On Monday, I blogged about my hope of summer’s arrival and how encouraged I was when the only daffodil of the fifty bulbs I planted last fall came up.
Today I offer this wonderful quote from Anne Lamott to encourage you to continue to hope for whatever you’re seeking.
This little guy popped out of the ground last week, bringing hope that spring and summer will arrive.
It’s about time.
Snowstorms in May were a major shock though our visiting grandchildren thought it was wonderful!
My sister and her daughter from Texas decided to pack their long johns when they came to see us over Memorial weekend after the grandkids left.
Unfortunately, they needed the extra layer. It was cold and rainy the whole weekend.
That didn’t stop my hiking niece and husband from climbing up to 10,000 feet on Sentinel Peak.
Summer folk are returning to town. It’s amazing to watch the RV parks filling and summer homes coming to life.
Last week the exterior painting of our house was finally been completed. 
Soon, the mountains of dirt from the excavating for the garage addition will become tiered landscaping. Now that will be a much-welcomed sight.
The summer will bring family and friends escaping the heat where they live. Another thing I can wait to have happen. Nothing’s more fun than sitting on the porch visiting.
And, most exciting, I have a book releasing in June.
Details on official release date coming soon…
We’re off to a tremendous start for the season. So how’s your summer shaping up?
By Guest Blogger Chicken Wrangler Sara
When I was in high school, it was a popular youth group activity to see how many people you could fit into a VW bug. I don’t remember how many we fit but according to one website, the record is 20.
I thought about this as I went to get eggs last week and found four chickens in one nest box:
This made checking for eggs particularly challenging. Apparently the crowded conditions also made it a challenge for the chickens.
They laid as many eggs on the floor of the coop as in the box.
Today I went to check eggs and found this:
It took me a few minutes but I finally counted five chickens in the middle nest box. Can you find them all?
Perhaps I should put together a children’s counting book. I wonder what number it would go to. I’ll keep you posted…
I’m guessing you are doing or did one or more of these things…
• Spent time with family and friends munching on hot dogs and hamburgers
• Celebrated the unofficial beginning of summer by bringing out the white clothes and shoes
• Shopped or attended a sporting event
• Spent time at the beach, taking in the waves
Memorial Day weekend is for all of those things, but more.
Today is the federal holiday established so we could pause and remember fathers, mothers, brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles, and cousins who never came home.
If somehow you forgot the origins, you are not alone–too many of us do.
But it’s not too late to celebrate and honor those who made the ultimate sacrifice. Today is not over and it is the official designated Memorial Day 2014.
I suggest two ways to honor those who have served:
One last word to all those who serve by going off or staying behind at home: my personal heartfelt thank you. I’m sincerely grateful to all of you.
Welcome to the porch today guest blogger, Becky Burkhalter. She’s a writer and published author who raises goats. Here’s her tale about Sadie.
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Everyone has heard the joke about the occasional table … (what is it the rest of the time?)
Would you believe I have an occasional goat?
Sadie looks like a goat. She was born of a goat, I do think that’s her actual form, but she isn’t always a goat.
She started out as a Valentine, born on February 14. She was a tiny thing, the weaker of twins, and we brought her inside to nurse her and keep her warm.
‘Keeping her warm’ meant, of course, keeping her in the bed with us. Isn’t that where normal people snuggle a baby? On second thought, don’t answer that.
She didn’t stay inside for long, and she’s been in since, although not often. This seems to have caused her confusion and from that first day we shut the door in her sweet face, she’s been searching, with a fluid malleability unique even for goats, to find her place.
It came on quietly and without fanfare.
She still seems to be pretty sure she’s a people and has never understood why we don’t let her live in the house. However, as time passed, she became comfortable in being whatever seemed to have the most benefit on any particular day.
I noticed her, one day, being a horse. Goats, you know, stay locked in their yard while horses are granted the pasture and large bales of hay.
Horses are fine to be, but chickens get to come up in the shade of the barn alley, out of the wind, and peck grain out of the dirt. Alley trumps pasture, grain trumps hay, and being many times larger than the others by far trumps being only as tall as everyone else’s kneecaps. So many days, Sadie is a chicken.
Sadie also tends to be a dog on days we have visitors. Dogs get to sleep on the porch. They get lots of attention, scratches behind the ears and all the leftovers cleaned out of the truck. French fries, of course, trump even grain. In the case of a cookout, there are too many good eatables to mention and unattended plates are free game. On those days, it’s good to be a dog.
There are days, of course, when it’s good to be a goat. Goats fit through fences like horses can’t and get to roam the far pastures, and beyond, until they’re chased home.
Chickens fit through fences, but don’t go too far and dogs just have to stay in the yard.
Goats who have figured out how to turn sideways in order to squeeze through a stock gate still get choice pickings of hay and grain – but sometimes get yelled at.
When the yelling starts, it’s better to go back to being a chicken.
Sadie’s latest transformation is to become a mom, which she is handling in her usual fine fashion. Her little daughter appears to be a goat, but only time will tell.
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Becky Burkhalter takes frequent flights of fantasy, in real life as well as in her writing.
It’s said that life is stranger than fiction, but Becky’s out to prove it’s possible to integrate life both ways. Whether she’s racing her Arabian horses through the woods, rapid firing her .45 or gargoyling from local rooftops, Becky finds it hard to stay grounded in the real world. Although she has yet to ride in a space ship (she did get to simulate crashing a 727) or to meet a real vampire (that she’s aware of), anachronistic dress, “QaQ poHmey” and pints of brew (yes, it comes in pints) are standard fare on the odd weekend.
Visit her on her website: www.BeckyBurkheart.com
Connect with her on Facebook.
Bloodcup: A Tale of the Last Amazon Queen is available from Amazon, and other ebook outlets.
What is it to be a priestess and a queen but a life of service to the people and the gods?
Historic legend tells us Hercules stole the Golden Girdle of War from the Amazon Queen, Hippolyte, at the command of King Eurytheus. Once it was taken back to Mycene – the trail grows cold.
In BLOODCUP the young warrior-priestess Aekhosora seizes command in the aftermath of that bloody theft to lead the army of her people on a vengeful journey south to recover the girdle. Plunging into the marshes of the Danube, through Thrace, past Mount Olympus, with only a brief stop at Delphi, they march on Theseus and all but take Athens before they continue south to death and slavery at Megara.
Suffering the whims of slavery, she struggles to stay true to her god, her goal and the man who takes her home, a man who finds himself the master of a queen striving to restore a lost and scattered people.
By Guest Blogger Chicken Wrangler Sara
Bella’s barking can be quite annoying. I have taken to ignoring her for as long as possible, especially if I am at home during the day and the neighbors are not. This morning, however, I tolerated it for as long as I could stand and then headed out to get her.
What I found was very scary.
The pile of wood on the neighbor’s back porch was on fire. Flames were probably 5 feet tall.
Bella was quite disturbed.
I noticed a car in the driveway and ran around to tell them what was happening. I met our neighbor in the side yard. We rounded her house together and discovered the flame was rapidly moving up the house wall.
I ran for fire extinguishers. My neighbor ran for the hose. She had the fire out by the time I got back out.
No one has been able to figure out how the fire started. But, for once, I was glad that Bella barks. She’s earned a new title – Bella the Fire dog.
The damage wasn’t too bad, but very scary. We are all grateful it was so minor.
From now on, I will always check on Bella when she is barking. She is sometimes smarter than we think.
by Guest Blogger Millie Theis Martin
Rodeo time in Houston and the string of trail riders wreak havoc with the traffic and frustrate other drivers, but, for me, they stir up fond memories.
While I never participated in a trail ride, my younger sister and I always rode in the parade marking the opening of the county fair and rodeo. We had a two-wheeled cart pulled by our Shetland pony, Tony, black with a white streak on his shoulder.
Most years, my younger sister and I were decked out in our boots, cowboy hats and pearl-snap shirts, but one year, we were George and Martha Washington for some theme long forgotten. The cart was converted to a surrey with a fringed top. Since I was two years older, I was George. Taller seemed to be the key to my selection.
My long blonde hair was tied in back and dusted with baby power until appropriately white. I wore a black cutaway jacket, vest and knee-length breeches with long socks. The teeth were permanent and my own.
My sister, as Martha, had the feminine outfit, with ruffles everywhere. Her white cap was gathered with a ruffled edge, her long sleeves ended in ruffles, and, yes, more ruffles rippled down the front of her dress.
Where was my fairy godmother when I needed her?
Our small town parade was the spark that ignited the fun. The ensuing days were filled with a rodeo, carnival rides, and contests. The exhibit building displaying quilts and canned goods demanded a quick survey, though women lingered to “ooh” and “aw” over the blue ribbon winners.
The rodeo competition was real, no fluff there. The spectator seats were hard and splintered, and the pungent smell of the rodeo stock’s revenge made my eyes tear. Only first-timers sat on the first row. Those in the know moved at least to the second row to avoid a face full of dirt kicked by an angry bull or bucking bronco.
Barrel racing was the only event for women, but my favorites were steer dogging and the cutting horse contests. For those of you unfamiliar with the rodeo–steer dogging is man against beast. Two riders parallel a steer, and one jumps from a perfectly good horse onto the steer. With his arms around the horns, the cowboy plants his boot heels in the dirt and proceeds to pull the animal to the ground.
The cutting horse event is a contest between a well-trained horse and a calf singled out from a small herd. The horse’s job is to keep the calf separated from the other cattle. The horse and rider dance as one. A slight movement of the rein and a nudge of a boot is all the rider might contribute. It’s the horse’s performance.
The ferris wheel was the star of the carnival rides. Since motion sickness has always plagued me, I steered clear of things that moved in horizontal swirling motions. No carnie was complete without throwing a few pennies to win a teddy bear, and the day wasn’t over until hands and faces were sufficiently sticky with cotton candy and the ubiquitous music spun in your head.
In a less politically correct and compassionate era, there was always a show of oddities—both people and animals.
However, the tent that fascinated me the most was in a far, dimly lit corner of the grounds surrounded by a long line of men and marked with a sign reading, “Adult males only allowed.” Seductive music and a belly dancer enticed the crowd. I suppose even if I had donned my George Washington attire, I wouldn’t have been tall enough for admission, but I wish I had tried.
I think it would have been more interesting than the two-headed calf.
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Millie Theis Martin writes for children and young adults from her home in Tomball, Texas. She has worked as a contract writer for Concordia Publishing and is published in children’s magazines, anthologies, and academic journals. She holds a Ph.D. in educational psychology from Texas A&M University and has teaching experience at all levels—preschool to university.
Millie is a member of the Society of Children’s Book Writers and Illustrators (SCBWI) and Assistant Regional Advisor for the Houston chapter.
Follow Millie on Twitter
Essayist Nora Ephron said it this way:
“Reading is everything!
Reading makes me feel like I’ve accomplished something, learned something, become a better person. Reading makes me smarter.
Reading gives me something to talk about later on.
Reading is the unbelievably healthy way my attention deficit disorder medicates itself.
Reading is escape, and the opposite of escape; it’s a way to make contact with reality after a day of making things up, and it’s a way of making contact with someone else’s imagination after a day that’s all too real.
Reading is grist.
Reading is bliss.”
I couldn’t agree more.
But I’d add writing doubles the pleasure because no matter how much you enjoy the world and characters someone else created it’s even more fun to create your own.
Recently I had the most relaxing experience. I came away with blackened fingertips and oodles of coupons.
Can you guess what I was doing?
I read the Sunday paper leisurely on Monday morning. An event that was once a routine part of my Sundays until we moved to the mountains.
We don’t have Sunday newspaper delivery in our neck of the woods. Our local newspaper arrives once a week in our mailbox and reading it doesn’t take long. It’s called the South Fork Tines and my high school newspaper was thicker.
Sunday papers are available at the local convenience store, but that necessitates a trip down the mountain. We haven’t developed the habit.
I doubt we will. We can always get the news via television or internet.
I picked up the one-inch thick edition of the Pueblo Chieftain, Colorado’s oldest daily newspaper, at the local hotel where I do my water aerobics three mornings a week.
The Chieftain isn’t nearly as large as the Houston Chronicle was, but the edition was filled with ads, coupon pamphlets, and the Sunday funnies section.
Oh, how I miss those funnies. Maybe that’s why I enjoyed the experience so much.
Reading on-line just doesn’t convey the same feelings or give the texture of the newsprint in my hand. Yes, I get the same information from other sources, but not the tactile sensations.
I fear my pleasure of reading print newspapers is disappearing. And, not because of availability where I live.
Look around you. You’ll see what I see. Readers staring at screens on phones and tablets.
Michael Bourne observed the phenomena when he rode the subway into the New York City and wrote about it in his article, “Screens on the Subway: The Rolling Library Is Going Digital.”
“A decade ago, none of the devices my R train companions were so avidly viewing even existed. Back then, if you didn’t want to read on your morning subway commute, you stared off into space… Now, more and more often, those idle moments – on subway cars, on airplanes, in dentist’s offices – are being filled by games and movies and social media. By screens.”
I still read print: paperback books, magazines and newspapers. I also read on my phone (handy when I’m forced to wait unexpectedly), on my Kindle, and on my iPad. I sometimes stare at a screen to play games or check social media.
But holding those objects is just not the same as reading the Sunday paper spread out at the breakfast table with a nice cup of tea.
How about you? Do you read from printed papers or is most of your reading following the trend and done via screens?
by Guest Blogger Chicken Wrangler Sara
Our son usually mows the lawn but he has suffered a shoulder injury requiring surgery. Now Beekeeper Brian mows the lawn.
The back yard had become quite a jungle so I know mowing was difficult. It would not have been surprising if Beekeeper Brian missed a spot. However, when I looked out the window, this is what I saw:
A giant weed, obviously left intentionally, which caused me to wonder two things:
What was the plant?
And why was it left?
When Beekeeper Brian told me it was thistle, I immediately thought of Eeyore from Winnie the Pooh. He ate thistles. My first thought was Oh no we’re getting a donkey!
Beekeeper Brian quickly explained that bees also like thistle, and he wants to keep the bees happy.
I breathed a sigh of relief. I did not want another animal to have to feed. Chickens, quail, and dogs are enough and the bees take care of themselves.
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