A few weeks ago I had a tragedy on my little farm. I have a tiny herd of tiny horses. Cute little things. Great pasture ornaments!

My 3 year old mare, Teddie, was expecting her first foal. Steady, even tempered Teddie is a precious little lady. Huggable and gentle. Perfect.

Pasture breeding means even tho I keep a close eye on them all, I am not exactly sure on the breeding date. Not the best situation but I can usually tell when they are close and get them into stalls so they will be safe when the time comes.

This time I failed.

She wasn't exhibiting solid signs of being ready. Sometimes, they don't.

I always go out at dawn, take the dog with me, and check on everyone to make sure we all made it thru the night. It was cold. icy.

Teddie was in a panic, up and down, up and down. I quickly saw the problem even in the low light, and it was horrible.

Teddie was dragging a dead foal. Solidly stuck. It hadn't been long. But it was definitely too long.

I tried, I really did. She braced her feet and I pulled. No luck.

A call to All Creatures, and they would be on their way asap. But probably an hour. A very long hour.

I kept her calm. Talking to her and telling her it was going to be ok. That she was going to make it. I think she believed me.

The Vet was amazing. I watched her every step. Every movement. I held Teddie's head and talked to her. Doc worked quickly lubricating and feeling for the problem, and with a bit of pain meds, the foal was out. It had been stuck with one rear foot forward, and jammed next to its pelvis, making the hips too wide to make it thru. No tearing. The prognosis was guarded, tho.

Poor Teddie. I hid the baby from her quickly. Depression is real in horses.

The next few days would be crucial; would she be able to fight the inevitable infection from the trauma?

Yes, she did. Antibiotics, careful feeding, gentle hugs and she made it. She is fine.

Fast forward to today.

Two more mares were due. Penned up in their stalls for the past week. Well bedded. Well fed.

At dawn this morning, I went out.

Brand new baby had just hit the hay. Lovely little paint foal. Momma, tho, was having a hard time. Up and down, up and down. Obviously in discomfort.

I got her to eat a little stock salt, which made her get up and take a long drink of water. Within a few hours, she was steady and being a proud momma.

Of course, watching the birth and seeing the new foal inspired my favorite mare, Stormy. Stormy is a dapple grey and she is also Teddies mother. I have Teddie because she is just as perfect as her mother. Calm, affectionate, intelligent. Stormy is named for her color, not her personality.

I watched her all day. Checking every 30 minutes or so. I was in the yard trimming some ornamental grass and she called me. I heard her call out to me.

I went to check and I could see the toes. Nose was peaking out next. Baby was coming!

And then.... jammed.

She pushed. Hard. Nothing.

She panicked! Thrashed and rolled and called out. I told her to behave and lay back down! She did.

I grabbed hold and pulled when she pushed. Nothing.

But I knew.

I did what I learned. Feeling first on one side, the ribcage, the mare's pelvic bones. It felt clear.

Then the other side. She was panting now.

And, there was a rear foot forward, jammed against the foals hip, jamming it exactly as the other had been. I pushed the foot back with my finger tips, gave a hard tug to the foal and whoosh, the baby had arrived.

But, the amniotic sack didn't tear. Baby couldn't breath. I tore it open and briskly rubbed its ribs. A gasp. It was alive.

Within a half hour it was up and...running.

Yes, running laps around momma, who was exhausted. I actually had to laugh out loud when she rolled her eyes and snorted in exasperation. But she's a good momma.

As I type this, all appears to be well. Mommas are nursing their new babies. It has been a day, and I am going to bed.

Credit to Erin Cranfill DVM. and Katelynn Grissum for teaching me, and saving Teddie.

The Birds

 It's like a frigid ice pie out there; a thin shiny glaze of ice crust, filled with an inch thick layer of various sizes of sleet pellets which hissed down most of the night, topped with a nice coating of sparkly ice top crust.

Mother nature just added a crispy layer of sleet/snow topping as slick as snot.

But the cows are hungry.

When I looked out the front door I saw that a flock of birds had gathered around the feed wheelbarrow. I got my boots on, took time putting on my coat and gloves. They need to eat, too. Just cleaning out the crumbs.

Opening the front door, I could hear a lot of noise in the trees. chirping, twittering and squawking.

Sounded kind of pleasant.

As I was walking with the wheelbarrow to feed the calves I was being extremely careful with my footing. Little bitty steps. All was well. The sleet pie making a sort of satisfying crunch with each step. Crunchy squeaky.

I fed the noisy cows, and headed over to fill the horse feeder.

I scooped up a heaping helping of feed and turned towards the fence, when my foot slid on a tiny incline there.

Oh man, I thought I was going down!

Thank goodness the fence was there. I tried to catch my footing but each step was worse than the last.

I finally fell against the fence, scattering the feed all over the dam sleet shit pie around me. Heart pounding.

Catching my breath, the chirping was louder.

Suddenly a black shape swooped by my face. and another. I swear there were hundreds of them. They squawked and dove for the feed around me. I had to fight my way thru them to get to the wheelbarrow.

Waving my arms I shooed them away.

They retreated to the trees, screaming how much they hated me! The branches were bouncing with their weight.

I swear if I would have fallen and laid still they would have tried to peck my eyeballs out.

So I threw a full scoop in the front yard for them.

Pig Trails

                                      Photo agfc.com Arkansas Feral Hog Handbook

It was already feeling like an extremely uncomfortable day to show property. 

Morning mist hung in the air for hours finally giving way to sunshine and scorching heat; a bit of Arkansas summer like we know it best. Tendrils of steam rose from the blacktop. Even the birds were quiet this morning, keeping to the shadows.

Lack of air movement made the humidity puddle in the low spots, the damp air thick as mud.   

The river valleys can be cooler this time of year if there's even a bit of a breeze to stir up the thin layer of comfort over the rolling water. I was hoping for that. 

The property I was showing that day was just a few miles from the White River. A nice place, mixed grass and stands of old oaks and hickories.  It was the kind of place that we imagine when we think of that perfect home in the country; room for a garden, nice deep wrap around coffee porches, the quaint old barn with long forgotten hay bales and ancient timbers that screamed "character!"  The big doors even talked about it when they swung open on rusty iron hinges. 

There was a pretty horse pasture with a wooden fence down the lane, a few missing boards and some tree sprouts woven through. Deep sandy loam bottom land soil that will grow just about anything made me wish it could be mine.

I had high hopes for a productive day.   

It's a beautiful drive down 201 South out of Mountain Home, Arkansas. Rolling hills and creek bottoms and plenty of time to talk about hopes and dreams. The grass and trees were glowing from recent rain. So far so good.   

The house had sat empty for a long time. The musty smell of a closed up house on a humid day can be a slap in the face, but this wasn't bad. Wide plank pine floors and ceramic tile instead of carpet helps.

Open floor plan, towering stone fireplace, big bedrooms, nice views of horses in the pasture, this house had it all.

     

I just smiled and said "of course!" when these buyers decided they wanted to walk the overgrown farm road and see more of the land.  

(Oh. My. God. it's going to be miserable, I was really thinking) 

I checked to make sure there was still a can of bug spray in the car, and gave us all a couple shots to the ankles to ward off the summer ticks that were bound to be waiting for us.   

Off we went. I encouraged taking breaks by stopping to identify tree species and talking about forest management and pasture grasses.  I think they were on to me, though, when they kept getting way ahead on the trail. 

Pretty soon, we were all huffing and puffing and walking in silence. Not enough air for words.   

I heard them up ahead, then. 

"Why would someone plow out here?" he asked.    

The first thing that came to mind was wildlife food plots.  Its a great way to concentrate wildlife for hunting or photography purposes. Or just to be nice.

   

 As I rounded the bend, I instantly knew that that was NOT what we were looking at.  Huge slabs of turf were erratically turned over on at least an acre. Small tree sprouts leaned this way and that. Rocks appeared to have been rolled out of the way, sitting oddly on top of the grass. 

Tall clumps of Johnson grass in the near distance were swaying ominously even though the air was still and thick.   

 And I could smell them. The humid air was concentrating the smell in the clearing.   

"We need to go back right now." I said in my most official real estate agent voice. 

It was probably the look on my face that betrayed my concern since I always feel like my face is an open book no matter how hard I try. 

I looked around for a big stick and couldn't find anything that wouldn't shatter on impact.  

They didn't understand.

"You see that grass moving over there?" I asked. "there isn't any wind." 
They looked, still not feeling that there was a problem.
"I believe we have come up upon a herd of wild hogs and we need to leave them be" trying to sound all calm and knowledgeable.
I was terrified.

We turned to go and I swear I heard them behind me. Deep sounds, and swishing grass...
  

As I led them back down the trail, it seemed to get even hotter and steamier.  The trail was definitely a lot longer going back. 

Finally the car was in sight. 

Nothing happened, and probably wouldn't have, but when you have heard the wild hog stories I have, taking chances didn't seem to be an option.   

I didn't sell the house. 
What a fool I was to let a family of wild pigs scare me like that.

Dirt

There is something about the dirt in my garden beds. I can plunge my hand into that soil with very little effort, opening up holes for the new tomato plants. 

I swear I can see the excitement in their leaves when they first taste their new home. But maybe I am just imagining that. 

I look closer. 

I can see strands of old hay, some dark and black and almost dirt, some still retaining a bit of gold from a summer in the sun. 

Right there is a tiny wad of white fluff imported on the cramped roots of a nursery plant. 

I see a bit of bark from the mulch I used one year. The rib of an oak leaf, a few grains of gritty sand. 

There, in my palm, is a small stone. Much older than all this other stuff, it could tell me stories if I knew the language. 

I know what’s in this dirt, mostly, because I made it myself. 

When the raised beds were built a few years ago I didn’t have enough dirt to fill them. I had the excavated soil from the foundation of our room addition. I had a barn full of old hay. So, I made garden lasagna; a layer of hay, and layer of dirt, a layer of hay, a layer of dirt and finishing off with a layer of sawdust cheese! 

I sprinkled two buckets of red worms liberally, for seasoning. (to taste?) 

I grew the best garden I have ever seen that year. Worms oozed up in the paths between the beds when it rained and migrated into the yard. 

The broccoli heads didn’t fit in a gallon bag! 

My dirt is alive. I feed it old hay now and it rewards me with vegetables. I clean a barn stall and add a layer to the beds in the fall. Ashes from the fireplace get sprinkled on through out the winter. My worms do a pretty good job of stirring on warm damp days. 

The smell when it rains is that humusy organic aroma that gardeners love. 

  

I imagine the tiny root threads and microscopic mold creatures crawling thru a dark maze of decaying organic matter and plant bits. 

The huge pink bodies of the worms pushing thru them, gobbling them up. 

I think I will go play in the dirt...

Kill Hill

It was naptime, finally. My two little boys were crashed out after a busy morning of eating, crying, fighting, playing, and running. 

Kyle was a precocious 4 and little Ryan was a handful going thru his terrible twos. Adorable children, but very tiring today. They didn’t stay in one place for very long. 

Now was my chance!

I had been working intermittently all morning planting a row of baby butternut trees in front of the cabin. Swing the pick, scoop out a few cupfuls of soil. Repeat. Maybe they would generate some shade in their lifetime, but not too hopeful at this point. The soil was hard, dense packed with whispy dry grass poking thru the crust. Rain would sure be nice, to soften up this concrete dirt for me. Isolated thunderstorms were predicted, but we had only gotten a few brief sprinkles during the morning. Just enough to turn to choking steam in the sunshine. 

Thunder in the distance let me know that the atmosphere was energized! I could see the thunderheads building and I hoped for one to head my way. 

Suddenly the wind came up. 

The birds that had been chirping madly in the brush stopped their chatter to listen. 

Rising up from the valley below, a massive thunderhead reared above me to the north.

 

The smell of rain was heavy. In an instant, huge raindrops began to pelt the dust making little poufs with each strike. I dashed into the house just in time to avoid a soaking. The sky erupted in a summer light show complete with thrashing trees and cracks of thunder. 

And just as quickly it was over. Blue sky above.

 

The hot sun began converting all those raindrops into waves of steam. Rivulets of mud swirled in the driveway. Too hot to do any more I went to gather my tools; pick, shovel, wheelbarrow, a bucket of saplings. 

I stopped to gaze down the hill to the little pond at the edge of the woods. Someday, those little boys would fish there if the bluegills I had released survived. But I knew they would. 

KA-BOOM! 

The flash of light and boom-hiss of expanding air knocked me to my knees! The lightening bolt that hit the well head 15 feet away from me was about a foot wide at point of impact, with a fuzzy indistinct boundary of burning atmosphere of at least that much on each side. The tangy smell is one I will never forget. 

I lay there on the dirt for a few minutes, my heart racing. I was ok. And then I tried to get up. 

I was made of rubber. Nothing worked!  My arms didn’t want to support me as I struggled to rise on wobbly legs. I lay in the dirt a few more minutes and tried again. 

It took 10 minutes to get into the house. I sat, getting my breathing under control. Lucky to be alive. 

And those little boys slept thru it all. 

It turned out that the lovely pasture high on the hill, overlooking Bryant Creek to the north and south was devoid of trees for a very specific reason. Known as Kill Hill for its attractiveness to deer for countless generations, I had witnessed just the latest tree clearing event.

  

Arrow heads occasionally rose up thru the gravel from ancient hunters who camped in that very spot to take advantage of the bounty. 
Although I bet they had enough sense to come in out of the rain.
 

I was lucky in many ways that day.

City Pool

                                 Photo of abandoned Gary pool by 

travisdewitz.com

 

It was so hot. The sidewalks were hot. The streets were hotter. But the reward was so very worth it.

We walked, a rag tag group of pre teens, towels draped over our shoulders, thru the neighborhoods in our swim suits on our way to the public pool. It was at least a mile, maybe closer to two, with not a breath of air.

 
The Gary, Indiana suburb of Glen Park was a pretty nice place back in the day. Mowed yards, sidewalks and tall yard trees that provided just enough shady spots to keep us going. We dashed from one shade patch to the next past the big brick houses and detached garages. Dogs barked listlessly and went back under their porches. It was just too hot to get very excited.

The clunky window air was the only relief at the house, unless you counted the cool blast from the refrigerator when I opened it to steal a quick breath of cold. Just the idea of the cool pool water made us move a little faster.

The last 1/4 mile to the pool was a stretch of sizzling black pavement that made our cheap rubbery flip flops stick if we didn’t pick up our feet fast enough. Go too slow and we could feel the heat thru the thin pink soles.

 

The sound of the screaming kids, splashing, and an energetic life guard whistle punctuating the uproar drew us. 

We paid to get in, I think it was a quarter, and were given a numbered square wire basket for our ‘valuables’. I had a watch. An actual real watch with a second hand. It had been a Christmas/birthday gift and I loved it. I wore it everywhere. It went in the basket with my glasses. 

Some wet benches were available for those who had to change. We didn’t dawdle too long in the steamy ‘girls side’ with tiny windows up high on the walls, we were ready for that cool blue water.

Every square inch of concrete was wet. Peeling blue paint decorated the block walls of the pool office. Towels were laid out on the wet concrete as if it was a beach. An elevated life guard throne gave the muscular bronze teenager who sat there an air of ultimate authority.

As hot as it was, I could never just jump in. I had to gradually submerge myself an inch at a time into the cold water. Funny, in just a few minutes the water no longer felt even cool. 

It was wall to wall kids of every color, size and shape. 

Like a soup of kids simmering in the sunshine. Thankfully the babies with their saggy wet diapers had their own pool. 

Swimming lessons never helped me. I remember as a little girl begging my mother not to let water get on my face when she rinsed my hair. I couldn’t stand the feeling of water in my ears. I guess I can’t say that it never helped me. I did learn to put my face in the water and kick my feet. But the coordinated swimming movements coupled with actual floating were beyond me. I didn’t float. I sank like a stone. But I could splash and squeal when the boys splashed us. 

There wasn’t really any room for real swimming anyway. Except for one place. 

The diving well was in an ‘L’ off of the main section of the pool separated by a very official floating rope. The bigger kids waited in line for their turn to jump off of one of two boards into the ‘deep water’. The big splashes when someone did a cannon ball would send water shooting onto the concrete pool deck all around. 

It was so impressive! We watched them. Envious. But, they were just jumping in. Nothing special. No big trick to that. We tried jumping in from the side of our kiddie section of the pool. I did it! I went under water and got my face and ears wet and it was just fine. Felt kinda good.
 And someone said, “I bet we can jump off the low board and it would be just the same.” 

“Oh no, that part of the pool is way too deep!” 

“But, it’s not even that far from the edge, we can make it to the side.” 

“What, are you chicken?” 

 And so it went, until we had meandered over to the deep side of the pool.
“Are you in line or not?” the teenagers asked.
“Move out of the way if you are not going to go!”
And so we moved forward in the line.
It was my turn. I could feel all the eyes upon me as I struggled with the thought. All I could hear...”Go on!” “Don’t be a sissy” “get out of line if you aren’t going to go, you are holding up the line” “Chicken!”
 And so I reached for the rungs of the stainless steel ladder that would take me up onto the board. I climbed. I was on the board. I walked out to the end...and realized I was on the high dive!
“Go!” someone yelled. And I jumped... I sank like a stone all the way to the bottom of the pool. I could see the sparkle of sunlight on the pool surface. But it was so far away. I was going to die.

In a moment of incredible clarity, I realized that the side of the pool really was very close. So I crawled. I crawled across the bottom of the pool towards the side. I looked up and could see the bottom of the pool ladder. What luck. If only I could reach it. I was just tall enough to grab that bottom rung. I pulled myself out of that pool just as the darkness was closing in.
I broke the surface, coughing, choking and gasping for air. But I made it.

 
And no one noticed.

When I went to get my basket to go home, my watch was gone.

The Rest of the Story

Last night when I lifted off the lid of my little hot tub I inhaled the steamy clouds wafting up from the toasty 104 degree water. I turned on the bubbles before I got in to circulate the chlorine. 

I had just filled the floater that morning with a new pool tab and it was a bit strong. Sometimes a high chlorine concentration makes my skin tickle. Best to let it vent for a while. 

I have to get in gradually when the water is that hot. Ahhh. The bubbling water feels like hot champagne. So soothing.

It took a few minutes to realize that something kept brushing against my legs that didn't feel like bubbles or chlorine tickles.
There.
What was that? Something was there. I finally reached over and turned off the bubbles and stood up.
The water cleared quickly as the remaining air fizzed to the surface.
What was that twirling on the bottom there? A leaf? I reached for it and, oh no! It was a soft little lifeless body. Limp. Eyes unblinking. Sort of cooked looking. It was one of the tree frogs that had been huddling under the rubberized canvas flaps of the cover recently. She must have fallen into the hot swirling water when I lifted off the lid! Perhaps overcome by chlorine fumes.

 I looked closely. Moved the little arms and legs looking for life. Nothing. Sad, I set the body aside and decided I wasn't in hot tub mood anymore.

This morning when I checked for frost I happened to think about the frog. Yep, still there in the same position. A little bit dry now. Cold. I picked her up and went out to check tomato plants. I walked around in the yard a bit.
What? Did I just feel something? I opened my hand and the body lay lifeless, as before.
 Again. Something. I opened my hand again and stretched out one of the tiny frog legs.
And it moved back. But you know how frogs have those reflexes that never end right? We learned that in biology... But, what if?

I carried my little corpse to the kitchen sink and ran the water until it was just a bit over room temperature. I dropped my frog cadaver into a bowl of warm water. She settled to the bottom, belly up. I must have been mistaken.

Wait, that was an arm swishing. I drained the water and raised the temperature a bit. I put just a little water in the bowl and laid her in it. She gathered her legs under her and sat up!
I changed the water a few more times until all of a sudden there was a breath! Her little throat started taking in air.

I now have a tree frog sitting in a cup next to my keyboard. Her name is Laza. Short for Lazarus of course. Not quite sure what to do with her. Perhaps tomorrow afternoon will be warm enough to tuck her under some mulch in the garden.