Waiting for the Kids

We're waiting for 8 does to deliver babies.  What's the excitement?  Well, first off, it's great fun to be present when a tiny kid breaks out of its bubble and within minutes begins to walk.  Human parents are lucky their kids aren't as athletic.  It's usually enough of a challenge for mom to feel like walking around the block.

To be selfish for the moment, which I suppose is most of the time, not just a moment, I look forward to 2 weeks or so after the first birth, when our refrigerator resumes storing a bountiful supply of fresh milk.  No more skimping on cereal, or mixing what grocery stores call "milk" with the small amount of real milk Karen brings in from Polly, the doe we save as dessert for Witty, our premier buck.  No more drinking water after a run instead of mixing a healthy dose of chocolate syrup into a glass of raw milk.  No more restraining myself from stepping into TeePee's (a/k/a The Trading Post) for a pint-sized half-gallon of Hershey's ice cream, when we can churn our own.  No more retrieving a wheel of aged cheese from the basement without replacing it with a new block.  And no more frozen mozarella when Karen can whip up a new batch in less than an hour, followed by ricotta to boot.

This time of year bodes well for the table in other ways.  Soon the asparagus will be sprouting.  The lettuces in the greenhouse are getting closer to harvest every day, and we now have more lettuces sprouting in a cold frame.  I planted spinach yesterday in the outdoor garden, and earlier, peas and onions.  As we finished putting wire on the new garden fence today, we couldn't help trampling a few tender garlic shoots.  Tomorrow I'll transplant broccoli, cauliflower and cabbages into larger pots, and soon after, into the garden.

"So you finally finished the fence?" asks Virginia.

Finally?  It was beginning to seem like forever, but we only started the fence a week ago.  Our Spring-like weather gave me the itch to plant, so the fence had to be scooted along.  It's actually not finished yet; 3 gates remain.  If I'm lucky, Karen will build them while I convalesce for a few days in Ohio.  Sort of like when a toilet won't stop running or a faucet dripping -- I can disappear for a few hours and come home to fixed fixtures.

I almost forgot to mention that another "kid" was born today.  The Arrowhead Trio dedicated over an hour to practicing the first movement of the violin, clarinet and piano trio I've been working on.  Tentatively titled "The Barnyard Trio," we got to hear "The Hawk's Visit."  As Winston, our violinist, put it this morning, "Getting to hear live instruments play a new composition you've written is like pouring your own freshly-made maple syrup on a pile of pancakes."

Making Time

Two days blog-less, I doubt if anyone really cares, but I might wonder if I'm still alive, buried in snow or wrapped around a tree on the way down from Burks Cabin Lane.  Today I feel snowed under deadlines, but not too deep to toss away things I'd rather do, because if I did that the work would lose its point.  We didn't leave the rat race to race rats.  I'll change my calendar if I must.

So, as the grass turned white at noon, I headed up to Arrowhead Lodge, where I feel most comfortable writing and practicing.  I'm writing a trio.  Those words on paper create a contract.

"Oh, please," says Virginia, "what about me?  Did you tear mine up?  I've counted the I's in this selfish rant.  You've already passed a dozen."

She's right, if you count hers.  Besides, what's a blog for?  Some day you'll read one without that capital letter and you'll probably wonder what's up.  No, her contract is intact, waiting, knowing that extended prose takes even more patience than a blog or a poem.

See, a whole paragraph free of that cap.

"Big whoop," she says.  "It was still there."

Make that four paragraphs.