It happens every year...the making of the Halloween costume chaos

 “Mrs. Dunn! Mrs. Dunn!” I heard as I finished the dishes one morning.

Arriving at the door, there was Pickles, and her sidekick, Puddles.

“Mrs. Dunn, we’ve run out of needle and thread!” said Pickles.

“And my scissors are dull,” said Pancakes.

Oh Lord, please help us all, I thought. And then I remembered...Halloween was not far off.

“You aren’t supposed to make costumes requiring sharp objects, remember?” I asked.

“But I need the scissors! I’m going to be a real pancake, with syrup and butter!” said little Pancakes the baby goat.

“Why don’t we see what everyone has going on,” I said, dreading to see what awaited me.

When we got to the barn, little Hannah was sitting alone and looking quite glum.

“I don’t want a costume this year,” she said.

“And why not?” I asked.

“Because the peoples wouldn’t let me enter my pumpkin into the Pumpkinfest,” she said.
“They said they only take whole pumpkins, and Ollie ate most of mine,” Hannah said.

“It was a wonderful pumpkin!” said Ollie the goat as he crashed through the room.

“Well Hanna, maybe you can be a pumpkin this year then,” I suggested.

She sighed. I moved on to look at the mess before me­-cardboard, scissors, ribbons, paper, cloth, and seed bags.

In the back corner, I could hear deep sighs and a bit of cussing. It was Helen, one of the elder goats, trying to thread a needle.

“How in the world does the fashion industry ever get any clothes made? I’ve been trying to thread this needle for hours,” she said. I stepped in and helped her, although I struggled too.

“What are you making?” I asked.

“I am making a fish, so little Puddles can say “I am a Puddles with a fish.”

Brilliant, I thought.

Earnest the pig ventured over.

“I think it’s better when you make the costumes. There is quite a bit of chaos, and soon we have to prepare for the nativity scene,” the pig told me.

“Let’s just get through Halloween first,” I said.

Pickles came rushing through the scene.

“Does anyone have anything that looks like long, brown hair?”

“And your costume is?” I asked.

“I am going to be Sophia Loren,” she said. “What are you going to be, Mrs. Dunn?”

“Terrified. Terrified until all the sharp objects are back in a box,” I said glibly.

As I walked back to the house, I remembered that months ago as a lark I got a little wig for the pug– don’t judge me. I found the wig and returned to the barn.

“Pickles, I can’t believe I’m saying this, but maybe this will help with your Sophia Loren outfit,” I said.

Pickles was thrilled.

I returned to the house and went about my business.

“Mrs. Dunn,” said Lumpy the pug, “have you seen my wig? I need it for my Three Stooges costume.”

Oh dear me. I thought. Now I’m in a real pickle.

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Mrs. Dunn has a garden hose in her body

 Today’s post is graciously written by Earnest the Pig. Mrs. Dunn edited his copy to ensure it was accurate. This is her latest from her monthly column Tails & Tales.

It felt like a usual morning. The sun rose, the rooster crowed, the dogs barked. But when I heard the front door of the house open, and close, I didn’t hear the sounds indicating Mrs. Dunn was coming with my breakfast.

And in fact, my breakfast did not come as usual. Nor did anyone else’s.

“Earnest, where is Mrs. Dunn?” asked Pickles.

Hannah came running out to the conversation.

“Is she dead?” she cried.

“Oh child, she’s not dead. I saw her leave early this morning with Mister Dunn,” said Poetry the wise elder goat.

“Maybe she found Her Imaginary House By The Sea and she’s left for good,” said Puddles, always one to create some angst.

“Mrs. Dunn would not abandon us,” said Auntie Bea, another elder goat.

Just then, we heard the familiar sound of a truck pull in, and then the front gate slid open and there was Mrs. Dunn. We all ran to the gate to greet her.

“You really are alive!” said little Hannah, near tears.

“It seems I am,” said Mrs. Dunn. “I had to go the hospital to have a procedure, but everything is fine,” she said, as she began to get our breakfast.

I put my arm around her, and said, “Mrs. Dunn, are you really okay?”

The animals all stood in silence, waiting for Mrs. Dunn to answer. “Earnest, I’m fine. I had what they call a routine screening colonoscopy.”

The newly arrived baby goat, Pancakes, jumped up on Mrs. Dunn and asked, “What is a color house copy?

“Colonoscopy. Well, it’s like a hose that’s coiled up in my body, and it takes the food I eat out of my body,” Mrs. Dunn said. “They use a magnifying glass to make sure it’s healthy.”

I grabbed the garden house and coiled it up on the ground, and then drew a body. I explained to everyone how our food is digested and the leftovers have to come out.

“A human colon is about five feet long,” I told them. “That’s a little shorter than Mrs. Dunn.

Everyone gasped, including Mrs. Dunn.

“But where does the food go,” asked Pickles.

“Well, it gets made into poop, and then you poop,” Mrs. Dunn said.

“So let me get this straight,” said Puddles. “Mrs. Dunn has a five foot long garden hose inside her body and it makes poop?”

“Yes,” Mrs. Dunn and I said in unison.

Hannah screamed.

“But your color house copy is okay, it’s not sick?” Hannah asked.

“My colonoscopy was normal, and it’s okay,” Mrs. Dunn reassured Hannah.

Mrs. Dunn returned to the house and we all enjoyed our breakfast. We were happy Mrs. Dunn was in fact alive and that her garden hose was healthy.

“So, if Mrs. Dunn has a garden hose in her body, does she have other stuff, like shovels?” asked Puddles.

And Hannah ran to the barn crying.

Ruthie the turkey's great egg dream

 

My latest from the Tails & Tales series. If you like my writing which is always free to you, you can support in any quantity when at this link. 

“Mrs. Dunn, it’s day 25! Did the turkey have any chicken babies yet?” asked Pickles.

It all started back in late spring. Ruthie, the resident turkey, had been laying eggs as usual, and I collected them each morning. After weeks of laying, she stopped laying, which is normal, but there was one egg left in her nest and she wouldn’t leave it. I decided to let her set on her egg. I knew the chance that a passing Tom turkey had stopped in for a romantic evening was highly unlikely, even though we do have them passing by in the back woods. Knowing the egg was likely unfertilized, I played along, thinking she’d eventually leave her nest to return to normal life. But part of me wondered, maybe she knows something I don’t.

After 30 days, I said to Ruthie, “There’s no baby in your egg. You need to move on, Ruthie. I’m sorry.”

She said not a peep.

The next day, I arrived at the barn, and there was Ruthie, sitting on her empty nest. Except it was not empty, she had dragged a graham cracker into the nest to set on.

“Oh Ruthie,” I said. There’s no baby in the graham cracker either.”

She seemed unfazed and sat tight.

This went on for days. I had hoped she would give up on her nest but she didn’t. So I visited the hens and politely asked if I might take some of their eggs, knowing they were possibly fertilized.

“Excuse me? You want to my prodigy to be raised by a turkey?” asked one of the roosters.

The hens flocked together in an uproar of clucks. Everyone gathered to see what was going on.

“Rooster! Only I have control over my eggs!” said the lead hen. More clucking.

“Ruthie seems so intent on being a mother,” I said.

Earnest the pig stepped in. “Hen, I can vouch for Ruthie, I think she would be a fine mother.”

“I will get you more mealy worms,” I told the hens, as I knew they swooned over them.

“Now we’re getting somewhere,” said the hen, and she gave over some eggs. Earnest and I took them to Ruthie and placed them under her in the nest.

“Thank you, Mrs. Dunn. Earnest, would you like my graham cracker, Mrs. Dunn says it has no chance of becoming a baby,” said Ruthie.

“Thank you,” and he ate it in one bite.

Well, 35 days went by, well past the usual 21 days to hatch chicks.

“Ruthie, it wasn’t meant to be this time. I’m sorry,” I said, and I took the eggs away.

The next morning as I entered the barn, Earnest the pig sat with his arm around Ruthie as she sat on her empty nest.

I reached under her and there were some rocks. “Ruthie, rocks can’t have babies,” I said gently.

“I know, but I’m practicing for spring,” she said.

Have you read "Pig & Bucket"?

 

This is an illustrated story I did last fall. It originally was only available to Patreon members but I shuttered Patreon and now anyone can read it, for free but if you like it feel free to share a tip here The story takes place in present time, with Earnest the pig meeting an old abandoned bucket, named Bucket, who was freed from a debris pile by a Nor'easter. The two become friends and eventually are joined by Mrs. Studley, a rat with a very unique past. The story meshes historical facts form former owners of our farm, with Earnest and Bucket's story.

The animals discover The Lupine Lady

 

“Mrs. Dunn, can you read us a story before you go?” asked Hannah.

I was just finishing chores on a very hot afternoon and was looking forward to a shower.

“I don’t have a book out here,” I said as I tried to escape to the house.

Pickles the goat suddenly appeared before me, with a book.

“We really like this one, Mrs. Dunn,” she said. “Miss Rumphius.”

“Where did you get this?” I asked.

“We have hidden library bucket in the hay loft,” she said.

Who knew?

A circle formed around me of goats, chickens, Earnest the pig and of course, The Goose.

“Donkeys! She’s going to read Miss Rumphius!” Pickles called out to the pasture.

Running hoof steps were heard, and they joined the circle around me.

And so I started to read the story of a little girl who promised herself she’d travel to far off places, and someday live by the sea. And she made a third promise–to make the world a more beautiful place. The girl grows up and travels to many places, and eventually she finds a house by the sea. In time she finds the way to make good on that third promise-by spreading lupine seed all around the land and on the roads nearby. People began to call her the Lupine Lady.

I closed the book and asked everyone, “Did you know the Lupine Lady lived not far from here, in Christmas Cove?”

Everyone gasped.

“Can we visit her?” asked Hannah the young goat.

Earnest put his arm around her, “She’s not alive, Hannah.”

“The Lupine Lady is already dead! I just met her!” Hannah cried.

“Such a sensitive sprite,” said Poetry the old goat.

“Mrs. Dunn, have you been to far off places?” asked Pickles.

“As a young woman I travelled all over,” I said. “But I always wanted a farm. It took a lifetime, but I got one, and all of you.”

“Will you ever have a house by the sea, like Miss Rumphius?” asked Hannah.

“We could all have boats!” said Pickles, “and row about all day.”

“It would be wonderful, wouldn’t it, summering on the sea? But there’s no money for a house by the sea. Sometimes dreams are just dreams, and how could I leave you all while I was in the house by the sea?” I asked.

“We would all come with you! Could we have bunk beds?” asked Puddles.

“There will be no bunk beds because there will be no house by the sea,” I said.

“Let’s focus on Miss Rumphius encouraging us to put beauty into the world,” said the pig.

“Is leaping off rocks beautiful? It’s mainly what I do,” said Pickles.

“I put my poems up in trees for the birds to read,” said Paco the poet donkey.

“I am simply beautiful just standing in the wind,” said The Goose.

Hannah started crying again.

“Child, what is it now?” asked Earnest the pig.

“I still can’t believe Miss Rumphius is dead,” she wailed.

“She lives in the lupines,” I said.

My Pig-she's worn and faded but she and I went through a lot, including the bed wetting era

I've had her since I was four. She has been though so much–bedwettings on an almost nightly occurrence, then subsequent power washings by my mother, and dryings.

It's no wonder she is worn and earless...and lacks her tail.

Her name is simply...My Pig. My mother would see me as a four year old without my pig and ask, as I ventured to bedtime,

"Where is your pig?" and I would say,

"You mean My Pig."

The pink coloring she once had is now faded, and she looks like she might have taken a recent dusting due some graying. I don't want to wash her again, she might have a flashback to those times.

I can remember the feeling I had as a child though, when I held my little pig. She was one of my go-to comfort creatures back then, along with my dinosaur pajama doll-the latter also suffered greatly in bed wettings.

My bed wetting went on for a long time and kept me from going to sleepovers at my friends for many years. I can remember going to some one's house to spend the night, good family friends, and I was to stay there overnight while my parents went out of town that night. I knew this family well, but I remember hearing my mom in an adjacent room, reminding her friend that...well, I wet the bed so my mother had brought a rubber sheet.

Jeeze. Way to ruin the slumber party by bringing your own rubber sheet.

So, My Pig and I soldiered on, through rubber sheets and power washings. I eventually outgrew bed wetting, but never outgrew my pig. And she has come with me to every home I've ever lived in, including NYC, Oregon, Minneapolis and now, Maine. Back then, sixty some years ago, we were both pink and fresh, and now all these years later we are both worn but still the same at our core. She sits in my studio now and the other day I picked her up-I had not done that for some time. After all, I have lots of pigs now, ones that move and talk and eat. But when I held My Pig, I was taken back to a place far, far away–a place that still exists, but only in one place, my head. A place where the family was under one roof, the dog was in the living room somewhere with red polish I had put on her toes, and I was in my bed near the the alcove window that looked out at the elm branches. I lay in bed counting the tiny red roses speckled in the wallpaper  Beside me, under the covers, waiting for her nightly wetting, was My Pig, not complaining, not shaming, just going to sleep with me without any fear or judgment about what was to come next.

I remember that my bed wetting felt like a secret I had to keep, and I was ashamed when I knew somebody was told about it. I remember my mother taking me to our pediatrician, who we had for many years, and he asked me if I knew why I wet the bed. And I remember, clearly, I said, “Because I’m dreaming I’m in the bathroom.” Always the dreamer. He didn’t shame me, he suggested when I dream this, I could alter my dream. Now that made sense to me even as a child.

I think the shame of bedwetting is a lot like the shame I have for the 20+ pounds I’ve put on and can’t get off. Despite healthy, mainly veggie and soy diet, it just doesn’t come off anymore. So I’m trying to start this year without shaming my fat middle. If I get that feeling of shame, I try to recite all the things my body does for me-and of course it is very important to the farm, this old, fat body. I am fat. I am. You might think I’m exagerating, but I’m not. Its 20 pounds of fat in my belly. The other day, I was trying on some new clothes, and I was undressing in front of the mirror and caught a full glimpse, naked, and was so shocked. What has happened? How did this happen to eats-like-a-bird-runs-like-a-wolf woman? I felt shame, but I also felt sadness, the same sadness I know I felt when I would be at a sleep over and I’d hear my mother handing over the rubber sheet. I’d hope I could have a night without wetting my friend’s bed, but I would. They never made fun of me, but I hurt.

I think of that Little Me now, when I feel ashamed of my fat midriff. I recite all the deeds my body does for me. I remind myself when I leave a room or a person, or an animal, they aren’t thinking of my fat middle, they are basking in what I hope was good energy, love or caring that I left in the room. I put my arm around Little Me in my mind.

I bet many of you know this shame-from weight or whatever trigger you have from the past. My goal this year is to stop it in its tracks when I feel it slink into view. Focus on my heart, which my body bravely carries around in such a turbulent world. I also realized, I need new role models-woman my age or older who are honest about life, and aging. I found that in a recent interview with Candace Bergen-always honest, witty,smart- and she talks about being 75 and wanting to do it ‘autentically’ , as in ‘this is how 75 looks and it is an honor to get here.

Maybe this is something that doesn’t ever go away, it is just part of being human and alive in a body?

And of course, I always have My Pig.

Mrs. Dunn falls in a hole

 “Mrs. Dunn fell in a hole!!!” screamed Hannah as she ran through the barn.

I could hear the feet of small goats rushing about, as I lay on my side...in a hole.

I suddenly felt a nose near mine, as I lay there making sure all my parts still worked. It was the nose of Earnest the pig.

“Mrs. Dunn, are you alright?” he asked.

“Somewhat,” I said.

The entire herd of goats was around me, including Ollie, the largest goat and also the one who helped get me in this position.

“Mrs. Dunn, why are you lying in a hole?!” said Ollie.

“I am in a hole because you twirled around me and made me fall into this hole,” I said.

Marcella, the Head Mistress, the Maremma guardian dog who watches after the herd, came over to me. We are a team in the barnyard and she has been with us since birth and is now 9 years old.

“Marcella, you made this hole, I know you did and I’m now the victim of it,” I said.

“I had very good reason to make the hole,” she said. “Actually, two reasons: rats, and a skunk.”

The large rubber mats in the barn stall lay on top of dirt, and under the dirt down deep are the myriad of tunnels where the rats run, and other critters. Marcella is a Maremma and you can not get anything by her. If there is anything running under those floors she will dig, and dig. I pity those she finds.

I had walked into the stall and as I put my foot down, it sank, into an abyss. At that very moment, Ollie and his 250# body encircled me-a goat trait employed to ensure he will get food. The buckets I was holding went flying, my bum went down and there I was, lying in a hole, surrounded by the perplexed faces of goats and dogs. Their perplexed expressions were not of concern for me, rather they just wondered why the usual routine of me walking into the stall -upright- had changed this morning.

“But Mrs. Dunn, you must get up, it’s our breakfast. There’s no time to lay about in a hole!” said Ollie.

“I will get up in due time!” I snapped.

“What is “dotime?” asked little Hannah.

“It means that she will rise up when she feels she is emotionally and physically capable,” said Earnest the pig.

“Poor Mrs. Dunn,” and she put her forehead into mine.

“It’s okay, Hannah. Falling is hard when your body gets a bit….”

“Ancient?” snapped Poetry the old goat. “Tell me about it. Just wait until your my age,” the old goat quipped.

“How old is ancient?” asked hannah.

“Hundreds of years,” said Pickles.

“Are you hundreds of years, Mrs. Dunn?” asked Hannah.

“Somedays, I think,” I said.

“You should be in National Geographic, Mrs. Dunn! You’re almost as old as that giant tortoise we read about!” said Puddles the goat.

{My blog is free to all. But anyone can voluntarily show support for my writing and art at this link [you pick what you want to give. I recently tried Patreon and just didn't jive with it.}

Now available to read: "Pig & Bucket" an illustrated tale with a little bit of mystery, an old rat, a pig and bucket with a hole

I'm excited to share "Pig & Bucket" with all of you! It is a flip book and I recently finish it and worked on it most of this year.

This is a story the meshes the history of our 1760 farm in Maine with the life of Earnest the pig and Mrs. Studley, a rat [she has secrets you eill learn about]. It is illustrated. 

One day, Bucket is freed after a Nor'easter blows through the farm. Earnest the pig meets him and a friendship begins. Bucket begins his story of how one day the only boy he knew tossed him aside. Earnest helps him see he still has purpose. In time, we learn about the boy and the friends then set out to help him. Mrs. Studley and her digging expertise come in very handy. 

This is free to all. But anyone can voluntarily show support for my writing and art at this link [you pick what you want to give].

The old donkey wanted to be a tree....and...

Peso wanted to be a tree, holding a bird's nest, for Halloween. I think he did a sweet job of it.

You can read all about Earnest's celebration of the dead, and other Halloween-ish antics from the barnyard, over at Tails & Tales monthly short story publication [it's free].

We lost one of our eldest cats, Inky this week. He was 22 or so and had come to us many years ago from the shelter, after his owners died. There was some trauma in the house in the end and I do not know how much of it Inky saw. He was always stoic and friendly, never pushy with the others and liked to ride on my shoulders. He had a good death with Catfish looking on, wrapped in a polk-a-dot blankie in front of the heater. I buried him under the lilacs along with so many others.

There is often a shift that occurs after a death in the herd or cat room. Inky always slept, for the past few months anyway, in a basket on one of the perches. He chose to stay on the ground in his final few days, but nobody claimed his basket. Then this morning, I saw that Francine was sleeping there. The empath in me wants to think she waited for the energy to shift, to give Inky time to leave, and to respect his space. I'll stick to that story.

Wisdom of the Old Donkey {latest from from Tails & Tales}

 “No!!!” I heard a little voice screaming.

What on Earth, I thought.

As I entered the barn, Earnest the pig had his arm around little Hannah the goat, who was crying. This is a very common scene, as Hannah is very sensitive and not very savvy at her young age. She is easily fooled by the pranksters of the group-you know, Pickles and Puddles.

“They ate my pumpkin, Mrs. Dunn! They killed her and ate her!” Hannah cried into my overhauls.

I could see shadowy figures in the not so distant corner of the barn, pretending not to be there.

“Pickles! Puddles! Hop to it, over here, right now!” I said.

“I know nothing!” said Pickles.

“You do too!” said Puddles.

“But Mrs. Dunn, the pumpkin was already mushy and dead because the squash bugs got it first,” pleaded Pickles.

Hannah screamed some more into my overhauls.

“It’s true, Mrs. Dunn. I saw the little pumpkin yesterday. The bugs were on her and eating her up," said Earnest the pig.

More screaming from Hannah.

“Hannah, this is all part of Nature’s way. Nature gives us bounties, and other parts of Nature take it away,” I said.

Ollie the goat, always cheerful no matter what the occasion, came running up to little Hannah. “It’s just like when you eat your hay, Hannah. Nature turns it into something else in your stomach and then you poop and the worms eats it!”

“You mean the bugs are going to poop my pumpkin out?” Hannah cried.

“Well, I guess in a way they are,” said Earnest the pig.

Hannah went running off to her favorite tree, crying, “I will never eat or drink again in honor of my pumpkin.”

“Let her be,” I said. And we all went about our morning.

Around mid day, Earnest and I wandered out to see Hannah, who was still under her tree.

“Hannah, that is a nice little pumpkin you’re holding,” said Earnest the pig.

“It’s my pumpkin’s sister. I’ll never let her die,” said Hannah, still sniffling.

“Death is like a moon that doesn’t see the sun come up, that’s all,” said a slow talking voice. It was Peso, the new arrival. He was a very, very old donkey, the oldest donkey that had ever lived on the farm.

Peso came closer to Hannah. “Hannah, your little pumpkin got to live her life in her field, unencumbered by the man made world. Nobody carved her up and stuck candles in her, or slung her from a cannon, she just got to be a simple, beautiful, humble fruit breathing in the sun on her Earth,” Peso said. Hannah stopped crying.

Just then, Poetry the eldest of the old goats called out, “The Queen is dead!” and everyone rushed to the rabbit ear television I’d finally put in the barn for them.

“She was my favorite Queen!” cried Hannah.

“Mine too, Hannah,” I said. “Were’t we lucky to have had her though?” I asked.

Hannah shook her head, yes, pressing into my overhauls again. “She would have liked my pumpkin, I’m sure of it.”

Hannah sees an...alien?

{My latest for Tails & Tales column}

 

 “Mrs. Dunnnnnn! Come now, come now!” Pickles screamed through the window.

I dropped everything and ran out the door, and Pickles was rushing back to the barn.

“Hurry, Mrs. Dunn! It’s Marta!” she screamed.

Marta is one of the hens. She is a very special hen and we refer to her as the Pirate Hen, because even though she is a tiny Bantie breed, she doesn’t let anybody, even the rooster, push her around. She stays to herself, foraging far from the flock.

As I got to the barn, all the goats were huddled in one of the side rooms where the hens lay their eggs. From the look of some of their faces, it appears they had just seen a ghost.

“Are they aliens?” asked Ollie.

“Aliens?!” said little Hannah, and she went running to stand near Earnest the pig for comfort.

“Oh, little Hannah, those aren’t aliens, they are baby chicks,” said Earnest the pig.

“They must have been slimed!” Ollie said.

“They just came out of the egg,” I said. “Marta will get them all dry and fluffy, don’t worry.”

About 3 weeks ago, Marta got broody–she started sitting on any eggs that were laid and she clearly wanted to hatch some babies. I knew Marta would be a fierce mother and protector, so I allowed her to keep 4 eggs, and marked them. Every day, I picked up the fresh, unmarked eggs, and Marta sat and incubated the nest.

“How did they get in the egg?” asked Hannah, still a novice about life and death.

“We’ve been through this, Hannah,” I said. “The rooster fertilizes the eggs while the eggs are still in the hen’s body, and then they turn into chickens.”

Hannah looked confused.

“In other words, Hannah, the rooster–without asking permission–has mad, passionate love with the hen in order to show them he is in charge and wants to continue creating children he won’t care for,” said Henneth the blind hen.

Paulo Steadman, the rooster, strutted by, cackling. “That’s rather harsh,” he said, “but it’s true, I have no interest in rearing them.”

“So the baby is in the egg, inside the hen, and then what happens?” Hannah asked.

“Then the egg comes out her bottom!” said Pickles.

“Well, it’s not her real bottom, it’s just...down there,” said Earnest the pig.

Marta stood up to stretch, and sure enough, the little slimy chicks were now dry and fluffy.
“I would appreciate some quiet, I have three more eggs to keep warm and safe, so please
give us some privacy,” said Marta.

“Why don’t I have eggs?” Hannah asked.

“You do,” said Earnest the pig.

Hannah started crying. “I don’t want any chickens coming out down below!”

“You can’t have chickens, Hannah, you’re a goat,” I said. “And you need a boy goat to make baby goats inside you,” I said.

“Ollie’s a boy!” said Hannah.

“He’s a special boy, he can’t make babies,” I said.

“Can you make baby people, Mrs. Dunn?” Pickles asked.

“Not any more,” I said.

“You’re special too!” said Hannah.

The Animals and their Great Heated Bus Idea

 

I was minding my own business, putzing by the firewood pile, when a familiar voice asked,

“Mrs. Dunn, can we have the old oven?”

It was Pickles, of course. If you follow along, and heaven help you if you do, you will know the animals have been trying to get me to allow a baking oven in the barn. Of course, we all know as charming as it would be to have a bunch of short bodied goats, a pig and some fowl baking cookies, it would most certainly end in a disaster.

“No,” I said firmly.

“What if we kept it outside and used matches and firewood to get it warm?” asked Ollie the goat.

My mind envisioned the forest on fire and animals and firemen running everywhere.

“NO, “ I said, more firmly.

They both walked off, heads down, grumbling.

Later that day, I entered the barn to start nightly chores. The gang wasn’t as animated as usual, except little Hannah who is young enough that every second of the day is worthy of joy.

“You all look down and out,” I said.

“We don’t have a way to share our love with the elder peoples,” said Pickles.

We found out recently that due to the pandemic, we were restricted again from bringing animals into Cove’s Edge, and it was too cold for the residents to visit outside, which is still allowed.

“If we had an oven we could bake them cookies, and giant heart shaped cakes,” said Ollie.

Earnest arrived. He sat next to me, he seemed deep in thought.

“We need a bus, a heated bus, with a ramp,” Earnest said as he handed me an ad for one of those old hippie buses, the kind I saw as a young girl out west. There was a price tag of $50,000 on it.

“That’s a lot of money, Earnest,” I said.

“Mrs. Dunn, a bus! We can roll them in and have music on the radio,” said Pickles.

And they all started chanting, “Heated bus! Heated bus!”

“We could drive our friends to the village and look in the pretty shop windows,” said old Poetry the goat.

“Perhaps, Mrs. Dunn, we could stop at Oysterhead Pizza too,” said Earnest the pig.

“I’m surprised you wouldn’t want to stop at Eider’s for your beloved grilled cheese sandwich with cucumbers,” I said.

“I’m currently hankering for the crust of pizza, wood fired just right,” Earnest said.

“Mrs. Dunn, how much is $50,000?” Hannah asked.

“It’s many, many, many ones,” I said. “And it would take all of you years to raise it.”
Keep your hearts open, gather some things and I will drop them off for our elder friends,” I said.

The next day, Earnest the pig brought me a bucket with three goose feathers, one brown egg and     
some hay twine. A note said, “For our friends, until we get a bus. Love, Pickles and friends”.

“Here’s a $100 bill, Mrs. Dunn, for the bus,” the pig said. “I’ll bring more when I can.”

The animals worry about the demise of a tree...the annual drama

{My latest Tales & Tails column for The Lincoln County News}

I heard the slow shuffle of donkey feet as I left house.

Paco, I thought.

“Mrs. Dunn, I am concerned about the tree,” Paco said. “It is almost Thanksgiving.”

Every year, I have to reassure Paco that we’ll find the perfect tree in the woods well before Christmas.

“Paco, you need not worry, we will find one in plenty of time,” I said and we headed to the outer barn for his breakfast.

“I just need to get to the know the tree, so I can write a poem in honor of it’s demise,” he said, still concerned.

Just then, Pickles appeared out of nowhere, followed by Puddles and Hannah, and soon all the goats, old and young, joined us.

“Who had a demise?!” asked Poetry, one of the elder goats.

“What’s a demise?” asked little Hannah.

“A death,” said Earnest the pig who had wandered over hearing the commotion.

“Nobody has died!” I said.

“But we are going to kill a tree, so I must prepare a poem for him or her, to honor them,” said Paco.

Hannah began to cry. She had never had a Christmas tree since she was just born in the spring.

Earnest the pig consoled her, “Hannah, the trees have many purposes in life, and one is giving themselves to us so we can decorate them for Christmas.”

“But what if they have another purpose, like holding the squirrels and birds?”

“We always look for tiny trees, that aren’t strong enough to do that,” said Earnest.

Pickles gasped. “We kill the baby trees?!”

By this time we were to the outer barn, and all the horses and ponies and llamas were wondering what the big conversation was.

“Has something of importance occurred” asked Harry the llama.

Paco the donkey said very slowly, “I am worried about finding the tree in time, so I can write a worthy eulogy.”

“Ah yes, the annual tree crisis,” Harry said stoically.

George the goat appeared, eating something. George was always eating something. “The best part of Christmas is the tree, because I get to eat it after the holiday,” said George the goat.

Hannah started crying again.

“We could get one of those pink, fake trees with glitter, I saw one in “Sears and Roebuck”,” said Poetry.

How are they getting that catalog? I wondered.

“Sacrilege!” said Earnest the pig. “There will be no fake trees for Christmas!”

And then Boone, the mellow red horse, walked over.

“Everything we have to eat was once alive. Shall we stop cutting the grasses for our hay?”

Hannah screamed, “We kill grasses too?!”

Boone leaned down to Hannah and said, “My lass, we are in circular relationship with all of Nature. We poop on the grasses, and that feeds them. They thank us by growing tall, and then we eat them.”

Earnest the pig put his arm around Hannah, and Paco, “What do you say we all visit the trees, and share our poop with them?”

In which I meet Mrs. Mercy Studley

Yesterday while feeding, I came upon a beautiful little mouse in the pig food can, as I had left the top slightly ajar.

"Hello!" I said.

"Oh, hello, I figure you might come as I heard the animals rustling. I am Mrs. Mercy Studley," the mouse said.

I felt the hairs lift on my neck. You see, just the other night I had been reading the history of Bremen, our town here, and Mrs. Mercy Studley was one of the early inhabitants of a nearby village and at the time our house was newly built in 1760 era, Mrs. Mercy Studley was already 106.

"There was a woman from way back with your name, in a nearby village," I said.

"Yes," the mouse said.

"Did you perhaps know her?" I asked.

"Oh yes. She is me, or I am her. It is I."

{to be continued...}

My love letter to a Christmas Ghost

Dear Father Christmas,

I remember seeing you that night, I can remember the house we lived in and that means I was six years old. I loved that house, remember it had a riding arena out in the back where the nearby high school girls would journey through the woods on their horses and ride around and around. I would run out to greet them and sometimes they would lift me up to ride double. And every Christmas, I asked you for a horse. Of course you remember, because you are Father Christmas and you feel the hearts of everyone, good and bad, and you especially are sensitive to the naive hearts who still believe in magic no matter what the age.

But I remember that night, even though it was some fifty one years ago. I remember it was snowing and mother and father had us all tucked into bed, which was not easy because we always got to stay up late on Christmas Eve and watch for you. They were wise though, they knew exactly when you would come down the chimney. My brother who was a year older and very wise, like a scientist, he said you most likely came through the door and that the chimney story was just preposterous. He said preposterous. Even so, I was always concerned that the fire was out long before you arrived so as not to burn you. But you knew this too because you are Father Christmas.

So we got all tucked into our beds, my brother in the upstairs attic room, and me in the downstairs room, right near the chimney and living area. My parents stayed up some, but then I saw the light reflections in my bedroom windows go dim, and I heard foot steps walk off down the hall. I lay in bed...waiting. I was sure if I just stayed very still, you wouldn't know I was awake and you would come. I'm impatient, I always was even then, and I got up out of bed and crept to my window, looking up into the snow flakes falling, convinced you would descend at any moment. The snow made a sound, even through the window, a puff, whoosh, then silent until the wind blew it into the panes.

I heard noises, but not from the roof, from the living room. How did I miss this, I wondered, you must have come to the house from another direction. I ever so softly opened my door and tip toed out into the nightly house, the lights of the tree guiding my tiny toes.

And what I saw is etched in my mind to this day. The beautiful tree was lit and the tiny colored lights bounced off the white socks of someone sitting in my father's chair. And you had a little black dog in your lap, just like us. It was you, Father Christmas and you were smoking a pipe-I couldn't see the smoke but it smelled like what my father smoked in his pipe. But you know all this, because you are Father Christmas.

I let out a Haley Mills gasp, holding my little hands over my mouth.

I heard another door in the house, and slipped back to my room and got so quickly into my bed in case somehow you might see me all the way from the living room. I got under the covers, and clutched my brown bear, and didn't move. I am not even sure I was breathing, but the next thing I remember is waking up to a beautiful sun over glistening snow crystals on my window.

Christmas!

I ran to the tree and the first thing I did was look for anything that might indicate you had brought me a horse. I was sure there might be something somewhere out of sight that would be kept until all the presents were opened. But you didn't bring me the horse and as the morning wore on, I quickly accepted that.

"He can't carry a horse in the sky," my brother suggested. "You'll just have to wait some more."

I didn't tell anyone that morning about seeing you. I don't know why. But I know it was you.

Years later now, I think back to that night, seeing you in the chair. I imagined you were just resting in the quiet of the busiest night in your life, enjoying a moment to yourself, with your dog, the beautiful light emanating out of the tree, enjoying a smoke. You were probably tired because you worked so hard to bring us gifts and you just needed some time to yourself to be you. And I know you never did bring me that horse, but I did get one, and it is better that it worked out that way.

But you know that, because you were and will always be my Father Christmas.

Midnight at the annual spirit festival

To be honest, I was not looking forward to the annual midnight festival this year. It didn't help that it was pouring rain last night. But I didn't want to break tradition, and I knew that leaving that gang alone in the pumpkin patch graveyard without me could lead to a lot of mischief. While teenagers without manners might go to a cemetery and tip gravestones, my group of hoodlums would do worse–eat too many pumpkins that grow out of the dirt graves of former Misfits–that wouldn't be that bad, but it would lead to overzealous grave digging by Earnest and Marcella which could mean skeletons appearing all over the place the next day. Way to scary for the tenderest of Misfits, such as Paco.

So I put on lots of rain gear, and a big straw hat to hope my glasses wouldn't get all wet, and headed out to the barnyard, in the dark. I could see a faint light at the pumpkin patch. I'd left a flashlight there covered by a bucket so that I could make my way with some guidance.

The animals were already gathered–except Rosie. As usual the World's Grumpiest Pig did not come to the festivities. But of course that is no surprise-she hates rain, and crowds, and festivals.

Almost the second I got there, The Head Troll appeared out of the dark mass of Misfits, whose only body feature I could see were their eyes if the light caught them right. I could see Marcella and Benedetto pretty well due to their pure white coats. In fact, Marcella came to me, keeping any mischief from me. The candy corn can get some of those guys a bit wound up, combined with the mulled cider. The donkeys stood off to the side of the barnyard, as Paco gets very scared at these things and we have all decided, including Mother Matilda, it is best to let him watch from a distance.

Around the group the Head Troll went, holding a stick over each creature's head as she passed, much like a dowser looking for water. When she came to me, I felt something, kind of electrical. Marcella sensed it and became agitated. The stick began to shake rapidly, up and down, and The Head Troll was hardly able to hold it in her hands, but she did.

And then it stopped, and we all sat in our dark group, occasionally batting an eye, but still as a pool without wind.

It was getting cold, even after only about fifteen minutes. We were all waiting for something, anything to happen. Even with the rain, I had so many Misfits on my mind, the ones we had lost this year.

Maybe Stevie will come. And Aldo, I thought.

But it appeared this year it was not to be. Even the spirit of Old Man Guinnias did not rise for us, nor did I feel Floyd or any of the others buried under our feet and hooves. I suppose I was disappointed, but I was also wet and cold. The Head Troll left the pumpkin patch, and everyone followed. The White Dogs followed me as usual to the barnyard gate and I climbed over it to return to the house. I could see light coming from the living room fire, with Martyn in the rocker–no doubt with Big Tony in his lap.

I was startled then to hear the honk of a goose. It had been months since Old Priscilla disappeared, never to leave a trace for me to know what happened. Of course she was over twenty, but I never found her body, not even a feather. My ankle is pretty good after I turned it a couple weeks ago but still gimpy, and I misstepped on some rocks. I fell to my knees. Marcella barked, and I swore, and I yelled to her,

"Good work, Marcella, I am okay!"

But I couldn't get up. Not because of my ankle, or my body, but because something was holding me down. And the more I tried to get up, the heavier the pressure was that held me, keeping me in this spot. In seconds it was as if a huge oak tree had taken each branch and twig and was applying pressure on me, and in seconds that pressure began to feel like an embrace. I was confused, but not scared.

White orbs beginning as mists grew bigger and lifelike and the embrace I had just received began to pull away from me, but as it did I saw faces, familiar faces, surround me. I was lifted up and carried to the house, and set down gently by the door.

"Wait!" I asked, "stay with me!"

And the white mist creatures formed into one cloud of white the size of a balloon, and I held it in my hands. I felt a peck on my cheek, a gentle kiss. And then the white mist evaporated into my skin.

I went into the house, and took off my rain gear.

At my feet was a white goose feather, a bit of white llama wool, and some deep brown goat hair.

The Moon....is Hughie's eyeball

I'm sure many of you witnessed the beautiful eclipse last night, The Blood Moon. But here at Apifera, I held Hughie the One Eyed Blind Pug up to the window and said,

"There it is, there is your eyeball."

It is something that many of you probably don't know-the story of The Giant One. While I have shared it here before, through the voice of the former One Eyed Pug, I will share it again in honor of the momentous occasion last night. So here it is, as told by our former pug, who lives on each full moon.



The Giant One
In which The One Eyed Pug I shares a secret of his breed, knowing the audience of this blog is open to the many mysteries of the universe, or at least is not judgmental.

As a young pup I knew my daily life was unique, as I could see much more like a fly. While I was often ridiculed by even the best of friends, I just got used to the stupid comments. People are much worse than the creatures with what they think are humorous pokes at my facial look. "Did you run into a wall?", they'd asked, in that baby talk voice they use on their own fledglings. I got so tired of it. At some point, I just couldn't stand it, and I took to passing gas, silently of course, if they told a joke about my face.

I lived just fine for many years with my over weight eyeballs, until one day, while living in the presence of the chocolate lab named after a pie, I was partaking in a good game of 'run around the tree really fast". As usual, I was slower, but since I am much smaller, was able to trip the big chocolate fellow up. This unfortunately caused him to fall, and I don't know if it was his toe, or a stick, or grass, that grazed my bald eyeball. But whatever it was, my eyeball fell ill, and did not improve. The Two Footers squeezed cool liquids and medicines into my aching orb, but one day later, my eyeball felt so heavy and so strange like it was swirling outside my head. When blood squirted out after one medicine was applied, the Two Footer rushed me into the Medicine Keeper in town.

They shot giant streams of light into my aching eyeball. I knew already what this meant. Our breed is forewarned even before we are born, in dreams and embryonic classes, on what life is often like with our bulging eyeballs. We know that there are many obstacles to our eyes. And we are raised to appreciate every day with out having something run into our eyeballs.

So by the tones of the Two Footer, and all the kisses I was getting, I knew my eyeball was moving onto the Great Place to live amongst stars and other magnificent orbs. This did not worry me. I knew my eyeball would be returning to where it originated, to The Giant One in the night sky. The Two Footers call it a moon, and they say it orchestrates tides of the ocean. The Giant One sends off little eyeballs to all the earthly mother pugs precisely at the time she gives birth.

We pugs don't bother to tell the Two Footers that our eyeballs are born from their moon, because we know most would scoff at it. But I am sharing it here with you, in case you live with a pug, so you can be more respectful of 'full moon' nights. We pugs call it "Giant One Calling" night. For once a month, on the full moon, all pugs instinctively gravitate to the garden, or window seat, and sit amongst the loving shinings of the moon.

And for those pugs who have lost an eye, or are blind, they turn their heads towards the sky, feeling the orbs hitting their heads, and in pride and comfort they know their eyeball is now with the Giant One. It will be nourished by starlight, and in time, it will return to another mother pug, and placed in a young pup to once again see earthly delights.

Even The Head Troll fails

I heard her sighing–deep, heavy breath sighs, then some cud chewing.

She was sitting with her head in her feet, alone, there was nobody within sight of what is usually a busy barnyard.

"I sent them all away," she said to me, seeing me standing by the gate.
It was my cue that I could now dialogue with her, even though she was in no state to converse.

"What happened?" I ask softly.

"They did not understand my vision. I could not express it well enough. And once Stella died, it began to unravel....I guess when I changed the script to Latin, it was more than they could handle. they said it wasn't fun," she paused, more sighs heaved out of her tiny body- a body now beginning to show its age. "Is creation always "fun"? I asked them. Do we not have to stretch sometimes to grow, and expand?"

She went on, "I had Iris stand in for Stella, but it was useless, an utter waste of my time. I have to face facts-I can't run this place and give my words and ideas justice anymore. I let my muse down."

More sighs.

"I have failed," she said in a matter of fact way.

"Everyone fails at something," I tried to reassure her.

"No, I never fail at what I set my mind to. It has always been this way. But lately, I can't keep up. My feet hurt too. I can't be everywhere anymore. I can't remember all the places I've hid the secret codes. I need to fire myself," she said.

I had never seen The Head Troll this way. Always my right hand aid, the task keeper of the barnyard, it was hard to listen. She has been my rock for so long. I did not want to believe these things.

"Sometimes people think I can do it all, I think," I told her. "They make me what they need me to be in their life. I walk around, knowing I can't live up to it. So it's a daily failure, of sorts. It's always under the surface, an inner voice saying, you fraud."

We sat together on the rickety stage that just weeks early had held such excitement for The Head Troll, and therefore, for me.

Earnest came out of the barn.

"I learned all my lines," he said politely.

"I know you did,, Earnest, but Summer Stock is cancelled for good. I am not capable of making it happen. I'm sorry."

"It's okay. I got to learn Latin," and he walked off to his mud hole.

"Maybe that is enough. The pig got to learn Latin," I told her.

And she scurried off, "I just remembered where I hid that code book!"

Donkeys and pigs and pigs, oh my

The note slipped under my studio door this morning was written in dirt, on old note paper ripped from a seed bag.

I recognized the writing. It was Wilber's, the Acrobatic Goat.

"Meet me at the Small Rodent and Bird Cemetery at dusk...alone" it said.

I had fallen for Wilbur's pranks in the past Halloweens–the year he leapt from the hay bales when I entered, inside an empty feedbag, writhing and chirping like a rat; the time he ran screaming towards me as I entered the barnyard holding a limp chicken; and my favorite, the year he strung his hind leg up with hay twine to look legless and at the same time he held an anatomically correct looking goat leg with canine teeth marks [miraculously crafted in paper maché from seed bags, twine and mud coloring].

So, I was onto him.

"Nope, not this year," I said out loud. "Nope, nope, nope."

Dusk arrived. The cemetery I was to meet him at is about 20 feet from the front of my studio. I heard some noises.

"I am so onto you this year," I said to myself.

I waited. Until dark.

And then I went to the barn as if I was simply late for barn chores. I walked right past the cemetery and saw nothing, felt nothing and heard only the goats in the barnyard. I hid behind the horse trailer some 20 feet away, so I could watch the cemetery. It was cold, and after about 15 minutes, I gave up my watch.

"They must have bored themselves and moved on," I thought.

I opened the barn gate. I heard the usual bleats, whinnies and snorts, anxiously awaiting my feeding hands.

I don't like doing barn chores in the dark, or even at dusk, because when I enter the old barn, I can't see as there is no electricity. But I need to go in there to feed the donkeys. It can be spooky on any night, for the night life is in and of itself, it is above me and below me. The hay loft creaked. Wisps of hay blew around me.

Suddenly-

Swoosh, squeal, honk, squeal, scramble, SCREAM....leaving my heart pounding.

Feet scampering.

I ran to the goat barn so there would be light and there I saw Pino, standing, facing me. He had a hand painted mask that he held upright in front of his face, his ears showing. It was the face of my mother.  He approached me,

"I wanted you to think she flew in. Like a saint from the clouds. I told Wilber not to scare you in the cemetery," Pino said as he took the mask off.

Three short grunts. And off rushed Doris and Pearl...then Ernest approached me in a sheet. He said nothing.

"Ernest wanted to fly about like one of your mother's clouds. I told him he and the other pigs might be construed as ghosts and scare you, but he insisted on wanting to be a cloud."

I gathered Ernest up close, those big red lashes blinked - like only a pig's can do.

"You were a lovely cloud, Ernest, thank you," I said.


Pino and I walked back to the donkey barn. I asked him how he was able to draw my mother's likeness so well without a picture.

"Oh I see her all the time," he said.

Multiple birth at Apifera!

I've been watching - and last night it finally happened.

The Charlottes arrived.

They were born with perhaps the most patient and brave mother I've ever known. For Mama Charlotte tucked her little nest of babes in a perfect birthing place - under the wooden handle of the Donkey Hug door - a door I enter daily. Each time I lifted the wood handle I'd check to see how the expectant mother was. She must have had exactly the right amount of space between her body and the wood. She didn't seem to mind my daily intrusion and I didn't mind her presence.

After days and weeks of waiting for the new arrivals, one almost gets jaded about it. But last night at dusk when I went to get the sheep, I lifted the handle and there they were - a little family alive and moving about their new mother ship - a white gauze nest left after their birth. Mama Charlotte sat off to the side.

I am not sure why this birth was so exciting for me. I hadn't really been thinking of it obsessively, but when I saw them, I got very excited, happy and had a proud feeling for the spider as if I was the mid wife.

It is easy to attach human characteristics on our fellow creatures and perhaps that is what was partially going on in my heart. I knew that the mother had done her job well but rather than resting for a day and then packing her children up to join them for the next 80 years, Nature would take her, alone, and move her on to the next realm.

Most of us in our mid fifties have all read the wonderful book of Charlotte and her pig friend. I have my original copy with my young hand writing in the inside cover proudly displaying my ownership of the book I so loved. The author E.B. White is one of my favorites and we have a ram named in his honor. And then there is the memory of sitting with my elderly father one Christmas five years ago, watching the new version of the movie based on the book. We knew he was not long for life, and he did too. When Charlotte died and stoically explained her fate, it was a tear jerk moment for all of us. Just like my father, she would die and leave behind her most valuable creation - life itself in the form of her offspring. It is what it is.

So when I lifted the wooden handle today I saw that two little spiders remained, the rest had gone off, already busy with life and survival. I looked for Charlotte, but she was gone.

Our relationship was set the minute I first met her as there was a clear beginning and an eventual end. Like the leading character in the movie I watched with my father, I knew she would die, but I didn't really want her too.

But you can't rewrite Nature.