I have always taken my pets to the vet out in the cow field, who asks you to hold your pet on the operating table, who wears boots because they need foot protection. I prefer large animal vets. They have a larger perspective. Plus, if your animal isn't feeling well, there is something about taking them to the country and getting out of the car in a huge natural area that feels right. It feels a lot more healing, for the animal and for me, than a quick trip to the local strip mall where you have to be careful not to get hit by any of the cars in the enormous parking lot. You know, right next door to Bed Bath and Beyond...

The day Raspberry had her little baby horn buds cut out of her sweet little baby head, I stood watching the vet work. Are you the kind of mother who cries when her babies get shots? I am. This was more intense, let me tell you. She was roped and pulled into a stall and locked into a head gate. The rope around her head was wrapped around an iron pole and the attendant leaned on the other end. I won't write out the details. In fact, I can't. But I stood watching this procedure, trying to listen carefully to all the information the vet was giving me, and thinking, "What the bloody hell have I done?" Just who the hell am I to ask so much from this innocent little baby? Mr. Green, I noticed, suddenly had something he needed to do at his truck. Henry would have none of it and was loitering in a pasture outside. Ry watched half the time. But I stood there. I felt it necessary. I said to the vet, "Wow, it is important to see this so I can appreciate exactly what I am asking of this cow."

Right here I could launch into a serious essay about where our food comes from. Indeed, that is one of the over arching points to our study of permaculture and the kids are getting it. I will say this one thing: unless you have known a food animal and seen them frightened or in pain, you are shamefully and pathetically blind. You live in a horrifying mire of atrocity and you don't even know it. We should all be ashamed in the truest sense of the word. And most of us won't be.

But I won't go there. I'll take you back with us to the barn the next day, yesterday. Joe spent the whole day with Mr. Green fixing a nice big new stall for Raspberry. I made four pies - assorted meat, apple, and pumpkin. I took the kids to the library. And we spent the rest of the day with Raspberry. She took sweet feed out of my hand. She took some out of Ry's hand. And she gave Henry a nice deep sniff.

I felt the most delicate, polite, and gentle little mouth nuzzle my hand. Ry and I sat together on up turned buckets with our heads on the fence and Raspberry joined us. We sat there eye level with one another and discussed Charlotte's Web. Ry found all the best strands of hay with the heaviest grainiest heads and fed them, one by one, to RazzleBerryDazzle. Later, the sun lowered and the men started singing together.

It turns out that Raspberry is too big for a bottle. But she has discovered she loves sweet feed. And she should be pretty easy to halter train. She's still so young. I tried to get some perspective on her size in these pictures. Her nose is a bit bigger than my boot. She is shorter than Ry but bigger than the goat next door. I am in love.

I only have time for a quick check in. We began the morning by finding some heifers loose on our Road, belonging to our farmer but pastured on a different farm. We fetched Mr. Green (nice name for a farmer) and rustled those doggies back to their pasture.

Then on to our farm. We loaded Raspberry, took her to the vet and had her wormed, vaccinated, and polled (dehorned.) We brought her back home and situated her in a temporary stall. WE GOT SOME PATS AND SOME KISSES! Imagine going through so much and still having such a sweet temper - I am taking notes. Then we quickly helped Mr. Green move a swarm of bees. And now we're home for lunch. Then off with another homeschooled kid for a swim. Whew!

Until tomorrow, when I hope to have a story about bottle feeding Raspberry along with new pictures. You can call me cow girl....

To Tell The Truth

My son came in last night a bit worried. He is reading Roald Dahl's Boy. Apparently Roald asks his grandmother what happens if you swallow a toothbrush bristle. Apparently she told him it will give you appendicitis. This introduced a serious worry for my dear boy. He wishes to avoid appendicitis. Suddenly, it sounded remarkably easy to contract.

Sigh.

First I said, "My darling, this is of no more significance than a boy floating in a giant peach talking to human sized bugs." He teared up and said, "even if I'm reading a biography?"

Sigh.

"Bring me the book." I said, "first of all, this is an autobiography from a Writer Of Fiction." Then we discussed Writers Of Fiction. I pointed out how the phrase "all true" was written in several places on the cover and in the introduction. Daisy Dog wandered in and fell asleep as we were talking. I said, "did you see Daisy come in here? Listen to me. The procession arrived grandly and with great authority commanded our attention." I nodded toward Daisy. "True story, yes?" Then I said, "the dog walked in and fell asleep on the floor. True story, yes?" He admitted, each true, yes.

I said that the truth is a slippery and expandable thing, especially for Writers Of Fiction. I pointed out that their goal is to tell a fine interesting story which captures your attention. And that's a lovely thing. We want to hear a fine story. We want to be entertained. But you have to be careful as you listen. You have to know that you are reading for entertainment. You need to understand the finesse of exaggeration and reality that good writers may occasionally blur. And you should be very clear about how this relates to the facts.

Which got me thinking about my sister. Yesterday I said that she may be insane. I don't think that is exactly true. She may have a borderline personality disorder. I don't know. But there is one thing I absolutely do know. I love her. I love her almost as much as I love my husband and my children, which is a thing I can say about scant few people. And she has trusted me through her life, mostly, I believe. So I have been privy to her intimate stories. And I can say this. She lies. I've watched her lie to lovers, husbands, our immediate family, her therapist, her friends, and me. The lying is nearly pathological.

Her world is suspended in a protoplasm of lies. I imagine it is murky, dark, confusing, and unfriendly. I do not want to be anywhere near it. And I now flee that world.

A month ago I realised that I began to write here for one unspoken reason. I realized that this blog helps me manage the hole she left in my life. When I refused to care for her son, (everyday without pay as the working plan for her life) she simply quit speaking to me. Thus, our relationship severed. Again. Only this time, I'm not going back. And I know this. And it hurts me every day. Thus, the hole and my previously unconscious need to come here and write. And to tell the truth as best I can, as loud as I can. I come here to tell the truth, to escape the murk and swill.

Aren't layers of truth fascinating? I had no idea I was driven to write here because I was sad and missing my sister. Now I know it is true. And while I know that some truth can be ephemeral and very much in the eye of the beholder. All I can do is cling and keep climbing toward authenticity, integrity, earnest intention, and spaciousness. I feel lies as binding constriction. They feel terrible, which is one way I recognise them. My heart will often feel them before my brain catches up.

I can try to teach the children as I go. And try and fortify them with solid information about the world. I wish someone had done the same for my sister when she was growing up. I wish she could do it for herself, now.

Raspberry, Razzle for short.Named. Now we just need to get her polled (Friday) and separated from her Mom.

Blue Yonder woke up with a dream that made her sad, she couldn't quite remember, then remembered as she held her youngest son. She dreamed about her babies. Her babies all gone. And in the funny parallel universe of this blog world, her essay sparked me to remember one of my dreams last night.

I was holding Ry's baby doll. Her name is Jenna. She has been Ry's baby, and her only baby, since Ry was two years old. Jenna is part of our family. And for some reason last night in dream land, I was carrying baby Jenna around on my shoulder. I was holding her and I felt her incarnate and get warm and wonderfully solid. I turned my cheek and pressed it into her face, on my shoulder, as I squeezed her body, her little forearm taken completely up in my hand. She was real. I got to hold an infant again. I could smell her.

I woke up thinking how far we've come. I did not wake up with a sense of loss and sadness. Though, I can fully understand and relate to those feelings. I can conjure them, wistfully. Because I do love babies and I will be thrilled to hold babies again one day, should I be so lucky as to have the chance.

But no, I was not feeling sad when I woke. I was feeling relieved. I was a nanny for almost 10 years before I had my kids. I limped into motherhood nearly broken from too many years caring for people under the age of three. It was dawning on me, almost as I was giving birth, that no human is meant to live with people under three, in that constant state of care, for years on end. It is not healthy and it is not natural. Many babies in a row, sure. But they are supposed to grow and change, with you growing and changing along side them. If you have a string of babies, you are surely meant to have a string of rising teenagers in the house as well. Because seriously, I was almost broken. The children I nannied got way better care than my own.

I had postpartum rage that was truly dangerous. I actually had to call my husband home one day, afraid I was no longer safe around them. I understand mothers who go insane and kill their children - put them in a really safe place where they can no longer be harmed. It makes me sad, my understanding of this and that I arrived as a mother broken. It throws light onto the fact that I totally and completely could not care for my two year old nephew the year we moved home from Texas. Forget the fact that my sister may literally be insane. Forget the fact that our relationship is toxic. Forget the fact that I don't want my kids around her husband. (Jesus Christ, forget that someone who dislikes me so much would want me to care for their child - I mean really - that is crazy.) But even if those reasons weren't reasons, I could not be the one to care for that boy day in and day out. I was not fit for the job.

Which is a shame, because I am really really really good at it. I know how to raise babies. I should, I've had enough practice. And I take the dream as a sign that I am beginning to heal. I love babies. I am good at their care and one day I hope to make a fabulous grand parent.

My current job is all about bigger people. Big Kids. Pre teens. Tweens. And dare I say it? Certainly before I know it, Teenagers. Ah new lessons, new challenges, new tasks, and oh joy, a whole new genre of books. I am not certain of myself in this new territory. I am not a professional here. I am not expert. But I am willing and kind and enthusiastic. And we are moving forward together. Yes, nature means for us to progress and stretch and travel. And if my travels make a circle that places a baby in my arms, I'll be a lucky woman.

We set out for our morning walk yesterday. As we walked I asked the kids if they could define poetry, "what is a poem?" They had fine interesting answers and we talked about poetry writing for the rest of the walk. Ry reminded us that she is a poet. She said to wait until bedtime and to lie very still and to think A Lot. That's how she writes. I was gratified to learn that she thinks of herself as a poet. I wasn't sure she even remembered her last one, Mermaid In The Sea. It was written way back when she was 7. She is so much bigger now at 8.

Then last night I was lying in bed reading Ellen Gilchrist's The Courts of Love: "A psychiatrist told me a lovely thing. She said a great mother produces an irrational sense of security in a child. I'm irrationally secure. That's why I can do such an insecure thing for a living. Once I wrote three mediocre, almost bad, books in a row and still I kept on believing I was a good writer." When I was interrupted from my reading by a small knock. A squinty Ms. Ry was there with her raggedy little girl teeth and rumpled hair and fresh warm smell, blinking in my harsh light. "I've written a new poem."

And yes Ma'am, she certainly did write a poem. Two things strike me about her writing. She composes entirely in her head. No one stands up at the board and writes down lines and rereads them to her as she shouts out more. She keeps all the work orchestrated inside and then recites it finished. Also, I've never read poetry to her. We have talked about poems. Incidentally, she has seen some. But we haven't studied other people's poems. An omission we should correct. But not too quickly. At this moment, she is writing with an innocent originality. Isn't there something so beautiful about that? She isn't studied. She is natural.

The river is strong
The river is fast
As I flow along in my raft
Down the river I go
I see frogs and fish and other things so
But alas, I'm not content
And so I sail down the river away
Never to be seen again that day

After we got her poem transcribed and after we celebrated her work, she went back to bed and I went back to my book. Our bed is under a window which, almost all of this bizarrely cool summer, has been open. I was reading and interrupting Joe every 45 seconds to reiterate how great Ry's poem is, when a Barred Owl started calling and purring and hooting in our yard. He was so close you could hear that deep soft mystical growl in the bottom of their call. Oh my God, how full I felt right then. He kept calling. I lay there soaking it up, grateful the children get to be home with another uninterrupted year to set their own pace and explore their inner landscape. Ry and I decided that we will collaborate on a book of her poetry this year. A happy project for a small unschooler. Then another soft knock, another poem.

Hoot hoot
The moon is up
The owls are below
And everything is quiet
Except for the hoot hoot
For that is the way the owls go

The Orwell Diaries republished 70 years later, to the day, day by day, blog style. Pretty cool for students.

Tips for Kids Writing Poetry from Kristine George

A brief list of games the children have invented. The list is not exhaustive but may exhaust you. Characters follow titles.

Chicken is Bagel Hair (Chicken is Good) (Chicken is Beauty Hair) (Chicken is Beagle Hair): Beauty, Gray Tail, Clover, Snowflake, Misty, Felicity, Pete Paintbrush, Moonlight, Moondrop, Lavender, Jasmine, Sally, Easter, Bob, Kitty, Minions, Sam the Stupid Horse
P in the Worm Hole: Puppy, Weird Owner, The Plush Puppy Lady, Rob, The Chihuahua, Entire Army, Wolfie, Meowsie
Puppyfette: Owner, Worm Hole
The Ash Game: Ash, Fairy, Ashley, Fashion Force, a Pikachu named Rosie
The Barracuda Game: Owner, Three Evil Step Sisters, The Girl's Mother
Skate Spy: Little Billy, Jake, Skate Spy, Marco (The Duh Kid,) The Giant Tootsie Roll, Little Billy's Gang
Elvian: Strongbow, Pine Sparrow (his ex girl friend,) Mistfeather, The Puffballs, The Bumblets, Chiron The Second, Pixie Crusher (the weirdo,) Pan, Pixie Crusher's Entire Army
Puff: Puffballs, Moonlight, Strongbow
Battle Axe: Snowflake, Clover, Misty, Girl of the Mountains, George, The Pirates
The Beauty Game: The Mad Scientist, The Colts, Grey Tale, a beautiful unicorn named Felicity
Back When Horses Could Fly: Big Headed Colts (singing “I wanna be a colty star!”) Beauty, Colts
Honey: Luke and his team, Honey
Death is on Our Heels: Death, Minions, Luke Lego Figure, A Beautiful Smart Young Leader and Her Team, that knight guy – Sir Ktadugugdaan, Side Kick, Sam the Stupid Horse
Bobo: Bobo The Underwear Dog, His Owner
Crazy Baby: Crazy Baby's Dad, Dorky Baby, Crazy Baby, Crazy Baby's Army, Dorky Baby's Army
That Horsey Game: One Bucking Horse, Small Two Year Old Girl, Same Older Ten Year Old Girl, Fat Guy, Paint Pony named Miss Pretty (Rainbow)
Come Over: Bad Kids
The Secret Life of a Life Guard: Life Guard, Mermaid Hunter
The Mermaid Game (version one): The Baby (played by Henry,) The Mermaid - who takes care of the Baby finding him stranded in a basket on the ocean, Merdad
The Mermaid Game (version two): The Baby (played by Riley,) The mermaid who takes care of the baby finding her stranded in a basket on the ocean
KK or Karate Kittens: Razer, Night Spot, Charmer, Thrower, Nightspot and Charmer's child, Cooper who died of asthma, Meowsie, Mowsie, Razer's wife, Razer's teddy bear, Razer's son, Lisha, Midnight, The Cat Shape, Takeshi, The Living Oak Tree, The Teacher “Pad Pad Kick”
Elves Inc: Two Elves
Colties Inc:
Pound Cake: Mr. Flufferbunkins the Chihuahua, Caroline, Mistress The Grumpy Lady Who Owns the Pound Cake Store, Eric The Boy Who Works There, Jordan -Caroline's Baby, Eric's Dad, Eric's Mom A Woman Famous Through Out The House For Her Good Pizzas (I thought she ordered. She ordered some. That doesn't mean she can't make up others.) The Old People
The Great Bedidi: Small Toddler, The Plumber, Jingle Bell the Great Bedidi's snow white horse, Great Bedidi the Viking
Rescue Princess: Prince, Princess, Cold Water
The Piranha and Fishy Game: Piranha, Fisherman, Mermaid, Johnathon who works for a computer company
Fish Stick: Mystic, Freedom -Mystic come back as a ghost in the shape of her mother, Tommy the little boy down the street who calls Mystic “Fish Stick”, Caroline the Owner
Frap Ray: any car behind us
The R H F T K K: Riley, Henry, Facha, Talto, Kit, Kaya
Closet: The Retired Army Dude, The Girl Who Killed The President, The People Trying To Get the Girl Who Killed The President, The Super Baby, The Yoyo

I've never cared about labels for these essays. But recently I've been covetous of other blog formats with slick buttons for different topics. I could have a button for unschooling. One for cows. One for Mommy's infantile and ego-ill need for attention. And one, with thanks to Supernatural, called Pictures Of My Soup. This post is filed under Pictures of My Soup, for sure.

I came home this weekend and found Ry rolling fresh homemade spinach pasta with her Dad. Her Dad, the man of my dreams. Because, did you hear me? I said, Fresh Homemade Spinach Pasta, I came home (as in, I was OUT and then came back) and they were making it! All I was required to do was make the decision: butter or sauce (homemade of course,) then sit and eat. He said, "look, it looks like a mermaid's kitchen!" I love that man. I need a button for true love as well. I guess we could file this one either way.

Meet our new baby. She isn't named yet. But she is outstanding in her field. And she looks like the culmination of so many things I want for our children. If we are lucky, she will bring us unforeseen lessons as she brings us fresh organic milk and calves. She will bring us moon set mornings. She will bring us a new rhythm. She will bring us into the freshest air of every season. She may insulate us from a swinging economy and the price of milk. But mostly she will remind us again, every third day when it is our turn in the dairy, that we can begin to depend more on our selves, our creativity, the work from our hands.

I look to her this fall, a sweet symbol of our handmade life. I do not want my children mass produced in the academic industry. I don't care for those lessons nor that example. I want my children standing in a field this year soaking up solitude, immediacy, mother nature, and the innate reward of hard work.

Yes, she looks like a gift and a challenge to me. I am aware she is a beast of burden. Aren't we all? The question is, for whom do you work? This year I work with her, for my children, and to put food directly on the table for several years to come.

We could call her Uhuru and intend the Swahili meaning: freedom. But more likely she'll be named Nectar Pie or Bess or Honey. I don't care so much what we call her. She looks like freedom to me, the kind of freedom that works with in a system, provides wholesome nourishment, and serves more than just yourself. But independently, on a small scare, by hand, the slow way, and with great love.

Urban Way by Issa Nyaphaga

You feel me? Oh, HELL YES.

And They Start To Look Primal

Then again, this is primary school.



We discussed the best strategies to help the oven dry faster. We decided to scoop the sand form out on the second day. The cob was still quite wet. We knew the oven might collapse without its form. But we also knew it would dry much faster if hollow. So we took the risk and scooped out the sand and even built a tiny fire. The oven wouldn't draw well. This seems to be more of an issue with smaller ovens and may indicate our door isn't cut high enough. We added an air hole in the back of the oven. But the fire may simply pull too much moisture out of the clay, in effect snuffing itself. Time will tell. I'm glad we hollowed the oven because it is drying VERY slowly. Yesterday I sent the kids out with matches and orders to burn a small fire on the hearth. They were more successful than me.

Hey diddle diddle the cat and the fiddle
The cow jumped over the moon.
The little dog laughed to see such sport
And the dish ran away with the spoon.

I said to the farmer, "We want to keep a cow and milk her, me and my friend. We're all soon to have teenagers to feed." And the farmer replied, "We have plenty of cows. No need to buy one. My wife would love to have a fresh cow."

We shop off the pages of a storybook, at this organic farm. The blacksmith and his wife live there. "Come any day. Let's fire up the forge." Sure we have pork. And the cows, sweet Dexters, you'll have to halter break a heifer and wait for her to grow up.

Mothers are pretty good at waiting, knowing exactly how fast they grow. This year we will spend our mornings in a field with a calf. We pour in love, learn how to handle with care, and are soon to be rewarded with fresh organic milk. A fair trade all the way over the moon. I am beyond thrilled.

So we've found a class and a job and a new way of life, all rolled into one sweet misty morning meadow. There will be days, difficult to wake. That's ok. Its just my job. I'm a dairy farmer now. And these children will know where their milk and butter and cream and cheese come from. And they will never forget the smell of the field, the fluff of the fur, the months Mama Cow needs for her calf, the circle, and the possibilities inherent in friendly open inquiry.

She packs so much love into everything she does these days. Reading has changed her life. She writes more. She spends time on the computer composing long love letters. When I say love letters, I mean love love love love love love love love love love love love love love love love love love love love love love love love love love love love love love love love love love love love love love love love love love love love love love love love love love love love love love love love love love love love love love love love love love love love love love love love love love love love ps: I love you love letters! She is so sweet. And she is starting to look so big to me, so grown. Sigh.

Blogger has wacked out on me. What's up with all this underscoring? I can't make it go away...

"Mommy, this is the coolest thing I have ever made."

First, make a sand form on a suitable cooking surface. In this case, since we are only building a small test oven, we chose a nice flat rock. Fire brick would be better for a permanent oven.

Cover your sand form with a layer of wet newspaper. Begin mixing clay and sand.

Keep mixing. Mix more than you think you need. The mixture is now called "cob."
Scroll down for the rest of the story, (blogger was frustrating today!)

Begin layering your cob around your form. Be firm and sure. Sculpt. Take care not to deform your form. (Which would be bad form -ha!) Cut out your door, almost as wide as the inner oven and 3/4 as tall. I'm thinking this door is wonky. But we'll see how it fires. Apparently, doors are trickier on smaller ovens. Leave your oven to dry. Later, we'll remove the sand and figure out some kind of wooden door. After the oven is fully dry, it is ready to fire. Hum, what pan might fit in here? Anyone have an old Easy Bake pie pan I can borrow? Or, ummm, tiny mini pizzas right on the stone!