor's. I don't know why the neighbors' lawn is so much more appetizing than mine, but thankfully, the neighbors have gotten a kick out of looking out their kitchen window and seeing two horses grazing in the yard. I imagine this novelty would wear off quickly, though, and so I am very glad that the fence project is done. Starting this evening, my girls will be mowing down yet another pasture.

Baptism Day

The day was absolutely gorgeous, as only a cloudless spring morning can be. The air was lightly scented with overtones of flowering crab and cherry blossoms -- it's a little early for lilacs in DC, but they'll soon be adding to the potpourri coloring the air.

It was rather comforting to be back in church -- there's something timelss about sitting in a pew surrounded by strangers, and still knowing the liturgy by heart. It's been many years since I've been to a traditional Lutheran church when it wasn't a special service, and it's nice to know I still know all the tunes.

Anyway, Braden was most unhappy to have had his morning breakfast disrupted by a group of people running around the house asking if someone had grabbed the camera, diaper bag, cookie cake, extra clothes, etc. He is at the "no one but Mommy" stage, so while poor Mommy tried to get ready to go, Braden treated us all to an impressive display of lung capacity. Kay was trying really hard to time his feedings so that he would be full, dry, and happy for the baptism. As is the way of babies, though, Braden refused to follow this arbitrary schedule and decided he wanted to finish his interrupted breakfast when church started. Kay took him to the nursery room to feed him. This was going to be okay, though, because the baptism was scheduled to be after the sermon. Because he is a baby and doesn't always follow everyone else's schedule, we also didn't dress him in his little baptismal outfit -- a decision that was borne out the day before when he blew out the brand new little horsey-and-bib-overalls outfit that Justine brought him from Missouri with a "we've been waiting for three days" poop. The pastor assured us that if we quietly took him out and dressed him up in his new little outfit, we'd have plenty of time to get him back in time to walk him to the font during the last stanza of the post-sermon hymn.

Now, in the church in which Kay and I grew up, the sermon was 20 minutes on the dot. Any less, and the old Germans didn't feel they'd gotten their offerings worth; any more, and the farmers started grumbling about missing prime field time in the afternoons. So when Kay hadn't come back by the time the sermon started, I calmly grabbed his little outfit and went to find her so we could get him dressed and happy before his big church debut. I found her and we put him in his little duck romper (the matching hat was a TOTAL no go for him). Since that took less than 5 minutes, Kay thought she'd have another 10 minutes or so to "top him off" and make sure he was dry and happy before we headed back in. She had just gotten him appropriately placed and sat down in the rocking chair when we both heard the unmistakeable strains of the organ -- the hymn had started. We looked at each other in horror and started throwing things into the diaper bag. Grandma Mary came flying through the hall of the church and banged on the door, mouthing, "Get in there NOW!" through the glass. I grabbed Braden and set sail toward the sanctuary, while Kay frantically put herself back together and made sure that nothing was showing that isn't supposed to be showing in church, nursing mother or not.

So, as a result, Braden was NOT "topped off" for his baptism. I most assuredly was NOT his mommy, and he most assuredly was NOT happy with the situation. He spent the entire baptism screaming his displeasure to the congregation while I tried to keep a serene and beatific smile on my face. Kay finally rescued me and took him to try to calm him down. His unhappiness subsided a little, until the pastor took him and started pouring water over his head. That was SO not okay in Braden's world. At least I wasn't the only baby holder for whom he screamed.



So, baptized and sealed with the cross, Braden and family took some requisite pictures after the service, and then we all headed to a local restaurant that specialized in serving bison burgers. I just couldn't convince myself to take the plunge -- I went for regular cow.





We went back to the house, changed clothes, and just hung out while we tried to work up the motivation to get back on the road and leave. After two days, Paul was starting to feel more comfortable with the idea of holding the baby (he lives in fear that he's going to drop one), so those two snuggled in together for a while. Braden tried on the cowboy boots that I brought him -- too big, but oh my stars are they cute, and Grandpa Tom put together his rocking horse that came from Missouri.






It was pretty hard (let's be honest -- I'm a Puck descendant, and so are Mary and Kay, so there were tears involved) to say goodbye, but we finally got the car loaded and headed back east around 4:00. Paul was just as disappointed to go flying by all the Civil War battlefields on the way back as he was to have to do it on our way in. He consoled himself by sticking the camera out the window and shooting pictures of the Allegany mountains while we passed through them. I can't say they're great photos, but they're not too bad for being shot through the window at 80 miles per hour!

We drove to Cambridge, Ohio, where we spent waaay too much on a motel room and crashed. The next day we had a lazy morning, enjoyed the free (snort -- it ought to have been free for as much as the room cost) continental breakfast, and hit the road at a leisurely 9:30. We barreled on through and made it back home before dark.

There's a strange sort of disconnectedness this week, as if I'm still expecting to walk through the door and see family. I also downloaded our pictures as soon as we got home, and it was a very odd notion to think that only 48 hours earlier, I had been standing on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial and gazing over the Reflection Pool at Congress and the Washington Monument.

It's good to be home, but a small part of my heart now lives in Washington, DC. I can't wait to go back again.

Home Again

Ahhh...the joys of MAP testing. Every year, the state of Missouri in its infinite wisdom, forces students from grades 3-8 through an annual rite of passage designed to make them hate the idea of formal education from now to perpetuity. Of course, this test is mandated by the Federal government, who wants to make sure that we teachers are leaving No Child Behind, especially including those who we drag kicking in screaming into the next levels of knowledge. This test, the Missouri Assessment Program, is a weeklong odyssey into the joys of essay questions, reading comprehension, and number 2 pencils. And so, here we are -- my younguns are calculating away as we speak, and as I'm not allowed to look at the questions on their test (Heaven forbid I actually know what's going to be asked so that I have a better idea of how to prepare them for it), I'm sitting at my desk trying to avoid paper grading by adding to my blog.

But I digress.

Paul and I arrived back home last night as the sun was setting over the pasture. Our dogs were thrilled to see us, as we were them. The cats ignored us until it was time for them to be fed (in the way of cats everywhere, and the horses just wanted to be fed and brushed -- five days of warm weather have turned their winter coats into a shaggy burden they're almost desperate to be freed from.

We arrived in Broadlands around 9:30 Eastern time last Friday night, and immediately got to see Braden as Bret was trying to put him to sleep (to no avail -- Braden is in serious "Mommy and NO ONE else" mode these days). After blowing up the airbed, Paul and I crawled in and I was treated to an hour of Paul and Jon (my cousin's son, who is 29 going on 17) giggling like schoolgirls as they caught up -- those two get along like a house on fire. At one point, I was afraid I was going to get out the nail polish so they could do each other's toenails during their all-night slumber party. Seriously, they both turn into 12-year-olds in each other's presence -- complete with fart jokes and ogling good-looking women.

So the next morning, we got up and nibbled on some breakfast. I ventured out into the wild of the DC suburbs in search of panty hose and a razor for Jon, who had left his at home thinking he wouldn't be able to take it on the plane. Kay loaned me her Garmin GPS, which is perhaps the coolest toy with which I've played so far this year. It directed me right to Target, and, mission accomplished, I headed back for the townhouse. Bret, Jon, Paul, my cousin Rita, and I all piled into Bret's car for a day of sightseeing. We went first to the Udvar-Hazy Smithsonian exhibit at Dulles International Airport. Fascinatingly enough, admission to the Smithsonian is free, but a $15 parking fee applies. The museum was interesting, but it wasn't necessarily "my thing," so I took the requisite tourist photos of the space shuttle Enterprise (no Chris Pine as Captain Kirk, so I wasn't so interested)
and the Enola Gay.
We then went up in the observation tower, which allowed us to see (and hear) Dulles. Unfortunately, no planes came in for a landing while we were up there, so I took some more tourist photos and we headed back to ground level. We met Kay, Mary, Tom, and baby Braden for lunch at an interesting little sandwich shop called "Potbellies." I was afraid for a moment that it was due to the fat content of the food, but I soon was reassured to learn that it was due to the pot-bellied stove in the corner.

Then came the fun part. Our tourist group headed to East Falls Church to pick up the Metro and head downtown to see the sights. Unfortunately, last weekend was Cherry Blossom Festival time in DC, so the Metro was packed -- not so horribly on the way in, but I never want to relive the ride back out. We got off at the Smithsonian stop and walked up and on to the Mall. We started walking toward the Washington Monument (stopped to use the bathrooms there), and then headed for the World War II Memorial. We kept on cruising around the Reflecting Pool and toward the Vietnam Veteran's War Memorial. I had seen all these sights many years ago, so I got a kick out of watching Jon and Paul (still giggling like little girls) and Rita see it all for the first time. I also was trying to take lots of cool tourist photos. We headed over from The Wall to the Lincoln Memorial, at which point I decided that my feet hurt and there was no way I was climbing all those darned steps -- Lincoln was still sitting up there, according to what I could see on a penny, so I was just going to take it on faith that he wasn't going anywhere. Paul, Jon, and Rita, headed up there and Bret and I took a breather while we waited for them to check it out. After that, we headed down the other side of the Reflection Pool and went into the Korean War Veteran's Memorial. I had not seen this one before (that I could remember), and I was really moved by the knowledge that four of my five uncles had served during this war. Part of the monument is an etched marble wall that has faces of many people who served in Korea, and I swore that I could see my Uncle Woody in the face of one young sailor. I turned to my cousin Rita and said, "Look -- there he is before this damn war changed him." Too many young men went over to Korea and came back to fight demons so strong no amount of alcohol could drown them.

Even though it was Cherry Blossom Festival weekend, the cherry blossoms were gone (ARRRRGGGGHHH!), so I didn't get to take any tourist pictures of them. We cruised back down toward the Metro station, stopping every once in a while to check out women (Jon and his oh-so-helpful cousin, Paul), scenery (Rita and me), or tell the family tourists something cool about the area (Bret).

Finally, we got back on the Metro and headed back. We were at the back of the car, and Rita and I got separated from the rest of the group. We herded outselves like good little sheep to the back of the car, where we quickly found out that we had nothing to hang on to. The seats were packed, and the boys all had overhead bars to hang on to. There was also someone already leaning against the back escape door, so we just tried to braced ourselves and "surf" the starts and stops of the Metro car. Not so well. It was only a half hour ride, but by the time it was over, I was ready for a shower a nap. Paul weathered his first subway ride with flying colors; in fact, he had the people around him in stitches by giving relationship advice to other commuters. I was worried about him, knowing how uncomfortable he is in crowds and new situations, but every time I located him through the throng of humanity, he was surrounded by laughing people and holding court like Buddha at the Temple.

That night, we went to a Japanese steakhouse for dinner. Jon was completely not interested in the whole hibachi thing, but Paul and I convinced him to give it a chance. By the end of the night, he had decided it was a really good time, and really good food, to boot. Of course, the Singapore Slings he and Paul were drinking probably made things look even more rosy. That night, we came back and baked Braden's big cookie (easier to transport than a cake). Paul, true to form, got his hand slapped by both Mary and Kay for trying to sneak cookie dough out of the bowl. He was mollified, though, when they gave him ALL the extra icing after it was frosted. I swear, the man thinks that powdered sugar and Crisco is a food group.

Anyway, this post is approaching record length, so I'll continue with the story later.

Effingham

Good Morning! Motel 6 has, in their infinite generosity, provided free wireless internet access. Thus, I am spending that thirty minutes it takes Paul to get motivated to get in the shower (and which I usually spend grinding my teeth, sighing obviously, and checking my cell phone for the time) checking my e-mail and starting the chronicling of our getaway weekend. We didn't get a nice, early start yesterday afternoon. Then again, we always have good intentions of getting away early and never do. We hit the road last night at 6:41, which actually worked well for avoiding rush hour traffic in St. Louis. We didn't quite make it through STL unscathed, though -- the exit to get to Illinois on I-70 is closed and a lovely flashing sign instructed us to "use alternate exit." Of course, the happy sign did NOT tell us WHICH alternate exit we should use. The next several exits were closed, and it appeared that we were well on our way to Memphis by the time I told Paul to chill out (he was cussing up a veritable hurricane and trying to read our ancient atlas in the dark), and pulled off, made a left, and got back on the interstate going north (west?). He yelled, "What are you doing that for?" I replied calmly, "The exit was closed, not the road. I figure eventually we'll come back to I-70 and the northbound exit won't be closed.." About 5 minutes later, we were crossing the Mississippi.

We drove until 10:30 (well, I drove until 9:30 and started making some strong hints about stopping for the night. Paul took over and decieded that we'd just call it at 10:30). We could have made Terre Haute in another hour, but we also knew that the time zone switch occurs in Terre Haute, so getting in at midnight would mean it would automatically have been 1:00, and that just wouldn't have set us up for a good day today. We are in Effingham, Illinois -- seems like a pretty big burg for the middle of Illinois, but it looks like we're just in the middle of Interstate land, since there are tons of chain motels, restaurants, and truck stops/gas stations.

The Motel 6 chain are not the most luxurious of hotel chains; however, I flat refused to go to the Hilton Garden Inn or some other pricey place when all we were planning to do was fall into bed and get up to shower the next day.

So, soon we'll be on our way to Washington, DC! We have to go through Indiana and Ohio -- I think we'll be able to hit Columbus by lunch. I packed a cooler full of lunch-y type food, so we'll find a nice park somewhere and try to save some pennies by picnicking. After that, the Yahoo Map I downloaded gets a bit more complicated. I'm a little nervous about driving in Virginia, but I know I'd better be the one at the wheel. If Paul tries to do it, we'll see the advent of several brand-new cuss words.

And tonight, we meet our Braden for the first time! We are so excited to spend the weekend with family (and to be gawky tourists in DC). Paul is a bit disappointed that he won't be able to go to Congress and tell them how he really feels about them, but so far, he's been accepting of my telling him it just doesn't work that way. I think he'll be satisfied to see the monuments.

We're on our way!

Faux Finishes, Part Deux

Painting in one's underwear smacks of a certain level of freedom...and perhaps a bit of decadence. When the reason one is painting in one's underwear, however, is that the laundry isn't done, we have to assume that there is no Bohemian spirit at work...just a need to protect one's few remaining pairs of pants that fit from the ravages of Valspar's Brushed Suede paint in the lovely shade known as "Palomino Blanket."

I awoke this morning excited to finish the painting aspect of Project Redecorate the Spare Bedroom. Knowing that I only had 1/3 of the can of paint left, I read the Paint Man's faux finish brochure instructions once again, making sure that I was following them closely so as to not waste the horridly expensive stuff. I took out the 4 inch faux finish brush that I paid the equivalent of 10 toothbrushes for, dipped it confidently into the paint, and started to make random x patterns on the wall. After I finished an entire wall ("Only three to go!" I thought excitedly), I stepped back to admire the "subtle undertones that evoke the texture of brushed suede," as promised in the Paint Man's brochure.

It pretty much looked like I didn't have enough paint and just missed several sections. The undertones didn't evoke the texture of anything except the plain off-white walls I have been attempting to cover up. Oh crap.

So now I'm on Plan B. I ordered more paint from Lowe's, and Paul will pick it up on his way home from work. I used to what paint I had left to roll a second coat on to two of the walls. Then, when I get more paint, I'll finish rolling a second coat on the third wall, wait for it to dry, and start doing the faux finish technique on the walls that now have two coats. I guess I'll just do the whole x thing again on the walls I did this morning. I've effectively managed to add another day to the paint process, but I am undaunted. This spare bedroom will be finished during break, and it will be wickedly cool. Mr. Paint Man and I cordially invite you to come see my subtle undertones.

Faux Finishes

For some reason, the onset of a break from school means I feel an inner compulsion to take on a project. Of course, I simply refuse to think of cleaning the house in terms of italicized, and bolded letters, so that never qualifies as a project.

And thus begins Spring Break, and my quest to spruce up the spare bedroom, also known as Paul's garage and my saddle storage room. Not being a total cretin, I have, in the past, made a few futile attempts to decorate said room by making a very cute quilted valance for the windows and using the leftover fabric to make a wall hanging of sorts.




But now, I've decided to go for the gusto. I started my day with a trip to Lowe's -- the Holy Grail of house stuff for me. I've been researching faux finishes -- somehow, I got in my head the idea that it would be very "cool" to make the walls look like leather. While that faux finish is probably well beyond my abilities, I did watch a few online videos about different faux finishes available for those of us who face the daily struggles of being decorating-challenged. After consultation with a gum-snapping paint clerk who readily admitted she didn't know anything about faux finishes, I perused the different options and decided to go with something known as "Brushed Suede." Supposedly, the finished product is supposed to mimic the muted undertones of suede. All I know is that the paint chip looked pretty cool, and the instructions seemed idiot proof.

So I was wrong.

A few observations for those of you out there contemplating a redecorating project that involves painting:

1. Don't.
2. If you decide to go ahead with it anyway, be assured that no matter how many times you watch the damned video on the internet, your experience will in NO WAY match that of Mr. Professional Paint Guy.
3. Be sure to practice your repertoire of swear words in advance. You'll need them.
4. Paint that is designed to have a faux finish probably has something in it. If you go with Brushed Suede by Valspar (available exclusively at Lowe's), it will be a form of silica (according to the can). If I remember my chemistry correctly, that means that what I've got sticking to me everywhere is sand that has been added to paint. As if the paint itself wasn't hard enough to wash out of the carpet...off the paneling...out of my hair...
5. Don't move the bed out of the room. You'll need it to jump up and down on as you try to roll paint to the top of the wall connected to the vaulted ceiling.
6. Putting a bar stool on the bed to stand on so that you can more easily reach the top of the wall is not such a good idea, especially when you're holding a loaded paint roller.
7. If you throw the comforter in the wash immediately after dropping a loaded paint roller on it, the paint comes out pretty well.
8. Make sure you have all the walls finished before you walk out of the room, slam the door, and wonder who in the world's fantastic idea this was.

The good news is that the base coat is on. I now have to wait four hours before I can start with the top coat. Considering that it would mean I'd be painting all night, I think I'll just play Scarlett O'Hara and sigh, "Oh well, tomorrow is another day." Besides, it may take me that long to work up the courage to go back in there.

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