Lazy W Marie

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

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a harrowing week

Last Monday, late morning, I was in line at the grocery store when our neighbor Lisa texted me. She was just celebrating the beautiful sound of our new cows mooing. We chatted briefly about planning a visit for her granddaughter to meet them, I paid for my groceries, and I walked to my car. About a mile down the road, a vague anxiety bloomed all throughout my body, and it took me a moment to recognize why: Our cows were not given to much vocalizing. In the few weeks since these girls had lived at the Lazy W, Shelby mooed only a handful of times, and Frosty Rose even fewer times, and then only in squeaks. Shelby’s calf due date was that coming Saturday. I drove the remaining eight miles home well above the speed limit.

Sure enough, Shelby was tucked inside her cozy little cabin, mooing passionately and in intervals, her calf halfway out of her. A silvery membrane was still netted around his face, his pink tongue barely showing against his gums, two perfectly straight front legs raised up ahead of his entry to the world. I texted my husband first then called our neighbor Rex, who had already offered to help deliver the calf if she went into labor when he was home.

I knelt behind Shelby’s shoulders and petted her enormous head and fuzzy ears, stroked her face and belly and hips, kissed her all over between pushes. She craned backwards to accept the love, laying on my lap, and she was sweaty, just like a horse in summertime, despite the crisp temperatures outside.

With each natural urge to push, she bellowed and let her body flex and extend and follow the shape of her pain. Her baby slipped several more inches but then got hung up around his midsection. Rex arrived so quickly I thought he had teleported. He shoved his big hands into leather gloves and immediately knelt down, whispering with authority and urgency, “Marie we have got to pull this calf.” He took one skinny leg tenderly in his hands and worked to find purchase. Then he took the other. Gradually, we shared the task, pulling in unison and wiggling the baby firmly and gently, until all at once he was loose and Shelby heaved with relief. A great whoosh of pinkish clear liquid spilled onto the oak leaves and straw of her cabin floor, and Shelby was suddenly so still and quiet I checked her before I checked the baby. She was ok, just stunned and, I can only imagine, relieved. She looked directly into my eyes and just exhaled. Rex was already wiping down the calf, massaging him and checking his little body all over. He was red and white, just like his mama, with that precious angry-sweet cow face and four of the most perfect, narrow little hooves you have ever seen. Smooth edges and glowy white, like they were carved from ivory.

Our other neighbor, Jerry, walked up outside the fence just as Rex and I took the calf out to the sunshine to try and warm him up and revive him. “Jerry, we have a baby!” I still felt like it was good news.

“I know,” he said calmly, like an assurance, “Brandy called me.”

Jerry found his way through the vegetable garden and joined us. Shelby was alert but still laying down. He checked her to make sure all the placenta was vacated or removed.

This entire time, Rex laid his fatherly body across the small, cold calf, embracing him and using a towel to dry him off and try to stimulate breath and blood flow.

My husband arrived soon, as did Jerry’s girlfriend (it was a small miracle that Meh allowed her to traverse the middle field, unharmed). All of us weaved through each other in the little makeshift birthing center, hoping for signs of life with the calf and watching for signs of health for mama.

Time stood still, so I have no idea how long we were actually there, but eventually we all agreed the calf was stillborn. It was a surreal moment. For a few weeks, we had been watching for signs of labor so closely, and we had made so many changes to the paddock in anticipation of having a newborn so close to winter, just everything. All the disappointments and then all the immediate worry of, “What’s next?”

Jerry generously offered to remove the calf for Shelby’s benefit and bury him on his property. That was a hard choice but a quick one, not overthought. All of our wonderful helpers went home brokenhearted.

Shelby was up on her feet within about twenty minutes, greedily feasting on hay and fresh water. She stayed up the rest of that afternoon, and we watched to see that the bleeding did stop.

The next two days were crushing, just watching Shelby search for her baby. I had heard of this before, of mother cows in a dairy setting panicking when their babies are forcibly removed. We hadn’t done that, of course, but she had no way of understanding. At some point she caught sight of Klaus from about forty feet away and charged him with her head low and straight. He was safe on the other side of the fence, but it got his attention.

We were sad to lose the calf, but our overarching emotion that week was gratitude that Shelby was ok. So thankful that a difficult delivery didn’t appear to hurt her.

These hard days happened to run parallel to a separate heartbreaking drama on the farm. Crises so often come in threes. Meh, our nine and half year old llama, had recently tapped into an unprecedented depth of aggression towards the horses. His seasonal hormones seem to have been exacerbated by several circumstances outside of our control. He had been out of control and, honestly, scary at times. We no longer felt safe allowing dogs or visitors anywhere near him, and more and more we agreed that the horses, though they can defend themselves, should absolutely not have to.

So we were in that deep, dark belly of making the excruciating choice to rehome him before he truly hurt anyone. We found a livestock ranch in Texas where he could possibly live out his life in the midst of a full herd of llamas, male and female. We even told Jessica and Alex they might want to come say goodbye.

Then Thursday came.

Just two days before her official due date, Shelby had a perfectly normal morning. She came up for breakfast right at daybreak, accepted scruffins and cuddles, then dismissed both Klaus and Frosty Rose, as was her habit.

Around lunchtime I strolled outside to check on her and found her laying on her side, her head facing downhill. From the patio I could see her big, fuzzy red belly moving slowly with even breath, so I jumped over the red gate and ran to her. The dirt and oak leaves around her legs were all fanned out like a snow angel, signaling that she had been struggling to get up. She woke up readily, again looked me straight and deep in my eyes, and mooed in a pitch I had not heard before. It sounded like pleading.

I called my husband, skipping text, and he got home faster than I knew was possible. In the waiting minutes, Shelby accepted my hands and arms and love. I prayed hard and felt a sharp, nasty fear rise up. She was bleeding now, more than on the day she lost the calf, and her utters were full and (in my unprofessional opinion) pretty warm. No other obvious or outward signs like bloating or injury. Her eyes looked clear, just panicked.

I am hardly a veterinarian. I was struggling to assess her situation, and really all I could do when I spoke with helpers was describe what I was seeing. But it was obvious she was in trouble.

We called country vets and animal hospitals in Choctaw, Shawnee, Harrah, Lexington, and more. No one was available to come help us, but a few doctors managed to text and talk us through the ordeal over the phone. We conferred with ranching friends and colleagues and asked all our friends to pray. Thanks to these trickling conversations, we felt less alone and slightly less powerless to help her.

My husband was incredible. He always pounces into action, but this night he was called to tasks far beyond what we expected when we brought these girls here to live out their lives. He fought to hold her up as much as possible. And friends, even “mini” cows weigh several hundred pounds. He fought to locate her appropriate veins. He fought to discern shifting medical advice. And he fought full body cramps of his own, all of his muscles seizing up throughout the ordeal of supporting her weight while trying to be gentle.

We administered an antibiotic to start, still hoping we could find a vet. Then gradually, the consensus was that she could have something commonly referred to as Milk Fever, which is in short a calcium deficiency brought on by calving. This is treatable with a certain medication. One ninety minute high speed drive later, and a huge thank you to our friends at Tractor Supply Co, we had two bottles of the needed medication plus fresh needles and syringes. I learned how to fill syringes on the fly.

Thursday night was long and cold and gut wrenching. We worked in the dark, with the sad glow of patio lights that had just recently been strung across the cow paddock to celebrate the new baby.

The wind kicked leaves in spirals and had us pulling our jackets tight. As the hours passed, when Shelby did not respond to the medicine as we were told she should if it was simply milk fever, our hope drained away. We prayed and begged God and cried, and honestly it was pretty raw and ugly. She was supposed to live here, not die here.

We had fallen in love with her, plain and simple. And she had allowed us into her lovely gaze profoundly and by choice, like a person.

I think sometimes we make the mistake of loving our animals so much we think they are human. Even worse, sometimes we make the mistake of believing they are immortal, safe from death because of their immense beauty and goodness. When they do die, because all creatures die, we are wildly unprepared.

Early Friday morning, still in the gloomy purple before daybreak, my husband walked outside alone and came back inside shaking. She did not make it through the night.

I don’t know what more to share, but this next part is important.

Shelby was too big to safely bury here, so we contacted a local service. This is the same kind woman who helped when we lost Romulus, and she remembered Meh vividly.

I foraged a huge bouquet of dried hydrangeas, pine branches, cedar, and oak leaves to be buried with her. I sat with her a long time, until the woman arrived to take her. When she began her work, Meh lost all composure. We suspect he remembers her removing Romulus.

Meh laid over Shelby’s body and protected her, pawing at her, crying hard and whipping his head around. It was a screaming, wailing, purring noise that we had only ever heard once before. We had to ease him away, which was not easy because of his strength. The woman remarked about how many people do not believe animals grieve and how they would change their minds if they witnessed this.

Once Shelby was gone, Meh ran like a freight train after the horses, who were eating hay at the far side of the middle field. He started rearing and kicking and chest slamming them wildly. But then out of the blue he quieted himself and returned to us, wrapping his long fuzzy neck around our people necks. Mewing. We had been missing this tender side of him during his raging weeks. My husband and I looked at each other through tears and just shook our heads. It is all so confusing and difficult, and every little development makes it moreso. I think we silently agreed in that moment that maybe God was showing us a way to not give up on Meh.

It took us all of Friday and most of Saturday to stop crying. Working outside helped, as did playing with Klaus and his two buddies, Max and Sadie. Some sunshine, some normalcy, and some natural joy.

By Saturday night we dusted ourselves off and gathered enough energy to attend a much anticipated and nearby “Friendsgiving” party at our friends’ David and Keri’s. We almost skipped it but love this couple very much and also really did not want to surrender to sadness. It was a couple of hours of much needed laughter and silliness, and it was really truly good to be around a handful of solid gold people. It also yielded an un expected blessing.

The group that night was small, and we already knew everyone except one couple. As our conversation with them grew, we stumbled onto the fact that they are cattle ranchers in nearby Tecumseh. And they just happen to specialize in, would you even believe it, miniature Herefords. Just like Shelby and Frosty Rose. On top of that, they are in real life best friends with the couple who brought us these beautiful girls. We shared the basics of our harrowing week, being careful to not talk about it so much we stated crying again. It was helpful, at least, to talk to people who understood how things like that can happen so quickly, and how devastating it is.

The Universe has a way of leading us where we need to be. Hopefully we listen for whispers and watch for signs. Sometimes like a mother giving birth, allowing her body to follow the curving shape of pain, and sometimes like seasons and cycles of life and death and grief and joy which somehow manage to coexist beautifully. Often, we can’t perfectly explain our reasons, but we can sense that familiar pull or instinct.

I am glad we chose not to shrink away from that gathering with friends, no matter how fresh our grief was. I am glad we are listening now to God’s leading about Meh. I am grateful for all the other animals here, who continue to live their lives, needing us and loving us, allowing us to love them. I am also deeply thankful for our remaining cow’s health and personality. She runs and chases and jumps, just like Scarlett did before her frostbitten legs failed her. But that is a story for another day. The point is, there are other days coming and they can be filled with glittering, pulsing joy, if we keep going.

I really do not know what else to say. There are several big questions that still need answers. But I trust that we will find them together.

XOXOXO

martha and henry

A funny song from my childhood has become a pretty good descriptor of two-person farm maintenance. Usually it’s still funny; sometimes it makes me, us, feel one half step away from crazy.

It’s a sing-songy conversation between husband and wife as they navigate never ending tasks:

“There’s a hole in the bucket, dear Martha dear Martha, there’s a hole in the bucket, dear Martha, a hole.
Well fix it, dear Henry, dear Henry, well fix it dear Henry, dear Henry fix it.
With what shall I fix it, dear Martha?
…
With a cork, dear Henry…
The cork is dry, dear Martha…
Well wet it, dear Henry…
With what shall I wet it, dear Martha?
With water! (her rage building)…
How shall I fetch it? …
With a bucket…
(extra long pause while Henry takes a deep breath, because we all know what’s coming)
There’s a hole in the bucket…”

So you see, of course, the never ending loop of repair and provision and discovery, and then repair and frustration and connection-between-all-things-broken and, again, discovery and repair. The ongoing consultation between husband and wife kills me.

Truthfully? I have always felt like Dear Martha was a bit cruel to her Dear Henry, with her exasperation at his inability to grasp obvious solutions, just as he seemed helpless and maybe vapid, not very manly traits to a girl who grew up with a Bob Vila Dad and then married Clark Griswold who is fond of chain-sawing all the newel posts.

After some years on these nine acres, though, I see Martha through a slightly more compassionate lens. She is just insane from all the never ending work, that’s all. She probably used to be a softer, sweeter, more helpful wife. The conveyor belt of projects that are never singular and independent of several other mandatory projects, well, they take their toll. That’s all. I also see Henry through a more protective lens. Maybe he always saw clearly the next five steps but was so overwhelmed he could barely speak it. All he could do was reach out to his Dear Martha and hope she would not kill the messenger.

In this house, for the song’s purposes, I am Henry and he is Martha.

Also, worth noting, for some weird reason, I remember being ten years old in Fort Towson, Oklahoma, and singing this song, imagining Martha and Henry living under water. All the way under water, like at the bottom of the ocean. In the blue-green dark. I get the symbolism now. Somehow, my little girl self knew.

One day I said to Handsome, hey babe let’s re-grout the upstairs bathroom. He said sure. I was probably ovulating, which bodes well for my powers of persuasion. That led to a full on shower stall redo in our master suite, which meant we needed to move our hygiene operations downstairs for a few days. This revealed some needed repair to that guest bath, and it seemed like a good time to also paint those walls and rearrange artwork and, sure, a new shower curtain and support bar and area rug. Also, man, we want a true piece of furniture in there, not rickety shelves, so let’s see what gorgeous sets we can find that would bring us some tables that look good with the leather couches. A month later, we have re-grouted the upstairs shower and do not recognize the formerly pink guest bath.

Similarly but much more dramatically, once upon a time something near our chimney was struck by lightning, which blah-blah-blah caused a serious water leak. It flooded our downstairs carpets and foam padded laminate flooring, inspiring us to rip it all up and live on concrete. Which we painted blue but did not seal. This caused a tidal wave (in keeping with the water theme) of interrelated projects, none of them small.

((walk through upon buying our farm, an unbelievable 16 years ago))

Then there was the time at the peak of summer heat and humidity when I needed one skinny little garden gate adjusted because it wasn’t shutting smoothly. Well, that turned into relocating a clothesline, reconfiguring the surrounding fences, eliminating one other wide gate, and, you know what? We need more concrete for parties.

New concrete means ripping up the decking, and that wood can be repurposed, so let’s sort it out into piles. Burn what is unusable. When the ashes are cool they go in the compost. But only once the compost bins have space. So empty those as soon as possible! And also make use of the contents, don’t waste it. Balance it all with green materials and manure, so it’s good for the gardens. Not pure ash. But if you add to the piles while the bachelors are watching, they will eat your okra so put up a protective rope or something. Quick.

And no, giving them a round bale of free choice hay will not, actually, keep them from breaking into the hay loft. So be ready to fix that gate soon.

Also, my sprinkler died (more with the water theme, in case you are keeping score).

Schedule some time for a pipe to burst in the attic (another score for the water gods). Because I secretly wanted the kitchen pantry a different color anyway, and this is an excellent time to repaint. But only after his stitches get removed from sitting on a power saw while making plumbing repairs. And, obviously, we can do all of this more easily once the pickup is working again, because we probably need something huge and unwieldy form Home Depot anyway. Or more hay. Or, something. It should work out just fine.

Babe, do we want goats?

Just fix it, Dear Henry, Dear Henry.
Just fix it, Dear Henry, Dear Henry fix it.

Whatever type of property you manage, I am confident you experience your own version of the hole in the bucket song, and I sincerely hope that most of the time you, together with your corresponding Martha or Henry, find ways to tackle it all. Peacefully.

Hang in there.
Please be kind to the messengers in your life.
Say no to goats.
XOXOXO

sir romulus, 2010-2023

I have delayed writing this because it is just so hard to accept as real. Early this past Friday morning, we unexpectedly lost a long time and much beloved farmily member, Sir Romulus, the King of Llamas.

Romulus, King of the Snow. Emperor of Ice. Purveyor of the Cold.

Just before daybreak on June 30, I walked to his pen to say good morning and offer breakfast to him and the cats. I found him already passed away, presumably in his sleep.

He had not been sick and was up to date on his wormer medication. He had a great appetite and was drinking lots of fresh water, and he had been as sociable and sweet as ever. The only irregularity I had noticed lately was that he was uninterested in the water sprinkler, even on the hottest afternoons. Llamas can handle almost any amount of cold, even ice, but they are susceptible to extreme heat; and Romulus in particular was opposed to being sheared. So I am worried that the heat was too much last week. I am also worried that he was heartbroken over losing Little Lady Marigold back in January. They were so bonded, after all, and we wondered then how much her death would affect him.

This unexpected loss has rocked us. I still can’t believe it.

We have known Romulus since before he came to live with us in 2011, and even during a short chapter when he lived again with Dean and Maribeth (during a season of particularly dangerous horse conflict) we visited him periodically and loved him entirely. We feel so lucky to have lived alongside this majestic creature for most of his life.

As a solitary male, Romulus was incredibly chill. He coexisted with the Bachelors beautifully.

But then he fell in love with a gorgeous white and caramel-colored llama named Yoko, who would come to be known as Seraphine, and they blessed our menagerie with gorgeous babies. Who remembers Dulcinea? She was her father’s spitting image, though neither of them was much for casual spitting, thank goodness. And of course, the indomitable Meh. Romulus produced this incredibly personable, scrappy little son who has spent the last nine years trying to impress and out-llama his dad.

Once Romulus became a family man, he tapped into his impressive protective nature. One day everything just flipped. He regularly tried to murder the horses if they grazed too close to his woman or their babies, and he even challenged the bison a few times for unknown trespasses. He would pin his ears back, bare his slobbery teeth, vocalize in a deep, guttural, grunting way, and charge forward, mostly on only two hind legs, his sharp front hooves flayed out like knives. It was, and this is no exaggeration, terrifying.

It was hard to be mad at him for these offenses, though, because he was so nobly engaging with perceived threats.

It also bears mentioning here that in the natural pecking order of powerful animals, Seraphine outranked her mate by plenty and had no problem putting him in his place.

Dulcie is annoyed at no longer being the darling of the farm. Seraphine is fussing with Romulus, who is easily cowed down by her. Meh is bright and chipper, oblivious to the conflict.

Despite his dangerous behavior toward the Bachelors, Romulus never once hurt a smaller animal or a person. In fact, he was serenely curious about children, puppies, chickens, and squirrels. Often while gardening I would notice him and Klaus watching squirrels like Wimbledon in the oak trees. And of course, he had the sweetest disposition toward LLM.

I love this photo of a first meeting with baby Laika, two summers ago.

“Hello, peasant.”

Because of his overall calm with us, we will never forget the day he almost accidentally tossed my husband. One day in the big barn, when Handsome had all the bachelors lined up for shots, he casually looped a lead rope around Rom’s shoulders, attempted to pierce the syringe needle into his massive neck, and experienced firsthand the explosive power of a full grown llama suddenly thrust upright onto his hind legs. Romulus yanked Handsome right up off the dirt floor, like a ragdoll into midair, one slack lead rope connecting them, and made his anti-vaccine wishes known in an instant.

That was the end of that.

Romulus was the very first animal who let me experience the sweet rewards of a long, slow acquaintance. The first few days he lived here, he had free range of the entire farm. He wandered anywhere he wanted and politely declined all attempts to touch him. He nibbled everything. He was quiet and studious and extremely stand offish.

I vividly remember the afternoon I took the photo below. Handsome was at work. I was alone at the farm, work caught up, doing very little except learning this new creature. He and I sat on the grass, about fifteen feet apart, just staring at each other. Staring and staring, Both of us sitting still with our legs crossed. He would tilt his enormous ears in twisty satellite directions, collecting data of his new surroundings, evaluating everything. I remember smiling or breathing in a new way and causing him to twitch, tense, and soften again.

Romulus could hold eye contact without blinking like it was his God given super power. Gradually I could scoot across the grass, just a few inches closer, every few minutes. That was not the day he let me touch him, but it was the day he stopped avoiding me.

Eventually, Romulus grew to love face petting and throat strokes, and of course he was never not hungry for graham crackers, chocolate chip cookies, etcetera. He had a special bond with Handsome and would come faithfully to his voice.

Unless he was holding a syringe.

I love that we never had to worry about Romulus hurting a guest. I love that so many people got to experience his strength and his gentleness.

Who remembers the llama soccer game with Rom, Seraphine, Dulcie, Meh, and all the twenty somethings who were visiting one day?

I will forever be grateful that just a few days before his passing, Romulus enjoyed lots of sweet visitors. Our big family was here for a reunion and anniversary party, and they showered him with attention and treats. Mellowed greatly in retirement, Rom was known as “the nice llama.” He always seemed content with just us over the years, but gosh he became beautifully social and thrived on face time even more than the horses.

We already miss seeing his elegant silhouette in the morning gloom. A few times since Friday, I thought I did see him. I miss scooping his sweet grain over the red gate and sometimes feeding him a little extra through an open cottage window. I miss how he could not resist a graham cracker or similar sweet treat. I miss his tip toe walking, his impossibly long, broomy eyelashes, and his eagle-like brow. I miss his shiny toe-talons and his dark brown, woolly fur. I miss the perfect white mask on his handsome face.

We chose to memorialize Romulus and Little Lady Marigold together.

One more heart felt thank you to Dean and Maribeth for entrusting him to us, and for so much advice and encouragement along the way. Romulus was a gift, a lesson, and a blessing in thousands of beautiful ways.

Goodbye Rom-Diddle,
our sweet Llama in the Middle,
XOXO

adieu to the queen of hearts

She was our brush with royalty.

((Little Lady Marigold, January, 2023))

She was diminutive, self assured and confident, fast as a cheetah, and studious. She was picky about who could touch her and gluttonous about food. I once couldn’t find her and thought she had liberated herself (again) from Retirement Village but found her buried, head first, inside her paddock’s enormous round bale of hay. She had burrowed into it by eating! She literally ate her way, all the way, to the center, and I just respect that so much. When she heard me calling, she casually backed out and popped her happy little head into the sunshine, all matted with hay, still chewing, and she looked at me. Nonplussed.

She hated being sheared but allowed it. Maybe she was smart enough to understand the relief that would come with a freshly shorn body, mid-summer. And her body was small! Startlingly petite without all that wool. She also hated fireworks but seemed to gather near to a bonfire.

She knew Klaus apart from all visiting dogs but still gave him a gentle little Stick Leg Treatment when he was being spicy. She knew to hide behind the legs of the tall bachelors, perhaps thinking her round little body was invisible, but most likely not caring, just calculating her next sprint around the back field.

Her name was Marigold because the day she came to live here, in June of 2020, was the first day that our French marigolds bloomed that year. Little Lady because, well because that’s what she was.

Her eyes were domed, always glassy and clear, with perfectly straight, slotted pupils. She had an honest, private gaze. She had hooves like little high heels and intense little legs. Solid black. And she chewed with a slight sideways grind that frequently made me hungry. After a long while and many pep talks, we got her to wear a little yellow halter, just to make capturing that much simpler, and I loved how it looked on her, with her floofy gray and white wool exploding in great clouds all around it. The day she got sick I removed her halter to make her as absolutely as comfortable as possible and it left a slight indentation in her face hairs. She let me massage it and sing Norwegian Wood.

She had triangle ears, soft and black and attentive to every sound. She was fond of sitting out in the sun or out in the moonglow, often staring downhill. She was impervious to snow. Her pasture mate, Romulus, is equally stout and contemplative, so they made a great match. The day she died, he watched over her and observed her removal solemnly. He lost all protectiveness. His guard had fully dropped.

*reigning queen of kicking rambunctious puppies*

Little Lady Marigold was a Suffolk sheep, a stunning fifteen years old this year. She was vivacious and low maintenance in all conditions. She ate well and drank well too, as evidenced by the little rainbow sheen her lanolin fleece left on the surface of her drinking water. We never knew her to be sick or even slow moving, not once, not until this week.

This Monday morning when LLM would normally be bleating and running left and right along the red steel gate for her breakfast happy to tell Romulus she was first today, she was downhill instead, and quiet. She was standing upright but would not come to me. I took a deep breath and said a prayer, heavy with that familiar sensation of this is bad. She let me approach and hold her but would not eat. Her breathing was a little challenged, a little shallow, and she just seemed… sad. She had lost all of her bounce. Gradually she walked around more, and I was too encouraged by that. She sought the sun on her face. She napped. She sipped water. And she hid herself away in her shelter.

The next two days were quiet for our regal little woman, and the gentle January weather was a blessing. It made it easier for me to make sure she was dry and softly bedded down, surrounded by eating and drinking options. I stayed with her most of those two days, only touching her when she said ok. My husband started her on a round of penicillin just in case she had a respiratory illness, but deep down we already felt she was just dying gently. Our friend and mentor, Maribeth, who was Marigold’s first farm mom, reminded me of LLM’s age and how very far past life expectancy she already was when she came to the Lazy W.

Early Wednesday morning, we discovered that Marigold had passed in her sleep. She was never in acute distress as far as we could tell, and she had curled herself up neatly, hopefully feeling safe and cozy and loved. Gosh she was loved. We wrapped her in two floral bedsheets and buried her gently, in that meadow behind the yurt. We gather there frequently to pray and be reflective, so she will be near lots of loving energy forever. I plan to grow a thick patch of French marigolds for her there, and BW has designated a gorgeous old tree stump as her grave marker.

Romulus and the other three bachelors watched from a distance, and Klaus stood with us. He got to say goodbye up close, and as he did so we gave thanks for Marigold teaching him how to gather and collect an animal safely. A shepherd, after all, he did this with her as needed, maybe a handful of times, and it was amazing. He was swift, gentle, and smart about it. She was an excellent teacher, and held a grudge of course, as was her right to do.

We already miss her so much. She was a singular presence here at the farm, a vibrant energy with an irreplaceable voice. If you have ever visited and heard Marigold “bleating” you know what I mean! It was a heavy handed, guttural sound that in no way matched her sweet appearance!

I would never have thought to myself, “You know what I want? An elderly Suffolk sheep!” But now I cannot imagine not having known her. Now, I see that she was gift, a beautiful, low, round, bossy, affectionate, introverted, brilliant little soul, and we will never forget her. I will also never stop giving thanks for her peaceful end, for the void of tragedy in her long, lovely life. She was a Lady, the Queen of Hearts.

If you grow some French marigolds this, year, please think of her.

“I once had a girl, or should I say, she once had me.”
xoxo

mid-December and definitely choosing JOY

Friends, thank you so much for sharing your thoughts and experiences with “toxic positivity.” Your comments on that blog entry and long exchanges on Facebook and Instagram have had my wheels turning all week. I am thankful to be surrounded by people who place a high value on authenticity as well as deliberate hopefulness, joyfulness, and faith.

((my first amaryllis are blooming!!))

The week before last week we were finishing up a fun little seasonal cold or flu or who knows what and scraped together enough energy to dive headfirst into Christmas. Our house had been decorated for a festive winter since right after Halloween, haha, including dried citrus garland everywhere, paperwhites potted up, and lots of plain evergreens with white lights; but as soon as the Thanksgiving feast was cleared away we surrendered it all to truly Christmas, and I have been adding fun stuff daily. Handsome surprised me one day while I was out running by adding the house lights and constructing our Santa sleigh, inflatables, you name it. Every year he does something new and festive, and I love it.

Christmas activities have kept us busy already, too.

Early in the month, with our friends Rex and Cathy, we tried a local fried chicken spot that was built in what used to be an actual feed store and lumber yard. In fact it was the first place we ever bought farm supplies when we moved here in 2007. After a delicious, greasy, filling meal the four of us watched the Harrah Christmas parade and let that really cement our holiday spirit. Then our three pups exchanged early gifts, ha! They are like children, no joke, ripping through wrapping paper and wrestling around the living room. Pure joy!

On a different morning, we took Klaus to our traditional Cowboy Christmas parade in Cowtown. We shivered and chattered our teeth and waved our cold, numb hands at all the heavily festooned float characters and “reindeer” horses, not to mention the state’s best Santa. Our friends from the Jedi OKC group had entered a float for the first time, and when everyone saw us they waved and screamed Klaus’ name, ha! So fun!

This past Sunday night we hosted a perfectly ridiculous Christmas party for friends, opting for a Griswold family vacation movie theme. Ha! I am married to the Clarkiest of Clark, after all. It was silly and lighthearted, a great release of tension for everyone in the midst of a busy season. Everyone brought delicious treats. We played a couple of dumb games. Old friends got caught up and new friends got acquainted. We even surprised the newlyweds in our friends’ group with a one month anniversary cake! They had eloped to Vegas exactly one month before the party, so it was perfect. High fives and big cheers for random, laughter filled parties that eschew tradition a little bit.

One weeknight after work we drove to Oklahoma City to hear Chloe, our oldest niece, play her violin. Her school orchestra has performed every December for several years, and it always sets the holiday tone for me. Our entire local family tries to attend all at once, and we take up a long row, usually right up front. I can hardly stand to think of one or two Christmases from now, when she will have graduated high school and there is no Christmas concert to enjoy. This year they were invited to play at the Oklahoma City University performing arts center, and they treated us to a nearly perfect rendition of Trans-Siberian Orchestra. Stunning! We all had chills. Great job as always, Chloe!

On another night, Cathy, Jessica and I piled into my car to drive to the Community College to watch our youngest niece Kenzie dance a hip hop version of the Nutcracker. If you ever have a chance to see this, friends, secure your tickets and do not look back. How awe-inspiring to watch these talented young people dance their hearts out! And the hip hop was a great twist on a classic story. We loved it. As a bonus, the night we attended was narrated in full Spanish. I am actively relearning Spanish for Jess and Alex, so that was a fun challenge to keep up with what was being said!

As I write this, most of our gifts are wrapped, leaving only the stockings to be stuffed with treasure, plus some baking and a few easy gatherings still to enjoy. I am luxuriating in the freedom to slow down on weeknights and make fun plans for us on weekends, to enjoy the holiday season for all it offers. The fast, the slow, the loud and glittering and the soft spoken and cozy. I am staying home as much as possible, taking time every day to stay centered on the Nativity and really sink into the cold and the dark when it comes. It’s all a gift. And the invitation to be still and accept the gift has never pulsed more vividly.

Do you feel Christmas miracles brewing in the distance? I really do. I feel lots of them building steam to get here at their appointed times, so much so that the traditional gifts and cookies and music are just set dressing. Beautiful decorations for our spirit, to invite us to Enjoy. Rejoice. Choose Joy.

All of this goodness, all of this Soul Cake, already in our bellies, and today is only December 16th. We have so much December still to feast on!

More soon. Till then, happy December! I hope your are celebrating and carpe-ing every single diem to your heart’s content. I hope you are clinging to the miracles you need and crave. Here are a few Advent posts from last year, if you need them:

Choosing HOPE as a strategy

LOVE Week

Another post about HOPE for Advent

XOXOXOXO