Misery in May

My heart bleeds . . . .

My heart bleeds . . . .

On the twentieth day of May, this is what the flower garden looks like!  This delicate Bleeding Heart looks a bit bedraggled after several days of rain, cold and now snow!  We love the moisture and know we are assured a tremendous grass crop this spring, but oh the mud.  The barnyard is impassable, Tilly’s corral is a lake and as we approach Memorial Day, I am beginning to rethink my annual tradition of pots of fresh flowers on family graves at the cemetery is a fool’s errand.

"Help!" . . . .

“Can we check out of here?” . . . .

With the outside temperature of 25 degrees last night, I am glad we hauled them into the dining room. They were in a corner on the front porch, covered with burlap against the cold, but Rosie found it an irresistible location to make a warm bed.  The flowers were flattened, and if that wasn’t enough injury, the kittens decided these pots were a nice litter box and dug up a few plants before I waved a broom to shoo them away.  Determined not to give in to plastic flowers, I will somehow deliver these pots to honor three generations of my family buried nearby, but the challenges presented this year are a bit exasperating.

The in-house greenhouse . . . .

The in-house greenhouse . . . .

Tomato plants, geraniums for hanging baskets, pots of morning glory seeds fill the counter top in the dining room.  At the rate we are going, it will be July 4 before any of this gets safely planted outdoors!  The garden is covered with snow and the early crops of peas, spinach, beets, kale and lettuce are barely visible.  The weatherman keeps talking about “cool Canadian air” and I am beginning to wish it would stay in Canada.

Looks like snow . . . .

Looks like snow . . . .

The trees have young leaves that collected lots of snow which is now falling in clumps, making a thudding sound on the roof of the house that at first sounded like distant thunder. Egad.

Steerage

"Drat those cats!"

“Drat those cats!”

What is the barnyard come to?  Squirmy kittens running loose, climbing in the hay stack, getting underfoot, behaving like they own the place!  Feed Lot took a turn for the worse recently, chasing the kittens into an old abandoned cow shed.  I missed them when we got home from our morning walk to the barn, and since they are still getting used to their surroundings I decided I should go back and bring them home with me.  After a lengthy search I found Feed Lot banging his head and scraping his horns on the wall of the old shed.  He was pawing the dirt with his hooves and blowing and snorting into the open doorway.

Inside were trapped two very frightened kittens.  When he heard my voice, Oscar Wild peeked out and made a dash for me.  I gathered him up and we went in search of TuTu2. Figuring the coast was clear, she bailed out of an opening in back of the shed. After scooping her up, I began walking home with both kittens tucked under my arms when I heard the pounding thud of hooves.  I looked around to see a galloping, 1,200 pound steer coming around the corner of the shed hot on our trail.  He was rapidly closing the distance between us and I didn’t know whether to stand or try to outrun him.  I quickly decided my better option was to call his bluff, because to escape with two fairly hefty kittens in tow while wearing mud encrusted muck boots had a dim chance of success!

As the feisty, bellowing steer got closer I turned to face him, determined to do whatever was necessary to deal with the situation.  By this time four sets of razor-sharp kitten claws became enmeshed in my rib cage, aiding in my ability to let go with a hair raising screech that stopped Feed Lot in his tracks. He blinked, sides heaving from his exertions, and stood looking at us.  He licked his nostrils, waved his huge head from side to side a couple of times and watched as I took a few steps back, then turned and headed home at a jaunty pace.  I looked back just once and he was still standing where we had left him.

Birthday Girl

A bit of luck . . . .

A Mother’s Day gift . . . .

Tilly was born on Mother’s Day three years ago today.  It has been an interesting, challenging journey which began with choosing a sire and dam; coordinating the breeding schedule, location, documents and veterinarian assistance; and a myriad of other details I had never thought of.  It began with a sudden impulse to have a horse, but not any horse. I grew up with a splashy black and white paint mare we called “Pinto Paint” that I loved dearly.  She had two blue eyes and a tolerant, albeit mischievous personality.  My memories of riding her bareback with the wind in my hair up and down a trail along the creek bottom fills me with nostalgia to this day.

In January of 2008 I spied an article in the Denver Post featuring a black and white homozygous tobiano stallion named Pistol Packin’ Frekles. Horses were in town for the Denver Stock Show and I tore the article out of the paper and laid it on my desk.  And the wild idea was born. Thankfully, my niece Sue is a horse woman and agreed to let us lease her sorrel mare Tia for the grand experiment.  Tia is predominantly solid in color but her sire, JB Classic is a sorrel overo paint and his sire, Titans Bar, is a sorrel overo. Tia qualified as a registered paint brood mare and she has produced some lovely foals for Sue.

Shopping for the other side of the equation led us to SugsTruLuck, a black and white homozygous tobiano paint with genetic capability to assure a colt with classic patches of color.  SugsTruLuck, in addition to being a gorgeous animal, was an APHA Reserve World Champion, earning 1,200+ APHA points in ten events. His lineage from Tru Bruiser, Painted Tru Tru and Lily Quadrille, all black and white tobianos, gave us some hope he would produce a black and white foal.

Our breeding schedule was delayed right out of the starting gate with an outbreak of equine herpes virus (EHV-1) at an event in Ogden, Utah and one in Oklahoma. The trainer who managed SugsTruLuck wanted assurances that the stallion station we contracted with in Pueblo, Colorado was free of any outbreak, since show horses travel regionally and nationally.  After a brief delay, we got going but the first attempt was unsuccessful. The second try produced two embryos and the vet interrupted development of one, leaving the one remaining to ultimately become Tilly.

Brand new baby, one day old . . . .

Brand new baby, one day old . . . .

Officially christened Tru Tahlequa Miss, this pretty baby takes after her mother’s side of the family and is registered as a bay tobiano/overo.  She has two blue eyes, which thrilled me, even though I have sunk a fortune in fly masks to protect her eyes from the sun. Having been away from horses most of my adult life, taking charge of a six-month-old weanling was a jolt into reality. After the long, eleven-month gestation period and the wait until we could bring her home, it all seemed like a dream that had not yet come true.  And then we had our hands full of a jumpy, sad little foal who wanted her mama and didn’t like anybody but the long horn/angus steer we weaned in the corral alongside her.  The bond that formed in that first week between Feed Lot and Tilly has endured.  It has been hilarious at times, frustrating at times, and scary at times.

Staying close to Mom . . . .

Staying close to Mom . . . .

Mother and baby off to a great start.  Happy Birthday, Tilly!

May Malaise

"This springtime in Wyoming is a bust!" . . . .

“This springtime in Wyoming is a bust!” . . . .

We can usually count on spring-like weather for Mother’s Day in early May.  Not so this year!  Rains started Friday evening, continued all day Saturday, turning into snow late afternoon, and leaving 4-5 inches of white stuff on the ground this Sunday morning May 10, 2015.  We stare out the window looking for signs that it will abate to no avail.  The snow is still coming down, blowing sideways in the wind.  Bah humbug!  We had to cancel plans to attend the Wyoming Symphony’s last performance of the season last night, and put on hold a trip to Red Feather to visit our cabin today.  Maybe we’ll make plans again in July!

Mouseketeers

New in town . . . .

New in town . . . .

The backup plan for the mouse invasion entailed acquiring two adorable new kittens.  This young lady looks so much like Dad’s old cat TuTu that we named her TuTu2.  Her mustache isn’t quite so pronounced, but her personality makes up for her lack of exotic coloration.

HIgh hopes . . . .

High hopes . . .

Take a bow, Oscar Wild!  He and TuTu2 have been together since they were babies, although they are not of the same litter.  They were in the garden with me surveying the chaos left from last year, and decided Rosie was going to be a challenge.  These adorable, gentle kittens reside in their mobile home inside the chicken house at night and have already earned their keep!  The mice are scarce for the first time in a few months.

The last snow bank . . . .

The last snow bank . . . .

The remaining crust of snow from a huge drift that sits in the shady corner of the garden looks like a good drink for Rosie.  She has Oscar pinned on a post, so she decides to gnaw on the ice for a bit.  She is going to have to adopt these kittens and share her world. The kittens follow us everywhere–to the barn, the garage, the orchard–all the places we walk on our daily routine.  Rosie responds by tackling them, nipping at them and trying all sorts of intimidation, to no avail.  They make me nervous when they wander into Tilly’s corral as they are not afraid of a horse that could squash them flat with one misstep. Tilly isn’t at all sure she likes having them around and we hope she learns to ignore them.  For now she’s wavering between curiosity and distrust, which must be her genetic ambivalence for the cat species.

Got mail? . . . .

Got mail? . . . .

Fortunately there were no residents in the bird hotel.  This pair will bring a lively challenge to the scene, and we hope they are so busy chasing mice they will leave the bird population alone.

Homestead House

Marriage of convenience . . . .

This photo is of my great grandmother Clara standing in the breezeway between two structures on the homestead, circa 1922.  Both structures were moved from their original sites, which were nearby homesteads that had been relinquished.  The log house was moved yet again a few hundred yards to the west in 1938 to become the newlywed home of my parents and a lean-to was built on the cottage, which moved for the second time to ranch headquarters about five miles southeast in the late 1950’s where it stands today.

The "bunkhouse" . . . .

The “bunkhouse” . . . .

I undertook painting the little house for the first time when I was a teenager.  Very few homestead houses ever saw paint, which was an extravagance few of the early pioneers could afford.  After relocation from the homestead, it became the “bunkhouse” and was home to a cast of characters that worked as hired hands on the ranch.  It was still heated with a wood stove in the early years.

Waiting to be in service again . . . .

Waiting to be in service again . . . .

A hail storm damaged the roof in the 1980’s and Dad replaced the west side of the roof with asbestos shingles, leaving cedar shingles on the east.  In the 1990’s I engaged a local carpenter to replace a broken floor joist and lay a concrete block foundation which finally stabilized the structure, which was still standing on the wooden blocks it was placed on when it came from the homestead site.  In 2001 I repainted the exterior for the second time in my life, and made a few minor repairs, replacing some trim and broken window panes.  By this time the “bunkhouse” was used for storage and considered unfit for human habitat.

Old and new . . . .

Old and new . . . .

My lifelong love for this old structure started getting into my pocketbook in a more serious vein in 2005 when I had the roof finished (fortunately I was able to match the same color shingles as Dad had installed) and we hung a new ceiling.  The old beaver board had warped and was stained with water leaks from the failing roof, but the wooden cross beams were still in good condition.  I matched the paint color, repainted them and we hung them back up over new ceiling tiles, replacing a few that broke in the process.  We laid insulation in the attic and buried an electrical line that eventually will help with lights and ancillary heat.

Design elements . . . .

Design elements . . . .

The carpenter who built the little house was skilled and added some ornamental elements that I treasure.  The interior was painted green sometime in the 1950’s and a new paint job is badly needed, as can be evidenced by the fly specks, paint splatters and heaven only knows what else that adorns the walls.  I purchased paint to redo the interior several years ago, and plan to take it back to the colors that existed when my great grandparents resided here.  I have some concern about removing the green paint splashes from the antelope horns that are part of the original fixture.  It’s a great hat rack and I don’t want to break it!

Kitchen built-ins . . . .

Kitchen built-ins . . . .

The flower bin still functions, as does the pull-out kneading board under the kitchen counter.  The cupboards are built into the wall and have stood the test of time.

Upper kitchen cupboards . . . .

Upper kitchen cupboards . . . .

The interior of the cupboards was lined with wall paper and the interiors will all need to be scraped and cleaned thoroughly.  Years of vet supplies, household cleaners, and miscellaneous junk left quite a mess.

Door to the root cellar . . . .

Door to the root cellar . . . .

Doesn’t everyone have a trap door in the floor leading underground?  The root cellar was where you stored food to keep it cool.  I recently toured our homestead site where the little house sat and the foundation stones, as well as the dug out area of the cellar are still visible.

Safety lock . . . .

Safety lock . . . .

A new and final phase of restoration is underway.  Considering how many years I have devoted to this project over my lifetime, that is probably an exaggeration!  Nevertheless, a plan to re-install the wood stove and chimney, replace rotted window sills, re glaze the windows, paint the interior, caulk, replace one or both of the doors, add screen doors, complete the electrical hookup and whatever else turns up should make it a delightful little guest cottage.

Looks like work . . . .

Looks like work . . . .

Removing windows that have been in place for nearly 100 years is a job requiring patience and more skill than I have, however I am persevering.  Each layer of trim and supporting structure that holds the windows in place has been saved, except the linen-looking rags that were used for weather stripping!  I will attempt to use something else to install the windows as air-tight as possible.  I won’t use caulking, as it makes it impossible to remove the windows for future repairs.

Window repair shop . . . .

Window repair shop . . . .

After refurbishing 20 windows in our historic chicken house, re-doing five for the homestead house seems like a cake walk.  Still, this is a job!  Removing the old glazing is the worst of it.  I have had to replace some window panes that I broke trying to get the points and putty dug out.  I have three windows glazed and painted with oil-base primer.  I will remove the remaining two windows as we install new sills all around.  Once all the windows are restored and in place, I will finish painting the interior.  And my great grandmother Clara is invited to be our first guest.

 

First Saddle is a Giant Yawn For Tilly

"Saddles bore me" . . . .

“Saddles bore me” . . . .

Tilly’s reaction to the rite of “first saddle” was amusing.  She was trying to wiggle out of it, and it has slipped some distance down her back after a couple of hours of wandering free around the corral and her shed.  She seems to be calmly waiting for us to rid her of it. I couldn’t resist snapping her giant yawn!  At this stage of the game, she has been familiarized with the saddle blanket, allowed to sniff it, chew on it and maul it around, knocking it off the fence a few times. She previously wore a bareback riding pad for a few stretches of time, so the blanket wasn’t anything too surprising to her, nor was the cinch on the saddle.

The saddle we intended to use for her training is still sitting in a queue at the saddle maker’s shop awaiting repairs.  Dad’s big old saddle weighs a ton and doesn’t seem appropriate for colt starting. We decided to improvise and borrow a youth saddle from Neighbor Tom. The advantages are it is light-weight and easy to handle, although it lacks a belly cinch, which is kind of critical. We put it on and took it off a couple of times, cinched it up gradually and then I hooked a longe line to her halter and led her around the corral so she could become comfortable with the feel of the saddle.  After a few minutes I asked her to walk on and then gave her a command to trot.  She humped her back and jumped a couple of times, then evened out in a nice even trot for several rounds.  The stirrups are light and narrow and when bumping her sides did not seem to bother her.

"Is this any way to treat a horse?" . . . .

“Is this any way to treat a horse?” . . . .

Tomorrow we will put a breast collar on and attach it to the saddle to hold it in place.  We don’t want to begin by cinching too tight, and we don’t want the saddle to slip off, which would be a yard sale to say the least.  Next on the agenda we will try to get her to take a bridle with snaffle bit.  She is very sensitive around her mouth, so this should be an enterprise.  I think I’ll rub a little honey on the bit and surprise her.