What Else Will Break Around Here?

A strange phenomenon started happening recently at our house - it seems that whenever my hubby is away on business, something breaks.

First it was the tv set. When my husband and I put our fake Christmas tree away this year, we decided to rearrange our living room in order to make it look bigger. During that process we needed to move the television set and the entertainment center, and because we are not on the “cutting edge” of technology (in fact, we aren’t on the cutting-edge of anything except going to the poorhouse) our tv is old, big and weighs a ton; meaning we had to take it out of the entertainment center in order to move that piece of furniture. In doing so, the wire that attaches the tv to our satellite dish came out of the back of the tv. It seems that a piece of solder on an internal attachment broke, thereby rendering the tv useless.

Great, I thought sarcastically, who has money for a new tv after Christmas????

Luckily, we remembered that we have a new television in “The Black Pearl” (our newly purchased used 5th-wheel that is a whole ‘nother story in itself.) So, hubby & I temporarily used the tv from the rv until he resoldered the wire attachment on the broken tv and then all was well.

Not quite. Hubby went out of town a few weeks ago and I, in an effort to get the best view of the tv so I could enjoy “Without A Trace”, angled the "fixed" tv toward my chair and POW! - the satellite wire dropped out of the back of the tv, leaving me staring at the black screen of death. Needless to say, that tv hit the skids and we were (and still are) back to watching the smaller one from The Black Pearl.

Last week, when hubby was again out of town for a night, our dryer broke. I had a load of laundry whirling around in the dryer when suddenly there was an ear-splitting, grinding noise coming from the laundry room. What the????!!!!!!!! It seems that the $5 plastic parts inside the dryer that keep the drum spinning, broke. GREAT. Who has money for a new dryer when they don’t even have money for a tv?????

Luckily, my hubby, aside from being handsome and tolerant, is also a jack-of-all-trades. He spent all of last Saturday moving the dryer to the garage (because our laundry room is too tiny to work in), taking it apart, replacing the parts, putting it back together and then moving the dryer back into the house to the laundry room.

“I’m sick and tired of things breaking around here,” hubby said. “All I do is spend my time fixing things.”

That said, you can imagine my anxiety when he was out-of-town Monday night. I spent all Monday chasing my toddler grandson around the house, making sure his inquisitive little mind didn’t get him into anything that he could break. I was aghast when he set his sights on our replacement tv - he was enthralled with pushing the tv’s buttons, turning it off and on at a rapid pace and then changing channels, which resulted in a blue or black blank screen. Hubby would have a stroke if he came home to find our second tv broken! (Not to mention the lecturing and outrage I’d have to withstand.) The quick fix, much to the dismay of our grandson, was that I moved the tv to the top of the entertainment center. HA! I was so proud of myself because I knew my hubby would come home and be able to relax - nothing broke and needed fixing.

Wrong! I spoke too soon. As I walked between our living room and front hallway, the last two toes on my left foot never made it around the corner with the rest of my foot. Suddenly, there was a loud snapping sound and intense pain shot across the ball of my foot. As I doubled-over and nearly fell onto the floor, I think I heard an impulsive “expletive deleted” come from my mouth, along with some moaning and whimpering. Because I have a high threshold for pain, I didn’t cry (although I sure felt like crying.) I did, however, get some sympathy crying from my stunned grandson. He couldn’t understand why grandma was suddenly bent over, hopping and flopping around in the hallway - not paying any attention to him.

So, when hubby arrived home last night, he was met at the door by a limping but smiling wife who told him that while he was away, nothing broke that he needed to (or could) fix!

Storm Clouds

Ominous yet beautiful storm clouds moving in on the homestead.

Cadillacs Hold Heat Pretty Well

Sleep problems in my house are as abundant as pine nuggets in my flower bed.

The first thing I usually ask my hubby each morning is "How'd you sleep?" His answers range from "The dogs' barking kept me awake all night" (which I don't understand because we sleep with a fan running and our door closed) or "I was cold/too hot" or "I woke up at 4:30a.m. and couldn't get back to sleep" and so on. Then there's me. I never get a full night's sleep and often am sure I've been awake half the night. So, given this, there was no way the following situation should have EVER happened at our house.

One Saturday morning at 6:00 a.m., Hubby jolted me awake when he leapt out of bed and ran to the living room saying, "I heard the doorbell!"

What the heck????

When he didn't come right back, I got out of bed and went to the front door. There stood our bleary-eyed teenage son, shivering. He had gone to his girlfriend's house Friday night and came home at midnight. Unfortunately, he said he was locked out of the house so he slept in his car.

What! Are you kidding????

We never lock our doors, so whatever possessed me to lock them before going to bed that night is beyond me. I didn't remember locking the doors - but that's not unusual - my short-term memory is nonexistent.

"Why didn't you ring the doorbell?" Hubby and I asked together.

"I did," our son answered. "I rang the bell for 5 minutes. Then I tried to break-in through the front windows, but they were locked, so I knocked on the windows for a few minutes. When you still didn't answer, I drove to the supermarket and called mom's cell phone from a payphone." (Our son had lost his cell phone and his replacement hadn't arrived in the mail yet. The grocery store is 3 miles from our house and they close at 11:30p.m.)

My husband looked at me questioningly.

"My cell phone is out in my truck," I said sheepishly. I had forgotten to take it into the house after running some errands on Friday.

"I ran out of change and the store was closed," our son continued, "so I came back home here and slept in my car."

"We never heard you," I said, feeling a tad guilty. "Were the dogs barking? Usually the dogs bark at everything and wake dad up."

"Yeah, they were barking," our son said emphatically. "They barked the whole time. They were going crazy for about a half hour."

I gave my husband an accusing look for not waking up. The barking dogs always wake him up. Or so he says.

So, as our poor, shivering son marched off to bed thanking God his ancient Cadillac is well-insulated because it holds heat for a long time, hubby and I played the blame game; it was my fault that our son would probably catch pneumonia because I locked the doors and it was his fault because he didn't hear the barking dogs.

The one thing we did agree on - we need to have house keys made.

Baby's First Words

Everyone knows that a baby's first words are mama or dada or something simple like that. Well, not my grandson - his first word was "Curly" - our dog's name. He didn't actually say Curly, it was more like "urrry" but he said it with a soft, sweet tone of voice; the same tone I use when I'm talking to the dog. (Yes, I have some of the best conversations with my animals.)

His next word, which surprised all of us, was "Paul." Again, it wasn't HOW he said it, but the WAY he said it. Paul, the last of my teenagers still in school, is NOT a morning person. It usually takes several trips up the stairs to his bedroom to wake him up. He can't ever get up for school, but tell him he has to be at a job by 7:00 a.m. and he's out of bed as quick as a flash of lightning. Funny how money is the motivator!

Anyway, I realized "Paul" was my grandson's second word when he toddled over to the stairway, stood at the bottom of the stairs next to the babygate and yelled in a loud voice (or at least it was loud for a toddler), "auwwww!" He waited a minute or two and then yelled it again. I was stunned!

I guess my son should feel honored that his baby nephew learned his name instead of anyone elses. But, seeing as how my son is "all things music" (plays guitar, drums, and his stereo 24/7)and my grandson seems to have been born with the same music gene as my son, it's not surprising that the baby learned his idol's name first.

Of course, the baby's mother isn't as thrilled as the rest of us. :-)

Now that my grandson has figured out how to say a few words, he has added kitty, doggie, mama, brrrmmmm-brrrrmmmmm (for truck or ATV) and ball to his vocabulary. The pediatrician is a tad concerned that he can't say the usual words toddlers his age say, but it will come in time. He gets his point across quite well whenever he wants something by pointing, squeeling, and giving one the "talk to the hand" signal for the word "no".

Who knows, by the time he goes to kindergarten, maybe he'll have "book, train and car" down pat.

Elizabeth Taylor Lives in My Backyard

Elizabeth Taylor - beautiful, dynamic, demanding; fiery, award-winning and notorious. She lives in my backyard...sort-of.

My Elizabeth Taylor isn’t a person and isn’t even a “she.” “She” is a “he” and he is a horse of a different color...a 25-year-old solid bay gelding named “Moose.”

I fell in love with Moose the day I met him at the barn where my daughter was taking riding lessons. I was sitting atop a wooden fence watching her lesson when a horse in an adjacent corral nuzzled me from behind looking for a treat. I turned around and there stood a tall stout reddish-brown horse with a short black mane, long black tail and warm expressive eyes. He was built like a moose.

The more I found out about Moose, the more I was drawn to him. He was a living oxymoron. He had a horrible reputation among the students at the barn, yet he was owned and ridden by a grown boy who was challenged. He kicked horses tied next to him; pitched a bucking fit at a local horse show; had a reputation for biting; chewed reins, lead ropes and halters; tore brushes from their shelves and threw them in the dirt; stung you with a swish of his tail if you brushed him too hard; hated men; tested riders who didn’t know what they were doing, and dangerously attached himself to any mare or jenny stalled next to him. He was an emotional wreck.

He was also the most well-trained western pleasure horse I have ever seen in my life. He cantered in place; responded only to leg and seat pressure; collected himself instantly whenever ridden; knew how to side pass, pivot and spin, and took perfect care of child and child-like riders who quietly sat on him and let him do his job. Word around the barn was that he was a former show horse and had “done it all.”

I didn’t need a horse and I’m not a very good rider, but I bought him the day I found out he was for sale. I had no business buying the middle-aged gelding - but I was attached to him and I am someone who has always loved a challenge.

To my surprise I found out my tall strapping brown moose with the telling eyes, tiny ears and small hooves turned out to be a registered Appaloosa with a famous sire, an impressive pedigree and a successful show record. O’Hara, son of Goer. I was shocked when, researching Goer on the internet, I found an article about Goer at http://members.tripod.com/~barnlot/goernarr.html and a portion of the article read, “....Some of Goer's most influential get include Goever, King Goer, Go-You-Er, Go For Me, Goers DBL Bright and O'Hara -- all Appaloosa Horse Club champions - ...” He was the 1984 World Champion in the Weanling Geldings class, in 1993 he earned a Register of Merit in Halter and spent the first half of his life traveling the Appaloosa Horse Show circuit across the United States.

My horse was famous!!, (at least among the late 1980’s Appaloosa crowd.). The more I thought about the old coot and the better I got to know him, the more I felt like I had a former “Star” living in my barn.

For various reasons, his unique beauty, gifted skills and fiery attitude reminded me of Elizabeth Taylor, perhaps the last of the great Hollywood stars. Dame Taylor started her career at a very young age (National Velvet comes to mind) and throughout her acting career she achieved many accolades and awards – as did my horse. One of Elizabeth Taylor’s trademarks is her beautiful violet eyes, and while my horse’s eyes are neither violet nor particularly beautiful, they are expressive of his mood at any given moment – they’ll let you know if he’s calm and cooperating, or if he’s feeling persnickety, willful or angry. Both the actress and the horse are in their twilight years, afflicted with age-related health problems, and are no longer in their spotlights, yet they still have that charismatic “special something” that glows from within and sets them apart from their equals.

During the past decade, Moose my “challenge” has become Moose my special friend. I still can’t ride him very well (although my daughter, the professionally trained rider, can put him through his paces) but the old coot puts up with me. Anyone else on his back, however, will always be tested by him. I’ve learned which of his buttons not to push and he rewards me with nickers, patience and love. The only evidence of his previous life as a show horse is his uncanny knack of dropping his head and collectedly cantering across the pasture, even when he’s playing.

I am Moose’s last and longest owner but I’m sure his intense personality has left as much of an impression on his previous owners as it has on me. He’s one horse who surely has done it all.

The Uninvited Garage Visitor

The setting: Arkie family house in the sticks, 9:45 p.m. Sunday night. Mama & teenage son are home; Papa is out of state and won't be home until the next day.

cast: Mama, son, Sadie (watchdog), Velvet (laid-back dog), Squirt (hyper mutt from working dog/hunting dog stock), Curly (Brittany spaniel – hunting dog), Blue (neighbor’s blue-tick hound.)

The scene opens with mama walking out the kitchen door into the unlit open garage. She's going to the barn to feed the dogs. Son is putting his shoes on so he can walk the dogs from their pen to the barn for the night.
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As I closed the kitchen door and stepped into the pitch blackness of the garage, I heard a definite “dash-for-cover” scurrying noise directly to my left along the floor. “Raccoon” screamed my brain.

“Oh crap,” I thought, “now what?.” I immediately turned around and went back into the house, turned on the garage light and got my teenage son to come outside with me.

“There’s something in the garage,” I said.

“Are you sure it’s not my cat?” he said, doubting my hearing.

“It’s not your cat,” I said, hoping it wasn’t his cat because then I’d look like a scaredy-cat. Glancing around and seeing and hearing nothing further, I went to the barn to help with the dogs.

Several minutes later, my son showed up at the barn with our dog Squirt-greased lightening on four legs-in tow. Squirt is always sniffing and looking for something to hunt and has been known to catch squirrels and cats.

“Nothing is in the garage," son announced. "I took Squirt in there and he sniffed all over the place. There’s nothing there.”

I wanted to believe him, but I knew I heard something and had a hard time chalking the noise up to nothing; especially since papa cleaned and organized the garage yesterday in preparation for winter. “I don’t want any mice problems like we had before,” Papa had said as he stacked things neatly in their places.

Within minutes, my son brought the other two dogs down to the barn, put them in the stall and together we went back to the house. My son immediately went upstairs to his room and I immediately got a flashlight and returned to the lighted garage to look under the workbench shelves for the mystery noisemaker. There, on the floor against the wall, disappearing behind the generator, was a long furless, rat-type tail…only bigger. Oh crap, what's that?? Opossum popped to mind…but then, so did albino snake. I went back into the house to get my son, (who was getting ready for bed) and dragged him out into the garage for his opinion about the tail.

“Does that look like an opossum tail?” I asked.

“Sort of,” he said. “Touch it to see if it moves.”

You want me to do WHAT!!!?????!!!!!!! Ok.

So, "Fearless" me, I grabbed a shovel and poked at the tail that was between cardboard boxes, plastic storage containers and the portable generator.

“Yep, it’s a tail alright,” son announced. “It moved."

Great(!) I think facetiously, where did it go?!!!

My heart started pounding as my imagination shifted into overdrive…a giant phantom tail is hiding in my garage and I know it will pounce onto me when I least expect it if I don’t’ get it out of there soon. I’ll never be able to go into my garage again!

“There it is,” son said, pointing.

Sure enough, there is the long whip-like tail lying on the floor in a small space between neatly stacked wood and toolboxes. Attached to it, sitting huddled against the wall, was a cute, pointy-nosed, grey & white opossum….with its hackles raised like a dog’s and its sharp white pointy teeth visible in its open mouth.

“He winked at me,” son said as the opossum sat staring at us and us at him. “Look... he did it again.”

Sure enough, as the critter stared at us, he’d blink one eye, wait several seconds and then blink the other eye – never both at the same time.

About that time, Blue, the neighbor’s hound dog, walked up to the garage to see what all the commotion was about. She often visits our old dog Curly and checks his food dish to see if he'd left a few morsels for her. (Blue and Curly sometimes hang together, but Curly’s hunting days are long gone, except for the occasional run at our cat.) Anyway, I looked out of the garage to see what our hunting dog was doing and guess what? He was laying on his back in the yard, ignoring both Blue and the fiasco in the garage. Great white-and-tan hunter he is NOT!!!!!!!!!

Blue sensed the fear/excitement/confusion in the garage and came in to investigate. She sniffed along the tiny pathway behind the tool boxes, chain saw, storage containers, etc…and knew something was hiding there.

“Get it, Blue!” I commanded. She looked up at me, wagged her tail and slowly sauntered over to me for a pat on her head. Then she returned to the corner of the garage where she knew the "monster" was hiding and inadvertently blocked its closest avenue of escape.

“Get out of here, Blue,” I said in a frustrated tone of voice. “Son, help me get this thing out of here!”

Son was sitting on our ATV, admiring the “cute little thing” (as he put it), and asked me what I wanted him to do.

“Help me,” I said, “and don’t get bit. These 'cute little things' are mean.”

During the next 30 minutes, my son & I used the shovel, a broom, pieces of pvc pipe, and long thin pieces of wood to try to chase the little devil out of the garage. It kept walking and climbing along the wall and hiding behind stuff that we eventually pulled out from under the workbench and shelves. We poked and prodded and received growling, hissing and baring of teeth in return.

Suddenly my son got a brilliant idea and said,“Want me to get my bb gun?”

I'm a true animal lover at heart, but by this time, the opossum had started to make me mad.

“Sure,” I said, hoping it would work better on the opossum than it did the time we had the snake in the barn. My son got his gun, pumped it one time and fired at the animal’s tail. It didn’t move. Son then pumped the gun twice and shot it in the hind end. The critter jumped, but didn’t leave its hiding place behind the snow skis, molding, a hoe and other long objects stacked in the garage corner. Instead, it stared at us pathetically.

“Maybe it will come out if we just leave it alone,” son said, falling for the sad look in its beady black eyes. We moved to the other end of the garage and waited…5 minutes.

Nothing. By this time, it was nearly 11:00 p.m. The night was growing longer with every tick of the clock, while my patience was growing shorter.

“I’m tired,” my son said.

“We have to get this thing out of the garage," I said emphatically. "Then I’ll close the garage door and we can go to bed.” I looked around the garage and saw an old broom propped against the far wall. “Let’s just try to sweep it out of the garage,” I suggested.

Broom in hand, I headed for its hiding place in the corner and suddenly my “hunter” son turned all soft on me.

“Don’t hurt it,” he said as he stared at it sitting in the corner. “Come here, little guy,” he said, trying to coax it outside with a long stick.

That didn't work either.

"Get the shovel," son said, "maybe we can push it onto the shovel with the stick and carry it outside."

Wrong! That brilliant idea made the animal start climbing the tall stuff in the corner. After we poked him back down into the corner with the broom and rejected the idea of grabbing him with a post hole digger, we carefully removed most of the stuff in the garage corner (to a great amount of hissing, growling and roaring from the “cute little guy”).

Our next idea was for my son to use my metal rake and and gently pull him out of the garage. This scheme began to work until somewhere along the line, the opossum grabbed hold of the rake's tines, at which point my son swung the rake out over the driveway knowing the centrifugal force would fling it off the rake.

As the rake completed its swing back toward us, we realized the opossum was still hanging onto the rake, staring at us in defiance! My son quickly swung the rake again and this time the “cute little guy” flew off onto the driveway apron and landed on his keister. We watched him turn around, glare at us for about 30 seconds, walk slowly across the driveway to the grass and proceed up the hill toward the woods. I looked at my son and at the complete mess we made by pulling things from their organized places just to get the opossum.

“I’m closing the door,” I said. “I’ll deal with this tomorrow, before papa comes home.”

As the garage door slowly closed, I saw Curly get up off his back, walk over to the driveway and start sniffing around the garage while the opossum leisurely disappeared into the woods.