Friends in High Places

I've been wanting to talk a bit about my friend, Cohen, who is the owner of the Etsy store "Pacokeco." I say my friend, because she just feels like a friend, although we have never met in person. I've told her several times, however, that I want to be her neighbor, and she tells me about lots that are for sale where she lives. In Canada. Well, let me start off by saying, "I feel really ridiculous, Cohen, for saying I wanted to give you a little plug on my blog!!!" I feel silly, because as I was asking you for some info to put up, you did not brag, or say a word about the fact that you are only THE TOP ETSY SELLER in Canada! "Gee, Cohen let me give you some help here with my little blog and the multitudes that follow me." (File under category: Was My Face Red...)

 

But I'm going to tell you about her anyway, because she is truly a remarkable person. When I first discovered her shop in my quest for the perfect jewelry tags for my work, she treated me like I was her only customer in the world. Kind, articulate, and wickedly witty, she put up with all of my questions, and tolerated my mercurial nature with absolute grace and courtesy. I do not know how many different ideas I hit her with, and how many completely different tags she cut and tied for me. I just know that she was gracious and funny and a joy to work with each time. 

THIS IS "PACOKECO'S" SHOP ANNOUNCEMENT   (See why I like this woman?)

Why do I keep buying big, floppy hats? I never wear them. I try them on at the store and think, "This would look fabulous with a gauzy white top and white linen pants", forgetting I do not have a white gauzy top or white linen pants. I should give them all to Molly Ringwald.
♥♥♥♥♥

In answer to many, many convos - YES! You may use my paper bits in your own creations for resale, with my blessings and good tidings. May you sell out and return for more. Kumbaya.

*************************************** 
I always ship to the Etsy address so if you'd like me to ship to your summer home in Florence or penthouse on Fifth Avenue, please let me know.

Don't see what you need? Convo me! I'm not Employee of the Month for nothing!

These type of people continue to teach me an important lesson, that I could not have learned from my mother. Although my mother taught me compassion, generosity, and a few other valuable traits, she had a terrible habit of being grouchy with her customers. She worked from home, and when it was her down time, she wanted to be left alone. The phone would ring and she'd haul herself away from Perry Mason, leaving a trail of expletives that would curl someone's hair. (Little joke-she was a hairdresser.) This was before the days of voice mail, so her ladies would get the terse, "Why are you calling me on my day
off?" voice. I used to wonder why they called her for appointments at all! Now, though, I understand that she just felt overwhelmed, the way many of us feel now, by having so many demands placed upon us. I've struggled against this tendency toward letting people know when they're bugging me throughout my life. I need plenty of personal space, time alone, and when I am concentrating and get interrupted, I can transform into the Medusa. I have endless patience with children, but adults tend to wear me out. So, truly it has been enormously helpful to me to have people in my life that model that unwavering civility and good cheer! Cohen is one of these people, and I now realize that her success is not simply based upon her creative abilities, which are considerable. She really does follow the Golden Rule, and I'm not talking about that artifice that so many people have fallen into these days. She's not sickeningly perky in a "Have a Great Day!!!!! :)" way. She's just genuine, funny, professional and kind. And she does great work. A true recipe for success.

I am, however, a little worried about the flawless organization represented by the photo of her studio. I'll just hope that she did a clean sweep for the photo shoot...

Cohen's works may be used in a variety of creative ways.  She produces gift tags, business cards, blank cards, wedding paraphenalia, and customizable paper goods, to name a few. Artists and scrapbookers also use her products for their work. If you have an idea, just tell her and I'll bet she'll find a way to make it work for you. She makes all of my jewelry tags, business cards, and earring cards--and I'll be a loyal customer because she's such a pleasure to work with, and I love the products. 

p.s. Cohen, if you read this, I have a bit of a secret too. You mentioned in your other very fancy blog interview that "...if you ever get on Oprah, you'll remember the little people." Next time we talk, ask me about the time I was on Oprah. :) 

You Can't Take Me Anywhere

My sixth grade art teacher told my mother, "She sure is a fly-by-night." I take issue with that. The dictionary says that a fly-by-night is someone who is unreliable or untrustworthy. Not true! I am completely trustworthy, have a conscience of steel, and you can always rely on me...to do something ditzy. I prefer scatterbrained. That is how my brain has always felt, all over the place, a 52 pick up of signals telling me, "But you need to do this, and this, and this, and you want to make this, and oh, isn't that pretty, and uh-oh you missed the turn." There are always so many things that I would love to do in each day that I require myself to keep a numbered list, prioritized, with my fun things at the bottom. Even with this crutch, however, I do many ditzy things each and every day - always have. My mother would say it's a short-term memory problem caused by a cardiac arrest when I was eight. But this does not hold water, as my daughter, Christina, is exactly like me - even worse. In fact, I should have her make a list for me because some are really funny. Just one...She did all her errands uptown one day to finally look into the rear view mirror and notice that one lens was totally missing from her dark sunglasses. She had wondered why people were looking at her funny. I, myself, am used to it. I have gone to the bank, chatted with tellers and customers, only to return home and see that I have a cherry red Crystal Lite mustache. Once at Oak Brook Mall in Chicago, I bought earrings and sat waiting for my friend on a bench outside. Numerous people walked by and looked at me, I thought with approval. I was thinking, "Oh how I fit into the city environment. They think I'm cool." They were all smiling at me and I smiled back, my confidence growing. Then my friend came out of the store, burst out laughing, and said, "What are you DOING? Look at yourself!" She whipped out a purse mirror, and there I was, wearing my sophisticated new earrings--one sporting a large, dangling price tag. (No Minnie Pearl jokes please, I've heard them all.) There are simply too many incidents to report here, such is my life. Remind me to tell about exercising at Curves, the Amish hat, Starbuck's line, and many more that I hope my friends will remind me of so that I can record them for posterity.

Last week's escapade took place at a CAbi party. In case you are not aware of these events, they are private fashion parties featuring clothing from the designer, Carol Anderson. (Carol Anderson by invitation = CAbi.)

Now usually I dress in linens, natural cottons, comfy clothes, comfy shoes that Johnny and Timmy hate, and I generally order without trying on from J.Jill and Garnet Hill. I fill in with U.S. made pieces from The Wooden Hanger in Urbana, IL and pick up cotton tees at Target. Once in a great while I add an Elaine Fisher jacket and I feel I'm good to go. So...I wanted to attend this party because I love the woman who was hosting. She's been a dear, loyal friend to me and to Metamorphosis Montessori school. In my usual way, I was behind on laundry, washed a load of clothes, and sat down in the studio to make a bracelet. Time got away from me, and I realized in panic that my ride would be here in just a few minutes. My clothes were not dry. My closet selection was lousy, thus I kept cramming outfits on and throwing them off. After this I was sweating and my make-up would not stick to my face. My hair would not go into my usual knot and I looked like a school marm. Then the big shocker - NO clean underwear! I put on a pair of my husband's white Hanes with a big old wasteband. I had no choice. I should have worn one of the Fisher jackets, but Jim told me to go with another in black. (Tell me why I listened to a man whose idea of fashion when I met him was black fur pants, and red corduroys that zipped from waste to ankle.) Here came my ride, I threw on Ugg boots and we were off.

Arriving, I am introduced to very stylish women in little golden ballet flats, tall heeled boots, perfect make-up and very trendy clothing. I can't wait for a glass of wine. Or four. Seated, and gulping, I note that my jacket has lots of dog hair on it, then glance down at my matronly Ugg boots, and notice, right on the outside of the heel: Chicken Poop. No, I did not muck out the coop in my boots, but Swizzlestick, who thinks she is human and knows we have food in our house, keeps pecking at the front door. Obviously, she had shat, shitten, beshit, upon my front stoop, and of course, I stepped in it. (My friend will read this and Lysol every inch of her house, retracing my steps.)

Thank you Swizzlestick!

CCCbi

Cody's Chicken Coop by invitation

Here I am with my friends, pickin' up cowboys on a Saturday night. 

In short, although most of these clothes are not a good choice for me, as I play on the school playground each day, and work with children who wipe mucous on my skirt, they are indeed beautifully cut, and very flattering to the female figure. There were Ship's Ahoy blouses, and Dreamy Drapers, Palazzos and talk of pairing up and trending. But I had not thought this through. I was just going to buy a cardigan, and not try on so that the three inches of white men's waistband sticking up above my jeggings waist would not be detected. That's not how they do it at these parties. Women are whipping clothes on and off in front of each other and everyone, especially the presenter, wants to see how you look! I wish you could have seen me trying to get into these sweaters without raising my arms high enough to show Jim's jockeys!

 

I BOUGHT THE DREAMY DRAPER! Super soft and comfy. 

AND

the DOTTI CARDI because it's really cute and looks like it's inside out because it is hand-stamped. 

I do hope my friend invites me again someday, it truly was fun. And I promise to lay my clothes and shoes out days in advance, because I may be ditzy, but I am totally trustworthy.

A Good Egg

Eggs are really good for you.

Fact: Eggs are a good source of nutrients. One egg contains 6 grams of protein and some healthful unsaturated fats. Eggs are also a good source of choline, which has been linked with preserving memory, and lutein and zeaxanthin, which may protect against vision loss. (Harvard Publications)

Those sillies who started the egg scare didn't know that it's saturated fat that makes your body produce high cholesterol --not foods that are high cholesterol. And this quote is from Web MD, but I believe they are correct with their data:

One egg has only 75 calories but 7 grams of high-quality protein, 5 grams of fat, and 1.6 grams of saturated fat, along with iron, vitamins, minerals, and carotenoids.

The egg is a powerhouse of disease-fighting nutrients like lutein and zeaxanthin. These carotenoids may reduce the risk of age-related macular degeneration, the leading cause of blindness in older adults. And brain development and memory may be enhanced by the choline content of eggs.

I've always known that eggs are good for you because my Papa told me when I was a child. And he ate eggs every day as long as I knew him. He lived to be 86, had a mind like a steel trap, and proved it by quoting Cubs stats to anyone who would listen as he lay dying of pneumonia. My dad's egg dishes were created in a variety of ways - all of them containing several globs of butter. He and my mother taught me to make over-easies, sunny-side up, and, my favorite to make, basted. I loved watching pretty little skin form on top as I splished the hot butter over the yolks. But best of all, papa taught me how to scramble an egg, and this recipe was a popular hit at Cafe Cody. My dad said, "You don't add milk to an egg and pre-mix it, that's a coddled egg." He said this with a pinched face, and as a child I understood that people who coddle their eggs were not, in his judgment, quite right.

Plenty of our cafe customers commented on our scrambled eggs. One elderly woman had to come back to the kitchen and tell me that "those" eggs were just like the ones of her childhood. "You can still see the yellow, and the white, and that's how a scrambled egg's supposed to  be," she said crankily. I liked her. So here's how you scramble a proper egg...

Heat a small saute pan over medium heat. (My dad did not call them saute pans, they were "frying" pans.) Plop in a Tablespoon of butter and let it sizzle down--do not let it brown. As soon as it's done melting add your eggs. (2 from free range chickens) Now you might say, "I'll get eggshell in my eggs." Not so if you crack correctly, not on the side of something like the pan or counter, but crack on a flat surface. Let your eggs sit there a few seconds as the albumen begins turning white. Not too long, just long enough. Add plenty of salt and freshly cracked pepper.  Then take a wooden spoon and gently fold the eggs about, wait a few seconds, do it again, and a couple more times without turning them into a homogenized lump of jaundiced "fowlness" that would be an insult to poultry everywhere. They should be slightly shiny, with streaks of white and plenty of sunny yellow. At the cafe, a #1 was egg and homemade bread toast, #2 was eggs, bacon or ham, and homemade toast, #3 was eggs, toast, and our mashed potato pancakes, and #4 was a combo of 2 and 3.

My dad would throw anything into a scrambled egg...salami, bologna, fried potatoes, onion... That's probably why I started making "scramlettes." We served a variety of these at the cafe with ingredients like: Sauteed red pepper, onion, mushrooms, spinach, goat cheese and other cheeses, fried potatoes, chorizo, on and on. Just scramble 2 or three eggs and when they are almost done, throw what you like right in. This has always been one of my favorite dinners, and I relish the fact that I can step outside, get eggs from my girls, and in summer, gather good greens, tomatoes and whatever from my garden, and make a complete, healthy meal.

Are you wondering about those eggs pictured up top? In order from left to right they were laid by:
Swizzlestick, Marigold, Etta, Carmella, Etta, Bijoux,
Hattie, Imogene, Hattie, Etta, Acorn, and Florence

Swizzlestick, Carmella, Bijoux, Florence and Imogene came from a breeding program. I truthfully have no idea what these guys are thinking when trying to outdo other programs with egg size. When these girls arrived, they were all laying "nuclear eggs." I've never seen eggs so big. One measured 8 inches in circumference longways! Are they creating "Frankenchickens?" Poor things, I don't know how they pass the eggs. Gradually I am seeing their egg size decrease a little, but not so with poor Carmella, who laid the big blue egg. I wish my dad could see these girls running about the back yard, while marveling at their eggs as he scrambled some - the right way!

p.s. I'm following this blog that I like very much. Check it out!  TILLY'S NEST

Health Food

I bet I did something yesterday that you've never done before. I awoke to greet a new day, dragged myself out from between two spoiled dogs snoring in my bed and stood, just catching sight of a pretty red thing as it flew. Out of my belly button. It was a low moment in my sick Ambien sleepwalking history, because the pretty red thing was not a bellybutton charm...it was a Terra beet chip. And then I saw the empty bag on the floor. I had eaten the entire thing. A 5 ounce bag of Mediterranean Terra Chips, delicious vegetable chips lightly seasoned with lemon, olive oil, sea salt and a hint of oregano. And the truth is, there is another identical empty bag under my bed from a week ago when I did the same thing. It now has some dust bunnies about it, and I've been ignoring it, trying to pretend it never happened. But this bag was right out in the middle of the floor, where anyone could see my dirty little secret. I've said it before, but I must get off the Ambien. But just try it. What is worse than sitting up all night, night after night after night? While I'm confessing, and my excuse is that I've been stressed out, and always sleepwalk more when stressed, some vegan chocolate mousse was involved in last night's foray to the kitchen. (Don't knock it till you've tried it.) I've been trying no lactose, no sugar, and no gluten - and I feel better. Sweets, especially chocolate, are a necessity, so I run to Strawberry Fields in Urbana to buy several containers of Dylan's chocolate puddin'. Or I make my own. If you do not find health food completely abhorrent, you should try it. Here's how...




VEGAN CHOCOLATE MOUSSE


Melt a 16 ounce bag of good chocolate chips over double boiler. (Use vegan or real, whatever...)
Add two boxes of Silken Tofu. It will look awful, like curdled chocolate baby puke.
Use a hand mixer on it, or throw the mess into a processor, and it smooths right out.
Sweeten with Stevia or better...maple syrup. (If you like extra dark chocolate add a couple teaspoons of cocoa as well, and if you want to get really fancy add 1/2 teaspoon of instant coffee granules.) Add a bit of vanilla, pinch of salt and refrigerate. The colder the better. It sets up just like ganache. Great texture and flavor. Really. And it's healthy, right? Lots of protein. Just like my bag of Terra Chips was healthy. It says so right on the bag under my bed and the one beside my bed. 5 whole servings of vegetables in every ounce. See??? That's 25 whole servings of vegetables I had all in a sitting. Now I can skip the veggies and eat vegan chocolate mousse all week!

I went to one of my favorite bead stores with my friend Pat today. La Bead Oh in Springfield, Illinois has a gorgeous selection of all things jewelry, and they offer great classes as well. I highly recommend a trip to La Bead Oh.

I've been making leather wrap bracelets. Can't stop.

2 Days left for Valentine's. How about these?

You Gotta Have Heart

I like big hearts, and I cannot lie. Artists are big-hearted people. They fly around falling in love with things - art, stuff, animals, people. Perhaps the next day they have moved on, but while they are in a moment, they love passionately. I was honored to join a crowd of art folks last evening, at an auction hosted by Sleepy Creek Vineyards. And at this event, people showed plenty of heart for our fellow artist and friend, Robert Chapman. 

ROBERT'S WEBSITE

Last year, Bob was forced to drop his health insurance because of rising costs. Now he needs cataract surgery, and as we all know, the price is staggering. But great people joined together, volunteered their time and donated beautiful and quirky art to Bob's cause, and I think, because of this one big heart beating as one, we made a good dent in his medical bill. 

O.K. Now I need to rant a bit. I'll make it short. For all you folks out there who are so dead against providing our citizenry with affordable health care: GET A HEART! I used to have quality healthcare that was provided through my husband's work, so I know that some of you don't get it, because you are fine. I didn't get it when I was fine. But now many, many people are not fine.  TRY to empathize with others. People need help, and I am not talking about the so-called "deadbeats" that conservatives whine about all the time. Hard-working folks like Bob, like my husband Jim who lost his job, like me, like my daughters who don't get physicals because they have no insurance, like so many others in need and on and on and on. My point, friends, is: We should not have to have an auction to provide people with medical care. I believe that it is an ethical and moral disgrace that this country cannot stop arguing about this crucial issue and DO SOMETHING TO HELP. There. I'm done. But I mean it you guys.

A Gift for Abuelita

Robert illustrated this beautiful children's book. Buy it, it's great.

I am grateful that there are big-hearted artists and people like the owners of Sleepy Creek Vineyards.

MORE HEARTS...Some of my polymer and bronze work

Say Goodnight Jasper

"Jib. I ab sick.Will you please go to the store and get be sub Alka Selzer Plus? Children are killig be." As you can see I have a terrific cold. The details are too gross, even for this irreverent site. I should have been wearing a rubber suit and mask last week. In short, the sputum was flying. And, of course, my house is a pigsty. Have you ever noticed that when one gets sick, one's home seems to be ill as well? Everything is cluttered, messy and there are strange smells emanating from odd places.

So...no making jewelry. No church services. Going to bed with dogs, which might not be as comforting as one would think. Some of the odd smells are definitely identifiable.

Jasper's gas-o-meter is on red alert.

Level I: Cover nose with turtle neck.

Level II: Cover nose with turtle neck, wave the foul air toward the other person in the room while blaspheming loudly.

Level III: Run to open all windows

Level IV: Evacuation is called for.
(When in bed with Jas instructions are the same with a few variations. One involves turning the fan so that you are not downwind. Another is cover your face with your pillow. And finally I have resorted to the butt tuck...smushing blankets all around Jasper's fanny to muffle the offensive odors. None of the aforementioned solutions are very effective. Sometimes you just have to grin and bear it, and wait for the air to clear.)

Everyone needs a Boston Terrier in their life. They are clowns. And what's a little gas between friends?

Say Goodnight Jasper.

Church Week Two

OPENING HYMN Sorry but I've got a sore throat this week and cannot sing along. But as I write this I can see that the message on this sign would make a great lyric for a country song. O.K. friends, get on that, write me a country song with this message and I will call you special, and my love for you will be unceasing.

This sign, I see, was manufactured by Marquee Martyrs.com. That makes me smile. It has such a ring to it. I can just see the founders sitting around brainstorming, or playing golf, or indulging at the massage parlor, "Hmmm, need a name, gotta have a name, ('OUCH!')" "NAMES, names, that hurt like hell...Marquis de Sade...Marquis! Marquee! That is miles above 'Church Signs R Us. "


Why do we spell refrigerator one way and add 'dge' when we abbreviate it? I don't get that. I write 'frig,' knowing full well that this is also a slang term for something else. But until someone sends me a reliable grammar rule that supports this 'dge' thing, I shall remain refrigerator abbreviation pure.

Here are some things that are on my frig.

And coming up: Things that are in my frig.

PLAY MY GAME!

Attend Sunday School. Watch the video.

(Starring Big Bird)

Guess which thing in my frig is not like the other?

Be the first to NAME it in the comments section, explain why it is not like the others, 

and

W I N this Sunday's church raffle!

May I have a YAY?!

(Of course we will expect you to donate these goodies

 back to the church so that we can raffle them off again!)

Ha! Just kidding. Fooled you. I'm a silly.

Wear 'em, give 'em to a friend, or donate 'em to "Tots in Tiaras."

SHIPPING IS ON ME

COMMUNION The Welch's Grape Juice was on sale at the Piggly Wiggly and they ran out before we got there, so just grab a bottle of Ripple on the way home.

SUNDAY DINNER

Amen.

Poems About Brave Women

My friend John Guzlowski, lost his mother six years ago today. I am posting these poems that John wrote in his mother's honor, and in his honor. John is one of the most inspiring instructors I have ever been privileged to know. He made me love reading poetry, and love the struggle of trying to write my own poems. He's a master. 


Visit John at: http://www.lightning-and-ashes.blogspot.com


Hear Garrison Keillor read one of John's poems on The Writer's Almanac: http://www.writersalmanac.publicradio.org/index.php?date=2007/12/28






What the War Taught Her

My mother learned that sex is bad,
Men are worthless, it is always cold
And there is never enough to eat.

She learned that if you are stupid
With your hands you will not survive
The winter even if you survive the fall.

She learned that only the young survive
The camps. The old are left in piles
Like worthless paper, and babies
Are scarce like chickens and bread.

She learned that the world is a broken place
Where no birds sing, and even angels
Cannot bear the sorrows God gives them.

She learned that you don't pray
Your enemies will not torment you.
You only pray that they will not kill you.



My Mother's Optimism


When she was seventy-eight years old
And the angel of death called to her
and told her the vaginal bleeding
that had been starting and stopping
like a crazy menopausal period
was ovarian cancer, she said to him,
“Listen Doctor, I don’t have to tell you
your job. If it’s cancer it’s cancer.
If you got to cut it out, you got to.”

After surgery, in the convalescent home
Among the old men crying for their mothers,
And the silent roommates waiting for death
she called me over to see her wound,
stapled and stitched, fourteen raw inches
from below her breasts to below her navel.
And when I said, “Mom, I don’t want to see it,”
She said, “Johnny, don't be such a baby.”

Six months later, at the end of her chemo,
my mother knows why the old men cry.
A few wiry strands of hair on head,
Her hands so weak she couldn’t hold a cup,
Her legs swollen and blotched with blue lesions,
She says, “I’ll get better. After his chemo,
Pauline’s second husband had ten more years.
He was playing golf and breaking down doors
When he died of a heart attack at ninety.”

Then my mom’s eyes lock on mine, and she says,
“You know, optimism is a crazy man’s mother.”

And she laughs.


Here is one of my poems, written about my grandmother, also a woman of grit.

I WAS ITA

During  one of the thunderstorms

that I loved for as long as I can remember,

I scratched my name with a hairpin

on the knotty pine of the outhouse:

   ITILIA AUGUSTA.

I was comely in my bare feet

and always had long, brown hair,

pinned up like a decent girl should

except at night.

At age thirteen I married

the General. I let my hair

fall down around my trunk,

and limbs held mine and I was scared.

Then the babies came fast and hard,

and the labor pains just seemed

to pick up about where they left off.

My body would pitch and heave again,

and my forehead, damp as a cloud

would furrow and I’d push. And after

I  emptied my contents, I’d clean up

the mess, and go outside among

the bluebells to plant another row

of spring peas.

After the namesakes were used up,

I just started thinking up rhymes.

I gave birth to...

John and Paul and Arnett and Garnett,

Virginia and Itilia Rose,

Velma and Wilma and Zelma,

Tommy and Dicky, and Jimmy,

Ronny and Cynthia, Glenn,

and General Junior, and Les.

Then, only in the night could I

stand alone among the  hollyhocks

and stare at the moon,

waxing and waning, as I walked

to my own privy, where the wood

seats with rows of small holes , made smooth

by the General’s hands, were radiant

with the work of children’s bottoms.

And on some summer evenings

I’d remove those pins that hurt my head, 

and lay them in a pile on that

smooth commode, and step outside,

silently, mud and plantain between my toes,

and stand in the rain.

When all of those children left home, Ita bought herself a little Corvair, and told my grandpa that he could have his turn babysitting their last daughter, who was disabled. She'd jump in that car every single day and go fishing by herself, always catching quite a haul. My grandfather nicknamed her, "ItaGo."

My grandmother died at age 86, phone in hand, mid-sentence, while watching her "stories" on television. In the photo below she was 85, and was scolding me, "Cody Su, (Susannah), don't you take that picture!" My friend Timmy had the photo enlarged to poster size for me, and it has a place of honor in my living room. I think I see a bit of resemblance...

Ita and Me

Why Do I?

Why do I do these things? Over two weeks ago I heard a chicken cacophony from the back yard, and it wasn't the usual scuffle over a bug, or heady announcement, "I'M GOING TO LAY AN EGG!" or "I AM LAYING AN EGG!" or "I JUST LAYED AN EGG!" No it was frightful noise, and I could see hens flying in every direction, and the rooster, Toulouse, trying to corral the girls. My adrenaline kicked in and I ran outside, couldn't see what the matter was, but then I heard. One does not usually hear a red-tail hawk lift off, but I heard arduous flapping - and I knew - he had a hen. I didn't know at the time, but he was behind a tall fence working at killing our oldest and dearest Light Brahma hen Liza Jane. This is crazy because she is huge and heavy. Anyway when I heard this obvious sound of air resistance to his wings I yelled as loudly as I could, "Hey!" Then he dropped her - hard - to the sidewalk, and flew away. I love red-tails, but not when they are killing my girls! I found her, unconscious with a drizzle of blood running from her beak, scooped her up and revived her. Over the next few days, although disoriented, she seemed to be recovering. She took small pecks of food, and drank a little water. (And here's a note for anyone who thinks chickens are not sentient beings. I found her sister, Turnipseed, the first night, nestled over her in the nest box - and my hens never share nest boxes. To me that is love.) But over the last 10 days she has been declining - almost as if she has forgotten how to eat and drink and walk. So I thought, "Just let nature take it's course." Today, however, I just couldn't take watching her starve to death anymore, so I called my vet. (They are used to me, it's O.K.) They do not do chickens but they told me to come on in. Gordon took one look at her and said, "You know she is 3/4 dead." I told him I knew that and if he thought we should euthanize her, O.K. But then he lifted her emaciated body and she flapped her wings. He said, "I wondered if she could do that." Then he rolled his eyes at me and said, "I'm not promising you anything." He then picked her up and took her to the back and administered IV fluids and gave her a shot of steroids. When he brought her back in he had too vet techs with him. They were carrying a can of nutrient dense cat food. They admitted they had fed her a few bites by force-feeding. They said that they'd be amazed if she is alive tomorrow, but if so, bring her back in for more fluids. They gave me the food and an eyedropper with which to feed her, and instructed me to feed her often. They are big softies just like me. They charged me twenty dollars, and I know what vet visits usually cost...

         

Oh Little Liza, Little Liza Jane

     

The Hopelessly Devoted Turnipseed

So here I am, feeding a half-dead chicken in my studio that already smells like a barnyard. The boston terrier, Jasper, is adding to the ambience with his steady stream of gaseous output. If Liza Jane lives she will not be able to free range anymore. That hawk was back today, circling beautifully in a clear sky, looking for sustenance.

Have a New Year

Didn't say Happy New Year because in my mind Americans have taken "happy" to a level of superficiality that makes me gag. If you are perfectly happy all the time you are either moronic or extremely deluded. Also shallow. C'mon, we need hardship in order to evolve as human beings. So I'm going to wish you a real New Year, and of course I hope you have good luck and good health, plenty of personal growth, some joy and some peace. And here are two New Year's gifts to share with you.

This poem was sent by a new friend whom I love dearly. Our universe sometimes puts you in touch with your people. She is one of them. Thanks Sherry.

New Year's Eve

Play a thin tune
on a paper horn
Old is dyingNew is born

Scatter confetti
over the floor
Sweep an old year
Out the door

Blow up a wish
in a bright balloon
Whisper dreams
To a midnight moon

Play a loud tune
on a paper horn
Old is dying
New is born

AND

Here's a wonderful list  that we should all stick to our refrigerators this year so that we can remember some important priorities. It was sent to me by my oldest beloved friend Marybeth. (Friends for 51 years!! We are soulmates.) 

Written by Regina Brett, 90 years old. This is something we should all read at least once a week!!!!!  "To celebrate growing older, I once wrote the 45 lessons life taught me. It is the most requested column I've ever written. My odometer rolled over to 90 in August, so here is the column once more: 1. Life isn't fair, but it's still good. 2. When in doubt, just take the next small step. 3. Life is too short to waste time hating anyone. Change the way you think. 4. Your job won't take care of you when you are sick. Your friends and family will. Stay in touch. 5. Pay off your credit cards every month. 6. You don't have to win every argument. Agree to disagree. 7. Cry with someone. It's more healing than crying alone. 8. Release your children when they become adults, its their life now 9. Save for retirement starting with your first pay cheque. 10. When it comes to chocolate, resistance is futile. 11. Make peace with your past so it won't screw up the present. 12. It's OK to let your children see you cry. 13. Don't compare your life to others. You have no idea what their journey is all about. 14. If a relationship has to be a secret, you shouldn't be in it. 15. Everything can change in the blink of an eye. 16. Take a deep breath It calms the mind. 17. Get rid of anything that isn't useful, beautiful or joyful. 18. Whatever doesn't kill you really does make you stronger. 19. It's never too late to have a happy childhood. But the second one is up to you and no one else. 20. When it comes to going after what you love in life, don't take no for an answer. 21. Burn the candles, use the nice sheets, wear the fancy lingerie. Don't save it for a special occasion. Today is special. 22. Just because you believe you are right, doesn't mean you are. Keep an open mind. 23. Be eccentric now. Don't wait for old age to wear purple. 24. The most important sex organ is the brain. 25. No one is in charge of your happiness but you. 26. Frame every so-called disaster with these words 'In five years, will this matter?' 27. Always choose life. 28. Forgive everyone everything. 29. What other people think of you is none of your business. 30. Time heals almost everything. Give time time. 31. However good or bad a situation is, it will change. 32. Don't take yourself so seriously. No one else does. 33. Believe in miracles. 34. Your job is to love your children, not choose who they should love. 35. Don't audit life. Show up and make the most of it now. 36. Growing old beats the alternative -- dying young. 37. Your children get only one childhood. 38. All that truly matters in the end is that you loved. 39. Get outside every day. Miracles are waiting everywhere. 40. If we all threw our problems in a pile and saw everyone else's, we'd grab ours back. 41. Envy is a waste of time. You already have all you need. 42. The best is yet to come... (Can’t wait to find out what! ) 43. No matter how you feel, get up, dress up and show up. 44. Yield.. 45. Life isn't tied with a bow, but it's still a gift." Its estimated 93% won't forward this. If you are one of the 7% who will, forward this with the title '7%'. I'm in the 7%. Friends are the family that we choose.