Angel Wheeler

Try it, you’ll like it.

Wild West Willy called the other day. He said he was going to stop by after he milked a goat.

My ears perked up at the mention of goat milking.

If you’ve been a reader for very long, you might know goats are my next homesteading adventure. Just quick as I get these here chickens learnt good.

The problem with my goat adventure, is the fact that I’ve never drank goat’s milk. It would be a bad mistake to have a goat and hate her milk doncha think?

So when Wild West said he was milking a goat, I said, “Can you bring me a cup?” Unfortunately for me, this particular goat had an infection and her milk couldn’t be drank. My heart sank.

But then today, who should come driving up the path but Wild West with Tom the Goat Man, as a passenger. Just like Santa Claus, they reached into a cooler and pulled out not one, but two big jugs of goat’s milk.

“Geez Louise, I only wanted a cup!” I exclaimed.

Tom the Goat man gives me instructions: If you can’t drink all that in about 7 or 8 days, put a little salt in it. If it spoils, you can make cheese.

Okay. I’m sorry, but salt in my milk doesn’t sound good at all, and cheese made from spoiled milk doesn’t either. Although I realize spoiled cheese is probably what I’m eating on my grilled cheese sandwiches.

You know what I find strange? We are so conditioned to buying our food from the grocery store already “fixed” for us, that the idea of food raw from an animal is a little unsettling to me. Deep down I know it’s better for me nutritionally, but when I think hard about it, it’s a wee bit abhorrent. I must get over that.

The men drove off and my emotions kicked in about drinking goat milk.

I desperately want to like it. I desperately want to be a goat milker.

But I’m apprehensive. The last time I ate something from the goat farm, I contracted goat flu.

Questions flood my mind.

Am I gonna like it?

Is it gonna make me sick?

Is it gonna gross me out?

Will it be strong tasting?

Will it have an odor?

I open the container and peer inside.

It looks like milk.

I bend over and smell it.

It smells like nothing. Absolutely no odor at all.

I dip out a cupful with a measuring cup.

I rub my hands together, pick up the glass, close my eyes.

And sip.

Mmmmm.

I take another sip.

It’s creamy. It’s rich. It’s magically delicious. It tastes like milk from the store, only better.

Now, would someone please pass the cookies?

Just Ask Auntie

My niece Ashy calls me Auntie. When she was younger, she would draw it out with a long whine “aaauuuntie”. My husband and his brother started calling me that in a way to make fun. And it stuck. Now lots of friends call me auntie as well.

I’ve been getting some comments and questions from some of you, so I decided to address them in the first ever installment of “Just Ask Auntie”.

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From Reader Donna: I have a “strraaaange” feeling these babies are NEVER going to make it to the chicken house!! Has anyone ever kept their grown up chickens in the house???? for forever!!

Brandi says: I don’t think these chicks will ever live in the chicken coop, their momma will miss them too much. I can picture them all perched on the back of the couch, while you and Jason watch TV with one in each in your laps.

Aside for the non-house-brokenness of them, I might could deal with house chickens, but alas, they poop. Everywhere.

Although I could put a nappy on them, I have been strictly warned by my husband. He says the day I start diapering my chickens is the day he checks out of here, for good.

Photo source: backyardchickens.com

Since I won’t be housing my chickens indoors, I must get my coop ready. I have a structure already on my property, but it needs some repair and a chicken run with a covering to protect it from those flying predators.

No, they can’t stay inside. It’s either them or J-Dub, and he cooks pretty good.

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Question from Reader Chas: How is Molasses doing?

Molasses (the chicken who sat spraddle-legged under the waterer all day long) is doing just fine. Actually, she is no longer spraddle-legged and has melded well with the rest of the flock. I can’t even recognize her anymore. She’s probably the lone chicken that I spend chasing around the yard, ducking and dodging when I try to put her in the box to come inside. Fast little Molasses.

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Question from Leon: Where’s my present?

Hopefully in your pocket by now.

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Again from Donna: Do you have a dog or a cat?

Actually I have 2 dogs. Drew Miller, named after a classmate of Ashy’s when she was in pre-school, and Grace.

Here they are walking with me yesterday. They’re fat and need the exercise. It has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that my jeans are cutting off my circulation and that I give out chasing chickens.

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Well folks, that’s it for this installment of “Just Ask Auntie” If you have a burning question that you want answered, leave me a comment and I’ll include it next time.

Happy Pecking,

Auntie

All Fowled Up

Remember this little fellow?

Henery Hawk from Looney Tunes.

“I’m a chicken hawk and I smell chicken.” His agenda was to catch a chicken.

Even though this cartoon was all fun and games, tonight I discovered this is a real life problem in my world.

I know there is a hawk around this place where I live. Probably more than one. Sometimes I see him sitting on top of an electrical pole, scouting for a field mouse or a snake in the prairie. Other times I see him swooping and flying low, at times hovering above the pasture grasses. I suspect he’s the one who killed the guinea bird that lived here when we bought the place.

Maybe you’ll remember the guinea bird who got hung up in the fence and broke his leg. Soon after, feathers were everywhere and he was something’s dinner. Probably the hawk.

I’m very aware that I need to protect my chicks from predators, hawks being one of them. I am hoping, however, that they won’t be a terrible problem.

I took my girls outside again today for some fresh air and exercise.

They were happy little peckers, enjoying the fenced in yard.

Every couple of minutes, I did a quick headcount to make sure none had run through the gap between the pickets of the fence.

They seemed to be staying put, so I left the yard to go just a few feet to feed the horses. Then I fed the dogs.

I glanced over the fence, pointing as I counted chicken heads. They were all accounted for. Still pecking around the grass, attempting to fly, and exploring the world outside. Innocent of all things evil.

I needed to get a bucket of fresh straw to put in their box before I took them in. The hay is in the next pasture. They would be fine. I would only be gone a minute. What could possibly go wrong?

I headed out with my bucket, fully aware of the danger they were in being left unattended.

Bending over to gather the straw, it was then that I noticed it. The ominous black shadow of outstretched wings. I gazed upward and saw the hawk, soaring, gliding through the sky.

A surge of panic overtook me. I envisioned my whole flock being annihilated in one fell swoop. That’s probably not likely, but you know how your mind runs away in a moment of panic.

I began to run. Sprinting through the pasture with a bucket of straw, staring at the sky, wondering if I could outrun a hawk, considering hollering and waving my arms. I must have looked like a complete goonie bird to my neighbor who of course, drove down the road at that exact time.

I managed to get to the yard, despite sucking wind. Heart pounding, I grabbed up the chicks two or three at a time, put them in a box, chased the last lone one for a good 70 seconds, and dragged them safely in the house.

They’re sleeping peacefully now. Completely unaware of the danger they narrowly escaped.

They may never leave the house again.

Dang that chickenhawk.

The Great Outdoors

This chickie mama act is turning out to be a harder gig than you might imagine.

The chicks are growing faster than hairs out of an old man’s ear.

They have outgrown their square box, and I found it necessary to cut two boxes and tape them together at the ends to make a larger container.

They seem a bit bored being stuck in a box all the time, so I found a brave bone in my body and decided to briefly expose them to the grass in my front yard.

Er, weeds in my front yard.

Allow them some fresh air, exercise, and curiosity.

I was home alone. I grabbed Freedom and headed out the door.

It turns out, she’s mentally challenged.

I set her down in the grass, and she stood there, still as a statue. I gave her a small nudge to get her moving, but she did not seem interested in the outdoors at all.

“She must be retarded,” I thought. I couldn’t imagine why she wasn’t pecking the ground, rummaging for bugs. So I went in and found a different chick.

This one is Bookworm, named after my school librarian Marie. Since she loves to eat worms, Marie suggested I name her Bookworm.

I hate to break it to you Marie, but she’s dumb. I even set her near an antbed and she never even glanced their way.

She just sat down, frozen in the yard.

I took Bookworm in and grabbed a yellow chick.

Same song, different verse. She didn’t walk around, peck the ground, or anything either.

I decided they couldn’t all be retarded, that just goes against the odds. I considered sticking my nose in the dirt and showing them how to peck the ground, but it didn’t take long to learn that wasn’t a good idea after all . My thoughts continued, maybe they needed a friend with them. They’re probably nervous all alone. They are flock birds after all.

So the next day, when my niece was there to help me, I tried two at a time.

They did much better and started exploring. See Freedom’s little tail? I’m in love with it.

J-Dub came home and I told him about our outdoor adventure.

The next day, he helped me take them all outside while I changed the litter in their box.

They are so funny. We got a kick out of watching them attempt to fly, peck around, and fuss with each other.

Even Deuce came over to check out the chicks. Typical male.

Then it was time to catch them to put them back in their box.

For the most part, they all stayed together huddled up. But when the human hands began reaching down to grab them, tail feathers went up, and scurrying and peeping began.

We were able to grab them all, with lots of laughs, until the last one. It was not keen on getting caught. There were three of us humans running around a small fenced-in yard, pursuing a chicken. We couldn’t hardly catch it for laughing so hard. You’ve probably seen a cartoon exactly like it. J-Dub reached down with both hands ready, and caught a fist full of air as the little chick ran between his legs.

After several attempts, she was nabbed and back in the box.

Great family fun was had by all.

I can’t wait for the weather to warm up, for their feathers to all grow in, and more laughs to come as we watch them grow.

S.O.A.P. #3

Today I’ve been convicted. Not of a crime, but of a wrong.

Yesterday I blogged about the joy I felt when finding my dad’s writings in my storage building. The anxiousness and excitement I felt to read them.

It was a treasure, how someone who had passed on could still speak to me. And then God was like, “Hello, Mcfly!” tap*tap*tap on my head (Back to the future reference in case you’re wondering.) “Anybody in there?”

And he continued to speak to me and show me that He too is my Father who is not physically with me but has left me his words and his writings. Why am I not as anxious and excited about His book and words? Why do I not immediately sit and pore over them like I did my dad’s journal.

In the same way I entered a dark storage building and it was flooded with light, so our dark lives can also be illuminated by the Words of God.

“Your word is a lamp to my feet and a light to my path.” Psalm 119: 105

I must confess that since my dad died, I have not been spending time reading my Bible. And I must. I must make a priority of it.

Dear Father, Thank you for loving me despite my shortcomings. Thank you for my dad, his life, and his writings. Help me to find your words riveting and captivating. Show me understanding and discernment while I read your Word. Forgive me for not making time for you. In Jesus name.

In Memory of My Dad #6

It’s Saturday. Which means I’m thinking of my dad today.

He died on a Saturday.

My sister nailed it when she compared it to a new born’s age. You count every day of their life. Here in the beginning stages of my dad’s passing, and our grieving, we count each day too. It’s been 12 days, It’s been 18 days. We have now entered the week stage. Five weeks. Thirty-five days.

I have a storage building sitting in the backyard of my mother’s house. It was the very first thing I bought, outside of a car. My uncle owned and ran a portable building shop and he sold me a building for $600. I, being very young, but needing a place to store my stuff when I moved back in with my mother, paid him $50 a month for a year until it was paid for. Interest free.

My dad asked to store some boxes there once. The building just sits. No one ever adds to or takes away.

Today something compelled me to go to the building. I opened the heavy door, cautious of waspers that sometimes fly about. I pulled the heavy door open, stepped inside, and the Texas panhandle wind blew it shut, leaving me in the dark. Outside, I saw a rake lying near and propped it open. Inside were boxes from my highschool years, old clothes, a box of carebears from my childhood, an old couch and chair, a desk, and several boxes belonging to my dad.

They were labeled in his handwriting: Important papers, Colored Bottles and Teapots, and of course Books.

I love his handwriting. But more than that, I love his writing. His actual writing. So often the people who knew him and speak of him, talk about his words. Just today at my garage sale, an old co-worker of his spoke of how he could write and use words so well. I know that his special friend Jane fell in love with him through his commentaries in the local newspaper before she ever even met him.

Being a “writer” myself, I was thrilled when I opened a box and found his stories from his stint at the newspaper, and then I found a journal. A small, light green spiral bound Mead notebook. On the cover is printed in his hand NOTES #1 Journal. The inside cover reads in cursive The Journals of Bob, and printed on the back cover is The Journals of Robert lee—soldier, statesman, Author. My mom always cautioned me about keeping a journal. Others will someday read your innermost thoughts and feelings. I’m anxious to read this journal, but I’m also excited. I’ll hear from him again. His words will live on.

I do believe my dad lived longer than he ever thought possible. In the Important Papers box, there was a manilla envelope filled with printed computer articles with titles such as “Brain Basics: Preventing Stroke”, “Guidelines for Management of Ischemic Attacks”, “Practice Guidelines for Acute Stroke” that my sister had mailed him in 1998.

And written in his hand on the outside of the envelope in a red pen are these words:

In these, my final years, I believe in Love.

I also believe in Kindness, Tenderness and Mercy.

I believe in The goodness of mankind.

I above all believe in family.

I must never let my life be ruled by drink or drugs. I must never let my happiness depend on the thoughts, whims or demands of another person.

I swear that I will never forget the goodness of Truth and honesty. I will always remember the harshness of life…And, I will always know its warmth.

I have known its Love.

Bob

’98

55 years, and holdin’

2 or 3 strokes

Each Saturday after today, I’m going to share a story from my dad.

Until I run out of stories.

Or Saturdays, whichever comes first.

Things and Stuff

A few years ago, I went to a training by a lady named Ruby Payne. She is reportedly an expert in studying the poor class and gives insight to understanding poverty. When I first took this class I was a fairly new teacher and I remember being fascinated by what I learned. I wanted to share it, so I excitedly told my dad I had been to this great training, and had learned this fabulous stuff from an expert in poverty. His response was, “You’re pretty much an expert in poverty too, ain’t ya?” He’d lived it himself, and really didn’t care what she had to say.

In Ruby Payne’s book, she has a short test to take. You check things off that you can do, for example, open a checking account, order from a French menu, bail someone out of jail. Then you tally up your checkmarks, and you discover which social class you could survive in: poverty, middle class, or wealthy.

Among the items I checked that I was able to do was “move in half a day.”

I must confess, I could no longer check that one. Back when I took the test, I practically owned nothing. I was a single gal, living in a one bedroom house and had to hang my clothes on a line to dry. It would’ve been easy with a few friends and a couple truckloads to get all my possessions out of one house and into another in a very short amount of time.

Not now.

We started the moving process five weeks ago. A matter of fact, I was in the throes of packing my kitchen cabinets the day I received the phone call telling me my dad had died. Boxes of plates and dishes sat abandoned for a week while we dealt with the stuff one must deal with to bury a loved one. When we returned from Oklahoma, I resumed life and work, and the following week we began moving. There are still boxes to unpack at my new house, boxes to load at my old house, and dumpsters to fill down my alley.

Today I had a garage sale. I have too much stuff. Don’t we all? Aren’t we just a bunch of spoiled rotten Americans?

Here’s a little trivia to gnaw on.

The average size American home in 1950 was 983 square feet compared to 2,349 square feet in 2006. Interesting? Yes, I think so.

My garage sale turned out pretty good for me, but I had some tough decisions to make while preparing for it. Should it stay or should it go? After all, we have moved to a smaller home with practically no storage at all. So I had to say good-bye to some old “friends”.

It seems that I get sentimentally attached to my stuff. I had a little pink tea set that my oldest brother bought me probably 12 years ago. I’ve held onto it because it’s one of the few things I’ve received from him. But as I was sorting through my crap and dealing with the mental banter of keep it, sell it, keep it, sell it, keep it, sell it; these thoughts occurred to me: 1) My brother doesn’t remember giving this to me. 2) He didn’t even purchase it himself 3) He gave my sister or my mom 20 bucks in an airport once and said “Buy Angel something.” 4) It was probably the only thing in the airport gift shop under 20 bucks 5) Look how dusty it is, it’s just something else to clean.

Those thoughts made my decision much easier. I put it in the garage sale, but I didn’t sell it. Actually I gave it away to my realtor aunt who dropped by to put a for sale sign in the yard. She said when she got home she would put my name on the bottom of it so I could have it back someday!!

AAAAARRRRGGGGHHHHHHHHH!

I hope she at least dusts it first.

Get up.

I woke up this morning with a song in my head.

It went something like this: I get knocked down, bum ,bum, bumbumbum, bum, bum, bumbumbumbumbumbum bum bum.

As you can see, the lyrics escape me. As do most lyrics.

For years, I thought Van Halen was saying “Animal” instead of “Panama”.

Aniimmmaaalllll, Ani-ma-a-a-a-al!

When you’re married to a music person like I am, they don’t let you get by with it. They correct you at every opportunity. I argued with J-Dub to no avail on that Van Halen one.

But they’re also good for when all you have to work with is bumbumbumbum.

As I pondered the song, I thought it was on oldie from my childhood. That said, “I’m a yuckmouth, cause I don’t brush.” It was a commercial from my Saturday Morning Cartoon era of the 1980’s.

But that was not the song. Even though it’s pretty catchy too.

So I say to my husband, “Hey, I got this song in my head.”

It goes like this, I get knocked down, bum ,bum, bumbumbum, bum, bum, bumbumbumbumbumbum bum bum.”

And of course, J-Dub recognized it immediately, and breaks out in song: I get knocked down, but I get up again, cause you’re never gonna keep me down.

He knew the name of the band, the song, the name of the album, from what country the band hailed, the trumpets that play in the middle and female voices that start singing “Danny Boy.”

Me? I didn’t know any of that. I don’t even know the song, but obviously I’ve heard it somewhere in the background of a movie or department store or somewhere for it to permeate my subconscious.

I like the lyrics.

The ones about getting up after being knocked down. And then there’s the ones about drinking a whiskey drink, vodka drink, and pissing the night away. Come to think of it, after I read the lyrics, maybe he’s been knocked down after drinking a whiskey drink, a vodka drink, a lager drink. It’s just a wild guess.

I don’t know what’s going on in your world today.

Maybe you’ve been knocked down.

But get up, okay?

It’s A Boy!!

It’s calving season out here on the Golden Spread.

Spring is in the air.

Trees are budding, tulips are blossoming, and heifers are birthing.

Heifers are young cows, first-time mamas. I might even be as bold as to call them teenage mothers. Unwed, teenage mothers. My husband says you have to watch heifers closely because some of them have a little bit of mothering instinct, but they also don’t know what they’re doing. For example, an old cow won’t leave their baby right after it is born, but a heifer might come a running at the feed truck, and then wig out when they realize they just left their baby. They’re inexperienced.

Because of their inexperience, a good cowboy will put them in a smaller pasture, close to some pens, and check on them sometimes twice a day, just in case one of them runs into trouble with calving.

Tonight J-Dub needed to check the heifers. So I tagged along. Only one time have I witnessed a calf birth, but it was under poor circumstances, and I would really like to see another one. No such luck tonight. We arrived right after the baby was born. Probably 15 minutes.

The mother and baby were off by themselves.

You can see the afterbirth has not completely been expelled. The mama cow was licking him and cleaning him up, which is a good sign and shows that she is going to accept him as her calf.

When she saw us driving through the gate, she got a little agitated and began bellowing at him and nudging him a bit aggressively. He hadn’t even stood yet and she was eager to get him up and out of there.

We didn’t stay long. It’s best to let nature have her way, and cows don’t send out birthing announcements. They like their privacy. So we headed home. As we were pulling off, I asked J-Dub if he could tell if it was a boy or a girl. He said it was a boy.

I came home to blog about this beautiful birth, and of course my pet chicken Freedom wanted out of the box. She was perched right on my hand and I was just typing away. I thought to myself, what a cute picture. I grabbed my phone to take a shot, trying to get Freedom, my hand, and the keyboard in view, and just as I was about to click the picture, Freedom squatted down and took a grunt right on my desk.

Look closely and you can see the squirt shooting out of her chicken butt.

Okay, laugh at me all you want.

It’s what I get for having house chickens.

A Little Fruity

I walked down the hallways of my school today and the scent of strawberry shortcake assaulted my nose. Not that strawberry shortcake is a bad thing, quite the contrary. It wasn’t real strawberry shortcake however, someone was burning a candle, or had a smell-good of some sort in their room. The smell immediately took me back to my childhood home on Seminole Street and a doll I used to have.

It was a Lemon Meringue Doll from the Strawberry Shortcake Collection. The best part about this doll was when you squeezed her tummy a little burst of lemon scented air would escape from her mouth. I think my sister had a Strawberry Shortcake one. They claimed they were blowing you kisses. But I loved her. I squeezed her tummy and smelled her breath all day long.

Isn’t it funny how a smell can lift you from the place your standing (even when it’s outside the stinky restrooms of a schoolhouse) and plant you in a place you haven’t visited in years.

It’s like the pie my co-worker gave me a couple of weeks ago. It was a strawberry cream pie. I had never had strawberry cream pie. The minute I tasted it, my mind went a’whirlin’, trying to place the familiarity of the taste. I couldn’t quite find it, so I had another piece while I pondered. I was getting a little bit closer to solving the mystery, but I needed one more piece. Then I nailed it. It was exactly like a strawberry parfait from Kentucky Fried Chicken. You know the one with graham cracker crumbs in the bottom and then layered whip cream. Just to confirm, I had one more piece. Score on The Little Bucket Parfait. My dad used to always buy us those. He loved KFC. I prefer the lemon parfait. I think it has something to do with the sprinkles.

All good things must come to an end. Eventually the scent from Lemon Meringue’s breath wore out to just plain old air. What became of her, I don’t know. But I noticed she’s worth about $45-85 bucks today. Even the parfaits seem smaller to me now.

Nothing stays the same.

But today, I stood in the hallway of my school waiting on my boys to finish playing in the bathroom, and I spent a little time in a memory.

One memory led to another and then that one to another.

Then my mouth started watering.

And it hasn’t stopped.