Ye can tak th’ Border Collie

oot o’ th’ “Heelands” ~

boot ye canna tak

th’ Heelands

oot o’ th’ Collie.

*sigh*

Got sheep?
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Sister managing a coop upgrade, March 2008

One of the glorious things about being an adult in a free country is the fantastic range of choices available ~ on everything from toothpaste brand to career. Sometimes, though, the available choices just aren’t as appealing as a dazzling smile or a bigger paycheck ~ sometimes they’re just plain crummy and difficult. That’s when being an adult isn’t so much fun.

Last Friday when I came home from work, I found Sister Perla wheezing and ill. In the two days that followed we had many ups and downs, and I combed my poultry forums, books, veterinary articles and personal files to discover the cause of this sudden-onset, dry, asthma-like condition. It just didn’t match anything I had yet found, and we were stumped. I ended up doing a combination of things in an effort to ameliorate her symptoms while not making things worse if I happened to be wrong.

Nothing worked. By Sunday morning Sister was down, her strong, feisty body weakening from lack of oxygen. It was decision time, and neither choice was acceptable to me. I sat with her, watching and considering, when I noticed the onset of cyanosis in her comb and wattles. That was it for me, and once the decision was made we quickly made preparations to end her suffering. There would be no vet, no office, no panicked car trip holding a blanketed creature: it was Sunday, and my girl was suffering.

Although ultimately the responsibility was mine, RT chose in his manly fashion to wield the axe (incidentally, one of the finest gifts I could receive from someone). We would take no chances with a botched attempt at neck wringing: this would have to be decisive, and we would have to be quick. We prepared the area, and I brought my small, slender bird to the block. She laid in relative peace until the blow, and after the axe struck, her small body breathed in deeply once, and then again ~ finally free of the terrible mystery-blockage that had plagued it for two and a half days. At last she was still, and RT and I stood bathed in sweat, staring blankly at each other while the sound of a cicada chirred across the muggy Tennessee sky.

The rational part of my brain dictated that we should attempt a post mortem examination so I could determine the cause of illness ~ and more importantly, so that I could hopefully prevent this from happening to another hen. We made a half-hearted attempt at this, but the feeling part of my brain could not bring itself to desecrate her sacred little body by separating it into its individual components. She was a laying hen, a pet, after all ~ not a nameless broiler with an 18-week shelf life; I did not raise her with the intention of ending things like this.

Later that day we buried her under an old tree at BD and Miss Pat’s, with a sprinkle of corn scratch and silent wishes for peace on her travels. She is in interesting company, with old Brandy, Sally and Little Uma resting nearby. On the drive home I thought about the gradualness of the body’s death, conflicting belief systems, and choices.

I figured the body takes several days to finish dying.

I figured the difference between a piece of meat and an object of affection is simply intent.

I figured the more we remove the personal choices of the creatures around us, the more responsibility we have for their well being.

I figured if I were a real farmer I would not still be ruminating over the whole thing.

In the grand scheme of things, in this world of great joy and unlimited depths of suffering, this tiny death in a tiny backyard in a tiny town isn’t even a blip on the radar. In that brief moment of Sister’s final breath, countries warred, children died, prisoners languished, mothers cried for lost sons, animals suffered unspeakable cruelty at the hands of the ignorant. Disease and famine tore families apart, and a host of other people gazed at the sky and wondered at the reason for their lives and deaths. What value, then, of one backyard hen? My sense is that yes, it is hardly noticeable ~ but it is somehow essential for the integrity of the full Picture.

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Yes ma’am, would you like your death served quickly or slowly? ~ A lousy choice. The kind that deepens the crow’s feet around my eyes. But I willingly accept the responsibility of this choice: it’s the least I can do for my friends.

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What secrets does the future hold for this dark-haired lass?

We first met in 1997: you were perky, beautiful and gloriously pregnant, and despite your rounded belly you managed to wear sexy pumps and stylish skirts to work. How much water has passed under the bridge since then (although somehow I know you are still wearing sexy pumps)! With the long years and miles between us it would be easy, I suppose, to let this friendship slide into the past ~ yet somehow you manage to remind me you are here with me, always. I still know without a doubt that if I got into a jam I could call you and you would be there to help. (”Trust me?“)

1997. Daniela was born on Bastille Day that year, and every year since then I have sent a poem to commemorate the arrival of Little D ~ until last July, when The Girl broke her back. I have not forgotten my failure, so I hope I can make it up to you by sending my schmoopiness over the ether for all to see and groan.

I usually send child-like poems, but D is not really a little girl any more, is she? She is dreaming big girl dreams, so this year I’ll send out a wish that she will never stop chasing them.

Love you, Ang! Wish Daniela a very happy birthday for me.

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I flung my soul to the air like a falcon flying.
I said, “Wait on, wait on, while I ride below!
      I shall start a heron soon
      In the marsh beneath the moon—
A strange white heron rising with silver on its wings,
          Rising and crying
        Wordless, wondrous things;
      The secret of the stars, of the world’s heart-strings
        The answer to their woe.
Then stoop thou upon him, and grip and hold him so!”

My wild soul waited on as falcons hover.
I beat the reedy fens as I trampled put.
      I heard the mournful loon
      In the marsh beneath the moon.
And then, with feathery thunder, the bird of my desire
          Broke from the cover
        Flashing silver fire.
      High up among the stars I saw his pinions spire.
          The pale clouds gazed aghast
As my falcon stooped upon him, and gript and held him fast.

My soul dropped through the air—with heavenly plunder?—
Gripping the dazzling bird my dreaming knew?
      Nay! but a piteous freight,
      A dark and heavy weight
Despoiled of silver plumage, its voice forever stilled—
          All of the wonder
        Gone that ever filled
      Its guise with glory. O bird that I have killed,
        How brilliantly you flew
Across my rapturous vision when first I dreamed of you!

Yet I fling my soul on high with new endeavor,
And I ride the world below with a joyful mind.
      I shall start a heron soon
In the marsh beneath the moon—
A wondrous silver heron its inner darkness fledges!
          I beat forever
        The fens and the sedges.
      The pledge is still the same—for all disastrous pledges,
          All hopes resigned!
My soul still flies above me for the quarry it shall find!

- William Rose Benét, The Falconer of God
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Cakes and sausage

**** 7/18 UPDATE: Middle Bro has finally brought forth the recipe for Grandpa Jack’s Sunday Buttermilk Pancakes. Click the link for the recipe! ****

Today’s post is a guest blog post written by Middle Brother.

When I called my sister yesterday and asked her why she hadn’t updated her blog all week, she started whining about sick animals and computer problems. I figured it was time to take matters into my own hands and get things done, so today this blog is MINE. There won’t be any poetry written by dead guys - - we’re going to talk about one of the important things in life. Food. Namely, my food.

When we were growing up, our family had some great vacations. Our grandparents were involved in many of these trips, and we would visit them in Florida or at their summer cabin in Ontario, Canada. I have a lot of great memories of these times, and a large part of our family get-togethers involved food - - lots and lots of food. One of my favorite memories was of the times when Grandpa would make his famous pancakes: he would step into the room and say in his low, gravelly voice, “Guess what we’re having for breakfast — buttermilk pancakes.” Grandpa’s pancakes were gigantic and filling, but the texture was always light and fluffy. My cousins, my younger brother and I used to have contests to see who could eat the most, and Grandpa would make pancakes until everyone was finished. Good stuff.

I am not really sure if I want the world to have Grandpa’s pancake recipe, but I am pretty sure there aren’t too many people reading Jen’s blog so I think we’re safe. As soon as I figure out how, I will post the recipe here, on her main website recipe section.

One of the important things for the batter is to use fresh, fresh ingredients. Even the flour and baking powder need to be fresh. Also, keep the measurements exact (pack and level off the dry ingredients).

Getting started

After the batter comes the wait while they cook on the griddle. Grandpa taught us to watch the bubbles along the outside of the pancakes: when there are a good number of them rising and popping, you’re ready to flip.

Good things cookin’

When the pancakes are ready, you can dress them up any way you want. My wife likes them with strawberries and whipped cream.

Cakes ‘n strawberries

As for me, I like them straight up with real maple syrup, like the kind we used to get in Canada. I picked up some of the good stuff when I was back in New York in May, and I used some of that on my pancakes today. There’s nothing like real syrup!

Shortstack

I have never had pancakes anywhere else that could match Grandpa’s, although maybe some of the magic is in the memories I have of great times with family. Who knows! Try them yourself - - maybe you’ll start your own family tradition.

Now, guess what we’re having for breakfast….??

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Baby Jen helping BD Soupski raise the flag, ca. 1970

It sometimes strikes me as amazing that every four years in this country we undergo a process of revising or confirming our leadership ~ without violence or bloodshed. We are a fortunate and jaded people, and we spend a great deal of time criticizing the status quo in this land. This doesn’t particularly bother me, as the mere fact that we can safely (and sometimes loudly) criticize things is a pretty incredible freedom.

I am profoundly grateful for the foresight of the people who wrote our Declaration of Independence and our Constitution ~ those who set the wheels of our freedom in motion, some with their very lives. They helped set the stage, and it is for us to finish creating the potential.

For our fellow Americans, have a safe and happy Fourth of July! For our friends of other nations, our household sends good will and blessings to you and yours.

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“Our reliance is in the love of liberty which God has planted in us. Our defense is in the spirit which prizes liberty as the heritage of all men, in all lands everywhere.”

- Abraham Lincoln
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