Day Two in Chickville

We still have six baby chicks.

The kewl thing about chicks is that no matter how wound-up you are when you get home from work, they're reliably themselves.  They live their lives under a warm red light eating, pooping, and sleeping.  Oh, and peeping, of course.  They peep in a similar fashion to sparrows, a very sweet, uplifting sound that relaxes me unless they're peeping in my bedroom at 2am, but we're not raising them in the master bedroom this year.  I do vaguely remember how that peep cut through layers of blankets and pillows like well-aimed bullets.  In a sweet, uplifting way, of course.

I'm still concerned about their health, but the fact that they made it through the night and they're all active is encouraging.  They're also all eating.  And eating.  And eating.  I think they're in a race to see who doubles their weight first.

I'll post pics soon--possibly tomorrow.  This may be as cute as they get, though you never know.  They may turn out to be very beautiful birds despite the rather plain-looking pictures I found on the web of their adult forms.

The new flock

We have chicks.

We got three black sex-link chicks and three barred rock chicks today.  No ameraucanas this time, but they may have some next Friday, at which point we may pick up three more.  We'll see.  We didn't pick out the prettiest chickens in the universe, at least to my eyes, but they're tough, reliable breeds and they'll be good layers.  Not that we need a gizillion eggs.  

I still miss my original birds desperately, especially Cleo and Hero, and Henry, and that may be why I didn't decide to wait for ameraucanas and get only that breed.  I don't want to think of these as replacements--they're their own birds with their own lives.  

Of that original flock we still have Beatrice and one of the Wyandotte roosters.  They're doing very well, although they're a bit perturbed about not being able to roam around the garden freely like they used to.  Beatrice lays one lovely pink egg every day, despite having a mere quarter of an acre on which to roam.  She's good at making due.  The rooster seems more surly lately, and attacks me when I start to leave.  I figure he's trained himself not to attack when we come in, because that might deter us from providing treats ...

I'm really anxious about introducing our babies to the older birds.  In theory they'll all be hens (the feed store changed companies after customer complaints about having too many roosters) so the rooster probably won't object to them, but still.  Fortunately that's a long ways away.  They have to get all their outdoor, grownup feathers first.  They'll still be peeping, though, when they move into the big coop, and I hope that will help the adult chickens look at them as non-threats.  They'll look almost grown-up, but they won't really be mature birds until winter has come on, at which point they should be completely integrated into the flock.

They're fast asleep right now.  Why is there always one that has to sleep with her head over the edge of the waterer?  Her beak isn't dipped into the water and she's breathing fine, but still.  Sheesh.  That can't be comfortable.

We have a better chance of having all females this time around thanks to the change in company, but I don't know if the quality of bird overall will be better.  I'm having my doubts.  I've had to clean up two pasty butts already.  I had only one sick bird last time out of the seven, and she ended up doing famously.  I'll keep my fingers crossed and hope that these all survive to become big, healthy, happy biddies.  It's not all hope, though.  We'll take the best care of them that we know how.  So far, so good.

Writer's Block

I think I've got writer's block.

I'm not sure, because as far as I remember I haven't, at least, not a full-blown-can't-write-squat.  That isn't to say I haven't had writer's block before.  I just don't remember.  My mind is like a sponge that way.  When it gets full of water stuff drips out the bottom.

The best cure for writer's block is, of course, to write.  So I'm going to be taking down notes today at work and really try to put myself into that opening that I want.  And then, tonight, I'm going to write.  Even if it's crappy.  Even if I'm sure it'll never see the light of day.  And I'll keep going.

I know I've got something going on because the last few things I've tried to write were short stories and I didn't finish them.  The idea of working on novels ... I put them off.  I make excuses.  But I know intellectually that I've written more words into novels than anything and it's novels that keep me writing, so novels should get me writing again.

In the meantime I'll try to write some articles and maybe have another go at short stories or whatever.  Whatever keeps me occupied when I put my butt in the chair.  The only rule is that if I start a short story or an article, I have to finish it.  All the way to the end.

The End

Tis the Season of the Goaty Worms

Recuperating from a long week.

The goats were looking kinda wan, so I decided to worm them even though the weather hasn't warmed up much.  

Springtime is worm season, and we've gone through worm overload problems before.  Anemia, bottle jaw, hypo-proteination ... yeah, I've learned it all the hard way.  But do I remember worming itself accurately?

Hell no.

I bought the wormer goop in an appealing-sounding flavor.  Apple cinnamon.  Sounds great, right?  And I head out to the barn.  Here goaty goaty goaties!  I waved the no-needle syringe in the air.  The goats come running.  Oh yeah, way easy.  I squeeze out a little and wave it in front of Scooter's nose.  His nose wiggles, then wrinkles.  Aw, come on!  You know you like it ...

Five minutes later I'm winded and astride Scooter, prying his mouth open with one hand while trying to push the syringe in his mouth with the other while squeezing the stopper.  White goo, scented pleasantly of apple-cinnamon, drips onto the ground and foams in his mouth.  I get most of it in and let him go.  

And he was the easy one.

The white goat won't even let me get near her.  I lure them into the barn with grain, and then the rodeo begins.  She's good with her horns ...

A couple of minutes later I walk out and they follow me, bleating for more attention.  I've got goop on my pants, on my hands, on the grain bucket, and I've stepped in some.  Fortunately I got close enough to a full dose in each of them that they should be safe.

Next month, maybe it'll be as easy as I remember it being.  You know, as easy as trimming hooves.  The way I recall it, hoof trimming isn't so bad.  

I have no idea why I keep putting it off.

Farewell, Dakota

On St. Patrick's Day, we had to put Dakota to sleep.  This morning, like yesterday, my first thought was to get up to let her out.  Every time I hear something like a dog panting, I assume it's her needing attention.  And I still try to step over the barrier to the staircase that's no longer there.

We adopted Dakota as an (approximately) eleven year old geriatric Irish wolfhound/lab mix.  For many years she lived with a homeless man, but the man died and she ended up at a shelter. Another family adopted her, but discovered that their daughter was highly allergic to Dakota.  They tried everything else first--meds for the daughter, ripping out all their carpet, keeping Dakota out of the daughter's room--but to no avail.  The little girl's allergies got worse.  The last thing they wanted to do was take Dakota back to the shelter, but they asked everyone they knew and found no one willing to adopt a geriatric dog.

A friend of ours heard about Dakota's plight and knew we were looking for a dog for our girl.  I was envisioning a small dog that the girl could have sleep on her bed in the room.  The first time I saw Dakota, though, my first thought wasn't 'too big.'  She was funny-looking, to put it politely, but her extremely calm demeanor won me over.  More importantly, she stole the girl's heart.  We took her home.

Dakota had some serious allergy problems from the get-go, but once she settled and her stress-level dropped, those allergy problems eased and she led a normal, if sleepy, happy doggy life.  It took her a long time to accept us as family.  Her deep sense of loyalty had been wounded by the loss of her first master, and then being adopted for only a short time by a second family, only to be let go ... I wasn't surprised that it took her a while to get used to us.  But she did learn to trust us, maybe even love us.

At first we tried taking her on walks with the other dogs, but we learned that although she loved the walks it was too hard on her joints.  So instead she walked herself around outside in the garden on sunny days, and in the dog yard whenever I had delicate seedlings in the veggie garden.  She was able to make her way up and down the carpet-covered stairs inside and even made it with ease up and down the deck stairs.  We trusted her not to wander, and she never went too near the road when she went on her walks.

Whenever we came home after being away for a few hours, we could see her in the front window, smiling, and often she'd let out a little, girly 'woof!' of delight.  After months of stress-panting and anxiety-related allergies, it made me so happy to see her experience joy when we came home to her.  She always came to see me when I came home from work, and I often took her with me when I worked in the garden in summertime.  She sat in the shade and made sure I wasn't attacked by evil squirrels.

Those joyful years passed too quickly.  

About six months ago she started having accidents in the house.  I also had to bar the way on the stairs because she took a couple of bad falls while going down them.  We tried different medications to keep her hips flexible.  Some of them worked for a while, and she'd have several great weeks, and then she'd be worse again.  Mostly, though, she was just stiff and not in any serious pain.  Every so often she'd get stuck in a hole that one of the puppies had dug, but we'd get her out and she'd hobble into the house on her own legs and sleep it off.

Then a little over a week ago she could hardly get up, and she couldn't bend one of her hind legs very much anymore.  She started pissing herself in her bed.  I had to give her daily baths just to keep her relatively clean, which dried out her skin and made her hips sore from the stress.  We took her to the vet, changed meds one more time, but she rapidly got worse instead of better and started to vomit and have serious bouts of diarrhea.  When she stopped eating for two days we made another appointment.  It was to be her final one.

We'd hoped there would be one more possible route to go, but the vet, a vet I trust, gave us the 'maybe it's time to let her go' talk.  We could have given her maybe another 24 hours with a steroid shot, but that shot could have also given her more complications and caused her more pain, not less.  And it was clear to the vet that Dakota's atrophied hind legs were not numb like they are in many cases, but causing her a lot of pain.  Despite our care and washing and everything else, she was getting bed sores on them, and the joints were very inflamed.  One joint was completely frozen.  She would never walk again.

The vet warned us that Dakota might hang on for a while, but Dakota let go surprisingly fast.  We held her and stroked her and told her what a good dog she was.  And she really was a great dog--loyal, gentle, protective ... so much more than I can describe.  

Maybe she'd seen her old owner and had run to him.  I know she felt safe and happy with us, and she had some really beautiful days with her new pack, but I'm sure to her last breath that she missed the man who'd raised her from a puppy, who'd taken care of her and died with her by his side.  I hope that if that was her heart's desire that she's found him and is with him again, living a gypsy life on the Long Road.

It still doesn't feel like time to put away her dog food bowl.   I know I should.  Maybe tomorrow.

The Other Side of the Hill

Just so you all know ...

Dakota, our Irish wolfhound/lab mix (a 'mini' wolfhound at 75 pounds) is very ill.  Mainly, it's old age.  Arthritis is kicking her butt, and her incontinence is getting worse.  Also, something is messing up her digestive system.  She's gotten sick a few times (even before we switched meds to try to help her) and things are not good at the other end either.  

For now we're waiting and hoping that the new medication will help her.  If not ... her quality of life has plummeted.  She can still walk on level surfaces, but she needs big time help on the stairs, often wets herself in bed, and needs a hose-down bath every day, which she hates, because she can't squat even when she makes it outside.  She just sits in the muck and ... yeah.  If that was all, I'd just deal for an indefinite period of time, but she's having more and more trouble getting comfortable.  She gets up and wanders and tries to lay down and gets up again, stress-panting.  Unfortunately it's impossible to ask her what her pain level is like.  Fortunately, once she does settle she seems to sleep very deeply and peacefully, so I'm guessing/hoping that it's low enough still that she can get good rest and isn't in continuous pain.  From what I can gather, it's very bad after she's gone outside, and then eases up enough after about a half hour to an hour that she can settle and relax.  As long as she can get good rest for the majority of the day and isn't actively complaining with whining or crying (though I wonder if she ever will) or reeling with severe pain, I'd rather wait than act too soon.

It's so hard to judge these things.

The girl adopted Dakota when Dakota was already eleven years old.  Adopting a geriatric dog has been a wonderful experience so far, and I would highly recommend it.  From the very beginning, Dakota has been loyal, sweet, obedient, and very well-heeled.  We never had to go through the chewy, messy, rowdy, destructive (although cute and yes, I love puppy breath too) puppy stage with her.  I hope Dakota will be with us a while longer, but at this point it's not looking very good.  We still have some good times of the day, but those are getting shorter.

Where do I get my ideas? Customers return them to me.

I got a new story idea joking around with my coworkers today, and another (partial) chapter idea for the Financial Guide from the Retail Side from customers being weird.

If I ever have to give up my day job, I'll miss these sorts of days.  Sure, there are lots of ideas that come to us through dreams, conversations with friends, travel, walking through downtown, etc. but they're not quite the same as the ideas that come from work stuff.  Whether work means sweating under a hot sun or shivering under the blast of a cranked-up air conditioner, you're in a very different (but still creative) headspace than when you're doodling.  

Although they suffer from being overdone, some of our richest stories are about writers because the people who write those stories are writers laboring with their fingers and hunched spines in seats that become increasingly less comfortable over the course of a long work day.  

That state of working as a physical body is a source of real richness that complements and enhances their stories.  

When a story is all pure imagination without that inclusion/acknowledgement of the sweatiness of things, there's something missing.  I can't always pinpoint stories that are lacking in that element.  They feel flat, but there are lots of reasons why a story can read flat.  Lack of life experience is another big one.  Anyway, writers that write about someone who is a writer can sometimes tap that physically-engaged labor monster within them even if they haven't had work experience beyond writing for a long time.  It's neat when that happens.  The writer's work feels more real to me.  I like that sense of realness whether I'm reading about early fifteenth century soldiers, waitresses solving murders or unicorns rampaging through moth villages.

I think that when both kinds of states of being--the doodle, and the labor monster--are employed in story creation, the story is much better than stories that are spun entirely from one side or the other.  

Naturally there also exist stories that are entirely labor-induced and have very little doodling in them.  A classic situation is where a doctor or lawyer or somesuch writes fiction as a thinly-disguised vent about the day job.  But I don't see as many stories that lack doodling as I do stories that lack that element of work in them.  Maybe that's because work is something we do to survive, connecting us to our flesh and bone and blood, and there are more writers who neglect that physical connection to the world than there are writers who embrace and even incorporate it into their writing.  Maybe they consider that aspect of existence lowly or unimportant, or maybe they just don't give it enough importance in their lives.  Isn't working an eight hour day at the diner, after all, getting in the way of their writing?  Well yes, but ...

Doodling is dreaming, and that connects us to our souls.  Souls are cool and all, but I like sensory detail, and danger, and victory.  For a story to really connect to me, flesh and bone and blood have to be a part of them.  Like a building, I need both the concept and the materials to come together before I can step inside and marvel and what human beings have engineered.  I won't just congratulate the architect, either.  That building wouldn't exist without the people who poured the foundation, pounded the nails and joined and wired and plumbed the thing.  The architect may be the artist, but the workers are the heroes that make hopes into reality.  The best writers are both artists and artisans, and their stories shine because of it.

If I leave the day job (and I won't be doing that on purpose any time soon!) I'll run the risk of losing that meat-and-bones force in my life (again.)  I'll have to find it in other ways, like putting in extra time with the garden and livestock, or start losing it gradually over time as my work experience fades into increasingly pastel memory.  In the meantime, I'll enjoy playing with my new ideas.

The Other Kind of Painting. In the Office. With Stencils.

I'm back to working on the office.  For a while it housed a very special house guest, and so the office got moved into the family room.  This turned the family room into a bit of a mess.  As accustomed as I am to messes, I don't like them to hang around forever.  Spiders (eeee!) like to make nasty little spidery nests in undisturbed, messy areas.  The ick is icky and creepy--a bad combination.

First, I have to finish painting.  I could have opted for plain walls and a plain ceiling--the condition in which it existed as a guest room--but nooOOOoo, I had to start looking through books.  Of course I found a great paint scheme which involved stencils.  I have a laser to help me mark straight lines, so putting stripes on the walls was only somewhat arduous.  

Stripes and stencils?  

It gets better.

Because of course stenciled leaves (I had to pick something with delicate details, naturally) within broad, widely-spaced stripes wouldn't look as nice without some sort of border highlighting the closet and window.

But I'm getting ahead of myself.  For now I'm just going to go into that darned office so I can start stenciling the stripes I've got on the wall so far.  I've got about half (maybe more) of the stripes filled with their background so I can put some of the furniture in its proper place.  I only want to do that so that I have room to set up the laser so that I can stripe the rest of the walls, but getting the office furnished even that little bit more will be an added bonus.  I might even go a little crazy and put some books on the shelves.

Clearly, life is one big adventure.  Now, to have at, with paint brushes, sponges, and latex.

One step forward, unknown # of steps back

@ McMenamins w/the girl and DH. Love.

I worked out really hard today, so naturally I had to have a big piece of cake after my salad lunch (I was all puffed up with virtue until I ate the cake) and then I had a pint of hard apple cider.

Getting in shape balance ... I figure I'm about even, but only because I sweated extra hard.

Actually, my waist measurement has improved, even if my weight hasn't budged.

That's enough whining for now, I guess. I'll try being good again tomorrow, maybe by eating another salad for lunch. This time I won't have cake.

Maybe.

The milestones, they are ganging up on me

We had the boy overnight for the first time since he moved out to the big metro area (to look for work.) So of course he gets his first call for an interview ...

First real interview.  How kewl.  Wish him luck!  If he gets this job it'll be a great entry-level one that will teach him a lot about working and wages and all that good stuff.  It's a huge step, even bigger than living someplace other than home.  There's so much stuff about working for someone that I take for granted that he's going to have to learn for himself.  

Assuming he gets the job, of course.  I'm really proud he even got an interview, considering how the economy is these days.  I don't know how many places I applied for and got nada, even though I have quite a bit of retail experience.

Another milestone.  They're coming in faster these days.  And soon now, the girl will be graduating.  Eeeeeeee!

Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows Part One

I just saw the latest Harry Potter movie in a second-run pub theater.  Great company, good food, but the movie didn't work very well for me.  I'd read a little about pacing issues, so I didn't go in with high expectations.  Even with that in mind, though, I had serious trouble with the way the story moved.  The elements were mostly there--fine actors, beautiful special effects that didn't distract from the story, etc.  But I kept wondering what happened to the dialogue, to the ideas, and most of all, to the charm.

I was charmed by the books, and I was charmed by many of the movies.  I don't think it was a case of no-surprises.  I enjoyed watching the story I knew come to life on the big screen in the other Harry Potter movies, as well as other movie-from-book films I'd seen.  But life is precisely what was missing here, at least for me.  

For example, I delighted in the derigible plums.  At that point I reveled in that little taste of what had been omnipresent in the books and most of the other films--the color, the environment, the quirky things that belonged there despite their often unusual character, and the sometimes awe-inspiring beauty.  These things convinced me of the existence of another world as marvelous and complex as the real one we live in every day.  I had little to nothing except those plums to convince me of another world this time.

There's an important lesson here for storytellers everywhere.  The 'telling' details often mentioned in writing courses and critiques and in criticism are really important.  They ought to be called the 'showing' details, though.  Because they show us so much, without saying a word.

Bravo to actors, special effects folks, camera men, makeup artists, costumers ... and bravo to the writers, director, producer, etc. for all the hard work, but alas, I can't recommend this movie, and I'm likely to buy it only on discount in order to complete the set after the next movie has come out, assuming this next, and last, movie doesn't do the same or worse as its brother.

Would You Like Some Help Out?

Sorting through paperwork.  Zzzzzzz ...

Today I had a customer buy a bunch of stuff ...

"I'm going to need help to carry this out," she said.

"Yes ma'am.  There's C right now."  C ambled over.  "C will help you carry this stuff out."

"I want those things from outside.  I'll need help to carry that."

"Yes ma'am.  C will take care of that as soon as she takes this out for you." 

"Where is that help you called for?  I need help carrying this."

"She's right here, ma'am."

She looks right at C.  "Can you get someone to help me with the things outside?" she asked C.

"I can take care of that," C said.

"Thank you.  Can you carry this?"

C accepted the thingy.  "Where is your car?"

"First I need help with those things outside."

Realizing I'm spinning my wheels ...  "C can take care of that once you're out there."

"Where is she?"

"She's right there."  C already had the one thing that needed to be carried and had started to make for the door.  "She has your things, and she can carry the rest to your car."

"Yes, but I need help with those things outside."

"Yes, ma'am, C can do that.  She's on her way now."  C, meanwhile, edged closer toward the exit door.

"But I need help carrying those things outside."

headdesk

I noticed C had given up edging and had bolted outside.  "She'll meet you outside."

"Shouldn't she go out this way?  It's closer."  She headed for the entry door.

"If you'd like to, you can go out that way."  Even though it's narrow, awkward, and the door opens the wrong way because it's the entry door.

The customer proceeded to wrestle her way out the 'closer' way, hauling the cart along with her.  She expended so much effort it's a wonder she didn't hurt herself.  

Closer is not always easier.

And I thought that was the end of it.

But guess what?  She came back.

I saw her park in the fire lane.  She got out of the car and started to wrestle about half the things she'd just bought less than an hour before.  I went over and held the door, as she had things well in hand.  You know, the things she needed help carrying out before.

"I need to return these."

Mmm hmm.  "Was there anything wrong with them?"  I carefully accepted them.

"They're not what I wanted."

headdesk

I started filling out the forms.

"Can you just put this back on my card?" she asked, setting her credit card on the counter.

"Certainly.  I just need your help to fill out this form and the cashier can take care of you."

"I'm illegally parked."

Yes, we know.

"Will it take long?" she added.

"Not long.  Hopefully it'll be fine.  We're not responsible for the parking per se.  As long as a fire marshal or policeman doesn't see, I think you'll be okay.  If you're worried about it, you're welcome to move your car.  I can work on this return in the meantime."  You define entitlement, madam.  What makes you so special that you can park in the fire lane rather than a handicapped spot?  Oh, and fyi, I have a customer who really ought to be in a wheelchair who parks in a normal parking spot and painfully, slowly, makes himself walk to the store and shops all by himself.  Granted, you don't have to do the same thing he does to prove anything to anyone, but would you mind not parking in the fire lane?  Please?  Do you think you can achieve that?  Is it within your ability, considering that you walk without the cane that you tote around and that you carried all that stuff you made C carry out for you all by yourself?

Meanwhile, I scribbled on the form with a customer-service-smile on my face.

"My daughter-in-law is insufferable," she told me.  "She's such a snob.  Do you know what she said to me?"

I had to admit to myself that I was interested in an awful, uncivilized way.  "What did she say?"  I was also a little worried that she had taken exception to the manner in which I suggested that it's okay to park in the fire lane (sort of) and will now tell me how I, er, I mean how her daughter-in-law is terribly snobby about people who do that.

She went into detail about how she was invited to a party, not by the snobby DIL but by her brother, who likes her, no, adores her, and how it was on a house boat.  And then she told me about how the handicapped parking was too far away from the dock and she would have never made it, so she parked illegally.

Meanwhile, I handed her the form and had her fill out the proper lines. She stopped the narration briefly to ask me what her address is.

I'm not making this up.

So she arrived at the party and mentioned that she hoped the police wouldn't ticket her.  And her (apparently) snobby DIL told her not to worry, that they own all the surrounding land.

Either she has just equated me to being snobby because I'd figured the chances were low that she'd get a (well-deserved) ticket just like her DIL did, or I've missed the point.  Entirely.

"I can't stand her," the woman added.

I'm sure she's not terribly fond of you either.

"I'm sorry," I told her.  I couldn't think of anything else to say.  "You're all set.  Thank you for coming in."

I'm done ranting now.  Vent over.

I really like most people, and I enjoy my job, even when I have challenging customers.  Sometimes I enjoy my work especially when there's a challenge, because often I can fix things and make everything better.  Sometimes, though, things bug me, not because they're not fixable but because they're easily fixable only if the person could just see themselves clearly.  The problem wasn't so much the carry out or the DIL.  This customer got in her own way and it obviously made everyone around her crazy.  I only had to work with her for about twenty minutes.  What would it be like to be related to her, to associate with her all the time?

At least I get paid to help her.  Maybe she just had an off day.  We all have those.  But damn ....

Writing as Therapy

I believed, and still partially believe, that writing for entertainment shouldn't be mixed with writing for therapy.  I'm slowly changing my mind.

I wrote about what happened with my birds during a marathon writing session late the night before last.  It wasn't easy.  I was still grieving.  I think, though, that what came out was some pretty powerful stuff.  

Part of me wants to defend my original position, or parts of it, by saying that the entertainment portion of writing gets left behind when a person turns their writing into a pulpit, or a confessional, or whatever.  But I should have been the last person to say such a thing.  After all, I'm one of those sad cases that turns to the advice column in the newspaper.  I'm entertained, sometimes enthralled, sometimes appalled by the drama.  

And when I griped about one of my favorite authors turning his fantasy series into a venue in which he explored his divorce, what I ought to have realized was that although it wasn't my thing, it may well have been great for someone else.  Maybe there were heaps of people in the midst of ugly divorces that liked the way the series went.  Since my gripe about that series, my favorite example of how not to include your life experience in your writing, turns out not to be valid, I can't really hold any kind of writing-as-therapy work as a mistake.

I do think that it makes the writer vulnerable.  Sometimes opening the soul publicly can be good and fine thing, but it's not something I could undertake lightly.  Rape victims who write rape scenes ... what would criticism of that book, especially that scene, do?  On the other hand, writing about trauma might help people own it.  I know I felt better after I wrote.  It might even help someone else in a similar situation feel better too.  

So maybe it just boils down to this:  recognize the level of exposure, and remember that once the story is published, it really isn't the author's anymore.  It belongs to the reader.  If the story is too personal to be given to someone else to do with whatever they want to do ... then maybe it needs to remain private.

There's definitely a skill to it, though.  I've heard that editors and agents dread 'divorce novels.'  That's just a rumor, but I do think that it's a valid caution.  In order for a story to be emotionally satisfying for the reader, they have to be allowed to connect.  I think that's why the fantasy series ultimately failed for me.  The author wrote it in the midst of something I had never experienced, and interjected all kinds of stuff from his life I couldn't identify with.  If he'd set me up from the beginning, maybe it would have been brilliant.  But I came in at the middle, or maybe even toward the end of his personal drama, and he poured out those personal feelings in the middle of a series to boot.  With no groundwork, with nothing explained, all I knew was that the characters I'd loved started to go crazy for no apparent reason.  

I think it would be easy to over-think and doubt and all that--and that can destroy a story too.  So I've thought about it, and in time I'll internalize it into my writing.  The one thing I hope I won't do is start worrying about it every time I sit to type.  In the end, it's all about the story, whether its the story of my dreams, or the story of my life.  I hope both will be rich and wonderful things.

Sometimes Farming Hurts. A lot.

We are down to two chickens:  Beatrice and the Wyandotte rooster, who now needs a name because we'll be keeping him.

A coyote, we're pretty sure, did the deed.

I've learned how to clip wings.  Our chickens are restricted to the lower goat pasture until further notice.  I hope the coyotes don't dig their way in.  

This has been a really awful day.  Tomorrow will be better.  My DH will be coming home.

The Chase Saga continues

Funny Boy thing said today about a lying cowardly character on tv: "He's not manly enough to be a weasel. He's a marmoset."

And now for our apparently regular programme: More stuff about Chase.

Turns out, after talking with the Humane Society, that we're within our rights to claim the dog after 30 days because she's never been licensed, microchipped, or otherwise officially owned by the so-called owner. In order to do so we must microchip her, register the microchip, and license her. Easy peasy. 

It comes down to this. We've reasonably tried to contact the owner, we have witnesses (our neighbors) who'd be willing to testify she's been in our possession this whole time, she's been to the vet the previous time she was lost by this same owner so there's a physical record there ... We can easily prove abandonment, not just once but twice. Sobering, isn't it? Think you 'own' your dog or cat? If your pet has been missing for over 30 days, and there's nothing to prove your ownership if you locate that animal, you may be out of luck. So, seriously, microchip your animals and license them. Today. And don't rely on the goodwill of neighbors to basically babysit your animal for free while you're on vacation or working out of the state/country/whatever. Show some basic effort to compensate them for food and care, even if it's a token thing like a card with a heart drawn on it. Otherwise, if it happens again as it did in this case, the people who are once again stuck with 'your' unlicensed, un-microchipped dog may not be inclined to give it back. And they won't be required to.

When we lost Brian, he'd been missing for weeks (I think it was three) before the extremely awesome people down the hill from us saw a sign posted at the vet. They kindly contacted us. At that point they'd fed him, sheltered him, loved him ... and they gave him back to us without even a thought to keeping him. (Well, the boys were really disappointed and whined a bit ...) I gave the family a huge gift basket filled with about $100 worth of stuff as a thank you, and still felt that it was inadequate thanks to Mary and her boys. Thanks (again) guys for the return of our dog, and for taking such awesome care of him.

You can bet that if Brian ran off again, not only would we check there first, but we'd do it within 24 hours. And if they called us, we'd answer within 24 hours.

The first time we had Chase/Decker, the owner showed up after over a month, and I never even got a card or a follow-up thank you call. Not cool, considering the dog would have wound up in the shelter, or shot, or runover and the owners would have never known about it, never mind gotten their dog back. And now Chase has been with us for almost a month again and we've been calling the owner ... with no answer. At all. No visit either. No one has given us any sign that they're looking for this animal. Does he even know his dog is gone? If he's away, who is taking care of the dog, and why aren't they frantically looking for her? If they don't care, then exactly how good of care is this dog receiving while the owner is away? Because the responsibility must ultimately fall on the owner. If the caretaker is supposed to take the blame for the first lack of care, then that caretaker shouldn't be taking care of the dog a second time.

Oops, that came out kinda ranty. Nonetheless, I'm not feeling very inclined to honor his 'ownership' at this point, should he show up again, which I'm beginning to doubt he will. Maybe it wasn't even his dog in the first place. Maybe he mistook her for his dog. After all, 'Decker' is not really a girly name (but I guess Chase isn't all that feminine either ...) Maybe he's embarrassed to have taken this strange dog home to his kids (who'd seen her when they passed our place on the bus--that's how he found her in the first place) and then they said 'But daa-aad, this isn't our dog! Our dog was a boy and didn't pee himself when we petted him!' I'd hate to think he'd just turn her loose again in that circumstance, instead of bringing her home to us.

I dunno. It's not an easy thing for me to claim her, despite my bold words. I assume that dog owners love their pets and I wouldn't want to separate a beloved pet from her owner just because of some rule of thumb (it's not a statute as far as I know) and the fact that the owner can't prove ownership (which, btw, we could have with Brian and all our pets because they're all microchipped--I'm thankful to say.) But I'm leaning that direction because I'm just not seeing the love here. I'm seeing a big, fat, nothing. There could be love, unseen love, that will manifest sometime soon. It just seems less and less likely as the days wear on.

In the meantime Chase is healthy and happy. That's the important thing, at least to those of us who care about her. She's an awesome dog. She could be an incredible dog, with love and much-needed socializing and training. I bought her a collar and leash the first time round. I have to admit I get a little thrill thinking that hey, maybe we'll get to use them as her forever owners sometime soon.

What do you guys think? Does the owner, who told my DH that he works out of town quite a bit, need more time? What would you do?

Animals, Customers and Other Stuff

@ Papa's Ice Cream, drinking peppermint/spearmint tea with my DH. Love.

Guess who's back? Chase/Decker.

I've been reluctant to mention this because it's a sticky situation. We've been calling the owner and have had no response for over two weeks, maybe three, even four--I haven't been keeping track, honestly. We've left our phone number on an answering machine. Nothing. Nada.

I've been reading statutes for our state and the closest thing I can find about this is that if an animal is deliberately left with you, 15 days after the first notice to the owner to claim the animal, the animal is considered abandoned. There's nothing about found animals that you know who the owner is (vaguely) and can't get hold of them.

So we're stuck in this awful limbo. Can we adopt her? What's the deal? I'll be calling the humane society about this. Maybe they'll be able to shed some light on it.

Meanwhile--

We've got our first blue egg! Yay!

The hen (I'm not sure which one did the deed yet but I suspect Beatrice, our blonde) actually produced a beautiful hybrid between a light brown egg and a blue one. It's also big--almost as large as a store bought extra-large egg. I have pix but they're not on my machine yet.

I'm soooo happeeeeeeey!

I haven't done a retail story in a while. There's a reason for this--I'm putting together a financial guide book from the retail employee's pov, and so most of my material is going into that lately. But I'll start posting those again soon just because a lot of them are repeats as far as the book is concerned and some of them aren't really related to financial sanity anyway, or are just common sense. I will, right now, post a free sample in the way of a super-short chapter (assuming that it doesn't get cut in an edit.) It goes something like this:

Under the Influence

Don't shop drunk. Or high. Think about all the stupid things that inebriated people do--and by people I mean you. I know that you pretend that you aren't like everyone else and you're special and totally cool when you're drunk, etc. but let's be real. Add the expenditure of money to the stupidity of public inebriation. And the beauty part? It's all on camera. Just think. You could be on YouTube buying that stuff (and paying for stuff you broke and the part where you flirted with me) and then tada! you get to be on YouTube the next day returning it. I would never post such a humiliating moment in someone's life, but I have coworkers.

They have a darker sense of humor than I do.

On the other hand, if you're shopping high you're probably driving high, and if death and/or jail doesn't stop you, embarrassment probably won't either. Disregard. I don't mind.

Just think, you could be like the guy who staggered in the other day. He took one of our plastic-encased signs and hung it from the counter by its feet. "Wow, look at that!" he said.

"That's impressive," I assured him.

"You're always so nice," he said, swaying.

In your case, because I have to be, dude. "I'm glad," I told him. "I like our customers to be happy."

"Well I'm very happy," he slurred. I thought he looked like he would puke any second.

"Can I help you with something?" I asked.

He stared blankly at me for a moment. "Do you sell ... stuff here?"

Why yes, yes we do. We're a store. We sell stuff. "What are you looking for?"

He stared at me for a moment longer, then walked through the swing door. On the second try.

Sad case. I wonder what he bought. I'm sure he wonders too. But that's cool. It probably didn't hurt his beer budget.

Next time it'll be you, and you're gonna be awesome. The Numa Numa Dance guy and whoever posts that video are gonna be like this. Maybe, if you have the means, you can sue like the Star Wars kid's family ... but that video will never go away, and neither will your fame.

Writing in a Weird, Unsafe World

I'z in ur library, on ur internets ...

I'm gradually getting back to actual writing. Scheduling around work is tough, but it's gotta get done. Working retail is paying (some) bills but it's not going to cut it long term, at least not until the mortgage is paid off and that's far enough away that I only see the little bitty flag on the topmost mast of the Ship of Yay We're Paid Off.

So I have to keep writing. Have to. Not to make it big, but to survive doing the job I love. Which, btw, I have a minor rant here. For those of you waiting for Obamacare or something to save you ... don't. Don't wait. Even if a healthcare rescue train arrives sometime soon, you can't count on the government (and I mean any government) to save you. You gotta save yourself, and save each other. Worry about the details later. I have a good friend who almost died, went to the hospital even though the family couldn't afford it, and lived. They'll work out the details as best they can. Whatever they have to do, it's a darn sight better than funeral arrangements. Just saying.

Moving on now. Take care of yourselves and each other out there.

I've also been producing ebook covers. I'm getting better, I think. Hope. Maybe. I'm learning new tricks every day. I'm also learning to keep mucking about until the visual response is Yeah! instead of that'll do. At times it's hard to tell a Yeah! from a breakthrough. When I make a design breakthrough it's so much better than the previous that it can feel like a Yeah! So I'm still working, still striving, still learning. Like every other skill, it takes time, effort and education to getcha where you're going.

House of Goats is about as good as I can make it. Only a real editor can make a difference now. Going through it one more time made me feel more confident about it, but honestly, it was all a hindbrain ploy. As long as I was looking over the manuscript, I didn't have to deal with the cover letter.

The anti-marketing hindbrain is so insidious and clever, sometimes I can't help but admire it. Why can't it employ its powers for good?

In other news, I've been watching the mighty Borders as it begins its tilt into the sea ... it may yet recover, but I fear it's as doomed as the Titanic.

The doom of the actual ship the Titanic, not the movie which made gizillions of dollars.

Back to marketing now. Let's all us writer-types wish each other luck in the new weird world of publishing.

Books of Retail

I'm going to shorthand a few things here:

Whining about technical difficulties (primary--can't upload pics from camera yet)

Whining about soreness from gardening.  Garden is looking better w/o blackberries

I've been writing on a book of financial guidelines and wisdom as seen from the point of view of a retail clerk.  I've seen people do this stuff.  Yeah, that's you I'm talking about ...

So far I've got a chapter about how people really don't know or don't seem to care about what they're buying, and a chapter about how I'd love to be on some people's Christmas lists because dang ... I'm not talking so much about overspending but an increasing trend where it's all about the recipient's happiness and the unintended consequences of that belief.

I'll most likely epublish this book, but I may send it around to some publishers after it's done because I think people will learn and enjoy at the same time.  I'm still groping for a title. Tales of Retail Shame and Redemption: A consumer's guide?  I just kicked that out there.  I haven't given it very much thought.

BTW, if you like fun retail stories, one of my favorites is The Acts of Gord.  Even my DH who has never worked retail enjoyed the Acts of Gord.  It's not about financial advice.  More along the lines of things some retail employees wish they could do.

Looking Forward to a Great Week

I started a new book a couple of days ago.  This one will be a WIP between bouts of finishing a couple of others.  

Working on multiple projects again is a breakthrough for me.  I feel like I'm making progress, though toward what, I don't know yet.  It's certainly not technique-based advancement.  But I do know that when I was at my most prolific, I was working on multiple projects at a time.  I had to let that go for a while.  Coming back to it feels like coming home, but to a bigger house so that all my stuff doesn't feel like clutter.  If that makes sense.

Anyway, I feel like I've found my groove.  

In gardening news, I pulled up a bunch of blackberries.  I have a lot more to pull up, and mulching to do.  While cleaning up, I found a lot of daffodils nosing through the ground.  Too soon, my darlings, too soon!  I made sure they got covered up again with mulch, not so much so that they don't freeze, at least not in a direct sense, but to make sure they remain dormant.  

One of the kewl things about living in the Pac NW is the long growing season ... and one of the disadvantages is the long growing season.  We're very prone to early warm-ups followed by late frosts.  We often have a warm stretch in February, and snow as late as April.  Fruit trees?  Sorry, they have to take their chances.  But the bulbs I can do something about without a huge investment or time-consuming intervention.  It's just what I did ... mulch.  

Cleaning up the last of the leaves mid-winter, especially in January, doesn't just dislodge pests camped close to their spring food source.  It can retard or halt fungal disease and/or rot.  And if you manage to do it on a very cold day (preferably windless so that you're not too uncomfortable) you can seal in cold around those bulbs.  That means they'll stay colder longer, meaning they'll stay dormant longer ... and hopefully they'll stay dormant during that weird 50 degree F weather in February and come up at just the right time, instead of getting frost damage or dying altogether in early March when the temperature drops hard and the earth freezes up and all moisture is sapped until your skin cracks.  

I would have been gardening today in the beautiful sunshine, but I had to work.  We've got snow and possible freezing rain forecast in our area.  Being one of those weird people who won't kill themselves trying to get to work, I may very well end up working in the garden unexpectedly, cutting back weeds, pruning roses, and mulching like crazy during the freeze.  And, of course, when darkness falls, I've got projects to write on.

Sounds like a great week ahead.  If I get a chance, I'll post a pic of our giant, fierce snowbunny and the boy's twisted snowman.

2011

Lots of new stuff this year. New car, bought with cash--first new car bought with cash. Highly recommended, btw, because there's no interest to pay. New cat (the Poop, aka Veronica.) New chicken coop. New (sort of) job, but with the added newness of being my first full time job since, oh ... let's see ... the early nineties. New friends, too. And our house has new paint on it. Speaking of which, we'd better get that new porch finished soon.

Lots of old stuff this year. Old clothes sewn back together. Old vehicles carefully maintained to continue running for years to come (we hope.) An old blanket with a new shell, now a favorite blanket that everyone wants to snuggle in. An old dog who survived serious surgery and is even now snoozing under the dining table. Good times with old friends, and visiting old haunts. Cleaning out old, dusty corners and rediscovering new living and storage space.

Mostly, though, 2010 was a lot about survival, and returning to a wilder, more insecure lifestyle. It's a lot scarier to rely upon self-employment when you have a mortgage and kids to take care of than the last time we did this way back in our college years. I have the easy part of the deal: I trust and believe in my DH to continue to succeed, and I believe we'll thrive with him at the helm. I'm the backup plan, the supplemental income person, the fill-in-the-gaps gal. I have a lot less pressure on me, but I think that my DH is happier with the very different kind of pressure that he's under, as opposed to the daily slog kind of pressure he had before where the future looks pretty much the same as the past. We're bailing like crazy, but our boat is afloat and we don't appear to be sinking. I don't think our goal is some distant shore. I think it's to put our boat into order and keep sailing on.

For now we're all healthy, including the animals. I'm grateful that we have even more than health. We have shelter, food, clothing, clean water, beautiful skies, and good earth. I'm even grateful for the stupid blackberries.

Here's to health, and life, and most of all, to hope. It's the beginning: time to dream, to plan, and to strive.