40 is the new 50

Originally, I had wanted to post last night when the autumn winds started blowing here and forced me to deal with a barn emergency. Not an emergency in the sense that the barn collapsed and Gunnar--who lives out there--went up in a funnel cloud like Toto from Kansas, but a real pain-in-the-butt architectural issue.

For those of you who don't know me very well, I didn't go to school to be an architect.  I went to school to be a respiratory therapist, and then I went to school for a non-descript Interdisciplinary Studies (Humanities) degree which will hopefully serve a multitude of professional purposes.  Since I didn't have to perform an emergency tracheotomy on Gunnar, or read him a story about Plato, I am operating on zero experience here.

My husband gives me way too much credit and thinks I can do anything I want to do, but, he will usually step in if what I want done involves lifting heavy-ish objects, changing light bulbs, or fixing anything on more than one wheel.  (I don't have a unicycle--yet).

So, when he had to work late yesterday, I was forced to deal with the farm issues myself. There were two issues: the wood burner fire had gone out, and Gunnar's metal roof had blown completely off. Heat and safety are concerns and I was just as concerned to freeze my tail off, as I was that Gunnar's tail might try to go over his kennel wall to freedom.



Gunnar and I assessing the kennel roof damage

I only had a couple of hours before Bill got home, but it was already dark outside, around forty degrees, and the winds had been gusting all day--which they are still doing today. The wood burner fire would not have been an issue had I been able to find a match, a lighter, or a grenade. This property came literally almost fully furnished in the house, garage, barn, and workshop. Bill and I have garden tools and barn supplies that we never would have been able to stock up on right away, when we moved in. I am so grateful for this. It has made life easier, and makes this feel like a fully functioning home--that is a new concept!

But, since Mr. H doesn't smoke anymore (thank God) and the lighter for the grill is out of fluid, I could only find a match which wouldn't ignite. Every piece of tinder was soaked from the torrential rains, so I wasn't about to go Native and try to rub two sticks together to start the fire. Screw that--let the propane and electricity kick in. What am I, Amish?

Wood burner crisis solved, I got some work gloves on-- and of course rain boots-- and moved all of the metal scraps scattered on the grass from what was left of Gunnar's roof, out of my way. I then went into the barn and found some very sturdy rope and started to weave the two remaining tarps over the dog kennel into a plausible cover for the poor boy. This roof was initially made by Seneca and Bill, two much more capable humans than I when it comes to barn--or any kind of--chores.

Crisis averted, Bill came home and "tweaked" both projects I had tackled and we soon had heat in the burner. Gunnar had two very nice tarps which made up a roof, perfectly woven in place with a rope-through-grommet action; but, now I'm wondering if Bill has watched that skin coat scene from "Silence of the Lambs" one too many times?

Let's fast forward to this morning:
It was twenty degrees and in a matter of two days my climate has changed drastically, requiring the insulated bib overalls and a warmer jacket. I guess that is the one great thing about living in the Midwest: there is a need for four distinct wardrobes, not just two--hot and less hot. There is a need for a set of clothing for all four seasons and I have already run the gamut of all of them in a span of two months.

I've learned something about the weather though: twenty to forty degrees with no wind is essentially the same, and fifty degrees with any significant wind can feel like twenty! The most accurate way to determine what to wear outside to walk Gunnar or do chores is dancing around on the back patio in pajamas to get the full effect of the current atmosphere. It isn't pretty, pleasant, or fun, but this isn't Arizona: you can't just wake up each morning and know it will be between eighty and one hundred degrees with sun or partial sun.  As for the poor hunters who intermittently stay in the cabin behind us-- don't look in the direction of my backyard at 6 a.m. and you'll be spared the weather ritual!



Wulf getting ready for snowpants season




Yeah, I wore my snowpants one morning to walk Gunnar.

Note the frozen expression on my face-- no pun intended.









Beware the Cuteness!

Everyone thirty years of age and older should remember the 1980's movie classic, "Gremlins." (Sorry Mitcher--guess you'll have to look it up on the internet, youngblood). Girls all fell in love with the fluffy little big-eared mogwai named Gizmo, and boys all thought the gremlins that mogwais turned into, were cool. And, what's pathetic is even after all this time, I didn't have to look up how to spell "mogwai!" 



The mogwai, Gizmo, courtesy of http://www.free-wallpaper-download.com/



The mogwais turn into gremlins if they get wet, or are fed

 after midnight. Photo courtesy of www.gonewiththetwins.com

 I think this occured to me now because it is close to Halloween and frankly, back in 1984 when I saw this movie, I thought it was a bit scary.  (I've always been sensitive: to this day I can't watch the Wizard of Oz. Oh, the horror!).



 Watching "Gremlins" is when I irreversibly became ingrained and genetically programmed to love Chihuahuas, tiny, big-eared, fuzzy creatures, much to my downfall...I have examples.

This mogwai looks very amicable and sweet:

However, get him wet--and then blow dry him--and this is what you will face. Be afraid:

Very sinister. Look at the pure evil (and cuteness!) in those eyes...These little mogwai come in all different colors so don't be fooled--they all won't be two-toned, or solid. Some will even have brindle fur: those are the ones that are extremely dangerous, such as this one. She devoured this corn with only two teeth!!

Now that is scary!

Finally, some of these creatures look sweet, even when they are being devilish and that is how they suck you in! Examples below--see the progression escalate!

Sweet and cute.

Still very well behaved...then midnight rolls around....

Beware the glowing eyes...someone is about to lose their pizza!





Well, kiss my pickle-- look who's choking chickens!

First of all, the title for this post is courtesy of my husband, Bill. Any number of titles would have worked: "Amish Survival School," "Why I Hate Eating Chicken," or "Kimi Has Lost Her Mind." Let me try to break this down for you and not leave anything out.  Before I continue, I will leave a disclaimer (not joking) here: I tried to keep the pictures clean and wholesome. For those of you who eat meat, you will not have a problem with these photographs. There are no dead animals in these pictures, except for fully cleaned birds, like the ones you buy in a grocery store. (And if you don't read until the end, you will miss out on the cutest goat picture you've ever seen, so hang in there). The picture of feathered friends on the gallows is of live birds with heads attached. They were relaxed as I told them it was a spa treatment--this was right before my dad came out with the shears.  And, for those of you who thought meat came from a package in the grocery store, grow up. Finally, for those of you who are vegetarian, there is a sale on electric hybrid cars at a local dealership near you, and we also have a tree in our woods which you can hug on an hourly basis for a reasonable rate.

My father called me three days ago and pretended to be a politician: he pandered to my ethos and pathos to get me to drive up to his house yesterday and help him and my grandma butcher 30 live chickens.  He used rhetoric like, "We would appreciate your presence," and "You'd be grandma's assistant."  What a total schmoozer, right? Well, it worked. He doesn't ask much of me, really, and now that I am only an hour and a half away from him and not 2000 miles, he is eager to keep me involved in the farm operation. 

Since we brought up the word "farm," now is as good a time as any to insert a few text messages I received on my phone yesterday as I was driving up for my fun, fun, day of chicken adventures.  I texted my closest friends, some of whom have actually butchered chickens before.  My Russian, Kylie, and my wild west girly, Shannon, have both done this before so they knew exactly what I was getting into. The others were just amused.

Message sent from Kimi's phone to Max, Shannon, Kylie, and Jenni (Seneca already knew where I was headed): "Um..yeah... I'm on the way to Farmer Ron's to help butcher chickens. He asked. Basically, I'm going to sit in the house and drink tea, right? "

MAX: "OMG, LBD (little blonde devil), I totally understand your desire not to assist in this task. The cost, however, for not sticking your hand up a chicken's ass is that you're surely going to miss out on a damn good story! You've already got the start of the makings below!"

(Max is my brilliant friend, former professor, and current editor, who has faith that my musings will make me famous someday. Do you see how he's totally disregarding my emotional trauma from witnessing the chicken demise for a story? What am I, a frickin' journalist after an award-winning story, here?)

KYLIE: "You are in for a treat my friend....Kimi is never going to eat chicken again, is she? Rflmao"

SHANNON: "Yeah, imagine.... butchering chickens is fun!... If you're gonna talk the talk, you gotta walk the walk, Farm Girl!"

(I don't feel any love or sympathy in that last message, do you?)

JENNI: "Did you pluck 'em yet?"

So, those were the supportive words I received as I started for Farmer Ron's house.  Thirty miles from home I stopped to put gas in the urban assault vehicle. When I turned the car back on, my GPS would not come back on--it had a habit of doing this in Tucson, but hasn't done it in a while. Instead of carrying a map, I use the GPS device to tell me where to turn! The way to Farmer Ron's house is not a straight shot and there are many highways to cross and turn on before arriving.  I don't have this memorized yet, coming from our new house!! I mean, I know where my dad lives, but I've never driven from this part of Wisconsin before to get there! I start to panic, not sure if the roads I need to turn on will look familiar. Luckily, my car has a built-in compass, but I still call my dad and explain my predicament.

Farmer Ron chuckles as I tell him what town I'm nearest to. Then, he launches into the directions I need to find his house: "You're gonna keep going on highway H which will take you to a stop sign in the Dells.  Take a left and look for the Paul Bunyan statue and keep going until you hit highway 23."

He's got to be kidding. I am looking for one--of one hundred--stop signs, which actually turned out to be a stoplight, and then a statue of an historic, American icon. Geez. Who gives directions like this? Again, you have to watch "Funny Farm" with Chevy Chase to really get a feel for this new life!

I suddenly realized that I was being recruited by "the Agency." That GPS didn't shut off by accident--someone sabotaged it! I was about to continue with yet another test in order to pass Amish Survival School.  It all makes sense: I learned how to make firewood over the last two weeks, I milked a goat three weeks ago, and now I'm about to partake in chicken butchering! This is way more covert than getting recruited to the CIA: I never saw it coming! Too late now--I'm on the way to Farmer Ron's and there's no turning back.

Way more cold-blooded than the real Wisconsinites like my dad--who was in a tank top--and much more germaphobic than my grandmother who was covered in chicken blood when I got there, I had on jeans, wool socks, long-sleeved shirt, and hooded jacket, all encased by a pair of coveralls.  What did I have on my feet? Waterproof rain boots, of course. I have never seen the Amish wear anything but rain boots; someone is controlling my mind!!



This is a picture that is very reminiscent of Old World Europe, eh? The goat says, "It's best not to watch, Kimi."

 There are several steps in butchering chickens. First the execution team is put in play--I am definitely not on this team. I was spared this trauma and wasn't even asked to participate; even Farmer Ron knows better than to think I'd be able to assassinate a bird. First of all, I'm deathly afraid of birds (except hummingbirds), so I couldn't even help him hold them as they were placed on the gallows. Flapping feathers make me want to lie down and go fetal, especially if there is a beak searching for a soft spot on my arms or face to peck.  No thank you. Apparently, I helped butcher chickens until the age of eight; even back then I was in charge of organ procurement--I reached in for the gizzard. But by age ten, I couldn't hack it.  So when I arrived at Farmer Ron's I said, "Look guys, I was a lot tougher at age six than I am now, so don't expect much." They just laughed and kept on cuttin' off heads.

This was all done very humanely and swiftly.  Then comes the really gross part: feather plucking!  In order to pluck feathers, the birds are dipped into boiling water. We proceed to spend a lot of time pulling feathers out of these chickens. Farmer Ron sent grandma to the milkhouse to start cleaning chickens.  Yes, we did this in his milkhouse. The health department guy would have had a heart attack on the spot if he'd have seen all three of us in the milkhouse, cleaning chickens, and me drinking coffee from a mug I was holding with blue latex gloves covered in chicken slime.

After feather plucking comes singeing the birds to get any little hairs off of them; this is also disgusting. Farmer Ron asks me to go into the milkhouse and get the new bottle of rubbing alcohol he got just for this task. A little alcohol is placed in a pie tin which is lit on fire--very high tech equipment, don't you think?  I get the bottle of rubbing alcohol but can't understand why the liquid is bright green. As I walk back outside, I see why: it's wintergreen rubbing alcohol. Have you ever heard of such a thing?

I start laughing and have no idea why, but I hand it to my dad and watch as he fails to light this green stuff on fire. By his fifth try I'm actually rolling on the ground, laughing hysterically. I finally tell him that the thought of singeing chickens with a rubbing alcohol that seems like it was designed to make candy is disgusting me. I think this hit me like it did because I watch a lot of cooking shows on cable television, specifically Chopped.  Chopped is a cooking show where four contestants are forced to cook, in a short amount of time, from a basket with several mystery ingredients in it. These mystery ingredients never seem to go together; as in, they are nauseating together and these chefs have to make a masterpiece in twenty minutes each of three times, or they will be eliminated. For example, a basket may contain strawberry jam, catfish, gingersnap cookies, and a turnip. I swear, that's similar towhat I've seen.  Farmer Ron is essentially going to singe chicken skin with mint flavored alcohol and I envision the next two years worth of Sunday dinners tasting like a wintergreen candy. Yuck!

I run to the house in my survival gear-of course- and retrieve a plain, unflavored bottle of rubbing alcohol. At this point I'm thinking about nipping out of the bottle due to the hysterical stress I'm feeling over the strange afternoon I am spending with the family.



Wintergreen scented rubbing alcohol!

 Singeing done and over with, I was recruited to the transplant and organ procurement teams: my job was to remove the tail of the bird, ready hearts, and dissect gizzards. I do like to dissect gizzards. Grandma did not leave anything to waste: she saved lard for Christmas cookies (don't tell my stepmom), eggs that would have been laid that day, and these little balls of liquid sunshine that would have been eggs that Farmer Ron swears is the best part of chicken soup when thrown in the pot. He drooled all day over this!

While Farmer Ron drooled over these wanna-be eggs for his chicken soup, the little clan of gray kitties attacked the chicken heads.


Waiting for chicken heads

While Farmer Ron drooled over chicken soup and the kitties drooled over chicken heads, Seneca and Kimi (the goats, not the humans) hid in their playhouse and watched:

Farmer Ron, Grandma and I worked from 10am until 5:30pm on this project. I got to take home one dozen really fresh eggs and was promised two cleaned, frozen chickens, the next time I find my way up. Seriously? I am bartering for chickens, now?

Chihuahuas and the Giant Kibblestalk

The tale of the kibblestalk is loosely related to "Jack and the Giant Beanstalk," but not really.  Here's the short version:

I'm feeding the chihuahuas half senior small bites kibble and half Gunnar's large breed dog food, in hopes that The Littles grow bigger and behave better like him...I'll keep you posted.

My Neighbor, Misty The Mini

Oh yeah, after we left Georgia's jewelry studio, Bill and I went looking for the little miniature horse.  If there's a miniature animal in that close a proximity to me, I will seek it out. It's an addiction: I can't help myself! We finally turned down the right road and pulled into a big farm that had horses.  The owners were outside on their back patio, which I could see from the road, so even if this isn't where the mini resided I could ask them-- and let's face it, they would probably know who I was talking about and give us directions! Which they did.

We drove a little further and saw a tiny barn and the accurately described vehicle that meant Nancy was indeed visiting her horses.  Can you imagine being alone in the country when two trucks pull up alongside your driveway (with nearest neighbor one mile away)?

We park on the road so that hopefully Nancy will see us walk down the long path and not be alarmed.  Bill and I get halfway down the lane and the lady comes around the barn.  "Nancy?" I ask. "Yup."  I explain that we were at Georgia's and she said there was a little mini horse here that we could get a look at.

Nancy is friendly enough, especially since she doesn't know who Georgia is! Oh geez.  She lets us come into the fenced pasture and inside the barn where Fudge (a Morgan), Prince (a Palomino), and Misty (the mini Pinto) are eating dinner. We get to pet all of the horses and Nancy tears Misty away from her hay--which is a hard feat since Misty is a chubby little, food-motivated sort of gal.  Misty is harnessed up and I get to hold onto her lead rope and pet her while she attacks the grass out in the pasture.  She barely looks up for a photo opportunity; it's just not as important to her as it is to me. I ask Nancy a dozen questions about Misty and the other horses and she happily explains her little horse operation.  We thank her for her time and then find our way back home where our mini's (the four chihuahuas), and the draft horse (Gunnar), are anxiously waiting for their dinner.



Asking lots of questions while Misty eats another dinner.



Georgia On My Mind aka Snow White And The Six Homers

Yesterday, I met my new friend, Georgia.  I know what you're thinking: Kimi is usually so shy and demure that it's hard for her to meet new people--good for her! (Did anyone just shoot soda out of their nose? Sorry.)

I was driving around the countryside near my house yesterday admiring the scenery...okay, I was lost and just meandering somewhere near where I thought my house was, but I was having fun so let's just go with the driving-around-the-countryside idea. Besides, I love driving my little blue urban assault vehicle (UAV), so I was just doing some "road testing." Let's stick with that one, yeah, road testing.

I was on the phone (not really, officer) with Seneca--surprise--when I was about to hit a slow, blind corner, that was in no way dangerous, except that I saw a bright blue balloon and a teeny sign that said, "Open Studio-Jewelry." Jewelry!
"Seneca, I gotta go; I'll call you back."

Though I was out trying to discover Amish country (I'm so not kidding; we live amongst Amish country), and find my home again all at the same time, I always break for an artisan studio--especially if it's pottery or jewelry. We live in an area of Southwestern Wisconsin that is full of artisans and THE best outdoor live theater, along with numerous beautiful farms and fishing holes.

I whip into the next driveway I see and turn around to follow the green Parking signs. I'm at a beautiful home in the country and these signs are telling me to park the big UAV on someone's lush, green lawn. Are we sure about this?

Let me segue: though not used to popping into strange driveways in Arizona, as you can occasionally get greeted with firearms (at least in my neighborhood you could have), I have gained a lot of peace and security in living here just in the short time that we have been in rural Wisconsin. (P.S. Remember last year when I wrote about that patient visit I went on when her husband drew a sword? Seriously.). The lifestyle change has happened quickly and for the last few weeks I have been popping in on unknown neighbors outside in their yards, or meeting them while walking Gunnar. Also, Farmer Ron has rubbed off a bit too: he doesn't carry a cell phone with him and drops by to see someone if he happens to be in their neighborhood. For example, we pulled into a strange driveway in the middle of nowhere because they had a "Fresh Eggs" sign in the front yard and I needed eggs! Having unknown people drop by in Arizona made me absolutely on edge; of course, they were usually "Southern neighbors" looking for the way to el ciudad.  But I digress.

I park on the lawn and walk back towards the cutest, most perfect cabin in the backyard of this property and find a huge basket of apples on the front porch. I am addicted to Wisconsin apples; there are several orchards in this area and these apples are out of this world delicious! I've been buying them by the sack-full ever week. I suppose being out in the country and finding a huge basket of apples should have made me pause and think about Snow White and the Seven Dwarves, but I was totally distracted by the cabin and the possibility of jewelry and trinkets inside.  I open the heavy door and inside is an artist--Georgia Lang Weithe--surrounded by her beautiful silver and gold pieces of art everywhere.  In one corner is the cutest potbelly woodstove and the cabin is immaculate, still smelling like fresh lumber, constructed by an Amish man over a year ago.

One of Georgia's pieces from Reflections Jewelry: silver dragonfly wing pendant that was originally created from tracing actual insect wings!

Georgia and I talk and sing to a Willie Nelson CD for at least an hour as she custom sizes a beautiful silver ring for me.  She hears half of my life story and I ask her about her career, jewelry-making, and the Amish-built cabin.  Wouldn't you know that I recognize the name of the man that built it as one of Farmer Ron's network of Amish friends? My dad is seriously connected in the Amish world! I am so interested in the cabin because Loki and I had to abandon our quaint little writing studio in Tucson when we moved here. Loki would love Georgia's studio and she told me to bring him there sometime.  We only live five miles apart which in the country is down a lane, over a bridge and through a pasture--figuratively. I can see some visits to the little Amish cabin in my future, for sure.

Part of the story Georgia heard is my desire to have dwarf goats and mini horses on our new ranchette.  She says, "Oh, a lady down the road has a little horse like that.  If you go back down the road you came from and take your first right and go two miles, you'll see horses on your right.  If Nancy is there with them, you'll see her white vehicle and she'll let you see them if they're in the barn."

By this time, Bill had called me and I gave him directions to the Reflections Jewelry cabin. Since Bill has had experience making jewelry, he and Georgia had plenty to chat about as well. I just wanted him to see the awesome cabin so he could get some ideas and inspiration and start on one for me. Just in case he didn't get the appropriate level of inspiration, Georgia gave me the business card for the Amish gentleman who built her cabin, and we promised to return to visit.  I already know what I want next! Georgia's jewelry is inspired by nature and that is my favorite type of art.

I am not artsy, but hope to learn how to make something beautiful someday, which may be sooner than later.  As Farmer Ron was helping us chop firewood, we would see him occasionally saw knots off of some of the logs.  When he was done, he handed them to me and said, "Here.  See if you can turn this into some art." Um...okay, Farmer Ron.



One of my gnomes posing with the unfinished knot art. Hey, any excuse to put a gnome in a picture; I'm all over that.

Believe it or not, I do have some ideas of what I want to do with these small pieces of wood, but do I have the skill? I live with a pretty talented guy, so I may have to ask for help. I will keep you posted when I have my very own art pieces to display. (Don't put off Christmas shopping waiting for this to happen; it could be a while).

Georgia has open houses frequently at her studio outside of Lone Rock, in addition to being open during regular hours most of the time for anyone who is in the neighborhood and wants to drop in and see what she is creating. I am going to go out on a limb here and suggest a Friday afternoon visit to Georgia and then catching the fish fry (no pun intended) at the local pub in Lone Rock: The Waz Inn. It's a humble little establishment that has awesome prices and a great breakfast and now, we've discovered, a Friday night fish fry. Want to know what a naked bluegill is? I'm not going to tell you: go to the Waz Inn and fnd out!

Oh, and stay tuned: I did find that mini horse, after all!

Breaker Breaker 1-9

My husband reminded me a few days ago that I have neglected to tell what he thinks is a highly amusing story about how we met our first few neighbors.  I admit that I cannot believe this story has gone untold as it was indeed memorable, and possibly the reason for that is that I blocked it out!

Bill and I had been in our Wisconsin home only four days; Seneca had just been taken back to the airport so she could return (reluctantly, I'm sure) to Tucson after helping us drive 2000 miles to get here. That is part of why I think this story was forgotten: after driving 2000 miles with five dogs and very little sleep, we were just starting to catch up on much needed rest.  It was Labor Day weekend and Bill was out in the garage, either giving his motorcycle a post-trip once over or just trying to organize the moving boxes that all got rained on, when our backwoods friends drove through.

To clarify, these guys are not "backwoods:" they have all of their teeth, they are related but don't seem to be "too" closely related (if you know what I mean), and they are all very nice people. I call them "backwoods" merely because they own eighty acres of woods behind our fifteen; in actuality, we call them "The Hunters."  We share a driveway with The Hunters, which leads to a beautiful cabin they only use on holidays or during hunting season. They come and go as they please and I have only asked that they give me some sort of sign that they are hunting up there, so that Gunnar and I don't get caught up in a game of cat-and-mouse when we're frolicking amongst the trees--or coughing up a lung while trying to help Farmer Ron make firewood.

Back to the story:
For some reason Bill and I still had the walkie talkies on from our road trip, because he had been up in the woods that morning, but I really don't remember the purpose of the radios at the moment.  Either way, I didn't hear any noise outside and Bill hadn't been in the house to check in for a while, so I wanted to check on him.  This is how the conversation went--from what either of us can remember, now, almost two months later:

Kimi: "Breaker, breaker 1-9...this is Little Mama...come in Big Papa."
Bill: "Hey Kim, why don't you come out and meet our new neighbors."
Kimi: "OH SHIT!" (Yeah, that went over the radio waves too).

(I had not seen or heard any vehicles come into our driveway; I knew we had hunters behind the house that owned the cabin, but had no idea that they were in our driveway, talking to my husband, when I picked up that walkie talkie.) I just sat in the living room--I was grading papers--stunned for a moment, not believing that I had really broadcast that stupid little exchange not just to my husband, but to three or four complete strangers! I was so embarrassed, but I know they were all dying to get a look at the lady that just chirped up on Bill's walkie talkie and I was obviously home.  It's not like I could get out of this! Gulp.

The Northerners are usually pretty reserved--at first--around females they don't know; in that way, they're a bit like the Hispanics in Arizona--with a lot less melanin in their skin. I slowly walked out of the house through the garage just shaking my head, no idea what these guys were like.

They were normal; they weren't laughing too hard; and they were trying to act like nothing out of the ordinary had happened--very "Wisconsin" of them. Bill made the introductions and we all talked a bit.  The Hunters are very nice and they now come and go frequently, waving or stopping to talk as they go through, but I can guarantee you that once they were all sitting around their bonfire Labor Day weekend, they repeated that walkie talkie conversation for all to joke about!