Alpacas!

Meet Freckles (the little polka-dotted one) and her mom Semi. They live next door at Owl Ridge Alpacas. This family-run farm offers tours and alpaca education to our guests who wander on over for a visit. Baby Freckles has been sold, but I just learned that their most recent acquisition is a 4 week old alpaca. I can't wait to see it!

If you visit, you will also see bunnies, horses, the coolest bantam and other varieties of chickens, a rooster of course, and turkeys. They also have luxurious knitting wool from the herd and other alpaca-related items for sale. For more information, visit: www.owlridgealpacas.com

Jump, kids!

The barn swallows and tree swallows are beginning to gather in large groups on the telephone wires, meaning very soon they will begin their long, long journey south.  

Just a few days ago, however, I noticed a new pile of bird poop on the floor of our barn. Sure enough, when I looked up there was a barn swallow nest with three little heads peeking out. 

It's a little late for a new brood, since the swallows usually leave around this week or next, so I wonder what will happen to these little guys.  Perhaps the parents instinctively know that this year's flight will be later? 

In any case, I stood under them this morning, and called "Jump, kids! Its time to go!"

New cat--meet Dorian Gray

 Meet Dorian Gray (a.k.a.Purry)

This guy's been hanging around for a few months, but you know the rule: if you feed them, they belong to you. So, after few nips and a shot from the vet, he's now legal and ours. Turns out... there's a very good chance that's he is Purry, one of my neighbor's barn cats. I told Elam he owed me $110, but he replied "looks like you've got yourself a new cat!"

Team Pride

Kevin took this picture of our neighbor's draft horses. A clear, blue Finger Lakes sky; a proud team at the end of their work day. Perfection. 

Feeding Frenzy

Since early July we have a feeding frenzy in our yard. Most of the resident birds--chipping and house sparrows, baltimore orioles, barn swallows, blue birds, mockingbirds, house finches, starlings, robins, grackles and red-winged blackbirds-- are protecting and feeding their young. I could spend hours watching them. 

The fledglings, who can fly only short distances, can't yet feed themselves even though they are out of the nest. Each species has a different method. Some are ground feeders, while some feed on the wires or in the trees.  But all of the fledglings, who chirp for their parents and flutter their wings, have one thing in common:  They are hungry! And the feeding is a non-stop activity for the parents.

They are an awkward bunch, with tufts of down on their heads and yellow, lipstick-like lined mouths, as they vie for their parents' attention. Watching the young barn swallows at eye-level from the upstairs hall window, feeding happens in a flash of wing and a blink of an eye, their parents arriving swiftly like Jedi fighters from the fields beyond.

Our two curious kittens - Joe (aka Secret Agent Man) and Pip are working non-stop climbing trees, hiding in bushes, and crouching under the cars, preying on the weakest and slowest. Unfortunately, they are often successful even as they duck and flinch in defense of the barn swallows who dive-bomb them while they walk in the open.

Last year while sweeping the front porch, I accidentally bumped a robin's nest. Startled, a small robin flapped and flapped in a weak effort to fly only to fall to the porch with a thump. He hopped into the shrubs. I managed to catch him and place him high in a denser shrub, only to watch him tumble to the ground several times. By this time I've got our big cat's attention. Shoot. I tucked him tightly between some branches and went back to my work. It happened again (where is my brain?). Sweep. ACK! Flap. Thump. Hop. This one I couldn't find and I felt terrible. About an hour later I see the cat chasing the small fledgling in the yard. Broom in hand, I swatted at the cat while trying to grab the bird, its parents squawking and diving at me all the while. It was sad and comical at the same time, and I never did know what finally happened to the two small birds. 

The female returned this year and built a nest in the exact same spot again and had two broods. Can you believe I almost did the same thing with the broom again? Twice?

Never a dull moment here.
 

The Healthy Habitat

This spring we added 5 new "yard birds" to our list:  Gray Catbird, Pileated Woodpecker, Yellow Warbler, Eastern Towhee, and the Bobolink. To qualify as a yard bird, the bird must be seen or heard by you from your yard. Some people extend that definition to include "whatever you can see with a scope from your roof" as a yard bird too! No matter--the fun is seeing the birds and keeping the list. Our list has about 55 birds.  While none of these new birds are uncommon for the general area (except the Bobolink which is terribly exciting since its habitat is dwindling) their appearance in our yard gets me wondering. What is different this year? Is it the weather? Did our yard habitat change enough to be inviting to that species? Am I paying more attention and/or getting better at identification? Have they been here all along and I'm just at the right place at the right time? I suspect it is all of the above.

The Pileated Woodpecker sighting was a 5 second stint. From my seat in the kitchen I heard its earnest squawk, which increased in volume as it ascended slightly in pitch. My brain said blue jay?... squawk.... Northern Flicker? ...squawk..... Pheasant?.... squawk!!.... WOODPECKER!!! run! ....SQUAWK!.....I caught a glimpse of it on the side of the pear tree YES!!! and then it was gone in a flash of black, red, and white. DARN!  I saw him a few days later in a tree across the road, and my neighbor has seen him too. Maybe he'll be a regular - that would be really cool.

Another surprise was this guy in the picture - the polythemus moth. It arrived (hatched?) yesterday and hung out on the kitchen door until sometime overnight when I suspect he found a mate, did his thing and passed on to the netherworld.  That's its sole purpose in this ethereal form.  He was a beautiful specimen, about 5 inches across, with fern-like antennae, and translucent spots. I was disappointed to find him gone this morning, even though I knew I would jumped out of my skin if he landed on me.

With birds, toads, dragonflies, fireflies, moths, butterflies, bunnies, and bees, there is never a dull moment in our cottage garden (read: we let some weeds grow). We happily create a healthy habitat for all of us.

How Much Wood SHOULD a Woodchuck Chuck? or Can you say VEGETARIAN?

A common and abundant marmot here in the Finger Lakes is the woodchuck, a.k.a. the groundhog.  You see them burrowing under sheds and barns, poking around in the parks, and smashed beyond recognition on the highways. (How unfortunate when that happens on the first day out from hibernation!) They also like to live under big, old, front porches.

Our first year in the house, we gave permission to an Amish boy down the road to rid our property of the pests, and for a few weeks we would see him hanging around after chores. It was a rather surprising event when my in-laws were visiting. When my brother-in-law looked up from his dinner and said, "Uh, there's a guy in your front yard with a straw hat and he's carrying a gun?" and my response was "Oh, that's just Henry!" I realized how much our lives have been changed. I was willing to have someone do the dirty deed for me, and I wanted to feel okay about it. Us or them, right? I live in the country, and this is what we do. Top of the food chain, and all that?

Prolific breeders, no matter how heavily they are hunted, their numbers sustain. For the farmers who still plow with draft horses, the risk of broken legs or ankles is not acceptable, and I respect that. I've seen Elam become so frustrated that he filled one of the holes with manure. Not effective management, mind you, but satisfying nonetheless.

Our second summer in the house, Kevin started rebuilding the porch. The mama-chuck who lived under it delivered a litter of 6 babies and the barn-dwelling mama had 5. We were overrun. If you have never seen a baby woodchuck, know that baby woodchucks are cute.  I mean, really cute in a kitten kind of way. Jake the dog managed to grab 2--and I felt awful about it--but the rest were free to roam the property, even running in very close to Kevin, who was under the porch with saws, hammers, and drills. Each day these babies would venture a few feet further out into the front yard. They feared nothing. 

Lately, I've had a front and center view of the critter through my kitchen window while washing dishes. Sitting up on its hind legs, it will nimbly pull the young plants and shrubs to mouth level and munch. This year they seem to like the "chicks & hens," pulling them out by the root, holding the dirt ball and eating. They also love tulip bulbs. First they eat the green leaves, then they come back and dig up the bulb. They decimated a small patch of crocuses which were just starting to show some color. The nerve. What a nuisance. We've got to do something!

No more hired guns, though, just humane traps set by our local pest-management service. Seeing the little furry red-bellied beasts up close, feeding from the tenderest spring growth, their black noses touching in groundhog greeting, we honor their over-breeding, their insatiable but gastronomically upperclass appetites, and their spunk. Once again, I'm conflicted. So I'll save a woodchuck. But just one.

Ice Blues

One morning last month, just before sunrise, the temperature plunged to -2 degrees. That's not so unusual for this time of year, but this particular morning brought with it one of my favorite winter phenomena:  rime ice (also known as hoarfrost, ice fog, and rime frost). Every inch of every branch, stem and tree trunk, shimmered and glistened with a soft coating of white jagged ice. 

It was a spectacular, foggy, winter wonderland against crisp blue skies. On some surfaces it was thick as snow while on others it appeared to be growing in sharp spikes.

Winter birding was a challenge.  However, a family of seven lovely, little bluebirds have been with us all winter, feeding on berries in the garden and singing from the trees. Brilliant blue against the white snow and the red berries of the winterberry bush, they flit away from the stingy starlings and manage to out-wit the sneaky cats. At night, I find them huddled in the eaves outside our bedroom window and checking on them has become my bedtime ritual. 

Usually all I can see is a tail or two high up in the corner, but many nights one adult is sleeping separately from the group, alone on a ledge but tucked in against the weather. About two weeks ago, however, they stopped coming in to roost even though it is still windy and cold. Are these bluebirds winter birds who have since started their way north? Or are these the same bluebirds we have here in the summer? (will there be seven?) And if so, where ARE they right now? I miss their cheery songs and the promise of spring!

Riding in the New Year

Our traditional New Year's Eve celebration is watching a bunch of movies, creating and enjoying a fabulous multi-course meal, and drinking lots of wine. Just the two of us. Well, three if you include our warm and comfort-seeking dog named Jake. Temperatures were mild enough to start the evening on the porch stoop and drink a cocktail, the barn and shrubs ablaze in sunset.  Most of the meal was sourced locally: a standing roast from High Point Farms, a creamy soup of leek and rutabagas from Country Side Produce, chocolate ice cream from Cayuga Lake Creamery, wine from J. R. Dill and bubbly from Lucas Vineyards. It was another perfect evening.

Early in December we made reservations for a New Year's Day trail ride at Painted Bar Stables in Burdette. Neither of us having ever been on a horse, we nervously made our way into the stables, all the while getting safety tips and riding instructions from Erika, the owner. I was to ride Dozer, a sharp looking chestnut gelding. Duchess, a solid paint palomino mare, was saddled for Kevin. We mounted, and with my stomach in my throat, I gingerly directed Dozer to the trail head and I stopped. I can't do it, I thought I said to myself, but Erika--ever present and alert--heard me, and made a suggestion. "Hum a tune, and you'll get over your fear. And don't forget to breathe. The horse will sense that you are nervous, then he'll get nervous. Oh, and don't micro-manage the horse. He knows how to walk through the mud and ice. Just gently suggest what you want him to do." I did, and he did, and all was well.

Creekside, my fear took over again, but with kind encouragement from Erika and the other riders, I kept calm, leaned back and let sure-footed Dozer manage the slope into the water. Slow and steady. That wasn't so bad. All in all, it was lovely ride on a mild winter day through corn fields and meadows, and I can't wait to go horseback riding again. Perhaps this will be a new tradition for us--riding into a Happy New Year.

The Lovely Snow Geese

There's nothing more beautiful on a cold, clear winter day than a gaggle of snow geese. When first you hear them, you can't help but stop whatever it is you are doing, and look up at their black wing-tipped whiteness against the blue sky. 

Although their numbers are much smaller in December than in the spring, they are impressive nonetheless. Like falling snow, they descend into the fields in swirls, circling and circling, their feathers sparkling as they catch the sunlight.

I was working in Geneva, New York the first time I saw the snow geese. Their unusual sound caught my attention; an unfamiliar ruckus of sorts and nothing like our local frequent flyers the Canada Geese. It was more like the baying of hounds, and there were hundreds and hundreds of them in crisscrossing V formations. I was in love!

As I came to look forward to the return of the snow geese, I shared my passion for these lovely birds with my sister while she was visiting one spring. We drove for miles searching the skies for the large masses of snowy white geese. We stopped at every vista, scouring the lakes for their large glacier-like congregations, until we came upon an open field covered in white. We jumped out of the car. There were thousands of snow geese as far as the eye could see. The noise was incredible, even as they took flight in waves and waves of white and black.

Last year some snow geese landed right across the road from our house and stayed for a day or so. However, the snow geese are not the farmers' friends. They forage in the fields, pull the plants by the roots and devastate the crop. But for me, the lovely snow geese are a little piece of heaven in winter.

Crisp, Clear Autumn

Crisp, misty mornings. Clear, cold nights. Autumn can be surprisingly stunning, with every turn in the road a new, perfect picture: a frost covered, sparkly carcass of a black bear; a narrow band of low clouds over the lake; the whitish, translucent ice of the milky way; a shooting star.  I love the mornings this time of year. The mist and fog make everything soft and light.

My morning drive is often an obstacle course of road-crossing mammals. One week, I counted 6 different species, including a red fox and a coyote. A few days ago, though, a large black cow appeared out of the mist. Slowly, steadily it stepped out of the brush, stopping and looking in my direction, the fog swirling around its hefty outline. Fortunately, I was able to stop. When one cow finds a hole in the fence, and you can be sure the others will follow. I put the truck in reverse, and backed it into the owner's driveway only to be met by his camo-covered, ski-masked, gun-wielding son riding a 4 wheeler.  I'll never get used to seeing guns up close, particularly first thing in the morning. Cow, I pointed. In the road, I said. Cow? not a horse? he asked through the knitted muffler. (see, this happens more than you think!) I repeated --cow-- pointing up the road to nothing. The beast was gone, as if it were an apparition.

Closer to home, the willow tree still holds its green leaves but our maple trees are bare. One of them exposes the Baltimore oriole's nest, suspended on the end of a branch over the road. I can't tell you how many times I stood in the middle of the road watching that oriole fly in and out--right there--yet I've never been able to see that nest. Bluebirds and mockingbirds are feeding on seeds and berries while fighting off the bluejays, and Canada geese fly so low you can hear the whoosh-whoosh of their wings as they pass overhead.

While I crunch through the frozen grass, I take in autumn's crisp, dry breath, and keep watch for the return of the short-eared owls. Their moth-like flight and piercing eyes will be my entertainment for the winter. Until then, I soak up the ever-changing light, keeping my eyes open for the next beautiful thing.

Joe, Part II

The score:

Pip - 2 

Joe - 0 (still clueless!)

(painting credit:  "Mr. May" by Ron Donoughe www.donoughe.com) 

Joe, the Vegetarian Kitten

I just made an appointment at the vet for our new kittens, Pip and Joe. I've been watching them obsessively, noting their habits and quirks. Their new favorite thing is to climb up into the car wheel wells, then giving our guests a fright when they jump out and flee. I can almost hear them say "boo!"

Pip, in a flash of gray stripes, has been snatching moles and mice from our adult cat Squatter, who, by the way, is getting bigger by the day. It's impossible to feed Squatter separately from the kittens, and so by way of one very large bowl, she's been getting high-calorie kitten food along with her regular chow. 

Joe, however, is clueless about the joys of mousing or eating mice. He follows behind Pip, sniffing around the area where the poor helpless rodent met its fate, but makes no other effort towards hunting. Frequently I'll hear some snapping of twigs in the garden, or paws pouncing on the porch, and I'll look out to find that he is chewing on stems, or tossing dead flowers about, or munching on bugs. He's also the first at the food dish, eating aggressively with his two front paws and most of his lanky body in the bowl. Pip and Squatter grab what they can from the space that's left.

I think he's a vegetarian (my friend Suzanne would be very happy to hear that), or maybe just a bit "touched." Maybe boy kittens mature more slowly than girl kittens? The females, as the primary food provider for the litter, have to be primed and ready to feed babies. They are a little more serious about life. A little more focused on eating animal nutrients and not fibrous weedy things. Did I say "babies?" Yikes, I think I made that vet appointment just in time!

What's cuter than kittens?

About a month or so ago, Kevin was out of town, and I was changing over the rooms after breakfast and checkout. I heard a truck in the driveway, and I reached the window in time to see it pull out onto the road and read the business name on side panel. That's the guy who stopped in about week earlier inquiring about a reservation, and we got to talking about kittens. He said he had a few ferals he was trying to place in good homes. We said we would think about maybe taking one.

Then it hit me. I ran down the steps, flew open the kitchen door and there it was: A small pet carrier with his business card taped to the top. I peeked through the cage door and I see not one kitten, but two, hissing and terrified. It's 95 degrees outside. I've got a full day of baking and cleaning ahead of me, and he dropped off two kittens. Momentarily overwhelmed, I did the only thing I could manage.  I carried them into the barn, unlatched the carrier door, and walked out.

That evening, the kittens were nowhere to be found but I put some water and food out for them. All that night and the next I could hear their mews echoing from the barn. By the time Kevin arrived home, the mewing had stopped, and we saw no sign of them for days. I felt awful.

At the end of the week, however, I arrive home from work to find both kittens sitting under the truck. Hungry and frightened, they would run and hide whenever we approached, or peek out from behind a stack of wood. Slowly we got them to come out for food. Everyday they got more courageous, running around in the yard, chasing bugs, and getting closer and closer to us. One day we woke to find them on the kitchen porch, peeking into the windows and waiting to be fed. I don't think they have been into the barn since! Ever curious, scrambling around, and climbing the trees, they are a bundle of fun. We've named them Pip and Joe. 

Our adult cat, Squatter, has adapted so well. She tolerates their adolescent antics. She shares her food with them, including freshly caught field mice and moles. She'll carry her prey into the yard, make a fuss to get their attention, drop it onto the ground, and step aside. The kittens oblige by snatching it and scampering away. I can only suppose that she is teaching them to hunt like good barn cats--good girl!

I could fritter away the hours watching Pip and Joe explore their new world, wrestling and pouncing, hiding and climbing. They make me laugh, and that's a good thing. I mean, what's cuter than kittens?

Leading the Team

For months now, I have been telling my neighbor Elam that I wanted to help him bale hay, thinking the experience of back-breaking, sweaty work would do my soul some good. While he is always more than happy to laugh at me, he obviously gave the request some serious thought.  As I watched his youngest brother Levi drive a team of 4 draft horses past the house with the baler and two wagons trailing behind (one of which was carrying his young son), Elam knocked on the kitchen door.

We're baling straw tonight, he says. Just a few times around the field, that's all. Want to help? This is your chance to drive the horses, feel the power of the team as they make their way around the field. Kevin can take pictures, and you can show all your friends at work! 

DRIVE THE HORSES? I've never even been on a horse. You would really let me to that? Oh, no. Not tonight, I hear myself say. We have guests. I've got dishes to do. I need a few days notice to prepare for this. 

After a few minutes of cajoling, he leaves to continue his work without me, not wanting to force me into it. Kevin looks at me. He's disappointed too. I tell him the truth: I'm too scared. But he assures me it will all be fine. It will be fun! What an opportunity! This is your chance, Michele! Go for it! 

So I do. Donning my blue overalls (I mean, what DID I buy those for anyway?) and a long sleeve shirt, I trek out to the back field just as he's getting ready to start. After about two seconds of instructions and a snappy "giddup" we're off, with little Elam Junior on my lap, and Kevin documenting every second of it. A friend of ours remarked that Elam must really trust me. I've been thinking about that trust and his self-reliance, confidence, and spirit of community. How can any society survive without those things?

The ride was bumpy, but what a rush! I did it.  Elam helped with the turns. Little Elam Junior sat quitely. Levi stacked the bales. Kevin ran along by my side and took pictures. I was leading the team and no one got hurt.

Hay Fever!

The smell of hay is the scent of summer. For the past couple of weeks, we've seen an epidemic of hay fever.  Anyone who keeps livestock (or grows alfalfa for people who keep livestock) is baling hay, loading hay, and transporting hay. Alfalfa is agricultural perfection. It is raised and baled on the farm, fed on the farm, and spread as manure on the farm.

Watching the weather (make hay while the sun shines!) becomes an obsession because one good rainfall, at the wrong time in the process, can destroy the crop. Rain is a blessing and a curse. Timing is everything. There's so many acres to cut and only so much time to cut it before the first rain drop falls. The sky darkens. The clouds threaten, and still they cut. They windrow. They bale. They sweat. They plow in the dark, headlights (if they have them) illuminating the clouds of chaff, methodically and deliberately until the last bale is loaded onto the wagons. The filled wagons dot the landscape in every direction. 

A conventional baler throws the tied bales into slat-sided wagon with a powerful thrust machine called a kicker (or maybe that's a thrower?) and are piled up every which way. The bales in the Amish steel-wheeled wagons (which are flat and open-sided) are stacked neatly then pulled to the barn by a team of draft horses, creating a rumble that you first feel, then hear. As our neighbor's team quickly turns the sharp corner into his driveway, I've never seen him lose one bale. One of these days I'm going to help make hay, and Elam's offered to let me lead the horses--they know what to do, he says. Can you imagine me out there in the blazing sun driving the team? I've never even been ON a horse!

During this month's hay-making season, we have cows grazing in the field next to us. At night, by starlight, you can't always see them but you can hear them crunching on the grass, the young bull wailing in the night for no one's apparent pleasure but his own.  Perhaps he has hay fever too.

Keep singing!

Right now there's a Northern Mockingbird outside the window, feverishly and relentlessly singing to impress his mate, who just arrived in our yard today (he's been singing for about a month.) Driven by instinct, he settled in and kept singing. Night after night, a male barn swallow roosts beside his egg-filled nest, even after his mate has been missing for a week and the clutch is lost. Two winters ago a snowy owl made our town his home for 4 months bringing birdwatchers from miles around to observe and record his every move and pellet expulsion. What makes this place so right for them?

But, there's more. Always more. While cleaning up the remains from another spectacular peony bloom, I hear Kevin say "Here's Michele, I'll let you talk to her." On the other end of the phone line was our friend David from the market around the corner. One of his customers reported having a sandhill crane in their front yard. A sandhill crane just up the road? Could it be? I couldn't pass up the opportunity to see one this close, so I dropped the broom, the clippers, spritzed myself with bug-spray (thinking we would be trudging through a field), grabbed the binoculars, jumped in the car and picked up David along the way.

Okay, so up the road was about 3 miles, but in farm country, that's still in the neighborhood. I was half expecting the bird would turn out to be a Great Blue Heron. I was so wrong. As we pulled into the driveway, there it was, its red-patched head a beacon in the green grass under a small tree. It was no more that 20 feet from us, foraging on the ground below the backyard bird feeder. We didn't even have to get out of the car. It made no reaction to our being there. The property owner stood by, shaking his head. He never expected to be feeding a bird like this! Every few minutes, the bird would let out a loud, prehistoric-like clucking squawk. We were thrilled.

The crane has been there for about a week now, strutting around in the yard like a pet, and there is no telling how long it will stay or what attracted it there in the first place. The general area is perfect habitat for a sandhill crane, and so is the neighbor's yard next door, and the yard across the road. Why did it choose this particular yard?

Like the birds, we have chosen one place from a thousand in which to land. We're safe, well fed, and industrious. But which bird are we? The dependable migrant who stays the course year after year? Or the errant who has temporarily lost its way and must survive on wits and instinct? Or the wanderer who stays for a while, and moves on? No matter. For now, it feels right to settle in and keep on singing.

Bob's Retirement

Our neighbor has a team of six draft horses that he employs for almost every field job on the farm. And he is rewarded for it.  If you compare a horse-plowed field of alfalfa to one plowed by a conventional tractor, you will find the ground is softer and the alfalfa growing taller in the horse-plowed field, the hooves have turned and aerated the soil while the rubber tires packed it down. And though the baling is slower and more labor intensive, the operation is quieter and creates less air pollution. From a neighbor's point of view, this is a good thing.

Bob, who is about 16 years old, is Elam's favorite horse, and they have been working together for about 10 years. Their relationship is one of mutual respect, this nearly one ton horse built for work and the straw-hatted farmer who depends on him. Bob is a natural leader within the team, dependable and often the hardest worker. When the team is grazing in the pasture, you call Bob and he comes, and the others follow. But, they always allow him to enter the barn first.

But even Bob's discipline goes to the wayside when given the the opportunity to flee. One morning, as I drove past the farm on my way to work, I see the team charging down the driveway towards the road, and I quickly realize they are not harnessed. I stop, and Elam motions me to pull the car into the driveway to block them.  I do it, thinking to myself the insurance company will never believe this if I even live to tell the story. But it works: all six horses turn on a dime, and gallop back to the barn. I am momentarily amazed at their dexterity. I wave, satisfied that all is well (and that my car is in one piece), and pull into the road. But, seeing another chance,  they all turn again and this time pass me in a thundering cloud of dust. Elam jumps in the car, and we follow them up past my house. They turn into the field at full speed, the tops of their heads barely visible at the treeline. We stop. Watch. After a few big sighs and some quiet cussing, he asks me to get his brother with his riding horse, and he goes running after the team who are, by now, out of sight. I drive back down the road to his father's house, pick up two of his brothers and a saddle, and back to Elam's to get the riding horse. Mary comes out of the house, smiling, hands me a plateful of cookies, and we're off again to catch up to Elam, the brother riding his horse like a rodeo cowboy. Another neighbor arrives, I am relieved and start for the office again. All ended well, I learned later, and our guests were giddy after watching the whole episode from the front porch. Not only was I late for work, but I had a good story AND cookies!

Besides Bob, there have been other horses we've known: Maude, another favorite, who died unexpectedly after a long, hard day of working in the heat.  Joker - the lazy troublemaker and instigator of the above incident, who was sold off and with good riddance. And the beloved Pet, retired from driving the buggy, and who just this week became a new mother at a nearby family farm.

I have watched Bob lower his head to be petted by the tiny hand of Elam's young son. A little nudge from Bob and a big smile from the boy, I was amazed at the gentleness displayed by a beast of solid muscle whose head was bigger than the two year old. Lately, though, Bob's been halting in the middle of a job and getting tired more quickly.  Elam feels now is the time to retire him, before he's too old for anyone else to want him. Before he gets hurt and before difficult decisions must be made. So, Bob will be put to pasture by a friend who is taking him to Wisconsin. He'll be King Bob, a family pet and retired draft horse. No more leading the team, he'll be living a life of fresh grass and kind spirits. Happy retirement Bob!

It's a Piece of Cake

At 1:00 on Easter Sunday afternoon, I poured myself a glass of wine, and sat down on the front porch to enjoy the warmth of the sun. That feels so good after a cold winter.  Things were under control:  Our nephews, ages 6 and 4, were watching the movies the Easter Bunny brought them. Their baby brother was fed and fast asleep.  Their parents had been gone for two hours already, off for wine tasting and an overnight stay at the Belhurst. A long overdue, and well-deserved break without the kids. Piece of cake, I thought, the next 24 hours will be a piece of cake. 

As an extended family, we have kept busy since they arrived on Friday afternoon. We had make-your-own-pizza night, and ate the hot and gooey creations outside on the porch. We hoofed over to the dairy farm next door, pet the draft horses, and let the baby calves suck on our fingers. We played with kittens. Lots of kittens. We collected duck eggs from a barn, ate a picnic lunch and went to the Children's museum. This morning we flew kites (boy, that Easter Bunny was right on!) under perfect conditions in the field across the road. And all of these activities were interspersed with bike riding and playing in the dirt, and with a little brotherly wrestling thrown in.  The baby, who is 8 months old, watched and laughed, cried, drooled, and chewed on anything you put in his little hands, including a plastic tablespoon. That was his favorite diversion of the weekend.

At some point, however, the calm ceased and we were quickly outnumbered. Discipline and restraint went out the window.  We had no choice but to put everyone in dad's Big Suburban and go for a ride to the playground. But these kids just don't wear out.  On the way home, hovering just above the radio and the road noise were their chants, in stereo,  of "I want ice-cream." The answer of "after dinner" was getting me nowhere.  I had to outsmart them. I had to restore order and authority. Then it came to me. We pulled in the driveway, and I promised a surprise if they went right in and sat down.  "Today," I announced, "we are having dessert BEFORE dinner."  I think I saw, between their cheers of joy and chocolate-covered faces, one little spark of surprise, or was it a quick assessment of the trouble they would be in if their parents knew? Kevin pulled out the largest soup bowls we had, and offered not only chocolate ice-cream, but pudding and crumbled oreos as toppings. To our surprise, not only did they finish their ice-cream, but both boys ate all of their rigatoni, 2 helpings each mind you, without any challenge at all. We did it.

Not having children ourselves, I always wonder how parents get through it. But with a few fleeting moments of self-confidence and by thinking on our feet, we managed. And we had fun. The boys had another memorable weekend at Aunt Michele's and Uncle Sonny's house in the country. Loving these 3 little guys, watching them grow and discover the world.  That is a piece of cake. Chocolate cake, with whipped cream, and cherry on top.

Keep A Goat Employed

Before we opened the B&B we had lots of ideas on what it was to be. It had to be a place where we would like to stay. A home that reflected not only our tastes, but who we are. A home where the innkeepers share their stories, converse over breakfast, help with travel details, but leave you to your privacy. The location of our house, rural and bucolic, is attractive to travelers who want to get away from the city but we also see guests who simply want to experience something different. 

The smallest details often make the biggest impressions.  And for us, that is our guest soap. I never thought much about soap, I suppose, but as innkeepers we considered the following: What if someone has allergies? How could we choose one standard scent? Do we want bars or liquid soap? Which is easier to clean up? Is there a way to incorporate something local here and help a small business? Enter, serendipitously, our friend Marty. Turns out his cousin Charleen raises goats on a farm in Darien Center and (you guessed it!) makes goat milk soap. I called her. Guest sized bars, she said, are no problem. I'll send you some samples.
 

Shortly thereafter, we received a small, sweet-smelling package from Harper Hill Farm containing little paper envelopes of beautiful scents.  Oh. My. Goodness. The variety of colors and aromas was overwhelming, but we managed to choose about 8 of our favorites. Even better, however, was how these soaps felt when you put them under water. They almost melt. Aromatherapy and moisturizer in one small little bar. 

The thing about small-batch soap is it's REAL soap, rich in natural glycerin. No detergents, synthetic colors, artificial foam boosters, petroleum or alcohol. An added bonus for us? She uses lard and milk from her own pigs and goats, herbs from her garden and as many local ingredients as possible. Perfect. 

Guests will find in their rooms a variety of scents from which to choose, and we encourage them to take their bar home with them. They may also purchase full size bars here.

As innkeepers, these unexpected friendships we make along the way become part of our home, to be shared with those who stay with us.  Small businesses have a friendly face behind them and most likely a good story as well.  So we help keep a goat employed. Buy goat milk soap!