Famous people I've seen: I saw Hoss Cartwright at Six Gun Territory when I was a kid.
In high school, I partied with the red-headed kid from the Flipper television show. Again, at Six Gun Territory.
Ross Allen, the famous reptile guy, used to come to my school every year to do a personal show for our class.
Newt Perry, Johnny Weissmuller's trainer and a famous Tarzan director, was my science teacher and my friend's dad.
I saw Alec Baldwin and his x at a restaurant in Wilmington a few days before I learned they'd just gotten married.
He was cute then. That was before we all knew what a creep he is.
I was at the airport once when I heard a call "Your limo is ready" for the guy that sang "Don't Worry, Be Happy". Didn't see him. Dang.
I know it was Stevie Wonder I saw on the plane that day a couple of years ago. I love Stevie. Unfortunately, he didn't see me.
Okay. Now you know everyone famous I've ever met or seen or been in the airport with.
Wait. There's one more, who was Incognito at the time, in an ugly purple jogging suit. I think...who is that guy...dark hair...
He came into a coffee shop where my daughter was. We sat down and talked for a while. She was enamored. He was, too.
She looked much older than her 14 years. He was asking her a bunch of questions when her age came up.
I knew she'd have liked to say, "I'm 16", which still would have been way too young for him, but she said, "I'm 14."
He did a major double-take. He said, "F-f...did you say fourteen? You're f-f-fourteen?"
"Yes," she answered softly.
So the subject suddenly changed, and we started talking about other things. Safer things.
After a few minutes he forgot about the previous conversation, and started to ask me another question about my daughter...
He was like, "so...your daughter..." Then the light bulb came back on in his head. "Oh, yeah...are you...she's fourteen?"
Later he came by my gallery and met all my girls. After he left, they agreed it had to be that actor, whose name's on the tip of my tongue.
The youngest one said, "I saw him first. He's mine."
After that, she would sometimes just say his name, like it was honey on her tongue.
Then she would say, "I should have told him I was fifteen. Fourteen is just so young!"
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
Sunday, June 12, 2011
Making your own Bonsai....in pictures...it's not so hard if you don't expect perfection...
I'll try anything once...if its not illegal, immoral or stupid.
One of the things that I keep trying and trying is the fascinating art of Bonsai. I have books on Bonsai; several of them. I am obsessed with the process of turning an ordinary potted plant (in this case, a Buxus Sempervirens - Dwarf English Boxwood) into a tree in miniature. Instead of writing a lot of words on the subject tonight, I'm going to illustrate it for you in photographs. I know you can get this stuff on other websites, by Bonsai pro's, and I'm not a pro. But it is sometimes encouraging to learn something from a friend, and not a professional. Professional perfectionism can be intimidating. You won't be intimidated by my Bonsai skills.
The front of this Bonsai is pictured at left, and the back is pictured at right. I chose the one on the left to be called the front because I like the roots showing. Unfortunately, I have once again lost a couple of branches when potting this year, due to brittleness. I am hoping some new branches will start next spring. If so, I will find one worth keeping, and train it to grow to replace the lost branch. Around the base, I added local moss which I found around my apartment, and some micro-thyme, as a ground cover. It's healthy and doing well. We keep it well watered, and fertilize occasionally with fish emulsion, at half strength.
Bonsai is not an art for the impatient soul...unless you buy one ready made by someone else who has the patience of Job. But Bonsai is well worth waiting for. I just like being able to say, I did this one, myself.
...So what if everyone else is thinking..."Yes...I believe you..." :)
One of the things that I keep trying and trying is the fascinating art of Bonsai. I have books on Bonsai; several of them. I am obsessed with the process of turning an ordinary potted plant (in this case, a Buxus Sempervirens - Dwarf English Boxwood) into a tree in miniature. Instead of writing a lot of words on the subject tonight, I'm going to illustrate it for you in photographs. I know you can get this stuff on other websites, by Bonsai pro's, and I'm not a pro. But it is sometimes encouraging to learn something from a friend, and not a professional. Professional perfectionism can be intimidating. You won't be intimidated by my Bonsai skills.
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| This is what I was shooting for when I bought an English Boxwood yesterday. This comes from the book "The Living Art of Bonsai' by Professor Amy Liang An excellent book with lots of examples and information about growing and maintaining Bonsai. |
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| I told my husband today that I had a hankerin' for makin' a Bonsai,
a miniature tree. Again.
I get on a Bonsai Binge about once every year or two.
Though I have made them before, but the real trick is as much in
maintaining them through a hot summer as it is making them.
So although I've done this again and again, I must keep trying.
We went to Home Depot and found this potted, untamed beauty for $4.45.
A bargain indeed! With a thick trunk, it should make a great Bonsai.
(And if you want to make it into a Bonsai,
and you aren't a professional, it better be a bargain.)
|
 |
| I chose this English Boxwood for three reasons. 1. English Boxwoods make great Bonsai trees. 2. It was cheap, probably because it had been in the ground for a while before they sent it to Home Depot. 3. It had this great trunk, thick leaf growth, and exposed, developed roots. |
 |
After you've decided what you are shooting for,
(I wanted a tree with an interesting trunk...something...interesting.)
I hold down the branches and decide "does this look good? Does this look stupid")If it doesn't break while I'm holding it down, then I save it for wiring. |
 |
The first cut is the hardest. Do a little planning before you begin: Look beneath the leaves, and figure out what you have under all that foliage. Then you can decide what to keep and what to discard. Be gentle as you do these things. This boxwood was brittle, and in the process of making it into a Bonsai, I did loose a couple of desirable limbs. But, hey. It's just for fun. Right? |
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| It was really difficult to decide how low to trim the boxwood. I decided to go easy on her, and trimmed less than I think may look best. Take it slow. You can always cut off more, but you can't put it back. |
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| Wiring a Bonsai is an art in itself. You may want to look up how to wire a Bonsai before you start. I'm not very good at it, but I stumble through it. I used copper wire in different sizes. You wrap the branches around and around, so you can arrange them to grow in an attractive way, and keep them in that position until the wood hardens up and stays that way. |
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| When I was done with my creation, I cut the pot off the root ball. I didn't want to damage the work I'd done. |
 |
| This is a picture of my Bonsai, first night. I have potted it in a temporary pot, and I will keep it here until it has survived the winter. In March, I will take it out of here, and move it into a medium sized Bonsai pot (a little wider than the branching width.) I will trim only the roots necessary to keep the plant alive. *see note below. I have to admit, even I have done better, but working with such a mature plant was much more difficult for me than working with smaller, fresher plants. |
You know, my Bonsai is at the "awkward teenager" stage. Actually, it turned out to look a lot like some of my artwork, like "Old Queen Elizabeth", above. I am not finished with this bonsai, yet. I have potted it in a larger pot than I want, and I'm going to give it a rest and save trimming the roots for another time, after I've had time to think about the type of pot I want to use. For now, I'm ready to tackle the Azalea I just bought. This one should be interesting, too.
You might want to try your own hand at making a bonsai. You can do it. My advice is start with an inexpensive plant, go easy on it, and just have fun. Don't expect perfection...nature isn't perfect, either.
Update - One Year Later:
I thought you'd want to see the above Bonsai after one year. I have done more trimming as I saw fit, and have kept new growth to a minimum. It is slowly becoming more of the vision I had in mind when it was begun.
Just as I said I should, I did leave this tree for planting into a Bonsai pot until March. At that time, I removed it from the blue pot. I trimmed the roots as much as I could, *leaving enough large roots to anchor the plant and enough of the small, fine roots which are for water gathering. I like the look of a tree growing on a little hill, which also accommodated all the roots, so I allowed it to mound above the pot, as much for effect as for the health of the tree.
Just as I said I should, I did leave this tree for planting into a Bonsai pot until March. At that time, I removed it from the blue pot. I trimmed the roots as much as I could, *leaving enough large roots to anchor the plant and enough of the small, fine roots which are for water gathering. I like the look of a tree growing on a little hill, which also accommodated all the roots, so I allowed it to mound above the pot, as much for effect as for the health of the tree.
The front of this Bonsai is pictured at left, and the back is pictured at right. I chose the one on the left to be called the front because I like the roots showing. Unfortunately, I have once again lost a couple of branches when potting this year, due to brittleness. I am hoping some new branches will start next spring. If so, I will find one worth keeping, and train it to grow to replace the lost branch. Around the base, I added local moss which I found around my apartment, and some micro-thyme, as a ground cover. It's healthy and doing well. We keep it well watered, and fertilize occasionally with fish emulsion, at half strength.Bonsai is not an art for the impatient soul...unless you buy one ready made by someone else who has the patience of Job. But Bonsai is well worth waiting for. I just like being able to say, I did this one, myself.
...So what if everyone else is thinking..."Yes...I believe you..." :)
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
Videoville - Just for Fun
You know, if you dress up a little ratty, people want to pet them. It's that simple. Just ask this lady who makes beautiful costumes for pretty little rats.
Tuesday, June 7, 2011
Easy Scottish Shortbread Cookies With Healthy Variations
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| Very easy to make: Scottish Shortbread Cookies |
Because the ingredients are so natural and simple, this is a great recipe to make with small children.
Here's the basic recipe:
Scottish Shortbread Cookies
1 cup butter, room temperature - beat until fluffy
1 cup sugar - add to butter
2 1/2 cups flour - gradually add to butter/sugar mixture, 1/2 cup at a time, until just blended, and it forms into a single ball (much like a pie crust texture)
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| When it gets to this consistancy, you don't need to mix anymore. It will make a ball, pulling away from the sides of the bowl. |
Place on a floured board. Roll out into a 1/8" to 1/4" sheet. Place the whole thing on a cookie sheet. Pierce with a fork, and cut into squares.
Bake at 300 degrees until brown (depending on how thick you rolled it, it may cook from 20 to 30 minutes.
Take from the oven and separate while still warm.
Easy as pie...
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| Rolled out and ready for the oven |
Here are some variations which you may add individually or in combinations:
For higher protein and lower carbs, replace 1 cup of flour with almond meal (which I found at Trader Joe's).
Replace some or all of the white sugar with brown sugar.
You can cut with cookie cutters, or roll out in a circle and cut into wedges like a pizza.
Crushed lavender flowers (no more than a half a teaspoon, unless you really like the floral taste of lavender). Mmmm...
Crushed rosemary (very finely crushed, and only 1/4 teaspoon).
Vanilla extract (I use homemade: to make it, slice several vanilla beans lengthwise, chop into 1/2" pieces, and drop into a bottle of bourbon, coniac or brandy, and allow to sit for at least six weeks before use. Then shake well.)
Or you can just scrape the seeds out of a vanilla bean and use them instead of extract.
Lemon or orange zest (finely grated peel)
1/3 cup currants
Crushed walnuts or pecans
1 Tablespoon Cinnamon
A dash of fresh ground Nutmeg
Sprinkle with sugar or sprinkles before baking
Recommendation: If you do a lot of baking, you might want to consider purchasing a sturdy mixer, like the Kitchen Aid stand mixer. They come in a variety of sizes, are heavy duty, and last a lifetime. They also come in lots of pretty colors. You can buy attachments for them, like a pasta maker or meat grinder. I bought a new 5 quart one at Dillards last week, and am getting a free glass bowl with the purchase.
http://www.shopkitchenaid.com/countertop-appliances-1/stand-mixers-3/102020011/?WT.srch=1
Enjoy!
Friday, May 27, 2011
Friday Flash: Butter Frosting
Butter Frosting
It’s four-O-three in the morning and I am awake. Tick tock. Tick tock. Tick tock…
Now it’s four-O-five and a half. I am alone in my wakened state in a large, empty house. It has been an hour since the last time I looked at the clock. Or so it seems.
I notice I am starving.
The Cake
It’s that damned homemade cake with butter frosting.
That confection has been on my mind ever since it came out of the oven, unfrosted. Now that it is decorated in butter and powdered sugar, it's calling me by name.
I shall ignore, I say to myself.
But it cries out even as the clock has halted its ticking. “It’s lonely down here in the kitchen under this stupid glass,” I hear a grumpy little voice rising from downstairs. “I’m afraid of thunder, don’t you know? Nobody loves me.” Is it whining, now?
The Storm
It started raining at precisely at midnight, tonight. I could hear dripping on the sill outside my window as I turned out the light. I was waiting to drift off into an artificially induced sleep as the sound of angry thunder came rumbling down the hill beyond the garden gate. It sloshed through the meadow and stumbled o’er the trees to rest upon the metal rooftop above my bed, where it pattered like a dozen barefoot schoolboys.
Strange thoughts had settled into my head as I lay there in the dark.
Luckily, that’s when slumber came. It swooshed up unexpectedly from out of my brain on the left hand side, slightly above the ear. Here. It slithered down across my shoulders and curled itself back up my neck, at last climbing into my eyes, holding them closed from the inside out, even momentarily against my will.
The dripping got louder for a moment, and then…nothing…
But the artificial sleep inducing pill doesn’t last long when the recipient only takes a quarter and not even a half a pill because of concerns with the possible side effects posted in a patchwork quilt of warnings on the bottle. This time it’s magic had lasted until just after three fifteen a.m., when I finally got up to go to the bathroom.
It was barely raining now, but the leftover drippings from the leaking gutters were much louder than they had been at midnight. They crashed into the tiny river that had now formed on the ground below, sounding more like clanging wind chimes than watery little plops.
The Labels
I got up again and flipped on the naked bathroom light, reaching into the cabinet for an hour's worth more sleep, when a label on the side of the label right beside the prescription label suddenly caught my eye. “Do not take the other half of that half at this time of night, or you'll be hopelessly out of your mind tomorrow. Get up, instead. Do not watch television or read anything disquieting. Don't eat. Do something relaxing until you are drowsy again. What? How would we know what relaxes you; surely something…”
That isn’t word for word what the label on the label said, but that was the jest of it. Yes, jest as in “You’ve got to be kidding”. For why would a bottle of sleep tell you to find something to do instead of taking one of its members?
The Cake Again
Back to the cake that troubles me still, with its winsome face and never ending chatter.
Why did I bake it when I could have bought a single one; a little cupcake from a fancy shop, enveloped in pretty paper, wrapped up in a bakery box with cellophane on top. That would have been so wise.
So chic.
So “2011”.
The Thief
I find myself rising from bed once again. I am painfully weary of listening to that naughty cake’s complaints. I descend the stair and enter the kitchen. Strange. The glass cover sits beside the cake, and the knife is out on the counter. A large slice has been removed. Whoever did it didn’t know how to slice a cake properly. They chopped off a hunk from the side…getting more than their share of frosting, I might add.
Breathing heavily, I consider this. My cake has been disfigured. I feel quite uneasy, for as I told you, I am alone in this house tonight. I hurriedly pull the curtains closed, and check the window locks and the kitchen door. All are secure, as usual. This makes no sense. Unless...
So, I think to myself:
This means someone must have entered through the door, perhaps with a key, and cut a piece of cake, (wrongly sliced and overly large) and left with it in their bare hand. As I brush a bit of hair out of my eyes, my fingers get caught on a sticky knot in my tresses. Then I notice a hint of buttery frosting under my fingernails. There are even cake crumbles upon my cheek.
Strange…and even more interesting…
…the intruder must have climbed the stair, hands full of cake, and sat upon my bed to eat his overly large and improperly sliced piece of cake as his watched me sleeping soundly during the storm. (It had to be a man, for no woman would ever take such a large piece or cut it from the side, even if they love butter frosting more than anything.) I hope I was sleeping with my mouth closed while he sat and ate…I’m glad I was wearing my lacy floral gown…I have a secret admirer…who loves cake every bit as much as I do!
Me and the Cake
I take down my finest dessert plate, pull out my favorite silver plated fork, and proceed to cut a chunk of cake from off the other side. “You know,” the cake says to me, “you should get a bigger slice of me than the one the ‘thief’ took. After all, it’s your house, and I am your beloved cake.” I sit down in the living room, and hear the little voice once more; this time coming from the plate in my sticky little hands. “You do love me,” the cake coos. “Don’t gobble, my love. But savor every delicious bite."
Goodnight.
It’s four-O-three in the morning and I am awake. Tick tock. Tick tock. Tick tock…
Now it’s four-O-five and a half. I am alone in my wakened state in a large, empty house. It has been an hour since the last time I looked at the clock. Or so it seems.
I notice I am starving.
The Cake
It’s that damned homemade cake with butter frosting.
That confection has been on my mind ever since it came out of the oven, unfrosted. Now that it is decorated in butter and powdered sugar, it's calling me by name.
I shall ignore, I say to myself.
But it cries out even as the clock has halted its ticking. “It’s lonely down here in the kitchen under this stupid glass,” I hear a grumpy little voice rising from downstairs. “I’m afraid of thunder, don’t you know? Nobody loves me.” Is it whining, now?
The Storm
It started raining at precisely at midnight, tonight. I could hear dripping on the sill outside my window as I turned out the light. I was waiting to drift off into an artificially induced sleep as the sound of angry thunder came rumbling down the hill beyond the garden gate. It sloshed through the meadow and stumbled o’er the trees to rest upon the metal rooftop above my bed, where it pattered like a dozen barefoot schoolboys.
Strange thoughts had settled into my head as I lay there in the dark.
Luckily, that’s when slumber came. It swooshed up unexpectedly from out of my brain on the left hand side, slightly above the ear. Here. It slithered down across my shoulders and curled itself back up my neck, at last climbing into my eyes, holding them closed from the inside out, even momentarily against my will.
The dripping got louder for a moment, and then…nothing…
But the artificial sleep inducing pill doesn’t last long when the recipient only takes a quarter and not even a half a pill because of concerns with the possible side effects posted in a patchwork quilt of warnings on the bottle. This time it’s magic had lasted until just after three fifteen a.m., when I finally got up to go to the bathroom.
It was barely raining now, but the leftover drippings from the leaking gutters were much louder than they had been at midnight. They crashed into the tiny river that had now formed on the ground below, sounding more like clanging wind chimes than watery little plops.
The Labels
I got up again and flipped on the naked bathroom light, reaching into the cabinet for an hour's worth more sleep, when a label on the side of the label right beside the prescription label suddenly caught my eye. “Do not take the other half of that half at this time of night, or you'll be hopelessly out of your mind tomorrow. Get up, instead. Do not watch television or read anything disquieting. Don't eat. Do something relaxing until you are drowsy again. What? How would we know what relaxes you; surely something…”
That isn’t word for word what the label on the label said, but that was the jest of it. Yes, jest as in “You’ve got to be kidding”. For why would a bottle of sleep tell you to find something to do instead of taking one of its members?
The Cake Again
Back to the cake that troubles me still, with its winsome face and never ending chatter.
Why did I bake it when I could have bought a single one; a little cupcake from a fancy shop, enveloped in pretty paper, wrapped up in a bakery box with cellophane on top. That would have been so wise.
So chic.
So “2011”.
The Thief
I find myself rising from bed once again. I am painfully weary of listening to that naughty cake’s complaints. I descend the stair and enter the kitchen. Strange. The glass cover sits beside the cake, and the knife is out on the counter. A large slice has been removed. Whoever did it didn’t know how to slice a cake properly. They chopped off a hunk from the side…getting more than their share of frosting, I might add.
Breathing heavily, I consider this. My cake has been disfigured. I feel quite uneasy, for as I told you, I am alone in this house tonight. I hurriedly pull the curtains closed, and check the window locks and the kitchen door. All are secure, as usual. This makes no sense. Unless...
So, I think to myself:
This means someone must have entered through the door, perhaps with a key, and cut a piece of cake, (wrongly sliced and overly large) and left with it in their bare hand. As I brush a bit of hair out of my eyes, my fingers get caught on a sticky knot in my tresses. Then I notice a hint of buttery frosting under my fingernails. There are even cake crumbles upon my cheek.
Strange…and even more interesting…
…the intruder must have climbed the stair, hands full of cake, and sat upon my bed to eat his overly large and improperly sliced piece of cake as his watched me sleeping soundly during the storm. (It had to be a man, for no woman would ever take such a large piece or cut it from the side, even if they love butter frosting more than anything.) I hope I was sleeping with my mouth closed while he sat and ate…I’m glad I was wearing my lacy floral gown…I have a secret admirer…who loves cake every bit as much as I do!
Me and the Cake
I take down my finest dessert plate, pull out my favorite silver plated fork, and proceed to cut a chunk of cake from off the other side. “You know,” the cake says to me, “you should get a bigger slice of me than the one the ‘thief’ took. After all, it’s your house, and I am your beloved cake.” I sit down in the living room, and hear the little voice once more; this time coming from the plate in my sticky little hands. “You do love me,” the cake coos. “Don’t gobble, my love. But savor every delicious bite."
Goodnight.
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
Cadbury Eyebrows
Cadbury Eyebrows (official version)
I just wanted to share this with you. The best part is when she breaks out the pink balloon. My daughter Joie put this on her facebook page. The little girl reminds me of her.
I have never wanted to have fancy eyebrows before this. My tongue is sort of fancy, though.
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
Saving the Horse; a Kid's Story
I always wanted to be a writer. I had no time to read, mind you. I was much too busy playing outside, making up my own stories through what I now like to call "creative play". (Ordinary childhood imagination.)
Nevertheless, by fifth grade, I had a well developed novel in my head. (The "well developed" part may be slightly exaggerated.) I remember talking to one of my friends about it as we kicked dust about on the playground.
I was writing this story about a horse whose evil owner wouldn't allow it to have carrots. Why? I have no idea. But as a result, the horse began to go blind. (You understand the correlation between carrots and eyesight...my mom taught me that, I think.) The horse stumbled often, and became very depressed. That is, until a little neighbor girl (Moi, mayhaps?) began secretly sneaking carrots to the horse. Within a very short time, the horse began to see; first vague outlines, and then images. Suddenly one day the horse got a good look at the little girl and gave her a horsy kiss right on the cheek.
One night the evil owner caught the girl feeding carrots to his horse. He probably had a shotgun or maybe he just called the sheriff. Anyway, he was enraged and had her banned from...sneaking into the barn and bringing carrots. Again, the poor horse began going blind, and the little girl franticly continued to attempt to sneak carrots to her long tailed friend. Alas, to no avail. An occasional carrot could not save the horse's eyesight.
Luckily, one day the bad guy dies. I never got to the detail of how he died. I was much too innocent to have imagined that the little girl hero kid would kill him, so it must have been an accident or brief illness. A lady who inherited the estate didn't like the horse. He was blind. She gave him to the little girl. "Take him! He's blind. I don't want a blind horse." The little girl told the lady about carrots, but the lady didn't care. "Just get him out of my sight!" So the girl happily took him home and kept the horse in...her bedroom or something? I don't know. It didn't matter. She started giving him carrots again, and voila! You know the end. Happily sighted ever after.
So I always wanted to be a writer. Never mind that I hated reading novels. I loved reading illustrated children's books aloud.
So the moral of this story: feed horses carrots. There's no real point to this story...just "hello".
Visit http://deberklein.com to see my art and check out one of my blogs, Little Pink Spaceship Gazette. You also might enjoy http://recklesslydancingwhilesupperburns.blogspot.com and http://cottageonthenew.com, and http://tarpapersubmarine.blogspot.com .
I can't help it. I am a blogging junkie.
Nevertheless, by fifth grade, I had a well developed novel in my head. (The "well developed" part may be slightly exaggerated.) I remember talking to one of my friends about it as we kicked dust about on the playground.
I was writing this story about a horse whose evil owner wouldn't allow it to have carrots. Why? I have no idea. But as a result, the horse began to go blind. (You understand the correlation between carrots and eyesight...my mom taught me that, I think.) The horse stumbled often, and became very depressed. That is, until a little neighbor girl (Moi, mayhaps?) began secretly sneaking carrots to the horse. Within a very short time, the horse began to see; first vague outlines, and then images. Suddenly one day the horse got a good look at the little girl and gave her a horsy kiss right on the cheek.
One night the evil owner caught the girl feeding carrots to his horse. He probably had a shotgun or maybe he just called the sheriff. Anyway, he was enraged and had her banned from...sneaking into the barn and bringing carrots. Again, the poor horse began going blind, and the little girl franticly continued to attempt to sneak carrots to her long tailed friend. Alas, to no avail. An occasional carrot could not save the horse's eyesight.
Luckily, one day the bad guy dies. I never got to the detail of how he died. I was much too innocent to have imagined that the little girl hero kid would kill him, so it must have been an accident or brief illness. A lady who inherited the estate didn't like the horse. He was blind. She gave him to the little girl. "Take him! He's blind. I don't want a blind horse." The little girl told the lady about carrots, but the lady didn't care. "Just get him out of my sight!" So the girl happily took him home and kept the horse in...her bedroom or something? I don't know. It didn't matter. She started giving him carrots again, and voila! You know the end. Happily sighted ever after.
So I always wanted to be a writer. Never mind that I hated reading novels. I loved reading illustrated children's books aloud.
So the moral of this story: feed horses carrots. There's no real point to this story...just "hello".
Visit http://deberklein.com to see my art and check out one of my blogs, Little Pink Spaceship Gazette. You also might enjoy http://recklesslydancingwhilesupperburns.blogspot.com and http://cottageonthenew.com, and http://tarpapersubmarine.blogspot.com .
I can't help it. I am a blogging junkie.
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
Romancing the Chicken
It's almost Easter, and images of chicks are everywhere.
I recall when I was about eight years old, and Mama and Daddy took us kids down to the feed store the week before Easter. It was a thing in those days for feed stores to have big incubators full of chicken eggs, ready to hatch. Farmers could replenish their chicken supply after a long winter. Of course, before Easter, some of the eggs had been injected with dyes, so chicks would tumble out of the egg already colored a fashionable peach or green or purple. Easter chicks. That one year, our parents bought each of us a freshly hatched chick.
Maybe that's why I found myself wanting chickens a few years back.
We had three acres in town and it was legal to have a certain number of farm animals. My husband is patient and tolerant. You might imagine that chickens make for good water cooler conversation at work. Besides, my daughter-in-law Jennipher wanted a half dozen chickens or so, but you had to order at least 25 chickens at a time. I don't know why. Free shipping or a chicken discount or maybe to get them sexed (where they just give you females or males). One day she stopped by with the Chicken Catalog and we split the order. Bill built a coop and a fenced in chicken yard, and I became a city girl chicken farmer for a while.
Then again, maybe I wanted chickens because I come from a long line of farmers and chickens are in my blood.
When I was a kid, we went to my grandparent's farm every summer. Sometimes I'd get to help Grandmother do chores. Certain chores, that is. For example, Grandmama didn't usually let us go with her to milk Birdie, her beautiful brown cow. Birdie was a delicate old girl, and didn't appreciate cold little hands upon her sensitive teats. Icy, ill fitting fingers made her hold her milk back, as you can imagine. (Especially you nursing moms!) And that was bad business for Grandmama.
But if we got up early enough, we could help gather eggs. Grandmama would hand my sister and me a wire basket, and we'd go through the pasture, over the crude little foot bridge that straddled the creek, and up the hill to the whitewashed chicken houses. There were two of them. They smelled like old wood mingled with dirt, feathers and chicken feed. The smaller one was made from my grandparent's first one room cabin. The second one was their first two room cabin. Granddaddy had built nesting boxes across the walls, and when the chickens weren't scratching around on the farm, they were laying in those boxes.
There's something about being eight years old and reaching your tiny arm right up to your elbow between a straw filled nesting box and a chicken's soft, warm featherd body, feeling for eggs.
One day we saw Granddaddy walking thru the yard with his shotgun and a shovel. He had a big Collie by the collar, and he was headed for the back of the barn where he was going to shoot and bury it. Of course, my sister and I didn't understand. Why would our granddaddy want to kill Lassie?
"It's a chicken dog," Granddaddy said. "He got into the chicken house and killed about fourty hens. Most animals kill for food. But a chicken dog kills for sport. Once a dog started killing chickens, it'll never stop." I remember the crack of that shotgun. No more chicken dog. It was a hard lesson in reality.
Unfortunately, (speaking of chicken dogs and reality), my own chicken farming days didn't last too long. They ended less than two years after they had begun, when two neighborhood dogs were running loose. They dug under the fence to kill all dozen of my poor chickens while I was out. In about 30 minutes, they managed to maul and slaughter every one of them, just for fun. Like Granddaddy said. The poor rooster, good husband and defender of the hens that he was, had fought bravely. But in the end, his limp body was carried down the road in the mouth of one of those dogs. Chicken dogs.
Every now and then, I miss those chickens. I miss hearing the rooster crow. I long for the cooing and clucking as the hens scratch around in the yard. Most of all, I want to experience once more the feel the warmth of a hen sitting on a freshly laid bunch of eggs as I gently reach in to gather them.
Yes. The notion of raising chickens is romantic and old-fashioned these days; it's instinctive for many of us. But frankly, I'm getting too old to go out on a cold winter's day to feed chickens. But that's a story for another day.
Happy Easter!
I recall when I was about eight years old, and Mama and Daddy took us kids down to the feed store the week before Easter. It was a thing in those days for feed stores to have big incubators full of chicken eggs, ready to hatch. Farmers could replenish their chicken supply after a long winter. Of course, before Easter, some of the eggs had been injected with dyes, so chicks would tumble out of the egg already colored a fashionable peach or green or purple. Easter chicks. That one year, our parents bought each of us a freshly hatched chick.
 |
| Geese, Gennie Hens and Chickens for sale at a flea market. I bought two geese that day, but that's another story. |
We had three acres in town and it was legal to have a certain number of farm animals. My husband is patient and tolerant. You might imagine that chickens make for good water cooler conversation at work. Besides, my daughter-in-law Jennipher wanted a half dozen chickens or so, but you had to order at least 25 chickens at a time. I don't know why. Free shipping or a chicken discount or maybe to get them sexed (where they just give you females or males). One day she stopped by with the Chicken Catalog and we split the order. Bill built a coop and a fenced in chicken yard, and I became a city girl chicken farmer for a while.
 |
| My grandson feeding the chickens, about 10 years ago. Every kid likes to feed the chickens. |
When I was a kid, we went to my grandparent's farm every summer. Sometimes I'd get to help Grandmother do chores. Certain chores, that is. For example, Grandmama didn't usually let us go with her to milk Birdie, her beautiful brown cow. Birdie was a delicate old girl, and didn't appreciate cold little hands upon her sensitive teats. Icy, ill fitting fingers made her hold her milk back, as you can imagine. (Especially you nursing moms!) And that was bad business for Grandmama.
But if we got up early enough, we could help gather eggs. Grandmama would hand my sister and me a wire basket, and we'd go through the pasture, over the crude little foot bridge that straddled the creek, and up the hill to the whitewashed chicken houses. There were two of them. They smelled like old wood mingled with dirt, feathers and chicken feed. The smaller one was made from my grandparent's first one room cabin. The second one was their first two room cabin. Granddaddy had built nesting boxes across the walls, and when the chickens weren't scratching around on the farm, they were laying in those boxes.
There's something about being eight years old and reaching your tiny arm right up to your elbow between a straw filled nesting box and a chicken's soft, warm featherd body, feeling for eggs.
 |
| Granddaddy's farm from Echo Hill. The chicken houses are the two roofs in the front. |
Soon the basket was full, and we headed back to the house, where we sat around the kitchen table cleaning and boxing the eggs for market.
Chicken Dogs are bad for business:One day we saw Granddaddy walking thru the yard with his shotgun and a shovel. He had a big Collie by the collar, and he was headed for the back of the barn where he was going to shoot and bury it. Of course, my sister and I didn't understand. Why would our granddaddy want to kill Lassie?
"It's a chicken dog," Granddaddy said. "He got into the chicken house and killed about fourty hens. Most animals kill for food. But a chicken dog kills for sport. Once a dog started killing chickens, it'll never stop." I remember the crack of that shotgun. No more chicken dog. It was a hard lesson in reality.
Unfortunately, (speaking of chicken dogs and reality), my own chicken farming days didn't last too long. They ended less than two years after they had begun, when two neighborhood dogs were running loose. They dug under the fence to kill all dozen of my poor chickens while I was out. In about 30 minutes, they managed to maul and slaughter every one of them, just for fun. Like Granddaddy said. The poor rooster, good husband and defender of the hens that he was, had fought bravely. But in the end, his limp body was carried down the road in the mouth of one of those dogs. Chicken dogs.
Every now and then, I miss those chickens. I miss hearing the rooster crow. I long for the cooing and clucking as the hens scratch around in the yard. Most of all, I want to experience once more the feel the warmth of a hen sitting on a freshly laid bunch of eggs as I gently reach in to gather them.
Yes. The notion of raising chickens is romantic and old-fashioned these days; it's instinctive for many of us. But frankly, I'm getting too old to go out on a cold winter's day to feed chickens. But that's a story for another day.
 |
| My oldest daughter Kathleene, on Easter morning. About 1971. Sponge curlers, flowered panties and jelly beans. |
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
The List: Evil Taskmaster or Best Friend Ever?
I hate lists. I have even been accused of fearing lists. Though I realize that a list is nothing but a piece of paper with words on it, words have power. Especially if each word is preceeded by a number, a period and a space. To make a list is to set requirements, either for someone you are in charge of, or for yourself; requirements that the list holder is obliged to either dutifully perform, or slothfully ignore.
List + Holder = Obligation
So, you might say, if there is no list, there are no requirements. Right? Wrong.
That's only how some of us would like to think things are. But the truth is, list or no list, there are things that must be done each day, each week, each month and each year, in order to keep life running smoothly and free of guilt, shame and needless prison sentences. Sample List follows:
1. Do dishes
2. Make bed
3. Get car inspected
4. Pay taxes
5. Feed kids/pets/husband
6. Buy toilet paper, milk, onions
7. Tote barge, lift bail, jump down, turn around, pick bail of cotton (or is that, "pick pail of cotton"?)
Obviously, #7 is where I personally screw it all up. #7 = Bad Attitude.
Instead of seeing The List as the simple tool that it is, I view it as Master. (Surely you have heard of Master List.) Suddenly realizing this, I find myself delving into why I see The List as Master rather than Tool.
Hmm. A mystery to be solved. Shall I make another list?
1. The first person to consider as the possible creator of this unsavory attitude would be dear old mom. ("Poor Mama," I say sympathetically, being a mother, myself. "Isn't everything her fault?") After brief consideration, I can't recall Mama ever making written lists for me. The unwritten Saturday Cleaning List was permanently emblazoned in her brain. She had only one written list. Her annual Christmas Card List. An unassuming, non-threatening, happy list for the even the laziest of list-haters.
2. The next possible source of my bad attitude must be someone who actually makes lists. Aha! (Why didn't I think of this immediately?) I can blame this Anti-List Attitude on my husband, Bill. He loves The List. As a matter of fact, his whole life is ordered by daily lists which pile up in his day planner, upon turned over pages scrawled on yellow legal pads, and scribbled on tiny, torn off scraps of paper on the bedroom dresser until completed. Yep. East of saved receipts and west of a well worn wallet which no longer fully closes, spattered with spare change.
Let me exaggerate...I mean, extrapolate upon the matter. Not only are these Lists long and complex, but they are often accompanied with deadlines which may or may not be invisible. "These things must be done by 10:00 a.m.; these, by noon. In all honesty, however, my hubby's chronic list making habit is hardly the source of my personal angst and defiance towards The List. (Don't tell him, but they may be the only reason things get done around here.)
At this juncture, I can tell that you see right through me, darn it! So I confess!
3. The true reason I hate The List so passionately is simple (and perhaps a little selfish). I'm an artist at the mercy of my own creativity. It ebbs and flows like the tides, only less regularly or predictable. So The List can interrupt my fragile creative flow. Once disturbed, I may never get that moment back again. (Sobs briefly.) This noted, I am learning that a list does not an evil taskmaster make. Instead, a list is a tool worthy of grattitude and admiration. You're no longer slave to the list but master of your world. With trusty list in hand, life can be effecient and managable, even in the wake of unruly creative whims.
Bear with me while I make one last list - a "How to Make a List" list:
1. (Via my friend Betty, of http://www.freekidscrafts.com/) Always make #1 be "make list". Then after the list is completed, you can check #1 off and take a celebratory break.
2. Keep the list brief, so you won't be overwhelmed.
3. Number your list according to priorities, if possible. If not, put a star * beside those things.
4. As things are done, check them off.
5. Put some easy things down so you'll be sure to have some "checks".
6. Remember. Checks are the goal. Get lots of checks.
7. And also remember. If one of those creative moments hits, go with it. The list will still be there when you're done.
Voila! I can now check off "Write About Lists". Really, that wasn't on the list. It was one of my moments. The list is still on the desk at the foot of my silver writing box. It says, "Change Sheets". That's half done. Later, gater. Happy List!
List + Holder = Obligation
So, you might say, if there is no list, there are no requirements. Right? Wrong.
That's only how some of us would like to think things are. But the truth is, list or no list, there are things that must be done each day, each week, each month and each year, in order to keep life running smoothly and free of guilt, shame and needless prison sentences. Sample List follows:
1. Do dishes
2. Make bed
3. Get car inspected
4. Pay taxes
5. Feed kids/pets/husband
6. Buy toilet paper, milk, onions
7. Tote barge, lift bail, jump down, turn around, pick bail of cotton (or is that, "pick pail of cotton"?)
Obviously, #7 is where I personally screw it all up. #7 = Bad Attitude.
Instead of seeing The List as the simple tool that it is, I view it as Master. (Surely you have heard of Master List.) Suddenly realizing this, I find myself delving into why I see The List as Master rather than Tool.
Hmm. A mystery to be solved. Shall I make another list?
1. The first person to consider as the possible creator of this unsavory attitude would be dear old mom. ("Poor Mama," I say sympathetically, being a mother, myself. "Isn't everything her fault?") After brief consideration, I can't recall Mama ever making written lists for me. The unwritten Saturday Cleaning List was permanently emblazoned in her brain. She had only one written list. Her annual Christmas Card List. An unassuming, non-threatening, happy list for the even the laziest of list-haters.
2. The next possible source of my bad attitude must be someone who actually makes lists. Aha! (Why didn't I think of this immediately?) I can blame this Anti-List Attitude on my husband, Bill. He loves The List. As a matter of fact, his whole life is ordered by daily lists which pile up in his day planner, upon turned over pages scrawled on yellow legal pads, and scribbled on tiny, torn off scraps of paper on the bedroom dresser until completed. Yep. East of saved receipts and west of a well worn wallet which no longer fully closes, spattered with spare change.
Let me exaggerate...I mean, extrapolate upon the matter. Not only are these Lists long and complex, but they are often accompanied with deadlines which may or may not be invisible. "These things must be done by 10:00 a.m.; these, by noon. In all honesty, however, my hubby's chronic list making habit is hardly the source of my personal angst and defiance towards The List. (Don't tell him, but they may be the only reason things get done around here.)
At this juncture, I can tell that you see right through me, darn it! So I confess!
3. The true reason I hate The List so passionately is simple (and perhaps a little selfish). I'm an artist at the mercy of my own creativity. It ebbs and flows like the tides, only less regularly or predictable. So The List can interrupt my fragile creative flow. Once disturbed, I may never get that moment back again. (Sobs briefly.) This noted, I am learning that a list does not an evil taskmaster make. Instead, a list is a tool worthy of grattitude and admiration. You're no longer slave to the list but master of your world. With trusty list in hand, life can be effecient and managable, even in the wake of unruly creative whims.
Bear with me while I make one last list - a "How to Make a List" list:
1. (Via my friend Betty, of http://www.freekidscrafts.com/) Always make #1 be "make list". Then after the list is completed, you can check #1 off and take a celebratory break.
2. Keep the list brief, so you won't be overwhelmed.
3. Number your list according to priorities, if possible. If not, put a star * beside those things.
4. As things are done, check them off.
5. Put some easy things down so you'll be sure to have some "checks".
6. Remember. Checks are the goal. Get lots of checks.
7. And also remember. If one of those creative moments hits, go with it. The list will still be there when you're done.
Voila! I can now check off "Write About Lists". Really, that wasn't on the list. It was one of my moments. The list is still on the desk at the foot of my silver writing box. It says, "Change Sheets". That's half done. Later, gater. Happy List!
Friday, March 4, 2011
It's Scary Out There!
I feel troubled today, kind of like Mr. Monk whom we all know and love. I'm feeling a little scared and out of place in this jungle we call home.
This is a crazy world, and growing crazier by the moment. As a matter of fact, it’s getting downright scary. And confusing. So I decided that the best way to comfort myself is to review what I know is true, and pass it on to you.
In my childhood world, right was right and wrong was wrong. It was a simpler time. Things were clear. Of course, I realize in retrospect that there were plenty of things that needed change. Serious things. But I was a child. I was only aware of my little world.
Now things are rapidly changing, and what was right (and should have been) when I was growing up is now becoming wrong. And what was wrong is becoming right. Logic and common sense hardly seem to exist anymore.
That’s why I am keeping my Bible closer these days. When I wake up in the morning, I turn to Psalms and read. Sometimes I copy it down in my own hand. Nothing comforts a troubled soul quite like Psalms.
Believe me, I’m not the “religious” type. I’m more of the rebellious type. If everyone says I should do something or believe a certain way, I ask questions. I reject political correctness. I try to observe only the honest for God’s sake, things that are true.
So, who is this God I talk about? Where does He come from, and how do I know he even exists? I’ve asked myself this many times. One day years ago, I asked God this; where he came from, and who made him. I prayed for him to show me, and then randomly opened my Bible to Exodus 3, the Moses story. I remember thinking, “There’s nothing new in Exodus for me.” I’d been raised on Bible stories, and knew Exodus well. God’s people, the flight from Egypt, crossing the Red Sea. Charleton Heston. (I mean, really.) My eyes went right to Exodus 3: 13-14, where Moses said to God, “…and whom shall I say sent me?” And God said, “I Am that I am. Tell them I Am sent you.”
I am that I am. I understood immediately, just as Moses had. I understood that I will never be able to fully understand this, for in our finite minds, we cannot understand some great things. It is up to us to just accept or reject them.
I can’t say that accepting God is a choice for me. When it comes to living this life fully, I know I can’t do that apart from God. He is my strength and my source, a very present help in times of trouble.
Whew. I feel a little better now.
Blessings, my friend.
deber
This is a crazy world, and growing crazier by the moment. As a matter of fact, it’s getting downright scary. And confusing. So I decided that the best way to comfort myself is to review what I know is true, and pass it on to you.
In my childhood world, right was right and wrong was wrong. It was a simpler time. Things were clear. Of course, I realize in retrospect that there were plenty of things that needed change. Serious things. But I was a child. I was only aware of my little world.
Now things are rapidly changing, and what was right (and should have been) when I was growing up is now becoming wrong. And what was wrong is becoming right. Logic and common sense hardly seem to exist anymore.
That’s why I am keeping my Bible closer these days. When I wake up in the morning, I turn to Psalms and read. Sometimes I copy it down in my own hand. Nothing comforts a troubled soul quite like Psalms.
Believe me, I’m not the “religious” type. I’m more of the rebellious type. If everyone says I should do something or believe a certain way, I ask questions. I reject political correctness. I try to observe only the honest for God’s sake, things that are true.
So, who is this God I talk about? Where does He come from, and how do I know he even exists? I’ve asked myself this many times. One day years ago, I asked God this; where he came from, and who made him. I prayed for him to show me, and then randomly opened my Bible to Exodus 3, the Moses story. I remember thinking, “There’s nothing new in Exodus for me.” I’d been raised on Bible stories, and knew Exodus well. God’s people, the flight from Egypt, crossing the Red Sea. Charleton Heston. (I mean, really.) My eyes went right to Exodus 3: 13-14, where Moses said to God, “…and whom shall I say sent me?” And God said, “I Am that I am. Tell them I Am sent you.”
I am that I am. I understood immediately, just as Moses had. I understood that I will never be able to fully understand this, for in our finite minds, we cannot understand some great things. It is up to us to just accept or reject them.
I can’t say that accepting God is a choice for me. When it comes to living this life fully, I know I can’t do that apart from God. He is my strength and my source, a very present help in times of trouble.
Whew. I feel a little better now.
Blessings, my friend.
deber
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