Thank you, for everything.

The blackjack oaks in the early morning light

It's been a busy week. There's been groceries to buy, menus to plan, and preliminary almost-but-not-quite Thanksgiving dinner to prepare on Sunday. But now that the real contributions for Thanksgiving dinner are either in the refrigerator wrapped in shiny aluminum foil or in the oven baking to perfection, I thought I'd sit a spell.

A Sassafras showing off its colors

I've been paying very close attention and even so, I find it very hard to believe that another year has come and here we are at Thanksgiving again. I guess it's true that, as you get older, time goes faster. By the time I am eighty I guess everything will be a complete blur.

So sometimes I just have to stop. Go sit on the porch. And look out at the meadow to make everything slow down. And that only leads me to think again of my good fortune in living here, in Dirt Road Heaven, among the trees.

Even though there are leaves all over my porch and all over my yard, I am so grateful for the trees. The other day Hannah told her mama that the trees were her family. Her family trees. Wow. DNA is powerful stuff!

One of our regular meadow visitors

So I'm grateful for my trees and the critters that share our woods.

Mr. Dubya T

For Mr. Turkey who has graces us with his presence. He visited us last weekend. Isn't he beautiful?

Dubya T and the girls flirting in the meadow

I think even the hens think so. They ventured out in the meadow and all stared at each other. Mr. Turkey hung around for an hour or so eating grass seeds before he meandered off back into the woods.

Mellow Yellow & Henny Penny hard at work.

I'm grateful for my girls who are so faithfully providing us with beautiful, big, brown eggs.

Our biggest maple

I'm grateful for the maple tree down by the pond. I keep hoping for red leaves but they're still green. Once they're gone I'll look forward to the little red winged seedlets in the spring and once they're gone the chartreuse leaves that replace them. The maple tree is pretty special here in DRH.

Miss Hannah enjoying the sun down by the pond

And I'm thankful that I'm not the only one who thinks so!

Mrs. Riggs

I am sad to say that I didn't have the opportunity to know her. But despite that small technicality, she's become a very important part of my life.

Dorothy at 17 wearing Dave's
Dad's Marine dress hat

She was born Dorothy Marie Guillotte on Christmas Day in 1924 in Sulphur Mines, Louisiana. Her father was a truck driver for Union Gulf Sulphur and her mother raised Dorothy and the four that came after.

She was Dave's mother. And by all accounts she was a lovely person, an excellent cook and the perfect hostess. And she was brave. She was a cancer survivor for twenty years before she lost the battle just before Thanksgiving in 1993.

Dorothy at 18

Dave was still grieving her death when I met him in February of 1994. She was, apparently, a wonderful, supportive mother. Dave's eyes soften when he speaks of her and there's a tone in his voice reserved for her memory only. I know he misses her still.

It's because of Dorothy that Dave's family gets together every Thanksgiving to share hugs, food, wine and time together. She started this annual tradition of gathering family from near and wide in the sixties.

The Girls of
the Riggs Annual Foodfest

Everyone speaks of her in glowing terms. And last year the girls all donned their pearls in homage to Dorothy and her pearls. Her Louisiana upbringing is evident in the recipes that Dave still carries around in his head. The day after Thanksgiving is always gumbo day.

I often wonder what she would think of me! At the time of her death, Dave was still unmarried at 42. I wonder if she's given up the idea of him finding someone who fit perfectly. I wonder what she would think of Hannah and Trey. Something inside tells me she'd be pleased and love my grandchildren as if they were her own. I hope so.

It was because of Dorothy that this property was purchased. She was in the area visiting relatives in the spring and mentioned that she loved dogwoods. I thank God that she did. And I thank she and Harold for the hardwork and sacrifices made so that Dave and I now live here, among Dorothy's dogwoods.

So today, while I am making pie crusts and getting my Thanksgiving dinner ingredients together I'll be thinking of Dorothy with love and appreciation. Thank you for this son of yours and for this place we share together. You are thought of more than you know and missed greatly.

I do.

Five years ago today, on the rainiest, coldest, nastiest day of the year, Dave and I said our "I do's" by a window down at the old house. We had planned to marry outside by the pond on a little peninsula near the maple tree. But rain ponchos and rubber boots didn't appeal to me, so we just made do with inside candelight, a fire in the woodstove and the preacher.

And he was no ordinary preacher. He was the first boy to ever give me flowers. (I was five and he was seven.) And his daddy was our preacher and my daddy's hunting buddy. We've been friends all our lives. And I never, ever, EVER thought I'd get married again so when I did, I thought it would be nice if he could do it. And being a local boy, he braved our muddy dirt road to get here at the appointed hour, in a driving, cold rain, to make us husband and wife.

It had been a long time coming. Dave and I met under very comical circumstances ten years before. And we were buddies for two years before either of us really let on that there was more going on than friendship. Dave saw me muddy, hot, tired, stinky, cranky, first thing in the morning, cold, wet and stuck under my canoe. (Not a good look, by the way.) We were both part-time river guides who took special pleasure in the wide open skies and shady canyons of Big Bend.

I was gunshy, timid, and a single mom. He was noncommittal, funny as hell and had the required facial hair. Our friends said it would never work. But he was a hermit, and I was a wannabee, and we were both creative, sensitive types. God finally listened.

Anyway, after several years of doing commercial river trips together (along with a dozen other guides) and a few private trips on the Pecos River, our self-imposed barbed wire fences came down and the rest is history.

Dave makes me laugh every day. Sometimes he doesn't mean too, mind you, but he does. And he supports my creativity in ways that no one else ever has. He gets that trees and birds and rocks and rivers and flowers and bugs and peace and quiet make me happier than most folks are with all the finer things in life. And he has a passion for this simple life we share. And It's just about the nicest thing anybody has ever done for me.

Happy Anniversary Dave. Let's have fifty more!

A few things to love about November

The sun as it rises in a cold, clear sky.

The mess on my deck.

The fresh cedar on my table.

The cans of pumpkin in my pantry.

Hannah saying, "Mamadee, I hongry!"

The view from my front door.

The view in my livingroom.

To be continued .. because right now Hannah wants another biscuit.

Ron: Last of the Mohicans

So, I was wondering ... (buckle up) .. do you ever think about what goes through a chicken's mind on a daily basis?

Well, I never did either but now that I share DRH with my beloved poultry people I do. I watch their interactions and how they play. And they do! In the mornings, first thing out of the coop, there is a running, chasing, ruffled up feathers game that goes on between the hens.

I've watched them steal food (mostly from Maggie!), hide food from each other (mostly Janey) and call to the others when food is found (mostly Big John). There's a tremendous amount of interaction within this little group. And don't even get me started on the roosters. (God, that must be where they get Viagra!)

And now that we're down by half from our original thirty-four, I wonder if they recognize they're potential bobcat food. They've all seen the bobcat, some on more than one occasion. And some of them have narrowly escaped death by bobcat.

Like Ron. He is the remaining member of the Mo-Ron team. Of the two, he was the dimmer bulb. Before he died, Mo actually displayed some superior thinking skills. Ron was still the not-so-smart one. But a couple of weeks ago when the (*$@^@#) bobcat risked his own life by entering the sacred ground of poultry territory, it was Mo that didn't survive. As you know, Dave saw the whole thing from our livingroom windows, only yards away. He said that both Mo and Ron were running for their lives. I wonder what Ron thought. Is there a running dialogue in a chicken's head like there is with people? (WHAT? You mean you don't hear voices in your head? Hm.)

Before I lost Little Girl, Zuni and Blue Boy to the treacherous, nasty, evil bobcat, I didn't really pay much attention to Mo or Ron. This inequitable relationship was established by them, not me, because of all the banty babies, they liked being held the least. Even as little ones .. they squawked and scratched when I tried to hold them. Eventually I poured out all my chickie affection on those that appreciated it. And Mo and Ron just looked on smugly, like they were above all that.

But after I lost my favorite banties, and Frizzly became another hornball rooster far more interested in playing "King of the Mountain" with all the hens, (and yes, he only has big hens to mount now and it's hilarious. He tries but anatomically, it just ain't happening!) there was only Ron. Suddenly Ron decided I was okay peeps. He's at the back door when I come out or, if not, then as soon as he hears my voice he comes running - RUNNING - with wings puffed out like a turkey gobbler and slides in like a baseball player on third right at my feet. It's crazy. But you knew that, right?

So once Ron lands at my feet, he does this little dance, sidles up to me, moves away, comes back, making this bizarre little cluck all the while. I don't know if he is terrorizing me or wooing me but I think it is the latter. He lets me pick him up and snuggle him and hardly ever bites me any more. (Love nips, I think.) And when we drive up in the truck or ride in the gator he runs up to meet us (like a dog!) or runs along side of us for as long as he can keep up. Sometimes Dave stops so I pick him up and he rides along with us in the Gator. Like I said, it's crazy around here.

Surely, this marked change in behavior comes from the fact that Ron is a Lone Ranger now. Frizzly doesn't even know he's a banty, so Ron is the last of the Mohicans. I know he misses his banty peeps. I sure do. Good thing we have each other for consolation.

No Doubt

My mother tried, she really did. Every Sunday morning when I was little there was a fight to get me out of my jeans and boots and into something frilly, frothy or lacey. (The absolute worst were those ruffled panties! I think waterboarding could be easily replaced with hours of tender heinie sitting on hard church pews covered in nothing but rows and rows of scratchy net ruffles. But that's just me.)

Turkey feathers

Of course, fighting it was an effort in futility on my part because Mom always won those battles and added insult to injury by making me sleep on a head full of pink sponge rollers the night before.

I might not have been happy about it ... but I was cute as a bug for Sunday School and Church.

Bobcat fur in dappled sun

Siberian Tiger stripes

But it was only the clothes I didn't like. I liked Sunday School and Church was fairly entertaining too because I loved our pastor so. His romping and stomping and sweating and yelling from the pulpit ensured no napping until after Sunday dinner. Try as I might, I never could quite understand who it was he was mad at or why. I just knew it wasn't me because he always gave me a big hug as I left out of the front door.

The beauty and intelligence in the eye of an African Grey Parrot

Red-earred turtle back

Skin of Masai Giraffe

Shell and front leg of an African tortoise

But my point is I loved learning about God and the Bible and Jesus. The Holy Spirit threw me (still does, truth be told) but I can go along with that too. I loved singing hymns and Vacation Bible School (and not just the crafts, cookies or punch!)

Showy topknot of a crane

The eye of a Toucan

There have been times in my life when I took in-depth Bible study courses and really loved those too. I enjoy learning about other religions and shake my head (as God must!) over how convoluted it's all become.

The blue and gold Macaw

I guess what I am trying to say is that I am a Christian. I believe in God. But I'm not a religious person any more. I do not participate in Church activities for a variety of reasons that will remain my own. But I do pray every day and often (and somedays more often!) and I do find God in places that few even think to look. (Thank you to my friend Sheri for pointing that out to me. It was an idea I hadn't really considered before!)

The eye of a Military Macaw

Shimmery duck

Texture and eye of a caiman


Patterns of the Clouded Leopard

The eye of a Komodo Dragon

There is no doubt in my mind that God loves me. I've gotten definite confirmation of that fact many times and sometimes, in the nick of time. And there is no doubt in my mind that God thumps me on the head from time to time .... and there's bonafide proof of that one too.

Sleepy raccoon

Porcupine quills

But the times in my life when I sought Him most, felt Him most and came away cleaner, calmer and restored were those times I immersed myself in nature. Those times I went away to a special place, far from everyone, where everything within sight was bigger than me, thereby making me (and my problems) microscopicly insignificant. It's a therapy that worked for me.

Back of an Alligator

Fluffy down-covered baby Flamingo

But at this point in my life I have learned that you make do with what you have. I don't have the time, freedom or money to go to that special place right now so I find restoration, peace and a deepened sense of gratitude closer to home. And nearly all of that, for me .. is in nature.

The title of this post is "No doubt" and when I look at all the beauty God has provided us in every direction we look (if ONLY we will!), there should be no doubt that He loves us. His powers of creativity could not have been used purely for his own enjoyment (although I think he was fooling us with the South American Tapir!)

Tapir

I believe He made this world lush and green and full of peacock colors because He loves us so. And I have to say (though there as many reasons to love Him back as there are fishes in the sea) if a peacock feather doesn't make you love and appreciate the God that created you .. well then, you and I need to talk!

God's Love - in Techincolor!

*All of these images of beautiful animals and birds were taken at the Ellen Trout Zoo in Lufkin. It's a really neat, smaller zoo - visit it sometime!

Refried Friday: 3.13.09 - "Sourdough Freakin' Bread!"

I thought it would be fun to revisit some of my posts from time to time. I'm going to call it "Refried Friday". It won't be every Friday, I promise, just from time to time, I will go back to the day's date in a previous month and repost whatever was on my feeble mind that day! Refried Friday. No Beano required!

Regarding this particular Refried post, one of the nicest things I could ever do for you, dear hermits, would be to tell you about "Chickens In The Road". It's a site I found early this year when I was looking for blogs about chickens. Romance author Susan McMinn has a wonderful site about chickens .. but so much more!

She is the best cook, gardener, crafter, busy mom and Ms.-McDonald-Had-a-Farm all rolled into one funny girl! No low cal, fat free stuff here - just good, down home cookin' with butter! That's where I got this wonderful recipe for sourdough bread .. and so many others. So check it out!

Originally posted to "Here, Chickie, Chickie" March 13, 2009:

Okay, okay, I know it has nothing to do with chickens or eggs. But is that a thing of BEAUTY, or WHAT? And I made that!

In fact, I MADE TWO! If you were here I'd give you one. Then you could go home, fry you up some chicken breasts and make you a fried chicken sammich. OR you could boil you up some eggs and make an egg salad sammich.

So shut up. Now it's about chickens.

And God said, "Let There Be Light."

And I am quite sure this is what He had in mind ...

Photos by Dave

The fine art of chicken (& egg!) appreciation.

Miss Rocky in the meadow

Isn't she like the Greta Garbo of chickendom? (She's rather aloof as well!) Dave captured the grace and elegance of our sole remaining Partridge Rock hen, Miss Rocky, the other day while she was hunting in the meadow. I think this photo is a thing of beauty.

Just like the egg tacos we had this morning. What could be simpler (or more filling) than fresh scrambled eggs on a heated corn tortilla with melted pepper jack cheese and a splash of salsa. God, I am a lucky woman!

Another famous monument to love ...

... the Taj Mahal, took seventeen years to complete. So I'm trying to be patient.

My Crew. My Peeps. My Boyz.

And there has been a virtual 'hub-bub' of construction activity of late. I'm pleased to announce that the PPP aka "Palatial Poultry Palace" now has a roof (sorta) and is almost dried in (kinda) and should be fully functional soon (maybe) and I know you are as thrilled as I am that this project will soon reach completion (in my dreams).

Dave and Jared got some siding on in between Jared's hunts last Sunday. I'm sure all the pounding of nails had nothing at ALL to do with Jared not seeing a huge monster buck. Or maybe the big monster bucks all walked by during one of those naps he confessed to taking (ZZzzzzzzz.....) and they all stood around and snickered at The Big Sleepy Boy In The Woods.

I don't know .. it's all supposition on my part. (But can't you just see that? Like a Gary Larson cartoon?)

Our newest employee ..

Anyway, we did reach an contractual agreement with a Poultry Housing Hygiene Specialist. She's agreed to sweep the PPP each and every time she visits if I let her pick eggs and keep chocolate sugar-free pudding in the fridge. She didn't have much of a resume but dang, she is cute!

It's a little BIG!

We don't want any trouble with OSHA so we're going to invest in a broom that's more ergonomic (and closer to her size.)

Mellow and Rocky

And speaking of egg picking. The girls have decided that the former hospital/birthing/jailhouse suite is perfect for making their daily deposits. At least now I only have to look for eggs in two places. That's very considerate, I think.

And that's it from this hermit reporter coming to you from deep in the heart of Dirt Road Heaven, Hermit Darlene signing off.

An orgy in the meadow

So it's possible that I offended a few sensitive souls with my pictures of walking sticks having sex ... and it's likely that today's title might throw a few folks but don't be alarmed. I'm talking about butterflies. (Had you goin' there for a sec, huh?)

Yes, yes, sorry to disappoint but all the raunchy behavior happening right out in the meadow is all between the boys and girl "Common Buckeye" butterflies. There's a nice Wikipedia article about the Buckeye butterfly here.

And, if they look familiar to you, it's because they were featured on a 24 cent stamp published a few years ago by the United States Postal Service.

Look how beat up this guy is ...

Apparently the wide open spaces of the meadow is near perfect for Buckeye hookups. In the last few days, Dave and I have noticed a LOT of butterflies just hanging from the grass stems. Upon closer investigation we realized they were all of the same variety and there was a whole lot of "hey baby, what's your sign?" going on.

After reading about them I am kind of surprised they like it here. We don't seem to have many of their preferred food sources like snap dragons, plaintain or acanthus. So ... maybe it's the ambient lighting and Barry White music that turns them on ...

Here's to lots of Buckeye love .. right here in DRH.

On Being Papa Dave ...

He says he waited his whole life for me.

Of course, I eat that up with a spoon but doubt it .. just a little. After all, he was 43 when we met and, even though he'd never married, he had lived a whole lot of life before he ever laid eyes on me.

Even then, with all that time passing, I don't think he was prepared. Me. Me and all my baggage. An instant family. Two-almost-God-Help-Me!-teenagers. How could he be? This man who spent most of his adult life in confirmed, happy solitude? And certainly he wasn't prepared for this:

Papa Dave and Hannah

Unbridled, unconditional, pure, sweet little girl love. But I think he's adjusted nicely, don't you?

Fickle me

Just when I am fairly sure that Spring (with her dogwoods and bluebonnets) is my favorite season, along comes Summer with hayfields that need mowing and blue skies that fade with the heat. And not long after I convince myself that it is surely the fortitude of wildflowers who thrive in a solar-powered Texas summer that deserves the most respect, the squadrons of giant dragonflies that patrol the green meadow in formation seal the deal. Summer rocks.

But when the heat soars and seems indefinite, my affection for summer wanes. I long for chili suppers and flannel sheets. Then I'm sure it's the relief of fall temperatures that make it the best time of year. And to confirm this notion, I think about fresh baked breads and pies and the warmth of a well-used kitchen.

Outside my kitchen window there is the briefest moment in time when all those little baby leaves whose birth I applauded in the spring will slowly go from aged green to spun gold, ruby red and eggplant purple.

And when they collect on the ground like confetti it reminds me that summer's party is really over. It's time to go inside, build a fire and read a good book.

Soon there will Christmas cards to write and twinkly lites to hang. Shiny papers and festive bows will conceal little girl dreams and little boy toys. But for now ..

.. there are cobalt skies, sweater mornings and a clarity in the air that is peculiar to this season. Thanksgiving wreaths to make and pumpkin scented candles to pull out. Cinnamon toast. Hot chocolate. A weinie roast over an open fire. A deer snorts in the woods. That squirrel is burying nuts again .. and yaupon berries are turning fiery red.

All this and more makes me nearly positive (almost quite sure!) that it really is this time of year that is simply the best.

The Fifth Instar

Yesterday Jane Seymour came running towards us with something huge in her mouth. She didn't want to share with the other chickens and she didn't really want us to investigate either but we cornered her and realized it was a huge green caterpillar.

Later, Big John was staring intently at something on the ground and I went to see what it was. (As you know, we're easily entertained here in DRH.) It was a another big green caterpillar which I rescued from certain death by picking him up on a stick and removing him from the chicken dinner table.

Before depositing him way out in the woods, I showed him to Dave and we talked about what he could be. Well, my instincts were right. (I love when that happens!) And, thanks to the miracle of "google" .. I learned he was a Luna Moth caterpillar. And he was the "fifth instar" or the final version of the caterpillar that spins the cocoon and overwinters in the leaf litter before emerging next spring as a beautiful moth!

I was really glad to see him (and sorry his friend became a snack for Jane!) because we enjoy seeing Luna moths in the spring here in DRH. There is a great article at wikipedia about Luna moths with lots of interesting photos. You can find it here.

And last spring I did another blog entry about our luna moths here in DRH, you can find it here.

Male Luna Moth, March, 2009