A Pony for Christmas - The gift that kept on giving

Yes, I admit it, I was one of those lucky kids who received a pony for Christmas. My brother and sister both had horses during that time and the equine bug had bitten me too - hard. When asked what I wanted for Christmas, that year, I mentioned I'd like my dad to either build me a life-size hobby horse (he was one of those dads that could build anything in the shop) or a get me a real pony. My parents chose the real pony route. Unbeknownst to me, they went pony shopping, taking my older sister Susan along as a test rider. They found and then purchased a nice little pony named Dolly. When she was delivered, about a month before Christmas, my parents arranged to have her stabled next door at the neighbors and told me she was their pony. I bought it hook, line and sinker. They even had me feeding and mucking out her stall, telling me the neighbors were short handed and they needed the help.

That Christmas eve, neither my sisters nor I could sleep very well (what kid can?). We spent the night playing Go Fish and speculating on what might be under the tree. Occasionally, my Dad would growl up to us to "Be quiet and go to sleep!" We'd quiet down, but I don't recall much sleeping. Beginning at about 3AM, one of us (we'd probably send the youngest because they would meet with less resistance) padded down the hallway and knocked on my parent's bedroom door to inquire if we could go downstairs to open our presents. Not surprisingly, the answer was an emphatic "No." My parents held out until about 5:30AM before finally consenting to our request.

We waited upstairs, while Mom went down to make the coffee and Dad turned on the Christmas tree lights. We were told we had to have our robes and slippers on before we could come downstairs. We were absolutely beside ourselves with excitement. Dad gave the all clear and down the stairs we galloped. The sight that greeted us was magical. A brightly lit Christmas tree with ever so many colorful packages underneath! It took a nine year old's breath away. We paused just for a moment to take it all in and then dove for the presents. On this particular Christmas, there was a medium sized, white box with a large red bow with my name on it. I unwrapped the bow and lifted the lid. Inside was a beautiful white, flocked model horse with a flowing mane and tail. There was also a note which told me that Dolly, the white pony in our neighbor's stable was mine for keeps! I was astounded. I had a pony of my own! Such an amazing gift. After thanking my smiling parents profusely, I immediately got dressed and ran over to the neighbor's house to bring Dolly home to our barn.

My Christmas pony Dolly

She was a wonderful pony and quite a talented jumper. I wasn't experienced enough to jump but my older sister, Susan, would occasionally take Dolly over some obstacles after my ride. We rode her like that all through the spring. As so often happens to school age children, I came down with a cold one morning later that spring and Mom sent me to back to bed. Back then, when one of us got sick another sibling had to take over the chores of the invalid. That particular morning, Susan went out to feed Dolly for me along with her horse Princess (I know, those names make me wince now too - but, I suppose they could have been worse). I was lying in bed listening to all of the weekday morning sounds our family made: my mom down in the kitchen packing lunches and making breakfast, my dad in the bathroom shaving, my brother stomping around overhead in his attic bedroom as he got ready for school, when all of the sudden I heard a door bang open and an anguished cry come from Susan downstairs. My Dad heard it as well and he stopped mid-shave and hollered down to my mother "What's happening down there?" We heard more crying only this time it came from both my mother and my sister. Fearing the worst, my Dad, clad only in boxer shorts and a t-shirt, wiping shaving cream from his face, along with my brother and I clambered downstairs. We were met by my Mom and my sister Susan crying hysterically. "What's happened?" my Dad asked Mom. She could only look at him and cry. He turned to my sister and repeated the question. Finally, she blurted out between sobs "Dolly had a baby!" They were tears of happiness and not sorrow. We all rushed out to the barn. When we looked into Dolly's stall she was calmly chewing her hay. Then we saw it, a small tan face peeking around from behind Dolly's rump. The mare moved to the right and revealed a perfect, beautiful fuzzy foal. Dolly had done this all by herself without any help and surprised us all. We didn't even know she was pregnant! We thought she had a "hay belly." Which, if you knew anything about our family and our lack of equine knowledge, its pretty par for the course.

My sister jumping Dolly with baby Brandy inside sailing along for the ride.

We named the foal Brandy, after my mom's favorite cocktail at the time a Brandy Alexander (his coat was the same creamy tan color). Like the other animals in our lives at that time he brought us many years of great joy. He was a gift within a gift. So I guess it just goes to show, while you should never look a gift horse in the mouth, you may want to check what's inside it's belly.

This is the only photo we still have of Brandy. He's peeking out of the stall window on the left.
You can just barely see Dolly through the lilac tree, doing the same on the right.

BUFFALO BARN

7x5 inches, oil on linen canvas, 2015

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This barn is located south of Oak Harbor, Washington on Whidbey Island. I think I had mentioned, while working on this piece, that the fencing was giving me fits. There was just so much of it. But I persevered and eventually completed this painting of a “home where the buffalo roam”.

Just in time for those holiday parties - Horse and cow trivia

Have you ever attended a holiday gathering and been at a loss for words? It's your spouse's employee Christmas party or maybe its a family affair and you would much rather be at home watching "Its a Wonderful Life" than trying to make small talk. If this sounds like you, then this is the perfect time to stock your conversational arsenal with answers to that age old question "What's the difference between a horse and a cow?" for use at those impending soirees. After all, who doesn't like Horse and Cow trivia?

1. To begin with, cows can have horns or not while horses are strictly a non-horned animal. I realize that this is pretty obvious, but you never know what types your going to meet at these parties you'll be attending.

2. The tail of a horse is comprised of many long hairs that start from the base of the tail and grow to the ground. The cow's tail switch is long with a little tuft of hair on the end. Both are useful for keeping flies at bay. I can also tell you, from personal experience, that horses are especially adept at using their tail to whack any pesky human cleaning out their hooves. 

3. Horses have a uni-hoove (or single toe). Cows have cloven hooves with dewclaws. Humans should beware either variety because neither animal is very mindful as to where they place their feet and trying to push a 1000 lb. animal off of your foot is never an easy task (again personal experience).

4. Horses have incisors on the top and bottom of the mouth. A horse will grasp the grass tightly with his front teeth, close down and then jerk his head towards his front hooves snapping the blades off at the roots. A cow, on the other hand, has incisors only on the bottom of her mouth. After she grasps the grass, she jerks her head up and forward to break off the blades. Interestingly, the person who brought this fact to my attention was my dentist. In addition to running a successful dental practice, he is a cow rancher. Upon starting to dabble in cows, he had no idea they were totally without upper incisors. He only noticed a month later during his daily interactions with them. I had no problem pointing out to him the irony of his discovery. You would think that being a dentist would make him especially aware of teeth regardless of the mouth.

5. The hair of a horse slopes back toward the tail, while on the cow the hair slopes forward toward the head. In cold weather, you will see cows standing with their rump into the wind. If their hair grew backward, the wind would dig under it and give them a chill.

6. When horses raise up after laying down they lift their front end first. Cows lift their hind quarters first. I'm kind of biased, but I think the horse method is the more dignified of the two.

These are a few (but not all) of the differences between horses and cows. Now that you are armed with these interesting equine and bovine facts you are ready to head out into the seasonal party fray. Picture yourself dressed in your best holiday outfit, sipping a nice glass of Merlot, standing among your friends or coworkers and you drop this conversational gem "Did you know that cows do not have upper incisors?" You will be the life of the party.

HIDDEN GEM

7x5 inches, oil on linen canvas, 2015

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Hidden Gem - auction ends on Sunday, November 15th at 9:00am PST. 

If you travel the backroad between Deception Pass State Park and the city of Anacortes, Washington you may spot this barn. Its obscured by some trees if you’re traveling northbound but if you turn around and back track you’ll catch a glimpse of its majestic beauty (that is, if you’re a barn geek like me).

Feathers Falling Autumn Calling

It's the time of year when the weather turns windy, cold and rainy sending all of our leaves and pine needles falling to the ground and (much to Paul's dismay) into our gutters. Curiously, our hens (a.k.a. - the girls) also choose this inclement time to molt. It's autumn, and the floor of the hen house and yard looks as if a pillow fight broke our overnight. Molting is the shedding of old feathers and growth of new ones. Chickens typically stop laying at this time and build up their nutrient reserves. We like to think they are changing out their wardrobe before taking a well earned vacation.

"Miss Red" in the midst of molting.

"Blondie" all dressed and ready to go.

But wait, you say, there are eggs in the stores year round. How can this be with all of those chickens purging their feathers and then heading out on Caribbean cruises? Well, the truth is, most chickens work year round like the rest of us. There is a little cheat that makes this possible. Darkness is the main reason egg production slows in the late fall. It is those shorter days that are the culprits. Chickens lay best when they receive 15 hours of daylight. Simply hang a nine-watt compact fluorescent bulb at the top of your coop to spread the light. Plug the light into a timer and have it come on early enough in the morning to give the girls 15 hours of daylight, and egg production will continue through the shorter days of winter.

But in our little corner of the world, we like to give the girls a break. Paul and I (mostly Paul) eat eggs like crazy the rest of the year. Its a challenge to keep up with the girls when they really get rolling with their egg production. So I guess the break is nice for all of us. Plus, I like to think of the girls sitting out in their warm little coop, possibly knitting or playing Bunko enjoying a cup of Darjeeling tea awaiting the warmer days of Spring. Egg laying time will come soon enough and when it does our girls will be dressed and ready.

LEE FARM BARN

7x5 inches, oil on linen canvas, 2015

THIS PAINTING IS CURRENTLY AT AUCTION

Lee Farm Barn - auction ends on Sunday, November 1st at 9:00am PST. Click on this link to bid: http://ebay.to/1GkcXfG

My husband Paul and I were enjoying a Sunday drive a while back when we came across a farmstead located north of Oak Harbor on Whidbey island. We drove up the driveway and knocked on the door of a small house. The owner, a very gracious woman, opened the door and consented to our request to walk around her property so I could take reference images of her barn. While, I was photographing, an extremely elderly, grey horse followed me around occasionally obscuring the image through my view finder with it’s nose. When I returned, Paul had learned that we were on the Lee Farm which had been in this location and in the same family for over 100 years. And the barn was beautiful! 

Scarecrow Diaries

This past Saturday, Paul and I ventured into our hometown of Coupeville to visit the last Farmer's Market of the season. It had been raining pretty hard all morning and we waited until the clouds took a break before heading out. The Farmer's Market ended at 2pm and we left the house at 1pm figuring we'd have plenty of time to take in all of the festivities after all we only lived 5 minutes away. But by the time we arrived all of the vendors were packing up. They had had enough of the rain and were soggy and cold to boot. We didn't blame them. We did get to see the winning entry in the giant pumpkin contest, which weighed in at 978 pounds. Now that's a big pumpkin! But truth be told, it really resembled a giant deflated basketball. Still, I really admire anyone who can grow a vegetable that big.

Since our day's entertainment had been cut short, we decided to check out the entries in the scarecrow contest that lined Main and Front Streets. This years's contest must have had a musical theme because we spotted Elvis and Elton John scarecrows as well as a few others clutching guitars. It's a tough competition because the scarecrows have to be up for the month of October. They need to survive our harsh northwest weather and if damaged they need to be repaired to keep them looking presentable.

I know all of this because we once participated in the contest. I thought it would be a fun-filled family event. The boys, who were in grade school at the time, were enthusiastic. Paul was more skeptical. We were busy with soccer, school projects, cub scouts and all manner of things in which young families are involved. Never the less, I obtained an entry form and we charged ahead with the project. At that time, there was no theme for the entries. You just had to build a sturdy scarecrow and keep it looking nice for the month of the competition. I really wanted our scarecrow to be different, to stand out among the other scarecrow entries and I racked my brain for an idea. The boys were really into superheros, so I thought "Why not make a superhero scarecrow?" and "Crowman" was born. He was kind of a cheesy interpretation of Superman. Fortunately, I love cheesy interpretations of anything, just ask Paul.

All entries to the scarecrow contest were assigned a location on either Main Street or Front Street. Our spot was on the corner of Main Street and State Route 20. It was a prime spot, situated at the principle entrance to the town. There was even a stop light so people would have to pause when admiring our entry. But the best attribute of our spot was that it was located right next to a sturdy 6 foot chain link fence and there was nothing in the rule book that said we couldn't use the fence to help anchor our scarecrow. As soon as I saw that spot, I knew how we would display Crowman. We would make him fly!

With our plan in place, we commenced with construction. Crowman would fly with arms stretched overhead "Superman-style." To achieve this illusion we would need a rigid, wood armature. Paul and the boys started on the framework while I went to the thrift store to purchase scarecrow, superhero clothes (overalls and a flannel shirt) and a bale of straw for stuffing (never mind that we only used about 1/10th of the bale and we were cleaning up straw for weeks afterwards out of the garage). An old piece of burlap was sewn into the shape of a head and stuffed with straw. We attached this to the "head" area of the armature and then finished dressing and stuffing Crowman in the thrift store clothes. A pair of work gloves and rubber boots served as hands and feet. Yarn became hair and wool felt became eyes, nose and a mouth. I cut out a giant, yellow felt "C" and sewed it onto the bib overalls and finally I fashioned a cape out of an old sheet that I had dyed blue. We carried our straw-filled, caped crusader to our assigned spot and wired him to the fence with his cape spread out behind. As a finishing touch, I made a sign which read, "Look, out in the field, it's a cornstalk, it's a crow, no it's Crowman!" I thought it was incredibly clever. Surely, we would win one of the prizes.

We kept a close eye on Crowman and inspected him carefully everytime we were in town. He had to remain presentable the whole month if we were to have a chance at the prizes. I must admit, I felt a bit smug when I saw our scarecrow strapped tightly to the fence, he seemed indestructible. What I hadn't counted on was the annual Homecoming parade. It was an unusually warm night for the Coupeville High School Homecoming parade and game. There were lots of folks, young and old, out and about enjoying the festivities. Many people walked by Crowman that night and sometime during the evening someone tried to remove his face.

We discovered the vandalism the next day. To say we were dismayed would be an understatement. How could anyone harm a defenseless scarecrow? Fortunately he could be repaired. We drove home and retrieved the sewing kit and then returned to the scene of the crime. Paul and the boys waited in the car nearby while I stitched up Crowman's features. Cars were coming and going as I worked away and at one point mid-stitch, I heard a young, rather angry voice cry out to me. "Leave Crowman alone!" I turned around just as the light changed to see a young boy glaring at me from the window of a retreating minivan. I was stunned. I didn't even have time to protest my innocence, much less let anyone know this was, in fact, our scarecrow.

I finished my repair job and Crowman never sustained another injury. He held up great for the rest of the month. We ended up winning third prize, a free pizza from the local pizzeria. Not too shabby! But Crowman was the real winner. We may have gained a pizza but somewhere out there he gained a friend.

Across from the Drive-in

7" x 5", oil on linen canvas, 2015

The painting below is currently for sale at auction. 

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 This barn is located just as the title says “across from the drive-in”. We are fortunate to have a teriffic drive-in theater here on Whidbey island, the Blue Fox Drive-in. It is 2 miles south of the city of Oak Harbor off of Monroe Landing Road. For a price quite a bit cheaper than a regular movie theater, you can see a double feature of currently running movies. Plus there are great go-carts and an arcade. Their food is pretty tasty too. I love their Philly Cheesesteaks. You can check them out at http://www.bluefoxdrivein.com/index.php/en/

It all started with a horse

This isn't Jonquil. Unfortunately, we don't have any
photos of her. But I imagine she had a sweet face
like the horse pictured here.

I didn't always paint barns. Way back when, my favorite art subject was the horse. I didn't use paint, pastel or even crayon. I used a plain old pencil and I drew with abandon. The horses poured out of me, down my right arm and out through the tip of my #2 pencil. This equine infatuation began with an old, white mare named Jonquil.

I had never really met a horse, that I can remember, prior to Jonquil. I have a vague memory of a family trip to California via a "woody" Country Squire station wagon and a "Scotty" travel trailer. We made a stop in southern California somewhere (maybe San Diego?) and we visited some people who owned some donkeys. They offered to let my brother and sisters and I ride on the donkeys. Everyone else rode but me, I was terrified. That all changed when I met Jonquil.

I was five or so when Jonquil entered our lives. My family had moved to an old farm house in rural New Jersey. My parents wanted their kids to grow up in the country. After a long search, they found a two acre piece of property with an old house and a barn. My mom convinced my dad that kids growing up in the country needed animals. We already had a dog ("Snooper") and a cat ("Cat" - my folks had enough trouble remembering the names of me and my four siblings. Who had time to think of a name for a cat?). The next obvious choice for an animal for the kids would, of course, be a horse. Never mind the fact that neither of my parents had prior equine experience. I don't even think we had a book about horses nor did they know anyone who owned a horse. Still, they plowed (no pun intended) ahead with acquiring a horse.

My Dad agreed to this new venture as long as it didn't cost a lot of money as there was not a lot to spare in those days. My Mom did him one better in that regard because Jonquil was FREE! Not only was she the right price but she was guaranteed to be gentle and wise. She was 28 years old or approximately 80 in human years. My folks thought she would be perfect horse for their young family.

Her former owner delivered her to our barn where she was placed into one of the new stalls my Dad had built. Jonquil was to be my brother Stephen's horse, he was around eleven at the time. It was his job to feed and care for Jonquil morning and night. One day, not long after she arrived, Stephen came running into the house quite alarmed. Apparently, Jonquil was laid out flat in her stall and would not get up. We all rushed out to look, and sure enough Jonquil was down in the stall, although now instead of being on her side she had rolled up onto her chest (not unlike a cow in a field) and she had a mournful look on her face. There was nothing to do but call out the vet.

Now let me just stop here for a bit and tell you that our local vet, Dr. Loemeyer, was not the jolliest of fellows, in fact, he was a rather humorless man. He also did not like to waste time as he had a lot of clients and a lot of territory to cover. Nevertheless, he came out promptly when we called, and after hearing our list of symptoms for Jonquil: refusing to get up and looking mournful, he marched out to the barn to take a look for himself. Unfortunately, upon entering the barn he neglected to duck (in addition to being humorless he was very tall) and he whacked his head on the door jam. Ignoring, my parents efforts to offer assistance or maybe an ice pack for his head, he went into the stall to access the patient. He took the halter my brother handed him and put it on Jonquil and with some gentle persuasion encouraged the mare to get to her feet.

We all stood in silence as he made his examination. He listened to her heart, looked into her ears and eyes and finally grabbed her mouth, pried it open and peered inside. Slowly, he turned and gave his diagnosis. "Mr. Graffweg," he said "you have a very old, tired horse here and she was sleeping." With that, he told my Dad he would send him a bill and he left. It was then my Dad probably realized, there is no such thing as a free horse.

Of course, being so young, none of that mattered to me back then. To me, my parents were experts in everything, equines included and Jonquil wasn't some tired old nag, she was a beautiful, amazing  horse. It's only with time and experience do I realize how naive we all were. But I'm kinda glad for my parents inexperience and the fact that they jumped right into horse ownership without looking. Because they introduced me to an animal that fascinated me so much I would spend countless hours teaching myself how to draw it. So much so that not only would I come to love, know and appreciate horses but I would also come to love the act of drawing and creating. My artistic life began.

Penn Cove Barn

7" x 5", oil on linen canvas, 2015

The painting below is currently for sale at auction. 

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I've got some colors I'd like you to meet

If you've seen many of my barn paintings you may have noticed some similarities between them (other than the fact that they are all of barns). These similarities include things like brush stroke and color. They are what makes my paintings unique to me. In the case of color, also known as an artist's palette*, I generally employ two blues, two reds and two yellows plus white.

*Side note - the term palette can refer to the flat surface an artist uses to hold and mix colors (I use an enamel butcher's tray - more on this later) or the range of colors used by a particular artist.

THE BLUES

Phthalo Blue - Short for Phthalocyanine Blue (do not ask me to to pronounce that - just know that the "ph" is silent). When mixed with Cadmium Yellow Light, this blue creates a lovely bright green that, I think, perfectly depicts grass in bright sunlight. Combine it with white and you have a brilliant blue sky. I will also add this blue, lightened with white, to shadow areas to liven them up.

Ultramarine Blue - A very appealing blue that leans towards deep purple. Mix it with Alizarin Crimson (sometimes I call it Lizard Crimson just for fun) and you get just about the prettiest violet you can imagine. I will also add it to the very top of my blue skies for added depth.

THE YELLOWS

Cadmium Yellow Light - As I mentioned above, a must have for creating the greens of spring and summer. On its own or lightened just a bit with white it creates sparkling highlights for trees and bushes or just dots of yellow flowers. Its considered a "cool" yellow as it skews ever so slightly towards green on the color wheel.

Cadmium Yellow Medium -A very warm yellow, almost orange. I add it to the red of my barns to give them the soft glow of sunset light. Because it is so warm, it makes a nice olive green when mixed with Phthalo Blue. I also find it helpful, for depicting the golden color of dried summer grass when mixed with white.

THE REDS

Alizarin Crimson (a.k.a. Lizard Crimson) -  If the barn I'm portraying is red, I paint a layer of Alizarin Crimson first. This establishes the depth of "redness" of the barn. It's also part of my recipe for black along with Phthalo Blue and Cadmium Yellow Medium. Some may disagree, but I believe a "mixed" black has more richness and depth of color than one from a single tube.

Cadmium Red Medium - A bright, medium red. I had to get around to this color eventually, I am painting barns after all. It is also my go to color along with Cadmium Yellow Medium for creating the oranges of autumn.

So there you have it. These are the colors I use to create my paintings. They are the tools of my trade along with my brushes, canvases and butcher's tray palette. Speaking of my palette, I have no idea how it got that name, but it is a pretty handy little device. Not only is it easy to clean, being covered in enamel, but the outer lip makes it almost impossible to spill your paint. The little metal round container pictured along with my butcher's tray holds painting medium that I mix with my paint as a I work. It speeds up the drying time of the painting.


Well, now you've met all of my colorful friends. The next time you see one of my paintings, look closely, they are all in there working together to create a piece of art.

Jenne Farm Barn

5" x 7", oil on linen canvas, 2015

The painting below is currently for sale at auction. 

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The Jenne Farm Barn

The historic Jenne Farm is one of the original farmsteads on Whidbey Island, WA. The farm cluster consists of the original house and outbuildings and is surrounded by 140 acres of crops, forest, and scrub. Edward Jenne, an immigrant from Germany and a Coupeville, Washington resident, built the Jenne Farm cluster in 1908. It is said he built a sizable house, barn, summer kitchen, workshop, and granary with a barge-load of wood at a cost of $5,000. He grazed sheep, harvested the largest per-acre-yield of wheat of his time, and had majestic work horses. We have photos in the gathering house of the Jennes playing croquet in the backyard with long skirts and formal hats.      

The farm was bought from the Jennes by Robert Pratte, who died in 1999.  Though he left much of his property to The Nature Conservancy, he willed the Jenne Farm to an heir on the east coast.  The property was put up for sale and looked as if it would be chopped into development parcels, losing its historic size, form and character.

The current owners bought the farm in 2000 with the goal of preserving it as a working farm and historic site. In December, 2002, the Jenne Farm became a preserved farm in Ebey's Landing National Historic Reserve. Today, the farmhouse is available for vacation rental. For information on renting the Jenne Farm Gathering house visit jennefarm.homestead.com

The Great Poultry Rescue

Since my last post was pretty sad, I thought I'd relate a happier story that involves an animal rescue. In this case, the animal was a bird or more specifically a chicken. Those of you who don't live in a rural environment might not be familiar with the phenomenon of poultry dumping. Poultry dumping is the releasing of domestic chickens, most commonly roosters, to fend for themselves on some country lane. They will show up one day in your neighborhood, hang around crowing for a week or two because they have no home to go to and then the only evidence of their existence will be a pile of feathers because some raccoon or coyote had them for supper. You're probably wondering when this story is going to get happy. Just hang in there with me for a while more, I promise it will get better.

A while back, my sisters, Sue and Sally and their friend Sandy were up visiting for the weekend. Sally enjoys walking the dogs with me in the morning and we were out for our canine stroll in a nearby neighborhood when we spotted some loose chickens in the street in front of a house of an acquaintance of mine. One of the chickens, a speckled hen, had what appeared to be a large growth on her right foot. It was the size and color of a large baking potato. As you can imagine, it was not easy for her to get around with such a large mass on her leg. Talk about a ball and chain (without the chain)! Sally and I were pretty upset to see such a sight and as soon as we returned home, I phoned the gal who owned the house in front of which the chickens were roaming. She informed me that she no longer kept chickens and she didn't know where those particular birds came from and that was that.

Well, my sisters and I continued with our visit going off for the day, with my husband Paul as our chauffeur, to explore a nearby town. The vision of that hen with her affliction kept niggling at Sally and I so much so that we convinced Paul to take a detour on the way home to see if she and her companions had survived the day. We drove into the neighborhood and sure enough, there they were. Operation Chicken Rescue commenced. Paul parked and we quietly exited the van. The other chickens scattered, but the speckled hen, weighed down by her anchor was easily captured by me. We clambered back into the van with Paul driving, me in the passenger front seat holding a very nervous chicken and my sisters and Sandy in the back.

The short drive back to our house was relatively uneventful, except at the very end when we parked and the hen began to struggle, flap her wings and squawk in an alarming manner. I hung onto the distressed bird amid flying feathers, while the others opened the garage door and quickly set up a portable dog kennel we had in storage. Into the kennel the hen went, while we convened to access the situation. By this time, we realized that the mass was not an original part of the chicken and appeared to be made of dried mud. Perhaps we could gently chip away at it and eventually the rest of it would crumble and fall off. We decided that Paul would be the "doctor" in this operation and we would all be his assistants. We gathered the necessary tools, a towel to wrap the hen in so she couldn't flap her wings, a small screw driver, and a hammer. It was my job to calm the "patient" so we could carry out the procedure. So, with my sister and Sandy looking on, offering words of encouragement, I reached into the kennel and grabbed the hen and wrapped her body in the towel leaving only her head and the mass encased foot exposed. Paul took up the hammer, positioned the screwdriver near the edge of the mass and gave it a gentle tap. Nothing. He tapped again with more force, and again, nothing. It took a half an hour of banging (and I mean banging!) away using a chisel and larger hammer to begin to degrade that hunk of mud. We eventually did remove it all and the hen survived to tell the tale to her new coop mates. Although for the first few days, she looked like a plump, squat, speckled, flamingo as she held her leg aloft not being used to having it freed from that mud ball.

The question of what to name our new acquisition, came up almost immediately. Susan wanted to name her "Rocky" because of how hard and stone-like the mass had been. But she was overruled, by the rest of us. What do you call a chicken that had what looked like a large Idaho spud on her foot?

Tater.

The barn pictured in the painting below is a beautiful old structure located hidden amongst the trees in Ebey's Reserve in Coupeville WA.

Hidden Sheep Barn

7" x 5", oil on linen canvas, 2015

This painting is currently for sale at auction. 

Click to view Auction
(auction includes detail and framed views)

A Sad Story

WARNING - This is a very sad story. That is my disclaimer.

This sad story occurred about two weeks ago. It began as a normal Saturday. My first activity of the morning was my walk with our dogs, Tucker and Nellie. We started out on our usual route through our rural neighborhood. Our walks are always peppered with wildlife sightings. On any given day we will see rabbits, bald eagles, racoon, deer, all kinds of birds, the occasional coyote and feral cats. As we headed up a long hill, a rabbit or cat would flit across the road ahead of us. I had my head down slightly as we marched up the hill. It was then that I heard the "clink." Not the type of sound I usually heard on our walks. I looked up to see its origin. What I saw made my stomach turn. The image looked like a grotesque, almost cartoon-like, feline astronaut. It was a feral cat with a glass mayonnaise jar on it's head.

I groaned out loud. The dogs looked from me to the cat in alarm. They had never seen such an unusual sight. The cat was shaking it's head to rid itself of the filthy jar. It couldn't see or hear us. I tied the dogs to a nearby mailbox post thinking, "I can fix this." Very quietly I positioned myself behind the cat. I reached down and grabbed it by the scruff of the neck. I gripped the jar and began to slowly pull. Nothing happened. I pulled with a little more force and still it didn't budge. Then I heard a deep, ominous, rumbling growl. Clearly, the cat was beginning to tired of me pulling on that jar. Quick as lightning, it reached a hind foot up and sank one of its claws into my thumb. I let it go and it ran into a cement culvert. I kneeled down on the road next to the culvert to see if it would emerge from the other end. The jar clinked against the cement sides as it made its way down toward the other opening. I leaned over the culvert opening and saw the jar peeking out. I reached down to grab it again, but it was too slick and the cat pulled it back into the cave-like pipe. The dogs and I waited some more but the cat stayed put.

My next idea was to return home and get the van, equipped with our cat carrier, and leather gloves to protect my hands. I would come back, catch the cat, stuff it into the carrier and take it to our local veterinarian for the jar removal. I untied the dogs and we raced home. I relayed what was going on to my husband, Paul, grabbed my cat catching gear and raced back out. I parked the van close to where I last saw the cat and began my search. The first place I looked, of course, was the culvert but it was empty. I search the ditches on either side of the road, still no cat. After a while, I realized the futility of my mission. The cat could have been anywhere. I returned home with the empty carrier. Paul and I looked several more times that weekend but the result was the same - no cat.

I thought about that cat the whole weekend and for days after. I had come so close to saving it, but in the end I couldn't. Its ultimate fate is just too hard to think about. I'm trying to focus on any positive thing that can come from this incident. I suppose I can look at it as another reminder that we are stewards for all of the creatures and plants on this earth. We should be mindful of the impact of our actions. And realize how something as seemingly innocuous as improperly disposing of a simple jar can cause great harm.

Bees - it's swarm time, don't freak out!

I was over at my friend's farm the other day visiting my horse, Mac. As I strolled up to the barn, I heard this tremendous buzzing sound. I looked to my left and noticed this swarm of bees hanging off of the electrical box. It was a warm day and the hive, which is located in the wall of the barn, apparently got too crowded because half of the bees decided to take the queen and look for a new residence. When they cluster like this, they're resting while they decide on their new hive location. Encountering a bee swarm for the first time can be alarming. Bees tend to swarm near their old hives or honeycombs, so if a swarm is visible then a nest is nearby. Swarms are usually not aggressive unless provoked, so it is important to keep a good distance from the swarm.

The other interesting thing about swarms, is you can capture them and place them in a new hive. A few years back, my husband Paul, a hobbyist bee keeper, and I experienced our first swarm capture. We were fairly new to beekeeping at the time. Paul had 3 hives set up on one corner of our property. We were enjoying the novelty of learning about our new charges. We told ourselves, "It's kind of like having livestock, without all of the manure". Even our two boys (middle school age at the time) showed an interest in the bees, probably because it involved their father dressing up in a white space suit complete with helmet.

At the time, I was working at home and was alone when the swarm occurred as the boys were at school and Paul was at his office. I had gone outside to let our dogs have their afternoon constitutional, when I heard the buzzing, and I mean a lot of buzzing! I looked up and saw an enormous cloud of bees hovering over our garage. I stood there transfixed, before I had the presence of mind to run in and phone Paul. "I think the bees are swarming!", I told him. "Go back out and see where they fly to, I'm coming right home." he said. I ran back outside and listened because the bees were no longer flying overhead and I didn't see them right away. I followed the buzzing sound to the edge of our pasture and looked up. There I saw the amazing sight of my first swarm cluster. It was a basketball-size cluster of bees hanging about twelve feet up in one of our fir trees.

When Paul arrived home, he informed me, as we had an extra hive, that we were going to attempt to capture the swarm. Our plan was simple: cut the branch on which swarm was hanging and then "catch" the falling bee ball in an empty hive box, place the lid on top and there you have it, a captured swarm. Easy-peasy. The only snag was that the swarm ball was twelve feet off the ground. What we needed was some scaffolding so we could both be up higher in order to carry out the operation. In the absence of scaffolding, the family minivan made a nice substitute. As I moved the van into place, Paul donned his bee suit. I put on his extra bee hat and veil and we were ready for action. I didn't have a bee suit because Paul was the official beekeeper of the family and I was just his lovely assistant. Besides, swarming bees are relatively docile and I was wearing long sleeves and long pants.

We clambered up on top of the van, Paul with the empty hive and I with some long handled loppers. Paul positioned the empty hive box underneath the swarm and I raised the loppers overhead and grasped the branch lightly just above the swarm. Bees were flying gently around us. Paul gave me the signal and "clip," I cut the branch. To say it literally "rained bees" would be an understatement. The ball of bees dropped quickly, bouncing off of my bee hat like BBs. The majority of the bees landed straight in the box. Paul swiftly covered the box, capturing most of the bees, but a surprising amount evaded capture by ricocheting off the bottom of the box and shooting out as fast as they went in. Paul got back down off the van in workman like fashion and proceeded to carry the full hive to its new location. I, on the other hand, remained where I was, arms in the air, still holding onto the loppers. Paul eyed me. "What are you doing?" he said. "Well, I believe some of the bees have flown up my pant legs and down my sleeves, because I can feel them crawling on my arms and legs." I replied. He didn't have any other suggestions for me and I couldn't stand on top of the van all day, so I proceeded to climb down. It was then that the stinging and stripping occurred. I'm sure you can appreciate that I did not waste anytime getting out of my clothes, down to my underwear. Fortunately, no delivery people showed up at that moment, not that I would have cared.

In the end, I received about 4 stings. Not too bad considering the trauma we put those bees through. Would I do it again? You betcha, but the next time at the very least, I'd where rubber bands on my sleeves and pant legs to prevent the bees from finding shelter in my clothes. Oh who am I kidding, I'd insist on a full bee suit. Nowadays, Paul does very little beekeeping. He only has one hive at a local farmer's property. We are still bee fans, though, as everyone should be. Without them and all of the other pollinators, our world would be in sad shape. Thankfully, there is a simple step we can take to help them and a bee suit is not required. Plant flowers or a garden. Now that is easy-peasy.

Why barns?

I have been enamored with the humble barn ever since I can remember. Actually, to be more specific, since the age of three. That was when our family of six (my youngest sister hadn't arrived yet) moved into the farm house in rural New Jersey. My mom thought my siblings and I should be raised in the country, where we had space to run, explore and imagine. As an added bonus, we could also have some farm animals. Because, of course, the farm house came with a wonderful barn.

Our barn in rural New Jersey, around 1976. You can
just make out our ponies, Dolly and Brandy, peeking out
their stall windows.

Our barn was not that large by barn standards. It was about the size of a 3-car garage with a second story for a hay loft. The exterior had red peeling paint with white trim and it had Hex Signs on the front! (I'll elaborate on the Hex Signs later). From the moment I crossed its rough concrete threshold, I was hooked. I stepped into its dim interior and once my eyes adjusted to the dark, I noticed the sunlight slipping through the spaces in the siding and the cobwebs (complete with spiders) clinging to the corners. The air had the earthy smell of animals, hay and dirt. Birds would flit around the rafters chirping all the while. It was a place where adventures could be had. To me it was the best kind of magic. And so I paint barns, because frankly, I just can't get enough of them and their magic.

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Paintings by Stacey Neumiller

Some of you may be familiar with my paintings of colorful farm animals. You may purchase reproductions on canvas and paper of some of my paintings by visiting my on-line store at http://stacey-neumiller.artistwebsites.com. I call my latest endeavor The Barn Project. At first, it was a quest to document, through my brushes and paint, the barns of Whidbey Island, Washington, but it grew to include barns from all over the state. Who knows where it will grow from there.

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Whidbey Island Barn #1, 5x7