(Detail from a photo by Gubby; used by permission from said Gubby)

Fireworks shows in our area usually start just before pitch black dark hits. I know this because when I was young I used to stand on the deck facing the Sierras, staring longingly at Chico 20 miles to the east, and watching the fireworks bloom like tiny psychedelic mushrooms on the horizon. Yeah, okay, I was somewhat pathetic, but at least I have learned what time fireworks are supposed to start. So Friday night, after eating dinner and cleaning up, we rushed to get to the fireworks show in time.

We needn't have rushed.

Martin Luther King, Jr. Park had ample space left to stake our claim, and so we did. We people-watched. Two guys had a football and were throwing spirals over our blanket, nearly decapitating me on only one occasion. There were several frisbee games going, but my favorite were the Frisbee Smokers. They had extra talent, it was clear, each playing frisbee with one hand and pinching a cigarette in the other hand.

All lawn chairs and blankets were pointed toward the fairgrounds, from where the fireworks would be launched. We could hear the noise of the car races, like a hive of angry bees, wafting up from the raceway. Oh yeah, Friday night races. This could be interesting timing.

At around 10:00 we heard the unmistakable sound of fireworks and looked up, hopeful. The crowd realized en masse that we were hearing the sounds of the Chico Outlaws' fireworks show across town. We slumped. Sigh. We had considered parking in view of those fireworks, but it's tricky to get a good view in the old part of Chico, with all the oaks and sycamores blocking the view of the sky.

So we waited out the show, our children losing faith in us as the minutes dragged by. The girls ran around with other little kids and had a blast, in between pouts. It actually got chilly on the field -- imagine! Almost cold, in July, in the North Valley! It's never happened before. So we enjoyed the evening until the toddlers on the field started breaking down, one by one, and anxious parents glowered darkly in the direction of the raceway.

Seven minutes before 11:00, we heard the first PHOONT! and saw the starburst. All was well in Parent Land. We were redeemed in the eyes of our sleepy children.

That is to say, we have recently become aware of our neighbor, who may or may not be new to our neighborhood, and who may or may not be living single.

I first became aware of this neighbor a couple of weeks ago while tossing and turning and generally not sleeping. Neighbor was making a racket.

"Chas?" I loudly whispered.

"Yeah."

"Do you hear that sound?"

"Yeah."

"Any idea what that might be?"

"A cat?"

"Well, that's what I thought, but it's more like a dog, but not like any dog I've ever heard. It's not a coyote."

"I dunno."

"I'm thinking bobcat."

"We don't have bobcats."

"I know, but . . . what, then?"

"I dunno."

"Thanks. You've been helpful."

I'm not usually that chatty in the middle of the night, or that sarcastic. Yes I am.

So the other night I heard it again, repeating over and over and over, for as long as I stayed awake, and probably much longer. Calls at short intervals, always the same. Kind of a bark, but not exactly. Cat-like, but it'd have to be a huge cat. This time, though, I was sure it was a cat, a huge cat, come to eat up the kittens of our slutty outdoor cat, who shall henceforth be called Teenage Pregnancy StatistiCat. I writhed in my awakitude, guilty over the kittens who were probably now Bobcat Snacks. Couldn't I have just brought them inside for one night until Teenage Pregnancy StatistiCat got her proper mother groove on? I knew the honest answer to that, but it didn't make me feel any better about the kittens.

We finally saw our new neighbor last night. As Smedley and I walked past the dining room window, she stopped cold and said, "Look! It's a _____!" (Don't want to give it away just yet.)

And sure enough, it was. Running around in the dairy yard at dusk, looking for something. Food? Mate? Offspring? No clue. But it must have doubled back through the network of barns because it next appeared in the opposite direction, standing between us and the afterglow of the sunset, making the mysterious call I've been hearing lately. Over and over and over, nose pointed north. For the next hour.

Here's our new neighbor, or one of his shirttail relatives:

(Photo stolen from Wikipedia)

Okay, I realize y'all were just humoring me, pretending to be surprised, when you had probably guessed it way back in the second paragraph. And I'm surprised that I didn't guess it myself, since we used to have a fox family living quite out in the open in the corner of the east pasture that's protected by berry bushes.

So much makes sense now -- the empty kitten box that was completely tossed (no self-respecting cat would do that), the crushed plastic Easter eggs which had to have been bitten open, and no remnants of the foil from the devoured chocolate eggs. What cat would eat foil? Or chocolate, for that matter.

Yep, that fox is bold. I think we'll have some interesting encounters this summer. I plan to be a good and kind neighbor. But if he thinks I'm buying him more chocolate eggs he's got another think coming.

I took my daughters out for a walk Sunday before last, when the almond trees were in bloom on the west side. The spring wind was the only thing that intruded on an otherwise picture-perfect day. In like a lion, indeed.

A closer look is needed here:

In the background is a pistachio orchard. This tree is a volunteer, growing along the ditch that borders the orchard. But look closer -- see the blossoms? Pistachios are not flowering trees. That's a volunteer almond tree that took root almost on top of the pistachio's trunk. It has wound in and around its host, growing taller than the pistachio to ensure that it gets enough light to survive. Sure, it's spindly, but it's a survivor.

This is its neighbor, a healthy volunteer almond tree. It's beautiful, but not quite as scrappy, somehow. The underdog is usually the favorite here in America.

The field just north of us will probably be in corn again this year, but for now it's a carpet of green velvet. The wind has driven a few stray pieces of junk into view, but I'm not adept enough with Graphic Converter to get rid of them. Eh, it's all part of the scene anyway.

This much put-upon old oak tree has been routinely carved upon by years of utilities workers trying to keep the lines clear of branches. I'm not showing you the butchering this tree has been subjected to (for good reason -- I'm a realist and not at all against the linemen doing their jobs; I'm just giving you a bit of the California Tree-Hugger that hibernates within me). I just want to show you its grace.

These baby trees stand a chance at a long life, since they are back far enough from the road not to be a danger to traffic.

Happy spring, ya'll.

~ Generously donating about ten square miles of land to the city of Chico, for a municipal park (now known, of course, as Bidwell Park)
~ Knowing a lot of influential people of her day, including three U.S. presidents, John Muir, Elizabeth Cady Stanton, and Susan B. Anthony
~ Being a teetotaler, and casting a long, alcohol-free shadow upon the land she donated to her town (much to the chagrin of some golfers at Bidwell Golf Course)
~ Having a really big pink house

(Photo stolen from these guys)

But there's one story about Annie Bidwell that you don't know. It's a tiny story, admittedly; most of my family have forgotten it. But I remember it, because the first time I heard the story, it made Annie Bidwell a real person to me. My own tiny link to history.

My grandfather, Frank LaGrone, was born in 1903. When he was about seven, he and his little sister Stella were on the lawn of Annie Bidwell's mansion, for some reason. They had probably been playing in Big Chico Creek, or over at Children's Park (just across the creek from the mansion, and also a Bidwell endowment). They peeked into the carriage house to see the dusty and forlorn horse-drawn carriages, decaying in the dark after the advent of the automobile.

And as they were investigating the carriage house, Annie Bidwell herself appeared. What did the great lady do? Shoo away the tiny trespassers? Scold them for snooping?

She gave them cookies.

Annie Kennedy Bidwell (1838 - 1918)

Henry Frank LaGrone (1903 - 1990)

This is a member of my dad's cat collection. (It used to be my mom's cat collection, but Dad felt she was neglecting them by feeding them only twice a day.) This is Pinkie.

He's window shopping with his neighbors, the bird collection: zebra finches, parakeets, and red rumped parakeets, or some name like that. The bird collection is continuously fed.

As far back as I can remember my dad has raised birds. There were always chickens, but not necessarily the kind you think of when you think of a farm or dairy (big layers like Plymouth Rocks, White Leghorns and Rhode Island Reds); Dad preferred the fancy bantam chickens.

(Photo stolen from this site)

He also raised white doves and fancy pigeons, the above-mentioned finches and parakeets, as well as love birds and cockateels. Dad has always planned and built all of his chicken coops and aviaries himself, which he has at least painted to match the house, or I think Mom would kill him.

I recently sat down with my dad, armed with a note pad and pen to get the fine details of one of his childhood stories. As often happens with Dad, the story began in English and ended in Swahili, so to speak; we covered a lot of ground and the rabbit trails were many and far-flung. But I learned something I thought was significant, and I'd like to share it with you.

When Dad was 14 his family moved to Hawaii for two years for my grandfather's government job. Since this is the larger story I'm working on I'll save that for another day; the move home is what caught my ear as Dad related his story. They had to move to Oahu (1948) and back (1950) by ship since commercial air travel was in its infancy, and remote Hawaii may as well have been the North Pole in those days. The government paid for everything, including moving their furniture. The only hang-up of their plans was the ship's policy about not transporting live fish in fish tanks, so 16-year-old David, my future dad, made arrangements with someone on a cargo ship to transport his new pet fish home to San Francisco, where David would go to pick them up later.

But David was able to take his parakeets onto the Lurline for the voyage home to Berkeley, in their cage, in the family's quarters.

I thought about that for a minute. "You had parakeets back then, Dad?" I asked him.

"Yeah," he answered. "I bought them for a quarter apiece in Honolulu, and raised them while we lived there."

"Had you ever seen parakeets before you moved to Hawaii?" I asked.

"Well . . . I guess not," Dad answered, a little impatient with this line of questioning, since we were really supposed to be talking about traveling on the cruise ship Lurline.

"And how about the tropical fish? Did people have tropical fish in Berkeley in those days?"

"No, I'd never seen a salt water tank before. This isn't important --"

"So you were probably the only person in your neighborhood to have tropical birds and fish. I would imagine your friends must have been fascinated by them. How did you keep them once you got them home?"

"Well, we had had a Victory Garden during the war, just like everyone else, and that included chickens. The chicken coop was empty, of course, when we moved back to Berkeley, so my dad helped me convert it to an aviary for the parakeets. I kept the fish tank on an old metal patio table in the corner of my bedroom. I must have gotten some kind of heater for it."

"Did you meet anyone else who raised tropical fish or birds?"

"Well, there was a guy in Alameda that the pet store people told me about. I used to go out to see him, and I bought some more birds from him. I started raising the birds and selling them to a high-end pet store in San Francisco. Every time I had birds to sell, my dad would take a cage of them on his lap for the bus ride into San Francisco where he worked, then at lunch he'd take them to the pet store and sell them for me. I got four dollars for each bird. I made $500 the first year, which was a good month's salary in those days, and $200 the second year. It started my college fund. But people don't want to know about this stuff!"

Maybe they don't, but maybe they do. In any case, I now have a better understanding of the origins of the menagerie that was always present in some combination, throughout my childhood and up to the present. I'm just thrilled to death that there were no snakes in Hawaii.

No finches, parakeets, or cats were harmed for this post.

Here's the plot I chose to wrestle with.

Don't be alarmed by the shade. In July those crispy little plants will be BEGGING for any available shade, believe me. And I won't plant right up to the south fence line, anyway. Notice how green everything is? That's how it is in February here in California. February is our May. By March it'll be lush and green, with three foot grass that's beginning to go to seed already. I'm not kidding. By May everything is almost brown -- that's where the Golden State gets its name (because Brown State or Withered State just weren't sexy enough).

Here's a photo I took in May a few years ago, at Bidwell Park. Not a scrap of green grass to be found.

Onward. See that big hole? That's a kitty potty, dug by my daughters for the benefit of the kitties, in case they have to go potty outside. Yeah, like THAT'S gonna happen.

And this is a worm -- not photographed with any skill or finesse, you understand -- that was unfortunate enough to be flung by my shovel onto the fence post. He'll be just fine as soon as the Worm Witness Protection Program takes over.

This is The Ugly Shovel, or The Shovel of Many Splinters, as photographed by Smedley. She has not yet grasped the importance of a clear path to the subject matter, so you are getting a bit of whatever plastic toy she was toting around. And no adjustment of your monitor is necessary; the ground is level in the yard -- it's Smedley who's cockeyed.

And here is the 6 x 6' patch of yard after I had taken 4" or so of (clay) soil and (weeds) weeds off the top. Yes, I'm aware that the fence needs to be painted -- it's been almost five years; what's another five among friends?

In the summer there will be no shade, Ang -- don't panic; the sun will be farther north and it'll be a nice, sunny desert.

I bought my soil test kit yesterday. I'm going to rake the rocks this weekend. The cats are fertilizing it nicely, I can only imagine. Okay, Ang -- now what? Is it tomatoes yet?

Not the old calf barn; that would be this, these days. . .

. . . but the "new" calf barn, which is maybe only 30 years old. And stands unused anymore. Anyway, do you know the cause of those holes are in the siding? Let's take a closer look.

Plywood siding; nothing unusual, other than those strange organic-shaped holes. The holes were created by baby calves, who (after having drunk every last drop of warm milk from their plastic buckets, and sucked on the buckets as long as they could get away with it) sucked on anything else they could. If you walked down the row of pens just after feeding time, you'd see 50 calves, from a few days to a couple of months old, crane their necks as far through their gates as possible, trying to get some fingers or pant leg into their mouths. They'd settle for plywood, and over time, these strange holes were the result.

The funniest part was seeing, from some distance away outside the barn, several pink tongues extended through the holes, or an occasional lower jaw jutting through a hole as a calf got purchase and began sucking the tar out of that barn.

These days, because there are no more dairy calves, but only beef cows around the ranch, the little ones stay with their mothers, and get their milk from the source. It's a very different scenario to see calves consorting with each other, romping together or just relaxing in one another's company. I really enjoy their freedom.

Even their piddling in public.

Greetings from Middle of the Puddle, California, USA! If you've been watching the Weather Channel lately -- and, let's face it, who HASN'T been glued to that network? -- you know that Mother Nature has been kicking our collective butts up and down the state of California for all of calendar year 2008.

First The Great Storm of Ought Eight blew in from the south. Lots of almond trees uprooted. Huge swaths of Northern California without electricity and Peanut M&Ms. Barns tumbling down and fences sagging. Trees wanting to come inside homes in the worst way.

(Photo stolen from Smitty)

Then, after a week, pretty much everybody had lights again -- and the north wind showed up. Wind gusts up to 75 mph around here, and higher in the mountains. Trees which were LEANING to the north were now shoved over to the south. Whole barn roofs were torn off and dumped in pastures. It was way, way too windy to venture out for cat food or Peanut M&Ms.

As the wind died away and we all caught our breath, the fog crept in on big fat cat paws, curled up on our laps, and had a nice nap for a couple of days.

And then the rain started.

Noah, please call the office.

I typed a note to my friend in Australia last night, telling her about the rain. But first, a weather check.

ME: "Chas, how many hours in a row did it rain?"

CHAS: "Well, it started at about . . . blah blah blah . . . thirty-four."

ME: "Thanks, I knew you'd know."

CHAS: "But it rained for 50 out of 53 hours here, you should mention that."

ME: "It did? Huh, I wasn't paying attention." (As usual)

So I was unprepared when taking our little country road north on Saturday -- headed for the Red Bluff Bull Sale, which is another story for later -- when we had to ford a small river across the road. The slough that runs along the north edge of the property couldn't keep up with the water, and the water spilled over the road, a couple of inches deep. It was not dangerous to drive through, however, so don't worry.

Snow hit the valley floor in Redding last week, at least twice. Mudslides threaten southern California after the torrential rains they've had, on top of hills burned bare by October fires. A tornado hit somewhere along California's central coast the other day. And today the sunshine is so brilliant and the glare is so strong that I'm thinking of wearing my sunglasses when I walk past the front windows of our office.

I feel a musical ending coming up . . .

Seems it never rains in southern California
Seems I've often heard that kind of talk before
It never rains in California
But girl don't they warn ya
It pours, man it pours*

*From Albert Hammond's "It Never Rains in Southern California"

(Photo stolen from this person)

We bumpkins have been accused of seeking entertainment in the growth of grass, in the drying of paint. Well, that last one's true, but I'm here to tell you that most of what you hear about the denizens of rural America is false. Made up. Hooey. Hokum. Malarkey. Balderdash.*

We amuse ourselves in all sorts of ways that don't involve the p a i n f u l l y s l o w passage of time. The photo above, for instance. Do you know what that cow is doing? She's ruminating, of course. Also, wondering just what in heck these crazy people are up to now. But most of all, she's processing her dinner, and any minute now she's going to lift her tail out of the way and . . . and that's where the checkerboard comes into play. It's called Cow Pie Bingo. Whichever square is anointed by this cow -- ain't she a beauty, by the way? -- wins big, big money for whichever lucky bum(s) bet on the pooped-on square. After it's all over the spectators all go home to finish watching the paint dry.

Out here in the country, an impressive panoply of activities is available: there are tractor pulls, destruction derbies, rodeo events, quilting bees, livestock auctions, barn dances, harvest festivals, and even mutton busting. (The photo below shows mutton busting for what it really is: a child's death-defying ride on a domestic sheep, a vicious animal known for wild and unpredictable ways. Good heavens, that boy may get wool rug burns!)

(Photo stolen from this guy)

There is one activity, however, that eludes us. I'm talking about, of course, cow tipping.

(Photo stolen from these folks)

Whole web sites have been dedicated to debunking the idea that such an activity is actually possible. I'm not going to bore you with the physics, even if I knew them. I will tell you my personal beliefs about cow tipping, in no particular order.

~ Cows sleep on PosturePedic mattresses, just like the rest of us. Good luck finding a cow that actually sleeps standing up.

~ Trying to sneak up on a cow is about as easy as herding a cat.

~ Once you have successfully sneaked up upon and startled a static cow, you will discover that she is as big as Grandpa's Buick, and almost as maneuverable. But not quite.

~ The catch bull assigned to any given pasture with dozing cows will not find your cow tipping attempts NEARLY as funny as you do.

~ Cow tipping was invented for frat boys, by (and for the amusement of) the people who brought you snipe hunting. How would you like your snipe cooked, Bluto?

So let's recap. Lots and lots of activities out here in the sticks. Have I been to any of the above-mentioned laugh riots? Nope. Well, two. But I was dragged there against my will. Okay, I lied -- I've been to a few of them. But even bumpkins can get our tractor pulls on ESPN 2.

Back to what I was doing.

*We are nothing if not colorful, however.

This is how I imagine London fog:

(Photo stolen from Homemade on Flickr)

This is the romantic version of fog, in a Bronte sisters sort of world:

(Photo stolen from vp_bsu on Flickr)

This is what fog looks like around here, and we call it tule (TOO-lee) fog:

(Photo stolen from Tony Dunn Photography -- a very talented local photographer who is SO worth checking out)

Honestly, though, when the tule fog is at its worst, it looks more like this:

and few people are apt to get their cameras out on such days, since it's pretty much pointless. Out in the country there are no streetlights, few houses to guide you as you creep down the dark roads, and even fewer passing cars. And there could be animals on the road -- dogs, cats, skunks, possums, heaven forbid cows. Satellite imagery shows you what we're dealing with, and it's no fun to drive in, especially on the freeways down near Fresno:

(Image stolen from these guys)

But I'm here to talk about splat fog. What? You say you've never heard of splat fog? Well, that's because my best friend Cheryl and I named it. It looks a little like this:

(Photo stolen from these guys)

. . . or this:

(Photo stolen from VillaRhapsody on Flickr)

. . . and it rides the earth's surface at about eye level. Cheryl and I call it splat fog.

When we were newly-legal drivers, Cheryl (who lived a couple of miles north of me) gave me a ride home one winter evening. As we turned down my road (known to those of us who live there as ground zero for fog) we could see bands of fog hanging above the road ahead of us. As we drove through it, the fog seemed to splat on the windshield, then slide unctuously up and over the roof of the car. It was like driving under a thick wool blanket, and we grimaced each time a band of the stuff "hit" the window, so solid did it look. We were giggling like kindergarteners, until we got halfway down the road and the splat fog mysteriously ended. "One more time!" one of us hollered, and Cheryl threw the car into reverse and backed up the road to do it again. We did it several more times, actually, backing up each time. I have no idea why backing up was the thing to do -- it was a very long way in reverse with only back-up lights to guide her -- but when you're 16 anything is possible, and all things are sensible.

While I have seen splat fog many times since that time, it's never been as spectacular as it was that night, and I have never again experienced it quite that way. I guess that's part of the magic of youth, and of charging through the world with your best friend.

(Photo stolen from Sarathine on Flickr)

But I, in my north-facing bedroom, couldn't hear the wind beginning to howl. The girls could, though. They heard the old calf barn cave in some time before dawn.

Not that the barn hadn't been trying to commit suicide for years, mind you. But it succeeded early Friday morning, as the storm -- the storm that will probably be called The Great Storm of Ought Eight or something when we're old and crabby -- descended upon northern California and most of the west coast.



Anybody want some old barn wood? It's original, it's wood, and it's crappy!

My three volunteer trees are in danger. I think the littlest one, an oak tree, is a goner.

Whatever you do, don't breathe on this wall.

I woke up early Friday morning and hit the shower first thing, in case the power went out. I couldn't imagine going to work without benefit of a shower; it never occurred to me that I certainly shouldn't entertain the idea of driving that morning at all. After my shower I turned on the kitchen TV -- nothing. Two of the Chico stations were out. The Redding station came in, but not well. The news? BIG STORM. Well, I sort of guessed that much.

I ate some cereal, then did what any smart person facing a weather emergency would do: I trimmed my bangs.

And then the electricity went out. Once, twice, and the third time was for keeps, at just before 7:00 a.m. When your water comes from a well, as opposed to a city water system, you lose water immediately in a power outage, and that includes the ability to flush the toilet more than once. The reality of the situation was settling on me, so I did what any smart person facing a weather emergency would do: I drove down the road to my parents' house.

Mom and Dad didn't have power either, of course, but they have a gas fireplace -- HEAT! -- and a gas stove -- EAT! So, after a cup of hot coffee and a phone call to my office to tell them I wasn't coming in, I drove back home and gathered the troops. Chas stayed behind to finish working out -- yeah, I know, he's one of those people who make me look bad EVERY DAY -- and I put the girls and a lot of books, crayons and toys into the car, and drove back to become a burden to my parents.

By mid-day the storm had slackened. The winds were downgraded to merely "strong," after having gusted at 60 or more miles per hour -- as high as 70 somewhere in the valley. Three of our neighbor's willow trees were flattened by the wind, and pieces of our garage siding were wrenched free. Half of our oranges blew off the trees, but that's not a big problem. Most of Glenn County was left without power, including Willows, which suffered near 100% power outage, and which will likely be dark for a few days. Power poles along I-5 from Orland to Willows were snapped off at the bases. We count ourselves lucky to have had our electricity restored late last night.

We were sitting pretty compared to some people, and as night fell, other than having the obvious problem of darkness, we were actually able to enjoy ourselves. Mom and I pooled our water and food resources, and we had everything we needed. I made chicken spaghetti and Mom made a big green salad, cooking by candlelight (which is challenging), and we dined by candlelight as well, joined by our friend Marge, who was in the same boat.

Bedtime came early since there was no point in sitting in the dark quietly freezing, and, other than one round of Smedley barfing due to an upset stomach, and one protracted Sparky coughing attack, all was well. We woke up to electricity, but no heat -- our propane tank is empty, unfortunately, so until the truck shows up -- Monday? I hope -- we are driving each other crazy in one room with a space heater.

And that was The Great Storm of Ought Eight, dadgummit.

I'm back, more or less, after a very busy Christmas season. Here are a few snippets of holiday conversation from around our house to start the year off right.

* * * * *

Smedley, singing while she flossed:

"Deck the halls with ugly snowmen
Fa la la la la, la-la la la!"

* * * * *

After Mommy cleaned and rearranged the living room . . .

Sparky: "I bet, if somebody camed to our house, they wouldn't necorize it."

Smedley: "Not 'necorize,' 'RECKINIZE!'"

Never mind her diction -- it doesn't say much for my housekeeping, does it?

* * * * *

Mommy, explaining "salud" or "kampai" or some other foreign thing I'd said while clinking glasses: "It's a toast, it's a cheer, it's a --

Smedley: "A female cheer."

Headed over to feed Mom and Dad's cats, fish and cows Saturday morning before breakfast. On a working cattle ranch, "before breakfast" would be two hours before the sun comes up, but on The Pushing Water Ranch that's about 8:30. The girls and I were all bundled up, they in unmatched bright pink and green socks and such, I in my hideous old tweed coat and ridiculous warm hat and muffler. Yes, I said muffler. I know this isn't Antarctica but I am a weenie and I get COLD.

As we walked down the road toward the hay barn I saw a cow out on the road. Crud. A little black steer sneaked into Dad's east pasture several months ago, a fugitive from some other rancho, and he has figured out how to get in and out of the pasture at will, to eat the tender new green grass just outside the confines of his pasture fence. Dad's on vacation and he'll deal with it when he gets back, but in the meantime -- at least until the steer's true owners get off their hineys and come get him -- the little guy has a sweet deal, and his little game hasn't been a problem.

(It wasn't this little guy, but the culprit looks just like him.)

Until this morning. Apparently he brought some friends to the banquet this morning, and one of them, a large white-faced Hereford cow, was lumbering down the middle of the road toward the girls and me as we headed off to feed hay. I calmly pushed her back toward the weak spot in the fence through which I knew she'd made her breakout. As I did so, however, I noticed a few other cows way down the fenceline, grazing outside the fence -- FIVE others, to be exact. And just at that moment an old Ford Bronco came barreling up the road and pulled over. A woman I've never seen before jumped out of her car and almost sprinted toward me. She was lean and sinewy, and she bore the weather-lined face of a capable rancher type; probably a horse woman, I decided.

"THOSE YOUR COWS?" she hollered.

"Sort of," I waffled.

"WELL, YOU'RE GONNA NEED TO GET THEM BACK IN THE PASTURE, OR THEY'LL GET OUT ON THE MAIN ROAD, AND THEN THAT'LL BE BAD. LAW SUIT OR SOMETHIN'." These sentences came at me like machine gun fire. I'm thinking, Cows're out, lady -- it isn't an international incident. But okay, she's being helpful, and she thinks I'm totally new here. I mentally inventoried my appearance: silly hat and matching muffler, hideous coat, sweat pants, white tennis shoes. Two little girls with me dressed in pink, orange and purple. Yup, she thinks I'm new here.

"YA GOT A HUSBAND?" Whoa. What exactly does THAT mean?

"Uh, yeah . . . he'll be home about 2:30. But these aren't our cows; they're my dad's, and he's on vacation --"

"WELL, YOU SHOULD TELL THAT GUY TO GET HIS HORSE AND ROUND THEM UP. NO WAY YOU'RE GONNA GET THEM IN WITHOUT A HORSE." That guy? My husband? Or did she mean my dad -- the one who's not here -- and did she think he has a horse? I could have spent a long time giggling to myself over the visual image of either my husband or my father trying to herd cattle on a horse, but there was no time. This woman had probably been up since 4:00 drinking black coffee and fuming, and she was in a huge hurry, apparently.

"Yeah, I'll have to do that," I answered without irony. As nice and helpful as she truly was I just wanted her to go away, because I really didn't feel like explaining to her how grown people who raised cattle could actually do so without the company of horses. Or why I wasn't freaked out that the cows were out. I guess I'm a bit too Type B, or philosophical, or maybe I just have my head in the sand, but years of practical experience with cows getting out has taught me that they usually don't stray far from the herd. They want a taste of freedom, but more than that they want green grass. And they'll need water after they have their grass, so they usually stick pretty close to the water troughs.

So after a few more manic pronouncements this good samaritan jumped into her vehicle and drove on up the road. I decided to go feed the cows while I figured out my next move, so back we went in the direction of the hay barn.

As I walked I saw the Bronco screech to a halt way up the road by our neighbor Brian's house. Hmmmmm, I wonder what she's doing now? I thought. Maybe warning Brian that his lawn looks a little dry? From a quarter mile away I saw the woman jump out of her vehicle and BOLT into Brian's field and out of range of my sight. Weird. But I had cows to feed, so I turned down the driveway toward the hay barn.

Halfway down the driveway I heard a car approaching, and I turned to see the Bronco backing down the road -- backing a quarter mile? Really? -- so with a heavy heart I trudged back out to the road to see what else this crazed woman had identified as a potential threat to society. She launched herself from the car.

"YOUR NEIGHBOR UP THERE IS ON HIS HORSE, AND I TOLD HIM YOU'VE GOT COWS OUT. HE'S COMING DOWN TO HELP YOU."

"Oh, thank you! That was nice -- thanks for doing that!" I shouted.

"NO PROBLEM!" the woman yelled, and lunged for her vehicle and drove away. Wow. What would she be like on steroids? I wondered.

Sure enough, in a couple of minutes my neighbor Brian came down the road riding his horse. His girlfriend followed in her SUV. Brian rounded up the cows, and the three of us easily pushed them through the gate. We then took a look at the sagging fence section that the sneaky steer had used as his private exit. We shored it up in a half-as -- er, um, we jerry-rigged it with some old boards and tree limbs.

We walked back to the road where my daughters were supposed to be waiting for us; they weren't there. When Brian had pushed the cows toward us (his girlfriend and I waited near the gate to turn the cows in -- close enough to be able to head them off should they bolt, but far enough back to give the cows some breathing room and make them think it was their idea to go through the gate), my girls had actually started screaming as they saw cows running toward them. The cows were far enough away that the girls could potentially have confused them with stampeding dachshunds. "Really?" I said to myself as my daughters, the country girls, screamed at cows who were no threat to them whatsoever. "Is that how you think you act around cows?" So I had made my kids walk up the road to stand well out of the way of the murderous cows, and then the grown-ups set to work putting the escapees back in their pasture. But when we cow herders returned to the road, my daughters weren't there.

I stood in the road for a few minutes talking with my neighbors; Smedley and Sparky came sidling up. They were carrying their biggest stuffed animals, and Smedley had been crying. "What's the matter, honey?" I asked as Smedley burst into tears and approached me to be hugged. Turns out she was sure that something had happened to me when I didn't come back right away, because she couldn't see me. She took her four-year-old sister and unlocked Grandma's house, went in and fed the fish and the cats. Wow, responsibility through her tears -- I'm impressed. Then the girls ran home to our house and packed a couple of favorite stuffed animals, since Smedley was sure they were now orphans and would have to move away.

Upon hearing the word "orphans," Brian threw his head back and laughed. I, however, didn't even blink. I'm used to the drama.

"Honey," I reminded Smedley, "Did you think that Daddy wasn't coming back, too? He's just at work, you know." But Smedley must have had an answer for that, because after fetching the stuffed animals she had dragged Sparky over to another neighbor lady's house to tell her the sad tale. When the neighbor offered to call Daddy at work, Smedley must have felt her drama slipping out of her grasp, and opted instead to "go out looking for Mama." Sparky remained unfazed by the whole spectacle. She happily ran around with her teddy bear while Smedley planned their lives as wards of the state, probably homeless.

Our lives are a perfect hybrid of "Green Acres" and "The Edge of Night." Note to self: teach girls not to scream around cows (or dogs or horses or . . .)

She looks guilty, doesn't she?

Just in case you were wondering where to buy your Christmas tree this year, may I make a suggestion? Check out my other blog, Foolery, for my own personal how-to/where-to.

And it WON'T involve Stan and Ollie, so your personal property will be safe.

(Photo stolen from these guys)

If I had been wearing swim fins and a snorkel, I would have been dressed only slightly worse than I was yesterday morning, at 9:00 a.m., while feeding hay.

I had to be at church at 9:30, kidlets in tow, but I had to feed hay first. Got the girls up, showered, dressed, fed, hair done, teeth brushed -- the whole shebang. I matched them lockstep, but added some makeup and hairspray into my personal transformation. So we were all dolled up and ready to go; I remembered to feed the outside cats on the way out, and I had enough presence of mind to grab my old tweed work coat to throw on while I fed hay (it's lovely).

But I felt pretty stupid when I found myself standing on the haystack in a black wool shirt and black tights, throwing flakes of hay into the stiff north wind. Each flake I launched into the air sent a shower of hay and dust cascading back onto my black clothing, and onto my black shoes, which had HEELS. At least they weren't pointy-toed stilettos -- naww, they were just my old black Fart Shoes -- but still, they were grossly inappropriate farm shoes, and they had a mighty thick coating of chaff clinging to them by 9:15.

But by far the worst choice I had made that morning was to apply lip gloss before I left the house. Have you ever fed hay in a gale while wearing lip gloss? No, I didn't think you had; I'm the only one here dumb enough to have tried that one. For the uninitiated, lip gloss has the consistency of glue, and when a 25-mile-an-hour sustained wind whips your freshly-brushed hair across your face, as it will the second you get out of the car, the hair glues itself to the lip gloss and stays there. This tends to occlude one's vision, which can make walking on a haystack somewhat treacherous, relying (as I do) on one's sense of sight to get around.

So, there I was, standing on a haystack in heels and tights and wool galore, wielding a gigantic hay knife, my hair firmly glued down tight over my whole face, feeding hay into a powerful wind.

Not so much.

Warmer.
(Photo stolen from these guys)

Oh, did I mention my nose was running?

I had my own special little prayer once I reached the church.