Oh Canada!

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Here is my personal postcard to you from last Saturday spent across the border. Please click on an image to enlarge it.

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A snow-walled maze, iced slides, horse-drawn sleigh-rides, clowns, musicians and dragons, hot cocoa with poutin and beavertails, giant snow sculptures: Canadians know how to celebrate winter!

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.. .. In the maze.

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A one-horse open sleigh.

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And near the end of the day, here's Grandson in the company of dragons and musicians... looking like all the fun has fit him for a nap...
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Cold Blood

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Her body was brutally impaled and dangling from a fence. There was a trace of dried blood on her breast, the last drops her wounded heart had managed to pump out before it stopped beating forever. The wind blew a snowdrift over the ground below her to obliterate the rest.

If any positive thought could arise from this killing, it would be that the victim was taken completely by surprise. Paranoia nor reasoned fears had not darkened her days or caused her to rearrange her daily life in some protective, cautious manner. She lived every day to the fullest, satisfied and confident even on that last one when it must have occurred to her that she was very much alone. Perhaps they had decided to grab a bite to eat elsewhere and had neglected to tell her, or perhaps the wind and the falling snow had caused others of her kind to seek shelter, leaving her there alone. Whichever the case, it didn’t matter to her and she chose from the take-out offerings. That day she was not missing the pressures her society of friends imposed at such times.

He had been watching her. She saw him approach and immediately sensed danger, but it was too late. She tried to flee, but he was too big and too fast for her, and even though she zig-zagged and ducked and tried to swerve and wrench from his grasp, she could not. Death followed, not quickly, but violently, as he used the fence’s sharp point to run her through.

The killer was known as The Butcher, a serial killer and a cannibal, but in this case he abandoned her wrecked body. Habit and perhaps the psychological hard-wiring of his brain - not hunger – had driven him this time, which shouldn’t surpise us, for even Hannibal Lecter ate only the sliced off cheeks of his first victim, choosing to waste the rest. If her friends and acquaintances ever noticed her disappearance, they showed no sign, and the police did not file a report. Wind and weather would soon erase the reality that was her.

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I have the proof of his presence at the scene immediately before the violent act. My photograph, shown below, might be useful to any of you who might wish to do something to bring him to justice, but I urge you to let him be.
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This is a Northern Shrike, a bird who feeds on large insects, rodents, snakes and small birds. The shrike is a rare visitor to our place in the forest, but his arrival clears all other birds from the bird-feeders.

This afternoon I noted the absence of our usual feathered friends. Seconds later, the shrike swooped down, startling the one chickadee who must have been oblivious to his presence. They flew across the frozen pond, twisting and diving, the smaller bird perhaps only two feet ahead of its pursuer, and disappeared from my view.

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The shrike has no talons; it kills prey with its beak and by impaling it on something sharp such as a piece of fence wire or briar. I didn't actually see this, nor did I really find a bloodied body, but - inspired by Sling's blog yesterday - I thought it might make a good story... because it does happen. And, uh, before you tell me how grossed out you are, stop by a slaughter house - you know, the place that turns cows into those nice, neatly packaged steaks you occasionally enjoy.

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photo of a plate in Birds of America, edited by T. Gilbert Pearson

The Wild Heart


howls in woods near by
footprints in snow make heart shape
call from valentine
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haiku by Becky Harblin © copyright 2007
photo by WizenedEye © copyright 2007
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From Coyote, Shaman and Wizard, Happy Valentine's Day!
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From the Playground

Shaman's words float into the forest, fall like snowflakes, and pile up on my computer in a lovely drift. Often they are the inspiration for a photograph, a pleasant prod that causes me to don my barn parka (because it's big enough for the camera to fit under) and skis or snowshoes and go off in search of something that will reflect or illustrate her poetic creation. It's a game we're playing. Our playground is a secret blog known only to us, where her words and my images mingle and balance, teeter-tottering together.

Crows have been scarce lately. "The King's Trees" has been hanging around my desk for a couple of weeks, waiting for me to get a shot at their "black and primal selves," and then, yesterday morning they finally heard their cue.


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The King's Trees

One crow
rests
on top of an oak tree,
another crow
sits, alert too,
on the neighbor tree,
a maple.
Comfortable,
on the highest branches
their outstretched heads,
with penetrating eyes
focus
on whatever suits
their black and primal selves.

Or maybe,
they are simply half asleep,
each humming a favorite tune.
As I used to do
as a child
who climbed and sat
in beautiful trees,
feeling
like the king.

By Becky Harblin © copyright 2007
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Need

For as long as I can remember, I’ve wanted to perform. As a kid, my love of horses took me to rodeos and horse shows, and maybe because I was female and females had pretty limited career paths in the middle of the last century, I aspired to be a trick-rider in the rodeo. (When Ringling Brothers came to town I also wondered how I might become the bareback rider in the circus).

I painted and drew pictures too, almost always of horses and cowboys, and early in my grade-school years was recommended for Saturday art lessons at the city art museum, but my parents and I both decided that Saturday’s hours were better spent outdoors. My classmate who did attend the museum classes became a successful painter.

My mother thought to correct my pigeon-toes – and maybe derail my tom-boy leanings – by enrolling me in dancing lessons. I took tap, ballet, “modern jazz”, and acrobatic for years, and they put me on the stage for the first time. The excitement of costumes, bright lights and applause fanned the fire deep within me.

Cowboys played guitars, so I managed to get one on loan and talked my mother into paying for lessons, then convinced my dancing teacher to let me perform a couple of numbers during the intermission of a dance recital. I was probably the oldest dancer in the recital that night, and although I still enjoyed tapping around the stage, the singing was what I would remember. The songs I chose were “Tall Paul” (which had been a hit by every girl’s favorite Mouseketeer, Annette Funicello) and a G-Em-C-D7 tune (you musicians recognize that as the chord progression used in about half of all early rock’n’roll “hits”) called “Hand in Hand.” No doubt I was awful, but I sang and played my heart out...and people applauded.

There was another music genre rising in the 1950s. The Kingston Trio took “folk” music in a new direction, their acoustic instruments and voices speaking to me in a more meaningful way than the dance music that was rock’n’roll or the traditional (and boring) subject matter of “Go Tell Aunt Rhody” or “Frog Went a-Courting” (everyone’s first guitar songs), then one Saturday morning in 1962 a friend came to my house with an album entitled “Peter, Paul & Mary.” The hair on my arms rose as I listened, and on that day, unrecognized passions stored deep within me found a voice. By the next day I had learned every song on the record, and although I never thought about it, my rodeo or bareback riding career was a thing of the past. I have been a “folksinger” ever since.

So many things I’ve done have been for an audience of one kind or another: acting in a play or musical, displaying a photograph, doing a dramatic public reading of one of my husband’s poems; and now I’m blogging.

The need to create is a driving passion, an often urgent, aching need to express thoughts and emotions. It is a longing for connection, for the sharing of these passions with another human being. For me it is undoubtedly wrapped in complex, insecure egocentricity. My words, my photographs, the songs I sing and the roles I play give expression to an internal energy that aches to be released and recognized. I don’t fully understand why, and I have no choice: I am an artist.

Note from the Wizened Wizard: The next few posts will be stories about life on one North Country farm. Although they are not in chronological order, it is probably best to read them in the order listed here. So far, the stories are:

......... Farmer Boy

....... A Black Hat and a Buggy.

......... Haying

......... Farm Therapy

......... Some Scenes from the "New Farm"

......... July 4th

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July 4th

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Each year the Two Ponds Farms July 4th Celebration became more elaborate. In its second year - in addition to the now expected Cuban pig roast - a softball game between “The Italian Stallions” and “The Cuban Sensations” (featuring team t-shirts) was added, and Pierce’s cousin offered boat rides on the St. Lawrence River in his new party boat. .

Elam and Mary attended the “picnic,” which they could not have done if it had been called a “party.” The line between English and Amish ways, however variable in its location, was ever-present and defined their lives, and being true to their culture, a certain amount of rationalization must have gone on before Elam set foot on the boat.

A “party boat” resembles the kind of raft or float often seen in the deep water swimming area at beaches or camps. It’s essentially a 20’ x 10’ fenced platform floating on aluminum pontoons, partially shaded by a light roof, and driven by a motor. These boats seem to be favored by people who like to drink a lot of beer and feed a few worms to the fish, but on July 4th, this boat-load of Spanish-speaking New Yorkers and one Pennsylvania Deutschman in a black, broad-brimmed hat were enthralled with the sights. To the west, the International Bridge arched above the water. In the shipping lane, huge freighters moved deceptively fast, hauling their cargoes to and from the Great Lakes. On all sides, speedboats and border patrol craft raced frenetically. The scene was sunny and glorious, and Elam later commented, “This is the best day of my life.”

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On Sunday afternoon as the pig cooked, the rubber-hoop-throw tournament commenced: the ultimate decider of who would claim to be the King or Queen of the weekend.

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“The Hammer! The Hammer!” roared the crowd, and the hoop-throw champion screamed with the delight of triumph when the final rubber ring caught the top of the post and circled it for the victory. Cuban Sensations, Italian Stallions, friends and neighbors cheered. “Wait until next year!” promised the defeated.
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There were hayrides for all provided by Harry and Jane, and cow rides on "Kim" for the young and the daring.

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One of yesterday's mouths to feed became today's dinner, accompanied by a delicious Cubano feast.

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The crowd ate, then mingled and danced until all thoughts turned to the weekend finale: a fireworks extravaganza lasting nearly an hour.

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And then the work of the farm resumed.

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Some Scenes from the "New" Farm

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Few farms these days keep a bull, and most breeding is done by artificial insemination. This is the insemination station, a small "lab" where the semen is stored. Most large dairies hire an insemination "professional" to breed their cows, but at Two Ponds, Matt takes pride in doing his own breeding. The quality of his herd is a testimony to his success. .

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Nutrition is also critical to a successful dairy. Here Matt proudly examines his haylage while some of the ladies of the barn look on.
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The new bulk tank was so large that it wouldn't fit in the milkhouse. Here you see one end of it; the other end protrudes into the main barn... after a bit of remodeling.
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Sheila had been let out for some grass and a little exercise, part of treatment for an injury. Matt gently pursuades her to return to the barn. Note that this picture was taken before the new siding was in place (see bottom photo for a view of the barn after red siding was added).

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Ooops... an unflattering view of Shiela. As she was being herded back inside, she went down. It took three men to get her inside, right-side-up and returned to her to her destination. When that was accomplished, it was time to set new fenceposts along one of the pastures.

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This is the farm in summer of 2006. Isn't it a beautiful place to call home?

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Farm Therapy

She died in April. He remembered that the lilacs had been in bloom. He remembered her laughter; he remembered his helplessness. He could still smell a trace of her perfume when he entered her room, as he did too often. He could still see her in her place at the table; his daily wanderings through the house put him in confrontation with a hundred ghosts of her.

Raymond swung onto the ramp and piloted the RV northward. It was a straight shot from Allentown to New York’s North Country, and except for navigating the perpetual summer reconstruction of Rte 81 through the Poconos, the drive was mindless. Her face came to him again and he let it: the athlete, the scholar, the apple of his eye, the perfect daughter.

A few days earlier, Pierce called from the farm and asked for his help. Now that Matt had finished Penn State and left the farm for good, an extra hand would be a godsend during haying. “We just need somebody who can drive one of the tractors,” Pierce had said. Both knew the real need was Raymond’s, but neither cousin spoke of that.

You can’t be too self-absorbed and bring in hay. It’s hard work: hot, dusty, sweaty and exhausting, and Pierce’s crew approached it in good humor. They also approached it with care and caution, mindful of safety and efficiency, so for Raymond there was little time to dwell on his personal sorrow.

As the day’s heat began to abate and the sun was sinking, one of Sarah’s meals waited. Like so many farm wives these days, she worked off the farm as well as on it. She was a teacher and had summers off, the pay was pretty good (by North Country standards) and the health insurance, retirement and other benefits she earned removed a further burden from Pierce. She could milk the herd when needed (in fact, she and Pierce used to do all of the milking), and she sure could cook. There’s nothing finer after a day of hard work than a good meal seasoned with laughter and a sharing of the day’s events. Raymond felt comfortable at Pierce and Sarah’s table, sated by good food and the knowledge that he had been of use.

At the end of the week, the hayloft held 12,000 bales, the food that would sustain the cows who in turn would fill the bulk tank milking after milking through the long North Country winter. In a world where it’s sometimes hard to see how you can make a difference, 12,000 bales from the field to the loft is a significant bit of work. The experience filled Raymond’s thoughts as he headed south. It wasn’t until he neared home that her memory painfully reasserted itself in his consciousness.

Haying - part 3 of a story of life on one North Country farm

Harry and Jane were acquired in the 1980s, when Matt was a kid. They weren’t a perfectly matched pair of Belgians, nor did they work, except for taking family and friends on an occasional sleigh ride. The arrival of Elam with his Amish understanding of non-motorized conveyances changed that, and soon “horsepower” took on a new meaning. For some chores, the horses were no match for Pierce’s Deutz (or even for the old Allis Chalmers, for that matter) but they could pull a loaded hay wagon back to the barn.

Billy LaForty began working on the farm while he was in high school, more interested in the money that might be made than in the work to be done. Although Pierce didn’t often tell him so, Billy proved to be an able helper. His earnings were poured into an old Chevy convertible whose stereo system throbbed at only slightly greater decibels than its rattles. Billy loved driving the mile or so to the adjacent farm where heifers were kept, roaring down Pierce’s long driveway - baseball cap backwards on his head in teenage style - to the throbbing of a pair of “sub-woofers” that the do-it-yourself catalog had described as “able to crank out the juice that today’s tricked out, car-rocking outfits demand!” Riding shotgun on those trips was the bearded young man from another century sitting rigidly upright and holding on to his wide-brimmed black hat.

Unlike throwing some food to the heifers, haying is hard work: hot, dusty, sweaty and exhausting. Pierce would drive the old Allis Chalmers tractor that pulled the baler and then the hay wagon, the configuration resembling a short train. The baler's “kicker” heaved its forty-pound bundles onto the wagon; Billy and Elam stacked the bales and bantered.

Chatter and ribbing was nearly constant, and one day Billy was trying to center it on Amish hats. He thought his wisecracks were clever, but Elam scored a lethal blow: “That hat on backwards makes you look like the ass-end of a cow,” he cracked in his heavily accented English. There were Amish in the part of Pennsylvania where he grew up, thought Pierce, but who ever knew they could talk like that!

Another wagon filled, Harry and Jane threw their weight against the harnesses and turned barn-ward. They, like the men, sweated. Heat waves shimmered above the motor of the Allis Chalmers as Pierce watched them for a moment. Sarah was walking across the stubble, coming towards them with another pitcher of lemonade.

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