Slow Spring

While doing dishes the other night, standing at the kitchen sink, hands soaking in hot soapy water (one of my many peculiarities – I find some peace and satisfaction in this chore) I looked out the window to see six deer strolling along the south fence of the pasture, sauntering out of the cattails on the east side into the woods on the west.

Generally, I’d announce their presence, but cervine sightings create a ruckus with the retrievers, and even George getting up to look out the deck door would alert the always-on-call Ruff and Rowdy, which would provoke much barking and jumping and running from one lookout spot to the next until the last white tail high-tailed into the swamp.

And lulled as I was, by the warm lavender-scented suds, I opted to circumvent the canine chaos and said nothing, just kept the secret as I stood, watched, and wondered where they’d stop to sleep.

Our weak winter offered the deer many dining options and we didn’t see much of them this year, but spring brings them back to call dibs on the fresh pasture. I’m happy to see them, though Chicago and Moe, denied access until the grass gets a chance to establish itself for the season, do not share my sense of hospitality.

Spring also brings a series of addendums to the ever-present list of ideas and intentions that get added, edited, sifted, sorted, and prioritized in my mind.

Fill the long-empty bird feeders for the long-gone birds who flew off in search of a more secure food source
Rake the piles of rejected hay left on the shelter floor by the two indulged geldings who may be just slightly overfed and underworked
Spend some serious time with Chicago, Moe and the shedding blade
Drag the two shamrocks and the peace lily out from their winter refuge under the saddle rack and get them growing before going outside for their summer vacation
Figure a way to get Fennel to the vet for annual vaccinations and examination of a suspected abscess on his right rear leg which morphed into a mysterious series of bald patches circling his tail

I’m a card-carrying member of the Lifelong Listmakers Club, but lately the tasks don’t make the move from my noggin to my notebook or beyond. Not much step in my spring so far.

The animals are always priority of course – stalls are cleaned, feed pans and water buckets filled, and everybody gets conversations, confections, affection, and attention multiple times a day, it’s just the extra activities that get shuffled to the bottom of the never-ending list.

Small things, big things, fun things, dumb things all float around my mind, bubble up and settle down to simmer or to soak while I cogitate, procrastinate, and finally opt to activate.

Funny though, over the weekend I realized that my barn chores are once again serenaded by cardinals, chickadees, robins, wrens, owls and red-winged blackbirds in the trees, while turkeys, pheasants and sandhill cranes chime in from the marsh. So, the feeders are full again.

The black mat of the shelter floor is now clearly visible, devoid of the layer of leftover hay. Turns out that if I feed Chicago and Moe like the easy-livin’ equines they are, rather than putting out enough to fuel a couple draft horses plowing the back forty, they cycle back through the ration a time or two, picking out the pieces that they passed over previously.

A few exfoliating sessions in the mud puddles of the “dry lot” have helped them self-shed, shiny summer coats starting to peek through the crusted dirt that’ll clean up quickly with a curry comb.

The shamrocks and the peace lily pushed up through the potting soil despite my inattention, and their tenacity inspired me to add a little fertilizer-infused water to aid the effort.

Fennel’s skin has healed, his hair is growing back, and since we’ve mutually agreed to call an end to his veterinary visits, the cat crate has been removed from the barn, so he no longer eyes me with suspicion, nor bolts when I get close enough to touch him. He trusts me. He really trusts me.

“Slowing down doesn’t mean giving up” said my Calm app the other day. Timely, welcome words. Sometimes it’s ok to take a minute to let the universe unfold.

To stand silently at the sink and wonder where the deer are headed.

Don’t tell the dogs.

Spying Spring

Punxsutawney has Phill, Four Sticks Farm has Fennel.

He’s a conscientious all-season barn cat, committed to keeping the place rid of rodents even in inclement conditions, but sticks to a skeleton schedule during the winter months, paring down the perimeter of his patrol, turning up the tempo of his trot, and using his vacation time to burrow in his cat bed. Just the basics ma’am.

But our little summoner of spring has started to emerge earlier and oftener from the confines of his cozy den in the heated barn shop.

As I make way to the barn in the pre-dawn hours, more days than not, I detect a shadowy block hunkered down near the end of the walkway. Fennel surveys my approach with his natural night-vision goggles, then advances toward me arched-back and fuzzed-fur, hopping in a sideways crab-like catwalk.

Proper identification presented, business stated, he turns toward the tack room and escorts me to my targeted destination for completion of my mission – breakfast.

The later I am, the closer to the house he is, sometimes jumping through the deck rails to bestow Rowdy with a good-morning chin rub, sometimes abruptly about-facing to lead me down the walk.

Based on the palpable pressure of 3 eyes piercing the diminishing darkness from the depths of the barn shelter, I suspect Moe and Chicago occasionally recruit Fennel for a reconnaissance mission, sending him to scout any activity around the house that would signal engagement of mealtime movements.

Like a couple others around here, Fennel is working to shed the seasonal excess, snacking on the shamrock in the tack room to supplement the chicken kibble, scratching the hayloft ladder to stretch his spine and bulk up his biceps, running wind sprints in the alley and high-jumping onto the trunk of a pasture elm tree, employing the pitons of his paws to pause long enough to make eye contact and elicit admiration for his exceptional climbing skills.

He’ll be fit for battle before the barn swallows return from wherever it is they spend their snowbird months.

We’ve still got a little winter to weather, but the brighter days are on the horizon. Pitchers and catchers have reported, Reese’s peanut butter hearts have been replaced by peanut butter eggs, and stalls are now clean before sunset.

And Fennel has re-upped, ready to return to the fulltime duty roster.

Halloween

Two barn cats, but neither is black
Prowl around but are easy to track
They spend much of the day
Hiding out in the hay
But will always appear for a snack.

Ruff and Rowdy will work for a treat
Ask reward and then rinse and repeat
There’s no need to get ghoulish
When Ruffian acts foolish
He’s still learning, and really quite sweet.

He’s not brave so Chicago can’t boast
Many fears does this handsome horse host
He’s a little bit spooky
And can get kind of kooky
When he sees what he’s sure is a ghost.

Halloween brings no cause for alarm
An eerie sort of holiday charm
Scary sounds in the dark
Owls hoot and dogs bark
But peace surrounds us at Four Sticks Farm.

Zowie

Zounds and gadzooks, I did it. One year ago, I committed to publish an original blog post on alternate Tuesdays, following the alphabet on a tour of topics.

And I did it.

Once or twice, it was right under the wire, but I did it. On time and to the letter. Yee haw!

As part of the process, I experimented with writing style – lists, poems, plain old prose; I relaxed the reins of composition control, conceding to a muse that sometimes detoured my words from their original destination; and I finally figured out that formatting pictures is not my forte’ – tutorials have been added to the list of next year’s To Be Done.

One of my motivations was to speed up the composition process through consistent practice, and while the words now come a little faster when I sit at the keyboard, I still don’t sit at the keyboard as often as anticipated. But I make it happen at least a few days every week, and that’s enough of a pattern to continue with a promise of improvement, so I’ll keep to the rhythm of the current routine – every other Tuesday.

My personal microcosmic zoological garden provides plenty of material for reflection and reportage as creatures pop in, pop up, and pop out.

Like the three big rats that once rode in on a hay wagon, to be swiftly and singlehandedly dispatched by Mace, the tenacious tabby. #barncatsrule

Or the several black snakes that slithered under the concrete apron of the barn door, but fortunately found more acceptable accommodations elsewhere. #wewillallbehappierifyouaresomewhereelse

Or the occasional skunk that sporadically wanders through the property, evidenced only by a telltale aromatic trail. #p.u.

And the 2023 Monarch Mission, likely to expand in 2024, though hopefully to a new location on the property. I’m all in on perpetuating the pollinators but prefer my front porch to be more of a peaceful place to sit and less of a middle school science lab. #caterpillarspoopalot

Over the year, a few issues and ideas floated through as Maybe musings, but because they didn’t fit the Letter of the Week, I squirreled them away for future posts, with mental notes or old-school scribbles on scraps of paper.

I’ll probably post updates on my (very) recently started Front Trail Project, a nebulous, open-ended plan to create a visibly pleasing, natural park-like area for sitting, strolling, riding, ruminating, chasing chipmunks and watching the world go by. This new development makes George kind of sad despite my insistence that it will not add a single solitary task to his regular maintenance duty roster. I’ll only need his help for the occasional heavy lifting. I think.

Living with animals offers ample opportunities for adventure, adversity, frustration, fun, labor, and laughter – plenty of fodder for blog post ponderings.

Of course, most of my inspiration will continue to come from the soul of Four Sticks Farm – Biskit, Chicago, Fennel, Mace and Rowdy, who bring the chaos and calm, the dirt and delight, the worry and wonder, that fill my heart with gratitude and joy. They make my home my happy place. #staytuned

Zen

Youth

I’ve recently been obsessed with a home office reorganization which unearthed unusable pens, unfiled papers, and unframed photographs. The pens got tossed and the papers got filed, but the photos are still not framed, just moved to the big pink box in the guest room closet that doubles as my storage space.

Before closing the lid though, I studied the images, many, most, all of them snapshots of my animals in their younger years. My stroll down Memory Lane brought back the beginnings – of bringing home the big red beast and my palomino birthday present.

I was reminded of a rambunctious retriever who would, I was convinced, grow to be an ironic twist of his name, and I remembered barn kittens braving whole new worlds of horse hooves and hay bales.

I was struck, and honestly, a little saddened, by how, back in the day, we were markedly brighter eyed, fresher faced and shinier coated. And thinner.

We’re all maturing mostly gracefully. I don’t sling 50-pound feed sacks over my shoulder these days, but that works out with the current corporate trend of downsized kibble bags; and a bucket full of manure doesn’t go up and over the bunker wall as easily as it once did, but smaller loads in two trips get the job done with a few more steps for the Fitbit.

Rowdy, the pup who gleefully vaulted off the retaining wall and out of the hostas to run laps around the dog yard, now ambles in to, and out of the Explorer with the help of a foldup ramp, silencing the telltale “hrmmph” of sore joints when he lands on solid ground. But once we hit the trail, he’s all in on the reconnaissance mission, leaving little slack on the leash as he stops, looks, listens, and sniffs for creatures of interest, past and present.

Meanwhile, the new ramp routine allows me to mark off a minute or two of interval training, as I lift and bend, fold and unfold the fifteen pounds of cumbersome molded plastic.

Easy keepers Biskit and Chicago maintain their gelding figures with minimal effort, though the long stems of hay harvested early in the season now wreak a little havoc with their old intestines, so we wait for later cuttings and supplement with softer hay cubes.

Super senior Mace manages to show up first in line for Mess Hall opening, wobbling on a weakening hind end now aligned slightly left of the front. He’s taken to waiting on the rug at the tack room door or on his bed in the barn shop, having recently waved the white flag at the hayloft ladder, but the old brown tabby rarely misses one of his many mini meals.

Fennel, the freshest face on the farm and the only Four Sticks 4-legged not yet supplemented with some form of arthritis assistance, is getting older like the rest of us, having abandoned the grasshopper pursuits of his kittenhood for the grownup work of real rodent eradication, spending off-duty hours in Goldilocks fashion, lounging on whichever of the 3 hay stacks he finds Just Right.

We accept the realities of aging. We adapt, we adjust, we appreciate.

And we anticipate that someday, for real, “Rowdy” will be an ironic twist.

Yielding

Visitors

Once upon a weekend, two hungry tabby cats and their sleepy-eyed caretaker entered the barn shop for breakfast. Imagine their surprise at seeing the chow container on its side, the lid lying several feet to the left, the scoop sitting several feet to the right. The water bowl stood upright but nearly empty, its contents covering the surrounding floor.

Due to an unfortunate, though not necessarily uncommon, lapse of communication between the two-leggeds, the overhead door had been open all night, offering free food and lodging to any and all who might wander by.

Luckily, only one took me up on the offer, and apparently wasn’t uber-impressed, as most of the food and water were still here, just scattered and sloshed around the cat corner of the shop.

I swept up the cat chow, re-hinged the container lid, re-hung the measuring scoop, and cleaned off the floor where the mystery guest left a calling card in the form of a yellow puddle and a brown pile.

Monday morning dawned cool and cloudy, perhaps enticing our uninvited visitor to sleep in, or maybe he didn’t realize we open earlier on weekdays, but when I came in through the little door, he was scrambling to get out through the big door.

Not sure which of us was more rattled, but I do know I hit the button on the opener while he ran at least 2 laps up and down the other side of the room, separated only by the car and the exercise equipment.

Though he once again evaded apprehension, the identity of the kibble crook was clear when I caught a fleeting glimpse of his masked mug as he scampered under the weight bench, and I noticed the distinctive wet pawprints left after swishing his snack in the water bowl.

The incident remains under investigation, as I try to determine the mode of entry. It’s possible that I (and only I, this time it’s all on me) left the door partly open to let the breeze blow through the barn. I hope that proves true, because if not, it means the little raccoon has figured out the cat doors.

Yikes.

Yuck.

Stay tuned.

This is not our first raccoon adventure. We once had a family of 5 take up residence in a big maple tree in the west paddock – one of Rowdy’s favorite springs, as he spent many, many, many moments staring into the branches from the base of that tree, praying to the god of Dogs with Strong Prey Drives, hoping for just one of those babies to challenge him to chase.

They did not.

We’ve had several species stop by over the years. Some travel non-stop, others stay for an hour, a day, a season.

Deer roam through randomly, singly, in pairs, or herds of 13. Fawns run wind sprints across the pasture, arching their backs and kicking their heels, bronco-style. One summer brought an orphan fawn who spent a couple months trying to join our little gang of geldings, only to be rudely rejected by then Head Horse Rusty. The ponies did, however, allow the little one to spend much of the summer safely grazing close enough to be protected by their proximity.

Much to Mace’s amazement and amusement, a painted turtle ambled across the alley several springs ago. Its pace was painstakingly slow, but its presence was brief – just the solitary walk across the pasture to the swamp, after which we never saw it again.

One cold January day I slid the barn door open and interrupted a coyote napping in the sunny corner of the shelter – sitting up to stretch out the sleep and jog away just as Biskit and Chicago trotted out to pasture.

Ducks and geese swim in supersized spring-melt paddock puddles, stray cats strut across the yard, and sandhill cranes promenade in the pasture with their progeny. Pheasants and turkeys call from the tall grass and every once in a while, a muskrat, weasel, or one of their kin navigates across the creek that sometimes runs through the culvert.

A giant yellow garden spider graced our day lilies with her home of spun silk, complete with Charlotte-style egg sac, a wild kingdom fairy tale missing only a trip to the county fair and “Some Pig” woven in the web.

The carousel of creatures that cruise, saunter, prance, and wander through the property provides such interest and reminders of the many ways to live a life, none better or worse, just different. We’re a Live and Let Live operation here at Four Sticks Farm, and with a bit of behavior management for a certain golden retriever, all are permitted to pass through in peace.

Though we will keep the barn door closed.

Variety

Space

Minnesota winter has a way of bleeding into Minnesota spring, draining some of us of all hope that we’ll ever again lay eyes or bare feet on that gift of nature that is warm green grass. But somehow, sometime, the weather gods once again secretly apply the tourniquet, and seemingly overnight, the hemorrhaging stops. The snow melts, the mud dries, the trees bud, the grass sprouts, and the stealthy season sneaks in, confirming our sometimes-shaky faith in the certainty of spring’s eventual, inevitable, arrival.

With the knee-deep snow replaced by firmly packed gravel, Biskit and Chicago now amble up and down the alley, assuming their annual obligation to manicure the fence line by nibbling at the emerging greenery. This early spring sampling serves a dual purpose of initializing their intestines to the richness of real grass while keeping the property pretty. They have a job and they do it well.

The horses move through their worlds with an enviable blend of individuality and group dynamics. One may wander back to the barn for a cool drink or a warm doze under the shelter while the other stays in the dry lot, comfortable in the knowledge that he has food, he has a friend, and he is safe.

Unless Chicago hears a small engine revving up anywhere in a 3-block radius, a red-alert situation often resolved only after much blowing, bucking, and bolting until he becomes aware that he’s the only herd member in panic mode – not a good look for the leader.

They generally graze near, but not next to, each other. Except of course, when the big red paint suspects the portly palomino has found the mother lode of flavorful forage, at which time Chicago moves in and makes Biskit move out.

For the most part though, they live in companionable quiet, able, but not required, to engage or evade as they choose.
Fennel and Mace also travel in their own orbits, making their rodent runs, taking their sun siestas on separate schedules, but coordinating their calendars every day for a communal cat nap in the hayloft and some cat chow in the workshop.

I love how the barn boys share their space to preserve the peace, moving around, standing still, staying close, or backing off with neither fuss nor fanfare.

Living space, freedom to move about the cabin of daily life, allows for head space, which lends itself to cogitation, deliberation, reflection, and rumination. Thinking time.

Time to contemplate challenges and chores, guilt and gratitude.

Time to mull over mistakes and making amends, obligations and opinions.

Time to ponder plans and priorities and place in the world.

And my favorite, time to think about nothing in particular, the meditative, rambling, therapeutic, unchecked stream of consciousness. The silent space of simply being.

Serenity.

Questions

Who told Biskit that the way to get the lead out of Lisa’s back end at feeding time is to paw at the ground incessantly, with bonus points for striking the metal barn door?

What incites Mace to arbitrarily explode into fierce, angry feline mode while sitting placidly in my lap for what seemed to be a soothing chin-scratching session?

Where did Rowdy get the idea that the best time to slurp from his water bowl and drop a trail of drooly drips across the entire main level, is just after I’ve settled into the rocking chair with a book and a beverage?

When did Fennel realize the primo path to the barn is directly in front of my feet, with abrupt, unannounced stops to complain about the walk and equally abrupt, unannounced launches from my arms after I scoop him up in an obviously unappreciated attempt at assistance?

Why does Chicago still, after 21 years at Four Sticks Farm, bolt like the proverbial bat out of Hades when snow slides off the barn roof, then stand in the safety of the open pasture, staring at the offending structure with fear and loathing until I slide open the door, allowing immediate access to the sanctuary that is his stall?

How can I be anything but amazed and amused when I wake up every morning, blessed to live on this little piece of Minnesota marshland with these charming characters? These delightful, genuine, puzzling creatures, who cultivate my curiosity with what they deem acceptable conduct, where they draw the line of expected behavior, and when they opt to do otherwise, grant me the opportunity to figure out why.

Quirks.

Mace

Nearly two years ago I wrote a post musing about how middle age moved mean Mace to a more moderate space. Who knew he’d hang in long enough for an encore entry about a now (mostly) mellow old cat. The burly brown tabby turns 16 this summer, mind-boggling to me, but breath-holding to our friends at the Monticello Pet Hospital, where his chart is flagged to encourage efficiency. Get done and get out, save the social niceties for when the golden comes in.

But Mace’s gravelly growls never passed the Peaceful Protest Level of Objection at our 2022 annual exam, thanks to the introduction of a new modern marvel – the squeeze tube of tuna paste. A dab or two did nicely to distract my bad-tempered barn cat long enough to do what needed to be done.

What needed to be done included taking his temperature, a procedure so fraught with tension that a very veteran veterinarian once aborted his attempt to insert the thermometer under the fierce feline’s tail, opting instead to work under “the assumption that he has a fever”. That, my friends, is wisdom. In the interest of self-preservation, go with the educated guess.

The young readers who came to our Books in the Barn program called him “Crabby Cat”, a richly deserved moniker which was clarified to every rookie visitor, and confirmed by those foolish enough to believe they were blessed with cat-whispering capabilities beyond the rest of us.

Soap and clean towels by the barn sink. Here’s the Neosporin and the Band-Aids.

Maybe his leonine leanings contributed to his longevity. Mace came to the farm, a two-pound ten-ounce sweet-faced slip of a kitten, full of ear mites and a motor that never stopped purring. But a couple scraps with things that go bite in the night, a couple abscessed wounds, a couple unpleasant vet visits with a couple assumptions of the presence of fever are bound to leave a mark. He toughened up, and for a few years, put up fences for his own protection.

But he still showed up, did his job, and stayed just social enough to keep his spot on the roster while he worked through his temperament troubles.

Eventually, the growling and biting gave way to simply walking away, as time and experience presented a clearer picture of serviceable options. I guess that’s what age does for us. We learn who loves us enough to tolerate the occasional crabby moment, figure out what we contribute to the common good, discover where we feel safe and happy, decide when to pass on the major mousing to the young kits, and we understand why sitting on a cushioned chair in a cozy spot is simply the cat’s meow.

His belly’s a little big, his walk a little wobbly, and his actions a little less animated, but old Mace is still here, snaring the random rodent, missing zero meals, and sitting in front of the electric eye so the barn door doesn’t close until he’s caught a couple rays.

He accepts the occasional wrestling challenge from Fennel, appreciates the occasional cuddle from the two-leggeds, and assures the clinic staff of the continuing need to stock tuna-in-a-tube.

Maturity.

Kaleidoscope

We’ve rotated past the festive red of Christmas, through the New Year’s glittery golds and into January’s several shades of white. Our winter palette shifts from shimmering diamond ice on the brilliant blanket of the pristine pasture unsullied by hoofprint paths, to semi-gloss pewter patches of ice cemented in the shady spots, to the flat bone tone of plowed snow piles at the end of the driveway, dulled by road salt and sand.

Around the barn, we get a bit of cold-weather color from the green-flecked feeding spots, littered with bits of uneaten hay, and the rusty splotches that stop the heart of every first-time horse owner until they learn that it’s just a natural chemical reaction between snow and the natural equine response to a full bladder.

The trees surround the pasture with feathery, frost-covered limbs, a living palette of ivory, cotton, porcelain, and parchment.

The rhythm of my chores changes with the cold, but I still bundle up and trundle down to the barn several times a day. I channel my inner efficiency expert to get done what needs to be done before my hands get cold.

To combat Biskit and Chicago’s inclination to loiter by the water cooler under the shelter, I load my round snow saucer with flakes of hay and slide it around the pasture, scattering little piles everywhere. Much like their owner, the old ponies are easily enticed by the promise of a tasty treat and making them move around the field of food helps maintain some measure of muscle mass and keep the joint fluids fluid.

Though my barn time may be briefer, I mindfully run through a mental menu as I check in with the horses and cats to be sure they’re winter-fat and happy. Each of the once-overs includes at least a little eye contact, ear caress and easy conversation so we preserve the social connection that comes more readily during warmer weather. If I stay a little long and get a little cold, my woolly beasts are willing to share the wealth of warmth that radiates from the pleasantly plump hay bellies that function as their furnaces.

Rowdy and I keep moving too, and though our winter trails are shorter, I often come home sweaty from struggling to stay on my two feet while the Happy Hooligan trots easily over the unpacked paths. He is just as enthusiastic with winter’s snowballs on his belly as he is with summer’s insects on his ears, so my cursing is minimal, and my gratitude maximized for the ability and opportunity to stay active with such a cheerful companion.

Sunshine is a rare commodity these days, and even the few clear nights, with charcoal skies and silvery stars, generally morph into mornings of ash-colored clouds.

January is a month of mostly cloudy and the blue we miss in our sky sometimes seeps into our moods, but we manage to slog through with a little help from our friends.

We move in to chill out. We organize, downsize, sterilize, and modernize.

We realize we’re only weeks from pitchers and catchers reporting, and we fantasize about spring.

We socialize. We check in on each other to get out of our heads and off of our couches. We gather to eat and exercise, to spectate and participate, to gab and to get through this together.

The colors change, the chores change, the challenges change, but some things never change.

Kindness.