Of Pharmacies, Bum Holes and Ornery Folks

Swine flu has hit the folks, so I've spent some time checking on them throughout the week, taking a trip or two to the doctor, grabbing a few groceries, and making about 64 trips to the pharmacy. The little errands and checking in I've gladly done and I'm so grateful we're close by so I could do it. I'm glad for any chance to do something for the folks because, oh my goodness, I couldn't begin to repay them for the amazing support and help and fun they've been all my life. Stories of all they've done for me and my family are fodder for a 3-hanky post complete with theme music and sweeping vistas. But that's for another time. Suffice it to say, errands I can do. Am glad to do. With love in my heart.

The only thing I'm sick of is the pharmacy. Not because I've made a bunch of trips for Mom and Dad, but because I've filled prescriptions for 5 people this week; some have had multiple prescriptions on different days, so there was no chance for efficiency. Since Mom and Dad weren't the only ones with medical adventures this week, I've filled prescriptions for Mom, Tanner, Macy, Karlie, Macy again, Tanner again, Mom again and Dad. I'm tired of the pharmacy window, in spite of the sweet people who work at our Safeway pharmacy.

There was one bright spot in my pharmacy adventures this week, or so I thought. See, Dad's name is Willie, but he goes by Bill. I love opportunities to interact officially for him because I get to use his real name. Dad's a Kentucky boy, and it's not unusual for Kentucky boys to be named Willie. It's just not a name you hear much west of the Mississippi, and you get to say it even less. So, while I have grown weary of the pharmacy this week, it was fun to go pick up his prescription and have the chance to say, "I'm here to get Willie's prescription." But then the pharmacist helper lady says, "Do you mean Bill?" and inside I'm like, "Dang. One less chance to call him Willie. Thought for sure they'd call him Willie here."

After picking up the prescription, I stopped by the folks' home with a Diet Coke for Mom and a cup of coffee for Dad, and the prescription.

"You going anywhere else?" Dad asked.

"No. Just home," I answered, "Why? Do you need something?"

"No. It's just that you have a hole in the butt of your pants and I wasn't going to tell you about it until you got back with the coffee, but if you were going anywhere else, I figured I'd better let you know."

Yep, that's my Dad. Gotta love him. Even sick to the point of not being up for blow drying his hair, he can still get me.

"Oh, what's that, Dad? I'm sorry, was I standing on your oxygen line? Oh, am I off it now? How about now? Oh, sorry, am I on it again? Darn - is that what just yanked out of the machine over there? Oh, shucks, should I not have accidentally ground the hose into pieces with my heel? Oh, sorry."

Teach him to let me walk around with a hole in my bum.

Love from the farm,
Teri

(P.S. I suppose I should confess that I actually ended up running a few more errands in public yesterday, but at least I knew about the small hole, and somehow that made a difference. It was the ruthless letting me out among the common folk with a hole and not telling me immediately that was the issue, in case anyone's confused here.)

Don't Lizards Hibernate?

At the end of my last note, didn't I mention I was going to go do chores or go sit on the couch and snuggle with the kids? Well, apparently I'm a big fat liar. I did neither of those things. I remained sitting here, checking personal email, checking work email, rummaging through a few favorite blogs.

As I sat here, I heard rustling among the boxes and papers on the floor under and near my desk. I thought to look, and then decided, no; I'd rather assume the rustling is being caused by a sneaky barn kitty who zipped into the house when Tanner brought in wood. Sure, that's it. It's just a fluffy, pretty kitty. No matter that I don't see anything out of the corner of my eye and those kitties aren't wee anymore. They look like full-size cats; if it were one of them I should be glimpsing a bit of fur, at the least. Still, a girl can pretend.

Yep, she can pretend - right up to the moment that the fattest stinkin' lizard she's ever seen waddles past with its silly stunted tail. Wanders right past the couch so she can't pretend it's not right there, with its clickety-clack little fingernails that I'm sure I'd be hearing hit the wood floor if the wood floor weren't littered with paper.

Did I mention it was kind of nice having the kiddos home today? I just called them right in here to take care of the foul creature. Ok, lizards are fine outside; inside, I'm just ticked that they're in my territory. I'm also ticked that our house is made of swiss cheese, allowing the fat lizards to find their way in. So, Tanner donned socks on his hands (since his doctors specifically said no holding reptiles while immunesuppressed) and devised his strategy for capturing the salmonella-laden little home invader.

He directed Macy to assume a position in front of the lizard, causing it to freeze in its tracks. Macy whispered that she was in position and that she was distracting the lizard. I looked up to see this meant she was staring it straight in the eyes and waving her fingers in a mesmerizing little motion, keeping its attention diverted so the fat little guy (who obviously isn't very quick or he wouldn't have a nub of a tail) wouldn't notice Tanner sneaking up behind him. (Dude, lay off the quail eggs, that's all I'm sayin'.)

In a flash, Tanner grabbed the sluggish lizard - it didn't know what hit him. It hung its head in shame, no doubt relieved its lizard buddies didn't witness its utter lack of defensive tactics. Then, after examining it closely but not directly touching it, Tanner deposited the chubby little fella outside.

You know, I'm assuming none of his lizard pals witnessed his embarrassing capture. What if his head drooped because his buddies did see his pathetic lack of instinct? What if the jeering, hateful little turds are lurking, waiting to resume the paper rustling? What if any second they're going to clamber over cardboard and begin rattling tax receipts?

I think it's time to go have quality time in the living room with the kids. They need their mother.

Then I seriously have to clean this room.

Love and gingerly steps from the farm,
Teri

Cozy Day on the Farm

So, we're hunkered down on our first chilly-all-day day on the farm this fall, and I thought I'd give you a completely mundane overview of the happenings at We Don't Know What We Are, But I Can Tell You What We Are Not, And That's Harmony Farms:

• Last night we had our first fire of the season. It was a controlled burn. In the fireplace. (Sorry, it's fall, which is prescribed fire season in the Forest Service and sometimes I hearken back to those days with some longing....Not necessarily the burning part, just the overall working with people who were dedicated stewards of the land part. Me, I just wrote stories about them and talked to reporters. The guys and gals in the field building trails, mending fences, protecting archaeological sites - those were the real heroes.)
• Anyway.
• The return of fires is lovely and it's so cozy this morning to be wearing Adam's sweats, someone else's socks, and to have my feet tucked under me on the couch with the fireplace warming the room. Yum.
• The duck's eye is back. Anyone want to explain that one? Here's my stab at it. I think those mean ol' turkeys pecked at it so much it receded a little bit, the surrounding tissue swelled and closed up, making it appear the eyeball was gone. Poor little duck. She's twitchy and nervous and both eyes are now showing signs of peckage. She's even more skittish at the moment, but we're hoping to coax her into the hen house this evening, with fingers crossed that the girls will be nicer to her. And, we've been putting some antibiotics in her water in the hope of tackling any infection that might be trying to take hold in and around her poor wounded eyes. Poor sweet neurotic duck. She is still nameless, but no longer one-eyed, so it's doubtless her name will be anything clever. We're accepting suggestions.
• Tanner and Macy are home, keeping me company. Tanner is on a great protein producing quest (that's euphemistic speak for spilling copious amounts of protein, which we don't like to see but doesn't mean immediate danger to his kidneys, just requires vigilance and an effort to stem the spillage), so we're keeping an eye on him. He's happy as a clam and feeling pretty good, so he doesn't mind hanging out. We're measuring protein and hoping it'll resolve on its own rather than having to add back in those stinkin' steroids that are just so dang invasive and fraught with side effects. (I'm saying words like "fraught" - blech.) Macy isn't doing so hot with this season's approach to asthma control so we're enjoying her sweet if coughing presence while we mix her meds up a bit to see if we can't get her back in the strong oxygen readings category. It'll be well in hand soon, I'm sure. In the mean time, I've taken to calling the schools early in the morning so I catch the answering machine to tell them which Walker child is blowing school off for the day. This practice offers the same kind of relief you get when you get the boss' voicemail when you call in sick - I don't know why I instinctively dread those calls so much. The kiddos have legitimate, doctor documented health issues. Why am I such a pleaser? Good grief.
• I washed my car last week. Then, I drove it to Mike's work earlier this week so I could cover the clean surface with a nice, thick layer of salt-laden dirt. Then, I looked out the window 2 days ago and saw Gertie the Goat licking the dirt off the car and the wheel well. While this is an inexpensive if time-intensive alternative to the car wash, I think it also is a cue that Gertie's lacking a little something in her diet. We stopped by the Feed & Seed yesterday to pick up her own little Gertie-sized mineral block. She licked it exactly four times, then wandered back over to the car and resumed her hub cap licking. She's all about the chores, that girl. Gotta love her.
• While at the Feed & Seed I mentioned our non-producing freeloader hens and the wise feed store owner, Karen, who I adore, said it's time to throw 'em in the stew pot. I did not prompt her on that statement, and she's the least homicidal person I know, so I'm feeling a little more like my farming instincts are starting to develop, rather than that I have become a cold-hearted maniacal killer. Thanks, Karen. You unknowingly helped me through a terrible identity crisis with your suggestion of a bubbly pot of chicken and dumplings. Now, I have to learn how to kill and clean a chicken. My resume just keeps growing and growing.

Well, that's about all for now. I'm going to go warm my tootsies by the fire that Tanner's presently stoking. Then I'm going to go do chores. Or, snuggle on the couch with my cheerful wheezy, leaking children and then do chores. We'll see how it all unfolds. We've got time.

Love from the farm,
Teri