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

eXceptions

Because I own neither an x-ray machine nor a xylophone, this post will deviate slightly from the norm and go with sound over spelling for its subject – a one-time exemption from the rule.

Sharing space with pets mandates rules and routines, some semblance of a schedule, but here at Four Sticks Farm our timetable is built with a bit of flexibility, to foster reassurance yet recognize real life.

The horses come into their stalls for a 4-hour snack-and-snooze at about noon, except when a big event interferes, in which case they eat their supplements al fresco, under the barn shelter, with an extended pasture period to compensate for the loss of naptime in front of a fan.

When we hike, I let Rowdy stop and smell the roses, the dandelions, the tall grasses and the tree trunks, until we’re swarmed by biting bugs and Fitbit announces we’re on pace to complete a 60 minute mile, at which time the Happy Hooligan has to pick up his nose, put down his leg, and deal with the fact that he does not, in fact, get to claim every shrub and sapling within the park perimeter.

Fennel and Mace get to graze from their dishes in the shop at their leisure, except during the implementation of Operation Raccoon Raid Resistance, at which time chow is available only in the presence of authorized personnel.

We all adjust, for the good of the order.

A recent vacation reminded me that airports are full of exceptions to my way of thinking – the contemporary dress code that accepts some pretty remarkable anatomy exposure (I guess when the top is that tight you don’t actually need a bra), the modern mode of speakerphone and videochat (I wonder if Paula picked the muted floral bedspread or the gingham reversible comforter set), and the assumption that a stranger will give up their aisle seat for your middle seat so you can sit by your child, which happened on two of my four flights, once to me, once to a guy who ended up in the middle seat next to me.

In my case, the woman had already made my decision and was comfortably settled in my aisle seat before I got to it, smiling cheerfully as she pointed to her ticketed spot in the middle of the row across. I agreed to the trade without complaint, not because I’m such a swell person, but because I’d rather squish between two grownups than stretch my legs next to a child animatedly piloting Mario and his kart.

Plus, it was a short flight.

It all reminded me that there are lots of ways to live a life, and most are manageable for the rest of us when we practice patience and bring a good book.

Rule-following is rooted deep in my core, cultivated by catholic school and cautious introversion and I find comfort in the security of the structure.

But animals and age bring acceptance of the occasional anomaly, challenges to the status quo. Exceptions to the rule offer an opportunity to review long-held beliefs, practices, and systems, which may remind of original intent, renew commitment, and reinforce behavior. Or they may serve as motivation to refresh, to acknowledge that changing the routine can change the perspective, which can change the mind, which can be enlightening. Or fun. Or at least bearable.

Unless we’re talking deerflies and mosquitoes in the woods on a humid day.

eXamine

*Beauty all around*
*when you look for it*

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.

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.

Jottings

New year, new resolve to be a new me. Two and a half days with nearly 12 inches of snow gives a girl a ton of time to watch and wonder, and where better to find inspiration for improvement than the barn – my herd, my pride, my pack.

Biskit – eternal optimist and concise communicator, stares into the house to ensure I realize he’s done with his afternoon hay and expects I’ll be down shortly with the night ration. My pretty palomino snakes his pot-bellied self in through the guard ropes to demand his turn for grooming, then paws, poops, and pees in the barn aisle when he’s had enough.

Chicago – handsome but humble head of the herd, a low-key leader whose management style leans toward ear flicks, nose nudges, and strategic posterior positions. Calm and cooperative, unless we’re talking blackbirds taking flight from the forest floor or metal garbage cans taking space on the path of travel – he engages agreeably but also appreciates his alone time.

Fennel – facing his fears, rarely anymore does he beat a hasty retreat at the sound of the barn door opener, the voice of the hand that feeds him, or the panting of the rowdy golden retriever, opting instead to stay snuggled in one of his many his security spaces, or to stroll over for a casual scratch behind the ears. Seems he’s finally embraced the idea that while it’s neither Kansas nor Oz, there’s no place like Four Sticks Farm.

Mace – aging gracefully, surrendering the things of his youth. Content to pass the pest control baton to the teenage tabby, and to sometimes pass on the pieces of food on his plate, he now eats because he’s hungry, not because there is kibble in the cat dish, thus preventing the Big Squeeze that used to be his pet door problem.

Rowdy – glee in a golden fleece, always good to go – upstairs, downstairs, for a walk, for a ride, to the park, to the kitchen for a peanut butter bone, he’s happy to be there. And unless he’s lying in the living room with his family and his fleecy friends, Rowdy finds no greater pleasure than chasing squirrels into the trees and deer out of the pasture, ears flapping, lips fixed in his goofy golden grin.

There can be no better model than my animals to lead my quest for a better me. Think positive. Be clear and be kind. Speak your piece and make your peace. Sometimes be social, sometimes be solo. Try, even the scary stuff. Don’t eat if you’re not hungry. Get outside. Move. Play. Ponder. Everyday. Live simply.

Joy.

Integrity

The quality or state of being of sound moral principle; uprightness, honesty, and sincerity

Living with livestock leads to some level of obligation – daily bringing-ins and letting-outs, checking-ons and brushing-offs, wiping-downs and cleaning-ups – which also offers ample opportunity for observation and reflection.

We’re experiencing an unusually cold December – temperatures below zero, and as I write I see the trees swaying to balance their heavy white hats in 20 mile per hour winds.

I also see a packed white path to the semi-protected sun-catching site in the southwest corner of the pasture, and a variety of brave birds flitting between the snow-covered cedar tree and the suet feeders – reminders of the marvel of instinct that allows animals to adjust, adapt and abide such harsh conditions.

Biskit and Chicago spend about 20 hours of their days outside, coming in around noon for 3-4 hours of quiet time. Given the willingness with which they walk in, I believe they enjoy the chance to eat, drink, and lie down in a shavings-bedded stall, but given the alertness with which they greet me when I return a few hours later – including Biskit’s semi-annoying banging of the metal door – I also believe they are eager to return to the natural elements.

Our barn opens to a covered shelter space, with hay feeders, an automatic waterer that allows 24-hour access to 52-degree refreshment, and cover from rain, sleet, snow, and sun, if they want it.

But they don’t always want it. They wander out to the pasture – wide open for the winter – and find a sunny spot to stand and doze. They snuffle and scrounge around in the snow, pawing up pieces of frozen pasture, and warm their muscles with an occasional session of horseplay – sparring back and forth, a couple of senior geldings playing stallions.

To stoke the furnaces that are their bellies digesting hay, on the super-cold nights I tend to put out a little more than they need, just to make sure the thermostats stay turned to “toasty” and am pleasantly surprised to slide open the big door in the morning to see small piles of untouched hay that they didn’t need – warmth and willpower, admirable indeed!

Though I have a blanket for each of them, neither is interested, beating a hasty retreat when they see me walking out of the tack room with those armfuls of insulated bulk with buckles. Apparently, like their owner, they have a sufficient layer of natural protective padding.

Chicago greets me with the same good-natured nicker every morning, positioned to belly up to the wheelbarrow and browse through the sunrise ration, while Biskit paws at his feeder for the 17 seconds it takes me to climb through the ropes with a couple flakes for him.

Then they carry on calmly, trying each pile of hay before settling on the one that suits Chicago’s fancy, with Biskit taking the next best.

The farm felines live a life of a little more luxury, spending the better part of their days within the confines of the heated barn shop, snuggling in a fleecy bed, or catching a few winks on the cushions of the porch chairs, stowed for the season.

Fennel fuzzes up and heads outside for a few fleeting moments every day, but Mace, the seasoned veteran of 15 winters, takes advantage of the two 10 by 12 shavings-filled litterboxes in the barn, easily accessed through the 6 by 8 flap-filled cat door in the shop, and isn’t likely to brave the elements until the red line on the thermometer reaches 32.

The four-leggeds adapt to what the world presents and live their lives with admirable acceptance – no whining, no resentment, no scheming to change conditions to their own convenience. They seek shelter during the extreme conditions, but still move out, stretch out, and search out the sunny spots for at least a little while, every day.

They spend their time in the snow, the slush, or the sun, sometimes under cover, sometimes not, but always without complaint. They accept the world as it is, patient, trusting. They endure the harsh weather, tolerating the elements and each other with grace, finding a spot to snack, snooze or simply wait it out.

Inspiration.

House

Ours is a small house. Comfortable for us, but more than two guests for dinner leaves limited elbow room around the table, with detours around the dog bed that doubles as the hearth rug.

Because the main bath is also the master bath, visitors are privy to my preferences in hair and skin care products, and to the old orange beach towel hanging on the door handle to swap the slobber from Rowdy’s chin after each of his 157 daily drinks.

Horses in the back yard means hay in the back entry. Hay, shavings, horsehair, and cat fur make their ways inside, to mingle in the drool drip and pawprint parade that meanders around the wood floor of the main level.

Despite the effort to minimize clutter and maximize clean, guests rarely leave without a small dollop of Four Sticks DNA. Compliments of the house. You’re welcome.

Sometimes I think about the luxuries of living in a house without animals. Freedom from dirt, dander, puddles, feeding schedules, farrier schedules, inside time, outside time, stall cleaning and Swiffer swiping. A closet full of fleece, with no need for a lint roller.

Then I see two tabby cats greeting me in the driveway at sunrise, positioned to steer me down the walkway toward the barn, through the tack room, and to the cat chow, lest I lose my way or forget the Order of Go for morning chores.

I see a white-faced golden gazing at me when I come out of the bedroom closet after work, waiting to see what I’m wearing, which will determine the afternoon’s activity. Sliver of saliva stretching from his jowls, he’s ready to roll with whatever I want to do. Barn? Beautiful! Errands? Excellent! Park? Perfect! TV? Terrific!

I see a couple of hefty horses watching me through the living room window at sunset, wondering if I remember they’re waiting for their overnight ration.

What I don’t see is leaving this place anytime soon. I see staying in our little house for many years to come, cramped, cozy and comfortable, filled with family and friends who don’t mind a little crowding.

Just don’t use the beach towel on the back of the bathroom door.

Home.