Lazy W Marie

Carpeing all the diems in semi-rural Oklahoma...xoxo

after the full moon

Monday delivered another unseasonably cool August daybreak. Walking from the kitchen door across the south lawn, two steaming mugs of perfect coffee in hand, I first noticed the humidity and then alternating pockets of warm and cool air. My eyesight was still blurry and dreamlike, barely awake, so in those stumbly moments, the brackish air around me seemed to manifest blue and pink, puffy handfuls of varying temperatures. It was an illusion, I knew that, but a gorgeous one.

To my left, of course, the sky actually was colorful. Oklahoma sun rises are surpassed in kaleidoscope beauty only by Oklahoma sunsets. Monday was no exception. Blues, pinks, and oranges. Silver and gold.

Later that day, after an easy run and half a day’s work, I walked back through this same space, west this time, downhill toward the shade garden. The sky had lowered and turned a suede gray. Still humid, but the air was stirred up now, all blended into one smooth, mellow flavor. Birds called from every side the way they often do only at dawn. Tree frogs and locusts raised the volume.

Full moon singing.

I spent some time cutting back sunflowers that were damaged from weekend thunderstorms. Thinking the whole time about Jessica turning twenty, I gathered enough for a hefty bouquet, set aside lots of dried seedheads for next year’s garden, and donated the rest to the horses and chickens.

(Besides sunflowers, did you know our horses will also eat arugula? Weirdos.)

Klaus kept me company most of the time, but he was often distracted by Meh splashing in the pond or crickets burrowing in the soft earth. My loyal pup appeared at my side half a dozen times with a muddy snoot and spiky-wet legs, belly, and tail. Little-boy happiness pulsing off of him.

I continued on emptying the raised beds of weeds and bolted leafy greens.

It’s a wonderful full moon task, this garden clean up. Right now is the perfect time for culling dead things, releasing what is damaged, and then letting everything rest. Since Monday I have grabbed an hour or two here and there, cleaning flower beds and working over exhausted vegetable plots, trying to help the farm catch its breath at this special time of the moon phase. Soon we will get another deep drink of rain, and more August heat, so this rest will be put to good use for new growth.

Just like in life, you know?

Wednesday night we drove to nearby Harrah to purchase a few round bales of hay for the bachelors.

Klaus accompanied us and smiled literally the entire time. I swear he puts of a certain kind of heat from his abundant joy. He loves truck rides so much.

When we arrived back at the farm and pulled through the barn to unload, Chanta, Dusty, and Meh thundered uphill and found us pretty quickly. They nibbled at a hay bale that was still wedged in the truck bed while Handsome wrestled, rolled, shoved, and pulleyed the other three behemoths into the barn. (We will eventually invest in a tractor with a hay spike; until then, it’s my husband’s brute strength that keeps things happening around here.)

We later dropped that delicious contraband over near the bonfire pit and deck yard, beneath some oak trees. I walked-rolled the big aluminum hay ring across the farm to encircle the feast.

I love fresh hay. Fragrant, tender, all shades of grassy neutrals and some green threads too. I love massive, dense bales that seem to be concrete blocks wrapped up in a flaky layer of goodness. Being stocked up makes me deeply content.

Early this morning, we took another walk south with perfect coffee in hand. Our Hot Tub Summit ritual continues. The farm was half wet from gentle overnight rain. The clouds were dappled, this daybreak as colorful as Monday’s but much warmer. The horses were standing at the new bale of hay, beneath the oak trees, eating breakfast (which actually appeared to be the end of a midnight snack). Sunlight from the east stabbed right through the steamy darkness and landed on the scene, illuminating all of it. Chanta’s hindquarters especially were glowing. Dusty took a deep breath and folded his legs to lay down. His big head lowered until his chin touched the wet leaves, and he fell asleep. Just as the farm was waking up.

Happiest of Thursdays to you, friends!
XOXOXOXO

 

friday 5 at the farm: early summer joys

Friday already? Yes, it’s Friday! Wow. We just accomplished another full-to-bursting work week and are sliding fast and furious toward the weekend. I couldn’t be happier. Actually, Handsome and I were just reflecting on how these past couple of weeks have been particularly satisfying. Filled with all sorts of boxes checked, obstacles demolished, attitudes refreshed. Prayers answered, too, let’s not forget that. We sure can’t take all the credit for being in a place of peace and contentment. Thankfully, the goodness around us far exceeds what we are capable of drumming up ourselves.

Real quick, how about a Friday 5 at the Farm?

Here are some things bringing me total and utter joy this week.

#1: Baby chicks are growing! Mama Hen and her little flock of six are happy and energetic. We love them.

#2: Some foot TLC, including new stretches and a topical anti-inflammatory. After a break that felt much longer than 3 days, I finally logged 8.2 glorious, humid miles between Thursday evening and Friday morning and am super grateful to be back at it.

#3: Homegrown salads! Every big bowl is layered with a variety of lettuces and greens, raw veggies, and farm fresh eggs. I could live on this meal. Actually, I kind of do.

#4: This overflowing trough garden and our new flat deck make me happy every single day. In the early morning hours, the light is lavender and pink and the birdsong is orchestral. By midday the dragonflies are buzzing low and I crave my best lawn chair and a good book for soaking up the sun in privacy. Early evening brings cooler temperatures and lacy shadows from those oak trees. And if we are lucky enough to step outside at night, we are rewarded with velvet black, diamond-crusted skies and lots of frog song. At any hour, I love to brush my hand across the globe basil planted here and bring the fragrance with me. Even my husband notices.

#5: An evening at Vacation Bible School with our Jedi OKC friends! Man that was fun. So many happy kids and so many stellar people making good things happen for them.

 

And with that, we are off to the next chapter. What daily gifts have brought you loads of utter and complete joy this week?

Carpe those diems, friends, they are rare and beautiful.

“I promise if you keep searching for everything
rare and beautiful in this world,
eventually you will become it.”
~T.K. White
XOXOXOXO

 

 

happy birthday week to meh!

This week we mark the third year that our little farm has been made so much sweeter with the addition of the world’s most magical llama.

The world’s most kissy-face llama. Who lacks a good sense of personal space.

The llama with his mama’s caramel brown fluff and his daddy’s eyelashes. Also his daddy’s distaste for horses. Also his daddy’s penchant for stealing garden produce.

For three years we have been cuddling, smooching, throat-caressing, and listening to the siren song of Meh, so named for the sound he made incessantly for the first two years of his life.

For three years our guests have laughingly endured Meh’s unwanted (but wonderful) advances, and we act like there’s nothing we can do to help. Ha.

When Klaus joined the party here, Meh was only a year old, so the two have grown up together and are best buddies. BFFs forever and ever, cross their hearts and please let’s go swimming now. Meh is the only animal on the farm who can play hard enough to satisfy Klaus without hurting him, and vice-versa. Our horses are known for kicking the lesser beings, not so much frolicking. Very disappointing for two playful boys.

We certainly owe Meh’s extreme touch-ability to Handsome. From day one, he held that baby and pet him, kissed his face and touched his legs, just like you would a colt. Meh lost his mama Seraphine too young, so this bond proved to be an extra blessing.

We love you, Meh. We love your liquid black eyes and those broomy lashes. We love your irregular spots and caramel-colored fluff, your pointed hooves and straight, usually wet-from-the-pond legs. Oh my gosh that velvety mouth and soft-whiskered chin.

We love how you boss the horses around but wait until the third position to eat. We love how you tolerate Klaus then beg for him to play when he is finally tired. We love your weird ambulance screaming sounds and sweet breath. We appreciate how you never spit on us! We do not appreciate how you eat the garden veggies, but your neck is so long and bendy, and you are so sweet otherwise, how can we ever be mad?

Keep on bouncing and loping and doing that swooping, underhanded roping you do with your body. Keep on napping excessively beneath the pine trees, having rubbed our landscaped trees down to bare sticks, chewing on probably very fine baby kale. You are worth it. We are so lucky to have you here.

You are the world’s best, most beautiful, truly magical and amazing llama.

And now you are three.

Happy Birthday
XOXOXOXO

 

lazy w honey maker update

You guys, this is gonna be “the year” for beekeeping at the W. I feel it. I feel it in my belly and my bones, and the stinging ladies whisper it to me every time I walk downhill. They dance in the sunshine and crawl between the clover blooms and beat their wings in a furious but happy Morse code message that says, “We like it here. We will stay. And if you get your hobby farming act together we will even make you some honey.”

I think that’s what they’re saying, anyway.

They’re probably Italian bees, and I barely remember my Spanish lessons from high school.

Let me introduce you to our three royal majesties who are each overseeing a completely unique colony, each acquired in a very different way too:

At the far left, nearest the pond, we have Princess Grace. She and her bees are building up their population at an incredible rate since last Spring, when my friend and fellow beekeeper Terry brought that swarm to the Lazy W. With Grace we enjoy gentleness, calm, and elegance, plus important lessons about leaving too much space in the hives, lest industry takes over and the bees one day explode with burr comb. Ahem.

Princess Grace, from a captured swarm… xoxo

Near the center of the middle field is Queen Shakira: So named because she and her ginormous family literally never stop dancing. Ever. And she can be a little spicy, but oh how beautiful! How dangerous and mesmerizing! I want to draw your attention to Shakira’s upper box, painted as a tribute to the 1980’s. Here we have Mr. T as well as a “Bee Box” instead of a beat box. Ha! Get it? There’s even more on the unseen sides. I have my talented and hilarious husband to thank for this treasure.

This was a “package” of bees I purchased at the 2016 spring conference, delivered from the vendor a couple of months later while I was visiting Jocelyn in Colorado. In my absence, my friend and mentor Maribeth and our (now mutual) friend Amber cared for this small group of stingers until I returned home. Handsome took charge of assembling and painting the wooden ware, and by the way he is the best hive artist ever.

Since then, month by month, Shakira and her fuzzy humming clan have grown like gangbusters. They have more than filled up the first deep box, overflowing out of it really, to the point that I recently added that second box you see. The concern was that the bees were so overcrowded they might swarm out on a warm spring day. I waited until winter weather had passed (specifically, until we had 24+ hours of temps above 55 degrees) then supplied them with new frames sprayed down with sugar-water (to encourage them to draw out the comb) and am continuing to feed them heavy syrup infused with drops of “Honey Bee Healthy” for their guts and immune systems. So far so good! They are still here, and they are voracious.

So, Shakira now has an upper story and deserves it. She has a bottom deep stocked with brood and honey and pollen, and I could not be happier. She and her bees seem to be draining their syrup supply faster than the other two hives. I suppose all that dancing? No pests yet, hallelujah.

Queen Shakira on the left (a purchased bee package one year old) and Queen Anne of the Damned with her Las Diablas on the right (cut out colony from this spring). That is my running trail in the back ground.

Nearest the Pine Forest you see the new home of Queen Anne of the Damned, matriarch to all of her Las Diablas: This queen got her cool name because the kids in charge of naming her originally suggested “El Diablo,” the translation and literary connection for which was too good to resist. Shout out to our fellow Anne Rice fans! Her drones, of course, shall henceforth be known as Los Diablos. Love it. Ha!

This is my brand new colony, the result of my first “cut out” supervised and assisted greatly by Maribeth. An old friend of my husband’s (my friend now too) contacted me several weeks ago reporting that while cleaning out a shed, he and his brother discovered honeybees. He asked whether I might want them then sent photos. It was an established hive, tons of gorgeous comb, not a swarm, so we were in less of a rush than we might have been.

This is me painting the shed with mouthwash, where we had removed honeycomb. It is supposed to discourage bees from returning to that spot.

I basically could not say yes!! fast enough and scrambled together a plan. About a week later (holding our breath through some risky wintry weather) Maribeth and I performed the cut out, photographed almost the entire time by our friend’s brother Eric. LOL He was super chill!

Thank you for documenting the fun, Eric!

He wore an extra bee jacket but no gloves and was right up there with us, just quietly admiring nature. I had the best afternoon! Then Maribeth and I installed the bees here at the farm, with a classic Oklahoma sunset lighting it all up. Magical. 

Since that exciting afternoon, things have gone remarkably well. Queen Anne and her Diablas have acclimated to their new surroundings, happy I am sure to still have so much of their native comb. These bees came with loads and I mean loads of capped brood, dozens of baby bees already hatching, pollen in colors ranging from pale yellow to crimson, and a little honey. Maybe enough to feed on during the dry weeks ahead of nectar flow.

I am so very thankful to our friends for thinking of us and letting us wait a week to fetch the bees safely! Eric and Erin’s mom Lynn gets first dibs on Anne’s honey harvest!

The only hurdle I have so far noticed for Queen Anne is that Meh the llama, or possibly my horse Chanta, has been happy to knock the lid off in search of that sweet syrup. Which is so dumb! Because often we have looked outside to see one or more of the three bachelors running away and rodeo kicking in objection to (most likely) a sting.  They were doing this to both Anne and Shakira.

Dumb, the narrator said darkly, shaking her head.

Anyway. A few strips of duct tape and two ratchet straps later, the problem seems to be solved. I am just so thankful that at each disruption, the bees were nonplussed. 

Maribeth answers my questions tirelessly and offers complicated but useful guidance every time something changes. I love and appreciate her so much for this. Beekeeping is nuanced, and my learning curve has been a roller coaster for sure. I also love that she makes a point to ask about my Papa Neiberding often. I also also like that my bees tend to sting her a lot more than they sting me. That’s funny. I’m sorry but it is. 

Okay, that’s it for now! I could talk about this cool stuff all day, but I don’t really know what you guys think of beekeeping, or how much you want to read about it, ha! So if you have any questions feel free to send em!

“Plumbers get wet
and beekeepers get stung.”
~Maribeth Snapp
XOXOXOXO

 

rest in peace chunk-hi

So many memories.

We brought him home in 2009, a wobbly, golden-fleece baby with the biggest, blackest eyes you have ever seen. His square nose was wet and leathery even then, his shiny hooves narrow and tentative. We fed him enormous bottles of warm formula twice a day for more than ten months and touched and cuddled him constantly. He needed very little time adjusting to the farm and quickly learned that we meant only love and treats, never harm. Barely bigger than a large dog, he ran to us, circled our legs, jabbed his woolly head toward our ribs for extra milk, and welcomed vigorous face scratching and long-distance French kissing. (Have you never tongue-kissed a buffalo? Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it.)

chunk-baby-trailer

He loved graham crackers the most, then vanilla wafers, and of course slightly stale Chips-ahoy cookies. He loved to run and play with the other four-leggeds and probably thought he was a horse. 

In fact we often had him in the same pasture as Daphne, our black mare, and he sought after her maternal affection daily. She granted it when she thought no one was watching. You might remember his stunning display of love and mourning for her the day she was dying.

Chunk chased away mean spirited geese. He nibbled acorns from the trees. He swam in the red dirt pond and carved wallows in the sandy front field. He was gracious to every single farm visitor and never once broke out to roam the neighborhood. He was sweet to our rambunctious puppy despite having been attacked by our older dogs years ago.

Once my husband painted Chunk’s horns, and I will never forget that. The striped adornment lasted a couple of weeks, making him possibly the most festive buffalo ever in history.

buff painted horns

 

If ever we provided this big boy a large bale of hay and sat it down in the wrong direction, he took great pleasure in unrolling it, just like a giant cinnamon roll, diagonally across his field. Then he would lay in the thin exposed layer and just kind of spread the hay all around himself, like a huge buffalo nest. He would chew some cud and look at us like, “What are you gonna do about it?” 

Nothing, baby. You enjoy.

In recent years, at sunrise it was crucial to feed him first, before the chickens and noisy geese, certainly before the horses and llamas (both his friends and competition), because as soon as Chunk noticed signs of life from the house he started ramming that wide forehead against the metal cattle gate, not really trying to get out, just letting us know that breakfast was a fantastic idea.

He once got inside the house; have you heard that story? He was a youngster. He trotted right through the open front door, slipped all over the wood floors, ice skating on those pointed split hooves, then made quite a spectacle of himself getting collected back out through the same door.

chunk tiny horns with me

He has never ridden in a topless car like in that famous video, but he has done his share of damage to pickup trucks.

And four-wheelers.

And buckets.

And wheel barrows.

And lawn furniture. (My gosh that was quite an afternoon.)

And barn doors.

But he never once hurt a person.

His name is a purposeful distortion of what we had originally named him, Chunk-shi,  which is Lakota for daughter. We had thought we were adopting a little girl, and by the time we realized the mistake the name had stuck really well. So we easily dropped a consonant and anyway everyone just called him Chunk.

chunk dusty ibaka caption

During basketball season we yelled in our best NBA announcer voices, “CHUNK HIII FOOOOR THRRRREEEEEEE!!!!” Not for nothing that the OKC Thunder mascot is Rumble the bison.

Beautiful Boy

Every winter he built up a massive coat of thick, wiry hair around his shoulders, a mane of epic proportions which he shook wildly when it snowed. He clothed himself in the thickest, most beautiful coat of velvet, impenetrable and tightly woven against his beefy midsection. His legs boasted giant pom poms of buffalo fluff that always made me think of Native American dancers and New Orleans parades.

chunk-boys-ice

In the coldest weeks of winter when the water troughs froze overnight, he helped break the ice with his horns and skull. I clearly remember the first time I saw him do it. I had carried a sledgehammer outside, planning to drop it vertically from a small distance, smack onto the surface of the ice to bust it apart and reveal the cold water, but he beat me to the task. He raised up that massive, gorgeous head, twisted it sideways, and smashed it with impressive force just twice until ice blocks flew and frigid water splashed, beading on his face and eyelashes. I swear he looked me right in the eyes and said, “I got this Mom.” From then on we heard him smashing ice regularly, like he was happy to take on that farm chore. Or maybe it was just for fun. His equine companions were only too happy to enjoy the fruits of his labor.

For every winter that Chunk grew that spectacular coat, he had a summer for shedding. He would scrub his body against every tree that still had bark. He allowed us to gently drag a plastic garden rake against his back and belly. He would stand still to see if you could get a grip on that velvet and pull hard enough. That coat was remarkably devoted to staying attached to his body until the temperatures outside were just hot enough. Then we knew summer had finally arrived because suddenly he was nekkid and the farm was a snow globe of buffalo fluff.

crazy eyes chunk april 2014

Echoes of Chunk-hi

After he left the farm this past February to live on a gorgeous, 300-acre ranch with his new ranching family, I continued to hear his voice. He had a deep, bellowy voice, a snorting baritone that sounded a lot like howling wind and also like Tibetan meditation bowls. Otherworldly sometimes. For weeks I heard him every morning when I fed the other animals, and a few times I also thought I saw him in a sand wallow, peeking around an oak tree. He was big, huge even by bison standards, but he had a talent for winding himself up small like a baby and tucking into the shadows, just chewing his cud.

We miss him so much. We have missed him every day of every week since he left the Lazy W, and we have been deeply conflicted about the decision to find him a new home. But our reasons were sound, and the family who took him on are wonderful ranchers, smart and loving.

Chunk was given the opportunity to roam almost free, just like a wild buff, and he also had a girlfriend named Molly. After a period of acclimation, they enjoyed a long honeymoon toward the close of summer, and for this we are so grateful. 

Horrible News

One day recently his new caretakers discovered Chunk badly injured, his back broken, probably from a fight with another bull or from vigorous love making with Molly. We were shocked and heartbroken by the news but held onto hope that he might heal or that their vet might find a solution.

Unfortunately, with medical attention and prayerful observation, his caretakers made the decision to take away his suffering, so as I share this Chunk is no longer with us.

Days later, reading those words is a fresh stabbing pain. I still cannot believe it. We had thought he might leave the W to live out his years on the Oklahoma prairie, maybe start a herd of his own which is what we envisioned back in 2009 when we first brought him here.

Our shock and heartbreak now are not all that much different from the excruciating decision to first say goodbye, and of course, in that awful bittersweet way, we feel some relief that he is no longer in pain. Because surely a broken back would have been so very painful. 

Perspective

Trying to boost my spirits recently, my husband laughed through his own tears and said, referring to the idea of Chunk breaking his back during lovemaking, “What a way to go!” Ha. I guess so.

After being rescued from a hunting lodge, Chunk spent more than seven years living a really full, healthy life. He touched the lives and hearts of dozens, maybe hundreds of children and adults, most of whom would never have otherwise experienced an American Bison up close and personal. He was part of our family and identity. An absolute fixture at the Lazy W, where he has been recently missed by people and animals alike. 

I doubt any bison has ever been so loved. 

Hope and Love

As always, of course, there is a glimmer of hope and a need for love outpoured.

The long summertime honeymoon Chunk enjoyed with Molly gives everyone the idea that she could bear his calf next spring. My hope is to stay connected to the ranchers there and share the good news with you guys if it happens. Chunk was such a beautiful boy, so sweet and good in every way. I know his baby will be special. 

Please send some loving energy to the folks who took on the burden of caring for Chunk in this chapter of life. They are in pain too, having had to make the decision no farmer or rancher wants to make. In just a few months they had bonded tightly with our big boy, which is no surprise to me. And of course, they are caring for Molly, who could bring Chunk’s herd into the world after all. 

Thank you for reading, friends. I know many of you who never met Chunk still feel the loss. (Thank you Suzanne for saying all the right things last week.) And if you ever visited the farm and kissed or fed Chunk-hi a cookie, thank you for that too. You helped give him a life brimming with love and affection. You made him love people and you enriched our home.

chunk-bw-eyes

Rest in peace Chunk-hi.

You are the prettiest one my baby.
XOXOXOXO