I am gutted. The Head Troll is dead.

I am in shock, and I'm gutted.

The Head Troll died in my arms today.

Last night when I did feedings, she was sitting quietly in a corner, very unlike her. After all, she is in charge of lining everyone up in order of their heights, so the fact she had not done this for the breakfast line concerned me. I called over to her when I put hay down, and she came to eat with everyone. But I had an inkling,

This is the beginning of the end.

This morning the flock, and White Dog, Birdie and Sophie were all at the fence line waiting for me, but no Head Troll.

I found her in the same corner, upright, and she called to me. Her voice was a bit weaker than normal, but she did get up and came to find food. I decided to bring her into the front barn since the temps will dip again tonight for a couple days, and because I could feed her separately. By the time she walked the 200 feet to the barn, she stumbled, and I had to carry her inside.

I really thought she'd go right then, she was calm, and on her side. But she rallied enough to want to sit up. I knew that Frankie [her given name, The Head Troll is her working name] would go out on her terms, just as she had led her life in the barnyard. What I felt from her heart to mine though, was she waited for me this morning. In some ways, this surprised me, but then again, she and I have a working relationship in the barnyard. I sat with her and said my tearful goodbyes, shared with her all the things she achieved in the barnyard-the parades, the garland festivals, the pumpkin story nights, the celebration of Obama's inaugural night, the burials of so many and all the funerals she helped me coordinate. The Head Troll was not one for mushy scenes, and I apologized for the tears.

"How am I going to get anyone to do anything, without you?" I asked her.

I opted to take her inside the hen coop, for peace and quiet away from little Opie and all the goings on, but she could still hear the sounds of her life, which I think is really humane in any creature's death-be it man or animal. To die with the familiar sounds of compares fading in and out all around you, must be helpful.

I left her for only a short time, about twenty minutes, and Martyn was working nearby. When I came back out, she tried to raise her head, and she tried to speak, but she was nearly gone. I was able to hold her head in my lap and say my final goodbyes. Within ten minutes, I watched the final breath. Once again, she surprised me-she had waited for me to return. Always independent and determined, I was touched and humbled she had waited. But it made sense. It wasn't so much she was scared I don't think, or that she had to see me again, I think it was the organizer in her, it was her way to make sure I knew that on her last breath, it would really be up to me, not her, to keep order in the barnyard. And she knew I would do the right think taking care of her body, just as she had watched me bury so many animals.

"I will never live up to her skills," I said right before she died.

Of course, this is not just the death of one of the original Misfits-it is so much more than that. It is another part of a former me, dying right along with her. For months, I've been telling Martyn, I'm not sure who I am here, and each death of an old friend strips me barer. She was perhaps my strongest muse, the closest to me in personality I would say. While Pino shows us his tender Buddhist side, Paco is the worrier with a heart of gold, The Head Troll forged on like a force of nature-to get the task at hand done-efficiently and without too much patience, or complaining to the public. If she needed to gripe, she did it in the privacy of her stall, with a cocktail. She did it her way.

I knew she was old, I had been reminding myself and followers of this for months. I knew she was getting thinner. But she went from normal one day, to making it clear her number was up–so suddenly. Then again, that too is just like her. Like my mother who was playing golf one day and dead a few days later-I think both knew it was time, why fight it.

In fact, holding The Head Troll today, when she still could stand, I knew she was dying, because The Head Troll is not one for mushy exchanges. She is not a hugger. She showed her love like many of my Minnesotan relatives have-through hard work and consistency in showing up on time and with a house gift. Holding her was a really beautiful experience though-it was as if after all our years together as stoic partners, she finally let her guard down, and asked for my help,

"Can you just be with me while I pass, just to make sure it goes okay?"

Frankie came to us back before I had a blog, she came with Paco and both came to Oregon via New Hampshire. Frankie was unfit and thin when she arrived, and her ear tips had frozen off in the winter at some point. Her horns had not been properly removed but were sawn off. In time, she broke one off while trying to get grass on the other side of the fence. As I sat with her today, stroking her beard, I could hardly stand the idea of not having those little chopped off ears around.


I am stunned from this. I know, I should be used to it. She was 16 at least, Martyn always said she was 30 which always made me laugh. I feel like the universe is stripping me of so much lately. I have always believed in the power of the universe and the wisdom of it-it is not a judgmental thing they have done, nor do I believe I'm being punished. But I do feel all these passages of the last week-my elderly friend and riding mentor, the piglets which I feel were my responsibility, Scooby Keith-I feel it is a clearing of some kind, from the past life I had in Oregon. There is something out there that is so big, that the land around me is being prepared for that planting and harvest-and that means clearing...culling.

I don't like knowing The Head Troll is gone, but I can't change it. I did get a chuckle that she died a day before my birthday. She could have waited a day for the dramatic effect. But knowing her, she didn't want my birthday to be tied into her death, she wanted me to take all day to be with her, and mourn, and clear the way for my birthday celebration with little Moose tomorrow. She would also point out that it is garish to remind people of your own birthday, especially on the internet as it suggests one is looking for gifts and gifts should come from a place of desire not manipulation.

And that reminds me of all the birthday parties she organized at the old Apifera. There will never, ever, be another Head Troll. It saddens me she is gone from the barnyard, and that she is gone forever from my stories.

I will make her a funeral like no other. She deserves that.

{You can read all of the things The Head Troll has participated in over the years}

The flowering of The Head Troll

{Post Script: As some have asked, yes, she arrived home, before dusk as she said she would. However, she came back clutching onto a small handbag, with a shell handle.}

It is not my place to decide how any of The Misfits will evolve in there new environment. Just as I know my life will be stimulated in my new farm, creating new opportunities for expansion, why would it not be the same for the creatures that find themselves in Maine?

The Head Troll is aging, as am I. I sensed even back in Oregon her duties were beginning to feel heavy for her. She spent more time in Boone's pasture, especially after Marcella clearly became the guard of the main barnyard. I didn't feel sadness from her, more of a relief–like an old teacher who decided to go to a part time schedule.

So when I found this note tacked to the barn door this morning, in some ways I was not surprised. In fact, I felt happy for her. Nor does it surprise me she has ventured out to the village on her own, unafraid, to see what ever it is she has in mind-lunch perhaps? As someone who rarely, if ever, went out to lunch at our old farm, I can say Martyn and I enjoyed the luxury of eating out when we first got here two weeks ago. It felt like we were in Italy or Paris being waited on with no dishes to do. We can't afford to eat out much, but we hope to every so often here due to [hopefully] changed financial loads.

So The Head Troll is in town, somewhere. She is smart, I don't fear for her, people are sensible here and i suspect by day's end, there might even be a committee formed by resident village shopkeepers to put up a "WARNING SLOW DOWN TROLL CROSSSING" sign.

All books shipped...now we nap for a day

The Head Troll has a good idea-napping. Which I am about to indulge in on this blustery, misty day. If you pre ordered a copy of "Donkey Dream", or were a Kickstarter supporter, your book will be in your hands soon, if not already. The last batch went out this morning!

Martyn said that distributing this many pre orders this go around will give me a good idea of what it would be like to distribute if I were on the NY Times Best Seller List. he is such an optimist!

I look forward to hearing more of your comments and reviews-so far, it has been really rewarding to hear people's comments. I am really proud of the book–even The Dirt Farmer is pretty touched by it. Lots of ideas to promote it are percolating, along with Misfits.

Glance of a Misfit

The Head Troll and Wilbur the Acrobatic Goat demonstrate the glance.

This is often the look I get, the glance, the

"What did you say, are you kidding?" look.

Never the less, the goats provide unending amusement to me even when they are just standing around....giving me the look.

Who knew The Head Troll teaches Zumba?

In which a relic of magic is found

"Has she lost her magic powers?" asked Wilbur the Acrobatic Goat.

"Hardly, " I assured him.

"Can she still be the notary with only one?" asked Goose.

"I don't see why not," I replied.

We were all looking down on the ground as we spoke. There before us all was a horn. But not any horn. This horn had a million memoirs written on it - each break out, each head stuck in the fence moment, each banging open the gate for me in the morning - they were all written in the scars on that horn. It was like finding a relic, a scrimshaw.

"What will you do with it," asked Stevie, concerned.

"We will gather with The Head Troll to decide this. We will let her make the final decision."

"It would be nice and crunchy, like chips," mentioned The Pig.

"We will not eat it, Rosie," I said.

"It has magic in it, I've seen her use them," said Golda the hen.

"Let's auction it on EBay!" said Raggedy Man.

"We could use the money for winter sweaters," said Professor Otis Littleberry.

"Or cookies," said The Puppet.

Wait a minute, how did the Puppet get out here?

OK, that's all for now. The Head Troll is not mourning, but she's not pleased I poured iodine on her stump.

"Don't call it a stump!" she just screamed from the background.

We will give her some time to see how and what she wants to do with her horn. For now, it is in a secret place in a plain locked wooden box with the initials T.H.T. carved on the side. I've never seen what she hides in there but am dying too, I must admit.

A gaggle with goat

The Head Troll reviews the day while the gaggle and flocks make their way home at evening rush hour.

The Head Troll crossing guard

The Head Troll is of course in charge of rules and regulations in the barnyard - and with the temporary lambie playground invading her space, she of course put herself in charge of all playground activities. As you might already know, she takes her position very seriously.

"They don't have name tags, they need name tags," she said in frustration as she rushed one small lamb out of the duck puddle.

I rolled my eyes out of her sight.

"And they need helmets! Get me some helmets!" she ordered as she ran to the barn looking for rope. I have no idea what the rope was for, and I decided not to ask.

The Head Troll nuances

Frankie, also known as The Head Troll, always reminds me that in one second - the time it takes to click a new photo - life has moved on to the next moment. Each photo encased the many nuances of her being. Sit back, and enjoy some moments of Frankie.

Ramblings of The Head Troll

The Head Troll, otherwise known as Frankie, has had a busy and prosperous summer. Prosperous because she's managed to eat more than her share of breakfast and dinner, busy because, well, she's the Head Troll, Head Trolls are always busy.

I snapped this picture right as she was showing off some of her best Head Troll qualities - yelling out to any wandering chickens that they better not come cluckin' on her pile of hay. I put hay all around the barnyard which creates a musical-hay- chair-game, with goats scurrying from one pile to the next, usually being prompted by The Head Troll's instruction.

Want to meet The Head Troll? Come to the September Workshop here at Apifera. Of course, she'll ask you want the password is.

Head Troll meets Head Pig

"I'm going over there," said the pig.

"What's the password?" said the Head Troll.

Head troll

Very few know the secret password to get past Frankie. To make matters more difficult, she changes the password weekly just because she can.

Read more posts about Franklinia, aka Frankie.

The Special Pre-Spring Goat Dance

Find a wall, cement is best.
Push your big ol' butt right up to that wall.
Rub it, a lot, back and forth.
Groove with it, don't hold back.
Close your eyes and revel in the feeling.
Pay no attention the hair and dander falling off your body.
When an adequate feeling of satisfaction is reached, proceed with your day.

Barnyard returns

What you can't see in this picture is the big screen television we dragged out to the barnyard for results. Not a lot of smiles, as you can see. However, life is going on here, hope still lingers in the blue sky above Apifera.

To the barn

Getting past the troll

In which one must ask, can a face lone, or a body, move sheep?

Nothing, no one, no how, not man or beast, can get past Frankie without the secret code. To this day, I don't know the code, nor does anyone else that I'm aware of, but then again why would they tell me?

I think this picture captures the essence of Frankie completely: bold in a compact package, standing her own ground, comfortable with her looks even though her ear tips froze off and her horns weren't debudded properly.

See more Apifera pictures from today's Flickr upload here.

Love thy waistline, taught by a goat

Frankie has taught me that one's waistline expands greatly by the end of the day. It is simply a fact. You eat some stuff, drink water, waddle a little, and by day's end, your body has expanded, just in time for dinner.

Frankie has also taught me that the expanding waistline can be a beautiful, abstract formation, when viewers look at it from a different perspective.

Let's play 'Scare the Farmer'

Frankie has mastered this game to perfection, so I'll use her technique as an example.

The game is quite simple:

Get up early in the morning, way before the farmer. Find a place in the barnyard where you are clearly visible from the barnyard gate. This will make the game more suspenseful for the farmer. Pretend you have passed out and lay still on your side for full impact. When you hear the gate open, hold your breath so it looks like you aren't breathing. When the farmer gets near you, be still! Let her reach down and call out your name longingly, then casually raise your head and and say, "Do you mind, I was just napping."

Comin' and goin'

[Pictures were taken by Jan Harris on her recent visit to Apifera. She has graciously allowed me to post some of the many photos she took that day. Thank you, Jan.]

I put my mother on the plane today. We left about 10 hours before the plane was scheduled to depart, even though it only took us 1.5 hours to get to the airport. I didn't bother suggesting we leave, say, 4 hours before the flight left, because at some point a daughter just understands her mother will always leave 10 hours before the flight takes off.

The plane was delayed 3 hours. So I guess she had lots of extra time to contemplate if the pilots might fly past Minneapolis.

Anyway, I think these pictures capture how I feel. Going in two directions. Rushing. Fussing. I've decided artists should hire hostess companies to come into their homes when their mothers are here. It would really be better for everybody, especially the mother. I rarely cook anymore since Martyn is the resident chef, and likes to cook. Actually, he also likes to feel full after a meal, and I'm pretty happy with a bowl of pickled beets sprinkled with feta and a drizzle of sesame oil. But I went into this attempt to cook. I burned a lot of things. Made some really tough bread. Made a bad crust that tainted my apple pie with Apifera's first good apple crop - although my kind in-laws ate it with abandon and praised it.

"You need to focus when you cook," my mother kept reminding me.

"I am focusing...on Stella and Iris, who just jumped the fence and are eating the plum tree again."

I drank extra wine after everyone was in bed. My head was thinking about projects. I missed my projects. I talked a lot in whispers to my puppets, and Huck. The One Eyed Pug can't hear whispers.

I just like to work. I like to use my head, mixed with my heart, for at least 8-12 hours a day. Talking about dead relatives, or dying relatives, or relatives I don't know - and their children- just gets me anxious.

My mother graciously treated us to a dinner out at a local French restaurant. I wore a dress. My legs felt funny out of my dirt farmer attire. It seemed nice being waited on and not having to get up from the couch for a second glass of wine. But it really dawned on me I was really, truly eating out when I realized there was no gas emanating from my feet- that is there was no gas coming out of the 90 pound lab at my feet. Sigh, it made me think of him, how much he'd enjoy this little bistro.

As lovely as it was to visit with my mother, I think I failed horribly as a daughter these past two weeks. I kept slipping out to the studio, where I was once again "me-artist-farmer-wife-goat rescuer-horse rider-do-er-dog lover-mediocre cook-pie baker- self enterter- half loner-writer - rogue daughter- person who paints the name 'Neil' on her jeans."

Keep on rockin' in your own world.

The lonely daisy

In which a little daisy has hope, but then despair.

Once upon a time there was a little daisy.


She lived all alone and was very lonely. "I wish someone would be my friend," she said to herself.


One day, a little donkey stopped by.
"Hello, my name is Lucia. Will you be my friend?"
"Oh yes! I need a friend, Lucia."


A little goat walked by.
"Friend? I was thinking how wonderful you would be for breakfast."
Lucia cried. So did the daisy.


The end.