Good days remembered will eventually outweigh this sad one

There are many ups to owning a pet, whether it’s a dog, cat, hamster, iguana or horse. We fall in love with them, take care of them and they give us unconditional love. However, there is one enormous down side. It’s the day we have to say good-bye; the day when they are too old and tired (if we are fortunate to have them until they are aged) to get up.

This happened Tuesday November 25th to a horse in my barn. KoKo, who was at a ripe old age of around 35, could no longer get up. I had turned the horses out. It was a warm sunshiny morning. Fresh light snow had fallen and everything looked clean and white. KoKo romped and ran in the snows, as well as a horse in their thirties can and decided to roll around in the snow, as horses usually do. Then as hard as he tried, he could not get up. I tried for almost an hour to get him on his feet, but even John Deere and I working together could not get it done. KoKo wanted to say good-bye. He had, had his last bit of fun. I called the Vet, then Pat.

I feel bad for Pat, his owner, because KoKo was her first horse, a dream come true, and more than likely her last. He was a good and gentle horse that took care of her in their 20 years of riding and stable time.

We weren’t certain of KoKo’s age. In 1989, Pat purchased him from Russ McCray, a cowboy with a soul from the old west. When she bought KoKo, she took him away from his life on a hack-string (where he was everyone’s favorite horse to ride) at ‘The Ranch’ a stable up the road from my house.
Back then, Russ told Pat that KoKo was five, but when I mouthed him (telling age by teeth) I thought his age to be around 10-15 years. This would have made him 30-35 years old, today. KoKo's been in my barn, just shy a couple months for 20 years and lived a good healthy life, looked round, not thin as some older horses do, had his feet trimmed a few days before he died, and his coat was still shiny.

I know right now Pat’s heart is heavy and her tears will fall for a few days, because of the decision she had to make, but some day she will realize what a grand ride they had, and 35 years old, is a long life for a horse.

Though I cannot feel her pain, I can sympathize from losing my own equine friends, over the fifty-year span of owning horses. Royal, my one horse, who is in his mid 30’s, will someday be too tired to get up too. When that day will come I don’t know, it could be today, tomorrow or two years from now.

But like I told Pat, this one day, of a sad decision, and the few days of grieving are minimal to the years of fun. That when you make this decision, whether it is a dog, cat, bird, iguana or a life long equine friend, it is a decision made out of love and respect for your trusted friend, because as in our case, we want them to go with their equine nobility in tact.
I know her heart is sad now. This a big down side of owning a horse or any animal, but she’ll soon remember all the upsides over the past twenty years, and realize those good times, definitely out weigh this one sad day, by a huge, HUGE margin..

Memories: They keep precious gifts safe, when things change

Dear Amanda and Barb
Thank you for the nice comments and visiting my web site and blog.


Yes, Amanda things are a bit different from when you were one of my Great kids in ‘The Galloping 4-H’rs’ 4-H group. However, the memories of that time are the same.

They are fond memories of loads of fun and a wonderful growing time not only for you but for me. It was a time when you, The Students, taught, Me The Teacher, many wonderful facts about life. (such as The Weedgy)


All those years, of kids, horses, giggles, smile, tears, bruises, blue ribbons, red ribbons and white. Weekend camping rides, horse sweat, fair dust, polo games soaking rains, a muddy corral, and the love within it all, was a part of my life that was perfect.









Love Kellie

Sometimes all you need is different glasses

Another gift idea, for Herbs & Things shop, came to me a few days ago. It’s not a new idea but I’ve never done it and it involves sewing—on a sewing machine, which I’ve not done since the early nineties or before?

When ever I take on a project such as this, I think of my home-‘ick’ (home economics) class in 7th grade where the teacher, I’ll call Mrs. T, took all the fun out of the class, when she told me, “if you have the choice Kellie, never take a home-‘ick’ class again. It is a waste of your time and mine. You will never be a good homemaker or a Dolly Domestic of any sorts.”

Ha, what did she know? I bet she couldn’t make bread from scratch, put it in the oven, go out run the tractor, change a flat tire on full manure spreader and make it back in the house right when that bread is a perfect golden brown. (Please, don’t worry, I do wash my hands before I handle the bread.) Well anyhow, that’s off the beaten path.

But there she was lurking in the back of my mind 40 years later telling me I couldn’t do this as I pulled my very Old Singer sewing machine from the back of the closet, for my newest and greatest project. I was about to show her, how wrong she was.


My Singer sewing machine was old when I got it 25 years ago. Actually, my husband picked it out of the garbage. Old Singer still dons a repair tag, like a gold medal, from 1974 for a grand total of $48.18. That was a lot of money then. I can’t imagine what it would cost to repair it today. I don’t know why I can’t take the tag off. I think it’s a badge of merit or something, because my husband saved it from sewing machine heaven.( Now that I think about it, that sewing machine was repaired before my husband and I were married, in 1977 so for what ever reason, someone else couldn’t remove the tag either.) It has stitch patterns I’ve never used, but it’s done everything I ever needed in the sewing department.


After removing Old Singer from its resting place, I put it on the table, dust it off, put the foot pedal on the floor, and plug it in. I painstakingly, thread the old needle, check the bobbin to make sure it has thread and feel an accomplishment already, just in the fact that I remember how to turn it on, work the foot-peddle and that the bobbin, is— called the bobbin. I feel a joyous anticipation when we, Old Singer and Me, are ready to get to work on my new project. Corn filled bags you heat in the microwave and use for heating pads.

I put the material under the foot, put the foot down, turned the knob so the needle is down in the fabric before I step on the magic sewing peddle. A little bit of smugness creeps into a smile, towards Mrs. T, because I remembered to do all of this. I feel like a real seamstress, well maybe not, but I know this new project of mine is going to be a piece of cake.

I step on the pedal, hesitant at first, not sure how much pressure I actually need to get the needle and thread to do its magic weave. The machine takes off; it whirs, whines and grinds to a halt. I use the thread cutter on the machine (pleased I remembered that too) to remove the material from its halted place. The thread at the ends is everywhere but where it needs to be. I hold the fabric up to the window and dots of light came through the empty holes. Where could all the thread have gone? Then I turn the fabric over and find all the missing thread. It’s bunched up and tangle on the bottom side, flailed everywhere, not holding anything together.
OK — so maybe, my home-‘ick’ teacher was right. Maybe I am not Dolly Domestic; maybe today I won’t be proving anything to her.

Not ready to give in, I get in my Jeep and drive 11 miles to the nearest department store, to buy a new sewing machine. A New Singer that cost only a few dollars more than the repair on the old one did in 1974. I don’t think my new machine will have the ability to don a repair tag for 34 years and then finally give in to age, it’s an inexpensive machine. But that’s ok, all I want is to sew some seams together. It doesn’t sound difficult does it? However, I’ve already spent 2 hours, 11 miles drive time, 22 miles round trip, $138 and have no corn filled bag to heat in the microwave. But I am confident this machine should do the trick.

Happy with my new purchase, when I get home I set it up, read the instructions, wind the bobbin, thread it, and NOW my new Singer and I are ready for my project. I take a deep breath, put the material under the foot, put it down, and gently step on the peddle. New Singer whirs, whines and comes to an abrupt halt. There is thread everywhere but where it should be. This can’t be happening, it’s a new machine. You mean to tell me I went and bought a new machine and its ME? Oh, I can hear her (Mrs. T) in the back of my mind, and see that smug smirk of hers, while she’s telling me, give up, give up you can’t do this. Dolly Domestic you are not.

Nope, I am not giving up I can do this. I’ll show you!
I take off my glasses and put on another pair of reading glasses, the bifocals on my regular glasses aren’t doing their job as well anymore. I know with the new set of glasses I will be able to re-read the threading instructions better and I will get it right. I re-read, re-thread, and Whirrrrrrrrr we are off.


Its 6 PM I am sitting out in Herbs & Things shop. I am open until 7 Pm on this night. I am sipping a luscious cup of China White Mint tea with honey. I have my first finished corn bag, warmed and comforting my back. However, it won’t be a bag I will put in the shop for sale. It is too expensive. After I figured out the cost of this one corn bag, I am certain no one will want to spend the $145 it cost to make this particular nifty corn filled heating bag. That’s ok, like that old repair take, it has a special meaning.

I am leafing through my new issue of Herb Companion magazine. Ahhhhh it really can’t get any better than this. Well maybe it could. A customer would put the icing on the cake, or a better metaphor, the fancy stitch on the trim.
Oh wait, I see lights, a car is pulling in. I put my magazine down, take off my reading glasses, put my everyday glasses back on and straighten my desk. I am ready for the fancy stitch that has just arrive—A customer. She sees my $145 corn bag. She places the warm bag on her cheek. “This is nice, I have a patient who has a bean filled one and she loves it. Will there be more?”
My chest fills with pride…”Yes…for $6.00 each.”
“Good, let me know when you have them done.”
“Yes I certainly will”. Secretly I relish in my conquest and whisper “So there, Mrs. T…I guess I showed you, not everyone can make a $145 corn filled bag to put in the microwave!”

My Field of Dreams

Build it and they— will —come is what I heard.
Remember ‘Field of Dreams’ with Kevin Costner? Well I guess Herbs & Things is my field of dreams. Now, as Ray Kinsella (Kevin Costner’s character) did, I have built it, I watch and I wait.

I’ve order spices, teapots, herbs and sugars—soy candles, teas, chocolates, cards and so much more. For those in search of, just the right gift, I’ve made Christmas wreaths and swags. Lighted potpourri jars and small ornaments starting at $2.75 for someone that needs a nice gift, for a teacher, co-worker, or someone you want to let know you think of them.
I’ve put together a $5.00 gift of candles and votive holder for someone who can spend a tad more and gift baskets of $20.00 for those who can afford a scooch more than a tad. I’ve arranged them nicely on Herbs & Things shelves.

Build it and they will come is what I heard.

I look out the crosschecked window and watch for another customer. I put more things on the shelves filling Herbs & Things home to the brim. I want to have something for everyone who comes in. I see a car go by. They chose not to stop. That’s to bad. They would be surprised by what’s inside. No matter, they’ll be back, because Build It and They Will Come, is what I heard.

The smell of organic coffee mixes with the natural aroma of soy candles and ‘good for you’ herbs of basil, oregano, parsley, and garlic. The healthy spice-blends put just the right twist of aromatherapy in the room and some day soon, they will spice up some ones life in a good way.
The space heater goes on. It pulsates back and forth, like the heart of Herbs & Things, keeping the aromas alive and the cold air out.
Though it is small, with the music playing and lit candles flickering softly upon cozy walls, I am happy and feel comfort and solitude inside. Even if it wasn’t mine, I would like it. I breathe in, and smile.

Why wouldn’t they come?

Warm and Fuzzy

When I went out to do chores at 4:30 this morning, the air smelled fresh and clean. A smell that no dryer sheet, candle, or spray could ever replicate. It’s our first snow of the season. About 2 inches fell and light snow is still falling. It feels like perfection in its beauty draped and layered on the branches of the trees, and covering that last bit of un-mown grass. Grasses I worried about, but now I see without them, the picture would not have been the same. Perfect.

Savoring the sensation before I continue my trek to the barn, I stand on the deck, admired the beauty. I look down at my boots, and watch the snow wrap around them. I think how odd something so cold quickly creates a blanket to whom or what ever enters. It will almost be a shame to shovel it away.

I giggle at the dogs because, like kids, or sometimes like me, when I’m feeling like a kid, can’t contain themselves. They need to run and frolic in the snow. Their growls of play and romping echo through the dark morning. Similar to children, their growls and barks are like laughter that comes with a first snow. I feel a type of renewal or assurance, something grander than all of us is at work.

Herbs & Things little home looks content in its corner of the world surround by its own blanket of white. Its clear lights illuminate and reflect a peaceful feeling, making me aware we must be close to something divine.

I am the type of person that wonders about these things frequently. Does the wonderment ever go away—no not really. That’s ok, actually it’s perfect, because, for now I don’t need answers to my wondering or inquiring mind. I am enjoying the beauty in the moment of a Snowflake Miracle, where one at a time, made a difference in my morning.

I am back in the house, and the dogs are barking at a strange sound. It rumbles, roars, and makes the house shiver. I get up and look out the window to see what it is. How silly of me, not recognizing the sound. It’s a 54 year familiar sound, that happens every year around the same time. I am quickly reminded of what I hadn’t thought about in a while, as the lights flash, come in the house, bounce off the walls and impishly go back out and play on the snows. The lights, joined with sparks that fly when metal hits asphalt creates a different kind of beauty than the snows, a phenomenon that will part of our every day for a while. Thank goodness for the snowplows.

The Days of

When I worked hard

And days I didn't



Dreaming of
And Dreams coming true



Visions of my younger years


Running with the Wind


Flying High


Sitting tight



Seeing outside the box


And learning from family before me

Apples 'in' the eyes

Apple season is special to me. Because there’s nothing like the smell of fresh apples simmering in a pot to be applesauce, especially the apples that get the cinnamon. The fall aroma wafts through the house filling it so full, that it must squeak out the kitchen door. The comforting scent flows out to greet me when I come in from doing chores.

I breathe in deep, ahhh heaven.

My pantry looks complete with all that golden, tan luscious freshness tucked away in Ball and Kerr Canning jars, amongst the summers reds, greens and yellows. I know it will taste marvelous on a 0 degree winter day, warmed. So I am not complaining about the abundance of beautiful apples, because next year I will want more, but it is November and apple season is over.

I’ve canned 30 pints of applesauce, made pies and put them in the freezer ready to bake. I’ve canned apples in light syrup, apples in heavy, and there is apple crisp in the oven. There are so many apples I have apples on the brain and apples ‘in’ my eyes. I even ordered a Country Apple Tea Set for Herbs & Things. Enough is enough

I’m trying to do dishes. But I can feel them leering at me from across the kitchen. Their stare pricks at the back of my neck. They look harmless enough sitting on my kitchen chair, but they are not. They are relentless in their quest. They are— more apples tucked neatly in a wicker basket, throwing Apple dagger looks as soon as I look at them.

I close my eyes, figuring it’s my imagination and tap my heels and recite out loud, I want no more apples, I want no more apples. First, I open the left eye a slit, then the right. Are they still leering? Yes, and they are bigger, redder and bolder in their wanting something done. They are yelling for me to do something, anything, before they go bad. But What? I rub my temples, to relieve my weary apple dumpling frenzy. I grab up the basket and start peeling.

My mind working as I peel. If I can’t think of something different I will can these too for apple crisp and pies to bake and worry about where to put the new canned jars of apples later.

Peel, Peel, the mind is working; the mind is working Peel Peel. Cider, Sweet cider, I have sweet cider in the frig…ahhhhh blink…an idea, APPLE BUTTER.
Peel Peel faster faster I have a goal.

I cook and stir —cook and stir, cook and stir— cook and stir.
Spoon, turn the mill, spoon, turn the mill, put it all back in the pot, cook and stir, cook at stir, add cinnamon and nutmeg…ahhhhh smells good.
Cook and stir, cook and stir. Don’t want it to burn.
Cook and Stir. I fill the water bath canner, cook and stir. The water boils.
I fill canning jars with hot steaming cinnamon and nutmeg pulped apples. It is nice and thick. Twist and tighten lids. Put the jars in their hot water bath. Wait ten minutes for the timer to go off.
Ding.
I take them out. One by one…pop, pop, the lids seal. The brown inside the jars is an inviting, soft, mouthwatering brown.
The apples are finally content, they are Apple Butter, until morning that is.

Barn chores are done, the dogs and have romped and played, it’s time for toast and coffee. Hmmmmmm what do I want on my toast—something sweet, something tasty, No, not jelly, no—not peanut butter.

I hear a whisper from behind…yoo-hoo…oh…yoo-hoo, I am waiting for you to try me. No I can’t I just canned you yesterday.
No really— you WANT to try me.
Ok
Snap, hiss, the sealed lid gives way, and the delightful aroma says hello to my waiting senses.
Spread, Spread…bite….chew…bite…ohhhhhhh….I did good… I did YUMMY-licious…GOOD.

Snow Flake Miracles

I’m somewhat of a skeptic. Not about my beliefs, whether formed by faith or through actual experiences, but skeptic of what others ‘really’ believe or pretend to believe.
So when I started reading ‘The Shack’ by William P. Young, my skepticism kicked into high gear. I wasn’t sure, if I liked the book, or if I would finish reading it. Yet I continued to read on, curious about what was going to happen next.

With each page moving me to another chapter then another, I wondered at first, why this book is a top seller. I scolded myself, for continuing to read it, because ‘its way to hokey even for me’.

I know a writer's job is to keep the reader in motion. This book did that by making me wonder where it was taking me. It took me deeper into McKenzie’s Great Sadness, forcing me get to know him personally. By doing this, I could feel McKenzie’s pain.

My skepticism turned to worry. Will he go? What will happen to him when he gets there? Why is he going alone? What does he think he’ll find? With each step and mile towards his certain death, my heart ached for McKenzie because his ‘Great Sadness’ was making him to do a foolish thing. It was then I realized I was hoping for a miracle. I wanted to believe the unbelievable.

You are probably asking, what and where am I talking about. Sorry I can’t tell you, you have to read the book. I can tell you this, what does happen is something only seen in movies or in someone’s dreams. I found myself analyzing about any one of us and our lives. Are our lives merely a dream of reality or is our reality within our dreams.

When I turned the last page, those initial feelings of I can’t believe I’m reading this stuff were gone and I felt hope. Hope in, if we learn to forgive not only others but ourselves, in this hectic world of today where patience is minimal, and road rage is on the rise, our own sorrows would be less. To learn to see, amidst a growing de-sensitivity towards the earth and others, the miracles that surround us. The miracles of what this earthly world offers us—the big miracles in the ‘simple’ every day things.

Such as the miracle, any one can see on a spring day, when a delicate flower is strong enough and has broken through frozen ground. When tiny birds we consider fragile, survive what Mother Nature throws at them, and return after a long migration flight, to serenade us with their song of life. The miracle that’s free for us to witness, on a snowy winter day, when one snowflake gathering with others makes a blanket of white, covering miles, allowing us to see, the power of —one—at— a— time.

Do I believe what happened in ‘The Shack’ happened for real? I’m not sure.
But for me, it is a nice thought, that even if a life changing event happens in a dream, and we emerge with a new perspective about life, doesn’t that somehow make it real?