Where's Hercules when you need him?

I have a love affair with Craigslist. Odd, quirky people, free stuff, and a whole lot of trading -- what more could you ask for? Over the past five years, I've done wheeling and dealing for tilling, a garden fence, a side of beef and all sorts of free stuff that was worth what I paid for it. Some of it was even worth the gas money to go pick it up.

 So, in continuing my grand streak of ideas that end up giving Mark a ton of work, I had a brilliant idea for a solution to our problem.

This, then, is the problem:

It's more than twenty years worth of horse shit, left in the barn untouched, and fully composted.

It's actually valuable stuff -- fabulous for gardening -- it's just in the wrong place.

The lady who lived here before us had a horse, and apparently never, ever, not even once, cleaned out the barn. It's possible that before she got here, there was a layer of cow manure under that. Honestly, I didn't know there was a concrete floor underneath -- the boys and I shoveled enough to get down to the bare ground, and sure enough, it's concrete. And by "boys and I," I mean I shoveled while they begged to go inside and watch TV and get out of this river of horse shit and Scout sat in it and tried to make mud castles as we dragged her to higher ground.

So, we want to have a "farm." Which, in my imagination, looks like "The Burrow" from Harry Potter. Lots of happy kids, an orchard, a big garden, a few chickens and a few animals, and kids who help with the yard and the upkeep and a husband who tinkers with projects.

The reality will be different. As in, Mark hates yardwork and hates projects. Sawyer has dramatic fits worthy of a reality TV star who's just been told her show is canceled every time you suggest manual labor. And Sander complains and moans that he's miserable if he actually likes what he's doing and is having a good day -- on a bad day, you're lucky if you can him to agree to get dressed, much less muck out a horse stall.

And while I have good intentions, there are a lot of days where "distracted" is a good way to describe what happens. Because I have every intention of getting out to the garden and planting and weeding. But somehow I end up deciding that I need to learn how to quilt, or I have to get started on food storage for a five-year supply for my paranoia pantry, or the kitchen chairs are the wrong color and have to get painted right now, and of course the house isn't unpacked yet, and I need to put up shelves in the dining room, and while I'm at it, the table's in the wrong place, and it would be a good day to rearrange the furniture.

So, sometimes the garden gets a little bit of benign neglect. As in, stuff gets planted, and whatever's alive at harvest season is what we eat. Which means that in Texas, we ate a lot of tomatoes, some tomatillos, and we threw away a ton of habaneros. And that was about it.

Part of "the farm" will be chickens, a huge garden and some kind of meat. Either a pig or a beef cow.

We have plenty of room for either one, but we can't put them in the barn, because the barn is full of horse shit.

So I had the clever idea that I'd have someone come and shovel out the barn for me, and they could take away as much manure as they wanted. If it worked, I'd actually have someone cleaning out my barn for free.

So I put out the ad, sat back, and waited for replies.

The first person who came by was a self-proclaimed "little old lady" and she drove out to come get a load. She lives 40 miles away and wanted to know how early was "too early," as she's up at 3:30 or 4 a.m.

She arrived, all 110 wiry, tough pounds of her, and shoveled a whole load of horse manure into her truck by herself. She lives alone, had five husbands, plust a sixth man that she lived with seven years and never married, and she takes a bath, outside, naked,  in a tub warmed by a fire under it every night. Yes, she talked a lot while she shoveled, and I listened and watched. It was something else to see her -- apparently she's had a ton of energy since she was born, and she loves to shovel as it takes some of the energy off her. She usually gets up at 4 a.m., splits wood and then shovels something for an hour or so to keep her busy until the sun comes up.

She lives without any paycheck or income -- she has her house paid off, turns off her electricity, most days -- hence, the "cannibal tub," as she called it, and she's using my manure to grow medical marijuana, which she trades for groceries. She loves the internet so she can look up chemtrails, conspiracy theories, and how the government is persecuting Christians, but won't have a cell phone because they cause all sorts of damage.
Interesting morning.

Then, a very nice woman who seemed normal enough asked if she could come get some manure when her husband got home from work.

Mark was in Alaska, so when they got there, I was baking cookies, making dinner, I'd been painting and unpacking, and I was in sweats, no makeup, no bra, covered in paint and cookie dough, holding Scout, who was tired, hungry and dirty.

So, the guy at the door, who looks middle aged, upper-middle class, and normal, says, "I know who you are -- you're a Stone!"

Um. Sure. My kids and my husband are, anyway. How do you know me? Boy Scouts?

"Oh, no -- I'm Mark's boss! I'm the guy who hired him! I'm the reason you guys moved here!"

Fabulous.

Let me just put down the baby, take the cookies out of the oven, throw on a sweatshirt to attempt to cover up that I'm not wearing a bra -- I'm 44 with huge boobs and I've nursed three kids. A bra is not optional when meeting new people.

He and his wife were polite, charming, funny and got a grand tour of the barn, the manure, the garden and the outbuildings, and I was happy I'd met him. Just not dressed like that.

However, next time I do Craigslist, I'm going to go to the door fully dressed. Even for crazy old ladies with lots of energy.

Who would have thought that my biggest logistical problem is how to get rid of a literal ton of horseshit?

So, about the garden...

A cute picture of Sander from a while ago. It just makes me smile.

The garden.

Yeah, there’s a reason I’m not writing about it.

Because it makes me want to cry.

And murder.

But I’m past the denial and anger stages, sort of, and I’m just about into the acceptance stage.

The worst drought in fifty years, plus the hottest July on record, ever, plus tons of new construction that have driven all the deer into our neighborhood = disaster.

There’s almost nothing left of the garden.

The deer have jumped an eight-foot fence, despite every website stating that they can’t do that.

Perhaps these are magical flying reindeer.

Perhaps my fence is two inches shorter than eight feet.

But really, what happened is that there’s no food and no water for any animals. We have skunks dying in the back yard, desperate to get to the dog’s water bowl.

Ants, spiders and scorpions are surrounding the house, looking for a way in. We have one chicken left, out of ten. The rest have succumbed to the heat or to animals dragging them away, because there’s no other food.

And so, the deer come into my garden. 

They ate every fucking tomato. Hundreds of them. Cherry tomatoes, heirloom tomatoes, pear tomatoes, grape tomatoes. Big ones, little ones, green ones.

And they ate them the week before they turned ripe.

I got a few cherry tomatoes, sweet and tender and amazing, the week before the deer discovered they could jump the fence.

And that was it.

I went away for three days in early June.

When I came back, late at night, I pulled into the driveway and there, in the middle of my tomatoes, was a deer.

I was like a madwoman, thinking that the deer had somehow wandered in and hadn’t done any damage yet.

I jumped out of the car, honking the horn and screaming obscenities, and ran right at the deer. Probably not safe. Probably not smart.

Probably not the best role model for two small children who were awakened from a slumber in their car seats, wanting to go home, watching their mother yell and rant and attack a large hoofed mammal.

And then, in front of me, the stupid starving deer jumped the fence.

I looked around, realized that perhaps it was stupid to charge a deer.

And then I realized that it was all gone.

The tomatoes.

The Swiss chard.

The pumpkins -- oh, those were sad. They left the vines, looking like a fine lace pattern all over ground, but ate the leaves. Left the green melons alone, never to ripen, to die in the heat.

The lettuce was gone, and the green pepper plants. Eaten down to the stems, those were.

Catnip, gone.

Beans looked as though they’d never been planted in the first place.

There was, however, one bright spot.

They ate every green and red pepper on all 14 pepper plants, but they did leave one plant, full of habenero peppers. Beautiful little orange peppers, wrinkling in the sun, too hot to touch, or even to smell.

It does make me smile to think that one deer tried one and was running around in circles, lips smoking, warning the others to stay away.

I’d like to shoot them, but we live in the city limits.

I asked a very nice policeman what would happen if I shot one.

“Do you live in the city?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said.

“Do you know that it’s not hunting season and that you can’t shoot a gun or an arrow in the city limits?”

Yes, I said. I don’t care. I just want to know how much trouble, exactly, we’re talking about.

A little trouble and I might consider it.

“A LOT of trouble,” he said. “Not worth doing it, just for tomatoes. You’re looking at a LOT of trouble.”

So I asked Mark if maybe we could have some guys come, the kind who hunt, and maybe they could sit outside, with a silencer, and shoot a couple and take them away.

And he looked at me, and I could see him contemplating just what he had gotten into, with this wife of his who was willing to bring men with rifles and silencers into her home, and said, “Um, honey, the kind of men who would shoot deer out of season, and who would come to your house in the middle of the night and kill living creatures for money.... Well, I’m not sure you really want to do business with them.”

Oh. Yeah.

And so, I’m ignoring the garden.

Hoping for fall.

Waiting to replant.

And to build a taller fence.

My mid-term exam

Originally published Friday, March 13, 2009

Garden day. At one point, we had 16 helpers!

In the grand world of parenting, they say, there are no grade sheets and no final exam.

Hogwash, says I. I just aced my mid-term, and I’m feeling pretty good about it.

In the past two weeks, I have:

1. Been on a college tour of Berkeley, where I helped a teenager craft a plan to visit Europe this summer. Told her why traveling alone would be good for her. Had long heart-to-heart about her love life.

2. Talked to another teenager, one year older. Told him why traveling would be bad for him. He needs to stay put. Had long heart-to-heart about his love life.

3. Visited a gay bar. First the tame one recommended by concierge. Then the very scary one where all men were shirtless and had the crack of their ass showing above jeans. Left quickly.

4. Toured Berkeley in pouring rain for an hour and a half. Then got on a plane soaking wet.

5. Placed a $1,500 co-op order for seven homeschooling moms, ordered everything, figured out who got what, met the truck, co-ordinated time and meeting places for all moms, figured out who owed what, and divided up food. Filled my pantry.

6. Bought half a cow, found three other moms who wanted to divide the meat, organized the beef lady and all of the moms, got the meat here, met all the moms and delivered meat. Filled my freezer. For $3 a pound for hormone-free, no-antibiotic, pasture-raised Angus!

7. Had steak for dinner.

8. Organized and rounded up 16 people to put in my garden. Traded food and garden plots for work -- although I actually paid Dylan to help. Dylan was amazing -- coordinated and cracked the whip and within one day, I had 38 garden beds, six feet long by three feet wide.

9. Put up a fence around the entire garden, by myself. More than 100 feet long and 25 feet wide. Plus eight feet tall. Then put in a gate, too. I feel like the little red hen -- no one wants to help with the fence, but they’ll all want to eat the tomatoes!

10. Made enough food to give to all of the people who came and helped with the garden.

11. Went to my aunt’s birthday party in Houston, three hours away. Talked to many interesting “ladies who lunch.” Spent a nice evening with my aunt and uncle at their house.

12. Taught a cooking class to four young people with autism. Designed for teenagers, but two adults showed up. Turns out one of them had a penchant for kitchen appliances. He turned on every mixer, fryer, oven and fan we had in the kitchen, and really wanted to take the mixer paddles home. It went well, but suffice it to say I think there’s nothing heartwarming or sweet about people with autism. I think the whole thing just sucks all the way through. It’s such a tragedy. 

13. Adopted three guinea pigs. Original names were Cinnamon, Sugar and Pig-Pig. They are now Snowball, Messy and Pistol. The boys are in heaven.

14. Disassembled and then reassembled the entire damned guinea pig cage. One stupid one-foot-square piece at a time. Times 80.

15. Planted the entire garden, with plants I’ve grown mostly from seeds: tomatoes, peppers, lettuce, squash, herbs, pumpkins, watermelon, squash, strawberries, blackberries and fennel. And cardoon. What’s cardoon, you say? It’s an Italian vegetable I ate in a a salad at Chez Panisse. It looks like celery and tastes like artichoke. I was fascinated by it, and then when I came home I found some at the garden center and planted it. Only then did I look it up and realize it grows to six feet tall!

16. Kept my children alive, well-fed and happy. Taught the difference between obtuse and acute angles, dealt with two colds and coughs and two visits to the doctors.

17. Transported to Boy Scouts, gymnastics, vision therapy, violin, birthday parties, theater class and friend’s houses. Bought and wrapped birthday presents, found gym clothes and Scout uniform, kept up with violin practice, vision exercises and theater script.

18. Rented the back kitchen. Met almost every day with renters, went over rules and expectations, figured out finances and kept the kitchen clean and organized.

19. Played the role of big sister while my sister looks for a car and a job with a steady income. 

20. Kept my husband happy while he had a very stressful couple of weeks at work.

21. Kept alive three guinea pigs, two tadpoles, four chickens, two cats and a dog. I must admit they were on the far back burner, though. I’m not sure I would have noticed if a few of them dropped dead.

I have not:  

1. Lost weight

2. Stopped drinking coke when I’m stressed out

3. Learned to be frugal, despite my best efforts

4. organized my closet

5. done any laundry

6. been very nice to my husband, who deserves more attention

7. started running or exercising

8. come to terms with the fact that I’m turning 40 in three weeks

Frankly, I can live with that.

And who knows, the next section of parenting might kill me off, and you never know when there’s going to be a pop quiz.

But I’m pretty happy with my mid-term grade.

Tractor day!

Published February 17, 2009

So, David the tractor guy finally came on Sunday. 

Big excitement around here. 

And you know, he was a nice a guy as you’ll ever meet. 

He brought a very big truck with a small tractor on the back, and all sorts of attachments that I don’t know the names for -- the disc thing, and the digging thing, and the spiky part.

He showed up, said hello, and was at work five minutes later.

And he really knew what he was doing.

He should -- turns out he’s a sharecropper who farms 1,000 acres west of Austin.

You’ve gotta love Craig’s List -- how else could I have a real farmer out here, tilling my yard, in exchange for food?

And the coolest part was when his wife showed up -- all four of their young sons and three puppies!

My boys were in heaven. A Sunday spent with four boys, a bucket of action figures, three puppies, and fresh dirt and a tractor? Does life get any better?

David and his wife were really nice people. I can’t imagine that what they do is easy. He grows cotton and corn for feed, and they raise beef with no hormones or antibiotics. At some point, I’m going to buy a side of beef from them and put it in my freezer -- mostly to be able to say, “Yeah, I’ve got a side of beef and an organic garden” and I’ll sound like I really know what I’m doing.

I asked David what they did for water, and how they irrigate the cotton -- he’s starting to plant it his week.

His answer? “What do we do for water? We wait for rain, and when there isn’t any, we get on our knees.”

Apparently, prayer is an important part of farming.

They don’t even own the land they farm -- they work it, and give the owners 25 percent of the profit.

Anyway, the tilling is done. Quickly and efficiently, and it looks good. On Thursday, Dirty Dylan comes with a helper and he’s going to turn this freshly tilled dirt into garden beds.

I’ve put a call out for help on the homeschooler’s list. I’m hoping we’ll have a lot of strong backs show up.

 The boys apparently think a pink, fuzzy blanket will protect them from the tractor noise...

The official "before" photo. Perhaps it will be a lush, green sanctuary for deer.