Let it snow

It’s snowing.

For Alabama, this is more than a natural phenomenon. It’s an event, something for adults to curse and children to celebrate. It’s a time for school closings and traffic gridlocks as the roads ice over.

This storm caught everyone, including the TV weather men, off guard. Local channels showed pictures of the interstates looking like a dominoes game of Mexican Train, with cars pointing in every which direction. Many folks had abandoned their cars, and businesses and community centers opened their doors to those who needed a warm place to crash. 

My youngest daughter, who stayed home from work because the baby was sick, couldn’t get to the school to pick up my other grandson. A friend of hers made it through and got him, but it took that mom three hours to travel the five miles home. My oldest daughter holed up in a coffee shop about a mile from the library where she works. A friend offered her a bed for the night. 

As for me, I stayed put. I'm as snug as the proverbial bug in a rug. No need for me to stick my tootsies outside. My tenant climbed the hill on foot this morning to tell me he had abandoned his car crossways at the bottom of our driveway. I couldn’t go anywhere even if I wanted to. As long as the propane lasts and the power stays on, I’ll be fine.

My critters have plenty of hay, and I moved my tractor yesterday evening to give them  more shelter. Their water tank is the type that doesn’t freeze up, except around the top between the ball and the inside rim. Donkey can easily paw that loose. I’ve seen him do it. Mallory, my TWH mare, is wearing her new horse blanket. The others don't need blankets because they’ve grown thick, furry coats for the winter. I even remembered to fill the bird feeders yesterday, and the feathered friends covering the perches are chirping their chilly thanks. At least, I think they are. I wasn’t about to open the window to find out.

So, after a lunch of toasted cheese sandwich and Campbell’s chicken noodle soup, I  did what any red-blooded American woman would do under the circumstances:

I made a batch of chocolate-chip cookies.

Making time for what matters

When I sold my business and retired in 2011, it was to write more, ride more, and spend more time with my animals. Life has a way of filling up the cracks and crevices in our daily schedules, like sand fills in a bucket of pebbles, leaving you wondering how you ever found time to work before retirement.

Over the past few days, I’ve made time for my animals. I rode Mallory, my Tennessee Walker, though my woods Saturday. Yesterday, I rode Jazzy, the paint pony I bought for my grandchildren. Both days were sunny reprieves from the cold spell we’ve had, making them perfect for horseback riding. I’m so glad I took advantage of the rise in temperature, because by 10 a.m. this morning, a blustery wind had kicked up, the sun was hiding behind some dark snow-clouds, and a few tiny pieces of frozen water tried their best to make it to the ground before disappearing.

This morning, before the cold had enveloped my senses once again, I sat down on a piece of leftover fence post and watched my critters munch. One of my barn cats, Barney, strolled up and asked me to pet him. I obliged. Betsy, my goat, wondered over for some head-scratching, too. Sometimes I think that goat is part dog, she’s so affectionate.

So there I sat for 10 minutes or so, petting two of my critters against the backdrop of llamas, donkey and horses chomping on dry hay. The crunching sound they made was  like a barnyard lullaby, so soothing that I could have fallen asleep had I been lying down.

“Ahhh,” I thought to myself. “This is the life. This is why I moved to the country.”

I am truly blessed.

View from my front porch

It’s so easy to let my mind get caught up in the whirlwind of chores as soon as my feet hit the floor each morning. Today, however, I decided to take a few moments to enjoy the view from my wide front porch. The weather was a bit nippy, so I pulled the hood of my housecoat over my head, wrapped up in one of those wooly stadium blankets that zips and buckles around you, and took my mug of hot coffee to my Paw-Paw’s rocking chair. 

The only sound was the twittering of birds and the creaking of that old rocker as it moved back and forth against the wooden floor. There were no deer to watch, no mist hovering over the leaf-covered expanse I call my front yard. The bare trees enabled me to see clear to, well, clear to my first trail. I sometimes wish I could see to the road in front of my property, so I could watch the cars go by. But to do that would mean clearing more underbrush and cutting down some trees. It would also mean a loss of the privacy that I’ve come to enjoy so much.

During spring and fall, I often have my coffee and even my lunch on the porch. I might have a glass of wine in the swing in the early evening, too. In summers, I have to use the ceiling fan, which irritates the mother birds trying to build their nests in the crook of my beams.

But I didn’t ponder all that this morning. I didn’t make plans for the day, either. I just sat, rocked and sipped, enjoying the cozy feeling of snuggling inside a warm blanket and watching the steam rise from my mug.

 A friend once said, “Sometimes me sits and thinks, sometimes me just sits.” 

The latter has its benefits. 

Making hay when the sun don't shine

Guess what I was doing when the BSC Championship kickoff was taking place? I was snipping twine from a new round hay bale.

When the weather dips below 30 degrees, I worry about my outside critters. I don't have a real barn, just two doorless stalls and a couple of run-in sheds to accommodate my three horses and two llamas, and my late neighbor's aged horse, donkey and nanny goat. It's enough to keep them out of the wind. Most of the horses grow furry coats in the winter, anyway, and my llamas think they’re back in the Peruvian Andes during this type of weather.

Eating hay helps keep the animals warm. If I had been smart, I would have planted some winter rye, but I wasn't and I didn't, so I'm having to buy hay again this winter. Square bales weren't lasting very long, and I could see that they really needed two or three bales per day. That's $10 to $15 per day. So I bought a round bale for $50, delivered. I knew I could get it cheaper, but I'm loyal to my hay supplier, who made sure I had hay during the drought a few years ago. 

We put the bale under one of my sheds to keep it out of the rain. Wet hay can get moldy, and horses can't eat moldy hay. I didn't have a round-bale feeder to contain the hay, and didn't want to buy one until I could see how long the round bale would last. I knew there would be some waste because the horses would scatter the hay. I didn't realize that when horses scatter it, they also pee and poop in it. They won't eat the spoiled hay, and I can’t say that I blame them, so about a fourth of the first round bale was wasted. I spent two hours cleaning up that mess so I could set up a feeder and get a second round bale.

When I trudged through the woods to feed yesterday morning, I discovered that the entire second bale was gone. They had eaten it all in seven days. That's when I called my neighbor's daughter and asked for help. Her husband offered to buy the next bale, but I needed it right then. So he called his next door neighbor, and after dropping his son off at ball practice (in this weather???) around 6 p.m., he picked up the hay and delivered it to my house.

It took me a few minutes to remove the strips of pink twine that encircled the hay bale. Horses have a nasty habit of accidentally swallowing baling twine and forming calcium rocks around the twine, necessitating expensive surgery to save their lives. And it took me several more minutes to figure out how to secure the gate because the “lock,” a double-end snap connected to a chain the size of Alaska, and just as cold, wouldn't budge. My fingertips were freezing inside my gloves, and I couldn't manage the chain and hold the flashlight at the same time.

By the time I walked back to my house, I had missed the BSC championship kickoff. That’s okay. I enjoyed the game more (despite the outcome)  knowing my critters were warm and well-fed. 

I slept better, too.

Five Days of Christmas

Christmas always is a hectic time. This year was no exception.

On December 21, I took my daughter, Amanda, and two grandsons, ages 6.5 years, and  21 months, to Chattanooga for the North Pole excursion at the Chattanooga Choo-Choo. It included a visit to the Elf Workshop so the boys could make Christmas ornaments and gifts, tickets to the Miniature Railroad Museum, a picture with Santa, the North Pole train excursion and an Elf Tuck-In. The latter involved two lively teenagers dressed as elves who came to our motel room, where they read and acted out, “The Night Before Christmas.” Then they jerked the sheets from the bed and used them to tuck-tuck-tuck-tuck-tuck-tuck-tuck (their words) Gabriel into bed, leaving him wrapped like an Egyptian mummy. Next day, we spent a few hours at the Tennessee Aquarium, where we watched Scuba Santa feed the fish. 

the Santa at the train depot, Mati, the younger one, decided the white-bearded fat man was one scary monster. He couldn’t stop crying. The photographer suggested putting him in his brother’s lap. It didn’t help. When Amanda turned to put down her purse so she could hold Mati, he reached for her, and fell. We watched in horrific slow motion as he hit the sleigh, bounced off the steps, then landed on the ground. He now has a big bruise to show for the trip, and holds the dubious distinction of having fallen out of Santa’s sleigh. It’s a good thing I already had a photo of the boys with the Bass Pro Shop Santa. When we tried to get a photo of the boys with

Gabriel wanted to spend a few days with me after the trip. How do you say “no” when your grandson wants to stay with you? We made gingerbread cookies, and he helped me drill holes in the legs of my new deer feeder so I could secure it to the ground stakes. We don’t want the wind or the raccoons to topple it. Other than that, he spent his time in front of the television and on the iPad while I baked the ham, cooked the chicken, made chicken and dressing, and baked a cake and a pie. 

I took him home Christmas Eve, had dinner with the family, including my oldest daughter and her hubby. I spent the night, and enjoyed the chaos of Christmas morning with the two boys. It was about 3 p.m. when I got home Christmas Day. The silence of the house was truly golden.

Next day, I just loafed. 

I figure I deserved a day off.

Of Horses and Friends

It was a sticky September Friday morning, and the air was heavy with the promise of rain. I was headed to Troy for my second competitive trail ride weekend, and I had spent two days and checked off numerous lists getting my trailer loaded.

On the trip down, I had the fleeting thought of how horrible it would be to forget one’s clothes on a trip like this. Must have been a premonition, because after unloading my horse, Mallory, at the camp and parking my trailer, it hit me like an iron skillet in the hands of a jealous wife: That’s exactly what I had done.

I arrived with only the clothes I was wearing. There were no comfy jammies, no riding pants, no shampoo, no toothbrush. Nothing. Nada. Zip. I remembered putting my bags on my EZ-Go 4x4, but that’s as far as they got. Fortunately, I had parked the EZ-Go under a shed, protecting it from the weather.

Man, was I bummed out. I felt as stupid as a brick, and my self-esteem was about as low as chewing gum on the bottom of a shoe. I stomped around, fussed, fumed and called myself names that I can’t repeat here, in case my grandson reads this. My fellow riders tried to calm me by relating similar experiences. That wasn’t much help to someone facing a day of sweaty riding without a change of underwear.

Several folks pitched in and loaned or gave me items of clothing, and I purchased toothbrush, toothpaste and deodorant at the camp store. Fortunately, I had my towels and linens, food and drink, plus all my tack and horse feed. I washed out my underpants, but they didn’t dry in time for Saturday’s ride.

It was a great ride, even if I was in borrowed breeches. At least I didn’t have to worry about panty lines showing. That night, a friend gave me a pair of panties and someone else gave me a tee-shirt that I slept in and wore the third day with my original jeans. I didn’t have a hair dryer, and my water heater wouldn’t work, forcing me to take tepid showers. But at least I was clean.

When the awards were handed out Sunday, Mallory took first place out of the seven horses in our Novice division. We won’t discuss where I came in. Her win made up for all the horse manure I went through.

Novice or not, I have a great horse and good friends. What more does a woman need?

A Touch of Holiday Nostalgia

I usually get very nostalgic and sometimes sad around Christmas. This started long before my husband died, but his death certainly adds to the sadness. I think it has to do with remembrances of Christmas past, when my dad's side of the family got together to celebrate.

Most of my dad's three brothers (a fourth died when I was a toddler), three sisters and their children would gather at Thanksgiving at my Aunt Vera's. She's dead now, and so are all but two aunts. I miss the missing ones most during the holidays. Like they say, when the generation ahead of you is gone, so is the umbrella between you and eternity.

I can still see those long tables set up in Aunt Vera’s basement, laden with the yummy foods my aunts would bring. That's how I learned that mac 'n cheese didn't originally come in a box, the way my mom made it. My Aunt Rubye made the most mouth-watering mac 'n cheese I’ve ever tasted.

After lunch, we’d draw names. Then we'd get together again around Christmas and exchange gifts. Grandpa Hobson used to buy something for everyone, but because there were so many of us, he couldn't spent much on each. They were token gifts, but I appreciated the thought. My mom, however, didn't. He often gave the women hosiery, but at 5'9-1/2" tall,  her legs were too long for any of them to fit. She always resented that.

  As the family grew, exchanging gifts became expensive. My cousin Ed had five children, and announced one Thanksgiving that he could no longer afford to buy the extra gifts. He suggested we let the kids draw and exchange, and that worked out fine. I can't remember when we stopped the name-drawing altogether.

After Aunt Vera died, my Aunt Rubye and I took turns hosting the gatherings. In fact, I had already hosted a few of the Christmas parties. Once I had a friend come in dressed as Santa Claus. We took pictures of the kids (and a few grownups) sitting on his lap. No one knew him, and because Ed had not arrived yet (like income tax refunds, he and Diane are perpetually late), everyone assumed it was he. You should have seen the looks on their faces when Ed and Diane walked in! 

One Thanksgiving stands out because of a game. It was my cousin Pat's idea to play "Oldyweds," based on the then-popular TV game show, "The Newlyweds." She picked out three couples who had been married for various lengths of time.  Pat sent the three husbands into one room, their wives into another, and everyone was instructed to contemplate three questions. One of them was: "When was the last time your spouse made you mad?" When my Aunt Violet recalled the last time Uncle Alvin had made her mad, she got mad all over again just thinking about it.

When I moved out here to the country, I tried to keep up the Christmas gathering tradition. It was hit or miss, because aunts and uncles were aging and cousins became scattered far and wide. Everyone had so much to do during the holidays, so many church and school obligations, that it was difficult to get many to come. So I stopped. It took a cousin's funeral to get us started again last year.

This year, only two families showed up, but I still had a house full. There were 15 of us, including three first cousins. It was worth the exhaustion I felt after three days of housecleaning and decorating.

We decided to try for a November date next year so more folks could come. We also agreed we should get together more often. We’re talking about  a summer get-together, when the kids can play outside and visit my critters.

Since we're considering a summer gathering, though, I may try to persuade one of my cousins who has a swimming pool to play host. There's nothing like seeing a bunch of old geezers in swim suits to get the nostalgia juices flowing.