Taking Stock

by Donna Schoenkopf

It is 6:10 am as I write this. Angela Davis the Dog nuzzles my elbow. She wants a pat on her head or her breakfast. Diego the Dog lies at my feet on the carpet.

It’s dark outside. The wind blows. It’s hot. At least for the month of November.

I am taking stock of my life this morning.

 

My House

If anything, my house is sturdy. Nothing shakes or creaks when the wind blows. I suppose the weakest point of it is the sliding glass doors, but even they make no sound or rattle when the weather acts up. To live in Oklahoma in a rectangular house on top of a hill with three sides almost completely glass is like thumbing one’s nose at the gods. But, to my amazement, the house has survived a mini-tornado, many, many thunderstorms complete with a lot of lightning, hail, and rain like you wouldn’t believe.

Thank you, again and again, Peewee, for double anchoring every single sheet of metal, for anchoring the house solidly in the concrete floor, for protecting me against the onslaught of Mother Nature.

 

Mud Daubers

I do have mud daubers, though. They are the docile wasps who build their mud homes in everything. When I pulled my winter sweaters and coats out of the shed this past week I found beautiful little mud dauber creations on the sleeves and inside the coats that they have made for one reason or another. There is always one single perfect hole in them.

I accidentally put them in the dryer before I realized what I was doing. I wanted to kill any scorpions or brown recluse spiders that may have gotten in them. I guess I need to keep my clothes in the house. ANYWAY, I ended up vacuuming the red dust inside the dryer I had managed to cause. And that wasn’t easy either.

The mud daubers have also gotten under the eaves of my house and down inside my southeast wall and my northwest wall. I suppose I should do something about it but they don’t seem to be hurting anything. I wonder, if it turns out I am mistaken, if my insurance will cover the damage. They are quiet now because it’s autumn, but in the summer they fly in and out of the hidey holes, quite happy and content.

 

Time and Dirt

My house is no longer brand new. Time and dirt have taken their toll. My concrete floor has changed color from a cool neutral gray to an orangey brown, thanks to the dogs. I have a long crack in the floor caused by (I think) the fact that the north side of my house is cold and wet and the south side is hot and dry. That would cause the floor to crack, right?

I think about painting that floor a nice dark color. And then I think about moving all the crap ... washer, dryer, refrigerator, beds, bookcases, tables, teevees ...

And I fold under the pressure.

Later, I say to myself.

My shower is no longer pristine and white. Its grout is now orangey brown and I have mineral stains in the toilet bowl that won’t come out. Some of them did when I got some good advice from John about vinegar. But not all.

And I worry about the vinegar affecting the organisms that eat the sludge at the bottom of my septic tank.

Everything is connected.

 

Wood Stove

I think of the winter ahead and the probability of being without electricity again. When ice forms on the electric lines on the highway (mine are buried, thank you, Peewee) the weight of it snaps those lines and there you are, cold and dark in your all electric house.

This makes me think of the thing I want the most—a wood burning stove. I sometimes go online to Lowe’s just to look at the models and daydream. Someday. Mmmmmm. Sitting in my house, a nice wood fire burning, not a penny spent on heating my home. Heaven.

Someday.

 

Greenhouse

My house is like a greenhouse. The sun shining through the south-facing glass warms the house in the winter during the day. I mean, really warms it. Sometimes I actually have to open the sliding glass doors to cool off a bit. The plants have gotten so big that I’ve pruned them back over and over again, and then plant them in water in jars with pretty rocks, or in soil in cans that I’ve painted. Now they are all over the house.

Got some nice Christmas presents for a bunch of people.

 

My Car

I have a 2001 Prius. It has about 150,000 miles on it and is trusty and dear and good. But I discovered, when I washed it this week in honor of its visit to the Toyota service department (which is a one hundred mile round trip drive) that the dirt here is really damaging it. The rubber around the doors is beginning to break down. The paint is beginning to break down, too. The dirt is permanently a part of the seat covers and is in all the nooks and crannies of the dashboard. I fear for my darling car’s life.

Should I sell it to someone in California who really, really wants those California stickers that let you into the carpool lane with only one passenger?

And get a pickup?

The very thought makes me cry. But a pickup would make more sense out here. I might finally be able to get that bale of hay for composting that I’ve been wanting for some time. You’d think I’d have enough leaves out here. But noooo. The wind blows the leaves hither, thither, and yon and YOU try to catch ’em!

No. Not selling it yet.

 

The “Yard”

I think of my “yard.” It’s still rough and not what I envision. I want it to be graceful and shady. I want softness and curves. I want vines up the walls and over the arbors that I want to build over the decks. Want, want, want. Jeez.

My apple trees are wonderfully healthy. The manure did the trick. They make my heart sing when I look at them. I think of Carole and Judy sending Peewee money to buy them for me as a secret present. See that one there—the Red Delicious? It’s name is Carole. And that one, the Granny Smith, is Judy. Carole’s favorite color is red. And Judy’s is green. The very reds and greens you see in those very apples. Perfect.

I pruned all the branches of every baby cottonwood because they were covered with rust, an orangey (a lot of orange around here) yellow dust that covered all their leaves and began sucking the life out of them. I had tried to wash the rust off but found, to my consternation, that rust loves wet leaves.

Great ... juuuust great.

Now, their stick bodies poke from the ground, all naked and angular. Spring will bring leaves. I hope the rust is gone.

This makes me think of what the old geezer I met at the Toyota service department said. “Just remember. In the country everything is food for something else.”

I look down my hill, the smooth brown grass carpeting everything. Orval mowed that hillside down to the pond and to the north and east yards. It still looks fabulous. He almost slid down the east hill, trying to get one last little bit of grass.

It looks beautiful. Like an estate.

Sorta.

 

Chickens

I’ve been daydreaming about getting chickens but can’t figure out how to do it the way I want to do it. You see, I want to see chickens (or guineas, or both) cluck-clucking through the grass eating ticks and crawlies. There is nothing happier than a chicken doing that. And the eggs! Oh, the wonderful eggs! Organic and rich and good. I could share them with my neighbors!

But predators, Diego the Dog, coyotes, snakes, and hawks would be here in an instant, marauding. Damn. I guess I hate snakes more than I love chickens. And I love Diego more than chickens. I guess. Anyway, he got here first.

I could build a secure henhouse, complete with chicken wire and fencing and netting and all, but, just like painting my floor, I can’t get myself together to do it. Besides, it costs a lot of money. And another besides, I wouldn’t see the chickens happily cluck-clucking through the grass. Sorta defeats the whole purpose.

My dogs still kill creatures. I think Angela Davis helps Diego round them up, but he is the one who does the job. This past week I saw Diego nuzzling something in the front “yard.” Then I saw him eating it. It was a big ole squirrel (as they say.) At least it was half of a big ole squirrel. Only the head down to the waistline remained. I can honestly say it didn’t affect me too much. I didn’t say a word to him. Just let him have his way with it.

He farted all night, though. Bad ones, too.

Which brings me to the subject of Rosie the Cat.

 

Rosie

She left me months ago, for the fourth and, I suppose, the final time. The dogs are to blame. Especially Diego. He just cannot help himself. If he sees a small animal moving, he goes for it. (The five dead armadillos in my front yard can attest to that.)

So, being a smart cat, she has left me, her loving mother, and gone to Orval’s.

I had always managed to bring her home before. But this, the fourth time, was different. In the past I would show up every single day (almost) to feed her. There were a few wintry or rainy days I didn’t, but not many.

She’s been there for at least three months now, I think. I’ve really lost track. Now I buy the cat food and Orval feeds her. And, lo and behold! She finally has let him pet her. He says she purrs and rubs against him and is happy, happy, happy to see him.

I feel guilty about unloading my cat on him. It can’t all be sweetness and light, feeding my cat. There have got to be times when I know it’s a real hassle. So I debate about what to do. I think about telling Orval that she is his if he wants her. And I would appreciate it if he would let me buy her food. That way, at least he won’t have the burden of the cost.

 

Neighbors

I love my neighbors. Couldn’t be any finer.

My neighbor, widow of my neighbor who died, mother of three, has stored her Thanksgiving turkey in my freezer. Her freezer doesn’t have room. She is, little by little, coming into my life.

I am in total admiration, for instance, of Neighbor Jim’s sense of order and beauty. He has created an enormous piece of artistry of broken concrete he’s hauled from a construction site. He piled it neatly and artfully in his yard and little by little has completely paved a parking area, sidewalk, and patio with them. Each piece has had a hole dug for it so that the whole thing is flush to the ground.

His workshop is like a modernist painting. Lines and shapes in interesting patterns. Hoses are coiled perfectly in buckets. It’s neat and precise and serene.

Dang.

Orval’s workshop is a thing of beauty, too. It’s wilder and woolier. As neatly done as Jim’s workshop is, the opposite is true of Orval’s. Orval’s workshop is a stop action shot of things in process. The whole picture is of textures and shapes in flux. Interesting interplays between form and function. Rosie finds safety in Orval’s workshop.

Both workshops are exquisite. I should take pictures of both and display them side by side.

I should do a lotta things.

Well, that’s about it, folks.

I’m hungry. Gonna make me a nice hot bowl of oatmeal.

With cranberries and almonds and cinnamon. A little sugar. Some milk.

Mmmmmmm.

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