Alecto's Ophelia

Little Girl is turning 9

 

The truth is I've never been able to let go of fabric scraps. When I've finished making something the remnants get folded or tossed (depending on size) into a plastic bag and when the bag is full it gets shoved in a closet. Yesterday I had myself an archaeological dig through the last seven years (which is when I started sewing again). I had a hard time tossing out those scraps on the floor this morning. The scrap to the right got tossed back into the pile.

I need to make things. I have always needed to make things. Generally they need to be beautiful and always functional. Sometimes I find something I've built awkwardly, like the chicken spit over the fire beautiful simply in it's functionality and the fact that I did it, all by myself. Beautiful in the fact that I made it up the same way I felt when I was seven and made fairy circles in the woods out of fallen leaves (which I admit to doing right up until I was fifteen and riding my pony through the woods) I find that I am happiest when I have made something from found or foraged bits and pieces. Beauty out of chaos and in a lot of cases the beauty of chaos. If you can look past the learned or maybe even innate need to have order in the world which is just that illusion of control sticking its head back up out of the primordial muck of the old brain.

And then we come to Little Girl's birthday parties. I didn't really do this for my boy or Cletus for a number of reasons mostly having to do with being mind numbingly shy. The best birthday party to date was the boy's eighth. It was a scavenger hunt in November (because he had the audacity to be born in November) in the cold and muck on the mini farm in Oxford. We had helpers (which really weren't needed because any eight year old who can read will go to the ends of the earth to solve a puzzle and find the buried treasure which happened to be burlap bags full of candy and small toys. The boy was at a terribly elite private school repeating the second grade because the public school still had that policy of social promotion. He wasn't ready for third grade, hell, he wasn't ready for public school, he never was. So we stuck him in St. Margaret's-McTernan in Waterbury which required a 12 mile drive back and forth every day which wreaked havoc with my schedule not to mention my sensibilities. Momma paid the $9,000 tuition because we could barely afford the gas to get him there and back every day.

The boy's story in that school is worth several posts on its own but what matters here is that despite the instructions on the invitations requiring boots and clothing that could be muddied without permanent damage we still had little girls in white party dresses and black mary-janes and boys in little suits with spit shined loafers. A lot of parents took one look at the course and ran back home to fetch the boots, many of which were riding boots that cost more than two months of groceries even today.

Little Girl's parties occur because Little Girl is so terribly social and I've gotten better at coping. We've had one extravagant party to date and it nearly killed me. Twenty-two kids (or something like that) at $22 a head (or something like that) to go into that noise factory and tear the place apart for 90 minutes. It was a very expensive little hell I bought myself. Everything else has been creative and mostly inexpensive. This year we are having a quilting bee. The invitations request that each girl show up with a yard of cotton fabric and something for the local food pantry. There are to be no other gifts. The birthday present is the quilt. I'll have them do as much as they can by hand and then we'll finish it up on the machine. I've got two of those thanks to my mother who bought Cletus a cute little Singer when she was twelve.

Little Girl's dad is printing the top of the invitations because that's what he does, fabulous graphics guy that he is. I made the eight mini quilts last night in a state of blissful zen until about 1 AM when I got halfway through the eighth and called it a night. These need to be mailed on Monday because we've moved the date forward to December 5th and given the social calendars around here we really do need four weeks notice and I absolutely refuse to send out those save the date things.

There was very little measuring, no ironing but a need to make them all the same because I liked the pattern (I only messed that up once but I also nearly completed one wrong side out and had to pull out the stitches and start over). Thankfully I've still got a boatload of quilt batting left over from the last quilt made five years ago for Cletus and the boy's half brother. Of the five different bits of fabric, four are from dresses made for Little Girl a few years ago. One is from a dress I wore out even though it looked damn ridiculous on me.

They look like little pot holders, don't they? I only stuck myself with the needle once or twice but I DID cut my jeans once. One half inch slice out of my stupid expensive date jeans. Sigh. Serves me right for the conceit of buying them in the first place. I look forward to wearing them with either a bright patch of fabric or just plain sutures. 

 

Samhain

 

Do you know where your broom is?
 

Four Years and Four Days - the Handparting

 
Open the photo. Make it bigger.Every little detail matters.

Three things Anais Nin said

 

These things strike me. Right upside the head. One of them ought to have the gender reversed and then tattooed on the inside of my eyeballs.

"We don’t see things as they are; we see them as we are."

“There came a time when the risk to remain tight in the bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom.”

“Anxiety is love's greatest killer. It makes others feel as you might when a drowning man holds on to you. You want to save him, but you know he will strangle you with his panic.”

 

Grateful

I have foiled the broiler chick breeders. My chicks got way too much exercise and not nearly enough food to support that exercise and then went and had to eat bugs and grass and other stuff chickens appear to eat if you let them loose. I'm halfway to pastured chickens except I'd really have to commit to that chicken tractor not to mention all the other things that go into properly pasturing animals (um, not yet, ok?) and I'd have to think about finishing them the same way a pastured cow is finished. Well ok, maybe not the same but same idea.

They needed to be a bit fatter. Maybe. On the other hand, this is chicken and it wasn't raised by Mr. Perdue who has probably been cryogenically frozen and is currently hanging with Walt. I'm going to finish the rest anyway. More food, corn and table scraps? No sequestering though. Everybody needs exercise to be healthy. I'm just sure of it.

The meal felt like Thanksgiving. More so than any other Thanksgiving I can remember. We were all there, NoMans, Little Girl's Dad, Numba One Son, Cletus, Little Girl and me. We were all there. It's the first meal since NoMans left that there hasn't been any tension at all, not even between Cletus and NoMans . Little Girl's Dad is always well behaved and Numba One Son has impeccable manners when the tension isn't about him. Hey! That's a parental result! Yayyyyyyyyyyyyyyy Alecto! (sorry about that, I takes em where I sees em given the way I've chosen to raise my children.)

I was pleased that it started out as a 100 foot meal. I added the 10 mile apples and the squash from who knows where and then the salt, pepper and wine and beer. I already know I can have a 100 foot meal; got nuthin against the rest of that stuff at the moment. Just because I didn't cook the beans or butternut squash the chicken, potatoes and garlic were enough.

Nobody says grace in this family, we just don't. It comes out in other ways that show up when we're conscious. Conscious of each other, what we're eating, wearing, being, having or doing. Times when we actually hear each other.

At one point in the meal I made NoMans eat part of the chicken liver which was the best damn chicken liver I've ever eaten and given the fact that this guy can literally live on chopped liver and crackers given the opportunity it was pretty funny that he backed away from this stuff. Part of it was having watched me remove it from the birds, inspect it and then set it aside the same way a cat might set aside something yummy for later or to give as a gift. I get whole mice from my guy and I consider that honorable. Or he's overfed, not sure. He did eat a very small bite (NoMans, not the cat. The cat would have eaten all of it) and then said he couldn't eat it without a cracker. I found him a cracker, mashed it up and spread it. To give him credit, he did eat the entire thing but when I made a move toward the rest of the liver he was pretty clear that was the end of it.

About half way through the meal I realized I felt somewhat cannibalistic almost as if I was eating the family pet but not exactly. I didn't feel wrong, just different, as if the wall between me and my food came down with a bang and I was right up against it. We all were. All plates were clean by the end of the meal and that never happens. They may have been cleaned out of respect but cleaned anyway. Nothing was thrown out other than the carcasses which I just did not have the time or energy to simmer into stock last night. Cletus stripped what was left from the legs and added it to what little was left of the white meat. She's never been that diligent before and I didn't even have to ask her to. The rest of those birds will be chicken tacos tonight and tomorrow.

Grateful. And God is Good.

Amen.

Give what you take.

 

Normally I'd start with a warning and a disclaimer but, you know, if that photo doesn't do it I don't  know what will. I often find that offended people read all the way to the end of a post before expressing outrage. This is Wednesday night's dinner so hush up already. Unless you want to comment on his size. It's OK, I'm kind of giggling too.

Lets start with I don't want to pay $20 - $30 for a chicken that may or may not be full of gunk I'd rather not eat or feed my family and most likely, regardless of the label, spent it's life in very tight uncomfortable quarters. If I'm going to buy a chicken I'd just as soon pay the $6 and take my chances. OK, not entirely true but this is me looking for something I can live with.

Moving right along there's this conversation I have about being separated from my food. I'm not so far off the farm to at least know I ought to know where my food comes from, how it's raised, fed and processed and how to feed myself if I needed to. I need to. Because. (whole other conversation I suppose.)

Last year we had our first laying hens and they tickled the hell out of me except for when the raccoons were eating them and then later the chicken hawks. I lost all six by mid spring this year. I lost my husband too but it was a lot easier to just buy six more chickens and get on with it. I did locate him, by the way, he has not been eaten by chicken hawks or raccoons. Just a brain tumor. That's my story and I'm sticking to it. Anyway, the chickens. Three vanished almost instantly. I clenched my jaw and ordered 6 more. 2 showed up before I brought the next 6 home and then I had 8 and suddenly 10 and now I have 9. They were living in the neighbor's exceptionally expensive landscaping. 

This year I don't know what I was thinking other than when you're in what feels like a state of complete melt down there's only one thing that works. Keep walking. CG says chop wood carry water. That's about the extent of it. The garden started late and got et by fungus that wasn't me or mine (late blight in the Northeast, just damn SAD). I ordered 20 broiler chicks not having any real idea what I was getting into. I kept them in the house for a week in a small dog crate with tape to keep them from escaping. I moved them into Simon's 'baby' crate (it's, um, an airline crate big enough for a small elephant but he doesn't fit in there now). After three weeks they smelled so bad I moved them to the garage at night and in what turned out to be a glorified play pen encased in chicken wire during the day. Surprisingly all but two lived. One was DOA so I'm not sure I'm going to count that. The second just didn't make it and was put out of it's misery early.

They ate baby food until about nine days ago when I ran out and then switched everybody back to the laying feed because a few weeks ago I put them into the chicken pen because they were too big to mess with in the garage. The nine remaining mean girls stopped laying instantly (almost) and beat the shit out of the babies. We had to quarantine them in batches but they all survived. Thrived, actually. What I call baby food is just that nifty mash they make for little guys which is intended to make them fat as hell I think and turn them into little blobby balls that can't stand up anymore. I learned that along the way but my guys are looking pretty sleek these days. Sleeker than I'd like, actually, but I can do something about that. I'm thinking of the gingerbread house but I'll get that out of my head immediately (now it's in yours, thank you).

This whole time I'm watching them, feeding and watering and inspecting for wounds and healing and later when the fighting was over just plain good health. They're different than the Rhode Island crosses I've got for eggs. The girls are flighty but manageable. These guys are something else altogether and flighty doesn't quite describe it. They remind me of obstinate two year olds. And I love them. They are, however, dinner.

It was raining yesterday but not miserable. On my way home from Bikram (the LONG way around) I went by the localish Agway looking for a killing cone because I'd just plain forgotten about it and really wanted to get started on this process at least to see how I did and how much help I thought I might or might not need going forward. When I asked for a killing cone the kid behind the counter had no idea what I was talking to and the older woman looked at me like I had three heads but she knew what I was talking about. "We don't carry that stuff here." OK. Going home now.

You know those two liter soda bottles? Well all I can say is they're not big enough. After stuffing the first little guy head down into a bottle with the top and bottom cut away and a VERY long shoe string for hanging it I gave up and did it the only way I knew how.

With a pair of kitchen shears. Seriously, it was not meant to go this way but you know what? Those kitchen shears cut right through that guy and it was over as quickly as it might have been if I'd actually HAD a really sharp knife. I'm not irresponsible I'm an unprepared idiot. Really.

I did have help. Sort of. Nomans held the legs of the first guy for me and got me more hot water for the second but otherwise escaped to the garage to take a very important phone call (took me awhile to locate him actually). What I did learn was that help is really nice to have but not required. I CAN do this and I did.

I held that guy for a bit before and after and then sat myself on a cooler and went to work on him. Swish, swish, swish in the hot water. Pull him out and have a look. Swish, swish swish back in the hot water thinking thank you, birdie like a mantra. Swish, swish, thank you little guy, for these thy gifts we are about to receive.

 

Plucking. Hypnotic, soothing and warm. This life, that life, my life and his. You forget yourself when you surrender. Nothing so simple as plucking a bird or as profound.

 
I went backwards with the photos and should have taken a picture of the boys behind held before the killing. I did not take pictures (OK, Nomans had the camera and HE did not care to take pictures) of the processing. The first was very clean. I did know that I was supposed to take the food away for 24 hours prior but I'd forgotten that also. Those scissors did a fine job too. Nothing spilled, nothing opened and it all came out together with my hand reaching into his cavity like a doctor breaking water or working around a dissolving cervix. I don't know that he's a he, by the way. I just think of them that way. Girls make eggs, boys make dinner.

So this reaching and pulling and gently removing from the bits that hold everything together was sort of like the first time I looked into the Grand Canyon. Lost in the vastness of that canyon recognizing that the bird is me and all of my innards could come out just as easily and yet they don't because nobody's reaching a hand up inside me. Twice I've had hands in my insides. Thinking about it now I'm in awe of the fact that I even lived through it much less came out with one working ovary (the first time) and my uterus intact the second. Maybe I shouldn't be so surprised. That guy's 'stuff' came out the way it did because I was conscious. The second one not so much. I relaxed, got cocky, my mind went elsewhere. It was better the first time.

I only did two. They're soaking in brine until Wednesday when I'll roast them with the pieces parts that I cut away from the insides. I probably would have processed a few more except that these were smaller than I'd like so I stopped and I'm glad.

Sitting on the couch with a glass of wine I was exhausted in a way that left me wide open and vulnerable. I forgot myself. For a moment. But I know I earned that meal more so than I've ever earned any other.

Give what you take.

Has anyone else noticed that my dog is freaking huge?!

For the love of a dog

This is my doggy. His name is Simon and he's just past 13 months. Best I can tell he's probably about 180 and given his current rate of growth and the massive size of his frame he will probably top out between 240 - 260. I have had a lot of dogs all of them wonderful in their own particular ways. Simon is the best dog ever. Giant breeds tend to be gentle loving giants. That describes my boy perfectly.

That look on his face is stuck there I think. He's gazing at the baby chicks in the chicken pen and he is completely smitten despite the fact that he is inclined to chase them when they're loose and likes to kiss them with his entire giant mouth. Cletus yells, Moooooommmmm, Simon is nomming the chickens again! He's never hurt them. So that's his look unless he's grinning. Or laying on the floor just looking at me as if I am his sole reason for being. I've been loved in my life. A lot. But I've never been loved the way this guy loves me. There is nothing quite like doggy love. You love a doggy like this, even if it's just a little bit (and I love him quite a bit more than just a bit) and he will worship and adore you until the day he dies. And then maybe even more.

This post is for Cookie Crumb. She lost her little guy fairly recently and her heart hurts terribly. My heart hurts for her. I look at my doggy and I am so unbelievably grateful for his presence.

Someday he too will cross the rainbow bridge. I will go with him right to the edge and never turn my face away. Doggies should never cross that bridge without the face of their owners. Because they'll be waiting for you. On the other side of the bridge.

And I will keep his collar and hold it to my face now and then the same way my mother did and still does to this day.

Say hello

I was looking at my stats just now mostly to see if Florkow's new blog (see sappy baby announcement one post down) might be getting any hits (not that I can tell from here but I can look at the traffic and hope for the best). Well, I've been getting lots of hits and that's always a good sign. I've also had my blog 'mined' in the last 24 hours. If you don't know what blog mining is it's when somebody discovers your blog and reads a good part of it generally scrolling backward through the index. My dad did this once and it made me uncomfortable but also reminded me to be sensitive about what I write because people actually do read this stuff. Mining has been done by others and I never knew who. I'm OK with this now. It's kind of nice, actually. I'm not so afraid of being seen. I still stay anonymous for a lot of reasons but some of you do know who I am, or work it out one way or another.As an aside, I love to mine blogs, especially new blogs that reveal another human being. Not just a reporting things.

So my blog was mined and the first thing I thought was, who are you? You met me, I haven't met you and I want to. Leave a footprint. Say hello. It's nice to meet you and all that. Unless you leave a hurtful footprint 'nice to meet you' is what you'll get from me in response. That and 'thank you for being here'. I guess a hurtful response is most likely to get a 'thank you for sharing, I appreciate your candor'.

Wherever you go, if you go there a lot or just come for a visit and read more than a page, on anybody's blog, say hello. I think that's what we're all out here for anyway.

There's an acronym I just discovered. IRL. In Real Life. The context was not quite the same but it fits here I think. This is IRL, really.

This is me:

 

And this as well:

  

 And this:

 

And this:

 

I wonder if you can leave a picture in the comment section. I would like that. So try, OK?

Very Exciting Baby Announcement! You read it here first!

This is sort of like a baby announcement. Heh. Don't shoot me, Florkow. Or do, either way I'm still publishing this and you can't do a darn thing about it! OK, here we go, baby announcement format:

A wonderful gift, so precious and sweet.
Our hearts are full, our lives complete.

September 17, 2009 
8 lbs, 6 oz
68 inches long

Florkow the Radical Unblogger

Florkow the Radical Unblogger will be having an open house at her new site to meet, greet and generally receive encouragement for sharing her life from an educated, extremely bright, single white female. Of a certain age.

Welcome to the blog world, Florkow the Radical!

p.s. I can't seem to remember how to change and or update my blog list. I'll get to that.