More Floor Finding Fun!

Yesterday, I dismantled the playroom.

It's a big room, and of course, was FILLED with toys and cardboard and feather boas and guitars and drawings and cardboard and elastics and more cardboard and lots of toys. Also there may have been a few dust critters lurking here and there. And some sawdust. A few tiny screws. Electronic parts. Bucky had been getting up to some questionable experiments down in the basement this summer.

I'd laid down the law a few times and demanded that they go find the floor. "It's YOUR playroom," I'd bark. "I do not play in there. You do. Pick up your stuff." They'd groan and moan but eventually there would be enough space cleared to get in there with a broom. I thought this was progress. I thought last weekend's afternoon of decision making regarding what gets kept and what goes was another leap of progress.

I WAS WRONG...

Turns out my packratting tendencies have been learned by the next generation.

I found things stuffed into corners, under that curtain they wedged behind the shelf to make a target practice range, and under the desk. I'd been encouraging them to pick things up and put them in a container all these years, but maybe I should have been more specific, because I found all kinds of things hiding in anything with sides and a bottom.

Just as I spent most of the summer purging and decluttering, and wondering why the heck I kept a plastic bag full of dried up markers in a drawer, I tossed dried up elastics into the garbage bag with disgust. Why are we such hoarders? Why is it so hard to let go of stuff? And why, why, do I feel the need to share this with everybody???

Well, sometimes wading through all the junk reveals a few treasures, people. Just like my theory that the junk of today might be the antiques of tomorrow. Yeah, I said that and you can use it as long as you mention you got it from me. You're welcome!

A few of the treasures unearthed in the playroom:

Bucky's collection of rocket prototype drawing from when he was about six

Tribble's story books, consisting of several blank sheets of paper folded and stapled. Most of them are unfinished and I'm dying of curiosity - what did the unicorn say?????

a few mother's day cards that escaped going into my special "sentimental value" file

Bucky's intricate drawings of very expressive dragons... which just happen to have whiskery muzzles like a horse

Tribble's paintings of brown horses with four white socks

rule cards for a number of confusing made-up games

lists of dragon/ knight/ rocket/ imaginary kingdom/ horse/ queen names

Father's day coupons "because Daddy wourks so hard al the time."

So out of five drawers of scribbled on, painted on, glued on paper, I salvaged about a two inch depth of paper I have to keep. I have to. I was sitting on an upturned toy bucket with the plastic cabinet in front of me, the recycling box on my left and desk on my right. The recycling box was full by the end of the night. My heart was just swelling because looking through all of this junk reminded me of a time when my kids weren't teenagers yet, and they still gave me pictures with "To MOMMY" written at the top. I have to keep the best of it.

Then, because I'm insane, I washed out the drawers and spent the evening scooping little bits of Playmobil out of a broken cabinet and blowing the dust critters out before dropping them into their new clean drawer. Insane, people. Insane. I sorted all the Lego out of the Playmobil and yes, I know the difference between Lego and MegaBloks, and the Bionicle got its own drawer too. These were not cheap toys. It's all they ever wanted. We would give them one gift, and it would be that special and extremely necessary new Playmobil or MegaBloks Dragons or Harry Potter Race Car Dinosaur Lego. One gift, make it count. Each piece represents money I had to scrape together and the knowledge that it was appreciated. I have to keep this stuff. The scattered bits of broken or cheap stuff went away, the rest lovingly packed into a box for the Goodwill, but these treasures will stay with us.

I mean, these things have graduated from mere toys to valuable movie props. Valuable!

I scooped handfuls of tiny toys and piled them in my lap while watching So You Think You Can Dance Canada and Dancing With The Stars Who Think They Can Dance.

Haven't gotten diddly squat done today, but I'm thinking how much easier this move would be if all of our stuff was Playmobil sized.

Disoriented

I should be hunting down boxes and putting things in them, but I have to write. I have to get this out. What better way than to share it with the world, I guess.

Yesterday, I walked into my house for the first time in about a month, but who's keeping track. It smelled like a house that hasn't been lived in enough lately; slightly stale and dusty. It looked barren in some places and crowded in others, where I'd pulled a bunch of stuff out from dark corners, intending to purge. The floorboards creaked like they always have and it sounded like my house, my own house, the house my husband and I don't quite own and are about to sell.

I am quite comfortable out at the farm, if not totally. It was my home, and we visit often, so it hasn't been hard to settle in there. It is not home though, despite my parents making us feel at home and welcome. It's "the Farm." It's their home, it's the haven and refuge we escape to. Things change slowly there, but I've showed up and moved things, changed things, gotten rid of things. I had to do it and I'm not sure how I feel about it.

It took years to feel at home in this little house of mine. It took years to scrape off the layers of somebody else's wallpaper until the house felt like a place I could call home. Now I'm preparing it to be somebody else's again. It saddens me, but at the same time I have a nagging awareness that I never truly belonged here. I made friends, the kind I'll keep, and I established networks and familiarity. I can look out my window and see the neighbourhood so much of my life revolved around, but I feel that old claustrophobia again. Too many houses. Too much pavement.

The farmhouse is too close to a highway and at night the big trucks rattle their engine brakes to slow down for the curve. The sky is darker than in town, but close enough to several small towns to see a slight orange haze in the distance.

I walk into the house in the evening after leaving the barn, and I have to look up. There are stars out there, all shapes and sizes. I never get tired of them. The other night, a falling star the size of a firework sizzled through the sky like it was getting ready to land in the neighbour's hay field. I made a wish.

I know there's a place for me to move my little family. I pray that when we can afford it, we'll find it. I pray for a lot of things. I don't know if I'm praying for the right things. All I know is that when I'm under that big sky, surrounded by the crickets that sing all day and all night, I feel like myself. I feel like things aren't quite right but I'll survive.

But right now, between two houses and two worlds, I feel like I somehow belong and yet not belong to both.

I could almost get dizzy.

Life under a bigger sky...

Well Hello. Haven't seen you for awhile. It's a little dodgy out here in the country with the whole internet thing. Some of you will understand. It's weird; you wouldn't think technology of all things would be such a big thing in my life, me, who likes things real low-tech and simple, and only got a cellphone... last week. And yet, in order to keep doing what we do, especially Jethro with his extremely techy recording engineer life, we have to have that connection to the world. Plus I need that connection to people. I don't get out much, y'know.

Anyways. I look out the window and I see a red barns, silos, fields, trees, all under a very big sky. It's just bigger than it was in town.

I put on my cowboy hat for the picture. I snugged up the Noob String under my neck because it was windy and I was sick of grabbing my hat before it blew off. Noob String? That's what my kids call the hat string. Y'know, because Noobs who haven't learned all the horse-show tricks yet have to tie their hats onto their heads. I prefer not to have duct tape on my forehead, sorry. Although, the stupid string makes me look like I have a chin deformation. Ach, who cares. My horse looks nice.

He got a bath that day. I hosed him down vigorously, scrubbed his mane, and washed all the grass stains off his hip and neck. I think he liked it. I swished his tail in a bucket full of horse shampoo, then after I scraped all the water off his coat, I brushed him until the sun reflected off his smooth speckled coat.
ShowSheen helps. I don't know what that stuff is made of, other than magic. I won't comb out a tail without it. LOOK at that tail. Appaloosas aren't famous for nice thick tails. He lucked out! I banded his mane to make him look all perfeshnul. Of course then for the picture I stuck his ordinary red nylon halter on his head because I don't yet have a good leather show halter. I should at least have one that shows off his head a little better. Maybe that will be next year's purchase. Maybe.

A few weekend ago, Jethro left the city, and the house in town, to have some Big Blue Sky time. And some Tractor Therapy. What a great cure for being in a recording studio all week! Some people would think this is work but oh no... just back and forth across the yard, pick up a bucket of manure, dump it on the compost pile on the other side, and back. It's a small bucket and a slow old tractor. It forces a person to slow the heck down. The manure pile stays there until it gets moved, so if it doesn't all get done in one day, there's always tomorrow. Farmers generally don't have this luxury, but here, it's not a luxury: it's just the way it's done.

Jethro loves the old 2 cylinder John Deere, but he's not a time-taking kind of guy. He wants to get it done.

Which is a good reason to have kids. Especially one who loves to work.

Bucky can drive almost anything with four wheels now. He gives his Grandma regular panic attacks. "He's driving Dad's truck? What? He can shift gears??? Oh, he can? Well... alright then... can you move my car?"

Mowing the lawn isn't a chore here. It's fun, because they get to drive a machine instead of push it.

Tribble is happier now, but she's going to see some friends from town this weekend and can hardly wait. She also gets invitations to go out with some of her new friends. She'll be okay. Bucky can never live in an urban environment again. Not enough room to go 4 wheeling.

Me? I miss my friends, and my house, and most of all, my husband. I'm shamefully and embarrassingly broke. I'm working on getting some desperately needed income. But I'm okay too, because I am so flippin busy I don't have much time to think!

And now, while my son is out with my Dad in the truck, my daughter and I have a couple horses who need some attention while the sun is shining.

This is what happens to horses when they start getting a dose of attention...

They start wanting more.

They hang around the corral in full view of the dining room windows. They walk up to me without even waiting to be called. They stick their heads in their halters instead of running away.

It almost makes me think they might actually like me!

Really I think it's because horses like to have something to do. They're creatures of habit, and they've gotten used to having me out there fussing with them and saddling them up or even just being there picking rocks out of the corral.

Yesterday and today I'm working inside the house. They are standing nose to tail, swishing flies off each other's faces.

I feel kinda bad about not paying attention to them, but with all the chaos in my life right now, it's good to know they're out there where I can see them. They are there when I need them.

CELLPHONE-FREE! (at least, until 2009)

I resisted it. I refused it. I avoided it. I announced to anyone who would listen that I would not bet getting a cellphone.

Some people can't understand why I didn't ever want one.

Oh my gosh, where do I start...

It's one more thing to have to charge, one more thing to worry about the battery going dead.

It's one more thing to obsessively check. Check the home phone messages. Check the email. Check the blogs. Check the cellphone - which has all that stuff on it and then you can check all that at once, and of course, once you're done checking you have to start all over again.

I didn't want to be reachable. I know that sounds terrible, but it's true! I had my life set up pretty simple. "I'm either at home, at the grocery store, or at Susan's riding, so just leave me a message and I'll deal with it when I get home." If I had a phone, I reckoned, I'd be getting calls from the school all the time like, "Can you bring me my lunch? I forgot it." Or "I need $25 for a new gym uniform." And then there's always "I wanna go to Buddy's house. Pick me up for supper." I really thought it could all wait.

Cellphones promote laziness. Why plan anything if you can just throw it together at the last minute?

And then, it promotes anxiety. Everything is last minute. Everything can be changed with one phone call, requiring five more phone calls, and the complications get stupid.

Most of all, I just didn't want to be a cellphone slave. You know what I mean. Maybe you are one. It boops, it beeps, it rings, it plays ridiculous little songs, and you gotta drop everything to get it. It will demand your attention. You have to pay attention to it.

I'd get irritated by my husband's iPhone, which I have dubbed the iGadget because it's not just a phone. Actually I call it the Plastic Girlfriend. He sneaks it when I'm not looking because he knows it makes me insane. Yes I am jealous of an electronic device. He reads the news on it in bed and when he's eating his breakfast. It sits beside his bed to wake him up in the morning. It interrupts our conversations and dictates when he leaves for work. He can't make a move without it. It owns him.

Sooooooo.

Here I am, living in between two houses, and needing a phone number of my own. It's not worth getting another landline for a temporary situation. It became clearer daily that I would have to cave in and get a cellphone.

What really fixed it was this new iPhone thing. The NEW one is all powerful and omnipotent and has more bells and whistles than the "old" one. He bought the new one. I got his old one.

I admit, this is a pretty marvelous machine. It's quite amazing. It's just this little heavy plastic slab that suddenly comes to colourful life and does all kinds of things. It's the first cellphone EVER that I used and thought maybe, just maybe, I could figure out how to use it. I just touch it and it does what it's supposed to do. (Usually.) It isn't covered with complicated buttons. It has one big button at the bottom. I can do this. Yes, even a techno-moron like me can do this.

I'm kind of not happy about this because being cellphone-free made me a little different, just a rare breed of holdout who doesn't need these trappings of modern life.

But.

My phone is set to sound like an old rotary phone. It sounds like my childhood.

It's got really nice colours. It looks good.

when it rings, it always tells me who it is, in big easy to read letters.

When it rings, it's usually my husband.

So maybe it's not so bad.

But don't be shocked if I park it on the little table in the hall upstairs and avoid looking at it until I'm done my work for the day...

Good News, Bad News, and the Only News that Matters

Living with the parents means having the TV on when the News is on.

I never had the news on. Sometimes Jethro would watch the late news, but I would turn it off before bed. Call me shallow or self-centered or ignorant, but I mostly don't care. Isn't that awful? But really, what do I need to know? If it's really important, I'll find out. I mean, I do leave the house occasionally.

My husband is a total news junkie, and let me tell you right now: it is a powerful and self-sustaining addiction. You can never stop reading the news online. It just keeps updating. That's why it's called NEWS instead of HAPPENEDS. Now my son is all over watching the news. Great. This means having two sanctimonious well-informed smart guys in my life.

Me, I'm simple. The only news I care about is the Entertainment news. It makes sense. Our family income, meager as it is, comes from the music business. (When it finally shows up, that is.) I plan in the future to have some tiny trickle of income from a publisher, so I hope you all know how to buy books. And buy another form of music while you're at it, please, cuz we have a pretty big repair bill with our mechanic right now, thanks.

The Entertainment news is fun. It breaks up the monotony of These Tough Economic Times and The Worse Recession in At Least Ten Years and the Summer of Whining.

For example. That Kanye kid who keeps showing up to events wearing something awful and opening his mouth. On one hand I'd love to tell him to keep his mouth shut in order to prevent stupidity from coming out. On the other hand, he gave me something to think about on my long drive to the school. Also, he really gave the Swift kid an opportunity to be a class act. His publicist must be stressed. Hers must be relieved. Beyonce's publicist is both relieved and wondering if her job is even necessary, since Beyonce has never taken a public step wrong. Which makes the constant miserable look on her husband's face perplexing. See? Interesting!

It's not always trivial and fun though. Sad news this week. I was really hoping Patrick Swayze would survive and kick cancer's ass, but he passed away, at the young age of 57. More proof that life just isn't fair sometimes. He seemed like the kind of guy who was really down to earth despite the fame. Remember his turn on SNL? Classic. He could laugh at himself, and I love that.

I didn't like Dirty Dancing. I didn't get it. He made it at least watchable.

I have to confess that I have a special fondness for him, because... I loved Ghost. I did, honestly. I wept at the end. Ditto? I thought so. I was a pottery student at the time. No, I never re-enacted the "clay scene" but let me just say, that it was a totally good idea in theory and looked awesome on screen but would be a nasty idea in real life. Better to just avoid the clay and watch the movie instead. He really made that movie watchable. I also liked him because he and his wife were big into horses, with a herd of Arabians. I gotta love people who love horses. I hate to see him go, I really do.

Bad year for famous people. Aren't they all though? Sad.

But here's a bit of news that's got me really confused:

American Idol.

Paula Abdul, my favourite professional Unicorn Communicator, will not be on next year! Nooooooooo! This is WRONG. Where will we get our dose of rainbow coloured music metaphors, visually overwhelming fashions, long drawn out pauses full of potential? Who is going to bring the fairy dust, people? Because I need some fairy dust. The future pop stars of America need fairy dust!

Don't get me wrong, I love Ellen. She cracks me up. I think she'll be great. But will she shush Simon? Actually she likely will. Can Ellen make him roll his eyes like Paula did? Will Ellen stare at the contestants with big brimming brown eyes and profess her love? Nope. Ellen's got blue eyes. It's just not the same.

I say give Paula her own show. Or better yet, give Paula and me a show. I don't know what it'd be about but at least two of us will be seeing unicorns.

I think it's weird that the kids watch more TV out here in the country than in town. This could be on account of me keeping our TV in the basement and not having cable. At least here in the sticks, the antenna picks up a few signals.

Tribble was thrilled that in her dance class today, their assigned homework is to watch So You Think You Can Dance Canada. She's thinking her new school is okay after all.

Imagine my delight when I found out that America's Next Top Model is all about Petite models this time! I've never watched that show in my life. I'm watching it now and it's friggin brilliant.

I came in from the barn and all the girls were wearing weird pink outfits with hoods.

Me: Cool! Why are they all wearing weird pink outfits with hoods?

Tribble: Because Tyra is AWESOME.

Good enough. Then they got into this bizarre Lady Godiva photo shoot with horses that were clearly not racehorses, although they were cute.

Know what I really love? These are "petite" and are constantly referred to as "short." Guess what? The shortest girl there is two inches taller than me. I think that's funny! Under 5'7" is short??? Not in the family I grew up in!

Well I've completely lost my train of thought, and still haven't called my best friend -who is no longer a long-distance phone call - and I'm tired and have a headache, so that's all I got for tonight.

Next time I'm back, we'll talk about the difficulties of internet in the country. Geez, it's not like I'm miles away from a cellphone tower here, they're blinking their red lights all over the horizon. Like little red stars that blink. I'm tired. Goodnight folks!

The New Routine

5:30 am  The squirming and snuffling at the foot of the bed tells me the dog has to go outside and take a wiz.  I realize I do too.  But not outside.

5:35 am   Cat and dog both fed.  Cat eyeballs me playfully from under a chair like she's about to swipe and blasts upstairs to hide.  Dog follows; bed needs more warming up.

6:20 am   If Mom works early, I take her to town so I can have her car later.  Otherwise, I'm back in bed, but probably  not sleeping because my brain is full.

7 am  get up.

7: 07 am Get the boy and the girl out of bed.  I know the boy's been working hard driving tractor and the 4 wheeler and stuff, cuz he is hard to wake up.  In town he was always awake before me.

7:10 am   Take dog out, tie him up, put the fly masks on the horses and open the gate to let them out into the pasture.

7:12 am   The dog and I go for a run around the yard, along the hay field, around the bottom of the south side, and up the hill by the pasture field.  We both run.  Him, almost all of it, me just the hay field stretch.  The downhill part.

7:20 to 8 am  Eat, move the kids through the bathroom while finding time for parents to use it, then getting them through the kitchen ensuring something in the vege/ fruit category goes in the lunch bag.

8:10 am   Git in the car!

8:10 to 8:40  Drive through the country and gawk at all the farms.  There are so many farms around here.  They're everywhere.  Farms everywhere you look.  Only one was for sale, too much land, too much money, and it's already sold.  But there are more!

8:40  drop kids off at school, wish luck, tell boy not to ignore his sister when he sees her, see you at 3 etc.

8:45 to 9:15  tell myself I put them in the right school even if a different one would have sent a bus to our place to pick them up.

9:15 am  to 2:30  pm   Depends who's home here.  Sometimes help mom with groceries or help Dad with whatever project he's working on involving machinery and the great outdoors.  Take Mom to work if she works late.  I always call my husband when I get home.  I miss him.  I'm used to him not being around during the day; I'm used to going to bed alone and telling myself to sleep and not wait for him to come home.  I sleep here with one ear open and can't tell myself he's not sleeping where I am.  I miss him in the morning.  This is hard.

So I make the phone calls and sweep the floor, do laundry, clean the barn, move the pile, walk the dog, remind myself to eat, play with the horses, vacuum, sort through stuff nobody wants anymore, and wonder where the hell the day went and wonder what I got done, because mysteriously, it never looks to me like I did anything.

2:30 pm  Go get the kids.  Drive through the country thinking about how much I kinda like my Mom's Alero with its big General Motors body and half decent stereo and power seat and A/C that works.  But I drive with the window down, elbow out, too fast on the dirt road.  I wave at all the guys on tractors.  They all wave back.

3 pm  I bring a book since I'm usually there a little early.  Try not to watch kids leave the school and wonder who will be friends of my kids soon.  

3:05 outta here

3:30  home, or at least, home we're at now.  If Mom works early, go straight to town to get her.  

4 pm tell the kids they really need to get their lunch bags out, do they have homework, the internet's too slow for facebook right now and let's get outside to see the horses before it gets dark.

5 pm  hopefully I'm outside, with the Pug on his tether-rope watching me do my horsey thing.

6 pm  Mom's got supper ready to go if she's home and we all migrate to the house.  It's gonna be good.  However, if she's at work and supper's up to me... it's gonna be canned.  What?  Pretty hard to train a horse and cook supper at the same time.  Just sayin.

7 pm  to 8 pm   Either getting Mom, or checking off my To Do list, or trying to get in a quick ride before it gets dark.  Oh, and likely doing laundry.  

around 9 pm  Barn.  I love this part of the day.  I take my scoop of cat kibble from the cellar, carrying it to the barn while Larry and Moe trot across the corral, meowing and already purring.  I pour it into two bowls so the brothers don't have to fight.  You know how siblings can be.  

Outside, Phoenix and Copper stomp and snort, pacing the back wall of the barn, but they are not wildly impatient.  The grain goes into the feeders, and I lock the door shut after I return to the scoop to the bin.  Then I open the back door.  Phoenix walks in first, calm and easy, turning the corner into his stall.  The Little Lady is close behind, walking briskly to her stall.  They both know it's rude to trot down the barn aisle.  I lock them into their stalls as I putter around, picking their hooves, sweeping up the aisles, stopping for ear scratches and pats.  

When they're done munching (Phoenix has to lick out the feeder before he considers it done) I unlock their stall doors.  They ease their way out of their stalls and back out into the dark.  I check to make sure all the doors are shut tight, turn off the lights, and give them their last pats of the night. 

10 pm Bark my kids into bed.  Send the dog out for one last wiz of the day.  Tell him he's a good boy because he listens to me when I yell at him to not chase the barn cat.  Hug my kids, pat their backs, tell them gently to get their carcasses up to bed right now darnitall.  Try to keep track of bathroom traffic.  Find the feral house cat rubbing her back against a doorframe, pick her up and coo to her in a baby voice.  Let the Pug back in.  Refill their water bowl.  Clean out her litter box.  Say good night to parents and yell up the stairs to git in bed would ya already.  Charge up there like I'm real good n mad and instead give them hugs and goodnights.  Promise them I'm going to bed too, I really am.

11 pm  Sneak back downstairs, get cordless phone, call husband.  Coo at him in a sweet voice.  Tell him I miss him, tell him what happened today, who each kid ate lunch with, how they're doing.  Hear about his day.  Find something to laugh about.  It's never easy to hang up.

11:30  Sneak some dial-up internet time.  Get frustrated and give up.

11: 45  Realize while brushing teeth that holy crap I'm tired.  Have been for a couple hours.

11:47 pm Find a kid and a Pug snoring in my bed and a furry little cat on my windowsill.  She mews at me.  I pet her and whisper to her.  The moon makes the trees look silvery.  I shove the kid over, because there's no point moving a kid at this time of night.  There's room for all of us.

Late o'clock  Give myself heck for getting to bed so late, but remind myself that I actually get a lot done in a day.  It just doesn't look like it.

5:30 am  Pretty kitty shows up on my pillow purring and brushing her fluffy tail in my face.  Pug whimpers and squirms and tells me it's time to get up....

FRUSTRATION! And relief... And, how am I gonna do all this???

When I let the horses out into the pasture this morning at 7:30, the Little Lady was limping.  

Not good.  This is what we've all been worried about for years.  Maybe you don't know this, but that left hind leg has always been a source of concern, because when she was a yearling, it was broken.  BROKEN.  We forked out the money back then to that leg x-rayed , and sure enough, it was cracked.  By then we'd ALL completely fallen for this tiny cute sweet big-eyed blinky baby.  The crack was right down into the fetlock joint and was getting ready to be a future arthritis problem.  

Nothing could be done but stall rest, and 10 minutes twice each day of hand-walking.  Glenn the vet couldn't make any promises about her condition.  He told us he could never tell us that she'd be sound, even if she appeared to be fine.  We might end up with a really cute lawn ornament.  A much loved little lawn ornament.

So, we did it.  Or I should say, my parents did it, because I lived too far away.  The entire family had a decision to make: if we put the time into this little horse, we make a commitment to keeping her for her lifetime.  No strenuous riding, no barrel racing, no jumping, no breeding.  Watch her weight, and be prepared to get into an arthritis management program at some point in her life.  Never sell her, because we couldn't trust anyone else to get it, and give her the care she needs.  Above all, know that when she is in pain, and we can't make her comfortable anymore, we put her out of her misery.  Scary, eh?  

She healed up.  A year later, she was a new horse.  She was muscular and fit. She didn't limp.  Glenn the vet was impressed.  You could say he was amazed.

Occasionally over the years, she'd look a little stiff if the weather took a cold turn.  Heck, so do I.  She always got over it.  We marveled regularly at how great she's doing, how awesome she is, and how glad we are that we put the work into saving her.

Then this morning, she's all limpy.  

They came into the corral after lunch and she was not putting any weight on it.  At all.  She was walking on three legs and dragging the fourth.  

I dropped everything, left my mother to do the work we'd planned together, and wrapped up the Little Lady's hind legs.  I put both horses in the barn to keep Phoenix from moving her around.  The horses both looked at me like I was nuts, because it's the middle of the afternoon, and this isn't when they get their grain, and can they please go back out?  The barn cats had those cool faces like, "So where's our kibble at?"  

We got in the car and dashed off to get the kids from school.  I was thinking about the stuff I wasn't getting done in the house, and thinking about a horse who will not be used for lessons now, and that maybe this is my wake up call.  Maybe she'll be okay but I can't push her too hard.  Maybe it's my fault for riding her almost every day for over two weeks.  Then I got into the What Ifs and that was too awful to say out loud. 

Back home again, I wrapped her legs with some cold lotion.  Then they blasted out to the pasture like their tails were on fire, and guess what?  SHE CAN RUN ON THREE LEGS.  Forehead slap.

I called the vet and left a message.

After supper I talked to Cindy the vet.  She said she'd come out in the morning, and told me to check the cold lotion jar, to see if it's allowed to stay on overnight.  She told to pick out her hooves real good.  If she's got a stone in there or something, it could affect the weight bearing and then irritate that old injury.

I was feeling a little frazzled by this time, and relieved that Mom happened to have the day off work, and she did the cooking today.  If I'd been alone, we'd be eating crackers and cheese for dinner.  Keeping horses in the barn overnight is a lot more labour intensive than keeping them in the corral for the night.  I threw down a couple hay bales, topped up the water buckets, and brought the horses in.  Fed the cats too, not that they needed it, judging by the pile of feathers in the aisle.

I undid the mare's legs and checked for swelling.  All okay.  I got out the nasty old polo bandages and wrapped her up again, making sure I got under the fetlock for support.  

I was putting stuff away in the tack room when I remembered Cindy's point about the hoof pick.  I wrestled Copper's leg up again - she was losing her good natured co-operation by this time - and dug the hoof pick into the cleft.  It stopped.  It stuck on something.  

Uh oh.

I felt around with my fingers and found...

A NAIL HEAD.  

I PULLED A HALF INCH LONG NAIL OUT OF HER HOOF.

Felt a little dizzy, folks.  It was right up in there, vertically.  

I'm so fanatical about picking up every nail and bit of junk that works its way to the surface of this old barnyard.  And yet.  

So, I got some iodine to squirt on the underside of her hoof, and a square or gauze with some duct tape to stick it on, and made a funny lookin' little booty around her hoof to keep the dirt out until morning when the vet gets here.  

I'm thinking now, maybe she's not permanently arthritic.  Yet.  Maybe it's not the old leg injury acting up - I mean, you'd limp too if you had a NAIL IN YOUR HOOF, right?  

Okay, so it's not so terribly horribly bad, other than the poor girl having a RUSTY PIECE OF METAL IN HER.  Which I pulled out and disinfected and wrapped and holy crap how long does a tetanus shot last???

Poor sweet little mare... she always gets it.  Cut her forehead in June, has to have baby-bum-cream on her little pink muzzle to avoid sunburn, got mudcrack this summer and had the have yellow goop on her pastern to get rid of the scabs, has super sensitive skin and hates being brushed when she's in heat, and also HAD A BROKEN LEG WHEN SHE WAS A BABY.  

I am really, really tired, folks.  I have to do all that laundry I didn't do this afternoon when I was wrapping legs.  Have to go to bed.  My hair is frizzy with humidity and sweat and that bath I had this morning has been totally negated.

How am I going to do this - take care of two horses, make a living with them, when I haven't even gotten my coaching insurance stitched up and therefore haven't gotten any solid gigs out here yet, and still be there for my kids, maintain a long-distance relationship with my husband (I don't recommend this by the way) and feed people, take my dog for a run outside along the hay field, clean the cat's litter box, sweep floors, write novels (which I am taking a break from this month, geez) and like, be me, and sleep?  And have a bath at least once a week?  

I mean, people do this, right?  People who DON'T live with Mom?  

At least I might have a bus stop for the kids, so I only have to drive 5 minutes instead of a half hour to get them to school.

I can do this, right?

I hope my little mare is feeling better in the morning.  When I left her, she was munching  hay like she always hangs in the barn with her legs wrapped up and one hoof encased in duct tape.  It's cool, baby.  Totally normal.  Leave the barn door open, eh?  The breeze is nice...

Living in two houses can be very confusing.

I love my mother's house. It's old. It's a classic farmhouse, not in that magazine kind of gingerbread way, but in a very real way. It's been modified, altered, added onto, redecorated, started and unfinished, and above all, lived in. People have been born in that house and died in that house. When I was a kid I wrote a whole journal entry about how much I love that house even though it's not spotlessly clean and not all the trim matches anymore, and that 50 year old linoleum in the upstairs hallway is starting to look a little worn.

I've grown a real affection for my own house over the last 12 years. It was never my dream house. I had visions of a beautiful Victorian with 10 inch baseboards, and deep windowsills on high arched windows. Instead I got a cute little 1958 bungalow with puny trim around the windows, which are unimpressive horizontal rectangles. Its one glamorous feature is the swirly stucco ceiling in the living/dining room.

No matter. I love it and not just because it's mine. It's a practical, well planned out house. There's enough room- just enough- for us and the stuff we like to live with.

Technically, it is still my house, even though I'm sort of living at the farm, sort of.

The farmhouse has always felt like home. I grew up there, and since getting married and moving out, it's always been a second home. But you know what? In many ways, you can't really, totally, ever go back, and that's life. Once a chick gets her own place, she gets to liking it.

The long weekend brings me back to this home, this little house in town. We got into our house just after midnight, and turned on only as many lights as necessary. I felt a relief of familiarity. My own dining room, my messy kitchen, my white bathroom. My favourite kind of soap in the dish. My purple bedroom, with the sheets all twisted and hanging sideways off the bed, because my husband has been sleeping there all alone and never bothers to pull the sheets the right way again. The kids' bedrooms that I painted. All but one wall in this house, I painted.

Already it's less ours... we're down to one armchair in the living room, and it's surrounded by boxes of books. I had to take some off the shelf. Apparently, houses don't sell well if they look cluttered. I've often had a hard time telling the difference between "clutter" and "art".

I just think a house looks more like a home with lots of stuff in it. How can a person live without books, and pictures, and art, and musical instruments???

If I understand correctly, it means I have to take out as many things as possible that scream our names and announce any hints of who we are or what we like.

Meanwhile, back at the farm, the dresser in my room is piled with books. My barn jeans are hanging on a hook over the upstairs landing. Tribble has artistically draped her colourful clothes over the desk. There's a stack of comic books beside Bucky's bed, next to the lamp table where he sets his jackknife every night.

Jethro? I feel sorry for him. His head hits the pillow, and the next morning he and his iPhone leave for work again. I'm not sure if he always knows where he is when he first wakes up. That really needs to be fixed. We've got to get all of us on the same property and still keep his job. Tricky.

As for Mom and the ol' Man, life has become a little bit louder and crazier, but not so bad that it's a problem.

For years I've had to keep track of clothes in two houses, because I always had to have barn clothes plus Sunday clothes at the farm. I'm not real good at keeping track of anything. I'm lucky everybody showed up here with clean underwear, and it's a good thing we have washing machines. It looks like I haven't made my life any easier with this move, but you know, that whole thing with the steps and the process and the doing things in steps blah blah blah.

As long as we all have clean undies wherever we're staying, we'll be okay, right?

The New Kid

Tribble is the kind of kid you'd think would have everybody scrambling to be her friend.  She's pretty, funny, smart, sweet, goofy, and artistic.  She has a cool fashion sense and just enough weirdness to be irresistibly interesting.  

She amazes me, and not just because she's my kid and I love her.  She's just amazing.

She has all these friends who are all unique in their own ways, from the Egyptian girl with the big black boots and YouTube following for her animated short films, to the Italian girl who loves horses, to the Sicilian/Irish girl who loves vampires, just to name a few.  This group of kids has always impressed the heck out of me.  They're wonderful.  They don't tease anybody, they aren't into getting blasted, and they let everyone be themselves.

We love them.

Here's the problem: they are in the town we almost don't live in anymore.  Tribble doesn't go to school with them anymore.  

She would likely love her new school except for that one, huge, glaring problem.

She's in contact with them over our super-slow rural internet, and will be in touch for real when we return to our house for the next month or so (getting ready to sell) but in the meantime, she's ready to hate school.

The kids are all "mall kids."  They all wear that Hollister stuff.  They all have straightened hair and obnoxious giggles.  They all stick together.  They text constantly.  They are boring.

Gah.  No wonder I have recurring nightmares.

This kid only changed schools once: last year, when she went to Grade 9.  Could we have picked a worse age to move her???

I am so sure that there have to be some slightly and delightfully weird kids at that school.   This town is smaller than the one she came from, but in my teens, this school was known as the "city school" and the other one in town, which my cousins attended, was the "farmer school."  I've told my kids they have the best of both worlds, living in town, but  spending a lot of time in the country.  They can relate to most other kids.  

I told Tribble that it's only the first day, so the other kids haven't had a chance to get to know her yet.  She says they might not bother because they already have friends. I tell her I can't believe that nobody will bother to get to know her.  She's so awesome.  They just haven't had a chance to find out yet.  When they do, she'll find friends.

I've told her this town is known for being all arty, and full of touristy stuff, so some of these kids have to come from tourist-trappy, arty, entertainingish kind of families.  They've got to be interesting, not?

She's not so convinced.  

By the way, Bucky is his usual cool self.  Hey.  Wtsup.  Cool.  All long curly hair and big feet and grass stained jeans.  It's not easy for him to leave his brainiac nerdy friends but eccentricity clings to him and he likes it that way.  They'll find him.  

I hope she's got kindreds out there.  

Anybody out there end up changing schools at the delicate age of 15?  Any advice for this heartbroken mother?  She cries, I ache.  It's like the cord's still attached, man.  I feel her every move.

After supper I asked her to come out to see the horses with me.  We had a lovely bareback ride in the dirt corral as the sun went down in the pink sky.  Tribble loves her little mare so much.  She neck reined her around with only a hackamore on the Little Lady's head, marveling the whole time at how cute and awesome her little sweet horse is.  

If only that horse could go to school with her, I might have a heart-mending solution...