The Relaxing Ride

When autumn arrives in the Pacific Northwest it usually means my horseback riding days are numbered. The season often brings rain and mud making outdoor riding unpleasant and dangerous when the ground becomes too slick to negotiate safely. So when the day dawned bright and clear with the ground still relatively unsaturated, I drove happily out to the barn looking forward to my ride on my horse Mac. The trees still held onto their leaves, now gold and scarlet, as I led Mac from his paddock to the barn to groom and tack him up (put on his saddle and bridle.) "This is the perfect day for a trail ride", I thought. My work week had been busy and there's nothing quite like communing with your pal (horse) while enjoying some amazing outdoor scenery to lower your blood pressure and make you forget the stresses in your life.

Mac stepped out jauntily, as we headed up the grassy hill on our ride. His ears were pricked (pointing forward, standing at attention) as he gazed at his surroundings. We rode toward a nearby farm where horses grazed in the middle of a large pasture enjoying the warm sun. Mac became more animated and pranced a bit as he eyed the other horses. I made a conscious effort to relax my seat, back and shoulders in order to communicate that everything was just fine. Mac responded to my "softening" techniques and we continued past the farm. Then I heard a thundering behind me and Mac jumped forward. I turned to see that the horses that were recently peacefully grazing had just galloped up to their fence in an effort to "see us off." I believe Mac thought that the horses had turned into a herd of elephants that were now bearing down on us and he had better get out of there as fast as possible. Once again, I tried to relax my body and transmit calm to my edgy mount.

Let me pause here and say that this was not Mac's first rodeo (pun very much intended). We had been riding in this field and past these very same horses all summer - many times! And he barely twitched an ear.

Never the less, we continued on with me practicing my relaxation methods while cooing "Easy boy" and "You're fine." Mac marched along warily. We rode this way for some time and then Mac planted his feet, stopped and stared straight ahead. I encouraged him to go forward but he was having none of it. I looked to see what brought him up short and I noticed the feathers and the remains of a large bird. Some predator had chosen that spot in the field to enjoy their supper last night and we had come upon the scraps. Mac would not go near it. I'm pretty sure he thought that the elephants had something to do with it. To move forward we had to go sideways, and we cut a twenty foot circle around the carcass before heading on.

By this point, Mac was walking just about as fast as a horse can without actually trotting. I was going into overdrive with my relaxation routine (can you use overdrive and relaxation in the same sentence?) with little effect. Then I saw the tarp. Now, as with the other horses, we (meaning Mac too!) had seen this tarp many times over the summer.

Another pause for some background about Mac. He is no spring chicken. I would expect this behavior from a young (like a six year old), inexperienced horse. But Mac is 24 (the equivalent of 75 years old in human age!) and he has had plenty of experience. You would think he would have mellowed a bit.

Just as he was about to put his nose on the tarp, a gunshot cracked off in the distance.

Anyway, back to the tarp in the field, Mac once again stopped and refused to move. With his neck outstretched and his head lowered he stared at the menacing tarp. "That's it," I said to him. "You're going to put your nose on that tarp." Now lest you think I'm being cruel, all I wanted him to do was sniff and touch the tarp with his nose so he would realize it wouldn't hurt him. I had done this several times before with this very same tarp and been successful. In fact, usually after he sniffed it he would be willing take a step forward and put a front hoof on it just to emphasize that he had "conquered" the tarp. We began the exercise again with me urging him on and and Mac very slowly inching (and I mean inching) forward. Just as he was about to put his nose on the tarp, a gunshot cracked off in the distance. The cool, crisp air and the open landscape accentuated the sound. The reaction from Mac was electric. He leapt sideways and for an instant I felt as if my horse had disappeared out from under me. Fortunately, I hung on and briefly considered turning Mac back for another go at the tarp, but thought better of it in case there were more gunshots to follow.

So back to the barn we pranced. That's right, I had given up on trying to unwind Mac. I figured if we got back in one piece the ride would be a success. After all, I had completely forgotten about the stresses in my life. Next time, we'll work on the shooting tarp.

THREE GIRLS

8x10 inches, oil on linen canvas, 2016

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Three Girls - auction ends on Sunday, December 4th at 9:00am PST. 

Money can’t buy happiness but it can buy chickens! And chickens lay eggs and eggs can be made into breakfast and breakfast makes you happy!

The Halloween Prank

My husband, Paul, and I have always been fans of Halloween. Even as a young, married couple before our two boys came along with their cute costumes, we would celebrate All Hallows' Eve. Sometimes we'd dress in costume and head out to a party or other times we would just gather with our friends to carve pumpkins, toast the seeds and enjoy a hearty, soup supper (yeah, I know, we're party animals). But one Halloween, we decided to take it a step further and delve into the "spirit" of the holiday. We decided to pull a good, old-fashioned Halloween prank.

Halloween Trivia - Back in Anna Mary Robertson Moses's (A.K.A. Grandma Moses, the great American Folk artist) day Halloween pranks consisted of tricksters stuffing pumpkins down your chimney or dismantling your horse buggy and reassembling it on your roof.

Halloween by Grandma Moses, 1955

Our prank would not be nearly as sophisticated as all of that. But we did choose to pull a caper for all to see. At the time, we were living in Oakland, California just across the bay from San Francisco. Our townhouse was located in the hills near Joaquin Miller Park. Joaquin Miller was an early California writer and poet who bought the land, which makes up the park, in the 1880s. There is a large statue depicting Joaquin Miller mounted on his horse which can be seen from the road as you drive along side the park toward its entrance. We thought it would be a fun "Halloween Prank" to place a Jack O' Lantern over the head of Joaquin Miller. Sort of our own spin on the Headless Horseman.  

We enlisted the help of our friends, Dix and Anne. They offered to shop around and find a pumpkin big enough for the job. On Halloween night they arrived on our doorstep with an impressively large pumpkin. After supper, we set about carving the classic Jack O' Lantern grimace into the big orange orb. When we were finished, we dressed in dark clothing then loaded our masterpiece into the car along with several flashlights and headed toward the park. We parked the car several hundred feet from where the statue stood and snuck up on foot using our flashlights. Once at the base of the statue, we realized our miscalculation. The statue was huge! It was at least 15 feet tall. It didn't look nearly that big from the road. Never the less we soldiered on. While Anne and I held the flashlights, Paul helped Dix clamber up the statue. With lots of pushing and grunting, Dix made it to a spot where he could place the pumpkin on top of the statue. Which is exactly what he did. There it sat like a gourd beret on top of Joaquin Miller's head. I would like to think that Grandma Moses would have approved.  

THE BREAK ROOM

10x8 inches, oil on linen canvas, 2016

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The Break room - auction ends on Sunday, October 30th at 9:00am PST. 

These pigs are owned by my friend farmer Fran and live on a farm on Whidbey island. They are taking a break from foraging for food and are enjoying a bask in the warm sun.

A Coyote Visit (Disclaimer - a hen met its demise in the making of this story)

If you have chickens, at some point, you're going to have critters that want to eat them for supper. Before we acquired our first flock of "girls," we fortified the little shed in our backyard to make it the equivalent of a poultry "Fort Knox." Knowing our "neighbors" included coyotes, raccoon, owls and eagles, we wanted to make sure our chickens would be protected. So, we completely enclosed a little hen yard (including a roof) adjacent to the sturdy little shed. When that was complete, we told our boys, who were 9 and 11 at the time, that it was time to order our chicks.

We went online (yes, you can even order chickens online) and each of us chose two chicks, for a total of a variety of eight breeds. The order was placed and a few days later, we received a call from the post office telling us to come and pick up our peeping package.

CHICKEN FUN FACT: Newly hatched chicks have a three day supply of yolk still in their system to sustain them while being shipped. How cool is that?


We loved our new girls, raising them first in a box in our home, then graduating to a dog crate in the garage, before moving them out to the newly secured coop. There they grew and thrived. But, it always bothered me that they were stuck to the confines of their shed and hen yard, and much to Paul's dismay, I insisted they be able to run "free range" while we were home. Even though Paul had warned me of the possible predator attacks, it came as a shock when one day I went outside to see a coyote carrying off one of our beloved hens. Even though I was within 10 feet, I gave chase, but to no avail. I watched as that coyote stole off with the limp chicken body into the woods.

You would think that I had learned my lesson, but that was not the case. I still let the girls out, but only when I was out in the backyard as well. This worked for a few weeks, until one day when I had to make a quick trip to the store.

It was a Sunday and Paul had just gotten back from mountain bike riding.  He was about to take his post workout shower, when I hollered up to him, "I'm heading to the store, I'll be back in a bit." He had just finished with his shower when he heard a tremendous squawking coming from the backyard. He ran into our bedroom and looked out the second floor window. In the backyard below, he saw our chickens running to and fro, wings flapping, feathers flying. That's when he spotted a coyote circling along the back line of trees.

That's when he realized that he was standing in the middle of our back pasture naked,
as in butt nekkid.

He quickly dashed out of the bedroom, down the stairs and out the back door into the yard. With waving arms, he ran at the startled coyote. He yelled and chased it off of the property.  Uhh, remember how I mentioned that Paul has finished his shower?  Well, he had just finished his shower.  That's when he realized that he was standing in the middle of our back pasture naked, as in butt nekkid.  He rounded up the chickens and ushered them safely into their pen and then promptly retired to the house to get dressed. 

Fortunately, we didn't have any deliveries that day.

PASTURE PALS

10x8 inches, oil on linen canvas, 2016

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Pasture Pals - auction ends on Sunday, October 2nd at 9:00am PST. 

These horses lived in Napa, California on a farm that has since been turned into a winery. The setting is typical of California with the golden fields with Live Oaks and purple mountains in the distance. This painting is the first of a series I’m calling “Horse and a half.” I particularly like the “photo bomb” position of the horse peeking in on the right hand side of the canvas.

Crabbing Whidbey island style

We were surrounded by a pod of orca whales!

If you live in the Pacific Northwest, summer time often means crabbing.  On Penn Cove on Whidbey Island, our crab season opens Fourth of July weekend. Sometime toward the end of June, my husband Paul and I head over to our local hardware store to purchase our shellfish licenses. Then Paul makes sure our crab traps or "pots" are in good working order. A crab pot is an enclosed framework of wire with four one-way openings. The openings are constructed so that when the crab enters to eat the bait, it cannot escape and becomes trapped. The bait is held within a small wire basket inside the trap. We use chicken legs from the grocery store as bait.

Each crab pot is equipped with a 100 foot weighted line with a red and white Styrofoam float at the end. The float needs to have your name, address and phone number on it so that, should the pot become lost, there is a way to identify it and get it returned to its owner. In Washington, you are allowed to crab Thursday through Monday. Each person with a license is allowed to keep five legal-sized male crabs a day. So, Paul and I could get up to ten crab a day as long as they find their way into our pots.

A few years ago our luck was less than stellar when it came to catching crab. Either we would pull up the pots to find them empty or they would contain only females. One time Paul hauled up a trap, encouraged by the heaviness he felt in the line, only to discover an enormous sea star taking up residence inside the wire cage.

When we mentioned our lack of crabbing success to our friends they told us, "You have to go out by the green buoy to drop your pots." The green buoy is a marker out in the mouth of Penn Cove designating the channel for boats. We figured we didn't have anything to lose and decided to go ahead and try the new "crab spot." On a Saturday afternoon, we motored our boat out to the green buoy and threw each pot overboard. It was deeper out in the channel and quite a bit of line was let out before the pots hit bottom. We headed back to the boat launch with our fingers crossed as the red and white floats marking our pots bobbed gently behind us.

It just so happened that Paul's mom Berna and her friend Les came up to visit us that weekend. Les wanted to join us when we pulled the pots on Sunday afternoon. The weather was fine as Paul backed our boat down the ramp at the launch. Berna, sitting on a bench under a tree, waved to us as we motored out into the cove. The water was relatively calm as we cruised toward the green buoy. We could see it in the distance along with other crab boats picking up their pots. As we approached the buoy, occasionally a white foamy splash could be seen rising from the water. "Wow," I said, "it looks like it's getting rough out there. Check out those white caps." Paul and Les followed my gaze and suddenly a "Y" shaped gleaming black and white tail appeared out of the water about fifty feet from our boat. To our right, two slim triangular dorsal fins broke the water's surface. Beyond the bow of the boat, an enormous black and white, rocket-shaped form with black fins on either side rose out of the water and fell backwards with a tremendous splash. We were surrounded by a pod of orca whales!

By this time, we had reached the floats marking our crab pots. As Paul began to pull up the first of our pots, the orcas continued to cavort all around us. When I finally took my eyes off of the marine show going on around us, I realized Paul was having a heck of a time pulling the first trap into the boat. He lifted the trap from the water and it was absolutely stuffed with huge crab!  Paul was a bit frantic as he tried to remove the "keeper" crabs (A.K.A. the legal sized males) from the trap. Not an easy task, when you're trying to disentangle large, angry, snapping crabs and retain possession of all of your fingers. Paul tried to get our attention to give him a hand. "Hey, a little help here!" he cried. I refocused my attention to keeping count of our catch as Paul threw the crabs into a five gallon bucket for storage. We got seven "keepers" from the first pot and we had two more crab pots to go. When we pulled the second pot and found it jammed with crab we knew we were going to easily reach our limit and have to throw back some lucky crab. Through it all, the orcas continued to leap and frolic around us.

Finally, with all of the crab pots pulled and the keeper crabs stored in our buckets, we headed back to the launch. Les looked delighted. Not only did he have a fresh crab supper to look forward to, he had just witnessed an amazing "whale show" the likes of which few people ever get to experience. In fact, in our 15 years of living and crabbing on Whidbey island, it was the first time we had seen orcas in Penn Cove. He turned to us and asked, "Wow, is it always like this when you go out crabbing?" Paul and I looked at each other thinking of all of the times we pulled up our traps to find them empty with nary a whale in sight and answered "Yep! All of the time"



THE COMMITTEE

10x8 inches, oil on linen canvas, 2016

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The Committee - auction ends on Sunday, September 4th at 9:00am PST. 

These cows live on my friend farmer Fran’s Whidbey island farm. Cows are quirky creatures. They’re very timid yet very curious. If you walk up to the fence of a pasture containing cows and wait patiently and quietly you will soon become the object of a bovine inspection. If its a beautiful day and you have the time its a lovely experience to slow down and observe these gentle souls.

Goldie's Big Adventure

When I was a child, we had a horse named "Goldie." Goldie's full name was "Golden Boy" and he was a beauty. He was a palomino appaloosa, which means his coat was a lovely golden yellow, with a snow white mane and tail and he had a "white blanket" with spots scattered across his rump. Like many of the horses we had back then, Goldie was given to our family. His history was unknown to us, but we were told he was blind in one eye. Because of his handicap, when riding him, my dad or brother would often have to act as his eyes to direct him toward the safest route.

In spite of his impairment, Goldie was quite adept at escaping from his stall. He would use his big soft rubbery lips to manipulate the latch on his stall until it opened. He would then stroll out, push the lid off of the grain bin and help himself to a tasty snack. As any horse owner knows, too much grain can be hazardous to horses and make them very ill. To curtail this Houdini - like behavior, we added an extra snap clip to his stall latch and the problem was solved. Or so we thought.

Through cupped hands, he shouted "Goldie, you come back here!!!!"

It was a hot, clear summer night. Everyone in our family slept peacefully in their beds. Through the open window on the second floor, my dad was awoken by what he thought was the sound of hooves rhythmically clip clopping by on the street below. Then the sound stopped. Thinking he was mistaken, my dad was just about to fall back asleep, when he heard the clopping begin again. "One of the horses is loose!" he thought. He leapt out of bed and galloped down the stairs. Flinging open the front door, he ran down the porch steps. He looked to his right and down the street and saw the retreating spotted hind quarters of Goldie glowing in the moonlight. Standing in street, clad only in a t-shirt and boxers, my dad did the first thing that came to him. Through cupped hands, he shouted "Goldie, you come back here!!!!" The clopping sound ceased abruptly. For a moment all that could be heard were the cicadas chirping in the warm night air. Then, slowly, the clip clopping began again increasing in volume with each step.

Goldie's golden form appeared through the darkness as he followed the street back to our house. My dad walked out to meet him. He took a hold of Goldie's halter and led him back to the barn and his stall. After securing the latch with the snap clip (apparently, my brother Stephen had skipped this step in his haste to come in for supper that night), my dad returned to his bedroom to try to get a few more hours of sleep. He was just about to climb into bed, when he heard a knock on the door. Peering out his bedroom window, he saw the unmistakable outline of a police car. Sighing, he quickly pulled on a pair of pants and some slippers and went downstairs to answer the door. He turned on the porch light and saw a young policeman returning his gaze thought the window of the front door. He opened the door and queried, "Hello officer, is there a problem?"

"We've had a report of a loose horse," replied the policeman. Without missing a beat my dad said, "I don't know anything about a loose horse." There was a pause, as the policeman eyed my dad levelly, digesting this response. Then he said, "Sorry to disturb you sir. Have a good evening."

BARN CAT

8x10 inches, oil on linen canvas, 2016

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Barn Cat - auction ends on Sunday, July 31st at 9:00am PST. 

A beautiful orange tabby cat basks in the sunshine while sitting in the window of a wonderfully, weathered barn. No doubt he’s scanning the area for mice.

Just a big chicken (Disclaimer - no poultry were harmed in the making of this story)

We love our chickens. Or rather I love our chickens, I think my husband, Paul, could probably take them or leave them. They provide us with tasty eggs and add an air of the bucolic to our yard when they are out scratching and pecking. Its so comforting to lie in bed on a summer morning and listen, through the open window, to the girls clucking softly as they begin to stir. Next we hear soft thumps as they jump down from their roosts to the floor of the hen house. Then the real "concert" begins as they emerge from their coop into the hen yard cackling louder. It's clearly time for their breakfast.

Occasionally, one will try her hand (wing?) at crowing. We don't have any roosters because they harass the girls and can be quite noisy. So every once in a while, one of the girls will make an attempt at performing a cock-a-doodle-doo to remind us why we don't need a rooster.

Mr. Drumsticks in repose.

When it comes to clamor, neither hen nor rooster compares to a peacock in terms of volume and annoyance.  I know because, in addition to having chickens at our home, there is a peacock at the winery where I work. He isn't alone, there are also two peahens that call the winery grounds home. 

Much to the chagrin of my colleagues, I have taken to calling the peacock "Mr. Drumsticks" because of his rather large, muscular thighs. During the spring time, Mr. Drumsticks becomes quite the lusty fellow, strutting about displaying his feathers and honking loudly for the two peahens. And who could blame him, really, because they are both lovely specimens if not as colorful as their suitor. On a daily basis he can be seen, tail feathers spread fan-like, fluttering them softly in an attempt to woo the peahens. He pulls out all of the stops by hollering at the top of his lungs just in case the technicolor feather show doesn't get their attention. As far as I can see, the peahens mostly ignore the poor fellow. Not so the guests that visit the winery, they adore him and are constantly following him around with their smart phones snapping pictures. In fact, if Mr. Drumsticks could hold a pen I imagine they'd be asking for his autograph.

He doesn't have quite the movie star status among me and my fellow employees, mostly because of his loud, alarming honking and his insistence on pecking at shiny, chrome surfaces on vehicles. Also, in his quest to prove that he is top bird, he's begun to challenge folks in cars as they attempt to drive by him. Such was the case the other day, when a delivery truck came onto the winery property to unload some large tents for an upcoming event. We were working away at our desks when we heard a truck intermittently sounding its horn. Each blast was answered by a loud squawk from the peacock. I looked out our window and saw Mr. Drumsticks, with his tail spread in all its glory, staring down a large panel delivery truck. It looked like a bizarre reenactment of Tank Man at Tiananmen Square.

Mr. Drumsticks strutting his stuff.

That dang bird had brought the whole tent assembly team to a standstill. I immediately knew what had to be done. Whenever I have to "wrangle" (A.K.A. move) the chickens at home, I grab the nearest long handled broom and then herd them along by sweeping the broom back and forth behind them. It works great. I don't even have to touch them, they just scamper along ahead of me. We didn't have a broom at work but we did have a "Swiffer" which would work just as well. Armed with the Swiffer, I dashed out the door. I came upon the peacock, fluttering his fanned tail, standing about a foot from the front grill of the truck. The driver was still meekly honking the horn. About eight other workers from the tent company were standing around like paparazzi, smart phones held aloft, recording the scene. I marched up to Mr. Drumsticks slowly swinging the Swiffer back and forth. He immediately lowered his tail and scuttled out from in front of the truck. He jumped up on a nearby fence and let out an indignant screech. The truck slowly proceeded past without further incident.

As I walked by a very disgruntled peacock, he glared at me, I'm certain, with malice in his heart. Too bad Mr. Drumsticks. You may inspire awe in delivery truck drivers, but I know your true identity. You're nothing but a large chicken with extravagant plumage. 

FARM BREAKFAST

10x8 inches, oil on linen canvas, 2016

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Farm Breakfast - auction ends on Sunday, June 19th at 9:00am PST. 

I came upon this iconic farm scene one sunny morning after riding my horse Mac. The mare, “Scooter” was nursing her first foal, a fine chestnut colt named “Archer.”  Archer is now a full-grown horse and I like to think he’s giving his new owner lots of fun rides. On that morning, however, he had only one thought on his mind, breakfast.  

Old Dog, New Trick

Buster as a half-grown pup. 

Paul and I got our first dog, as a couple, about 5 years after we were married. We had to wait because our first house, in Oakland, CA, was a condo with no yard. After relocating to Napa, CA we rented a house with a fenced yard. Now, at last, we could go out and find a dog to fill the backyard. We wanted to get a dog from a shelter and for some reason I insisted it had to be the San Francisco Animal Shelter. I can't remember why that was so, but Paul was kind enough to agree to drive the 50 miles into the City to fetch (don't you just love puns) our dog. 

After arriving at the shelter, we were shown where the dogs were housed. We walked down a concrete corridor lined with 4' x 6' fenced enclosures each containing a dog. Now, when I'm looking at dogs, or anything for that matter, I tend to be drawn toward unusual colors or markings. The dog that captured my attention was on the small side (around 20 lbs.) with black and white markings. We were told he was full grown.  His ears stood "bat-like" at attention. He had a patch of black hair surrounding one eye on a white face and the ear opposite his "patched" eye was speckled with black dots. He looked like a cattle dog cross, A.K.A. a Heinz 57 or mutt. I thought he was adorable and, at that point, Paul knew he had no say in the matter of dog choice. We filled out the paperwork, put our new charge into the pet carrier we had brought and headed home. 

On the drive back, we pondered on what to call our new pet. I really wanted to name him "Spanky" because he reminded me of the dog on the "Little Rascals" show that I watched as a kid back in the day. Paul just couldn't see himself hollering "Spanky!" across the neighborhood when he needed to call the dog. So, we agreed on my second name choice - "Buster."

As it turned out, Buster was not full-sized when we picked him out that day at the shelter. He was, in fact, about 6 months old. We were informed of this by our vet when we took Buster in for his first checkup. His large paws should have given us a clue to his eventually size of 60 lbs. He was a good dog. He enjoyed the many walks we took with him and happily accepted the addition of our second rescue dog "Chelsea." When our family grew to four with the births of our two sons, he welcomed them with "open paws." Always being gentle and patient with them as they crawled around the floor with him.

Buster in his later years with our oldest son,
Christopher, who was eleven at the time.

Life moved on. The boys grew up and Buster grew older. As a family, we relocated to Washington state and Buster came with us. By this time, he was a canine senior citizen and his days consisted of napping, eating and the occasional slow stroll around the backyard of our new home. One of Buster's favorite napping spots was next to the wood-burning stove. 

One day, I was vacuuming the carpet near Buster as he lay sleeping by the stove. He didn't stir as I moved the vacuum around his inert form. I completed my work, turned off the vacuum and unplugged it from the wall outlet. I didn't rewind the cord because I was going to move the vacuum to another room. Suddenly, I remembered another task and I left the room for a moment, like about 3 minutes. When I returned I grabbed the vacuum to move it to the other room. When I picked up the cord it felt slightly lighter. I looked down and noticed the plug was missing from the end of the cord. You know the 3-pronged pointy part that plugs into the wall? Gone. All that was left was the chewed, slightly damp end of the electrical cord. I looked at Buster. He had not moved an inch since I last saw him. He wasn't even awake. I searched all over for that missing plug. I even woke Buster up and gently asked him to move so I could search under him and found - nothing. 

We never did find the plug. Eventually, we took the vacuum to be repaired and told our story to the bemused shop owner who clearly doubted its truth. Buster suffered no ill effects from his apparent consumption of the plug. Neither did I find it out in the yard, if you know what I mean. But he must have eaten it. I have no other explanation as to what happened to it. Buster and I were the only ones in the room and he wasn't talking. 

BARN SHADOWS

10x8 inches, oil on linen canvas, 2016

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Barn Shadows - auction ends on Sunday, May 29th at 9:00am PST. 

This barn is located in Skagit Valley, Washington which is situated between Seattle, WA to the south and Vancouver BC to the north. Agriculture is the number one industry in Skagit County. More tulip, iris and daffodil bulbs are produced here than in any other county in the U.S. Plan to visit during the Skagit Valley Tulip Festival in the spring (usually April) to see acres of tulips. Don’t forget to bring your camera.

The Day of Pigs

In our neighborhood, as I was growing up, we (meaning the group of kids I hung out with) knew all of the adults and they knew us. They were usually someone's mom or dad. We would never call them by their first name. That just wasn't done. We referred to them as Mr. This or Mrs. That. Except for Uncle Charlie. He and his wife "Aunt Eileen" lived across the street from my friend Holly. They were no relation to any of us, but even so, they insisted we call them by these familial names.

Uncle Charlie and Aunt Eileen had a grown daughter of their own, but she was married and living in another town. I think they missed having young folks around and so they "adopted us". Uncle Charlie, in particular, enjoyed watching our antics as we played in the neighborhood. Every winter, he and Aunt Eileen looked on from their living room window as we flew down the slope of their pasture on our Flexible Flyer sleds. That pasture was a wonderful place to sled because there was a natural spring at the top which ran down the gentle hill. It turned to ice in the winter and added quite a bit of speed to our sled runs.

As far as I knew, Uncle Charlie was retired, but he did do a bit of "stock keeping". He owned about six cows, a few chickens, possibly a goat and four horses: Canyon Maid, Johnny Mac, Swanee (like the River and song) and Stinky. I think Stinky had another name but he lost it due to his mischievious disposition. Uncle Charlie was an unconventional farmer. He didn't have a barn per se, it was more of an "agricultural sculpture". It was a collage of pallets, old doors, discarded sheets of plywood, wooden headboards and anything else he could find. I only know this because occasionally my brother Stephen and I would take care of Uncle Charlie's animals when he and Aunt Eileen went on vacation and we'd have to get into the "barn". That was a feat unto itself. I remember having to untie baling twine to open "gates" or crawling over "walls" to get into the various animal enclosures. It was a real treasure hunt to collect the eggs.

Because of the unique construction of his barn and fencing, now and again Uncle Charlie's cows would wander. One of their favorite places to explore was the nine hole community golf course located nearby. When this occurred, Uncle Charlie would get out his trusty, WWII calvary saddle, tack up his horse Swanee and head out to round up his AWOL cows. Golfers on the course were treated to the sight of an older, slightly balding, portly gentleman, astride an ancient, pie-bald mare, chasing 5 or 6 loose bovines across their pristine fairways. Compared to this hazard a sand trap must have seemed like a piece of cake.

Undaunted by the challenges of raising cows, Uncle Charlie decided to expand his operation with the addition of two pigs. That summer morning, my friends Holly, Jeff, Chuck, Nancy and I were seated on the grass in Holly's front yard probably discussing where we would play hide and seek that evening. All at once, we heard Uncle Charlie beckon us from across the street. We looked up to see him troting towards us. He stopped, panting slightly, and asked us if we could help him catch two pigs he had just acquired. Apparently, somewhere between unloading them from his truck and ushering them into their new patchwork home, they had escaped and were now exploring the neighborhood. Well, he didn't have to ask us twice. There's is nothing quite like a pig hunt to enliven an otherwise quiet afternoon. Let me just stop here and say, that attempting to capture two terrified pigs in a rural neighborhood on a hot, humid summer day is not as easy as it sounds. You wouldn't think so, but pigs are surprisingly fast. I think Jeff may have come closest to completing the task, when he dove at one of the pigs as it zoomed past him and managed to grab and hold onto a hind leg for about five seconds. Mostly, we just chased them across yards and through bushes for the remainder of the afternoon. I believe Uncle Charlie may have attempted to lasso one them at one point but to no avail. 

In the end, we just tired them out and managed to herd them toward and into Uncle Charlie's truck. He slammed the tailgate shut, hopped into the cab and drove the pigs to the market that day. As far as pigs were concerned, he decided to quit while he was ahead. That evening, I imagine he told Aunt Eileen that bacon from the supermarket was just fine with him.

MULE AND A HALF

7x5 inches, oil on linen canvas, 2016

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Mule and a half - auction ends on Sunday, April 24th at 9:00am PST. 

These mules at one time lived at the same barn where I board my horse Mac. They are funny critters with incredibly raucous voices. Mules are the offspring of a male donkey and a female horse. I believe the whole mule pictured was the result of a Quarter Horse/donkey cross and the “half a mule” was the progeny of a Tennessee Walking Horse/donkey cross.

Chicken à la King

I grew up with my brother and sisters in rural northern New Jersey. There were 5 of us, four girls and a boy. To support such a large family, my dad rode the train each morning to Newark, New Jersey where he worked as a Mechanical Engineer for the telephone company and my mom, a nurse, worked evenings at the local Veteran's Administration Hospital. They had a "tag team" sort of arrangement, where mom would have supper all ready for us and as soon as dad got home in the early evening she would take off for her job.  Can you imagine working for eight hours then having to come home to 5 kids to make sure they ate their supper, cleaned up and did their homework? And my mom's life was no better, it was just reversed. It makes me exhausted just thinking about it. 

So, I think its safe to say, they were looking forward to their weekend getaway to the Maryland shore. Mom arranged to have some intrepid neighbor come and stay with us, then they packed their bags into the "woody" station wagon and away they went. I imagine they were giddy with their freedom as they drove toward their destination, no kids for two whole days. However, when you have young children at home they are never far from your mind and you tend to start missing them after a while, at least that's been my experience. It may take a few days, but eventually you do start to miss them. 

Such was the case with my parents, because on their way home they decided to get us a present. They were passing a poultry hatchery when the idea came to them to get their brood of kids a brood of chicks. We already had a dog, cat and a horse. Why not add to the menagerie? Plus think of all those fresh eggs. 

They took the road leading to the hatchery farm where they found the farm office. Upon entering the office, they encountered the owner of the establishment and inquired if they could purchase some chicks as a present for their children. The owner wasn't used to selling his chicks on a retail basis, but never the less consented to the sale. "How much?" said dad. "Five cents a piece," replied the owner. "Great," said dad. "We'll take a dollar's worth." A box was produced, the chicks were installed, the dollar changed hands and my parents were on their way.

When they arrived home, we were thrilled with our new fluffy charges. We kept the chicks in the house in a large box for the first few weeks, while dad finished building a coop in our barn. Once completed, we placed the chicks into their new home. They grew quickly and enjoyed wandering "free-range" on our property during the day and sleeping in the safety of their coop at night. We eagerly looked forward to their eventual egg production.

The chickens were a variety of colors: black, speckled, yellow and a reddish-brown. There was also a white one, which we cleverly named "Snowy". She had a deformed foot which made walking difficult. My brother tried to correct her affliction by fashioning a splint for her out of two popsicle sticks and some tape, but she was destined always to have a useless leg. Still, she managed to feed herself and get around a bit. Aside from Snowy, the rest of the chickens grew into handsome birds. In fact, we began to notice that around half of them were growing longer tails and larger combs and wattles. They were becoming roosters!

If you've ever been around chickens before, you'll know that one rooster is plenty. More than that and you have too many egos for a peaceful flock. Plus a few of our roosters were down right mean. My mom had taken to arming herself with a broom so she could make it from the back door of the house to the car unmolested.

My dad decided to take care of our rooster problem and fill our freezer at the same time. He would butcher all of the roosters, save one docile fellow. For this he enlisted the help of my brother, two sisters and I. My littlest sister, Sally, was too young to participate. Having been a boy who grow up in the city, my dad had no prior experience butchering chickens, but he did know it involved removing the head from the body. He gathered the tools for his grim task: a hand axe and a wood stump on which to do the deed. He instructed my brother to capture one of the roosters and bring it to him. Once he had the bird in hand, he was at a loss as to how to proceed. How do you hold a struggling chicken still long enough to whack off its head? Then an idea came to him. "Stacey," he cried, "Run and fetch me the Bobby Murcer bat."

Side note -  Bobby Murcer was a talented young right-fielder, who played for the New York Yankees at that time. My dad enjoyed baseball and once a year he would take all of his kids to Yankee Stadium for Bat Day. Back then any kid who was lucky enough to attend Bat Day received an official, full-sized, Little League, wooden baseball bat with a player's name engraved on it. That year, I acquired a Bobby Murcer bat which gained much use during our neighborhood softball games.

I came back with the bat and handed it to my dad. He smacked the chicken on the head, rendering it unconscious and then quickly chopped off the head. He held onto the carcass while it flopped around and then hung it by it's legs on the fence rail to bleed out. For the rest of the afternoon we processed the chickens in that manner. It was a bloody day, but I don't recall having nightmares or being emotionally scarred by the event. I think that's because my parents treated it without emotion, sort of "One of the facts of life is death." and that was all there was to it. That is, until we were sitting down to supper a few weeks later.

We were all gathered around the dining table as my mom walked in with the main course for that evening's supper. It was a steaming casserole of Chicken à la King. Chicken à la King is a dish consisting of diced, tender, chicken in a cream sauce laced with sherry, mushrooms, and vegetables, served over rice, pasta, or bread. Mom liked to serve it over toast points. She was an excellent cook, so it was always a tasty dish. Soon, we were all served and began to enjoy our meal, when dad cleared his throat and queried, "So gang, how does Snowy taste?" We all stopped, mid-chew and stared at him in horror. Then the crying and pushing back of plates ensued. My mom gazed at my dad and if looks could kill he would have dropped dead on the spot. Apparently, one extra chicken had met her demise on that fateful day a few weeks back. Dad was "culling the herd" as they say, getting rid of weak or inferior stock. He did it on that slaughter day, after we had gone into the house, because he knew we would protest. Needless to say, supper that night kind of deteriorated as everyone, except my dad, had lost their appetite. 

I have eaten and enjoyed a lot of chicken since then, but Chicken à la King lost some of its appeal. Something else was forever changed by the poultry incident. Because of the integral and somewhat messy part it played in the whole affair, the Bobby Murcer bat became forever known, during our neighborhood games, as the "Blood Bat".

SIERRA NEVADA SUMMER

7x5 inches, oil on linen canvas, 2015

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Sierra Nevada Summer - auction ends on Sunday, March 13th at 10:00am PST. 

This barn is located in the northern most part of the Sierra Nevada mountain range in north eastern California. The Sierra runs 400 miles north to south and is about 70 miles across east to west. The range features some of the most beautiful natural areas in the world including Lake Almoner, Mount Lassen, Lake Tahoe, Mount Whitney and Yosemite Valley.

Bike on Top

My husband, Paul, loves to go mountain bike riding. He tries to ride 3 times a week: Sunday, Tuesday, and Thursday. On Sundays, his fellow cycling buddies come to our house, unload their bikes and ride to a nearby state park. Once in the park, they hurtle down and pedal up root studded, narrow trails. I've tried riding those trails on my bike and its just too nerve wracking. I'm going to stick to riding my horse Mac. The guys, however, always have a fine time no matter the weather. They arrive back at our house, two hours later, sweaty and mud splattered, with big grins on their faces.

My husband, Paul (crazy man),
riding down the trails at Fort Ebey State Park.

On Tuesdays and Thursdays, it's Paul who travels to the biking destination. A few years back he was returning from just such trip. He was driving our 1985 Toyota Corolla that we had purchased, used, from a retired high school english teacher (who happened to be his mother). Let me just stop and interject here, that Paul and I are not the types to buy a new car every two years. We prefer to buy used vehicles and drive the wheels off of them, hence the 1985 Toyota Corolla.

Anyway, Paul was returning from a bike trip with his bike mounted on top of the Toyota. He drove up our narrow gravel driveway, past the front of the house and pushed the remote control to open the garage door. Then he drove into the garage with....(wait for it)....the bike on top.

He heard a loud, scraping, crunching noise (you know, the kind you never want to hear) and he realized his mistake and immediately stopped. He got out of the car and inspected the damage and really, considering what it could have been, it wasn't too bad. The rack had slid back on the car which saved the bike from sustaining much injury. Aside from some scrapes on the roof of the car and a slightly bent fork on the bike, he got out of it relatively unscathed.

Determined not to repeat this incident, Paul thought of a clever way to stop himself and the car before entering the garage. He put the garage door opener in the trunk. Now every time he came home from riding he'd have to stop and get the opener out of the trunk before raising the garage door. His strategy worked great! He kept it up for a few weeks before he thought, "This is silly, I can get the same results by having the opener in the back seat." And sure enough, he was right, this new plan worked just as well as the old "trunk" method.

But, the funny thing was, the remote did not stay in the back seat. As if it had legs of its own, it migrated to the front seat of the car. Luckily, Paul noticed this as he was returning from a ride late one evening and knew he was in trouble. He was back where he started. "No matter," he thought, "I've got this." Then to remind himself of his predicament, he began to chant in his mind "bike on top." As he turned up our street, he thought "bike on top." And as he drove up our driveway the mental mantra continued, "bike on top." As he rounded the bend and headed towards the garage, our dogs began to bark wildly to welcome him home. "Dang dogs," he thought, "they're going to wake up the whole neighborhood." Then he drove into the garage.

Now he drives a little station wagon and his bike fits neatly into the back of the car.

Side note - after I read this to Paul prior to publication, I heard him mutter under his breath "lousy story."

ELDER GENTLEMAN
7x5 inches, oil on linen canvas, 2015
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Elder Gentleman - auction ends on Sunday, February 7th at 9:00am PST. 

My husband and I drive past this barn whenever we travel the backroad to Anacortes, Washington. Its a beautiful old structure that is sadly being reclaimed by mother nature. Someday, probably after one of our strong wind storms, it will lean down and melt back into the earth.