If These Walls Could Talk...

They'd be screamin'.  Really they would.  The walls are plaster and lathe.  I know this becuase I have brutally  torn the wallpaper from them about five times since we've lived here. 

It was around this picture that Husband came home and said swear words.  He paced and figured and took out a measuring tape and measured and ran his hands through his hair and said things like, "When you tear one thing down in an old house you are just uncovering ten more things that need to be fixed."  He sighed and said we might as well tear the walls out, insulate (see that blank spot where the mopboard used to be?  No insulation in the living room) and rerun the wiring.  Now remember yesterday.  I absconded with the $1,000.00 we got back on our tax return for this project.  I have already spent $75.00 on wall liner and $10.00 on spackle to fix the wall.  So really, $915.00 now.  I just watched him quietly until he threw up his hands and said, "I don't care, do whatever you want.  You will anyway."  See that's why we're still married.  So I did and now the walls look like this. 

Yes, I started wallpapering.  If you are like some snarky teenager who asks questions like, "What's with the random wallpaper?"  Well, you'll just have to wait to find out.  Brat. 

Come back tommorow to see what happened next!  It will be a HUGE transformation!

Now here are some answers to questions from your comments:  Char, the floor?  Not hardwood, we'll talk about that later.  The mopboards? All different pieces from various projects and floor add ons--has to go.  The pretty window molding, fake wood put on when I had the windows replaced, has to go.  The light fixture?  Don't worry Lily, she'll be back.  Marigold, I loved the wallpaper too, but it was too dark and the walls are crooked and stripes just don't work in this room--had to go.  Wendy, the ship picture is a family heirloom of my husbands.  I hung it there temporarily so it wouldn't get broken and that was the only nail available.  Ok, it was 7 years ago.  I told you I stopped looking at this room.  Anyway, the ship has sailed! 

Smiles,

Lisa

This &*(^% Old House...

When I am down and out, feeling low, when tears are in my eyes.....I decorate.  And listen to sad music.  Thanks Art and Paul (just doesn't have the same ring does it?) 

So anyway, I have lived in this house for the longest that I have ever lived in one house in my entire life.  Eleven whole, solid years.  When I went looking for a house all those years ago I wanted an old house to fix up.  Oh, how I would plan and dream of renovating an old farm house-I would bake cookies and wear aprons and have garden parties. 

So it has been an act of love and kindess that has gone into the remaking of this little 110-year-old farm house.  Everything has gone perfectly and my projects are always under budget and it looks exactly like I want it to.

No, no, no none of that is true.  My dreams of Laura Ashley wallpaper and Rachel Ashwell inspired vignettes were kicked over, trampled on, spit on and set on fire by failing septic tanks, falling down chimneys, dysfunctional water heaters, dry rot, drafty windows, insufficient insulation~~I really don't need to go on, though I could. 

So I did the best I could with wall paper and blinders.  This~~~~sigh~~~~ this is my living room.  I apologize in advance. 

Yeah, I know.  I hate it.  But life happens you know and after a while you just don't see it anymore.  Well I decided life is too short to be in a place that doesn't make you happy.  SO--here we go...

Step 1.  Clear everything out of the room.  Yikes.

Let's see what changes I can make with $1,000.00 and some, a little, a lot,  a freaking football stadium filled with faith. (Oh and lots of Raspberry Snapple)

Come back tommorow for Step 2.

Smiles,
Lisa

Violated...

Tonight this is the view from where I sit as I write this post. 

Over my dandelion littered lawn, past my pecking hens, under the old apple tree with the swing, down the little hill where the herbs are planted to where our first pig sty was, under another old apple tree, right by the bee hives and a bit beyond the huge tire holes where the fire truck got stuck when my husband had a brush fire without a permit, there is a field.  Beyond the field is woods and trees and poison ivy.  Through the woods is a pond.  Not a big one, maybe 12 acres and it's kind of swampy, but a pond nonetheless.  I love this piece of land.  I own it.  I can open up my back door and take off running and not hit anything or anyone else's land until my breath burns in my chest.  It's not perfect.  I'm closer to the highway (we say interstate in Maine, but I'm not sure if everyone does that?)  then I'd like to be and can hear it and I wish I couldn't.  But other than that I am happy here. 

No one bothers me.  I have one neighbor on one side and I'm sure they talk about the rampant pigs and the goats being chased by dump trucks and they've had to call me to rescue an adolescent rooster from their shrubbery, but things are generally pretty calm here. 

This morning something happened that sullied my funky little utopia.  I'm sure few people would think it a big deal,  though I did call law enforcement.  This morning someone's dog came onto my piece of land and while I put together breakfast for my children he chased and killed three of my chickens.  Now my chickens don't have names and we don't knit sweaters for them.  But we do keep their house clean, feed them good food, water them daily and let them have free range of the entire property.  In turn they eat bugs and give us eggs to eat and to sell.  I love having them.  Sometimes foxes and other predators come into the yard and once in a while we lose chickens to them.  This makes me angry and I hate it, but I know the foxes are eating the chickens and taking them back to their babies and although I don't want them to do it and do everything to avoid that happening, it is somehow easier to take then having a domesticated animal kill for pleasure and leave the birds broken and wasted, just to move on to the next one. 

I caught him in the act of chasing down a fourth bird and was able to run him off.  As soon as I went inside, he came back and grabbed another.  If I'd had a gun, I would have shot him, but I was able to kick him and save the chicken.  The owner was notifed by police where her dog was and she came to my house mouthing her apologies even as she drove down my driveway.   She offered to compensate me for the birds but I refused.   All I asked for is that this doesn't happen again.  I know that she can't really promise that, even though she did. 

I just feel smaller somehow from this.  Should I cage my chickens?  Should I have them at all?  Should I have demanded more from the owner?  Should I have demanded more from the police?  

As I dug three tiny little graves, I felt such a sense of waste and sadness at the futility of it all.  I don't have the time or energy to figure out the bigger picture and I really don't have time to get angry.  I'm just sad. 

Lisa

Communing With My Inner Hippy...

The Teenager at Age 8

I never got to attend a Dead concert but  I DID see the Jerry Garcia Band in concert.  I have never worn a pair of Birkenstocks, though I own a hemp braclet, a toe ring and could probably dig a prairie skirt out of my closet if I felt the need.  I prefer herbal tea to any other herbal stimulant.  I like the smell of patchouli but not on my skin.  I am not a fan of dreadlocks, they look stinky to me.  I do go barefoot in the summer and don't mind getting dirty.  I have never owned a Volkswagen, but I did have a Subaru in the early 90's.  I recycle, I compost and do my best not to waste anything. 

                                       

I grow my own herbs and vegetables but I am not 100 percent organic and am not a vegan or vegetarian by anyone's imagination.  

I raise my own chickens for eggs and meat.

                                       

I hang out with goats.

                                        

I believe in love.  I also believe in personal responsibility and being rewarded with the fruits of your labor for a hard day's work.  I believe in charity but I believe that everyone needs to do their share. 

Is there such thing as a sort of conservative, kind of liberal, tree hugging, meat eating, capitalist, pro-choice, polyester wearing, hippy who sews her own clothes? 

Peace,

Lisa

Done...

I know!  A project that I started and ultimately finished.  It is a simple twin-size patchwork quilt and I started it a year ago.  Last night, I finished it.  Holy crap. 

Why did it take me a year to finish?  Because I HAND quilted every freaking three inch square, by HAND, WITH--MY--HANDS, and a needle of course. 

Doesn't that seem like a lot of work for a blanket?....

Smiles from the farm,

Lisa

Delusional...

So today is the 157th day of Dottie's pregnancy.  For my goatie friends, you know what that means.  For everyone else, well that means that there ain't gonna' be no babies. 

She seems pretty torn up about it. 

So what have I learned?  Well, I have learned that you should not give "pregnant" goats extra feed because they're expecting.  This just makes them fat and tricks you into thinking that they are going to have babies.  Oh and don't count your baby goats before they are born.  They should make some sort of saying that people could say all the time when they make plans for something before they know exactly what is going to happen with the possibility of being disappointed by the plan not working out.  Or I guess you could just say that, seems long and confusing though. 

Anywho...It's really sad that there won't be any little baby goat children on the farm this year, with all the jumping and cuteness.  Not even one little tiny goat child....

 

                                       

Or, maybe a tiny little goat child will come live here in hopes of being a big brawling buck and we won't have to leave the farm to procure more baby goat children.   

                                         

And maybe a sweet little doe friend of his will come too and maybe she will have eyes so blue that even Dottie will be impressed.

Ok, maybe not that last part.

Smiles from the farm!

Lisa

What to Expect When Your Goat's Expecting...

So, um Dottie, when are those babies coming?  They should've been here today. 

They'll get here when they get here.  These things can't be rushed.  Besides, I just don't feeeeel like having babies today. 

and how do you REALLY know that I'm going to have babies at all?  What signs have I shown you that something like that is even going to happen?

You're HUGE and your udder is full and five months ago today you went on a date with Romeo.  I'm not that bright, but I'm a thinkin' you gonna have some babies. 

Well we'll just have to wait and see now won't we.  Perhaps I will have Skittles instead, or orange Starbursts, Swedish Fish or Twizzlers-I do so prefer candy to babies. 

But Dottie, I really want little goat babies!

Meh, babies are overrated.  Look at this thing you brought home the last time you had a yearning for a goat baby.  Haven't we learned from THAT mistake.  And really couldn't you have found one with real legs? Freakish is what that thing is. 

So about those babies?

....Dottie?

Smiles from the farm, with no babies...

Lisa

Rockin' the First Grade

I was digging through pictures today and found this.

Now before you go and think something like, "Well that's a normal looking class from the mid 1970's in Northern Maine.", well you are kind of wrong.  This is actually a little more than half of the entire population of Burlington Elementary School in 1976.  This is kindergarten, first AND second grade.  They had to combine the grades to fill up the picture.  The school has now closed, which is sad.  There were two classrooms, the kindergarten was in the same room as first and second with a divider and the third and fourth were in the room across the hall.  We ate our lunch in the classroom, there was no gym, no computer lab, no happy-rainbow-unicorn room.  Just the basics.  Our lunch was made and served by one woman, Edith Shorey.  It was made from scratch, no frozen chicken nuggets or mystery meat.  We had tuna wiggle, baked beans (personal worst lunch ever), homemade apple crisp and strawberry shortcake and pigs in blankets---so good.  It was like we lived on the banks of Plum Creek, or I guess it was more like living on the banks of the Passadumkeag River and Pa worked at Lincoln Pulp and Paper instead of on the homestead.  Ma sewed shoes for Dexter Shoes. 

When we went to the fifth grade in town, it came as a surprise to me that there was a cafeteria and you couldn't save your yeast roll in your desk to eat later on and you couldn't get seconds and during gym they wouldn't let you catch butterflies, play on the swings, or stay inside and draw pictures on the blackboard 'cause you just didn't "feel" like playing kickball. 

It was a good school and I don't know anyone who went there who doesn't have fond memories.  But, I wonder how well it prepared us for the real world.  I'm still waiting for someone to make me red jello with a perfect 1/2 inch of homemade whipped cream on the top and who will painstakingly make sure that the entire group gets at least one cherry in their fruit cocktail.  But most of all I am waiting for THIS look to come back.  I could still totally rock it.

Smiles from the farm,

Lisa

More fascinating thoughts on my dishes...

I know you can HARDLY wait! 

But do you know that I have owned this dish for many, many years.  It has held candy, pickles, berries, buttons, etc... 

I bought it at auction.  It was one of the finer things that was in the glass case, such things as I never buy as they cost money and I am cheap.  I coveted it when I saw it and asked to hold it and I turned it over in my hands and knew that it would go for some princely sum, like $20.00.  I'm a $5.00 kind of chick.  So I handed it back and went to the back to dig through boxes of broken china and chipped depression glass. 

At the end of the auction, I was in line to pay for my stuff and watching as they sold the last few boxes or stuff.  For some reason I bid $5.00 on the last box and I didn't even know what was in it.  Well imagine my surprise when this dish was lying on the top.  Some things are just meant to be, I guess.

But that wasn't why I was posting today.  The thing I wanted to tell you is...I NEVER knew that there was a lobster on the handle of this dish, 'cause roses and lobster...really?  But there is!  With feeler thingys and claws and a tail and everything.  Now why didn't I ever see that?  I guess it's nice to know I'm not too old to be surprised...yet. 

Smiles from the farm,
Lisa

My good dishes...

Do you have "good" dishes?  Do you use them?  Do you worry about them, wince when someone cuts their meat too vigorously on them?  Do you allow anyone else to wash them?  Do you only use them for special occasions?

I have so many questions.  I have good dishes.  They are about the only "good" thing I do have.  They are Royal Albert in the Old Country Roses pattern.  I love, love, love them.  A lot.  So much so that I have had them for about eleven years and yesterday...was the first time they have ever had food on them.  I had to soak the bar code stickers off of them.  I was saving them for when my formal dining room was finished and the house was perfect.  But you know what?  I don't want to die having never used my "good" dishes even if that means letting the cave people who live with me use them too.  After asking them to be careful because they were real china, it was asked how you could tell real china from other stuff.  So then everyone had to hold up the bread plate and look through it, which caused my heart to stop beating until the little plates were once again on the table. 

Needless to say, my Easter dinner was a little tense and it was asked kindly by the cave persons that unless we were eating oatmeal with plastic spoons for our next special occasion, could I please leave the "good" dishes in the cupboard.  Absolutely.  Then we ate cake....on paper plates.

Smiles from the farm,
Lisa