Thursday, October 23, 2008

The More I See of Politicians, the More I Admire My Dogs


It's almost time to vote again, and to quote Forest Gump, "that's all I'm going to say about that!"
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This post is for Kathy and Kalail, who just rescued ChooChoo;
and for Beva, who wants a dog of her own.

Growing up in a rural area, I saw a lot of dogs abandoned along the dirt road that ran by our house. It was heartbreaking to see these lost and frightened, often abused animals that had once given someone their undivided love and loyalty, now struggling to survive, chased away from place to place, sometimes shot at, hiding among the trees and brush, conditioned by their fear and anxiety to mistrust the approach of any human.

Domesticated animals are helpless in the wild. It became my family’s practice to leave food in areas that we knew a stray was frequenting, especially if we knew it was a female, usually emaciated, ribs protruding, teats dangling, that was nursing pups hidden somewhere nearby. It often took a long time to convince these strays to trust us, but eventually we would win some of them over. We took them in and fed them, nursed them back to health, and did what we could to find loving homes for them and their pups when we could. We always told the people adopting a dog to bring it back to us if things didn’t work out. I don’t recall us ever taking any of these strays to the pound.

We didn’t have the money to take these dogs to veterinarians for shots and treatments unless it was an emergency; and what constituted an emergency was occasionally debated in our home – passionately, loudly, and sometimes tearfully. So it was my mother who nursed these ailing creatures back to life and health while I stood at the ready to assist her. Most of the time mother used what knowledge she had gleaned in her lifetime from her mother, who had been a nurse in WWI. The rest of the time it was my mother’s gentle voice, reassuring touch, and, I know with conviction, her fervent prayers that brought these forlorn unwanted creatures back from the brink of death.

My father’s participation in all of this was frequently under duress. His family didn’t have pets when he was growing up. My grandfather’s philosophy had been that an animal was worth only what it could contribute. The family mule, which pulled the plow my father and his brothers worked daily, had great value, sometimes more than the boys. Consequently, my father’s attitude toward pets was less than desirable to the rest of us. At best, my father tolerated the strays. But his outlook changed during the years of my childhood. It had to. To paraphrase Shakespeare: some are born with compassion, some achieve compassion, and some have compassion thrust upon them. My father falls into the latter category. He was swept along by the wave of compassion that swelled and moved through a wife and two daughters. He was compelled by the chorus of tearful pleadings to venture out on cold winter nights, flashlight in hand, to search out the plaintive cries of an abandoned litter. And it was he who built shelters and filled them with warm hay, and was occasionally seen patting the head and stroking the fur of a four-legged, tail-wagging canine that shadowed his every step, and looked up at him with trust and gratitude, and love.

It wasn’t surprising that my first marriage was to a man whose compassion for animals exceeded my own. Barry had collected several strays before we met, and together we collected several more. Ours were the unadoptable, those dogs the shelters would be forced to put down when they ran out of space, but each was wonderfully lovable and full of personality. We were blessed to be able to afford all eight of our dogs and the cost of their medical care.

Barry passed away in January, 2004. By then, six of oureight dogs remained, and I was managing them alone. In 2005, when I married John and moved to the farm, my six dogs (Sam, Charlie, Goldie, Crossword, Barney, and Taco) joined his three dogs (Charlie, Toby and Mitzi) and one pot bellied pig (Lulu), to live where they could run and play and bark as much as they wanted to. Two years ago we adopted a puppy (Patty), and this summer we adopted two more dogs (Lucy and Maggie) whose owner could no longer care for them.

Since moving to the farm, Sam, my Charlie, and Taco have all passed away in their old age with various problems. I nursed each through his last days as though he were my baby, and held each in my arms in the final moments of his life, whispering my love in his ear as I wept for the loss of my beloved companion.

We picked out a special spot on the property to bury Sam when he died. Taco, and then Charlie joined him there, and some day, when they have chased their last ball, bird, or rabbit, the rest of our dogs will too. Whenever I pass by that special spot, I greet each by name and tearfully recount how much I miss them.

I like to think that Sam, and Taco, and Charlie have gone to Heaven, and that they've found Barry, and that the lot of them are having a grand good time. Perhaps that's silly, but it offers me a touch of peace; and it comforts me to know that these animals that Barry and John and I have loved and cared for have not known hunger or cruelty or fear while they've been with us.

Now, if we could just figure out what we're going to do with the pig when she dies! And I don't want to hear anything about barbecue!

Tuesday, October 21, 2008

Who Is Gagardensylph?

Ga - Georgia
Garden - vegetables for now
Sylph - imaginary female being inhabiting the four elements (air, earth, fire, water); light, dainty, airy being
When I was between the ages of 13 and 21 my family moved a couple of times, but we always managed to have a few acres and make a stab at farm living. We raised a few vegetables, pigs, chickens, ducks, geese, and cows. We even had a pair of peacocks once. When we lived on the southern coast of NC, after my father's retirement from the Army (I was 13), we also fished commercially.

I loved the fishing part, but I didn't participate as fully as I should have in raising the cows, pigs, chickens, and the garden. My parents didn't make it a requirement. They were in their late 40s then, and it was a project they shared with great affection, argument, and exhaustion.
These days my parents, who are by the very grace of God still with me and in amazingly good health, are in their early 80s. I am in my early 50's, and with a second husband and a small farmstead of our own now, I pick Mom's and Dad's brains constantly for the knowledge and how-to's of all they were doing in the 70's. Of course, I should have been paying more attention back then. But at least I'm paying attention now.

I was single until I was 45. My income level and OT workloads didn't afford me the chance to live the "back to the earth" lifestyle I longed for. So I took the academic approach for many years, burying myself in the writings of Helen and Scott Nearing and others who promoted simple living and homesteading until it was part of my own nature and philosophy. I didn't yet have the opportunity to live externally what I was learning, but the seeds of what could be had been planted in my imagination, and I spent many hours dreaming, planning, and hoping.
I married John Alderman in 2005, after the death of my first husband in 2004. Our mutual ambition to live a self-sustaining lifestyle, and other common goals and interests, gave us fertile ground on which to build a life together.

John and I live on 5 acres east of Atlanta, Georgia. The farm used to belong to John's father, and we are blessed to be reaping the benefits of his father's labor. There are half a dozen apple trees, and as many peach trees; one lone pear tree that bears so heavily, the branches sag almost to the ground; and there are nearly 100 feet of heavily overgrown grape vines. We pruned the vines last winter, and had no crop this year, but last fall, as in autumns past, we had a good harvest of grapes.

There's also a greenhouse. John helped his father build it many years ago, and although it is in usable shape, it, like much of the farm, needs a lot of improvement. Oh, I almost forgot to mention, we also have fig trees! I feel almost Italian (or at least, Californian) picking this decadent fruit each July.

Every year we try to expand our garden area. It's just the two of us here. We have no help, and can't afford to hire anyone. Although we have not been able to do as much as we would like to now that we have the opportunity, we are, at least, making steady progress. John works tirelessly, and endlessly, it seems. He calls me his "strong Russian woman" (I'm actually Irish/Cherokee) as I work beside him hauling, lifting, bending, climbing, pulling, picking, and sweating. Dear God, it wears on these old bones! But the rewards are abundantly worth it!

Last year a late frost killed any chance of harvesting apples, peaches or pears, but we had a modest grape harvest, and I finally fulfilled my desire to learn canning. I put up a half-dozen little jars of grape jam, and several quarts of pickled green tomatoes from our garden.This year I put up dozens of jars of apples and pears in various forms, and 9 quarts of pickled squash. We feasted on a variety of tomatoes all summer long, as well as a few oddly shaped cucumbers, some yellow squash, acorn squash, and a few tiny watermelons.

This Fall, we gave away bushels of apples - to a small church, and to a local charity that provides assistance for needy families. Our families shared in the bounty too, but we still had many left, and so we gave some away in the parking lot of the local Wal-Mart.

Now that the cooler weather is here, John and I are focused on some clean-up around the farm, and preparing for the cold season. We have planted a Fall garden, and while we are still harvesting a few tomatoes, we are anticipating rich green heads of Boston Bibb lettuce, and peppery red radishes in the coming weeks. Throughout the winter we will harvest fresh collards, sweetened by the frost, and many heads of cabbage that I will make into slaw and soups, and for the first time, sauerkraut.

I am not Helen Nearing, but like her I am living the life I desire, a life that truly is "The Good Life."