There must be something in the water

It has been a crazy summer at Angel Farms.  About three months, three weeks, and three days ago - little miracles began growing in my Red Wattle girls tummies.  Our girls are now sows - they have had their first litters of babies!!!

First up for pig birth 101 was our Red Wattle hog, Fancy Cakes who gave birth to five of the most adorable, perfect little piglets complete with tiny wattles on each side of the neck.  Tiny little hoofs, cute little snouts - the biggest weighed about 2 pounds and the smallest just over a pound.  The runt was promptly christened "Mighty Pork" by my son who declared her the most precious thing he had ever seen.  Baby pigs, for those of you who haven't had the pleasure, are amazing little creatures.  They are mini-versions of their parents, right down to the grunting and squealing.  Fancy's babies are happy little piglets - two boys and three girls.  They love to jump, growl, and push each other around.  Mighty Pork is a mini-Fancy - she was a first class mud wallower by day two of her life on this earth.  She grunts, growls, rolls in the mud, and hangs with mommy 24-7.  The others are busy rooting, rough-housing, and generally learning to be pigs.

About six days after Fancy's babies were born, our other Red Wattle hog, Ruby Sunshine, gave birth to eight piglets.  One was stillborn and she rolled over on one during a rainstorm.  So, she ended up with six cutie-pies, perfect just like Fancy's, with tiny wattles on both sides of their necks.  They were very close to momma for about five days.  Now, all eleven piglets share mommas and cause general chaos wherever they go.  They can jump like nobody's business and love to poke their little snouts into hands to smell for goodies.    They occasionally break out of the pen and eat a little grass while the others who are still in the pen squeal bloody murder.  Their poppa - Mister Dr. Evil Porkchop - a monster who weights around 300 pounds watches over them from a pen off to the side.

Having baby pigs was something that we've been working on since last year about this time when I finally found Ruby and Fancy for sale.  I had researched the different pig breeds and had decided on the Red Wattle for their noted gentleness and the leanness of their meat.  My girls came home to a sweet little house and plenty of food and fresh, clean water.  They grew quickly - but always had time for a head rub.  When they reached breeding weight, I had to find a not-too closely related boar for daddy-duty.  Found Mister from a farm in Brandenburg.  He came home to two of the most beautiful sows in the country.  And he promptly ran off in the woods.

It took a day, but we found him, or rather I found him.  He was tired and put his big head in my lap while I rubbed his ears and fed him corn.  When he finally got in the pen, the girls proceeded to show him who's boss.  Good thing Mister can jump, because hogs are a matriarchal society - the girls rule the roost and one girl in particular here at our house.  Fancy is boss.  All other pigs must bow down to her power - she eats first, she got pregnant first, and she had her babies first.  She's the trendsetter of our swine world.  And if her law is not followed, she has no issues biting or pushing the offending pig into submission.

As if that wasn't enough excitement, about two weeks ago, I finally found donkeys for sale.  Donkeys have been on my list for some time.  Donkeys are guardian animals and since we've had issues with everything from raccoons to bobcats, finding some donkeys to help guard the chickens and goats was paramount.  Jay borrowed a horse trailer and went to pick up a pregnant Jenny and a yearling Jack.  After they got home and were fed and watered, they seemed to be getting used to the place.  The next morning, Jay yelled to let me know that Jenny gave birth to a baby jack.  He was still a little wobbly on his perfect little hooves, but we were thrilled that Jenny was okay and he seemed fine.  After a few days of watching him jump around and kick up his heels, biting at hay and leaves, we christened him Munch.  It's been a crazy summer - babies, babies, babies.... there must be something in our water.  I know I'm not going to be drinking it!

Ever see a goat in a garter belt?

John Denver said “life on the farm is kind of laid back.”  He obviously didn’t have any goats.  Because believe me, having a few attention-hungry, Houdini-like escape-artist goats around definitely adds variety and excitement to the mix. 

Most of the time I think raising goats is not all it’s cracked up to be.  I wonder if their introduction to the farm was similar to the path to hell, just paved with good intentions.  Granted, they are adorable and very affectionate.  But they can also escape from a four-walled, floored and roofed enclosure.  You have to watch them constantly.  Needless to say, they definitely keep things interesting.

The goats arrived unexpectedly (at least by me) about this time last spring.  My hubby came in with two pygmy goats in the back of his truck and announced that there they were – my goats – like a present or something.  This after we just had a discussion two weeks earlier when I explained that I didn’t feel comfortable tending to goats since I really didn’t know anything about them.  Right, that conversation never gelled in the hubby’s mind.  So now I had two, tiny, baby pygmy goats that he purchased from some dude off Craigslist.  I called the local vets, asked questions, tried to figure out if these animals were healthy or not and began taking care of them the best I could.  We named them Bonnie and Clyde and I was guessing that they were siblings.

After about a day, we figured out that Bonnie was pregnant.  It was kind of obvious when I was examining her and her tummy kicked me.  My best guess was that she was about five or maybe six months old – WAY too early to kid.  So, I called the vets again.  Went through the check-up, provided her with the extra nutrition she needed and crossed my fingers.  Read a lot about goats on Google.  I spent a lot of sleepless nights worrying.

And I wasn’t worrying for nothing.  In a few more days, it was obvious that she was not well.  Both goats looked poor to me, but the toll the kid(s) were taking on Bonnie was intense.  She literally started wasting away.  I consulted neighbors with goats, the vets again, the internet.  I tried to help her work it through her system, I gave her penicillin shots in case of infection, vitamins to help her cope, and I walked her trying to get her bowels to move.  I even gave her a baby enema at one vet’s suggestion.  And I can honestly say to you that I never thought I would ever give ANYTHING an enema, let alone a goat.  Everyone tried to tell me that when a goat gives up that there’s pretty much nothing else you can do.  I refused to believe that.  But nothing worked and she passed away, comfortably I hope, in her sleep a few days later.

That left Clyde.  Clyde is a non-neutered male who is about a year and a half old and he is completely obsessed with my husband’s attention.  He is totally in love with Jay- Jay is HIS person.  I would almost say that Clyde is gay (not that there is ANYTHING wrong with that), so deep is his affection for Jay.  But since our female is pregnant, he must just be bi-species.  Because it just doesn’t matter to Clyde if Jay is mad at him or not, he wants Jay there.  Clyde is a mini-Houdini, so adept at escape, that in order to keep track of him, we have to periodically tie him up to keep him from hurting himself.  In the amount of time it takes for Jay to harness Clyde and come back into the house, Clyde has managed to wrap himself around at least a dozen trees that didn’t exist when Jay left him, turn over his water bucket, scatter his feed, and become vocal at the travesty.  And dutifully, Jay walks back outside, releases Clyde from the harness, patiently untangles the cable, and reworks the line back through the trees that were not there before.  He removes the trees from the lot to be mulched.  All this time, Clyde waits patiently, nudging Jay affectionately with his head, standing there, chewing his cud, waiting until Jay is ready to put the harness back on him.  He does it at least 10 times a day. 

Clyde also likes to periodically get into the chicken lot and climb anything in the area.  He likes to climb; I’ve seen him stand on not much more than a fence post.  He just likes to be up there where he can see things I guess.  I love to watch him run – it’s like Pepe Le Pew from the Bugs Bunny Cartoons except in SUPER-fast motion.  He shakes his head like a tiger and terrifies my mother.  He also tries to break into the house through the sliding glass doors from time to time.  He wants to live with Jay, 24x7.  Clyde is so in love – so very much in love.  In fact, I just said last night that perhaps we should dress Clyde up a little, maybe put a garter belt on him, you know, to help with his self-esteem and let him pretty-up a little as he’s obviously got the hots for Jay.  Jay was not amused… but I only have to amuse myself and that’s easy.

Right now, we have two goats – Clyde is joined by the beautiful Bailey.  Bailey is NOTHING like Clyde.  She is a mamma’s girl.  A gift from a dear friend, Bailey is adorable and so pregnant that it hurts me to watch her walk around.  She is small and to quote the Bible, she is “great with child.”  Or kids in this case.  Unlike Clyde-Houdini, she stays put most of the time, and when she does escape, she just goes to the back deck and lays down in the shade.  She has the most beautiful blue eyes and her gentle little soul is so sweet.  I adore her.  She is funny – she rolls around in the grass, head-butts the cats, and just generally makes everyone who sees her smile.  She likes to graze my flowers – roses are her favorite.  I actually don’t know if I will have any roses bloom this year because of Bailey’s addiction.  Her babies are due in the next few weeks and in anticipation, we have bottles ready and Sav-A-Kid milk replacement just in case she has issues.  I am a sucker for babies – of any kind.  My son and I are so excited that we can’t even think!!!  But of course, then there will be more than two goats living on the farm.  And I imagine that will really up the crazy ante!  Anyway, let us know if you see a brown pygmy goat in a garter belt wondering around the backwoods.  Jay will be looking for him.

***NOTE - No goats were dressed in inappropriate underwear before, during or after the publication of this blog.  LOL

Rainy days and Tuesdays always get me down

I lost a favorite uncle last week unexpectedly.  He died on the way to the hospital.  He was a very sweet man and I loved him dearly.  I adore my aunt, who is now left to pick up the pieces of her life and move forward.  I do not envy her this task - I am so sad for her loss and I know there is not a damn thing I can do about it.  Time has to do it's magic.  Sadness has to be dealt with - and she will deal with it on her own terms.  Grief follows stages, it's a part of life.  Depression is another part of the process.

Depression is not something that I am unfamiliar with – in fact I once knew her quite well, intimately even.  I have lived long enough to have been through a few serious depressive episodes in my life, so I am able to recognize her seductive touch and identify her provocative scent.  She paints in brushstrokes of pale shades of gray with a whiter shade of pale around her edges.  She smells like the woods after a rain, so sweet and tempting and easy to slip into and become lost.  She reaches out with cool, feathery fingers and touches my face.  She is sadness and she draws me into her comfortable embrace, and I cry.

As a teen and young adult, I wallowed in depression and clung to sadness.  I imagined myself a poet and was always able to create beautiful words from sadness in both poetry and stories.  I would write pretentious essays on the state of humanity, weaving webs of melancholy, tugging on emotions and hoping to make people feel that pain in their bones.  I was never able to write when I was happy… there had to be something tragic happening to create those beautiful words and phrases.  That’s how I saw misery, as an exquisite, creative space to inhabit. 

I so didn’t have a clue about life.  I was so secure in my superior knowledge of what everything really meant.  I was arrogant about my intelligence, knowing that no one was right except me. Life had to knock me down into a real depression before I realized that it is not a good place to be.  I had to learn. 

I had to see for myself that misery does not love company and that it can barely stand to be in the same room with others.  That sadness can make it hard to breathe the way it clenches your heart.  I didn’t know how much depression hurt.  Before my bout, I was a poser, grasping at ideas from Romantic poets and Jim Morrison from The Doors.  Of course, they were all on drugs.  I was trapped in real pain for a long, long time.  I lost months of my life.  That was the toll that grief took on me.  And I recognize her now and shudder and do all the things I can do to keep her at bay.  I don’t want to lose myself in her heartbreak – I want to see the sun.

Of course, experience makes all the difference.  I was a late bloomer, in all things, from puberty to relationships, I never have followed what one would call a “normal” schedule.  And I came to redefine many of my terms in my late twenties and early thirties including intelligence, passion, seduction, happiness, wonderment, creation, beauty, and forgiveness. 

Probably the hardest thing anyone learns is how to forgive themselves and shake off those petty personas that we clutch to because we’re so afraid to be known for ourselves – who we really are.  It’s a dangerous game to let down those mysteries we shroud ourselves in and be seen, naked and ugly, before the world and to hell with judgment.  But I’ve done that and am stronger for it.

Now I embrace the happy days, life filled with beauty and joy, the smile on my son’s face, the sparkle in my husband’s eyes, the way the ducks waddle around oblivious to weather, and the magnificence of the peacock when he spreads out his tail.  There is beauty and magic in everything – we only have to look to see it.  We only have to open our eyes to be blinded by possibility.  I refuse to waste another day wasting away.  You should too.

Reflections on Aging

A few weeks ago, I turned 40 years old.  I don't necessarily feel 40, but I've been told that I look it by "so-called" friends who will remain nameless, KAREN!  Accused of being a cougar, even though my darling hubby is five years older than me, I apparently am no longer kissed by youth's dew.   A dear friend even embarrassed me by taking out one of those horrible "lordy, lordy look who's 40" ads in The Sentinel-Echo - the hometown newspaper.  And people actually SAW it and commented on it.

Suffice it to say that I am not ashamed or even fearful that my faces shows each passage of time and that my body is a scarred road-map to major events in my life.  I am even less concerned that my hair, streaked in "Bride of Frankenstein" gray, makes the point that I'm no longer considered young.  When I look in the mirror, I see a woman who has lived life, along with stray chin hairs that I cannot seem to get rid of.  Superficial things like wrinkles and stray eyebrows just do not concern me.  I'm glad that I have crow's-feet crinkles and even though I've smoked on and off forever, my face does not have the deep ruts associated with the nasty habit.  I laugh and smile too much for that to happen.

So turning 40 doesn't make me sad.  In fact, as I reflect on birthdays past, I can't say that I would go back to any other age.  There are certain days, granted, that I would like to replay.  Certain times where I would like to go back and pay more attention.  Certain things that I might have rephrased.  But regrets, not really.  I'm lucky that way.  Not to say I've always been Little Suzy Sunshine - far, far from it.  But when I was mean, I meant it.  And when I was wrong, I apologized, even though it might have taken years to realize the error and attempt to fix it.  I did make an effort.  When I truly loved, I wasn't afraid to show it, no matter what the consequences.  And so far, I haven't committed real evil.  Considering I think I have definite serial killer tendencies, I think that's saying something.

I was born on a Tuesday afternoon in 1970 to Ruth and Donald Jackson.  You know the old saying, "Tuesdays child is full of grace."  Well, they obviously haven't met me seeing as I fall down walking on flat surfaces.  My parents are still married and live in the same house we moved to when I was 4 years old.  I am lucky to have them.  They're both incredibly hardworking, intelligent, and creative people.  My mom is an amazing artisan who can take scraps of fabric and turn them into something beautiful.  My dad is a human calculator who can add figures in his head quicker than I could enter them into a machine.  I know they love me and are proud of who I have become.  But I also know that they're not about to let me get a big head or put on airs.  That kind of behavior will STILL get the smack brought down on me, toot suite!  That kind of raising grounds a person in reality.  I am thankful for it.

My darling hubby and I have been together for so long that it's difficult to remember life pre-Jay.  I think we have a unique relationship - we're partners and we rarely argue.  And when we do disagree, it's usually over something trivial like taking out the garbage or loading the dishwasher.  The big things that can make or break a marriage, we have those down to a science.  He is so good to me.  He supports my ideas, makes me coffee, and has a knack for making my knees go weak.  I know, sap-city, but it's true.  I don't tell him enough how much I love and appreciate him and how thankful I am that he is in my life.  But does anyone ever let the one they love know how much enough?  Marriage is a lot of work but I'm happy to say that we have persevered.  Our son, Jack, is proof of that.

There is so many things about Jack that amaze me.  His vocabulary is phenomenal and his personality is very giving and gentle.  His stubborn streak exists in a mirror image of mine and his easy-going nature is a mirror image of his father.  From the top of his head to his lips he is me made over.  From the lips down, he is his father.  Of course, the things that come out of his mouth are all Jack.  His sweet smile, sparkly eyes, and general ability to do anything tug on my heart like nothing ever has.  When he first appeared in a school play, I cried like an idiot when he came onstage.  My heart-felt like it would explode.  To say he is my world would be an understatement.  He is my universe.

I love my job.  I think I love my job even more because I paid my dues to get here.  I'm doing work that I think is important, I'm challenged in a daily basis, and I get to work for and with the greatest people in the world.  Education is something that is vitally important to me - and to be a part of such an innovative institution, well, I am constantly making people sick because I am so psyched and ready to go.  I have NEVER felt like this at any other job... not even the newspaper.  I finally found a home.

My animals are another matter.  I love my goofy dogs, crazy cats, insane chickens, pretty peacocks, giant geese, and delightful ducks... and let's not forget the guineas.  The goat, well, I can take him or leave him.  Even though Jay calls me Dr. Doolittle, there is a camaraderie I have with these creatures.  I wish people could be more like animals.  If you're happy, show it.  If you're mad, get over it.  And be sure to eat on time.  Perhaps that's just wishful thinking.  But the animals really do bring a peace of mind to me that I treasure on a daily basis.  There is something comforting knowing that these creatures depend on me for affection, care, food, and companionship.  I take that responsibility very seriously.

And my gardening... I love my plants!  Finally, after much desire, I have a greenhouse to work in all year round.  Grand plans for this springs garden are in process as I make lists and begin creating magic with plants.  I love seeing seeds mature to flowering and I enjoy sharing the bounty of a great harvest with friends.  I like to dig in the dirt and feel its coolness on my skin and let the richness of it fill my senses.  I enjoy creating my English garden on my hillside, working it a little more every year.  It takes a commitment to be a gardener or any type of farmer.  You know you're in it for the long-haul.  Kind of like being married and having a kid.  It's a commitment that has to be nurtured on a daily basis.

So as I countdown to middle-age, I'm happy to say that I made it.  I hope when I really am the crazy chicken lady about 40-45 years down the line, brain addled with dementia, that my son remembers his momma as I am now - at my apex.  Happy, secure, confident, loved, and loving.  Hopefully, he'll smile at the thought and pick out a really nice nursing home.



Don't Fall on Me

Today is an REM kind of day.  Not the "Losing My Religion" REM, but the "Driver 8" REM.  I associate REM with fall.  Of leaves falling and stunning colors filing the woods on the sides of the interstate that I used to drive every week to EKU.  This is the music that reminds me of those college days spent sleeping late because of late night drives and Waffle House pit stops.  When going to the library was work and making it to class was even more like the worse job on the planet.   It reminds me of days spent smoking a cigarette out in EKU's quad, sitting with my legs crossed like an Indian, people watching my day away.  I like to refer to this time as the "no responsibilities" era of my life.

Fall of the year is a special time.... back in the day, of course I thought I was swamped with responsibilities, or rather, I was swamped with trying to figure out how to get out of my responsibilities.  I was a terrible student - I missed class so much once that I forgot where the room was when I went to take the final.  I got a C.  I didn't think it was right but I didn't ask questions.

Nonetheless, I did go through phases where I would actually go to class.  And it never ended well.  Mostly due to my clumsiness.  I am horizontally challenged - I trip over my own feet on flat surfaces.  It's a curse - I've always had it.

At first my parents thought it was due to a lazy eye.  I would just run into things and fall down.   After a year of wearing an eye patch and making the Jack Elam eye come into a little more to the center, I still fell down all the time.  I felt out of trees, down stairs, up stairs, out of swings, off monkey bars, off steps, whatever.  I always fell down.  There's really not a lot of help for my particular kind of clumsiness.  Apparently I had a family history of weak ankles.  And, my parents, being eternally optimistic, thought I would grow out of it.  I didn't.  I'm almost 40 years old and I'm still falling down. I have had some doozys!  But the hall of fame, best fall of all time, happened at EKU - in a little class in the science building called Biology the science of life.

The semester of my great fall was a time when I had decided once again to be responsible.  I actually went to this lecture most of the time and attended lab regularly.  I went in to take the final exam, I actually remembered where the class was located, and I even had studied a little.  So, I sat down in my seat along with approximately 200 of my peers.  I sat down and began working through the material.  I have always been a fast test-taker.  I finished and got up to walk down to the lecture pit to hand it my responses.

About half-way down the stairs, I suddenly had a premonition and felt very clearly that I was going to fall.  Then I did.

Now I had fallen down before and embarrassed the hell out of myself - at a friends party in high school I sat down on a stool and broke it into a million pieces, falling into the floor.  Once in an accounting class I went to sleep and fell out of my chair.  I was no stranger to the experience.  Suffice it to say, I knew this one was going to be different.

And it was!  When I say I fell, it wasn't a stumble.  It was a much more theatrical than that.  In fact, I would say it was an EPIC fall.  And to me, it all happened in slow motion.  It probably took less than 10 seconds but during that time I was falling, I was in a state of suspended animation.  I didn't feel any pain or anything really, except something akin to floating.  Once I tripped, I immediately felt my head go over my feet into a somersault.  I proceed to roll in this way down the lecture stairs.  I saw my professor try to catch me.  He missed.  When I finally stopped moving I was slammed up again the wall underneath the chalk board with my head in a garbage can.  I could feel the blood oozing from my busted knees.

My professor ran to me and asked if I were all right.  All I could say was "You can't fail me."  He said, "I won't."  I got a C.   Apparently I wasn't as prepared as I thought I was. 

To the class' credit, no one laughed.  No one even breathed.  Semesters later, however, a student who witnessed the fall for herself met me in another class.  I mentioned falling down in Biology once and she jumped up and pointed at me and said "That was YOU!!!!"  And then she burst out laughing.  In fact, she laughed until she cried and I secretly hoped she wet herself because the more she laughed the redder and hotter I felt my ears become.  Sure sign that I'm embarrassed, my ears get really really red and you could probably grill a cheese sandwich on them.

Of course, as a professor, I use that story all the time as a reason NOT to be afraid of public speaking as nobody can top making that kind of fool of themselves.  I find that most students agree with this logic.  I am getting older now and while I still fall down, I find that it hurts my body a lot more than it used to hurt my pride.  Which reminds me of another great REM song - (Don't) Fall On Me... I just hope I don't fall at all.

The Ballad of Honey and Daisy

This is the story of Honey and Daisy, two little chickens who have changed my way of thinking about things like knowledge, medicine, and spirit.  Of course, they didn't begin the story with those names... they earned them.

I purchased both Honey and Daisy this year as day-old-chicks.  Honey is a Dominique and Daisy is a Speckled Sussex.  They joined their sisters and were remarkably easy to raise.  Of course, they were my third batch of diddles this year, so my knowledge curve has increased quite a bit.  They grew well, had little in the way of serious issues, and were adorable little babies.  They were released with the other chicks into the pen with Randy the Rooster and his harem at 9 weeks.  Randy accepted them quickly and kept them safe and sound.  They were doing great - no problems.

One week later, I was checking the checks for signs of the hateful hen's pecking order games.  Everyone was doing great, except for Daisy.  She was bloody on the tops of her wings and was missing several feathers.  This was something that the hateful hen may or may not have been responsible for as I have baby Muscovy ducks.

Something I didn't know about Muscovy ducks is that baby ducks LOVE to pick feathers off any other bird - or at least my baby Muscovy do.  Even Charlie the peacock has had a tail feather removed by force via a baby Muscovy drake.  I picked up Daisy and cradled her in my arms and brought her to the chicken hospital.  No longer in the basement, the chicken hospital does double-duty as a brooder on the back porch.  I have quit even thinking about how absolutely red-neck I am and continue to become.  Once there, I slathered her wings with neosporin.  I knew she would be okay - that she just needed some time.

One week passed and Daisy's feathers were coming in nicely.  After checking on her, I walked down to the chicken yard to see my babies.  I brought down a few loaves of bread to treat the birds.  As I was picking through the pieces and making them into little bits, I noticed Honey sort of fall over.  I checked the other birds and they seemed fine.  I picked up Honey and noticed that her head sort of fell over - like if she wore shoes, she would be looking at her shoelaces.   I moved her head around gently with my hands and it was as limber as a rubber band.  I rushed her to the chicken hospital and placed her gently inside with Daisy.

Daisy immediately pecked the newcomer and I had to swat her away.  My darling hubby made an antibiotic water trough and we placed it inside.  After checking over Daisy and noticing that she had a perfect daisy on her shoulder where her feathers grew back, we took her down to rejoin her sisters.  However, the little Dominique was not getting any better.  Although she could still eat, she was having trouble keeping her head up.  After the course of the next few hours, she couldn't hold it up at all.

After two days of this, holding her head to eat and drink, I was beginning to think that she was not going to make it.  I talked to my folks about her problem and they didn't have any advice to offer.  I reconciled that my little Dominique would die.

Then about an hour later, my mom called me from my grandma's house.  Mamaw had told her that my chicken had limberneck and to give it a dose of honey.  I was ready to try anything - so I raced to my medical supplies, pulled out a syringe, removed the needle and poured some honey into a small jar.  I slurped up the sticky goodness with the syringe and went outside to dose the little Dominique.  My darling hubby held her and I opened her mouth and pushed the plunger on the syringe.  She perked up at the taste of the honey.  And we placed her inside the hospital.  And waited.

Within an hour, she was moving much better and was able to hold her head up for a little while on her own.  I, much like my late grandfather, was of the opinion that if a little dose was good another would be better.  So, I dosed her again.  After this dose, she was up, zipping around, and holding her head up high.  I let her sleep in the brooder, and then gave her one more dose the next morning. She was completely recovered.  I was a happy, happy camper!

Because I am a natural researcher, I naturally looked up the whole honey-limberneck connection.  And surprise, there isn't one!  Limberneck is apparently akin to a chicken type of botulism.  Most chickens die without the anti-toxin.  The toxin is apparently easy for chickens to come into contact with.  They can catch it from a fly that's been exposed.  Usually, limberneck affects about 40 percent of a flock, I'm counting myself extremely lucky that only two birds were affected - Honey and a little Silkie that didn't make it because I didn't know about the Honey.  Everyone else is subjected to daily looks and they're getting used to it.  I want to make sure I catch it before it kills.

After my research, I called my Mamaw to tell her that the little chicken, now named Honey, was doing great!  She told me her grandma would pick up chickens and dose them with honey for limberneck all the time.  After I hung up the phone, laughing that Mamaw said she was going to start charging me for this type of advice, I watched Honey for a few more hours and then brought her back down to meet her sisters.  She walked out of my hands and promptly started eating scratch.  I was amazed.

Both Daisy and Honey are doing fine now.  Both rush to meet me when I bring food in the mornings and both will mill around my feet if I am sitting down there watching the birds.  They know they're well cared for - and Honey, especially, seems to want to be extra special friends.  People say that chickens are stupid and do not have the same soul and personality that other animals do.  Well, I beg to differ.  Honey is special - she hitches rides on the feed cans while I walk to the feeders, climbing up my arm to see what I'm doing almost everyday.  I place her on the feed can and she sits there, pecking away at pellets, happy as a little clam.  While I do love a Daisy, nothing is sweeter than Honey!

The One They Called Seventh Son

I first met Rankin Creech when I was born although I have no memory of it. He was my mother's father and he passed away a few years ago after a long bout with cancer.  Rank, as he was known to all, Papaw as he was known to me, had a unique way with words.  His language was peppered with "Rankisms" as they came to be known to everyone in our family.   A few examples follow:

If you ain't loving, you ain't living.
Love makes the world go round but money greases the wheel.
Hope for the best, expect the worst, and do the possible.
A whiskey glass and a whore's ass will make a horse's ass out of you.

Pretty good advice all the way around.  But he was much more than the "Rankisms."

Papaw was born a seventh son of a seventh son and he never lay eyes on his father.  In Appalachian culture and folklore, this gave him the magical ability to breathe into a baby's mouth and cure the thrush and charm warts off your body with a touch and a few whispered words.  Apparently, this worked, because my mother swore it worked on the warts on my hand.   His mother was a Cherokee Indian and his father died before he was born.  To say he was unique was an understatement.  He was brilliant and eccentric.  But he was also kind to a fault.

When I was a little girl, he used to dazzle me with his musical ability.  Self-taught both to play music and to read words, he was a thrilling musician to watch.  He could play any instrument by ear and sing songs with a massive amount of emotion.  The hairs on my neck would raise when he would sing The Green Green Grass of Home.   I can clearly remember my family gathered around, after a supper of my Mamaw's excellent cooking, listening to Rank play and sing.

He was a beautiful man who did not age until he was in his late 70's.  He looked perpetually 38 years old.  Dark hair, dark eyes, and moustached, Rankin dressed in black until I was in my 20's.  He loved western wear and cowboy boots.  He wore his clothes close to his skin.  He exercised regularly and took vitamins everyday.  He was married to my Mamaw until she died in the 80's, for more than 45 years.  After my Mamaw died, Rankin lived a different life.

Growing up in the hills of Harlan County, Kentucky, my Papaw worked in the mines until retirement.  He broke his back when he was very young in a mining accident and was in a body-cast for a year. When the cast came off, he went back to work.  After the accident, he never missed one day of work.

He taught himself to read as an adult.  He was able to comprehend the mystical with ease, often providing commentary on the Bible to my mother, aunts and uncles.  He knew most of the Bible by heart and was able to quote it easily and apply it to most any situation.  But he was not a preacher in the traditional sense.  Rank was more about celebrating joy and passion.  He lived his life the way he wanted to live it and when it was in his power, he gave others what they wished for.  I always wished for a piano.

When I was five years old, Rank discussed my musical ability with me in-depth.  I didn't know I had any musical ability so I was intrigued by his assessment.  According to him, I was capable of doing anything in the world, playing music was just the tip of the iceberg.  His total, utter belief in me was staggering.  He was such a large figure - a huge personality.  To think this dude believed in my as-so-far-unseen talent was heartening.  On his own, he determined that I needed to play the piano because young ladies played the piano.  My Mamaw agreed and the next thing I knew, I had a piano in my living room.  Rank's criteria for the gift was that I had to get lessons and learn to play The Shifting Whispering Sands by the Sons of the Pioneers.  And I did take lessons for five years and I went to a neighbor's house in Benham, KY to play the song he requested whenever he wanted.  I committed it to memory.  And I played the keys off that piano.  I didn't realize the gift that he gave me would be so enduring.  He gave me the gift of music - to calm me in the storm, to complement my thoughts, and to celebrate my joy. Music became a secret world that I could escape to when people thought I was weird or a geek.  In my mind, while I played my Papaw's piano, I was Mozart or Bach, Beethoven or Chopin, Liszt performing for the masses.  A great ego booster for a tween.

His ingenuity was well-known.   He could engineer complex solutions to most electrical and plumbing difficulties with not much more than black electrical tape and wire strippers.  He was a force to be reckoned with - he was a force of nature.

When my son refused to be potty-trained, it was Papaw's idea that solved the problem.  He said, get that boy something he wants, and then make him wait for it.  My mom bought a super-soaker water gun that she let Jack pick out.  He was so excited.  They got home from Walmart, filled it up, he got to shoot it for 1 minute then my mother took it away and said - "when you're ready to be a big boy and pee in the potty, you can have the gun."  My son raged for three days before running to the back porch, jerking down his pants and peeing on her flowers.  When he pulled up his pants, his little face in a sort of righteous anger, he said, "I DESERVE to play with that water gun."  And after that, he never even had an accident.  All because Rank understood how to motivate  Jack to action.  He knew how to motivate anyone.  His real gift was truly understanding the human condition.  He made no excuses, he felt no judgement, he gave his opinion if asked, and he minded his own business.

I am glad that my son got to know him.  He enjoyed my hubby's company, always calling him Jacob even though his name is Jay.  He was always glad to see me, even though I played Lyle Lovett's I Loved You Yesterday once about 10 times until he cried over a broken love affair.  I was not able to appreciate him then - I was so angry over my Mamaw's passing that I took a lot of that anger out on him.  But I was wrong to do that.  He was good to my Mamaw and he didn't want to be alone after her passing.  Hell, who wants to be alone anyway?

I think of him often.  When I do, I always smile.  I will never know another seventh son - I hope no one gets the thrush.