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.

Oh the weather outside is frightful and I still get to walk the dogs!

I wake up still snug in my bed. The air in the bedroom is cold - just the way I like it. Next to me, Paul burrows deeper under the covers. I glance at the clock - 7:30am. That's sleeping in for us, it is Saturday after all. The sun hasn't risen yet. The light outside the windows is a murky grey; that's winter in the Pacific Northwest. My stirring awakens the dogs, who sleep in beds under ours. I hear the tell tale "click, click, click" of their toenails on our pinewood floors. "Don't make eye contact," murmurs Paul from beneath the blankets. Too late! Eye contact has been made and the dogs are officially excited. Its time for "walkies" and our day begins.

The dogs leap and cavort around us. If I'm any judge of dog behavior, this is absolutely their favorite time of the day. Paul and I change into our dog walking clothes (a.k.a. sweats) and head down to the garage where we keep the leashes. Once in the garage, Nellie, our yellow lab/mix, is all business. She sits, waiting patiently, facing the door which we will exit. Tucker, our brindle lab/boxer mix, is 80lbs. of goofiness. He tries to sit, but his wagging tail eventually takes over his entire rear end, thus rendering sitting impossible. It also makes putting on his collar and leash quite the challenge. Finally, we get the dogs all "saddled up" and head out into the crisp, cool, drizzly morning air.

Nellie waits patiently for us to get our act together and head out the door.

Tucker waiting not so patiently. Note the blurry wagging tail.

This is my favorite part, getting outside and moving. Its made even more pleasant because I also have my husband and two trusty dogs for company. We'll take our usual route, waving to any other intrepid souls out enjoying their morning constitutionals. After our walk, we'll feed the dogs and have a hot breakfast, possibly waffles! 



If beginning an exercise regimen is on your list of New Year's resolutions, please consider the humble neighborhood walk. Its pretty much a free activity. There's no gym membership needed. All you need is a sturdy pair of walking shoes. Bonus - you will make your dog love you even more, if that's possible. No dog? No problem! Grab your spouse or a friend and head out the door. Happy New Year and Happy Walking!

CLOUD COVER
7x5 inches, oil on linen canvas, 2015
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Cloud cover - auction ends on Sunday, January 10th at 9:00am PST. 

My husband and I found this barn in Northern California on a trip to the town of Taylorsville. We were visiting Taylorsville because I wanted to show my husband their grange hall with the bouncing dance floor. Its still there and its pretty cool. This painting is currently for sale at auction.

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”.