No Name Farm/Ranch

Forgetting to Remember

2012-02-10T10:57:00.000-06:00

Our lives right now are pretty scattered. 75% of our stuff is in Austin, but the rest, and arguably most important, parts of ourselves are at the new house. If home is where your heart is, then I can feel it beating under the forest branches, along the muddy paths, in the porch eaves.

We've stayed at the new house consistently for a week. This translates into some creative clothing options when I'm on the fourth day at the new house, am lacking a functioning washer and dryer, and too hunkered down to make the trip into Austin. I finally did manage to load into the car with a list of things to grab. The entire experience felt annoying. After so many years of planning this move, it's frustrating to have the house built and still be suspended since we're unable to fully move in (since it's not complete for many reasons beyond our control, at this point).

I felt the waves of anger overtake my senses as they have for over a month now; the feeling that building was such a dreadful mistake, wishing again that we'd fallen for some other piece of dirt with a home already standing. I carried those dark thoughts with me all the way into Austin, as I parked the car in the drive, walked through the house, out the back door, and to the chicken coop to fill up their feeder. I grumbled about the "stupid" chickens whose existence is questionable since they haven't laid an egg for months. But I checked the nestbox anyway, out of habit and optimism. And nestled there between some feathers and old straw were four new eggs. Each so imperfectly shaped and tinted varying shades of creamy olive, that they were, in fact, perfect. Little globes to remind me what that land's all about and that there's lots more to it than just the broken house. It was eggs like these, purchased at a farmer's market back in 2008, that first started the discussion about suburban chickens, and chickens led to the discussion about life in the country, and that led to a Sunday afternoon drive. We've been feeling bruised and battered these past few months when realizations about the house and builder came to light. It's comforting to know that solace still lurks at the edges of all this and is as close as the eggs in my own backyard.

Under the Full Moon

2012-02-06T22:55:00.001-06:00

Tonight I found the donkeys curled up in bundles along the fenceline of the pasture just outside the front door. Without even thinking I threw on boots and a jacket, grabbed some pears and opened the gate to feed them and scratch a few velvet ears and noses. Because I can, now. Even at 10pm. Without a flash light. Just me and a herd of over-fed, spoiled asses. Under a full moon bright enough that our shadows stretched out to the cedar trees.

Then I came inside and took this picture of a door made in 1905 that's hanging on the closet of a new house in 2012. The door is from a rural town in Texas where it's likely its first owner walked into his own pasture at night and fed the animals by moonlight.

After the Deluge

2012-02-06T22:33:00.003-06:00

It's been raining here. 7 inches in two weeks. The pond is a lake and the dry creeks are, well, wet creeks.
Fences are bent over with the weight of debris and water rushing through them. And the grass is thick, green and abundant. This means that the livestock have been grazing in the front pasture again, trotting and kicking and displaying signs of general merriment and joy.

You don't even have to be particularly fond of cows to get all warm and fuzzy watching them. Joy is joy whether it's human or otherwise.

The other day I walked down to this pasture from the house to check on the animals and got a bit worried when I realized Seamus was missing. Until I heard a soft belching sound and looked up to find the gentle giant chewing his cud in his old house, the purple shed. He stayed in the shed all afternoon, watching the world from behind the rotting slats of wood. I think this was his way of asking for a barn; a request I've been making for years now. Someday buddy, someday.

Icing

2012-02-05T20:27:00.002-06:00

This week I temporarily ruined my finger. As usual, it's no one's fault but my own. Greed and thriftyness took over, and I over-exerted a tendon while extricating a(nother) new purchase from the gleaming shelves of IKEA. In one gloomy moment it became apparent that my finger was more than just a little hurt, the pain of which momentarily caused me to contemplate upchucking right there in the middle of my beloved store. Thank goodness that passed quickly and was overtaken by pure anger. We've got a house to finish. I don't have time for crooked, bent-backwards fingers.

Finger ruiner

Although my recent trip to Swedish paradise ended in tragedy, my purpose was fulfilled. With the help of my mother and a sympathetic employee, the new mattress and bed were somehow loaded and strapped into the truck, and I managed the drive home one-handed, using my knees to steer (Don't try this at home, kids). Since then, I've been operating with the use of one fully functioning hand and a forearm, palm, and thumb, which gets you pretty far in the world - in case you were wondering. In lieu of a trip to the doctor, we fashioned a splint out of electrical tape - you know - the kind of miscellaneous item one has lying around in the midst of a house build. In fact today I was again (again, again) at Lowe's and checking out when the cashier sweetly asked about the state of my fingers, wrapped obnoxiously in electrical tape. "Oh, that?" I said with an exaggerated sigh and smug shrug, "eh, you know, I'm building a house" as if the injury was procured while single-handledly installing rebar into a foundation and not actually from frantically pulling a mattress off an IKEA shelf. The "I got it while building" explanation somehow makes me feel tough and legit in a place like Lowe's where most women likely come to peruse lighting and paint chips. I'm incredibly tough, is what I'm trying to say. At least, I'd like the world to think so.

The reality is, of course, a completely different story. We're not really building a house so much as completing what was started (and definitely not finished - more on that later) by someone else. While Jer still toils with the literal nuts and bolts of completion, I've moved on to icing this glorious cake. I am in 150% nesting mode. This means that the perfectly lovely items that have filled the old house for years seem to have suddenly lost their purpose. Pillows look flat, pictures seem dull, furniture appears ragged and insufficient. HOW, I ask, how can one possibly bring such useless items into a structure we've worked so hard to make comfortable? Unfortunately this translates into a re-imagination of the entire house and of my own personal style. Am I an industrial-rustic person? A vintage-modern person? Am I farmhouse-traditional? A week ago I shamefully spent one, entire, beautiful day driving between three home decorating stores, buying and then returning, and then re-buying a series of throw pillows for the living room. This is a true story. And while I'd love to be the person I aspire to (a selfless, crafty, homesteader) the reality is that I'm an instant gratification junkie with a real need to feel like things are completely tied together. Meaning: there's no half-assing home decorating with me. It's either all or it's nothing. And it's never nothing.

Chair #1 of 2.

So. Here I sit in a beautiful new chair, just purchased from my favorite store's annual warehouse sale. Please note that it is a larger version of the same chair I just bought last week. Which means I have two versions of the same chair with space for one and money for neither. You see what I'm getting at here? Consider this my cry for help. An intervention is in order.

On the other hand, this behavior is fairly standard, I think. Most of us tend to feather our nests when there's a big change or move. And in light of all of the unspeakable building drama, focusing on picture frames and towel colors has been a welcome change. A most welcome change.

Speaking of welcome changes, I've been stomping around the property in this get-up all evening:

Picture me in these leggings and boots, hoodie, woolen scarf, holding a glass of wine in the right hand, electrical tape wrapped around the bum finger of the left, throw pillow under one arm and a bucket of cow food under the other. It's not always pretty people, but it's my life, and you can't get away with this in the 'burbs. And if that's not beautiful, then I just don't know what is.

A Lovestory

2012-01-28T09:58:00.000-06:00

If you've read this blog for more than a minute, you've likely realized that we live in Texas (nice detective work!). This means lots of both wonderful and miserable things. It means that the weather will change in biblical extremes from one moment to the next. The atmosphere will inevitably rise to inhuman temperatures, roasting the ground and cracking the earth like overbaked bread. In the spring, (and winter too, apparently) the sky will inexplicably open and spew forth basketball sized balls of ice, drop twisters with the girth of small towns, and electrify entire neighborhoods. We're either achingly, bone-dry here, or drowning in violent storm-induced waters. It's either stifling heat or wiltingly humid. There's no middle ground when it comes to Texas and weather. The only extreme we rarely experience is cold. Sure, sure - once every year we wake up to an "ice day" when temperatures hover just under freezing after a drizzly night and the streets become lightly coated in an ice that slushes by noon. Of course, these rare days cause apocalyptic responses from the natives. Roads close, schools shut down, work is cancelled, and lines form at the neighborhood Walgreens for water and canned goods. In short: we get lots and lots of things here. But we rarely get true, Northern cold.

This reality makes our purchase of the wood stove a tad extravagant. Originally we considered installing a more expensive fireplace, the cost of which led to serious discussions like, "We'll have to choose between a fireplace or a kitchen," followed by long moments of soul-searching silence. That's how much we like fire around here. Of course, by "we" I am very specifically referring to Jeremy. Jeremy, God bless him, is a fire worshipping pyromaniac. It's not his fault really. He is a man and its inherent in his (their) nature to alternately set things afire or blow them to pieces. I've embraced this biological truth. And I've moved on. So it's no surprise really that, although the temperatures have risen into the 80's during this mild January, the wood stove is constantly lit. It's only been in our lives for a month, but the wood stove has become a firmly rooted, permanent fixture in our lives, and our life is divided into two distinct epochs: Pre-stove and Stove. I really don't remember a time without it. Jeremy approached his ownership of the stove with priest-like sanctity and levity. He pored over the owner's manual for hours before setting the first bits of kindling ablaze. He has purchased boxloads of indescribable gadgets and doo-dads for the thing. UPS arrives almost every day at 5pm with a new box which Jer quickly scoops up and disappears with into his office. "What's in the box?" I shout after him as he heads down the hallway. But all I can ever discern is, "(mumble, mumble)...for wood stove....(mumble)."

Note the unfinished (non-functioning) electrical next to the stove. Yep.

In the evenings when the stove's lit, I roll out the sheepskin rug and sit with my back to the fire so I can face Jeremy who always sits on the couch in front of me. We've had some really excellent, deep discussions on nights like this - or I've talked a lot while Jer appears to be watching me. In my usual fashion, I tell long, drawn out stories about whatever I find titillating and revel in Jer's deep concentration on my storytelling. His seriousness and interest always seem so genuine until he suddenly (and inevitably) leaps up and moves straight past me in order to tend to the stove or fire, then sits back down and says, "Sorry - I was worried about how the flames were getting higher on the right side but not the left. Were you saying something?" Sigh.

Pre-wood pile logs

This isn't a complaint, mind you. The stove really has been a valuable investment aesthetically but also with our heating bill. Although we really have had a mild winter, some nights have dipped below freezing and yet the heater still hasn't come on more than once throughout the season. I'm not going to claim that the thing will "pay for itself" by reducing our electricity bill, but its coziness and boundless joy its brought to Jer are priceless. Also, the happiness the stove elicits has caused Jer to create beautiful woodpiles of hand chopped logs, the sight of which make me feel scrappy and homestead-y in a very charming way. The woodpiles sit in only a few corners of the property, but they look neat, tidy, and rustic, and anything that brings "neat and tidy" to our lives right now is most welcome.

I'd be lying if I said I don't miss my husband who I've clearly lost to the sexy stove, in all her red-enameled, high heat glory. But of one thing I am certain. Her beauty and novelty will fade, and eventually he'll see that she's just a cast iron box that emits heat. And, through boredom or disinterest, he will finally find his way back to me: his non-cooking, non-cleaning, non-heating, over-talking wife. Just plain old me. 'Til then, it's a no-competition situation.

Coffee Table

2012-01-20T15:55:00.003-06:00

Night Driving

2012-01-20T09:13:00.001-06:00

I hit a cow once on a country road. It was 3:30 a.m.; an ill-advised time forcountry road driving, as it turns out. The cow was a black Angus, and it was a moonless night. We had just driven over a low water crossingwhere a thin fog had settled, and as the road climbed upward and the fogcleared, the outline of fences and road I expected to appear before me were notthere. Instead there was only a denseblack mass. Then impact.

I remember the sound of the incident more than the incidentitself. There was the dull and heavycrush of the car making contact with the animal, then the noise of glassshattering to bits, and metal snapping the thud and popping sounds of air bagsdeploying. In the background of all ofthis was high pitched screaming. Mineand my friend’s, I’m sure. There wascrushing and grinding and screaming and breaking looped for what felt to be minutesbut was seconds. Then suddenly it allstopped- just stopped. The car was stilland silent, save for an ominous hissing from beneath the remains of theengine. I looked up and found that therewas no road, just a forest of corn. We’dcareened into a corn field, which is disorienting enough on its own, but theimpact had knocked all sense from me. Assmoke billowed from the front of the car, my friend starting yelling that itwas time to abandon the thing. She wasconvinced we were due for an explosion. She clawed at the door handle, and I screamed that it was unsafe to leavethe vehicle. We were in a foreign cornfield, in God knows what county, on a road whose name I’d forgotten. And somewhere, out there, I was convincedthere was a very angry cow waiting for us. Staying inside a smoking vehicle seemed safer than facing an “angry” cow,in my blurred logic. Despite all thecrushing noise, the caved in roof, and windshield covered in animal hide, I wasconvinced the creature had survived. AndI was convinced it would attack us.

Because of Nadya’s urgent insistence, I finally agreed toslide out of the driver’s seat, which was her only escape since my poor friendbore the brunt of the impact and her door was obliterated beyond opening. We scrambled up the side of the hill andflagged down the first (and only) car that we saw on that road all night. It arrived miraculously just minutes after wecrawled from the cornfield and was among the many miracles that night. I also managed enough cell service, on a roadwhere I’d never before had any, to squeak out a call to 911. Then a call to my mother. Then a call to friends in the college town we’djust left, asking that someone meet us at the hospital.

I drove down that road hundreds of times during the day,deep in the night, in the early morning. It was my short cut from Austin to see Jeremy in college, and I used tolove the pastoral road. When the circa 1979ambulance finally bounced down the hill and arrived, they informed us that wewere the third such accident in the same spot in a matter of weeks. There was a hole in a pasture fence, itappeared. The cows just kept getting outlooking for greener grasses, chewing their cud in the road. I was fairly hysterical. Hitting a cow is disorienting in any weatheror in full daylight, but at 3:30 in the morning in total darkness, it becomesdream-like. When the sheriff arrived Ibegged to know “how the cow was doing.” He took his cowboy hat off and scratched his head slowly, then peereddown at me and, with a long sigh said, “The cow’s real dead, ma’am. Have you been drinking?” I had not.

We were in the car that early morning after an evening ofvising friends in College Station. Wehad tickets to the inaugural Austin City Limits Festival and wanted to be atthe gate early in the morning. We wereyoung. We were stupid. We didn’t count on black cows on black roadson moonless nights.

After the accident, I spent a good and long time recoveringfrom a paralyzing fear of night driving. Even as a passenger, I was reduced to tears if any drive took thevehicle I was in down a dark country road. I had nightmares about an angry cow glaring at me through a window. Despite feeling absolutely grateful for thesafety of myself and Nadya, I experienced the strangest, all-encompassing guiltabout the cow.

But eventually the panicsubsided. I was able to (somewhat) calmlysit in a car driving down dark roads at night, and then, years later, I was finally able to drivethem myself again, too. It’s been a longtime since my dreams were punctured with the image of a cow glaring at me throughthe windows of my house (inexplicable, I know).

So it’s saying something that the new place now requireslots of journeys in the night down dark roads, both as passenger and driver. I thought about this last night driving fromthe new house to the old. Felt a twingeof panic rise as the car slid past a familiar pasture filled with Angus, theirdark shapes moving slowly behind the fence line.

There’s probably a moral to this story that can be appliedto all aspects of life: Stay focused. Keep your eyes clear. Always look for obstacles. Plan to avoid them. For me, the moral was a little more literalthan that: Don’t drive down country roadson dark nights unless it’s absolutely necessary. Assume there are holes in fences. Know that the cows will find them.

And beyond that, the moral I guess is that no fear, nomatter how mortal it may feel, is worth holding onto if it keeps you from thelife you want to live. Or the place youwant to live it.

Fixing Fences

2012-01-16T12:08:00.000-06:00

Morning starts with the quiet "click, click, click" of eight paws marching through the great room, down the hall and into the bedroom. The clicking stops long enough for two air sniffs and then usually a sneeze; Winston's version of surveying a situation. By this time, I'm awake and know exactly the view that will greet me when I finally pop open my right eye; a dog nose shoved under the pillow and pointed at my face. Only two weeks now that we've been staying there more than our old house and the two boys already have a solid routine. Just when the sun starts to warm the eastern sky, they're both up and clicking down the hall to wake me for their morning constitutional. Winston always draws the short straw, so Romeo gets to wait at the bedroom door while the oversized labrador wakes me. There are worse ways to meet a new day.

Despite our many nights spent in the new house, it's not yet (even close to being) finished. As suspected, doing finish-out work is labor intensive, painful, and not for the impatient. There's been broken tile, ill-fitting pipes, electrical disasters, and lots of bourbon. The radio silence on our end is due to pure exhaustion since the end of each weekday is spent knee-deep in mortar and IKEA cabinetry. We also don't have internet there yet and finding a good solution is tricky in those parts. We're working on it.

We're working on a lot of things at the moment.

But the rewards for this work are plenty. What we do have is hot water, toilets, a kitchen island (with a sink!), refrigerator, some lighting, and the blessed wood stove. On clear nights we can see the stars blink through the upper windows when sitting in the great room. And in the morning the birds dive and swoop outside our windows onto the forest. Free cable television at its finest. We're learning more about the neighbors, too. The good and the bad. For example: You burn perished animals out here, apparently, if you don't have the money or equipment to properly haul or bury; a fact that shocked us at the sight of a dead steer laying amidst a burn pile on our property line. We discovered that fences are mere suggestions of boundary lines when new neighbors emerged from the woods with yellow spray paint, claiming their lines a few feet past our fence. These aren't negative realizations so much as a growing awareness of this new life that's coming, whether or not we're ready. In some ways, it's easier to focus on tile and lights. That's tangible stuff we understand and can manage. The country beyond our porches has its own set of laws we're just learning.

Last night we sat on the front porch with my in-laws, each of us covered in varying degrees of mortar dust, tile chips, and plumbing glue. We grasped our respective glasses of drink and stared out into the pasture, lit deep blue in the cloudy night. My mother-in law remarked how nice it will be to someday spend our evenings on this porch with nothing left to do, or nothing needed to be done. And it occurred to me that "nothing left to do" is a luxury we left behind somewhere in 2008. Back when we bought the parcel. This land is no one's burden but our own, and we took it on (blindly), but willingly. So it's not a complaint but observation that when you choose the country, you're choosing work. Or a life filled with grit. You're choosing three more steps for tasks that usually require one in the city.

As our Austin house slowly empties I feel a shift. All the things that have collected here over the course of almost a decade seem like remnants of our past selves. I look for clues among the piles of stuff we've accumulated. Something to indicate that we were destined for this path. Some assurance that it's worth it. Then I spend one fine morning in a dew-dropped pasture listening to a nest of baby foxes down the hill, watching a donkey herd graze. We signed up for a life of fixing. Fixing the house, fixing the hay ring, fixing a mesquite thorn poked tire, and fixing fences. Although I can't find words to articulate why, I do have every confidence:

It's worth it.

Picking Battles

2012-01-04T15:36:00.001-06:00

It's been almost two weeks since last we updated, this is true. I blame some of this on the holidays. Some of this on bad weather. But most of it is due to very troubling situations with the project that have cast a rather dark cloud over everything.

It's not appropriate to elaborate here, although there's much I'd like to say. Although the house looks great and is coming together, we're just beginning a new chapter in this story, right when we thought things were going to finally, gratefully come to an end. Lately we've been telling ourselves constantly that some things are worth fighting for. Some things aren't. I will share that, given what I know now, building a house was a mistake and not worth the....well...not really worth any of it. If you're reading this blog then it's likely we read a lot of the same stories like Cold Antler, Small Measure, etc. In a way we all wanted the same things that led us to the country: peace, space, independence, and animals. The difference is that they were able to find land with shelter included. That is truly the better, more economical, and less painful option. So if you're searching for land now, I hope you'll bear our experience(s) in mind.

I've written this before in a way that sounds like a joke: Don't build! But I'm writing it now in a way that should read like I'm shaking your shoulders and looking you dead in the eye. Do not build. You're not out there looking for a plot of land in order to build the perfect house anyway, right? You're wanting a large garden, a spot for the hive, and room for some goats. Don't lose sight of what led you to the country in the first place.

A less serious note will follow, complete with pictures of progress and no more talk of problems. Promise.

I Think I Can Live Here

2011-12-22T07:48:00.003-06:00

We've been chipping away at the numerous tasks to be done inside the house over the last couple of weeks. Paint is pretty much done (except for dealing with the painter...long story). We spent several hours the other evening with my folks cleaning up the floors in preparation for the concrete sealer guy to come do a final cleaning and final sealing. When I say "clean up the floors" I really mean rip up all of the shredded "ram board" (read: thick construction paper) that was originally placed on the slab about 3 months ago. Once most of that was pulled up and piled on the porch, we went to work with brooms, shop-vacs, and scrapers to get up the texture and paint over spray. Again, several hours later, the place started to actually look like a home inside...a barren, echoing home, but a home none the less. I could almost picture the roaring wood burning stove, Jenna in the kitchen with pots, pans, rolling pins, etc. scattered all over the 200sq. ft. of counters with a maniacal grin on her face, and me lounging on the couch by the fire with a copy of Lonesome Dove in my hands. We're so close I can smell it.

Lubbock Women

2011-12-19T08:41:00.001-06:00

Dwayne and his son Colby stopped by yesterday just as I was heading out to grab a bbq lunch at Don's, a little taco and bbq joint down the road. (Remember that just about everything is a "taco and.." establishment in this area). I grabbed sandwiches for the four of us and quickly rejoined the group who were comfortably settled by the campfire, beers in hand.

Dwayne was deep into storytelling, the theme of which focused on rattlesnakes and local wildlife, since Jer had just reported last week's rattler incident. Dwayne's two sons are badasses, equally. Although Kelly is arguably a badass in the more traditional sense. He rides bulls, traps rattlers with his bare hands - the whole deal. It's possible some of Dwayne's tales about Kelly are a little "tall" but then, I've met his son. Kelly's not a large man, but he packs a punch with his toughness and stoic demeanor. I've not seen him without a wad of chew in his bottom lip. All of his boots are well worn, his buckle's large and polished, and his cowboy hat fits so well you know he only takes it off to sleep. Although I've heard the story before, it never gets old watching Dwayne act out the time when Kelly drove home with a live rattlesnake. His teenage son came up the driveway in his beat up oldsmobile. One hand on the wheel, the other hand grasped behind the neck of a rattlesnake that he held out the driver's side window. Snake talk always turns to the condition of the local wildlife and Dwayne reported that a "tiger sized" mountain lion was spotted on a wildlife camera just "down the way." A tiger-sized mountain lion is definitely hyperbole, but still. Down the way sounds too close for comfort, even though there's no telling if we're near it. In a rare moment of seriousness, Dwayne cautioned us to "bring the Judge along any moonlight walks you get to takin' 'round here." Rattlesnakes and mountain lion not 13 miles from the University of Texas campus? I felt a distinct chill, and it wasn't the weather.

Soon enough though, the topic changed again to Dwayne's third favorite topic (behind wildlife and horses): his past or, more specifically - women. What I haven't mentioned over the years since this cowboy rode his horses onto our land, is that Dwayne was a permenant fixture and honorary co-owner of Austin's "finest" gentleman's club, The Yellow Rose. He still plays an integral role as co-smoker for The Yellow Rose each year when it enters the rodeo bbq cookoff. Which is why it shouldn't have been surprising to learn that, for years, Dwayne was (of course) Santa Clause at The Yellow Rose. Danced with the girls on stage in his Santa suit. Like everything, he's got a picture to prove it. Before heading out to go "listen to some pickin' at a beer joint" he got a little misty relaying his recent trip home to visit his momma in Lubbock. "You can spend one whole week in Lubbock on your first night in town," he said before falling silent and clearly thinking of someone specific. "Those Lubbock women," he said softly, "it's a fact of nature that there's more beautiful women, per capita, in Lubbock than any other place on earth. You're real lucky if you get aholt of one of those women."

He says stuff like that a lot in such a way that you feel he's almost weepy. It makes me wonder about all the stories he hasn't told but know that he'll be back around next Sunday. And surely something new will slip out amidst all the old stories he'll tell again.

Holly Jolly

2011-12-19T07:54:00.001-06:00

So far, in our literal neck of the woods, it's been a very cowboy Christmas. The past few weekends were spent fireside alternately killing rattlesnakes or discussing Dwayne's recent deer hunt. Yesterday afternoon, after finishing a bbq lunch from Don's bbq (Don's a genius with potato salad, by the way), we lingered a few extra minutes by the embers, poking the fire with a twisted cedar branch. Jer had the radio on but low enough that only a few watery strains of "Oh my golly it's a holly jolly Christmas..." made their way through the distance and smoke. The song sounds better by a fire with some Lone Star.

We got very little done inside the house this weekend due to the painters still working inside. Not that I minded much. The sun finally peeked out from clouds and rye grass started poking out of the ground. Grass grows again in Texas! The animals spent more time on pasture than hay this weekend and each donkey has green-ringed mouths for the first time in a year. It's a beautiful sight to these drought ravaged, wannabe farmers. But perhaps the most exciting benefit of the recent rain is that the pond has turned back into a swampy mud pit. Christmas came early for our dogs, and especially Winston, who's little labrador eyes popped wide open when he spotted the water. Happy holidays, ya'll.

Seamus drool.

grass grass grass grass!

Couple of Scenes From Last Weekend

2011-12-17T07:32:00.003-06:00

Just a couple of additional shots from last weekend. With the burn ban lifted, we were able to attack some of the many piles of debris that have collected over the last year+ of drought.

And installed some of the exterior lights. Slowly but surely.

oh Momma.

2011-12-15T21:32:00.001-06:00

The verdict is still out about whether or not the tile was "worth it." But what's "worth it" mean anyway when you're talking about stairs? Subconsciously I think I was looking for a creative outlet, and boy oh boy, did I get it. I will be happy to never handle grout again. Unfortunately, I still have several rooms that need tiling.

Sigh.

Jenna and LuLu contemplate life. And tile.

The grout is accidentally different colors. Isn't that fantastic?! (scowl)

This does not look like a farmhouse.

Things That Are Not Awesome

2011-12-11T22:58:00.001-06:00

The following list is presented in no particular order, although the least awesome thing of all is saved for last.
Things That Are Not Awesome
1. The 9 hours spent hunched over stairs grouting tile that stopped making sense or looking nice as soon as I realized the extent of my stupidity choosing said tile.

2. Having "Redneck Woman" stuck in my head like a skipping record. I'm not knocking country music, mind you. But there are some lyrics you just don't want to start inexplicably singing out loud while grouting tiles that are apparently not intended for grout (please refer to #1)

3. Realizing that the most perfect name for our unnamed farm is the official name of a llama farm three "doors" down the road. (Mesquite Bean Farm! Come on. Does it get any cuter than that?!)

4. In the depths of winter, finding a rattlesnake at the bottom of a brush pile.

And the #1 thing that is NOT, under any circumstances, awesome:

5. Upon killing rattlesnake by separating its head from its body, learning that a rattlesnake head will continue to lunge forward and bite while its headless body will writhe, rattle its tail and slither for over 8 hrs after losing its head.

Even if I tried people, I couldn't make this stuff up. So there you have it. A list of 5 things that would not make my Things That Are Awesome list.

Which, incidentally, reads something like this:

Things That Are Awesome
1. Having my mom help me start and Jeremy help me finish the most ludicrous tile project in the history of tile.

2. Having "Redneck Woman" stuck in my head. Because it's pretty funny to sing, "Victoria's Secret, well their stuff's real nice, but I can find the same damn thing on a Wal-Mart shelf half price." You go girl.

3. Knowing that you have a farm to name.

4. Finding a rattlesnake in the winter and realizing your husband is also your #1 hero after bravely killing it with a shovel.

5. (just because there were five items on the first list) Eating hot soup after a long, cold day spent alternately tiling and considering whether condo living was not a better, more snake-free option.

Some Trim Pics

2011-12-11T06:33:00.003-06:00

Don't those doors look great? (Someone please comment on Jenna's doors) Painting starts on Monday!

The Day Jeremy Made Me the Happiest Woman Alive

2011-12-05T17:54:00.001-06:00

There are a compelling assortment of objects in front of me this damp and cold, late fall evening. I'm gazing at a chilled bottle of Viognier from a local vineyard. This is a favorite for us and stands out amongst the overly flashy companies that ooze "cute" in such a way that I gag just a little when driving by. Becker is fairly simple. Rustic. It's got a lavendar field and harvests that crop along with the grapes, so I'm sold on this principle alone. But their wines are delicious compared against many other Texas contenders.

Next to my chilled bottle of wine is a dutch oven filled with some bubbling concoction that I truly hope turns into a delicious soup, although its ultimate flavor is a best guess, since I deviated from the recipe. What's a white bean and kale soup without some spiced sausage? So in went the meat along with fresh herbs on hand and, we'll see. I hope it's passable. It will be warm, if nothing else.

In a mesh bag near the soup pot are a pile of Clementine's, a seasonal favorite, endearingly branded as Cuties with the image of a tangerine being unzipped. Marketing really works on this gal, so I'm sold by the little picture, but the flavors don't hurt the overall package much, either.

It's a pre-winter eve here in the heart of Texas. The temperature has hovered just above 40 degrees for a few days, and it's been damp and chilly like a late January season. Normally, this weather would knock me down and drag me out but the promise of my sister's holiday cookies and a Christmas tree - the nearing move - has got me fairly giddy. Rain, cold, and gray skies? BRING IT. I've stocked up on wine and Cuties. It's all good here.

Cold, wet weather stirs the most primal needs in most of us, I think. Shelter, food, and a heat source are just about all that's needed to keep us ticking this time of year. I guess it's something about those basic elements that always cause me to think again about what matters and what doesn't. And what matters most to me lately is stress relief.

Which is why we spent some time at the land yesterday for an impromptu painting bid, details of which are being reserved for their own post. Maybe their own book. I'm still reeling from the experience and from the multitudes of "personalities" I've encountered through this entire two-year long bidding process. Let's just say that Jeremy and I exchanged more eye rolls, and mouthed "WTF" more times during this interview than has ever occurred over the course of this long story. The painter got the job, by the way. Due either to poor judgment on our parts or the fact that his behavior was odd-enough that we were intrigued. Apparently the colorful neighbors and house build itself haven't created enough drama/humor in our lives for us to reject such a fabulous opportunity for another character story.

Which brings me to the whole stinkin' point of this note today:

WE ARE HIRING A PROFESSIONAL PAINT COMPANY TO PAINT OUR ENTIRE HOUSE.

Do you need me to repeat that? Because I'd be happy to oblige. Those words just look so pretty written down.

Maybe it was our impending fate; trowels in hand and electric wires wrapped around our bodies like chain. Maybe it was the list we created yesterday morning detailing every last piece of work we signed up for to complete this project. Whatever "it" is caused Jeremy to breathe deeply and say with his eyes closed and mouth set firmly - "Ok. Get paint bids."

Oh. Happy day. So forgive this post which seems a little luxurious in its unnecessary description of food and drink. But everything in my world just seems more vivid. Brighter. It's like I'm alive again after months spent worrying about how to get all the painting (trim, doors - THE CATHEDRAL CEILING ROOM) finished. I tend to exaggerate - that is correct. But, on my honor, this is truly the best thing that's happened in my whole entire life. So please, wherever you are, raise a glass. Isn't life beautiful?

A House via iPhone

2011-11-30T20:56:00.001-06:00

Remember all the boo-hooing back at the beginning of the house build about our poor, broken camera? You'd think, based on the sorry state of the various photos we've provided, that the camera was never replaced. In fact, we immediately purchased a shmancy-ish DSLR little number in order to expertly capture the build for posterity. All that trouble we went to and yet all of the house photos still manage to come to you via iPhone. Sorry about that. In our daily scramble to get from current house, through traffic, to land, all while packing car with various items requiring transport, along with three slobbering dogs and assorted food items - the camera somehow gets lost in the shuffle.

So if you cock your head a little sideways and turn the lights up in your livingroom, you might actually get a sense for what I've photographed in these images.

Here we have two images, pre-wall texture, to display the first of approximately 15 lights and fans that will go into the living/kitchen/dining. That there downrod above the light? Hand crafted by Jeremy himself. Due to the slant of the ceiling, each rod has to be a different length. That's just another of the many, "I can't believe we didn't think of that" types of issues we've encountered. And since we're installing all lights/fans/plumbing fixtures ourselves, well, there's a whole lot more forehead slapping we'll be doing. Regardless. There's a light!!!! In the kitchen!!!! It's a big time out here folks.

And here is the house as it looked this evening:

That is actual, real, finished, totally done, completed drywall - floated, taped, and textured. The crew packed up and made room for the trim crew coming out Monday. This means the final stage of the house build will begin exactly (exactly!) three months from the day it started. Trim involves baseboards, closet shelving, and hanging interior doors. For more information about the restoration and use of old doors - please come back next week. Or maybe don't come back. Because all I'll have to say about restoring and using old doors can be summed up in one word: "DON'T." (Jenna says, as she clears throat and looks awkwardly at the floor: What was I thinking?!).

Regardless of the door saga, which requires it's own blog and could easily become a miniseries on the Lifetime Channel for Women, I am quite taken with this house. Quite. Taken. After wandering through the place this evening repeatedly, just looping around and around, through exterior doors, around porches, into another door, up the stairs into the attic, down the stairs, into the master bedroom, into the closet, etc (and repeat) - I finally made my way onto the back pasture. On a chilly evening, the animals are at their finest, and I hate to miss an opportunity to stand in the pasture while the donkeys chase circles around me. It's a lot funnier to watch donkey chasing whilst standing among them, then from across the fence. As their excitement subsided and Boo's hysterical galloping died down, I stood in the oak grove and looked at the house. In that moment the memory of this time last year slammed into me, full force. That immovable feeling of running under water. To be standing there with the house before me, knowing there are walls in there, a septic system installed, and not much separating us from a key to the front door - is unreal. Luckily, the dull "thud, thud" sound of Chula kicking Boo while he bit her back, stirred me from my overly emotional reverie. It's no good to think "where you were" or "how long it took" or attempt to measure how much energy was spent in any which way. What matters is where you are. Now.

Pat yourself on the back and roll up your sleeves. And get back to work getting somewhere.

When it Rains

2011-11-30T19:53:00.001-06:00

It's started raining in Texas again. I'm not sure exactly what weather phenomena occurred that allowed moisture to build up in the atmosphere above this great state, and then to actually fall from the clouds in little droplets. Whatever the name of this phenomena, I am grateful for it. Or at least, I am - in retrospect.

The funny thing about our weather (well, not much has been funny about our weather down here) is how quickly we miss the sunshine and dry conditions as soon as they're gone. Let's take last weekend as a "for example." So, for example, last weekend it rained for such an inconveniently long amount of time (for hours! in a row!) that our normally trench-like, cracked earth at the land turned into rivers of soup and slush. Although I tracked the forecast for days in giddy anticipation of some rain, upon waking Saturday to the cold and wet conditions, overcast sky, and realization that I would shortly be forced outside, my mood turned sour. Of all mornings, this was not the time for rain. We had an early appointment at the land with a gentleman named Ruben. Ruben was in charge of the drywall crew and, therefore, Ruben was in charge of spraying the texture. As a person who's lived under popcorned ceilings and incredibly bumpy walls for too long, I have a personal aversion to wall texture. While I've cared about very little in regards to the exterior of this house, I have lots of opinions about the inside. Ruben and I were going to meet, he would spray test samples of texture, and I would formally sign off on a choice. After this thrilling (read: heavy sarcasm) endeavor, Jeremy and I would then jump into the car and drive south for an annual Thanksgiving meal with his extended family. A short day, it would not be.

The early drive to the land and foreign sound of rain splashing on the car's roof lulled me back to sleep. I did not wake until jarred from my stupor with Jer's muttered, "no, no, NO, craaaaaaap!!!" and the distinct sensation of sliding gently sideways. When I finally opened my eyes, I found that we had just come through our front gate, attempted to turn left up the hill, and instead slid off our road, coming to a soft stop in a pile of mud. Moments later, I watched us get lower against the fence line. We were stuck. And we were sinking. And OH YES, that's RIGHT. You can't drive a car onto our property in the rain. We both cursed heavily for 5 seconds. I shouted something to the effect of "I TOLD YOU WE SHOULD HAVE PUT IN THE DRIVEWAY FIRST." Jer rolled his eyes so hard that his entire head moved, and then we jumped out into the swamp.

Our arrival - up the hill, around the bend, then down the hill, onto the front porch - was a pathetic sight. I'm sure of it. My already temperamental hair which has, since birth, been undecided about whether it's curly or straight, had frizzed into something the size of a new head. Both of our jeans were rolled to our knees and mud encrusted each of our shoes. Our faces were wet and shirts were soaked. I won't speak for Jeremy who just looks "rugged" in such conditions, but I was completely wilted. All of this on only one cup of coffee, mind you. So I was damn well hoping that Ruben was ready and waiting for us, texture samples in hand. Of course, upon questioning various members of the crew, we were told variations of the same story: Ruben not only wasn't there. Ruben wasn't coming. In a few cases it was not clear that Ruben even existed. I could control myself no longer and decided it was acceptable to display my annoyance in a hyperbolic fashion. I stomped up and down the porch, mud flying off my shoes, poodle-hair bouncing, shouting for someone to "frickin' call frickin' Ruben," when suddenly a man appeared around the bend, in a similar state of disarray: muddy, frizzy, and wilted. At that point, one of the crew members pointed: "Oh, Ruben is here after all. He called me - I forgot to tell you. He got stuck in the mud."

So, as with most land stories, Bambi and Jeremy joined forces and became everybody's hero. He drove the tractor down to Ruben's truck which had come to a similarly sideways stop beside our own drowned vehicle. He extracted the air compressor from Ruben's truck (needed for the spray test), drove it to the house for said test, and once the test was completed and all parties (Me, just me. Because I was the idiot who'd called the meeting in the first place) were satisfied - Bambi, The Chain, Jeremy, Ruben, and Ruben's employee all returned to the pathetic site of the stuck vehicles. After attaching The Chain (another unsung hero), beneath the car, Bambi pulled Ruben and truck backwards down the driveway, out through the gate and sent him on his way. Finally, it was our turn to pull Jeremy's car from the deep - a process that Ruben made look quite easy. Of course, I attempted to actually steer the car out while Jeremy pulled it, which caused us to almost go through a fence at one point, and into a tree at another point. And I wondered why, while always funny in retrospect, all of our land adventures/debacles involve so much cussing.

View of Bambi and Chain after the rescue

In the end, our stuck vehicle was unstuck. And the mud? It washed off our hands and faces. It came off the wheels of the car. The jeans got rolled down, poodle hair was flattened. And we made it to Granny's house in time for another fabulous meal. And the drywall texture? As far as texture goes, it's damn near perfect. It better be. Or at least I've told myself it's the most beautiful texture that was ever sprayed, just to make Saturday morning worth the pai...er...adventure.

"Finishing" Touches

2011-11-26T06:19:00.003-06:00

Ok, it may have been a little premature, but Jenna really wanted to get those porch lights up. They do look pretty great.

Insulation & Drywall

2011-11-26T06:01:00.003-06:00

What Would We Do Without Spotlights?

2011-11-22T23:03:00.002-06:00

With the recent "fall back" time change along with our house build related activities ramping up, I expect to get a lot of use out of my spot lights. Now that the sun sets around 5:30, any "after work" activity at the house will require some artificial lighting. The last few evenings have been spent putting together the ~15ft down rods for the lighting in the "great room." We're trying to utilize the scissor lift while it's out here, so we have a small window between when the sheet rock is finished and textured and the scissor lift gets picked up. So, I've been prepping the "great room" lighting so we can throw those lights up there in the next couple of days. Throw in the mix the various family activities for Thanksgiving and some drama at work and it's been a pretty exciting week. As I mentioned, the sheet rock is going up this week, so the rooms are starting to take shape beyond just see through walls. It's looking pretty real...and exciting.

Bottling the Moon

2011-11-15T21:08:00.001-06:00

This weekend the stair risers were tiled, back door paint scraped off the glass, electric trenched into place for septic installation. In a word: busy.

It wasn't until I sat on the first of 18 steps, trowel in hand, thinset already caked in my hair that it occurred to me how desperately I've been waiting for this moment. And by this moment, yes - I'm talking about trowels and thinset and sweat and eye rolling. Both moms came out for the event, and the combination of family and my engineer husband pacing over the crookedness of tiles made the day overwhelming in a way that's actually really fabulous. Do you know what I mean? What I mean is that we're getting into the house-y part of the house. The stuff I've clipped out of magazines and placed into a three ringed binder that's gone ragged over the past two years. Everyone has an opinion, and everyone's worried about things being just right, and it's really wonderful to finally hold objects in your hand that you've looked at in pictures for so long. These aren't big things, in the grand scheme, but they're manageable and fun - and that's something.

We ended the night on the front porch. The moon came up from the east a pock-marked orb the color of pumpkin. There were crickets. An owl. The whole deal. And Jer asked if there's a way to bottle the feeling we still get when we see the moon rise and hear crickets. That "itisunfreakingbelieveablethatthisismylifeIamsoverylucky" feeling. He said that next year, the novelty will have faded. It'll be just another moonrise. Just another cricket chorus. It'll be nothing special.

The notion of forgetting makes me sad. Which is possibly why we started this blog in the first place. It's something to return to if we forget, and these entries serve as bookmarks in time. And that's how I feel about Saturday night and seeing the moon come up over the hills. It won't always be enough to make me stand still and take notice. But right now it still stops me every time, to have the world sprawled out so peacefully before me. I won't take it for granted. I won't. I will never take the land, the house, the front porch, and the moonrise for granted. Never.

But if (when) I do, I hope to find my way back to this bookmark and these early pictures to conjure this big, big feeling of gratitude.

Oh. Boy.

2011-11-15T21:04:00.001-06:00

Dusk in a Winter Coat

2011-11-10T17:12:00.001-06:00

I pulled up to the house this evening right before that moment when the sun sinks behind the woods. The cows were licking the trough that hasn't seen grain in at least a week. For cows, their memories are long and their optimism is impressive. I wonder how many times they've checked the trough since it was last filled with grain. I scratched Seamus's head through the fence. He stared back, blowing drool bubbles as he always does when he sees me, since I probably appear to him as a giant bucket of feed.. Somewhere there was a fire burning. Woodsmoke came through the forest on the breeze, and the cows both lifted their noses, their curly foreheads jumbled and bouncing in the wind. Sometime last week their bodies exploded into thick winter coats, making the curls spring out in little bouquets on their foreheads.

And the sun sank just then - the pasture cast in a hue so artificially golden it appeared staged, like movie scenes shot by hopelessly romantic cinematographers. The house was behind me, also appearing there in the woods like a set. Because after so much time thinking and waiting and planning and scheming, it's not real yet. Not quite yet.

On the drive home I noticed my fingertips were covered in a thin layer of dirt, the souvenir you take after petting the animals. I remembered those Wednesday lunch trips to the land three years ago. After an hour in the pasture I hated to wash my hands when I was back in the office. That sweet smell of musk and dirt coats the fingers. It used to get me through the second half of uninspired workdays. Just a simple reminder that no matter where I was sitting, there was this other place nearby. There were cows and hay and dried leaves and quiet spaces that could care less about deadlines, frankly. I know it sounds strange, that I smelled my hand the entire drive home tonight, just to recall the sensation of standing in silence at a pasture fence. But if I cared about sounding strange, I wouldn't have cow dirt on my hands in the first place.

Ode to Sweden

2011-11-09T21:53:00.000-06:00

I've spent a lot of time at IKEA since it was built here in Austin a few years ago. At first I showed up because of the novelty factor. My northern friends repeatedly mentioned this home furnishing mecca when filling their NYC and DC apartments for the first time. It was always IKEA this or IKEA that, and I felt really left out. I showed up at the store for the first time for no better reason than gaining frame of reference. Basically, when my hot-shot, big city dwelling friends mentioned the place, I just wanted to be able to say something like, "Oh yea - IKEA really DOES have the best selection of closet organizers. And those big yellow bags?? Genius." So it was nothing beyond the desire to add to conversation that first lured me through its doors.

But once I was in, forget about it. I was smitten. You guys - they sell heart-shaped pillows with arms! And where else on earth can you buy a complete set of fabulous wine glasses for a total of $5? The brightly patterned pillow coverings seem to somehow go with everything. And the food. Don't -NO - do NOT get me started on the food. Greek salads, pork ribs, CREPES (!), salmon and Swedish meatballs (complete with a Swedish flag emblazoned toothpick) - all in the same cafeteria. Even the ice from the ice machine is adorable.

I entered the store for the first time, completely certain I'd roll my eyes and walk out. Now I return again and again because the place makes me so damn happy. Therefore, when it came to the house and the tricky business of finding affordable kitchen cabinetry, the solution was a no-brainer. I've been playing around with IKEA's online kitchen design software for months. On three (ok, five) different occasions I've gone into the store and walked through the fake kitchens, playing with the soft close drawers (FYI - it does not matter how hard you try to slam them, they will only close softly. Trust me). I've run my hands over the insanely affordable oak butcher block counters, watched the constantly looping video they play that shows their cabinets withstand fire, drops from buildings and sledgehammers. I am a Swedish marketing company's target audience. Sensationalist propaganda mixed with clean lines and sensible solutions? Sold!

So last night, I was pretty excited to hop in the car with Jeremy and (finally!) head into IKEA to purchase the lusted after and highly researched cabinets. After a Swedish dinner (complete with a flag toothpick), we left the cafeteria and spent two hours in the kitchen department ordering cabinets and a countertop. This represented one of the larger credit charges since the build began, but the unexpected 20% discount was a welcome surprise, and the store's ambiance - tinged with Swedish ingenuity - made the general experience quite pleasant. Unfortunately, our American ingenuity completely failed us last night. Knowing full well that we may bring merchandise home, we still managed to forget the truck. We spent a painful 20 minutes on the car ride home separated by a 3' x 6' wooden countertop - Jer's head smashed awkwardly into the driver side window, one eye obstructed by a slab of wood, and my body pushed completely up against the dashboard, face plastered to the windshield, the counter cutting into my back and completely stopping blood flow to my legs. But, when it comes to Swedish cabinets at a discount price, maybe blood flow's overrated. Regardless, like Craigslist, IKEA has changed my life.

And speaking of life changers, the porches appear almost complete. I can't adequately convey the feeling of standing on that porch. So I won't try. Instead, I'll just share them in all their glory (along with the port-a-potty).

Quick Status Update

2011-11-08T06:36:00.002-06:00

Trim, porches, and roof awnings...oh my.

Better Late Than Never

2011-10-30T21:53:00.004-05:00

After a flurry of activity at the house, the exciting stuff slowed down a bit, hence the lack of photos. But here are a few shots as she looks today, from my favorite spot - the little group of oaks in the back pasture. She's still missing the roof overhangs and porches, but you get the basic idea. You also get a lovely shot of a donkey herd, just in case you needed such an image to spruce up your day.

As you suspected, the ears in this photo belong to Boo.

Guess Who

2011-10-30T21:47:00.000-05:00

I'm sure you already have this on your calendar, but just in case, tomorrow is Boo's birthday. His third birthday. Where has the time gone?

I guess time flies when you're having...well...being followed around the pasture by a biting donkey isn't fun, per se. But you get what I'm saying. Time: it flies. And suddenly your adorable baby donkey

Turns into this:

Happy third birthday, to the most obnoxious creature I've ever met. And I've met a lot of creatures.

PROOF! Sneaky finger attack as I innocently show that he's three.

That's better.

Character Assessment via Wallet

2011-10-24T11:18:00.008-05:00

I just emptied the contents of my wallet on the kitchen table in an effort to locate a business card shoved into the crevices months ago. It's time for propane set-up at the new house and I could have sworn I grabbed a card from the propane place the last time we picked up hay. (Cuz, remember, you get hay and propane AND a carwash all at the same joint in our 'hood).

What I found in the grimey depths of my old battered wallet was pretty eye-opening. I'm a very interesting person apparently, or so it would seem, if you do a snap judgment based on what I choose to store in there. Sure, there's all the usual suspects like the rarely-used check-book, miscellaneous credit cards, most of which we opened just for the build. (If you're gonna spend a ton of money, you may as well earn 5% cash back on pedicures and dinner at Joe's Crab Shack, right?). Then there's the year's worth of receipts stuffed into a pocket, placed there out of guilt after some purchases I shouldn't have made, hoping I'd convince self to return the things. And the old id's (I WAS 21 ONCE?!), the college id, the grad school id. The gym membership id. Let us all pause and laugh for a moment at our woefully forgotten, and shamefully hidden (expired) gym memberships. You know you've got one in there.

The bottom pocket is crammed full of a colorful assortment of business cards: cards for shops I loved so much I wanted to remember (O'Brien's antiques in Lockhart!), cards of friendly people met in the spring milking class (why didn't I ever give that chick, Laura, a call?), cards for professional folks met at old jobs who I thought would be handy members of my network (that sounded less pretentious in my head), and the punch cards of good intentions - punched only once. These are the: "buy 10 loaves of bread and then we'll donate the cost of your 11th loaf to the local foodbank," or the "buy 10 sandwiches, and we'll donate the cost of your 11th to the Nature Conservancy," or the less charitable, "Buy 10 cups of coffee, and get your 11th upgraded to a vente grande XL super duper oversized cup - for free!"

On top of the pocket crammed full of these incredibly essential cards, I've stuffed four wilted and bruised old fortune cookie fortunes. At one point each must have really struck a chord, since they somehow enjoy the honor of display in my crumb-filled wallet. The first fortune is just a fact I must have felt quite proud of. I remember pulling it from a cookie during a period of my life while I was simultaneously completing grad school, working as an analyst full time during a legislative session, and feeding cows: "Your ability to juggle many tasks will take you far." A funny "fact" to read now as I sit at the kitchen table at noon in my pj's feeling stressed at the prospect of grocery shopping. The second, among my favorites, "Allow your curiosity to lead you to the answer you seek." OOOHHH!! So true so true!! But what does it mean?! It's deep and lovely in a way I can't articulate. I think it makes me feel philosophical. Or metaphysical. Or something. The third is a "duh" statement, but made the cut anyway, "Luck helps those who helps themselves," and the fourth, which I probably pulled out of a cookie when I was feeling like I didn't have lots of choices, "Life is about making some things happen, not waiting for something to happen." Oh, how clever. Take THAT, life! I won't be bullied.

And in the pocket with those shameful receipts, folded into the tiniest triangle, is this letter I got from a kid I used to mentor waaaay back when. During my Americorps service. After college when I still thought law school was in the cards. And I was going to work for Legal Aid. And save the world and right wrongs, and all that. In the letter, this student wrote some sweet things about what I meant to her in such a way that I can't bear to open the note without literally shaking and crying. Maybe because she meant a lot to me too, and maybe because I didn't end up in law school, and I haven't saved the world.

It's not that I cherish all this stuff, but I just can't make myself throw it away, no matter how dirty, overstuffed and battered my wallet becomes. Also, it seems the anatomy of one's wallet is, in and of itself, a tiny ethnography of your own cultural self. What snap judgments would someone make if all they know of you is what they see in your wallet? I'm saying this today because of all that's been going on recently and how life can somehow cause you to go all introspective. Am I a good person? Do I make good decisions? Based on what my wallet may say, and despite any ugliness and frustration occurring in our current endeavors, I'm still pretty confident that I'm decent and, basically, doing ok.

That incredibly annoying line in that incredibly annoying credit card commercial just took on new meaning, and here it is to annoy you : What's in your wallet?

!!@#&**&$%#@$##$!!!!!!!

2011-10-18T09:21:00.005-05:00

I have both hands covering my mouth. It's a self-created muzzle, of sorts. And right now, it's oh-so necessary. On top of all of the other drama that recently threw a big 'ol house sized wrench in our plans, the septic guy now has to increase his prices significantly due to a loss of equipment in the September Bastrop fires. Not his fault, of course. Of course.

Of course.

But, what else will go wrong? Let me refer back to the past two years after which a normal, lucid person would have put the place on the market and found a home already standing: Don't. Build. Don't. Do. It. At the end of this project I do plan to create a list of "lessons learned," turn it into a hand-written manual that I'll likely sell on street corners out of a shopping cart, along with dead flowers and trash. At that point I'll probably just be mumbling to myself in gibberish and petting imaginary kittens - because by then - I assume I will have thoroughly lost my marbles. Although maybe I already have. (DON'T BUILD!).

Blue Door Farm?

2011-10-16T22:40:00.005-05:00

I'm trying the name on for size in honor of the color chosen for 2 of the 3 doors. The third is blue also, just a different shade. With such a cheerful color the barndo has suddenly taken on a cozier feel. Or maybe that's just my perception. Regardless, she's coming along very nicely. Very.

And Now, A Word From Our Sponsors

2011-10-16T22:35:00.003-05:00

In case you were wondering, the donkeys are fine. Well, better than fine - they are flourishing. How does one know their donkey herd is flourishing, you might ask (humor me)? It has something to do with their added weight, bordering on obesity, and general confidence around the cows. Lately, when Matilda goes in for her standard head-butt-against-any-random-donkey's-bottom-but-usually-Boo's-bottom maneuver, Boo opts for the undeniably courageous action of simply planting his feet, tucking his tail, putting his ears flat back against his head, and glaring at her angrily. This is in stark contrast to his regular response to a horn in the rear which was, the crowd-pleasing, sideways kick and run into the forest. Boo is many things; brave he is not. So in addition to the herd's relatively exorbitant weight gain in the midst of the drought, all the donkeys (Boo in particular) seem a little more carefree around the previously dominant cows. So what gives?

I'm not about to waste much time deciphering animal behavior, especially within the realm of the donkey kingdom. I mean, I've spent an embarrassing amount of time around donkeys for the past 2 + years and my major takeaways are these:

1) Donkeys only care about 2 things:

Food
Getting their way; and

2) Donkeys only care about food

Oh, I already said that, but you get my point. It's not the most sophisticated animal culture we're talking about here. My best guess about the recent tide-turning has to do with the five asses putting their heads together and doing some math. I mean the fact is, they outnumber the cows. Maybe they're fed up with being bullied at the hay ring, arbitrarily chased through the cactus for sport when Matilda's bored, and generally subservient to their bovine cousins. Once and for all, I think they realized they're the majority and decided to stop taking all the crap (i.e: they don't wait in line to eat hay anymore). I've said it before and here it is again: you can learn a lot from a donkey. And, it's true. I've said this before, like in my every day life to people I talk to. I'm full of brilliant observations.

Why all this livestock chatter? Probably because we've let the build so completely overwhelm our lives that I want to consciously remember why we started seriously talking about moving to the land in the first place. After all, the original plan was to use the land only as a weekend getaway for five or so years. Because of the livestock, I started missing the land during the week. I don't have a lot to thank them for, but I do thank them for that. And whether or not you understand why, I'm happy to admit how completely I look forward to seeing their stupid, smelly faces every. single. day.

Warning: I'm gonna quote Yeats in this one

2011-10-15T09:17:00.000-05:00

It may appear that things have been quiet on this end, but they have not. We spent a long weekend in Taos and Santa Fe and then work and house took over as soon as the plane landed Monday night. It's been one of those weeks. The only appealing activity is a glass of wine and back-to-back episodes of Modern Family. You know, mind-numbing drink and above-average comedy.

Not to be overly dramatic but (Yeats, comin' at ya) it appears that things, truly do, fall apart. It would be unfair to go into details, and they're not necessary anyways, but we've had a few issues with the build combined with irrational expectations on the job front and you've got a big 'ol pile of frustration. The build itself has gone in lightning speed. The house is dried in meaning all of the siding has been installed, windows and exterior doors in place, framing is done, house has electricity, HVAC, etc. However, even though the build itself started and neared finish in under two months, it's this monster project we've lived with for over two years. To come this close to the end and hit some roadblocks leaves me curled in a ball, sucking my thumb. We are so ready to be done. And that is a gross understatement.

Growing up, we spent our summers outside of Taos in the small community of Arroyo Seco, near the ski valley. I have lots of fuzzy, golden memories of that place. Lots. I haven't been back in a long time. Turns out, the smell of sage, burning pinon, and cold dry air make me woozy. The sight of adobe with a chili ristra hanging from the porch? Oh lord - forget about it. So this week I've been browsing through pictures from last weekend, wishing I were still sitting by a kiva fireplace, coffee in hand, the blue mountains standing beyond, like they always have. Looking just the same as they do in my earliest memories.

Surprise! More house pictures!

2011-10-05T21:57:00.000-05:00

If you're reading this then it can only mean three things: 1) You're back hoping for more unfreakingbelievable photos of the house; or 2) You're back hoping to finally read content that has absolutely nothing to do with the house (sorry); or 3) You're here by absolute accident in which case Hello! (and probably) Goodbye!

Regardless of why you're here, it's nothing but pictures today - we'll be back to our regular programming soon-ish. At least by late winter. So sit tight folks, it'll be a lot of slideshows for a while.

One side of house almost completely sided. The color we chose from the whopping 15 or 20 color options was "burnished slate," a grayish/brownish muted color that seemed the least offensive against the forest. As you can see, she's still a metal building, even though we're trying to dress her up a little.

The very first of my salvaged pieces being installed. That's an old 1930's door off a Blanco farmhouse. Original hinges and everything. Brings a tear to my eye. (You think I'm kidding?!) These doors have been sitting in piles for a few years so it's exciting to see that they clean up nice and are functional still. And, in my humble opinion, a lot more interesting than anything for sale at Home Depot.

Just a shot of the living quarters since most photos to date have been the open living/kitchen spot. That hallway leads to.......

Laundry/mudroom! This is the exterior shot of the door you see from the inside (in the photo above).

Oh, hello there! That's how she looks if you happen to be standing in one of the dry creek beds that cuts through the forest.

Front porch at sunset. There are donkeys in that pasture eyeing my granola bar.

Sunset from kitchen window.

I just like this picture. I don't know why.

Mythology and Other Truths

2011-10-03T23:05:00.000-05:00

It's only been a short time, but I'm pretty sure I've fallen for this place all over again. It seems pretty decadent, in a way, to get so much out of one thing over and over again. But then, when you set your expectations low chances are better you'll be pleasantly surprised. And that about sums up how we're feeling most of the time right now; stumbling around, goofy grinned and smacked-silly-happy. We're pleasantly surprised with the whole she-bang.

If I'm acting completely obnoxious, then I'm sorry. Actually, I'm not sorry. Actually, at this very moment, Jeremy is sitting on the couch beside me reading an article from a local magazine that featured the education system of our new little "town" in its pages. It's a bleak reminder of some of the disadvantages of this area. As a person in the thick of education politics and policy - maybe I should care. No, I should care. But then.....

With this front porch view?

And this bedroom window sunrise?

Like all things, the novelty will fade. But until then, it's pretty spectacular to see a place. Again. For the first time. Again. We knew about the school system, and bad roads, and "interesting" neighbors - well before we signed the title work for the property. You weigh your options, you take good with bad, find a view you like, shrug your shoulders and then - well, I guess you just hope for the best. I think it has a little to do with imagination or optimism. Either way, so far, thinking outside the proverbial box has paid a huge return in intangible currency. You've got to love the prospect of a place to love a place like this. And, oh boy, do I.

This weekend we turned the crooked purple shed into a boarding house for wayward horses starting with one tenant whose owners needed a spot until they can build a suitable enclosure. Layla is a wild-eyed yearling. She whinnies often, and it's thrilling to hear a horse prancing around just beyond the house.

A house in the forest and a horse in pasture was, for a long time, as likely as spotting a unicorn at the hay bale: not very likely. Seriously, I spent the entirety of winter-spring 2011 doubting that living at the land was anything beyond a myth I'd created. And now there's a horse in the pen, a house on a hill. One girl leaning on a cedar post looking at the dirt and seeing grass. A myth turned from fiction into fact.

...And Framing Is Done.

2011-10-02T07:52:00.003-05:00

A whole 5.5 days later, the framers packed up and left for good. All of the (enormous) windows are installed. Next steps: run plumbing and electrical, and install exterior siding. Stay tuned.

Is it done yet?

2011-09-29T21:16:00.003-05:00

I'll let Jenna add the commentary. I've been relegated to just posting pictures.

Don't Blink

2011-09-27T22:26:00.006-05:00

Holy. Moly. I'm still (almost) out of words. Less than two weeks after the foundation was poured, there's now a house standing. Shoot - I was knocked over the day the electric lines were installed so you can only imagine how I'm acting right now. Since driving up to this view tonight around 5pm, I haven't stopped clapping, giggling and jumping up and down. Right there in the middle of a sentence, I just lose control and start clapping. It's a fabulous kind of ridiculous.

Somehow the stars aligned and everything's moved faster than the original schedule. I'm sure some of this has to do with our builder's planning, and some to do with the framers being available sooner, and some to do with the universe smiling down and patting us on the head saying, "You had a real craptastic year. Here is a bone I will throw you." Whatever it may be exactly that caused the beautiful walls of this beautiful place to rise so quickly we say thank you thank you thank you.

And to our patient friends/family/readers who listened to the saga: Thank you.

Yea, yea, yea...I get that we don't have keys in hand and this is almost the beginning of a LOT of work on our parts to get the house finished. But, meh, I'm feeling pretty giddy right now. At this rate, I see spring goats in our future.....

View of living room/kitchen

Yep. That's a 26' ceiling in the living room. Who gets dibs on painting that wall? And that's a lot of large windows.

Proof: Jenna is dwarfed by gigantaur living room windows. Jenna is shocked.

Jenna delegates tasks: "Ma, you'll need to tile that wall, paint the ceiling, install light switches, and attach the sink. Thanks, you're awesome."

Um.

2011-09-22T21:02:00.003-05:00

Fresh out of commentary. Totally speechless. Here's the beginning of the house drawn on a napkin. So far - she cleans up pretty nice.

And then there was concrete...

2011-09-18T21:51:00.014-05:00

Saturday morning started LOUD, with a lot of engines, sputtering generator for the spotlight, and the coffeemaker. (God bless coffee.)

We stayed at the property Friday night along with the builders who have their own trailer parked on the land. Before retiring to our respective trailers, they warned us that the show would start no later than 4am and trying to sleep through the chaos would be pointless. Go to bed now - they said - before they themselves went to sleep at 8pm. Although we planned to come out eventually and watch the action, neither of us actually made plans to step outside in such wee hours. But there was no sleeping through the engines of the first three (of 14) concrete trucks, idling outside the door.

We pulled ourselves out of bed, fumbled around the coffee pot until some of the precious liquid was brewing, and stumbled out the front door onto a scene that I can only imagine is equivalent to a movie set. Huge lights shone a spotlight onto our little building spot while a pump truck, countless diesel engined machines, and several concrete trucks lined the front yard.

Men crawled over equipment and the home site like angry ants swarming when their hill's been poked with a stick. It seemed ridiculous, in a way. This little house we're building causing so much drama and labor. The early start time added to the heightened sense of drama but is necessary when so much concrete's poured in such high heat. You pour it when the sun shines and things crack before they've dried.

Jer captured a series of shots before the camera we've had for years pooped out - right there during the most noteworthy moment of our lives to date.

After a day that seemed not to end; it finally ended. This morning we woke up and took our first steps on the porch. The porch.

We managed to scratch a note in the slab before it dried completely. I was planning on the 'ol initials and date route, as people are so inclined to scratch their own letters into something that will last beyond themselves. But Jer thought it was better to keep things anonymous and maybe more meaningful.

So there you go. Just a little reminder that Five Year Plans won't always wait five years, even if waiting is safe. And responsible. Maybe life's a little too short for safe and responsible when what you're dreaming about's got a for sale sign and a fire sale price and is covered in weeds and junk that just aren't enough to scare you. Here's to Five Year Plans, and to changing them.

Speechless

2011-09-16T11:24:00.002-05:00

4am tomorrow morning the crew pours concrete all over this mother. From here on out I'll just be standing around the edges of the foundation with my mouth agape. A week ago this was dirt, now this pre-poured slab, and one week from now??

Right now my entire life is trim samples, concrete sealant quality, railing colors, wall texture choices, etc. So there's really no room for eating, sleeping, or concentrating. Please excuse the forthcoming total lack of farm updates. Bear with us.

Fire Safety

2011-09-07T09:14:00.007-05:00

Building started with a bang. By Day 3 we ran into two major issues involving underestimates about the height of the foundation and issues with the floor plan. Turns out the "slope" on which the house will be built is more like a "steep mountain" when grades were shot with a laser. At its highest corner the house will stand almost 8 feet off the ground, making it almost level with the treetops in the front yard. The living room will be a room with a view, indeed. Putting the house up high keeps us from having to dig it into the ground; something that would require retaining walls and the loss of a huge chunk of forest behind us - not an option - in my opinion. Why build a house in a forest, and then cut down the forest?

Blank slate - after builder's cleared.

We're not even a week in and already overwhelmed - BUT - we're building!! And anyone who says "Oh- building is fun!" is a complete liar, so we were prepared for total chaos when the process got started.

First of 45 loads of road base for foundation

The beginning of foundation forms!

Of course, the best news of all is that we were spared from the horrific fires in Bastrop, just south of the property. Had the weekend winds blown in the opposite direction, then our story might be ending just as it begins. Less than 20 miles separates us from the fire, and, as of this morning, the fire has grown to that size (or larger) in length and width. The magnificent Lost Pines forest is gone, apparently, not to mention hundreds of homes and farms. We're sad, and lucky.

So lucky, in fact, that when a fire started in our neighborhood in Austin yesterday afternoon, the firemen got it out quickly enough that it never spread out of control. In my panic, I started grabbing "essential" items and stuffed them into a bag in case of evacuation. Unpacking the bag last night, I found my choices baffling. Inside the bag I'd crammed a few crumpled credit card statements, my expired passport, a "Congrats - you graduated from college!" card from my parents, a ring, one sports bra, and my new pair of cowboy boots. You know - all of the items necessary to pick-up-the-pieces in case of a devastating fire. Probably, this means we need to come up with a list of what to grab and what to leave in case of a quick exit since I clearly exhibit poor decision-making skills. This morning the air is filled with smoke; from the east, from the west, from the south. But after four solid months of 100 + degree weather, at least it's finally cool - and that's something.

Because it's Good

2011-09-02T10:29:00.005-05:00

Driving back from the print shop just now, I did something for the first time. I had ordered the required 4 copies of large scale floor plan drawings, and they're needed on the job site today. It cost $48 for the bundle of papers. I didn't bat at an eye at the cost since $48 is relatively cheap when most costs in our life at the moment are followed by several zeroes. I paid and pointed the car home. At the intersection was a scene that's become increasingly ubiquitous these months and years since the recession began. In Austin, at least, the number of young homeless individuals rivals the number of Vietnam vets that we're used to see standing on street corners. On the left side of my car stood a young man carrying a large sign. He held it in front of his chest and up high so that the top was resting just beneath his nose. Only his eyes were visible above the top of the cardboard. His eyes...

I'm not a side-of-the-road-money-giver. There are many reasons for this decision, one I made long ago. It has a little to do with my own professional background working in direct service at non-profit organizations, and a little to do with my public policy training and government work, and a little to do with my general knowledge of economics and this economy. My "giving" decisions are grounded in self-proclaimed "reason" and are a mixture of Friedman's boot-straps theory and some confidence in means-tested, government programs. I don't claim these reasons are effective or correct.

Today, I saw a man carrying a sign covered in carefully chosen words, beginning with the sentence, "I am humiliated to be standing here." And those eyes pierced me, deep and black, beneath a furrowed brow. Without thinking I reached for my wallet which, on this rare occasion, contained a little cash. Pulled out a $5 bill. Rolled down the window. He sprinted over and grasped my hand. His face broke into an expression of absolute gratitude and anguish, and I mumbled "Good luck to you," before driving off.

This blog is never meant as a platform for anything beyond sharing a personal journey from one distinct life into another. That's it. I offer this anecdote today as nothing more than an observation that's important to make. The news this morning reported 0% job growth numbers for the first time since the 1940's, just two weeks after my employer threw me a lifeline - and offered a 6 month extension. Driving away from the print shop, carrying four rolled copies of plans for what will be an extraordinary home, I want to record this morning. Just a reminder. In this time of scarce resources: jobs, stability, and water - we have so much. We have so much.

Ordinarily I'd develop a quick and logical argument against extending a hand like that. It's so counter to my fundamental belief in the "teach a man to fish" ideology. Maybe I did it more for me than him. Now I can pat my own back and write it down here. Maybe I did it because I honestly believed he'd use the money for food and not cigarettes. Maybe I did it because it could just as easily be me standing on the corner. Maybe I just did it because it's good. And sometimes that's the best reason.

Roll Call

2011-08-31T21:29:00.006-05:00

Tonight Jeremy hauled Marta to her new digs in a field near the home site. He hooked her up to our completely legit electric pole and attached her to his newly installed water line. For the first time, he turned on the lights and started the AC without a generator, and she purred quietly like a kitten. I opted to stay at the house tonight only because I've just returned from a four day work trip. Jeremy, however, is settling in and as I sit on this couch alone I realize that, from now on, he will probably be there more than here.

We start building the house tomorrow morning.

We drew this house on a crumpled napkin over two years ago. Now I'm hoping that it is actually functional and not just the product of two kids playing with Leggos. Sometimes the primary goal (functional house) gets lost in the shuffle. And by "shuffle" I'm talking about the absolute chaos that was just the beginning of this process.

So let's review the damage:
Two years, three designers, two engineers, 10 builders, 1,849 banks, 5 appraisals, 2,000 feet of trench and one plastic cup. 1 Jenna. 1 Jeremy and a team of machines named Buster and Bambi. An audience of 5 screaming donkeys and 2 drooling cows. 730 nights spent dreaming about tomorrow.

I won't count on much sleep this night.

you've got to be kidding me.

2011-08-27T22:37:00.005-05:00

Over one year of painfully dry conditions. No real rain since last September, and even then, it disappeared as soon as it fell. Two years waiting to build. We officially OFFICIALLY break ground on Thursday, September 1. Equipment, port-a-potties, dumpsters and the builder's mobile office will be delivered at 8am that morning. Site prep and foundation are to begin that day.

And.

For the first time in, again, over a year, we have significant rain and storms forecast for three solid days starting Sept. 2. Rain and storms means mudslides at our property making work impossible. Universe, you are hilarious.

New Territory

2011-08-25T10:25:00.010-05:00

Simon, our cat, has terribly crossed eyes. He was a "house-warming" gift to Jeremy when he bought this house. Meaning: I really wanted a cat. Jeremy laid the ground rules for choosing the right kitten. He planned to stick his arm into the cage at the animal shelter, and the first kitten to crawl into his hand would win a ticket to our place. I figured it was only fair that we both get to stick our arms in there. A tiny tabby crawled into the palm of Jer's hand and her brother, a cross-eyed tabby/siamese kitten, batted my finger with his paw. Sold. The one-kitten house warming gift turned into two. The rest is history. We lost Cecilia, Jer's cat, years ago. But her brother Simon remains a fixture, nay - a menace, around this place. The thing is, Simon's got territory issues.

So really, I should have known better than to spray paint various items in the backyard and then leave them unattended for hours. Anything that enters Simon's front or backyard stomping grounds must immediately be entered into his complex filing system. Items arrive in his territory (car in the driveway, stray flip flop on the sidewalk, empty cooler draining in the front year - you get the picture) and Simon emerges from the neighbors bushes in order to quickly mark the object and add it to his coffers. Regardless of those severely crossed-eyes, the cat's got dead-on aim when it comes to marking his territory. He backs right up to the thing, tail straight in the air, intense focus in the eyes, and out squirts a stream of pee bulls-eye onto the object: "Mine!" The light fixtures and oven hood that I'd painted in the yard were no better protected from Simon's filing system than any of the car tires or shoes that he's claimed over the years. I know this, but in my idiocy, I still left them out there, inviting him to stake his claim. OH, and stake he did. In 10pm darkness I finally remembered to retrieve the oven hood, bent over to grab it and felt warm liquid pour off the bottom rim, over my fingers and down my elbow. "GRRDDAAMMITTTSIMMMMONNN!" I shouted, as our stealthy antagonist slunk by my leg and trotted under the porch.

(the targets)

So I'm wondering what we'll do with the little guy when he's moved onto the property. No cat, with even the largest bladder and greatest intentions, can possibly stake out that much territory. But by golly, I know he'll try. I'm worried we'll find him weak and dehydrated under a cactus, his stores depleted, after trying to claim every last bush, rock, and rusty tin can. At least the guy's got goals though, and that's more than I can say for most of us.

(the culprit)

And to follow this theme of claiming territory, it's important to note that we finally, actually, totally and really really really did - FINISH INSTALLING WATER LINES - 'cause nothing says "it's mine" more than pouring your blood, sweat and tears into 2,000 ft of 4 inch trench. Last night, at approximately 7:18 p.m., I used the plastic cup to scoop my last scoop of dusty dirt, rocks and sticks. Emptied it onto the ground beside the trench, coughed out a cloud of dirt, sneezed a pound of sand, laid down, shut my eyes, and swore I'd never clean another trench again. Just as this happened, I heard the familiar sound of the rock bar breaking rocks and peered down through one open eye at Jeremy who was, tragically, starting to dig a new water line for a trailer hook-up. Needless to say, the marriage is over.

Texas Tea

2011-08-15T20:14:00.009-05:00

Long ago, this phrase referred to that most coveted liquid that used to spew from wells across the state: oil. Nowadays, and in the midst of this drought, Texas Tea is something else altogether: water.

For three days Jeremy and his father worked to carve almost 2000 feet of trenches using insufficient rental equipment. My mother-in-law and both of my parents came to help cement pvc together for the lines, and today - the day that has come to represent the pinnacle of our stupidity - we cleaned trenches with cups.

Details are for another time when my heat-stroked head cools down and once the grime and pain of this day are only a hilarious memory. At 4pm, we all sat together in the "shade" of a puny elm (with air temps of 105, shade is a theory, at best, in terms of the relief is provides). If you panned across the four of us in slow motion, you'd assume we'd just completed the Suez Canal. Each of our mouths hung open slightly, lips cracked and lined with dried spit and crud, eyes dull and crossed, hair so sweaty that salt had formed around each strand. The only words spoken were from Mom who observed that, "You know you're dirty when you realize you've been chewing dirt." I laughed, which turned into a sneeze, which caused two columns of sand to shoot straight from each nostril.

To those of you planning to DIY a water line, let me offer a word of caution: if you find yourself standing in a four inch wide knee-high trench, stiff roots poking out of each wall, and you've got a plastic cup filled with dirt in your hand - then something has gone horribly awry.

Judging by the photo I just received from Jeremy (who is still inexplicably connecting water lines), our combined efforts this weekend may have paid off:

Sweet, sweet, blessed water pouring forth from crudely connected pipes and set into trenches cut with a broken machine, and then cleaned by a bunch of suckers. Suckers with plastic cups.

Local Narration

2011-08-15T19:27:00.008-05:00

A few words on Jeremy's recent adventure. It's important to note that, in these parts, feral hogs are an incredible problem. Not only are they notoriously aggressive, but they are overpopulated and consistently destroy property. My personal ethics on the whole hunting issue are that, if killed humanely, if the animal is over-populated, and it will be eaten - then it's something I can accept. Dwayne, Keith and other neighbors probably don't consider the ethics of hunting. They hunt because they always have, and they eat what's killed because it stocks the freezer and tastes good. In some ways this is the simplest embodiment of the locavore movement.

But back to Saturday. When Dwayne mosied up and told us about his planned activities for the evening, he shared the news by stating: "There is a man named Bob. I don't know a thing about him a'tall 'cept he's Bob. He's on a cable TV show, and he's filmin' a hog hunt across the street. I'm comin' along in case he's lookin' for some local narration." He said the last part with a wink. With that, he slapped both thighs, declared that the weather is "hotter 'an blue blazes!" and asked if we heard his gun go off earlier in the day. To prepare for the evening hunt he was "shootin' at the pink side of a red barn." I'm still scratching my head over what this could possibly mean but am intent on adopting such idioms and using them in normal conversation.

Men like Dwayne are a rare breed. He's a grisled relic of old west Texas, but with a cell phone and satellite TV. He mixes raspberry Jello into corn to attract the wildlife he watches from his night vision camera that live-feeds to his computer. His best friend is a beer-drinking Quarter horse named Chocolate. Four years ago I'd be horrified that Jeremy spent his Saturday night in the back of a pickup with this man, near an over-sized rifle, luring hog from the brush with sweet corn. I'd call him "simple" and mean it in a way that said I thought he was stupid. These days, I'm thrilled to hear he's tagging along with the locals, because it means we're local, too. And I look forward to the day someone looks at our life and calls it "simple," no matter how they mean it.

Bob

2011-08-13T23:41:00.006-05:00

Ok, where to start. My head is still reeling from my Saturday evening in the country. I guess I should just start from the beginning (I apologize for the lengthy post). This weekend was "Water Line Weekend." On Friday afternoon, I cut out of work early to meet the plumbing supply delivery driver that was dropping off my 2200' of 2" PVC. Shortly thereafter the rock saw delivery driver was supposed to arrive. Both were supposed to call before they headed out to make sure I was around to let them in. However, as Jenna explained in a previous post the "Yes, we'll call when we're headed your way" actually means "ha ha ha, you're silly, we're just going to show up and surprise you." Both delivery guys showed up unannounced, but to their credit the equipment delivery folks called after the fact to say the delivery may have already happened. Ok, whatever, that is just a minor point in this unusual weekend. So, my Fasha came over bright and early Saturday morning (like 7:15am, bright and early) to start trenching with the rock saw (see pic below)...he even brought his own umbrella. Once you get over the silly look, it actually worked pretty well.

Ok, so we're (read: Fasha is) trenching away and making good progress when our fearless neighbor and friend, Dewayne, shows up for his weekend "hello". So, we do the country thing and stop what whttp://www.blogger.com/img/blank.gife're doing to chat for about 30 minutes. Somewhere during the typical conversation covering the hot weather and the drought, Dewayne mentions that he is meeting Keith (another country "neighbor") this evening with his new friend (meet Bob) to film a hog hunt across the street, and he wanted to know if I wanted to join them. I almost choked on my sip of tea with a gurgled "hell yes!" Allegedly, this mysterious "Bob" (Dewayne didn't know his last name) has a cable show called "Hogs Gone Wild". While Google did indicate that a Hogs Gone Wild show does actually exist on the Discovery Channel, I couldn't tell that Bob was actually involved. Either way, we were going to meet up with Keith and Bob to film a hog hunt. Can it get any better? So, I head over to Dewayne's and meet up with him and his son, Colby. We hop in his truck and literally cross the street into the 100 acre land that Dewayne's buddy owns. We drive in a few minutes until we arrive at the tank. Here we pull off to the side and crack a few cold beers while we wait for Keith and Bob. After a beer or two, Keith and Bob show up...along with Davina and their son Jesse. Now that we have a nice little audience, it's time to attract the hogs.

Dewayne grabs the two buckets of some magical mixture of deer corn, water, and raspberry Jello (no lie). Apparently, this flavor is irresistible to the hogs...go figure. Meanwhile, Bob pulls out his AK-47-like assault rifle which is fitted with a night vision scope that also records video.

At this point, all the guys start drooling uncontrollably. So, we hunker down (that's right...hunker down) in and around Dewayne's truck. Right about now, the sun is starting to set, so it's time to get serious...and quiet. Apparently, this is no easy task for 12 year old Jesse...and his 50 year old father Keith. There's enough noise between Jesse shifting around in the bed of the truck and Keith trying to "whisper" the latest joke he heard in everyone's ear, to scare off a herd of elephants. Dewayne periodically looks at me, smiles and shakes his head, whispering we'll have to come out some other evening without the cavalry. I'm having a good time with or without any hogs, so I could care less.

However, in the end we're able to get the entire crew quiet enough for long enough that Bob holds up a hand and whispers that "hogs are coming!" With his infrared, nigh vision scope/video camera he spots a couple of hogs coming down the hill towards the corn (and us). Luckily, the moon was almost full tonight and poked out behind some clouds right about this time, so I could just make out some black shapes moving in the distance. Bob whispers that he's about to shoot, so we get ready. In rapid fire, he pulls off three rounds. Right about that time, I think I see a black shape about 50 yards away start running in our direction. For those of you that don't know anything about feral hogs, apparently they can be quite aggressive. Right as my brain is recognizing this dark shape that is moving in our direction, Colby yells out "he's coming our way!" Immediately, everyone is diving into the bed of Dewayne's truck. I wish I could have seen this from the pigs perspective, because that must have looked pretty ridiculous. Sure enough, this enormous pig comes up over a ridge and is headed straight for us. It veers off when it gets about 10 yards away and Bob finishes it off. I try to act cool with a casual "well, that was exciting." Meanwhile, my heart is banging against my chest and I'm checking to make sure I didn't wet myself. With surprisingly dry pants, I join in the toast to Bob for his finishing shot. Everyone grabs a fresh beer and heads out with flashlights to find the other 2 pigs he shot at. I walk over to look at the monster that scared 6 adults into a single truck bed, and it was pretty impressive. I would guess around 250 to 300 lbs. Then I hop in the bed of Dewayne's truck as we head to pick up the other hogs that didn't run at us. I had a moment as we're bouncing down the bumpy dirt path. I could totally get used to this lifestyle. Good people, simple living, and soon some very natural, unprocessed meat in the freezer. After we round up the animals, I "help" Davina and Bob process the pigs (by "help" I mean I held the flashlight and any large pieces of meat they handed to me as they worked). Now, I have a piece of back strap and a ham in the freezer just waiting for me to fire up my smoker. Overall, a good Saturday night. Thanks Bob.

Holy Electric!!

2011-08-10T22:22:00.006-05:00

The element of surprise stirs the most childlike reactions. I lose all sense of time and space when completely surprised, shocked, and awed. In fact, I've been known to physically spin in a circle, jump up and down, clap my hands inexplicably and unstoppably, and squeal - if caught totally off guard with a pleasantly unexpected surprise. Yea. I'm that guy.

So, you can imagine the scene this evening as we pulled up to the metal tube gate and saw the first four dark brown electric poles shooting up from the ground along the pasture fence. I clapped, spun in a circle, and squealed all at once. Jeremy rolled his eyes. Although I knew the electric company may be coming this week to install the lines, I was assured that they would call ahead and give me fair warning so I could come and monitor the animal situation. An assurance of calling ahead actually means, "I have absolutely no intention of calling you." And I've learned this is typically the case. As an FYI - few people who regularly deal in rural settings respect such piddly details as fence lines, padlocks, or "Beware of Guard Donkeys" signs. If you live in the country, the world is your oyster, and a closed gate is actually just an invitation to enter. Meaning: I've experienced more privacy and respect for property lines in my postage-stamp sized suburban plot of land then we've ever found on the acreage. Not that I'm complaining, mind you. Rather, I give fair warning to those venturing hither and yon in search of privacy - country folks are real friendly folks. They'll climb a fence just to chat you up about the weather.

Where was I? Oh, surprise electricity, that's right. So there we were, driving up the road in order to set out a new bale of hay to discover that "SURPRISE!" the company had somehow obtained our gate lock code over the course of our several months negotiations and had used it without warning in order to set the lines. Hallelujah - we (almost) have power! (Actual wires will be strung tomorrow). For the first time since signing the construction loan, there's tangible progress out there and, I'm not gonna lie, it's pretty exciting.

Piss and Vinegar

2011-08-06T20:45:00.018-05:00

Just in case you haven't heard, Texas is on fire. Every morning the meteorologists update the number of back-to-back triple digit temps we've had in a row. Currently I believe we're in the 50's. As in 50 + days that it's been 100 degrees or more. Day after day after day. The drought also continues to be of central concern for all the obvious reasons. For months this was compared to the drought of " '56" or of " '58," I can't remember which. I just know this rivaled what stood for decades as the most devastating drought on record. I heard the other day that we've now far surpassed the record. Everyone handles the weather uniquely. For me it's been a quiet resolve to just put the head down and carry on. After all, despite all the things we have accomplished in the 21st century, we can't change the weather. (Ok well, we CAN, which is likely why it's been so damn hot - but I'll try to keep my personal opinions regarding climate change out of things. For now).

(Don't try this at home, kids)

A few weeks ago Jer rented that monster, Bertha II, which he subsequently fell in love with and talked about wistfully for days after she was returned. As I mentioned before, she successfully bulldozed what needed clearing and smoothed what was impassable. In the process of all this dirt turning, a new bounty of Indian tools emerged from the ground, as I suspected they would since hundreds already cover the property. The largest tools: bone crushers, hide scrapers, diggers, and spear points, seem regurgitated from the ground everywhere. I trip on them each time I take a walk. At first it was fascinating and then they became so ubiquitous that I stopped paying attention. Yea, yea, yea. There were Indians here. They made tools and did stuff. Big deal.

But two things happened recently that suddenly made me take notice again: 1) We started seriously clearing for the build; and 2) I read a (fantastic) book about the Comanche nation (Empire of the Summer Moon). The tools, the culture, the original settlers that undoubtedly also tried to clear this land once? It's a big deal.

So I've been thinking a lot about people that make their minds up about things, hold tight and do what they've set out to accomplish. During the early-mid 1800's thousands of Americans spilled across the northeastern Texas border in wagons filled with paltry resources, staked a claim, and clawed out an existence. The Spanish and Mexicans came before this. This was more than felling trees, building cabins, and planting corn. This was also stepping directly onto soil swarming with Native Americans who's culture centered on war, territory, and pride. I think a lot now about this collision of forces that literally occurred on dirt where we've planted the four corners of our house. Different people all together but still filled with the same unbridled tenacity that makes you dig your heels in. Remnants of these folks are everywhere. The young forest on our front 5 acres indicates someone was here before and cleared the ancient woods some time ago to make way for..something. Crops? Cattle? The tools that litter the ground are evidence that the Tonkawa walked every inch, carved heavy, rough tools for food preparation, and then dropped the stone scrapers before moving along. Their nomadic lifestyle didn't allow for packing heavy. And in the midst of all this were the Comanches that would swoop in from the west, terrorizing the settlers and the Tonkawa, flexing their culture's war-based muscles, and re-asserting themselves as the true rulers of Texas. Again and again. In an old cemetery across our road sits a crooked headstone with the words scratched onto its face, "Killed by Indians."

In those days, people out here were filled with enough piss and vinegar to survive off this land, whether Native, Mexican, or American. They didn't have Bertha II or Bambi, the chainsaw, or gasoline to run any contraption. There was no AC to shelter them from the infernal summer. What happened in a drought like this without city water to fill a cup?

It's a bad time to break ground. I cringe for the electric company staff who are scheduled to set our poles and run the lines next week. During Jer's epic week of clearing, I worried about heatstroke every afternoon when I knew he was piling logs and pushing dirt under the sun. Not that we'd ever be driven to conquer land in brutal territory, but I've noticed how distinctly we fall in a category when it comes to tenacity. Despite the weather, despite any level of certainty about what exactly we're doing out there, we're moving forward. Our reasons are vastly different from those of the original settlers and Indians, I'm sure. But on some level, it's the same primal desire to stake a claim and live off the land of our piss-and-vinegar forebears. I've made piles of the Indian tools under various trees throughout the property. Some I'll keep but most I'll scatter again onto the dirt as a burial - or memorial. This land isn't really ours, it's just a place we've borrowed.

Leave of Absence

2011-07-31T22:27:00.003-05:00

As Jer mentioned in his last note, things are a tad busy in these parts. This evening represents the first night of my last work trip for this job. I'm far south on the furthest reaches of the state in a big hotel that overlooks the ocean. This morning began with cow spit and donkey bites and is ending with deluxe room service (thank you, job-that-is-ending, for allowing me to push my per diem to the absolute limit) on a plush king-sized bed. Strange day. Strange juxtaposition, this.

Last week I was also on the road with the work crew and dragged myself into the hotel bar after a particularly harrowing day, pulled self onto a bar stool and ordered a bourbon on the rocks which the bartender exclaimed was "sexy." I asked if it was "sexy" enough to be free, but he just stopped smiling and walked away. A girl's gotta try. There I was and here I am now in these artificially fancy settings wishing badly for cooler weather and for my hands in the dirt. In about one month I expect the land to literally get turned inside out with the commencement of construction and all that entails. Although I'm trying hard to enjoy my posh surroundings and the last weeks of this lovely job, I happily accept this leave of absence from cubicles and heels and power points, for a few extra hours in the woods. In fact, I've found that my most recent job search terms have deteriorated into "donkey groomer," "goat milker," "outdoor," and "forest." Not the most lucrative scope, I'll admit. It might be time to put the job search to rest for a few days.

Speaking of leaves of absence, we've been away from the land for almost a full week. Due to Jeremy's work commitments we decided not to head east yesterday morning and instead spent the entire day doing normal things. We made a big breakfast, helped a friend move (And then had lunch with said friend. Lunch with friends on a Saturday!) and we even - gasp shock pause - went on a date. Like, out in the city of Austin. The entire drive home was nostalgic conversation, reminiscing about the Saturday's of years past spent leisurely around the house. It was a nice - no a great - day. But I'll swap it with a dusty Saturday in the pasture any time. Any. Time.

Man Week + building "progress"

2011-07-24T18:53:00.003-05:00

One word to describe this week - HOT. We bounced around the 100 degree mark pretty much every day this week. Some days were punctuated with some cloud cover that made the 100 degrees only feel like 95 or so. However the other sunny periods were sweltering. I stayed out there all week only running the A/C (and generator) in the evenings to cool off the RV. Needless to say, I've really enjoyed today back at the house in the air conditioning holding at a nice comfortable 79 degrees. So, uncomfortable heat aside, I had a pretty productive week with Bertha II. With the help of a friend from work and my Fasha (pronounced "Fasha"), I was able to put about 40 hours on Bertha II and clear a pretty significant area. Between the 3 of us, we took out, literally, about 200 stumps, in addition to some full size trees. After averaging about 2 gallons of drinking water a day, we now have the 1500 feet long path for the electric company cleared along with my 1800 foot long path for the water lines (I didn't get to actually digging the trench). Also during the week, the water meter was installed at the street. So now, water access is just waiting on me to lay the pipe. The metal building has been ordered. The builders are finishing another job and plan to break ground on the slab on September 1. There's a lot happening in the next month or two. The more I think about what all we need to do, the more overwhelmed I get, especially considering my company hosts our annual convention in two weeks that brings about 3500 visitors from around the globe. Needless to say, there is some stress in our household right now. I just keep telling myself, it will all be worth it in about 6 months. Hang in there, Jer. Hang in there.

The Watcher

2011-07-22T00:09:00.007-05:00

In one short week the landscape has changed dramatically. The power of such a huge tractor was surprising in its impact. Suddenly we have a cleared path for a new pasture fence, a 1500 foot swath ready for electric poles, and the millions of stumps we created that look like multitudes of rude gestures, flipping the bird all over the place? Gone. No longer are we taunted by the ghosts of trees killed (necessarily) to make way for pasture. Big, bad, Bertha II flicked them aside like toothpicks.

Jeremy has fully committed himself to this week of destruction, clearing, smoothing earth and, well, lots of beer drinking, if we're being honest. I've spent a few hours most days helping momentarily and then wandering off into the new spaces he's created amongst the trees. The view has changed and only for the better. And I marvel at the fact that the same dusty acreage I've walked a thousand times has changed shape so quickly and become something new entirely.

Long after the sun set and the night sank into total darkness, we took a walk to the home site and stood at the "garden" gate that leads onto a path towards the "pond" (anything in " " denotes future plans for things that are, currently, huge piles of crap). Jeremy wore his blinding head lamp, slowly turning his head 180 degrees to fully survey the view. As he passed a distant corner of woods, two bright, sharp circles glowed back at us from a low branch. We stared towards the small orbs, so steady and wide that we started to wonder if what we saw was actually a set of eyes or something else. He turned away, plunging them back into darkness and slowly turned back. Again, the two orbs pierced us steadily and we started wondering what shiny object was tangled in the tree. That is, until one of the orbs slowly shrank, slowly became a half moon, then a fingernail shaped crescent, until...nothing but blackness next to one bright orb. "An owl!" we both murmured together, naming the only creature we know that blinks an eye individually.

I whirled around and felt an eery chill on this particularly balmy night. Suddenly, amidst this tangle of forest and vines I felt very tiny, not knowing how many such creatures stared at us this very moment, how many would encircle the house every night and peer inside. It's not a fear but fascination, as we enter the woods and learn how many beasts and spirits shrink into the landscape. It's easy when you rent a machine, put up fences, smooth the ground, and tame the land, to forget that you share this place with what was here before you. I'll try not to forget, and I don't think all these watchers from the woods will let me.

Das Boots

2011-07-21T09:28:00.002-05:00

After sharing my heart-wrenching story of the Great Boot Search, I thought it was only appropriate to show the outcome. In some ways this picture epitomizes my life if not, at least, my personality. Notice that my feet are resting on top of a case of San Pellegrino sparkling mineral water. That's right, my favorite beverage is a snooty Italian sparkling water. I told you my life was full of contradictions.

Boys Club

2011-07-17T22:21:00.005-05:00

Friday afternoon I made a mess at the local Tractor Supply. I'm in real dire need of some good work boots; not the kind that lace up and not the kind that turn my feet into two miniature ovens. Just some sturdy leather pull-on boots with a steel toe to ward off the cow's hooves when they step on me. My knee-high muck boots were just dandy until the temperatures rose above 100 degrees (sometime in late May). The rubber boots literally melt around my calves and ankles, and even though they keep my feet safe from mesquite thorns, they just won't do through the rest of this long, ridiculous summer.

I know the feed stores don't stock many ladies boots but assumed I could find something in men's that would work. It was a quiet afternoon at the Tractor Supply, and one by one, each employee came by to make sure the odd woman in a sundress was in the right place. The majority of the staff were older men in beat-up cowboy hats, their faces sun-wrinkled and leathered. They shuffled up in that bow-legged way that says most of their early years were spent on horseback, and in words jumbled by a wad of tobacco in their lip they mumbled, "May-um, cain I help yew, cuz this here's the men's boots. Do yew know there ain't no small men's shoes?" Um, yes thanks, that much is obvious - as a size 8 man's boot swallows my foot. "I've got huge feet - thanks for asking though!" I smile sweetly and turn back to a row of Justin's. Thing is - there ain't no small men's shoes and there ain't no women's work boots, either. I've met too many petite and tough-as-nails ranch women to think they go unshod into the pasture. So what's the trick, and why aren't we represented there on the aisles of the feed store?

After quite some time I finally stomped out of the store, leaving a pile of shoes behind me. The group of weathered employees who eyed me for an hour were now huddled near the edge of the shoes, speaking in hushed voices and glancing over at me occasionally - this girl in delicate sandals, leather purse and flowing sundress amidst racks of overalls, cattle prods, and equine wormer.

Guess I stood out.

Over the weekend I re-watched snippets of Giant. And not that I'm (at all) comparing myself to Liz Taylor's Leslie, but I'll be damned if her closing lines don't just make me grin silly: "Home? Where do you think I've been this breathless last quarter of a century? Home? Look boy, I belong here." Now I've got the words the next time I run into a cowboy in the boot aisle at Tractor Supply. Look here, boy....

And don't you worry about my pretty little feet. I found a nice, small pair through the magic of the internet, God bless it.

Meet Bertha II

2011-07-15T18:11:00.003-05:00

Bambi's big (and I mean BIG) sister came to visit us for the week. I'm taking this next week off to try to accomplish way more things than are possible in one week time frame (as Jenna continues to point out). First thing is finish clearing the 30ft swath for the 1500ft of power lines that will be coming any day now. I've been cutting trees left and right, much to Jenna's dismay. And Bertha here will help me remove the pesky stumps. Second thing is to clear the path for the 1800 feet of water line I plan on installing. Third task is to actually dig the 1800 feet of water line. This may require yet another monstrous piece of equipment (oh darn). So, I definitely have my work cut out for me during this next week, especially considering the 10 day forecast is a pretty consistent 104 degrees. God bless Texas weather during yet another unprecedented drought.

Anyway, back to Bertha, I had set up the weekly rental from our friends at Hertz. She was to be delivered this afternoon between 1:00 and 5:00, and I had asked for a heads up phone call so I could meet the delivery person for a quick tutorial. Well, I got the call, but the driver was idling on the driveway when he called. I was able to talk the driver (Dewayne, another one) to wait the 30 minutes it would take me to get out there. Upon arrival he gave me the, literally, 30 second overview of how to operate this $60k piece of machinery. It wasn't THAT different from Bambi...just bigger and badder! As soon as he left, I fired her up and started testing her abilities. Let's just say, it's going to be hard to go back to little 'ol Bambi. I was able to knock over 7 stumps that would have taken forever on Bambi in about 1 hour. I've already started planting the seed with Jenna that we may have to upgrade in the near future. We'll see how that pans out.

Viva La Persistence!

2011-07-10T22:04:00.005-05:00

That was the beginning - the first visit after closing on the land almost three year ago.

Notice the goofy grins that suggest we felt simultaneously adorable and scared sh$*less after purchasing this incredibly random patch of weeds. And we brought a pitchfork. A pitchfork. How undeniably inexperienced we were. (A pitchfork?!). You gotta start somewhere. If you're reading this then you're either a kind friend/relative, or you're thinking about starting somewhere. If you're the latter, then I beg you to look around for a patch of wilderness be it a backyard or a terra cotta pot. Grab your "pitchfork" - whatever it may be - and dig in.