Rancho Borrego Negro

First Tri

2012-01-10T10:42:00.000-08:00

I don't know what happened to November and December. Oh well. January has been too much fun to even worry about it.

Sometime during that November/December "fugue state" (does anyone watch Breaking Bad?) I did a lot or reading and research on triloom weaving. There is a Ravelry group that is very active, and also a Yahoo Triloom Group. The cover picture for the Ravelry group was the one that finally sent me over the edge. Eventually, I took a short, one-day workshop in weaving on a triangular loom from Barbara Borgerd Ickler, who has been perfecting this technique for decades. Unfortunately, her web site is a little out of date, but her workshop was wonderful. Even the show-and-tell part was excellent, and by the time she had shown us all of the beautiful examples of her work, I was sold. Two days later I drove back and bought a 72" loom.

Unfortunately, the holidays interfered with my enthusiastic plans, so everything had to stay under wraps until all of the feasting and festivities were over. But during that time, I found a nice easel on Craig's list, sorted out some yarn, and vowed to set things up as soon as the house was mine once again.

I decided not to waste my handspun on the first try, so found some mill-spun llama that I had dyed, and added some Noro and a bit of handspun for variation. Lessons learned here:

Llama stretches like the devil.
Noro breaks and shreds at the slightest pressure.
The handspun was not the same grist, in fact, nothing was the same, so tension was wildly uneven.

Planning took some while, since I had lost the notes taken at Barbara's workshop. Duh.

But I managed to hunt up enough information on line to get me started. From there on, things seemed to slowly come back to me. Lessons from phase two:

It seems to take forever to adjust the easel, chair and loom comfortably. Had to hunt up some chains to use as reins for the easel.
A 6' triloom and easel takes up a lot of floor space, and tends to frighten the dogs, while being of endless fascination to the cat.
A light is really helpful.
Use something to contain your yarn, in this case, a wire waste basket.

Before I could bind off and make fringe (and several times along the way) I had to stop and try to take up the slack.

It is easier to straighten as you go than to try to clean up stretched and crooked rows at the end.
Don't use 100% llama!

I soon found that outside on a warm day is the best place to work, at least during daylight hours.

Hubby worried that the shawl was too - what was the word - sloppy? But I rather like the open, gauzy feeling, especially for spring. I finally got the shawl bound off with something that unintentionally looked like leno lace, but is actually kind of interesting, and celebrated the last of the fringe with a Kir Royale, sporting a rose garni.

Nothing provides confidence like one hard-earned success, so shawl #2 is well underway. And this time, I am using homegrown pygora/cashmere handspun with bits of color. All one texture, smooth as a baby's butt, and such a pleasure to work with! The addition of a beautiful wooden Tunisian crochet hook really makes it hard to leave the loom. Just one more round, just one more!

A Man, a Plan, a Canal: Panama

2011-10-31T09:09:00.000-07:00

I worked for some time trying to figure out a palindrome for A Woman, a Desperate Mess, an Impasse, but could fine none. No palindrome, at least. BUT, after spending an entire drizzly morning working in my "wool vault," I finally found a solution! Nearly 200 pounds of llama, finewool, alpaca and ??? fiber in four different colors were boxed up and sent off to Zeillingers for spinning; Wensleydale fleeces were sorted and stashed, cashmere and pygora fleeces were sent off to Fantasy Fibers for dehairing, and I started washing the other angora fleeces.

The farm is settling down into fall, goats sheared, sheep peacefully growing their long locks, sun low in the south, but I am gearing up for the last best event of the year: The WeFF up in Torrance next weekend. Sorting, packing, planning and creating some new yarns, I have been really busy in the house.

Imagine my surprise when Yollie came bursting through the dog door the other evening, soaking wet! Huh? She made one mad dash through the living room (mercifully missing my wheel) then back out the door. We followed her, trying to figure out what was going on. At first we thought she had fallen in the lily pond, but there was no water on the deck. Then she flopped her big self down in a patch of dirt and began rolling and tossing dirt everywhere. Mad, crazy creature!

When she had finally coated herself completely with dirt she gave a gloriously happy sigh, and rolled over. It was then that it dawned on me: she had found the outflow from the washing machine, and had been totally seduced by the buck smell in the water coming off the fleeces I was washing.

I bet the girl goats just loved her.

I Am in Love

2011-10-17T08:35:00.000-07:00

Never mind that he is younger than all of my children, or that he has a wife and child, or that I am married with seven grand kids, or even that he lives in a different state: I LOVE JERRY LADD! And his dad isn't bad, either (;>)

Jerry took pity on me several months back when I was writing and ranting about our most recent shearing disaster with a brutal shearer, who was fired, leaving us in the lurch for shearing the goats in the fall. Jerry said that he would be happy to come out and shear for us and, not only was he true to his word, but he arrived on the dot, at 7AM this past Saturday, with his very patient father along to lend a few hands. He was prepared, experienced and utterly charming. Plus, he's a spinner!

Jerry set up his gear and started in on the does and kids, trimming toes as he went. He remained unruffled - even when a couple of the devils actually bit him! He worked with a smooth, expert style and patience, while his dad (a businessman from Bakersfield) provided back-up, sweeping, horn-holding, kid catching and doe wrangling.

After the does and kids, we moved across the drive where he took on three extremely stinky bucks with the same gentle confidence and poise. Even big, stinkey Eddie took the event in stride.

The big test, however, was shearing our spoiled bottle baby/premie, Mouse. I'll let you be the judge. Just look at the picture below and tell me if you agree that even the mighty Mouse has fallen under Jerry's spell.

With a smile like that, who wouldn't?

Gathering of the Clan

2011-10-14T08:14:00.000-07:00

The dust has settled on September, and October is quickly passing. The annual gathering of the kids and grand kids was a super success - after putting the slide show together, I am ready to have them back again right now!

The little pink jeep and the empty playhouse now sit alone and dejected, so sad.

A few weeks after the gathering we attended the first ever Vista Fiber Festival. All I can say to that is "wow." The two organizers, Mimi Loutrel and Judy Maddox, pulled off a flawless two-day event that was successful beyond all expectations. And it was such fun! I met old friends that I haven't seen in 40 years and made many new ones.
The event was held on the spacious and fascinating grounds of the Antique Gas and Steam Engine Museum, and there was a mineral show going on in a nearby building, so there was plenty to do and see for folks of all interests.
There were two dozen vendors (including a pen of beautiful and friendly alpaca youngsters) and about two thousand visitors. Can you believe it? The weather was warm and beautiful, sales were brisk, and everyone was happy.

Part of the tents with the weaving barn in the background.

Our booth, somewhere in the crowd!

The weaving barn, front and back

Overview of the vendor area

The first day I used my wheel, second day I demoed the Navajo spindle.

Will they have it again? We certainly hope so. Will we attend? ABSOLUTELY!!!

The Sad Situation with Our Bees

2011-09-14T16:34:00.000-07:00

Now that it's over, I suspect that I am feeling much like someone who has lost a pregnancy.
For the bees, at least the lucky ones, it may have been the rapture, but I am filled with a sense of loss and emptiness.

Over the decades we've lived here on the hill we have been hosts to several unwanted bee hives, always on a warm, east-facing site. One was in the crawl space under our bedroom, two were in the walls of the guest house. Those unlucky hives had to be destroyed. Some were swarms that moved out on their own in in due time, but this particular group decided to take up residency in some wooden boards leaned up against an inside shed wall of the barn. For a long time we judiciously let them be (NPI), they weren't hurting anyone, it was wonderful to have them pollinating our plants, and we both grew to like the idea of keeping them around.

We read articles on bees and bee keeping, watched videos and movies, read blogs and became very excited about the idea of becoming backyard beekeepers. Visions of honey comb and happy hives buzzed in our heads.

But the more we read and learned, the more complicated, difficult, physically demanding and potentially expensive the enterprise seemed to become. Even though we found one beekeeper who said he could remove the bees from the barn wall and put them in a hive for us to keep, we finally elected to have them moved to another property when we learned that we would soon be hosting kids and seven small grand children.

So, Michael donned his fire fighter turnouts (below) and spent some time clearing out a path for Shawn, the bee man.

Yesterday morning, when the fog had lifted, Shawn arrived with all of his gear. I sat in the sun and waited at what I hoped was a respectful distance while he donned his gear, hauled equipment, lugged more junk out of his way, and finally brought in his bee vac with attached hive carrying case (on the red can in the foreground).

It was very cool - but stressful.The bees had been very calm around us, but they could feel quite differently about someone raiding their honey come, destroying their hive, and sucking them up with a vacuum. If they were Africanized, they could be REALLY upset. But they weren't. And he said it was a very healthy hive, with lots of honey.

The bees were (relatively) calm and Shawn was calm, deliberate and patient, and eventually had a good portion of the bees in his box, and three nice chunks of golden honey comb in Tupperware for us to keep.

As delighted as I was with the honeycomb, and even though I was relieved to see that potential tot danger alleviated, it was very sad to see them go. After two hours of painstaking work, Shawn held up his little box and said, "Well? Here's your bees, say goodbye."

I miss them. I just know they would have been wonderful bees.

ADD Without the H

2011-08-25T17:13:00.000-07:00

I seem to have started a hundred projects, then run in circles trying to complete just one. It's the hot, muggy middle of August, yet these days feel anything but lazy!

A gallon of milk sat too long in the fridge, so I found a recipe for making paneer and spent a few failed tries to achieve a wonderful little cheese!

I learned that:

You have to really heat the milk, not just warm it.
It takes some time.
You don't need to add anything except lemon juice.
It is as easy as falling down.
The result is delicious!
You can't really make ricotta from the leftover whey (or at least I couldn't).

In fact, I don't know what you can do with it: it tasted lousy when used to make rice, and even the dogs turned their noses up at it.

Next and continuously (but not at the same time nor in the same bowls) was washing and dyeing fleece and fiber for Pluckyfluff's Yarnival event next week in Placerville (poster is here), and for other upcoming events in the fall. The Yarnival is on Boeger Winery's grounds, and should be amazing fun, but work for Mikey since he has agreed (I think) to man the booth while I take a workshop on Saturday and Sunday. Do you believe this progression?

Of course, the whole thing was on a much larger scale, involving two washing machines, the entire kitchen in the guest house/studio, and most of the week. But what a lot to show for it!

Dyes mixed and waiting -- my favorites.
The simmering pot -- great expectations.

The rack rolls inside at night and stays out on the deck during the day. Very convenient.

Woolllama, mohair and wool and even some ?????

The roving is a riot of color.

Another Peaceful Day

2011-08-17T18:57:00.000-07:00

San Diego has the most amazing weather, and this year has beat all records for mildness. We have yet to experience a "real" summer, and by that I mean days that are scorchers with temps in triple digits and humidity in singles, for days on end. Instead, we have had the cooling marine layer in the morning, followed by sun mid-day, a pleasant sunset, and then cool, foggy nights. Everyone has been sheared for the warm weather, so most of the critters spend the day hanging out in the shade. Here (above) two of the buck goats watch as Rizado reaches for some tempting pecan leaves. Lani has her usual "huh" expression.

Dusty has picked up on the slight commotion and moseys over to see if he can grab the branch. He is taller, and - as expected - managed to connect (below), pulling the branch down so that Rizado can grab a bite, and the goats can hoover-up any stray leaves.

Eventually the tiniest llama, Lilly, shows up to see if there is any left for her, but too late - Dusty has let go, and everyone else has to wait and wish.

Fresh Fleeces

2011-07-14T13:41:00.000-07:00

Whew!

Finally finished the two dozen fleeces, updated the spreadsheet, and - I think! - have things back in the trailer in a more-or-less organized fashion. I am washing mohair fleeces to send off to Morro Bay for processing into roving, ditto the black Wensleydale lambs' fleeces. Then there is another box of wool and alpaca to go to Zeilingers for socks, but that is on hold for the moment until they have more room on their waiting list. Last are the black and gray fine wool fleeces (and coordinating llama fleeces), which are waiting for me to decide between roving or socks or ???

Everything else is on the inventory. Well, except for 10 llama, which I will attack later.

Sleeping Arrangements

2011-07-12T11:34:00.000-07:00

For cats and dogs alike, the most sought-out place to sleep is in our bedroom. When the sheep guardians get the day off, they high-tail it through the doggy door, often causing a dog-jam and blocking each other in the hallway, then race to the doggy bed that graces a corner of our bedroom.

There is only room for one of the beasts, so the one who comes in second has to content herself with the rug and maybe a corner of the blanket. There they snore the day away until dinner time.

Yollie (the goat guardian) is the bed's occupant at night because a neighbor complained about her howling at coyotes and sirens. So she comes in after dark. Every now and then she gets a little competetion from Sheba (As In Queen Of) the cat.

Sheba came to us as a barely domesticated youngster who was never told about boundaries, so she knows virtually none. She got to the bed first, therefore it was hers.

Unfortunately, Yollie didn't see it that way:

Yollie came in, made her usual circular pass of the cushion, then gently plopped down in her traditional spot. Sheba let out sort of a squished squeak, but didn't move. She just looked at me with that, "So, what do you intend to do about this?" look. When I just went for the camera, she eventually gave up and disgustedly hauled herself out from under the dog.

For a while her favorite place was outside on a deck chair or inside on a chest:

We'll see how long that lasts.

"Even the least among them..."

2011-07-12T11:02:00.000-07:00

While I am an abject atheist, sometimes those quotes just pop up in my head. Guess that's what a dozen years of intense Sunday school and bible teaching will do to a person. Anyway, we finally got around to shearing Mouse. Mouse will be a year old in September, but is the mini-est of Pygoras due to being premature.

I did not want to take the risk of subjecting him to Rodney's abattoir-shearing techniques, so one day when I felt particularly brave, we steeled ourselves for the job.

Here he comes!

We are NOT pleased.

Are we done yet?

Sadly, his fleece was so fine that it had already started to felt, but I saved it anyway. Might make a nice felted toy? Maybe next time will be better -- for all of us.

The Next Step

2011-07-12T09:50:00.000-07:00

The last bit on shearing was written in May of this year. It has taken me this long to work up the gizzards to go out and see what sort of sorry mess awaited me in the "wool vault." The "vault" is actually a small, ancient travel trailer with beds modified into wide shelves for fiber storage. Once every few months I seal it up and bomb for bugs, which helps to save the fiber from moths until I can deal with it. When I opened the door, this is the amazing sight that confronted me:

Wool, llama, mohair and alpaca: floor to ceiling, wall to wall. With the help of my ever-faithful companion, partner and spouse, we eventually managed to take everything out and sort the bags into piles on several tarps.

The trailer looks beautiful:

But now comes the hard part: deciding what to DO with all of it and putting the fiber back in!

Shearing

2011-07-12T08:57:00.000-07:00

I am writing this in a state of desperate resolve, hoping I can find someone with helpful advice. Even with double margaritas and a soak in the hot tub last night, and Aleve and coffee this morning, my joints are screaming and my back has stiffened like a pole. As many of you may have guessed, we sheared yesterday. And I did not even hold the shears! Here's the situation:

I used to shear my own flocks, but hubby and I are nearly 70 and, though still active, not in the best shape. So we have had help. After running through a string of semi-qualified, often crazy people (I even tried listing on Craig's List, but that's another whole story! ) we seem to be left with a sorta local guy ... let's call him Rodney... who has been coming down for several decades, when he isn't sick or out of town, or busy or, well, you know. This year I lost half of my goat fleeces because they matted while waiting for him to get things together, and many of the long wools are LOOOOOOONG! Two of the Wensleydale rams had more than 12" of dreadlocks.

I understand how difficult shearing can be, and take special pains to keep the fleeces clean and the sheep healthy. They are my business, after all. I don't think I am excessively demanding: I don't yelp about a nick here or there, I just get the Blu Coat. Second cuts make me grit my teeth a bit, but I am making myself be quiet because there doesn't seem to be any hope for improvement. I try to explain, year after year. Yesterday Rodney asked (as he chopped up a nice black fine-wool ewe), "Can you use this fleece?" I picked up a handful that he had just sheared, and spread the locks out on my hand, showing him one piece 3" long, and the rest chopped into 1" bits. "Well... not much of it. See?" But there is never any acknowledgment or apology, or effort to improve.

Although we are available almost all of the time, Rodney will only shear on Saturdays, the one morning when we sell at the market. So we rush home at noon and pen the sheep and goats, then wait - and wait - often two or three hours - for him to show up. Rodney's top speed is about 4 sheep per hour, so you can do the math to see the hours, days, and number of trips required to shear our flock of @ 50 animals.   And, because I keep Wensleydales and angora goats, this is a twice-a-year ordeal.

When Rodney arrives, he is generally exhausted, having sheared already in the morning, and it takes a while to assemble gear, argue about where to shear, find combs and cutters that aren't broken, and clean the crud off his tools and boards. Once set, hubby and I catch and deliver each animal, check for bell collars, etc. If hubby is working, I do it alone. Rodney will wait patiently while some ram or other drags me around the catch pen, but very seldom intervenes, even to the point of opening (or closing!) a gate, unless the request is screamed out in panic. When the shearing is done, I may be able to get him to trim hooves, but often he just "forgets" and releases the animal so we have to either run it down and catch it again, or just leave it 'till next time. We gather fleece and trash and sweep the boards and spray the wounds. Sometimes the bleeding goes on for hours, and many will limp for days after their foot-shearing.

Yesterday was tough on all of us. After chopping away at two Wensleydale ewe lambs, Rodney ran his finger into the shears. He wanted to keep going, so wrapped it good and on we went. But I swear he was taking revenge on the animals.   His board was slick, and angled slightly downhill, but rather than use that to his advantage, he insisted on starting with the animal in front of him, facing down-slope, so that he had to fight it every inch, and everyone eventually ended in the dirt (or weeds). We opened the tarp even bigger, to try to salvage the fleece. One ten-year-old ewe lost about 3" of skin over her jugular, which bled like crazy, but fortunately the vein seemed intact, at least last night. Others had ribs, flanks and bellies opened up. He sheared the ear-tags off my registered ram, and nearly severed his hamstring, and a ram lamb had his ear so badly gashed that I couldn't staunch the bleeding no matter what. His beautiful, white curls (first shearing) were drenched in blood, the board was bloody so that the fleece was acting like a sponge, sopping up the blood. "Hold his head down," Rodney suggested, while he tried to finish the first side. The lamb was very cooperative, but I could see that his ear was filling with blood, which soon spilled over my hands and out onto his neck, again into the fleece.

We "finished" just before seven, and I gave up on cleaning the goats, who were dragging around huge hunks of shed fleece. It will fall off sooner or later, and at least they are still in one piece!

So, finally, at the end of this rant, here is my plea:

Can anyone refer me to a competent and dependable shearer? I have 5 months to find one, because I am not going to call Rodney again. Requirements are rather basic:
     1. Show up when you say you will.
     2. Separate fleece from critter with minimal damage to fleece and critter.
     3. Trim feet and hold for pour-on if necessary.

We live in north San Diego county, and have a "rustic" guest house if someone needs a place to crash if traveling.

Thanks for suggestions, or at least for letting me vent.
Thank goodness for summer. Now I just have to get busy skirting and sorting.

Hayfever Haze

2011-05-03T09:40:00.000-07:00

We have been having absolutely beautiful weather here, in sad contrast to the rest of the country that seems to be inundated with floods and tornadoes. Fortunately, we took a spur-of-the-moment trip out to the desert the last week in April, because temps there now are climbing fast. Every year we manage to get out several times, to see the wildflowers or to hike or to soak in the hots prings at Agua Caliente, or just to sit in the quiet and enjoy the sound of rocks baking in the sun.

This time there had been some recent cold weather on the mountain, and the normally-sad-looking dead pines on the flanks of Palomar were dusted with snow, making them look like something from a fairy tale.

The flowers in the back country were still out; if you could see this picture a bit better, you'd see the wild lilac still in bloom. Puddles, ponds - even lakes - of tiny yellow flowers were every where.

However, the desert floor had pretty much moved on to an early-summer display of ocotillio and cactus blooms. Nothing much out of the ordinary.

As luck would have it (?) we chose a weekend when the park was celebrating Archeology Week, and the opening of a new addition to the archeology lab. There was quite a crowd at the museum center, with lectures, displays, and walks geared to the occasion. They also were having a silent auction as a fund raiser. One of the items really caught my eye: a small oil painting that reminded me of the flowers that we had just passed on the way down. And not one, single bid on it! I wrote down $20, and then forgot about it. I knew it would be snapped up by someone in the crowd.

Pretty, Isn't it? The artist was Betty Greer Rikansrud, and she lives in Julian, but no one knew anything else about her.

We toured the little lab, poked around in the museum, and then went back to our camp to make dinner. No one called about the auction, which closed at 5 PM. Sniff.

The next morning we poked around a bit more, then took our time and headed home back over the mountain. No snow this time.

Heard a covey of quail calling at one of our stops: chi-kee-ta, chi-kee-ta. In just a few minutes they all came tumbling out of the brush, tottering down a big boulder with top-knots wagging.

The whole trip was less than 24 hours, but it was as restorative as a week's vacation.

ML was rejuvenated upon our return, and started in painting the water tank and - between coats - tearing apart the old metal truck body.

To celebrate, I made a dutch baby, covered with strawberries (soaked in Grand Marnier) and a ton of mulberries from our heavily laden tree.

As RR would say, Yummm-O!

At about noon the next day, I got a call from a docent at the park telling me that I had won the little painting. "When can you come pick it up?" he innocently asked.

Good things, for a Change

2011-04-05T09:49:00.000-07:00

OK. That helped. Thank you for your patient listening to that last bit of self pity. Now taking a breath, and taking a look at some of spring's encouraging signs.

Lady bugs are back. And, apparently, so are their gentlemen friends.

After slipping on our "walk-the-plank" bridge arrangement in the garden, and ripping various thigh muscles from their attachments, ML painted and installed this cool little "Monet" bridge for me. I was so inspired and grateful that I started weeding.

Stopped weeding pretty much after this picture was taken.

We decorated ML's old scar for the benefit and enjoyment of the doctor and staff at the dermatologists' office. Ml's instructions: "Make it look like Wilson, you know, on Castaway."

I think the likeness is pretty good.

It's amazing what you can see when you stop moving for a minute. What's in this picture?

Yeah she's there, sunning herself between two logs:

Poor, cold toad.

Out with the old, in with the new. When we moved here over twenty years ago, a decrepit old red truck body was part of our storage system. It filled up with junk, as all empty spaces do around here, was basically sealed off and left to the rats and opossums.

In my paranoid old age (and in no small part as a result of our forced week-long evacuation in 2007) I have worried a lot lately about having our water supply interrupted. Justified or not, with 60 dry mouths to feed and water, it looms large in my recurring "What-If " nightmares. So I located a 2,500 gallon storage tank, which we bought and hauled back to the ranch. And - even more amazing, ML managed to empty the "red barn," drag it from its decades-long plot, and move the new tank onto a leveled pad, pretty much single-handed. I tell you, the man is a genius!!

Some of us were working like dogs during shearing last weekend, but Yollie and her goat, Mouse, were just plain bored.

Urge, Purge, Dirge, or When to Call the Doctor

2011-04-04T20:52:00.000-07:00

First off, this is crazy. I have lost both parents, a sister, one marriage, and countless other people, things and critters of value. Why - how - can the death of this dog so unhinge me? It has been almost a month since Tank died, yet crying jags continue to ambush like sudden seizures. It's totally crazy.

It can come on quite suddenly, maybe when I realize that we are filling just three bowls instead of four, or five. Maybe when I catch site of the shaded empty pen. Maybe when a sudden wind comes rushing from nowhere, roaring like a river through the tall Torrey pine tree near the house, while every other bush and tree on the hill is calm and still.

We both miss him, Michael perhaps more than I, but we soldier on in our own little capsules of grief and quiet, offering the briefest of hugs coupled with many resigned sighs and consoling phrases. He was miserable. He was very sick. There really was no hope, either way. Even if we had elected chemo and radiation over the surgery, his time was running out. The tumor was huge. He must have had it for a long time and we just didn't know. Or it was very aggressive. Or maybe both. At least when one dies on the operating table in an attempt to remove an enormous fibrosarcoma that was literally squeezing the life and breath from him, the survivors are saved from having to play the coulda, woulda, shoulda game. Kindly old Karabey died almost two years ago, and made it until five, despite multiple disabilities. But Tank, dead at three years? It shoulda been different.

It has long been my theory that the loss of pets helps to prepare children for losing loved ones later in life. We start out with a pale goldfish belly-up in a murky bowl of water, or a turtle that escaped and was later found, dessicated shell like a poker chip, under the couch. We all had legions of little wounded birds resting in shoe boxes full of tissue, which later become convenient coffins. And all of this should be bringing us to the stage where we, as adults, learn to recognize and accept the impermanence of life. But I am not finding it so. In fact, each death now seems cumulative, shock based on a Richter-scale-like rating system, each one ten times worse than the previous.

Apparently now there is research that shows people who have been dumped in a relationship, and are said to be "suffering from a broken heart," actually do feel real, physical pain. It's a fist in the gut, labored breathing, and - quite literally - a sore heart. In ancient Greece, around in 300 BC, Menander wrote: "Time is the healer of all necessary evils." This has been thoughtfully appended by J. Worth Kilcrease , when he wrote, "Time doesn't heal, it's what you DO with the time that heals."

So we continue running the ranch, mowing, chopping thistles, installing an emergency water tank, feeding, shearing, and loving those that are left just as much as we can. They say you stop crying when you run out of tears. But I swear, when that strange wind starts tearing at the top of the pine tree, and it sounds like big Kangals running through tall grass, I would surely join them if there were any way at all.

Tank was the firstborn of seven puppies, and earned his name by his physique.

Here, Tank (left) keeps a watchful eye on the goats.

Tank checks out Mouse, a tiny, preemie Pygora.

Tank was Michael's dog. Period.

Tank (center) and the girls rough-housing. Zerrin, his mother (right) avoids a fatal nip by leaping into the air. Notice his two-curl tail.

The end

What The...?

2011-03-03T07:56:00.000-08:00

As one might imagine, nights around here are not necessarily silent. There are occasional calls from sheep and goat kids who have temporarily misplaced mom, coyotes chorus in the distance, our dogs and sometimes the neighbors' dogs answer them. We also have a frog population, that carouses most of the night this time of the year as the males seek female companions.

A variety of night birds chime in from time to time, the most impressive of which is the great horned owl's "hoo hoo-hoo hoooo hoo." Starting in November they call and respond in what eventually becomes an almost soothing addition to the rest of the nocturnal orchestra. After having three of my own kids and acting as animal midwife to hundreds of critters, I am a fairly light sleeper. Noises don't necessarily bother me, but do cause me to rise to the surface of a dream in order to make positive identification of the noise and its cause. Let's just say I sleep with one ear open.

So when the owls went off the other night I just made a note and rolled over, but it did sound unusually close - like maybe in the big, old live oak tree near our bedroom window, the one that is in Tank's enclosure. Then Tank woofed, a sort of confused, "what the...?" utterance, followed by some growling. Before I had time to sort that out, there followed an enormous disturbance of some sort; no voices or yelps, just the sounds of one or more large objects thrashing and crashing about ... in the tree? On the ground? Oh, no - could Tank have an owl?!

I raced out of bed, stuffed feet into Crocs, pulled on a jacket and ran out to the deck that overlooks Tank's pen. The scuffling noises continued, but this time were punctuated by incessant high pitched chattering and squeaking, and they were coming from the ground ... underneath Tank. By now the "hoo hoo-hoo hoooo hoo" had deepened and moved a dozen yards away into the neighbors' yard, but I still could not see what what was going on.

Back inside, I grabbed our big hand-held spotlight and went outside and down the steps to the pen. From outside the gate I could clearly see Tank standing over something that was glaring at us with beady little red eyes. Tank threw me a pathetic "Now what?" sort of look, to which I had no answer.

"I dunno, Tank; what IS it?"

As I opened the gate to go inside, the creature made some sort of a very bad decision, because it struggled and Tank calmly reached down and dispatched it with one chomp to the neck. Then he backed off and looked at me for orders.

The "hoo hoo-hoo hoooo hoo" now came from atop our Torrey Pine tree, so it wasn't the owl. Closer examination showed a well-armed, furry creature taking its last gasp.

"Ohhh, Tank. It's a raccoon," I said, regretfully.

Then I started looking around in an attempt to unravel the puzzle. Where did it come from? Tank's enclosure is surrounded by a six-foot-tall fence, much of it topped with barbed wire. There was no way it could just walk in or "drop by."
Or ... DROP by....?

A cursory postmortem examination of the raccoon showed him to be a nearly full-sized male, 20 - 30 pounds with no external signs of damage whatsoever, other than some scrape marks on a front leg. There was no blood, but Tank did have a small scratch or two on his face, which is understandable. The owls have not been heard since.

I am still puzzling over the incident, but little by little the pieces seem to be coming together. What do you think happened?

Tank checks it out, then wants nothing to do with it.

Sorted, Skirted, Picked, Weighed and Sampled ... Oh My!

2011-02-14T15:15:00.000-08:00

What a GREAT week this has been! Last Saturday (AM - After Market) we sheared a dozen of the (mostly) Wensleys, and I spent that week getting fleeces sorted out and ready to sell. I have a spread sheet with pictures, prices and fiber information, but it was too big to upload here. If that link doesn't work for you, cut and paste this:

https://docs.google.com/viewer?a=v&pid=explorer&chrome=true&srcid=0B743nbzGR7t_MDA2ZjYzZGUtNWExNC00YjZiLWFhOWEtNjhlMWNkMTczZWYw&hl=en&authkey=CPvHudcJ

UPDATE: Opal and Lila's fleeces have been sold. Thank you!

It is over 6MB, so takes a while to load.
Next weekend we do more and some goats, yay!

This week, we skipped the Saturday market and instead drove to LA where I was able to sit in on the SCHG (Southern California Handweavers' Guild) monthly meeting. Patsy Zawistoski gave a great talk and slide show on Using Your Yarns; A Look at the Creative Process. That afternoon and all day Sunday she taught a superb workshop called Quick Novelty & Boucle Yarns. I don't know how quick I was, but it was a treat and a challenge to keep up. We worked on spinning a worsted slub spiral, a core spun bouclé, a knotted yarn, a cable yarn and a lopi style singles yarn, among others. The worksheets she designed served to keep us on track as well as provide a reference for future projects. Never have I been so organized! All in all I found them to be a wonderful, lively guild, and the workshop was stupendous.

Today (Valentine's Day) I gave a short presentation on carding and spinning on a Navajo-style spindle to my own guild, Palomar Handweavers' Guild, PHG . Now I sit with my brain quite literally spinning, thinking "Fiber, fiber EVERYWHERE but never time to think!"

What a Strange Way to Start the New Year

2011-01-21T17:40:00.000-08:00

I know that most people begin a new year by making a list of resolutions or taking stock of the year past, but I decided to start by taking the Death Test. The questions are reasonable, thoughtful, kind of interesting, and some are downright funny. You should try it - it doesn't take too long.

After several pages, the verdict was revealed:

Dead At 72

From Cancer

View my profile:

Find out when and why you'll die, take The Death Test!

Why they showed a picture of this odd man from the 50's with a bump on his head, I do not know. But the truly spooky part is that I actually toook the same test twelve years ago ... and got the exact same answer, down to the actual day: November 18, 2016.

Then came the sobering statement:
You have 1944.3 days left on this earth.
You’ve already lived 93% of your life.

Now THAT calls for some taking stock, doesn't it?

If this test is too morbid for you right now, check out the web site: there are 43,442 more tests, dealing with a dizzying array of subjects. There are tests in other languages and on all maturity levels, rated on the star system, complete with statistics of how many people have taken it - ever - and how many have taken it in the last hour.

The top three?

The Which Karamazov Brother Are You Test
Which of the Karamazov brothers from Fyodor Dostoevsky's famous novel are you? 4.43

3085 (#3206) people have taken it. 10 (#282) people took it in the last 24 hours (↑400%).

The Commonly Confused Words Test
Complete Answer Key available. URL at end of test. Good communication is not necessarily about using an expansive vocabulary. 4.4
1238180 (#2) people have taken it. 363 (#6) people took it in the last 24 hours (↓9%).

How good of a Calvinball player are you?
Do you have what it takes to win? It's a tiger-eat-boy world, so you'll need to be quick on your feet to win this game. 4.42

22776 (#408) people have taken it. 8 (#348) people took it in the last 24 hours.

So hey, if you are bored this weekend, or don't want to examine your life and learn your fate right now, just jump right in! Maybe I'll try the PERSONALITY DEFICET Test next.

WeFF

2010-11-15T15:49:00.001-08:00

One week later we were locked and loaded for another big event: the Western Fiber Festival, held annually in Torrance by what was formerly SCHG. What fun! And this time it was just a one-day event, so we could leave the mighty Mouse at home with our farm feeder. It was dark when we left - 4 something, by the "new" time - but the skies lightened by the time we arrived, revealing strange cloud formations over Long Beach.

As we got closer we decided that it was a phenomenon due to the still weather; lack of wind allowed heated air from the refineries to travel straight up, like chmneys or tornado's tails. Interesting to watch, to the point that we had to turn off our book on CD - Malcom Gladwell's What the Dog Saw. And that book is hard to turn down.

WeFF is a feast for the eyes, a bonanza for the buyer, and our happiest day of the year. We earned more in one day (10 to 4) than we did in FIVE tortuous days (and one evening) at Convergence.

Plus we had great fun, the people (both public and organizers) were wonderful, and ... AND... they served us coffee and donuts while we set up and gave us little sandwiches, soda and chips for lunch!

Whew!

2010-11-15T14:37:00.000-08:00

How many posts have I begun with that exhausted "gasperation"? Or maybe it just seems like a lot, because that is the mantra that assails my mind the minute I find time to sit down for an update. Nevertheless, whew is a pretty good descriptor for the last month.

We prepped and packed for a weekend at the SWFF (Southwest Fiber Festival) in Amado, AZ, one of my favorite areas to visit. Only this year (the festival's third) we were vendors instead of visitors, a whole new ballgame!

We made the trip (trailer and the ever-present Mouse in tow) in good time, but it was a no-frills trip because ML had to work the next week. We spent two nights at the Amado Territory Inn, two days traveling, and one day selling.

Traveling the stretch of I-10 just west of Tucson was a humbling and numbing experience. I have been coddling and nursing along a small hand full of natural colored cotton plants, painstakingly grown from seed (another post, for sure!) and here we were, driving past miles and miles and MILES of cotton. We passed endless acres of fields with fat green plants sporting tiny white bolls, monstrous mega-machines harvesting row after row, hundreds additional acres of skeletonized plants with more cotton left hanging on the bare limbs than I can ever hope to grow, enormous gray tarps staked over mounds of compacted cotton the size of my house, and drifts of white cotton waste covering fences, weeds, and filling the roadside ditches. Wow.

We had a double booth space because I was teaching some classes, so we had plenty of room to spread out.

Midway through the afternoon, winds gusted and blew my shelf of roving over -- fortunately NOT during class!

True to course, Mouse was an excellent trooper, spending nights quietly sleeping in his dog kennel in the back of the car and days in his pen behind our booth. He had his own shady tree and a bevy of admirers.

Feeding him was a bit of a challenge, since he is still on the bottle (one that prophetically says "The one and only...") and refuses cold milk, but we carried a thermos which helped.

Mouse supervised loading and unloading,

took the thousand mile trip in stride,

Small traveler, big desert.

and came home to appreciate all the comforts of home and hearth.

Especially hearth.

Rain, Beautiful Rain!

2010-10-20T17:52:00.000-07:00

We have been under drought conditions for all of this century and part of the last. It has been so long that some people are beginning to think it will be a permanent situation for Southern California. In the past, rain predictions meant the roads might get a sprinkling, or folks should turn on their wipers. But this week we had real rain, with headlines like the following:

Southwest at Risk for Severe Storms Again

News - Oct 20, 2010; 10:00 AM ET Thunderstorms threaten to cause flash flooding and turn severe over Southern California and Arizona today.

Of course, everything is made to sound terribly dramatic, be it rain or drought, but we did get nearly 3" from this storm, and maybe a bit more a few days later.

When the weather finally blew past, we were left with the most beautiful green haze on the hills all around. We were also left with a downed tree in the goat pen. It was an ancient avocado long since turned into a giant condo for the blue birds. I honestly don't know what held it upright for so long.

The only problem was that the downed tree made an excellent bridge up to and over the boundary fence! With just a few strokes of his chain saw, however, ML turned the liability into an asset: now it's a wonderful goat playground!

Tea in the Afternoon

2010-10-20T17:44:00.000-07:00

Our traditional Wednesday evening knitties has recently been changed to afternoon, so it seemed very appropriate to bring Sri Lankan tea to our first afternoon fete. Here is the story behind that:

Sunanda is my daughter's mother-in-law. She looks saintly it's because she is! When more than five dozen members of the large, international extended family visited Sri Lanka a few years ago, she spent about 20 hours of every day in her kitchen, making the most amazing meals.

Almost everything is from scratch, and the ingredients usually come from the local outdoor market or their yard, where everything - from mangoes, jack-fruit, papayas, coconuts, herbs and even black pepper and coffee - grows in abundance. She grows and dries all of the ingredients to make her own curry powder, and it can clean out your sinuses like you wouldn't believe. Every day, pounds of garlic are mashed in a huge granite mortar with a heavy 3' long wooden pole. We frequently woke up in the morning to this rhythmic thudding noise, and -- upon wandering into the kitchen -- discovered that she had mugs of milk tea waiting for us. Here is her recipe:

1. First, rinse a 1.5 or 2 qt. brewing pot (she used an old enamel coffee pot) and fill with hot water. Let it sit while you put a kettle on to boil.

2. When the kettle boils, dump out the hot water that's sitting in the brewing pot and put in at least 3 heaping tablespoons of loose tea* (You want it STRONG!), then pour in at least a quart of boiling water, maybe even five or six cups, depending on your preferences and the number of thirsty people that are waiting. Cover the pot and let it steep for several minutes.

3. In the meantime, put the following into your teapot:

3 tablespoons of sugar

3 tablespoons of malt powder

5 tablespoons of "full-fat" milk powder ( can only find non-fat in the US)

4. After the tea has steeped a bit, pour the tea into the pot, through a strainer, stirring as you go. The powdered ingredients should dissolve completely, and you are ready to go! Better put another kettle on, however, because people always want more. Often, Sunanda would add more boiling water to the spent tealeaves, to eke out just a bit more.

*of course Sri Lankan (Ceylon) tea is best, but any good, black loose-leaf tea will work

Addendum and Updates

2010-10-14T08:15:00.000-07:00

The new kid, Phoebe's little white buck (now dubbed Pie) has turned out to be absolutely sound. His leg may have been stepped on or tweaked during delivery, but now there is no sign that he was ever favoring it. And those eyes! Don't they look blue?

Pie is not the only blue-eyed kid, and Phoebe has very pale eyes as well, but it is fun to see the variety.

I have been introducing Mouse to the rest of the herd a few minutes every day so that hopefully, one day, he will remember that he is a goat. But it isn't going very well so far. The does push him away from their kids, so he ends up chasing chickens and wandering around lost.

You can get an idea of Mouse's diminutive size by checking him against newborn Pie, in the background.

Mouse continues to eat and gain and - at two weeks - weighs in at a whopping 3 pounds 6 ounces. I am gradually switching him from goat milk to whole cow's milk, with lactase enzyme added. So far no problems, and he is gulping his bottle whenever it is offered. He stays dry through the night (from 8 to 8!), never pees in his basket, comes when called, and generally is the most entertaining thing to arrive on the scene since the grand kids left.

On the fiber front, I spun up a neat bump of mohair that I dyed in dark tans and oranges. Sounds a bit hideous, but it really spun up nicely, and - plied with a black llama singles - will make a lovely hat or scarf.

October skein

In addition to spinning, I've been using up bits of leftover yarn making little monsters. Five so far, among them are Boo, Puff, and Stash. Here they pose with two of my "warty squash" and one lovely golden one that somehow managed to get two nearly perfect eyes - naturally!

All of the little monsters are hand knit and felted, except for Fire Fingers (the bigger one in the back) who is a puppet waiting for a face.

The Story of Mouse

2010-10-08T10:14:00.000-07:00

Oeddie the buck (short for Oedipus - or, as he is commonly known, Eddie) was put in with the girls when we sheared late last April, so I knew to watch for babies anytime from late September/early October on. This was all part of the great plan to have the babies in the fall, when our weather is usually warm and dry instead of muddy, cold and wet as it is in early spring. Another myth shot down: we have had the coldest, rainiest week ever in all recorded history. Well, don't quote me, but it seems that way. So of course, the girls started having their kids.

The tip off was when I looked out to see Mojita, a young pygora doe, acting very strangely, not eating, standing off by herself. When she did approach the hay, her mom, Margarita, gently shoved her away. I kept checking on her all day, but nothing happened, until it did. As it started to get dark my final trip to check on her resulted in her hurrying off in a rush, as if to say, "Thank goodness THAT's over with!" Behind her, in a nice little hollow in the ground, were two newborn kids ... still inside of their sacks. I pulled the biggest one first, and tried to clear his airway with my fingers, then tried swinging him gently by his hind legs to force fluids out of his lungs, but he never showed even the slightest sign of life. Damn.

I turned my attention to the littlest one, who was obviously VERY premature, and - I thought - probably already dead, but when I picked him up he gave a little gasp. Ok, then, let's go, fella! I worked on cleaning him and getting him to breathe, which he finally did with tiny little peeping squeaks. His feet were soft as jello, his ears were folded in half - a storage position for when they're in utero - but by damn, he was alive.

My patient spouse rolled his eyes when he saw me come into the house with a little bundle wrapped in a blanket. I know he was mentally counting the little souls that we have tried to save and lost anyway, after days of sleepless nights. With barely hidden exhaustion he said, "Don't tell me it's alive."

Thanks to kind souls who gave me colostrum last February when I had a needy lamb (thank you Jenna and others!), I had a freezer comfortably stocked with goat milk and colostrum so we didn't have to go chase mom down in the dark to milk her. As a packet was thawing out in warm water, I set out on the hunt for the lamb nipples, which inevitably seem to migrate to far, far corners once the immediate need has passed. Eventually kid, milk and nipple were brought together, and we fed him. He drank, he stood, he peed!

After I fed him and dried him off, I put him on a little scale: he weighed in at @ 20 ounces, with a full stomach.

We fed him on demand for a day or so, but pretty soon we were all sleeping through the night. Today we didn't get up until 8:00! He was on the move, however hesitantly, from day one, exploring the house, meeting the Sheba the cat and Tank.

Kids are programed from birth to head into dark corners, because that is where the milk is, but the problem with that for little Mouse (as he was dubbed) is that he would constantly munch himself into, under or behind pieces of furniture, get stuck, and be totally lost. If he did manage to extricate himself, he would emerge from some dark hiding place bedecked with fuzz, yarn bits and dust bunnies. Most of the time, either we couldn't find him at all or he would dart out right under our feet.

So I found some elastic and a very small bell, and now we can hear him coming and going. The pee puddles are prodigious, but can be easily mopped, and - as of this week - he never pees in his basket/bed!

He is 10 days old now, not much bigger but is very clever. He has figured out how to run, lie down (no kidding - that was really hard for the longest time!), do that cute little sideways jump thing that kids do, and finally calls us when lost or hungry. Even my husband admits: he's kinda cute.

Mouse's favorite spot is a hemp rug just inside the door to the deck, where he loves to nap in the sun.

What a Week!

2010-10-07T15:37:00.001-07:00

It started with rain, cold and Mouse, and ended with a total of 10 new goat kids! Number eleven was born Saturday.

Several of "the girls" had been quite huge for some time - here even Munchie is beginning to wonder just how many kids Adelle is carrying.

But neither she nor Angel (who was also as wide as she is tall) had their babies right away. The first was Chocolate Kiss, who had a lovely little black and white reverse-badger-faced doe, a carbon copy of her grandmother Mazie, who died last winter.

Chocolate Kiss and Kiss Me Kate

Then, Kiss's mom, Daisy, had a very handsome black and tan buck kid - showing a HUGE presence, even at one day of age:

Daisy and the Duke

Angel finally gave out with one, just one! But the kid, is more than lovely enough to make up in quality what her mother lacked in quantity. Angelique is a beautiful, soft caramel color with blue eyes!

Angel and Angelique

Margarita was next with - finally! - a set of twins! Maria is a beautiful tri-color with frosted ears, while Miguel is jet black with frosted ears.

Pygora Margarita with Miguel and Maria

But her kids are little devils. We have two big "circular brooms" (from a street sweeper) for the goats to scratch themselves on. These are huge affairs, weighing several hundred pounds each, and are great for self-grooming. The hollow cores, however, make excellent if unfortunate hiding places for naughty kids. Poor Margarita spends half her day looking for the little demons, while they sit, snug as bugs in a rug, and watch her frantic searching.

The big brush -- and half of what's hidden inside.

Finally, FINALLY, Adelle went into labor. It was a day-long affair, culminating in a wet pile of TRIPLETS just as it grew dark. We wondered if she had one more, because - even though they were good sized - she still seemed quite large. But hubby opined that she would stop at three because there weren't any more colors.

One white, one tan, one bi-color dark chocolate and tan, and all does.

Adelle is going to be our nominee for mother of the year. Although this is her first time kidding, she jumped right in and is the best possible mother, nursing and nurturing her brood with amazing attention.

Phoebe is going to be nominated for surprise mother of the year. We didn't even know she was pregnant until she showed up with a new little white kid! He seems to have some slight disability with a rear leg, but is bounding and bleating with the best of them.

The does take turns "babysitting" at dinner time - first Margarita, then maiden cashmere doe Dorrie:

Phoebe and her kid on the left.

If you look closely you can count nine of the ten kids at dinner time: Mouse is still a house goat.

Weed yarn

2010-10-07T09:38:00.000-07:00

Well, that is how it's generally described on the list of items to be auctioned off, and apparently it is a popular item. But then, you have to know the audience.

The mission of Cal-IPC (California Invasive Plant Council) is to protect California wild lands from invasive plants through restoration, research and education. The group is an amazing network of volunteers, researchers and land managers who do legislative work as well as hands-in-the-dirt grunt work.

Every year they hold a symposium and an auction to raise money for their causes, and because my #1 son is a conservation biologist and very involved member, he tapped me for something to put up for auction. Every year in the fall I go scouting the fields and roadsides for something that is (a) invasive and (b) might yield a decent color on wool. Over the years I have harvested lambs-quarters, horehound, eucalyptus, blackberries (what a bloody one that was!) and nicotiana glauca, or Tree Tobacco. Generally I find the offending plants on premises, but this year we did too good of a job of weeding, so I had to stop along the road and hack off an armload of nicotiana branches and buds.

I chopped the flowers, leaves and finer stems, covered with water, and simmered for an hour. Then I strained the "salad" off and added some pre-mordanted woolllama to the pot.

This is wool from Bubba and llama fiber from Lani that had been treated earlier with tin. After another hour of simmering I added a glug of vinegar (technical term) and left the pot to cool overnight.

In the morning one of my trained helpers assisted as I untangled the roving and hung it out to dry.

Half of the roving was carded with white alpaca while the other half was blended with some dyed Wensleydale locks for a bit more color. Each batch was self-plied to yield a total of four skeins for the auction. Hopefully they will be well received!

A September to Remember

2010-09-27T15:14:00.000-07:00

The planets and all their moons aligned this month when all of our children and grand children managed to arrive for a visit at more-or-less the same time! The weather cooperated by offering up some surprisingly cool and tolerable weather, but not too cool to enjoy some time at the beach.

There was harvesting -
- and help with chores.

Everyone had to greet the animals -

- while some played with the fire truck and hose.

Others enjoyed their water in the hot tub, which was used several times a day.

The youngest enjoyed her first meal of avocado -
... while others seemed to be ready to eat anything, any time.

Now they are gone, the farm is quiet, and lonely toys wait again.

Shearing Goats

2010-08-23T16:16:00.000-07:00

Saturday dawned with a beautiful cool breeze, though it was predicted to be in the 90's by mid-afternoon. We drove off to farmers' market with some dread about returning home to 4 more hours of shearing in the hot sun. But - thanks to fingers and toes crossed - things went remarkably smoothly.

Some bystanders

Fred showed up about the same time as a bit of shade began to creep under the big tree just outside of the goat pen, and it continued to grow each hour, so we had some respite from the heat. Plus, I can't help but think that the goatie girls were deLIGHTED to be shorn of their 6-month fleeces.

Daisy waiting with Eddy and Poppy

Munchie only had 4 months' fleece - she was born in April

Of course, there are always a few characters in the group. Can't you just tell that these girls are not going to be cooperative?

Chocolate Kiss and Margarita give us the stink-eye ...

... while Maddy and Angel (note that tummy!) practically wait in line.

If anything, Angel seems quite eager to get on with it!

Hubby and I penned the goats, then brought them one at a time for their "spa treatments." Each got a shearing, a foot trim (Fred did the front and I did the back feet while Michael swept and bagged fleece), a quick check up, and a spray of Permectrin. (Try as we might, lice continue to plague many of the girls.)

Of the dozen we sheared, most seemed quite happy, maybe grateful, even if exposed in an unflattering way:

Daisy is calm and relaxed, even though embarrassingly exposed, while Angel is patient as ever.

We discovered that most, if not all, seem to be growing nice, big bellies, so we could have kids as early as the end of September. Eddy, the little buck, was sheared, trimmed and sprayed, then escorted - grudgingly - back to the boys pasture, having done his job well and with obvious success.

A fine time was had by all, and it only took a little over three hours. The hot tub was up to temp by the time we were done, so after chores I made myself a wine spritzer and retired to my own "spa treatment."

Now I get to play with (skirt, pick, sort, weigh and price) a dozen lovely new fleeces.

Munchie's lovely little baby fleece

Some People Just Never Learn

2010-08-11T20:22:00.000-07:00

A few weeks after we returned from the Navajo Nation, we packed up and headed east again. This time we towed a U-Haul filled with yarn and fiber goodies, along with our excited hopes of finding a knowledgeable and eager audience of weavers in Albuquerque who would appreciate unique and homegrown fibers. For many months I had been weighing and marking, dyeing and spinning, sorting and culling, packing and planning, and dreaming. The guest house had been pressed into action as a wash and dye center, and a fortunate bout of hot, dry weather helped keep the process rolling along.

Wool drying on the guest-house/studio porch - trio of dye/roasters - bakers' rack with dyed locks

Sort, wash, dry or dye, skein, weigh, tag and pack was repeated in an endless loop. Three roasters and three huge dye pots simmered most of the day. The washing machine ran non-stop. Soon bags of wool and skeins of roving began to pile up everywhere: in the house, in the barn, in the guest house, in the car, and - eventually - in the trailer.

After making reams of lists and piles of maps and directions, we headed off.

This should have been a clue that we weren't as big as we thought we were.

Next: Convergence 2010

On the ranch:

Last week: moved the ram lambs down to the boys’ pen.

This week: enlarged the garden by planting chard, cucumbers and a fig tree.

Next week: shear goats.

May, June and July - oh MY!

2010-07-11T16:55:00.000-07:00

I know it is a sign of old age when you look up one day and realize that three months have completely passed you by in what seems like a heartbeat, but I never thought it would happen to ME!

Part of the problem may be that here in SoCal we are actually still waiting for summer! Days have been gray and overcast until well after noon, then temps in the 70's until evening, when it turns downright cold (well, for SoCal) and clouds over again. We are used to May Gray and June Gloom, but July Fry never showed, and now we are in mid-August with weather that is actually colder than last January.

We did get some warmer weather when we packed up the little motor home and drove east to the Navajo Nation in July, and then again later in the month (but this time to Albuquerque, and pulling a trailer).

We were heading out to take some classes that were offered at the Navajo College campus in Tsaile as part of the Navajo's 14th annual Sheep Is Life Festival. We had a relaxing drive out, taking several days to unwind and enjoy Arizona, then reached the rodeo grounds the evening before our classes. It is a beautiful spot, and we parked beneath the trees, had our dinner, enjoyed the sunset and the night sky that was clear and close, especially at 7,000 feet altitude.

In the morning we woke to see some students had already arrived -- and so had a visiting herd of horses!

The mares and foals and a couple of feisty stallions moved slowly through the grounds, then disappeared to re-appear later in the afternoon. No one knew who they belonged to or where the came from.

The classes started in the morning with a Navajo Spinning class, which I had hoped would provide some background and insight into a skill that I was scheduled to teach later in the month at HGA's Convergence. Unfortunately, it was more of a demonstration with very little "enrichment." We picked some churro fleeces, carded, and spun on "Navajo spindles" created from unshaped hardware-store dowels with 3 CD's glued to them. I was hoping to find a source for "real" spindles, but the market was not until the weekend, and we had to leave before then.

Beverely Allen, an expert Navajo weaver, was our instructor, but she was very quiet and reserved.

Beverly demonstrates on a student's spindle while Ron cards some churro.

Fortunately, Ron Garnanez, who had taught a day-long butchering class the previous day, stepped in to help with explanations and to share some stories. He had such a rich background, that we jumped ship and joined his class in the afternoon just to hear him talk.

If we do go again, we will be sure to schedule it so that we can participate in the weekend's events. I think we missed a great deal by having to return so quickly, but it was definitely worth the trip. There are very few highways that are as beautiful as the ride on AZ 12.

* - next time

2010-04-23T08:53:00.000-07:00

I know I said next time, but I forgot. And, now that I look back, many of these were dealt with earlier, so who cares, really?

We had 14 lambs* born, lost 5

We are closing the gap a tiny bit: 10 lambs on the ground, with one more ewe to lamb.

When I left, Liza looked like this (left) and when I returned, like this (right)

The lambs that were lost happened mostly while I was gone, but shortly after my return, we lost a very nice, big ram lamb. With some CSI work and a lot of reading, it looks like the flock had picked up listeria. Coincidence or am I jinxed? Anyway, we went on a 3-day innoculation program as per vet instructions, and so far (touch wood) have not had any others lost or ill.

Had 4 angora kids* born, lost 2

Phoebe and her baby Poppy were shown in February post. This month our aging Mint (the one who traveled in the motor home from Arizona) had triplets. Unfortunately, we were at the market, and when we got home one was dead (membranes over her head) and another was near death. She was very small, and I think was born in the sun and was unable to move into the shade. She made a valiant effort, but did not make it. The middle kid, however, had found a nice shady hole and was hiding there when we found her. She is small, but is very full of life.

Yollie and Mint's child Middy.

It is really cute the way the two angora kids (Poppy and Middy) hang out together, though they are several months and sizes apart. They are never too far from the moms, but if something really scary happens - like the Gator roaring down the drive - they run like crazy and stand by... Yollie!

Solved the mystery of who was eating all of our eggs*

Left is before - if we were lucky! Right is after the Tin Cat.

Ever since we tore down the old, mouse-infested chicken coop and put the hens in with the goats, someone or something has been eating all of the eggs. At first it was Yollie, so I rigged up a pen were the chickens could come and go but Yollie could not. That lasted for a few days, then the marauding began anew. It has been going on for months, and we were just about on the verge of setting up a camera, when I discovered the culprits. I went into the pen to feed a little earlier than usual one evening, and peered hopefully into the egg nest - whereupon at least 6 mice went leaping for their lives in all directions! It's hard to imagine that those little buggers could eat four or five eggs a day, but since I put a Tin Cat under their nest, we have more eggs than we can (and should) eat.

dead things in the bathtub*

While gone, I got an email from hubby with no message, just "Avoid taking a shower at night" in the subject line, and this image (left):

Sheba's Pets

Hubby was convinced that the cat was collecting pets in the tub, because she never ate them. Some of us know that lizards just aren't that tasty. She graduated from lizards to mice to ground squirrels, and finally rabbits. Her record is four rabbits in a 24 hour period, of which she ate pretty much all, including the toenails.

Now we try to wait each other out when it comes to taking a morning shower, because the first person has to clean out the tub, and the second gets in free, so to speak.

Last night, thinking about last night...

2010-04-20T15:25:00.000-07:00

Hope no one minds if I borrow a phrase from the Traveling Wilburys' song. After a long day of the usual, plus digging thistles and putting our old dog down, I noticed one of the last ewes to lamb was showing signs of impending birth. But she, Ursula, is a rather small 2-year old, and this was her first lamb, so I knew nothing would happen soon.

I checked on her hourly, and not much was going on, but she sure was getting noisy. I moved dogs around so they wouldn't annoy her, and tried to get her into the catch pen, but to no avail. She wanted to stay with the flock, so I got a warm jacket and a hat and went down to sit in the enclosure. Eventually the whole group moved into the pen area, and I rushed up to close the gate. I let out all but a few, and then sat on the hill with a flashlight to keep an eye on her progress: 8 o'clock, nothing, 9 o'clock, nothing,10 o'clock went in for a cup of tea and came back to finally see a nose poking out. A really BIG nose, with no little toes. Damn.

Poor Ursula was restless and annoyed and in great distress, and it eventually became clear that she was going to need some help, and she was going to have to be caught.
Both of these activities were impossible in the dark, so I pulled my car up to overlook the pen and left the lights on. Worked great - for about 2 minutes. Then the lights politely went off. Back up the hill, start the car, back down the hill and try to catch the ewe. Back up the hill, start the car, back down the hill to the ewes. This game went on for a while. Ever try to catch one of three black sheep ... in the dark? Good luck with that!

By now she was in NO mood to be messed with AT all, and all I could do was hope that she would give out before I did. I finally went up to the house get a pail of warm water, iodine soap, towels, etc., all the while muttering, "I hate this, I hate this, I hate this!" Reaching into a laboring ewe is no fun for anyone, especially the ewe, and especially when it is cold and dark and late. I tried to cheer myself up by repeating "You've done this before, you know how to do it, you can do it and you will do it. Besides, look on the bright side: it's not raining ... yet."

When I returned with my paraphernalia, I set it on the ground while I fiddled with the gate latch. That was when I heard a little bleat. YAY - a lamb! She was a BIG, monster lamb, with legs like a colt, and she was wet, covered in membranes and mud, and totally ignored by her mother. It was as if the ewe had said, "Well, whew! That's over with, now let's get out of here!" She and her two cohorts were standing at the gate, ready to rejoin the flock. That white blob was no problem for them to worry about!

In another half hour or so I had dried the lamb off, set up a maze of panels to catch the ewe, let the other two out, and confined mom and lamb to a stall with water and peace. I staggered back to the car, drove back to the house, and collapsed into bed. I knew that I had at least 12 hours before the lamb went south, and hoped to spend at least half of them sleeping.

This morning I crept down to the pen to check on the night's outcome, to find a lovely little lamb bouncing quite happily around her little mum, who seemed none the worse for wear. Wish I could say the same!

Look at those legs!

WOWZIE

2010-04-19T17:16:00.000-07:00

Where have I been? What have I been doing? No, really: I’m asking YOU! (ggg)

Barely a week after my last post (in the middle of lambing) I got a call from my uber-pregnant daughter who had been quite ill, saying “Hi, Mom … guess you’d better get a ticket: they’re shaving me right now.” She had gone into early labor, necessitating a C-section (like her previous one). Less than 12 hours later the baby started running a high temp and was eventually diagnosed with listeria, which is probably what my daughter had, as well. Thus began two weeks of IV antibiotics and monitoring in various NICUs in the Bay area, depending on the severity of problems at any given time. I got to stay with the toddler, which was truly a bright spot, bringing her - along with dinner - for nightly visits with the rest of the clan. The good news is that we all survived, and the little family is home and healthy again.

Beautiful Baby Riyana Gramma's new girl

Exhausted daddy and daughter

But, poor Gramma, everything after that seems a blurr. I do know that a lot has happened.

In no particular order:

We had 14 lambs* born, lost 5

Had 4 angora kids* born, lost 2

Sheared all the goats and half the sheep

Had to cull two big rams (wolves were happy about that)

Celebrated some birthdays

Got a firetruck

Had several weeks of farmers' markets

Had family visits

Had lots of rain and cold

Solved the mystery of who was eating all of our eggs*

Had some warm, beautiful days

Spent time with friends

Were told one Kangal might have bone cancer (later ruled out with X-rays)

Had to put down our 20-year old farm dog

Then there were meals and sleeps, and spinning and TV shows, lots of dead things in the bathtub*, trips here and there, etc., etc., etc.

Then, one mild morning morning, as we let the ewes and lambs into the llama pen to eat some lush green weeds, a pair of bluebirds sailed by and landed on the fence just in front of us. There they sat, taking turns darting to the ground, snapping up little bugs, and returning to their posts. Today we saw a SECOND pair, gliding just above the driveway. Could be our bluebirds of happiness have returned.

* - next time

Name the Lambs!

2010-02-19T10:12:00.000-08:00

Belle is the first of the ewes to lamb this year, and she was not even one of the gals with obvious baby bumps! Doesn't she look as though she is wearing a really big, so-proud-of-myself grin? She should be: the lambs are both girls and she is taking excellent care of them!

Belle is a rambouillet/merino cross with very fine, nearly-blue-gray fleece. She was a twin, but her sister Blue (get it? Blue & Belle?) is no longer with us. No wonder - Belle will be nine years old next week!

The lambs' father is Max, our white Wensleydale ram, so who knows what sort of fleece they will have. Whatever it is, I'm sure it will be beautiful. Now we need some names!

Max and friend

Signs of Spring

2010-02-16T21:07:00.000-08:00

The birds are back, for one thing. A pair of golden eagles that stitched the skies over our hill all winter now have to share with returning red-tail hawks. Kestrels are once again courting and nesting in the barn eaves, doves sit in pairs on the fence in the evening, and a pair of blue birds have taken up their old nest hole in a dead avocado tree.

A sudden hot spell follows weeks of rain and now things that hadn't planned on doing anything for another month or two are in the mood to grow and bloom. Cecil Brunner blooms and shoots out new growth as he crowds out the forsythia in his struggle to reach the power lines:

Rhubarb and strawberries venture forth tentatively:

And some things that I can't even identify thrive quite happily anyway.

The shearer comes down for a day and we see lots of "baby bumps" on the ewes!

I take advantage of the warm, dry winds to wash and dry some of our freshly sheared fleeces before the next wet weather hits.

Evil Kitty catches small creatures and puts them in the bath tub where she can torment them at her leisure. At least the remains are easy to clean up.

She is particularly hard on the lizard and skink population, though I have managed to save several still-alive, albeit tail-less, skinks. Poor things; apparently they can reach an age of about 5 or 10 years, but I fear our population may not be so lucky. We continue to have words on the subject of predation and conservation. She does not appear to care.

Moths have hit my woolens. I wanted hubby to take a home-grown, spun and knit cashmere scarf with him on his trip to Chicago; alas, it was chewed to bits.

I was sad because I couldn't remember when I had made it or if I had worn it or if I had a good time doing either. I told him to throw it in the trash because it made me feel so awful.

Then I went out and retrieved it. At first Evil Kitty wanted it for her bed,

but I dissuaded her and patiently frogged it, tying the shorter bits together and winding them up until there was just a ball left. I think I will leave it like that for a while.

And then there is always this:

Coming up for Air

2010-02-16T20:25:00.000-08:00

I can NOT believe that it is February 2010 and I am another year older ALREADY!! The last time I looked it was fall, we were looking forward to a Thanksgiving road trip to Texas for a family fest. (men working, below)

An amazing time was had by all, and then we came home and then....what happened?

Perhaps it was more than a premonition that hit me as we drove west with the night through Arizona and then on into California. Beautiful, clear starry skies had taken over from the snow storms of the previous days.

We had rested a day near Tucson, and picked up a goat, which dozed happily in in a dog kennel in the back of the motor home (another story).

All was warm and well with the world and I was musing about things that I hadn't done and hadn't become and would never see when I was suddenly hit with the distinct sensation that my body was shooting down a steep slide, or tube. Time and space pressed up against me, stars passing by in a blur, like when one of the sci-fi space ships hits warp speed in the movies.

"It's not you," the spirits chided. "Nobody cares what you do; you're not important. It is what comes through you to your children, and their children, and theirs to come that matters."

Fortunately, I wasn't driving, so I had some time to try to tuck myself back inside my head before we hit the ground running and then ran all the way into 2010.

Hummmm -- do I feel a blog coming on?

2009-10-17T14:54:00.001-07:00

The Spin-List is a fun and fascinating place. Always an interesting discussion, lots of ideas, suggestions, stories and tidbits of information. Frequently I save little items that tempt a response, like this one:
"I've gotten a lot of names of places [for processing] as well as information that I was not aware of (skirting the fleece). Boy it's not as easy as I thought. Perhaps I will hire my children to help skirt the fleece, or I will just buy roving. "
I wonder if this person also complains about how expensive "real" roving is. I sure hope not.

Another person opined:
"Vegans are not *supposed* to use ANY animal produce
which includes wool so we should stick to plant/ manmade fibers......."
Man-made -- as in petroleum based? Really? And do you know what is required to manufacture some of the newer fibers from trees, corn, milk, bananas, bamboo and seaweed?

While someone else proclaimed:
I'm a Christian; under grace, all things are for my use; therefore, without let or hindrance, I use all things."

Now that scares the spit out of me.

Discussions involving so-called "vegan" spinning", tend to push my buttons on many levels.
While it helps to be informed (where does my fiber come from? How is it raised? How is it processed?) it seems to me that it is also vital to be pro-active instead of reactive. Instead of vetoing something that you don't like, take that extra step and make the effort to support those things that you feel are right and good. Know where your dollars go, and make choices that will help to keep local and sustainable businesses alive. (Notice I didn't use the words "natural" or "organic." That's a lecture for another day. (ggg)) Without your support, they may not be around for long, and then no one will have a choice.

There are definitely as many opinions out there as there are spinners, but it all comes down to a great quote that I saw on a bumper sticker in Tucson:

Everyone is entitled to his own opinion, but not his own facts.

Daniel Patrick Moynihan, March 16, 1927 - March 26, 2003)

cogKNITive Fun and More

2009-10-15T12:35:00.001-07:00

Holy cow, this year is simply ZOOOMing by.

In late September, our Kangal "teenager" Tank (2.5 years old now) blew his cruciate ligament, and so went under the knife just as Yollie had done twice in 2007. He was not a happy camper:

Buzzy Tank on the way home (top) and Staples galore

Resting the hated collar on a chair.

Despite a variety of no-chew collars, he ended up having his cast removed after less than a week. It is hard to keep a 155-pound dog immobilized and entertained. Staples were taken out a little later, but we are still going through the rehab process. He is walking well now, and we're up to a mile twice a day, hoping all the while that the other knee stays strong, and that mine don't go in the meantime.

Our little rig in front of a Tehachipe art train

Shortly after surgery, we were invited to attend the first ever cogKNITive sock event in Tehachapi, CA, so we loaded trailer, dog and kennel and off we went. It was a great weekend, with wonderful people and a dedicated staff.

Their logo and our "Sock Sheep."

We attended as vendors, but the class offerings were wonderfully tempting, and so inspiring that folks literally filled the hallways and common areas spinning and knitting for the entire day. Lots of people tried out the Navajo spindle for the first time, while Tank kept a watchful eye on the proceedings from his spot in our "booth."

This month we drove up to WeFF (Western Fiber Festival) in Torrance - sans dog - and had an even busier day. Whew, what a stimulating and busy place!

A good chance to practice keeping my head attached. Thanks to all of the patient people who waited for me to find stuff, show stuff, and write stuff up. And especially to those people who were good enough to tell me what and how much they bought afterward when I realized that I had not put any numbers on their credit card receipts!

Well, the shearer has come and gone again, another 100 pounds of wool and llama have been delivered to Shari at Morro Fleece Works for processing, and summer is AT LAST pretty much behind us. Cool and crisp days give hope that we may yet see some fall - maybe even winter? - weather.

The ants come marching ...

2009-09-07T21:30:00.000-07:00

The Ants Go Marching One By One is a children's song set to the tune of When Johnny Comes Marching Home.

The posted lyrics read:

The ants go marching one by one. Hoora, hoora!

The ants go marching one by one, the little one stopped to suck on his thumb,

And they all went marching, down to get of the rain. (BOO- BOOM!)

The ants go marching two by two. Hoora, hoora!

The ants go marching two by two, the little one stopped to tie up his shoe,

And they all went marching, down to get of the rain. (BOO- BOOM!)

The ants go marching three by three. Hoora, hoora!

The ants go marching three by three, the little one stopped to climb a tree,

And they all went marching, down to get of the rain. (BOO- BOOM!)

The ants go marching four by four. Hoora, hoora!

... etc.>>

Well, this time of year we are totally inundated, and I wish more than anything that they would climb a tree or stop to suck their thumbs -- if ants have thumbs. Right now, they are marching here by the tens of thousands. They may be after the rain, as the above suggests, but rain will not be due here for several more months, so they must make do with the cat food, the dog food, the eggs, anything in the kitchen or in the house or the garbage or in the surrounding half-mile.

The cat would make periodic pilgrimages inside to cry at us when his food bowl was totally over-run. The dogs' food would remain uneaten - by them - while the ants feasted. But when I found myself waking up several times a night to pick ants out of my ears, off of my face and out of my eyes, I finally realized that we had a serious problem.

Since we live in the country, I tend to adopt a live-and-let-live philosophy whenever possible; I despise the idea of using poisons of any sort. Ground squirrels and rabbits pretty much have free rein. Bugs enjoy the fruits of our garden pretty much at will. But enough is enough. When I can't sleep, the war has begun.

I dug out a recipe that I had used in years past, and prepared a snack for our little friends.

Measure 2 cups of sugar, 2 tablespoons of boric acid, and one cup of water into a pan and boil for several minutes to make a syrup. I put a few cotton balls in jar lids, soaked them with the syrup, and let things be. In about three days the ants were gone. That nest had been dessicated. Unfortunately, every few feet there seems to be a new tribe, so we are now working our way around the house. Boric acid does not seem to be very toxic, and no one else in the household seems to be interested in it, so ... so far, so good. We'll keep you posted.

Karabey

2009-06-22T16:39:00.001-07:00

It has taken me a few months to bring this to post, but this piece is:
In loving memory of Karabey
4/3/04 to 6/20/09

Sired by ASLAN (Herkul and Sultan) born to MELEK (Panter and Duman)
Breeder: Salim B. Yilmaz
Owner: Kathy Gluesenkamp/Lambert

At 16 weeks Karabey was taken to the Veterinary Specialty Hospital in Rancho Santa Fe, CA, for a full work-up and was diagnosed with probable cerebellar /vestibular disease (unknown cause) along with other skeletal, neurological and systemic abnormalities (congenital hydrocephalus and distemper not ruled out) and given less than two years to live.

After a full and loving life, he was euthanized at 5 years 2 months of age, due to severe congestive heart failure, skeletal abnormalities, neuralgic deficits and cardiac insufficiency. He had an amazingly full life.

Karabey at 3 months

Handsome as an adult

One of the gang, Karabey continued to enjoy life far beyond given expectancies.
The dark pup in the background is our Turkish import Yollie, who was dyed black in order to expedite her trip from Turkey. She has since had surgery on both knees, and is now a lovely, natural blond.

Karabey (left) was the role model's during our stressful week-long fire evacuation.

Farewell, dark lord.

Karabey was one of the gentlest and kindest souls that I have ever known, in any corporeal form, and I hope that he finds peace and rebirth quickly. It is also my fondest hope that I might meet his reborn soul sometime before I die.

Goat by Any Other Name

2009-06-16T17:17:00.001-07:00

Goats are one of the oldest domesticated species in the world, having been been used for their meat, milk, hair, and skins in many cultures and in many countries.

Chivo, chevon, cabrito, chèvre or mutton: no matter what you call it, goat meat is eaten around the world because it is lean and delicious. I have had it in Mexico and Texas, and figured it couldn't be all THAT hard to make meal-sized portions out of our late kid. Another day-long learning experience. Eventually, I ended up with several pounds of stew meat, some loin pieces, LOTS of bones for the dogs, and - amazingly enough - four legs.

A beautiful blog featuring pictures and recipes to make you drool is Masa Assassin -- and he knows about Talones, too!

My favorites are too numerous to mention, but old-style pot roast, with potatoes, carrot, onions and peas is outstanding, as well as virtually every other lamb recipe you have ever tried.

Lunching With Wolves, Part 2

2009-04-29T17:07:00.001-07:00

Friday morning dawned quietly, but then rapidly picked up speed as a friend of one of my sons called to see if he and wife and child could drop by to see the place and say hi. We had met before he went to Iraq, I like them very much, so was happy to invite them over. Besides -- as I recalled, Jubal was a big, strapping Texas fella, and I knew that would come in handy.

We fed them some fresh strawberry shortcake, chortled the baby and chatted a bit, and then offhandedly asked if they wanted to see the animals and, oh, by the way, would he be willing to help out with moving a few? Yes? Oh good!

We first moved four ram lambs from the ewes' pen down to the boys' enclosure at the bottom of the property. Stuffing the little buggers into kennels in the back of the Escape was a piece of cake.

Then we caught Bubba, a huge rambouillet-cross ram, and led him back up to a pen where we added four of his favorite fine-wool ladies. By this time we were all breathing a bit hard, but we had just two more to go: the ailing ewe and a yearling goat who had been on my must-go list ever since she first started screaming at all hours of the day and night. They were to go to the wolves. Catching and loading them took just about all the juice we had, and left us all sweaty and panting. Jubal seemed, well, jubilant, and we were unspeakably happy to have his help for the morning. They left to continue their journey north, and we headed south to the knackers.

Talone's Meat Market doesn't look like it has changed much, if at all, in the past 60 or 70 years. With a small yet well-respected meat market in the front, the old slaughter house sits on several acres of undisturbed history in the middle of Escondido. In the back are clean cement pens of live hogs, goats and sheep with a few rebel roosters strutting in the back lots. A sign points to a small office where one goes to transact business. The usual question is, "How many pieces?" But for the wolf-bound ewe, we didn't want pieces, we just needed her to be dead. This was a difficult thing to explain, but eventually I managed to convey the idea. Pointer finger to the head, drop the thumb, just dead. "Nada mas." OK, fine, $20 anyway.

However, as we were discussing this, I began to wonder why we would feed a lovely, milk and grass-fed goat to the wolves when we could very well enjoy it ourselves. So when the question came, "How many pieces?" I thought a minute, pictured the smallish goat, and said, "Two." He shrugged; $40.

The animals were off loaded and led up a series of ramps and into the dark interior. The ewe was calm and submissive, even ready, while the goat dug in her heels, screaming and protesting every inch. By the time she finally disappeared into the building I was wondering if the wolf center would consider just throwing her into the pen alive and letting us watch the wolves eat her. After adding up the sleepless nights for the past year, we would have almost paid to see that. But as it was, the ensuing silence was payment enough.

After an hour or so, one of the fellas came out with a wheelbarrow containing the body of the ewe and several large, blue plastic bags. We loaded everything back into the car and headed off for Julian.

Although we were much later than anticipated, one of the kind people at the non-profit California Wolf Center waited for us. The facility is wonderfully isolated, perfect for its guests. We unloaded the ewe into their freezer, and then enjoyed an amazing up-close (well, through two much-appreciated chain link fences) visit with some of the wolves in residence.

Some of the wolves are scheduled for release in Arizona soon, so they will not be fed any domestic animals. But the others will enjoy the lamb, goat, horse, beef and chicken from the freezer. I think we were of particular interest to the Mexican Gray Wolves (which are normally very shy) because we were standing up wind of them, and had spent the last 3 hours wrestling sheep and waiting at the slaughter house. Several made repeat "drive-by" visits to check us out.

It had been a long, tiring and eminently fascinating day, so when we got home I just put the bags of goat into the spare fridge without paying much attention. I would deal with them later. Boy, would I.

Lunching with Wolves, Part 1

2009-04-24T21:18:00.001-07:00

Well, it wasn't exactly lunching. In fact, I don't think we had time for any lunch at all that day, but hopefully the wolves did.

This adventure started when we realized shortly after shearing last weekend that one of our older ewes was going to have to be put down. I called the vet, then looked to see what was left in our checking account and became instantly, doubly depressed. It costs well over $100 to have the vet visit and put an animal down, then another $100 to have the disposal people come pick up the body. And this old gal, though aged, was full of vigor, not at all like Gwendolynn. Definitely not a plastic bag candidate. With the firm belief that there had to be a better (cheaper, easier) way, I sat down and started calling around.

County animal control said yes, they took in animals for euthanasia, was I interested in "after-care"? "No thank you," I said, "just disposal." She asked what kind of pet it was, and I told her that it was a sheep.
"Is it already dead?!" she asked with some alarm.
"No," I said with measured words, "I just need it dead."
There was a pause, before she told me abruptly that they did not accept livestock, but would happily give me the number for the pet mortuary where they sent their animals. I told her I didn't think that was a realistic possibility and asked, "What about road kill? What do you do with those animals?"
They contracted out for that, and she gave me the number of the livestock disposal people, which I already had.
"Do those go to the pet mortuary?" I asked the disposal people.
"No, they go to the landfill." OK -- now we're getting somewhere! What about the landfill?

Unfortunately, there is no real landfill in these parts, and the number she gave me was for the local "transfer station" where trash trucks disgorge their daily pick-ups. The guy there said they could take maybe a dead bird or a rat, but definitely not a sheep. Actually, I knew this already, because once I had tried to load a dead ram into our trash can for pick-up and got a nasty note and a stern warning: "NO DEAD ANIMALS" Plus, then had to go dig a HUGE hole and bury a very smelly, very heavy, by then long-dead ram.

Ever the helpful sort, he asked why I didn't just shoot it and bury it myself. By now, several hours into this hopeless search, my patience was dwindling. "Because I am a fat, 65-year old lady with arthritis and the ground is like concrete!" He mulled this over for a minute, then gave me the number for the REAL dump, somewhere down near the border.

The woman who answered the phone there was very kind and sympathetic, but allowed as how they couldn't take dead animals either. Then she started to say something, reconsidered, and finally said, "I don't know how you feel about this, but..." I am sure she could hear my little heart screaming, "Yes? Yes, but what??!"
"Well, there is a place in Julian that takes dead animals to feed their wolves." And before she spread her wings to take off to heaven, she gave me the number.

The California Wolf Center is located 4 miles south of the little mining/apple/tourist town of Julian, California, and about an hour and a half from here. The wonderful people there confirmed the fact they did indeed take dead livestock, providing it was not killed with chemicals and was already dead. They sounded happy, and said they would even drive out to get it -- sometime in the next week or two. Unfortunately, we needed to move things along, so I said we would be happy to deliver the sheep to them ... that Friday, two days hence.

The next morning the vet came out to confirm that the sheep was not in any way infectious, and I got online to ask local livestock folks about the next step and received a tip about a "custom slaughtering" place halfway between here and Julian. Zounds, a plan falling into place!
From then on, it was just a matter of ironing out the details.

Yeah, right.

Garden Euphoria

2009-04-23T16:07:00.001-07:00

It is curious to me, when or if I stop to think about it, how someone who can care for and nurture animals with pretty near infinite patience (and a fair amount of success) has absolutely no ability to grow plants. And it is not for lack of trying. I have spent half of my life trying to have a garden of one sort or another, but usually my animal endeavors, children, work, climate, pests, and general forgetfulness spell doom from the first immersion of tiny seed into soil.

Our "garden" from the past few years was a weed patch, surrounded by gray, broken picket fence panels. Most people thought we were trying to replicate a Gothic cemetery. While we have probably the richest compost pile in the county, the main stumbling block was moving the compost to where we needed it. Then my husband got his little tractor going, and hope sprang anew.

We tore down the old fences, weeded the whole patch, extended two of the three raised beds, and then set about moving in scoop after scoop of llama compost and dirt from the goat pens.

What little fella doesn't like to play in the sand box?

Of course we all had our own ideas of just how things should be done, including the job forman, Ms. Mad Hen. Still, it turned out to be an amazingly pleasant, cooperative and (we all hope) productive bit of work.

Mad Hen spent the entire day worrying about the garden.

In a few days, we actually had plants in the ground. Most of our plants come from vendors at the farmers' market, but there are some seeds in the ground as well. The two upper beds contain everal kinds of squash and cucumbers, both gold and red beets, various colors of chard and lettuce, a few Cherokee tomatoes (more to come), a row of yard-long bean plants, and some left-over herbs that somehow managed to survive years of neglect in the lower bed. Herbs are in a big herb pot, plus smaller outposts (outpots?) around the place.

So far, so good.

The picket panels keep the dogs out (they love to dig in the cool, moist ground), and chicken wire keeps the rabbits at bay. Ground squirrels still sometimes go up and over the fences, but so far that predation gas been fairly light. Next week the eggplant should be ready to transplant, and we hope to add a few new kinds of tomatoes and peppers. Hopefully staggering the planting will result in a more continuous crop... do you think?

I have a few adult pima cotton plants, and am working on sprouting some colored ones. Next thing in the ground will be my dye plant seeds:
True Indigo (Indigofera tinctoria)
Common Agrimony (agrimonia Eupatoria)
Tansey (Tanacetum vulgare)
Common Toadflax (Linaria vulgaris)
Golden Marguerite (Anthemis tinctoria Kelwayi)
False Saffron (Carthamus tinctorius)
Madder (Rubia tinctoria)
Cosmos (sulphureus Bright Lights and Klondyke Sunny Red) will go in my big "planter tubs" (old bath tubs no longer needed for watering livestock.

Maybe woad and Dyer's Knotweed, if I can find any more room, but more than likely they will have to wait until next year.

Gardening is a matter of your enthusiasm holding up until your back gets used to it.

~Author Unknown

Let's hope that works out. Cheers!

Happy Birthday Pups

2009-04-09T21:37:00.001-07:00

Tank, our big Kangal Dog "puppy," turns two today. He tips the scale at nearly 150 pounds, but has the mind of a two month old .

Here is the litter with patient mom, Zerrin, shortly after birth, 4/9/07

We took some pictures to send to his birthday brothers and sisters:

Tank thought it was going to be just another day in the goat pen, trying to look relaxed under Daisy's withering suspicion. That is until we invited the goats into HIS pen.

They wandered around for a while, checked out the empty swimming pool, and generally entertained themselves.

This gave Tank and the others a chance to check out Eddie, which is what he really wanted for his birthday. Aunt Daisy (the black angora in picture #2) generally won't let Tank near the baby.

When all was done and the goat friends returned to their pen, he was one happy fella.

15 Minutes of Fame

2009-04-03T11:56:00.000-07:00

Well, it is more like 15 words, but still...
We recently read this nice little mention in San Diego Magazine:

To Market, To Market
Spring offers the perfect invitation to sample the bounty of our local farmers’ markets. From Vista to Little Italy, we take you to the region’s best outdoor markets, each boasting its own distinct flavor. Disclaimer: You may never want to step into a chain supermarket again.
By Adam Elder and Julia Beeson Polloreno | Photographs by Ramona D'Viola
Vista Farmers' Market

Saturday, 7:45-11 a.m. County Courthouse (325 South Melrose Drive)

The longest-running farmers’ market in the county (starting in 1981), the Vista market has a devoted following of patrons who make a visit their Saturday-morning ritual. It’s a one-stop shop with offerings that range from Jackie’s Jams to beef jerky. Within the maze of booths, you’ll find locally harvested macadamia nuts, handmade soaps from Beauty & the Bath, fresh bread from Sadie Rose, gourmet items from San Marcos–based T&H Prime Meats & Sausage and bright yellow sunflowers bursting from white buckets. Schaner Farms brings fresh citrus and oversized gourds, Gaytan Farms sells an array of vegetables, and Oakes Knoll Ranch offers Dancey tangerines and extra-large Haas avocados. One unique offering comes courtesy of Rancho Borrego Negro, a Fallbrook outfit that sells homegrown and handspun wool yarns. At this booth, a woman spins wool into yarn as onlookers pause to watch; also posted are photos of local sheep for sale, presumably belonging to the proprietor.

http://www.sandiegomagazine.com/media/San-Diego-Magazine/April-2009/To-Market-To-Market/index.php?

My only regret is that I too-quickly logged on to San Diego Magazine's web page to add a comment thanking them for the kind review and also to give a plug for the local Bonsall Farmers' Market, where we go ever Sunday and which we have been supporting since their very first day. I say "too-quickly" because shortly after I left the notice on line, I received this totally unrelated email:
The Bonsall Education Foundation and Bonsall Farmers' Market have come to a decision as a group to discontinue our relationship with you as one of our market vendors effective immediately. There have been several serious instances where we deem your conduct to be unprofessional. Such conduct seriously undermines the well-being of the market. We are disappointed that our business relationship didn?t work out. We wish you the best of luck in the future.>>

Further attempts at communication or to find out more details have remained unanswered, so I am quite as confused as you are. At any rate, I am unable to alter the comment online (which is probably a good thing!) but have since found the lovely little Leucadia/Encinitas Farmers' Market, so that is how we now spend our Sundays. We are finding it infinitely more pleasurable and profitable. If you are in the county on Sunday, stop by and see us:Leucadia/Encinitas Market 10am-2pm; Union St and Vulcan St. (Ecke Elementary).

Ah, April

2009-04-03T08:27:00.000-07:00

True to the old homily, March went out like a lamb and April has arrived with the faintest suggestion of showers. The weeds are growing like, well, weeds, and the sheep have been moved from pasture to pasture to take advantage of the green bounty. Now all that remain are the invasive and inedible thistles, which taunt me daily to get a shovel and get down there to dig them out before they go to seed.

Mazie, our elderly Angora goat, has been standing down in the bottom corner of the goat pen, far away from the crowd. It is a nice, sandy spot in the shade of high bushes, but still, we feared that her time was drawing near. I grew a little hopeful when she moved closer up the hill to lie in the sun yesterday, and then last night we found this:

Yollie watches Mazie and the new one.

I don't think Yollie (Kangal on duty in the goat pen) even noticed the birth until we walked over, then she quickly moved to inspect the newborn and help clean it. Too bad it's a boy, because I was all set to call the kid April. Now I think he must be named Oedipus, because our pygora buck was taken out of the girls pen a loooong time ago, and the only males remaining were her twin boys from last year. Obviously one of them was quite precocious.

Eggs and Bunnies and Wheels Left Behind

2009-03-29T15:55:00.000-07:00

I have been spending idle moments felting some of my dyed, carded wool around plastic eggs and knitting little bunnies, hopefully to sell at the weekend markets. I call the eggs "Rare and Exotic Sheep Eggs -- colorful eggs from contented sheep," and display them in a cozy nest of curly Wensleydale locks. They are fun to make, if a bit time consuming, since they are wet felted around masking tape-covered plastic eggs.

At the market my husband loves to sit there and spin out wild stories about how our sheep first use their wool to build cozy little nests, hidden in the tall grass of the field, then secretly lay their eggs. He talks about how difficult it is to find them, because the sheep are really very smart and clever, and then goes on to tell about the teeny little baby sheep that might hatch from the eggs if the buyer takes very good care of them.

This seems to delight most children and some adults, as do the bunnies who are featured in a nest of pale green Wensleydale locks, getting ready to nibble on an organic carrot. I have knitted them a time or two over the years, but finally purchased the pattern from Jackie at Heart's Ease and asked her if it was ok to try to sell them... the operative word being "try." She was very supportive, and quite helpful, with lots of good ideas for next year, and asked that I give credit to her for the pattern.

To my surprise, several people stopped and wrote down the address for the pattern , but not one even looked at the handspun yarn for sale, which would have made very cute bunnies if I do say so myself. So far only one dear little girl came rushing back after closing on Saturday, handed me money that had been squished in her fist, and then spent many anguished minutes trying to pick her bunny. I reassured her that she had selected the absolute best.

I thought that I had heard practically all of the possible comments and quips on spinners and spinning (including the rather ancient little old fellow who would stop and serenade me with "There's an Old Spinning Wheel in the Parlor" three or four times each morning), but the fella who exclaimed, "See what she's doing? She's making hair wigs!" to his equally clueless girl pal this morning was definitely something new.

Also new and different were the two high school boys wearing football jerseys who marched over to my rack of sheepskins and demanded to know "What are these -- placemats?" I explained that they were sheepskins, and they paused only a beat before they pointed to my wheel and asked "Do you make them on that thing?"

If people actually know what a spinning wheel is, one comment that seems to be de rigure is "Oh, my ---- [fill in the blank: grandma, mother, aunt, etc.] had one of those but I never saw her use it." I have heard this so many times, that it makes me very curious about what has happened to the hundreds, if not thouands, of unused, cast-aside spinning wheels.

Today a lady paused briefly to see what I was doing, then tossed off dismissively, "I used to do that." After a brief pause, she added, "I even used to have my own SHEEP."
Well, now, isn't that interesting. So I just had to ask, "What happened to your wheel?"
"Oh," she answered, "when I moved out from Minnnesota it didn't get packed."

All day that has bothered me. How could you not take your spinning wheel?!!! My 36" wheel was one of the few things (besides eight dogs and a cat) that we took when we were evacuated from the fires. Did her poor little wheel make it as far as the front porch, only to be overlooked by the movers? Did they leave it out in the yard, alone, in the rain? Or maybe it was left in the attic, whimpering to itself as it leaned to look out a tiny, dusty window pane and saw the truck motor off down the drive?

Working Like a Dog

2009-03-19T16:23:00.000-07:00

Well, yes, we did just shear a dozen fiber goats, but that isn't the reference I intended. I was thinking about the different jobs that our dogs do; what's involved, and whether or not they see it as work.

Making the rounds on some of the fiber and sheep internet lists is a wonderful video of some really skilled border collies working flocks to produce -- as the tag line says -- some amazing art.

Our 10-year-old border collie feels deprived if not allowed to be with the stock, and will run 'till her tongue hangs in the dirt if something exciting is going on. On the other hand, Sevi, one of our Kangal Dog flock guardians, is totally blase' and generally sleeps on the job. (below)

She appears to be oblivious to anything going on, but actually is quite alert. She likes to sleep at the top of the hill, where she can see all around, and will stand to get a better view if need be.

Sevi on alert. Note that the ewe is looking, too.

The sheep hardly look up, and seldom even stop chewing. The day I took these pictures, I was amazed to see her charge down the hill like a runaway freight train when she spotted a strange dog on the other side of the fence, and even more amazed to see that the sheep barely turned a hair when she roared past.

That white speck in the bottom of the pasture is Sevi, barking her warning at a would-be intruder. You can see that the grazing flock barely moved, when one would expect them to scatter to the winds at her sudden intrusion. At night her warning roars will be backed up by the other six dogs chiming in, which has been enough to keep livestock safe and sound for many years.

Several times a month Sevi and I will visit a library or a school or a retirement home, where she falls easily into her other "job," that of a therapy dog for Love on a Leash. Below Sevi listens while a young lady reads to her.

If you could see her face a bit better, you would see that her eyes are nearly shut and that she is almost smiling. Soon she will gently melt to the floor, close her eyes, stretch out on her side and fall sound asleep. Her snoring isn't much of a problem, but we all have to move when she starts running in a dream.

Like the rest of us, I am pretty sure that dogs love having a job to do, and find satisfaction in doing it. At least these big guys sure do.

Go West (or East, South or Midwest)

2009-03-17T09:55:00.000-07:00

I don’t know if STITCHES West is THE best event of my year, but it is certainly one of the top five. It is always filled with joy and anxiety and stress and delight and a stunning amount of humility as I realize that I am a very small little fish in the enormous pond of knitters and fiber artists/addicts. It’s market is a thrilling extravaganza of fiber temptations, the classes are brain-bulging tests of concentration, memory and understanding, and the fiber-watching opportunities simply astound.

For the past half-dozen years I have spoiled myself with almost-annual pilgrimages to the Bay area in order to take a few classes, shop and dream at the market, ogle some beautiful knitting, and maybe have a room-service meal. For the past few years my daughter (below R, learning how to knit with a silk "hankie") has been able to meet me for a night and maybe a class, but this year she has a baby, in addition to her job, so I made time to visit grands before and after the convention.

Over the years I have enjoyed classes with Lily Chin, Chris Bylsma, Maggie Jackson (below L)

and many, many more excellent and inspiring teachers. This year I signed up for a class on Substituting Yarn, by Kellie Nuss, which was an excellent crash course in all things pattern and fiber related; a full day of spinning cotton on a charkha wheel, with Eileen Hallman; a class on making a needle-felted pet, with Sharon Costello; a refresher on spindle spinning with Merike Saarniit, and a market class on Knitting in Both Directions, or knitting back backwards. Yeah, that's it exactly -- brain twisting but interesting!

I had lunch with a friend from home, who also attended, and dropped in on the intarsia seminar, which was quite beyond me in all but the "gee whiz" respect. One experience that was totally new and fresh was being able to attend "preview" night at the market. This is the first evening of the convention, and is open only to students and teachers, so it is a great chance to actually talk with folks and take your time in a wonderfully uncrowded hall. With over 1200 booth spaces, this is a real luxury.

I was wandering around this wonderland in a total daze, when I finally stopped in at a very nice booth called Urban Fauna. It was chocked full of interesting stuff, and had beautiful skeins of handspun yarn done by various artists hanging on the back wall, so of course I had to go look. I stepped over a new Mach I spinning wheel, but on the way out stopped to watch as another lady sat down to try it out. I was surprised to find that it was made just 30 or 40 miles from where I live, and surprised again to learn that the lady trying it out was Eileen Hallman, the instructor for my charkha class the following day. I told her that I was looking forward to the class because I had a bag of brown cotton, given to me by an elderly gentleman at one of the farmer's markets that I wanted to learn to spin. Really? She wanted to know what city the market was in, and when I told her that it was a small little spot, she became very insistent on knowing the name. Vista, I told her, in northern San Diego county.

She stared at me with her mouth open, and said, "I know where it is; I used to live there. Those plants could be from my yard!!" We eagerly started reminiscing. I told her I had an old spinning friend who used to live on the same street; she not only knew her, but had learned to spin cotton there. And then the kicker. She looked at my name tag and muttered "Fallbrook ... I used to go spin with a group at someone's house there, but her name wasn't Lambert." "Yeah," I said, "I remarried." Well, to say we were both gobsmacked would not do it justice. It was a kick.

I brought my baggie of cotton to the class, bought a charkha book wheel from her (she owns and runs New World Textiles, in NC) and was so busy learning to use it that I forgot about the raw

The book charkha, opened (left) and white (Pima), green and "mauve" raw cotton (right).

brown cotton until break. At that point, Eileen picked up the bag and rushed over to hold it under a light. She did one of those comedy-skit double-takes -- looking at me, then the bag, then back to me again -- and finally said, "You don't know what you have here." I agreed, shaking then nodding my head: I had no clue. "This isn't brown cotton, she continued, "this is MAUVE cotton." She went on to tell me how rare it was, and even in Peru was becoming impossible to find , let alone export. "Are you sure you want to give me the whole bag?" she finally asked. I gave in to baser instincts, worried that my little supplier might never return to the market, and gave her half. But I think we both were quite happy, with our cotton and our discoveries.

The needle felting class was great fun, but I sort of complicated things by bringing pictures of my sheep instead of a dog or a cat. When she said, "All of you who are doing dogs sit on this side, and all of you who are doing cats sit on the other side," I knew I was in trouble. Still, I think I learned enough to be able to complete my 'omage to Gwendolynn ... one of these days.

Gwendolynn, immortalized in needle felt, from her own wool.

It was a wonderful three days that recharged my batteries and have given me a massive dose of enthusiasm.

And don't even get me started on the darling grand daughters!

Bay area babes: Lalima (6 months) and Kavina (9 months).

Next: Sheep eggs, etc.

Happy Birthday to Us

2009-02-12T12:52:00.000-08:00

Happy Birthday, Misters Darwin and Lincoln

You guys have chalked up 200, I just 65; certainly no comparison in any respect. Still, I suppose that some words are in order to commemorate the completion of one’s 65th year on this planet, no matter how inconsequential they have been. Once you start hitting birthdays that sound like speed-limits, thoughts naturally tend toward death and impermanence, but mine seemed to be focused on killing.

I have killed countless things over the decades: dreams, ideas, and hopes as well as living creatures. Some were dispatched inadvertently, by accident, some carelessly or thoughtlessly, and some with premeditated, deadly intention. Gwendolyn’s death was one of these.

Gwendolyn ready for her close-up, or shearing

Gwendolyn was a beautiful white Wensleydale/Cotswold ewe that began her life in Colorado in 2002. Along with Wallit, the black Wensleydale/Cotswold ram we had purchased a few years earlier, she was to be the foundation of our new flock of luster longwools. She was friendly and charming, with the most wonderful spinning wool. After a year or two we bred her to Wallit, and in the spring she produced a big, black single ewe lamb that was named Precious, after the character in McCall Smith’s wonderful #1 Ladies Detective Agency books. Being an only child, she was everyone’s delight. Though we had other sheep and other lambs, she was the favorite.

When Precious was a few months old, and starting on solid food, she somehow ingested a piece of wire that was hidden in the hay, and died of peritonitis. It was a sad day for all of us. We had hopes or repeating the breeding the following year, but Wallit sickened and died before that could be achieved, so Gwendolyn was bred to another ram. The lambs were cute -- white twins, Gwynneth and Gwain -- but just not the same as our beloved Wensleydale cross.

Gwendolyn introduces Gwynneth (behind her) to one of the Kangal pups.

We took a year or two off from having lambs, but the springs were too quiet and the fields too empty without lambs bounding about, so last summer I bought another black Wensleydale ram and three lambs. They were shipped down from Oregon, and arrived after quite a long and arduous trip, but the ram was feeling well enough to get busy with all of the girls, including Gwendolyn.

Unfortunately, once that job was done, he focused primarily on eating, and on being the first in line, even if it meant bashing his ladies out of the way. Unfortunately, gentle Gwendolyn was one of his victims, and suffered injury to her hip, which left her severely lame. Still, we had hopes that she could carry her lamb(s) to term with proper care, so set her up in “the infirmary” (see the picture below under the Mattie story) and gave her daily special attention until one day last month she finally lambed. There was one huge lamb, dead in the sack, but another sprightly little black one happily bouncing about… and it was a girl! The good news was that Gwendolyn seemed to be feeling better (wouldn’t you?) and was dutifully standing so that the lamb could nurse. Such a good mom, such a lovely lamb. I should not have named her Precious, but I did.

The little family did surprisingly well. Despite the fact that Gwendolyn seemed to be growing steadily weaker, she could still stand when the baby wanted to nurse, and both ate like champs. We put them back in with the other sheep so that the lamb would have playmates, but Gwendolyn's increasing frailty and several days of icy rains led us to finally put her in a separate pen, so that she and the lamb would not be unduly jostled by the rest of the flock. It was just a day later that we found Gwendolyn collapsed on top of the still-warm body of her lamb, unable or unwilling to get up.

It was clear that the kindest thing would be to put her down, but I just could not do it on my birthday. Or the next day, or the next. Eventually I was ready, so husband and I went out to the sheep pen. He started digging a hole while I gave Gwendolynn some grain and thanked her for her life and her lambs and her wool. Then I gave her a good dose of Banophen, and put a bag over her head, holding her until she quit breathing.

We burried Gwendolyn with her lamb at her side, and only later did it occur to me that they both died the same way: smothered by someone who loved them.

Requiescat in pace et in amore.

Presidents of the United States of America

2009-01-19T09:37:00.000-08:00

For fun, check out this page with a song from NPR's Weekend America:
Presidents of the United States of America
We're getting a new president, and who better to write a song for the occasion then the pop group the Presidents of the United States of America? We hear their composition and how they wrote it.

Springsteen or the Boss it's not, but it is very entertaining. Happy MLK Day and WELCOME, MR. O!

OT, NA and Regret

2009-01-18T19:35:00.000-08:00

They were a pleasant-looking couple of a certain age, who happened to stop by my market stall to watch me spin for a while this morning. It was a beautiful, near-80-degree day, and we were all just loving it. I leaned back from my spinning wheel and stopped treadling long enough to smile, inhale some of the beautiful air, and say "Good morning!"

He smiled and made small pleasantries, but then just seemed to want to watch the process, so I started in again: treadle, pinch, lengthen, waaaay out there, wait...wait... wind on. He said that they had recently moved from Los Angeles to San Diego, and I asked him how he felt the two cities compared.

That was when she interjected that they hadn't actually move from Los Angeles, that they had long since moved out to "the (San Fernando) Valley".

"Too many blacks," she confided with an almost-conspiratorial air, sniffing and wrinkling her nose as though still offended at the thought.

My mind stalled. I wanted to say "My gods! You don't look like a bigot!? How are you ever managing to deal with our new president?"

But nothing came out. Instead, I just started in again: treadle, pinch, lengthen, waaaay out there, wait...wait... wind on.

Resolution #2

2009-01-16T10:20:00.000-08:00

Here we are, a little more than two weeks into the new year and I feel surprisingly good! For one thing, I have actually started to tackle the second item on my "great list": organization.

Here are two pictures of my "loft" in the barn, shortly after it was built:
Look how neat, how organized, how peaceful!!!!

That was some years ago, years with lots of activity, with wool coming and going and being processed, but totally devoid of any attempt at organization. You know how it is when you are in the middle of a project, and you just KNOW there is more black llama here someplace --

Here is what 5 years of neglect looks like:

It isn't finished yet, but in one day I did manage to clean and sort a good bit of the mess:

I decided to sort primarily by color, from white (left) to gray, black and red (right). I think it is looking up, don't you? Just don't turn around, or you will see the boxes and boxes of roving from MFW (below) that simply won't fit anywhere.

Next step is to take inventory and start listing fiber for sale... quick ... before the next boxes arrive!

I decided to start at the top: beautiful dehaired cashmere cloud is listed for sale at:
http://www.blujay.com/lambkamp
It comes in 5 natural shades, and I am selling it for $20/ounce, including postage. You will need to click on the big picture for more info, and will need to let me know which color you want.

Thanks for reading!

Mad Hen and Sad Maddie

2009-01-10T15:13:00.000-08:00

Maddie came to me as a result of an advertisement that said: "free goat" (sometimes called a rescue) last year. She was of uncertain age, indeterminate color, and even more vague heritage. I was interested in her because the person who had her mentioned the "tons of hair" that she had shaved off of her.

When I first saw her, she was a diminutive little thing in a herd of huge brown Oberhausi dairy goats. She was low goat on the totem pole, whose only friend had been a chicken, who was now living elsewhere. She seemed frightened and depressed. She had had twins, one of whom was still with her, and was just bones and skin with little spiky clumps of hair left over from her close shave. She appeared to be at least part angora. Some people are distracted by shiny things; I am totally drawn to fuzzy stuff, so of course I took her home.

She didn't fatten up one bit, despite de-worming, lots of attention and plenty of good stuff to eat. She remained low goat in the pecking order, but continued to be friendly (in a shy sort of way) and unobtrusive. The more I observed her the more I realized that she has had a rough life. She has a rather stiff walk, throwing one hind leg out in a strange manner, as though it had been broken and never healed correctly. In addition, her jaw is lopsided, skewed to one side with the bottom jaw jutting forward.

This gives her a very strange grin all of the time.

It wasn't long before she started standing up for herself a little, and even chased some of the younger goats off from time to time. But the bigger goats in the flock would have nothing to do with her.

That was when she discovered the chicken.

Mad Hen is an ancient survivor. All of her contemporaries are long gone, mostly due to old age and overly-boisterous puppies. She used to be called Mamma Hen because n her youth she raised countless broods, often not even from her own eggs, but in her old age and decripitude she started getting very cranky. We thought perhaps some new roomies would help, but she managed to kill every single chicken that we put in with her. The last one was so terrified of MH that she starved to death because she was too afraid to come down from the perch. So there she sat, blind in one eye, muttering away to herself in an otherwise-empty chicken coop.

Last spring we decided to get a few new laying hens, which meant that MH had to go somewhere else. One dark evening I picked her up from her roost and took her into the goat pen, where I carefully deposited her on a perch. I tossed off a "Good luck, old girl," and thought no more about it. She would survive ... or not. She was there the next morning, and the next, and the next. During the day she puttered around among the goats, quite happy with her new lot in life. At night she perched on the old log where I had first put her.

MH thinks she's a goat.

At this same time one of my special Wensleydale ewes had suffered an incident when the ram blasted her into a fence post. Since she was pregnant, we didn't want to take any chances, so put her in a separate pen which became known as the Infirmary.

She was soon joined by a young lamb who needed meds, and eventually old MH.

Maddie seemed to suffer sort of a set-back, and took over Tank's igloo house, to spend hours and even days on end peering out at the world with her silly, sad grin.

Tank, in the meantime, just made himself at home in the great outside, despite some prying neighbors.

Daisy is the self-appointed guardian dog guardian.

One morning when I made rounds, Tank greeted me at the fence with a treasure -- a ground squirrel? "Good boy, Tank!" I went back to the house to get a bag for disposal and a treat to "buy back" the carcass. That was when I realized it wasn't a squirrel -- it was a very tiny, dead premature kid. One of a pair of twins, it turned out. I walked and walked the entire pen trying to figure out who the mother could have been, and was puzzled beyond belief when I remembered that face in the dog house. Sure enough, they had been Maddie's.

We were all sad, even though they were so little I know that they had never drawn a breath or touched the ground with their tiny, soft hooves. We eventually coaxed Maddie from her "cave" and gave her a bath and some warm dinner. But then ... where to put her so that she could recover?

The Infirmary, of course, where she is to this day, with her BFF, Mad Hen.

St. Distaff's Day

2009-01-05T07:53:00.001-08:00

St. Distaff's Day is the 7th of January. Are you ready?

Ladies with distaffs.

Our small group of knitties will meet to knit and sip and celebrate, and many spinning guilds will be holding celebrations this weekend. Check your local listings for events in your area.

Knitties

According to Wikipedia, St. Distaff's Day is so called because the Christmas festival terminated on Twelfth Day, and on the day following the women returned to their distaffs or daily occupations. It is also called Rock Day, a distaff being called a rock. “In old times they used to spin with rocks.” (Aubrey, Wilts.)

Give St. Distaff all the right, Then give Christmas sport good night, And next morrow every one To his own vocatiön. (1657)

In England, as well as other countries the days from Christmas through Twelfth Night were considered a time of rest from the labors of spinning. The maidens returned to their work on St. Distaff's Day, January 7th. This day was also known as Rock Day, which is derived from the German word rocken, which means both distaff and woman's.
Although the maidens resumed their work on St. Distaff's Day, the ploughboys did not return until the Monday following Twelfth -Night. They used this discrepancy to no good by playing pranks on the busy spinners. The most popular of these pranks was to set fire to the tow and flax which was awaiting processing. The spinners in turn would quench the fire with buckets of water, drenching both fire and firebug.

In Chambers’ Book of Days, (a wonderful compilation of all things odd and historic) Michael Hillman has discovered what I have long suspected:

"It was admitted in those old days that a woman could not quite make a livelihood by spinning; but, says Anthony Fitzherbert, in his Boke of husbandrie 'it stoppeth a gap,' it saveth a woman from being idle, and the product was needful."

If you are interested in more about women, textiles and history, you must get a copy of Women's Work: The First 20,000 Years : Women, Cloth, and Society in Early Times, by Elizabeth Wayland Barber. A scholarly yet excellent read, now out in paperback.

As for me? I never stop spinning. I realize that I can "not quite make a livelihood by spinning," but I am hoping to make up for it in volume.

This week's offerings, washed (left) and hanging to dry (right).

Farmers' Markets

2009-01-04T10:40:00.000-08:00

For more than 40 years I have been raising fiber animals to satisfy my own gluttonous spinning habit. I have also been making weak attempts at selling some of the wool, llama, mohair, cashmere and pygora from our flocks on ebay, etsy and various other internet sources. These have met with limited success, mostly because it takes a lot of time to keep up with availability and to answer queries via email, send samples, etc., and also because it is just plain difficult to buy touchy-feely stuff (like yarn and fiber) on line.

Now that I am retired, I have hit upon a wonderful outlet: farmers' markets. We have been taking our wool, yarn and sheepskins to various weekend markets for over a year, and it is one of the high points of our week. Even if sales are slow, I get many hours to spin, meet people, talk about the animals, and share stories. The Vista Farmers' Market is one of the oldest ones in the area, and also one of the largest.

We qualify as growers because (almost) everything we sell is raised by us on land we own in San Diego County, but we can not be certified organic since processed animal products can not be certified, according to the state, and most of our wool is processed:

Dyed Wensleywold locks, millspun Woolllama yarn, and dyed roving waiting to be spun.

So we have added a few cards, like the Itty Bitty Wtty Knitty creations by Kim Cheely and her missionary brother's Project Grace knitters in Nepal. Beautiful little swatches knitted on toothpick-sized needles with wonderfully funny captions. I also carry a small sampling of Eucalan because it is what I use and swear by for washing fine wool items.

Various skeins of handspun yarn, and millspun Woolllama on cones.

We have recently added the new Bonsall Certified Farmers' Market and Open Aire Faire to our list. It is smaller, and newer, but all of the proceeds go into the local schools, so it's a good thing.

A sample of some of the washable sheepskins that we have available.

Love those red wool and silk socks!

If you are in the area, please stop by! If you are not local but are interested in any of these items (or have questions about other fiber-related things) please don't hesitate to email and ask. I take PayPal and checks, and will be happy to send a price list. My email is: lambkamp@earthlink.net

Ready for the market.

December 2008

2009-01-03T09:21:00.000-08:00

On the Final Day of Christmas my true love shared with me:

*A woodpecker on the phone pole

*Two snow bunnies
*Three kinds of pie

*Four lovely kids (and all their spouses)

*Five grand children

*Six llamas lunching

*Seven dogs a-leaping

*Eight lambs a-sunning

*Nine ewes a-nursing

* Ten pounds of roast

* Eleven side dishes

* Twelve goats grazing.

And a very merry New Year to all.

No - vember

2008-11-03T15:17:00.000-08:00

October broke into November this year just as it did last time, with a long, last sigh of exhausted heat followed suddenly by fall. Only this year we are happily in place, and not trying to recover from wildfire evacuation to a campsite at the beach.
Five days in a small motor home with eight dogs, (most of whom weigh more than 100# and some of whom don't much care for each other) and a cat (under veterinary care) can be extremely grueling, and our experience was even more interesting because it was immediately followed by #1 son's wedding.

Sanity was eventually restored: the creatures returned to their duties with the flock, the wedding went on without missing a beat, and our home was mercifully unscathed.
This year there were no threatening fires and no Hindu weddings; just a quiet appreciation for all that is right with the world: No-vember.

Rancho Borrego Negro

First Tri

A Man, a Plan, a Canal: Panama

I Am in Love

Gathering of the Clan

The Sad Situation with Our Bees

ADD Without the H

Another Peaceful Day

Fresh Fleeces

Sleeping Arrangements

"Even the least among them..."

The Next Step

Shearing

Hayfever Haze

Good things, for a Change

Urge, Purge, Dirge, or When to Call the Doctor

What The...?

Sorted, Skirted, Picked, Weighed and Sampled ... Oh My!

What a Strange Way to Start the New Year

WeFF

Whew!

Rain, Beautiful Rain!

Southwest at Risk for Severe Storms Again

News - Oct 20, 2010; 10:00 AM ET Thunderstorms threaten to cause flash flooding and turn severe over Southern California and Arizona today.

Tea in the Afternoon

Addendum and Updates

The Story of Mouse

What a Week!

Weed yarn

A September to Remember

Shearing Goats

Some People Just Never Learn

May, June and July - oh MY!

* - next time

Last night, thinking about last night...

WOWZIE

Name the Lambs!

Signs of Spring

Coming up for Air

Hummmm -- do I feel a blog coming on?

cogKNITive Fun and More

The ants come marching ...

Karabey

Goat by Any Other Name

Lunching With Wolves, Part 2

Lunching with Wolves, Part 1

Garden Euphoria

Happy Birthday Pups

15 Minutes of Fame

Ah, April

Eggs and Bunnies and Wheels Left Behind

Working Like a Dog

Go West (or East, South or Midwest)

Happy Birthday to Us

Presidents of the United States of America

OT, NA and Regret

Resolution #2

Mad Hen and Sad Maddie

St. Distaff's Day

Farmers' Markets

December 2008

No - vember