Here's to Michael Rutty

I skim the obituaries. Jonny makes fun of me for this, but I do it anyway, for a couple of reasons. First, the obits are opposite the comics page in the Seattle paper. Second, I have gotten in the habit of reading the obits in the Issaquah Press for work. Third, obituaries are a genealogical goldmine of information. Fourth, because they do form such a mini-biography, reading the obits is a really fascinating way to get a glimpse into the everyday lives of a cross-section of humanity (although skewed by the fact that the Seattle paper runs only PAID obits, which I think it a rip, but whatever).

A couple days ago I was skimming the obits and came across one for Michael Edward Rutty, and the last few lines of the obit grabbed me. Friends and family were asked to donate to Seattle Parks and Rec for a bench in the deceased's name. Or to donate to a micro-lending organization. Or to an organization to protect the forests of New Hampshire. Or you could just drink a Cuba Libre in his honor. "What kind of guy," I wondered, "was interested in micro-lending AND the forests of New Hampshire? What kind of guy really enjoyed a good Cuba Libre, and what might he have been like to suggest that his friends and family lift a glass of it to remember him?" So I read the obit in full and decided that Michael Edward Rutty sounded like he'd been a hell of a guy, and whoever wrote his obituary was really skilled in summing him up as a three dimensional person.

So today I bought Coke and lime juice and came home and mixed a Cuba Libre, and Jonny and I toasted Michael Rutty, and his aviation career, love of chocolate, and passion for the Burke-Gilman trail.

I'm not sure what the bottom line to this story is. Think about what you want people to say about you after you're gone? Figure out your signature cocktail now? Or maybe that it's not too late to meet someone new, even if they are already gone.

CUBA LIBRE
3 oz. rum (2 shots)
1 1/2 Tbsp lime juice
cola

Combine over ice and serve with a slice of lime.

Because who can resist a request to post pictures of their children?

Here ya go, Sarah!



(click for a slideshow of Halloween, Christmas, and Conrad's birthday pictures)

Apparently I woke up yesterday morning and was suddenly 75 years old. My knees hurt. My shoulders hurt. This is nothing new. My wrist hurts. Working on the chicken run launched a full-scale carpal tunnel flare up. And now my back is killing me, probably because I finally started doing my physical therapy exercises for my shoulders, and if I don't do them with good posture and excellent form, it makes my back hurt. So tomorrow I'm going to swing by my PT office to see if they can remind me how I am supposed to stand.

For these and other reasons, I'm having a hard time getting my holly jolly on.

So here is what I'm doing today...

1. Laundry! whee!
2. Clean out chicken coop - DONE (don't you ever put things you've already done on your to-do list solely for the reason that you can check it off immediately?)
3. Holiday letter. DONE
   
4. Wrap last minute gifties. DONE
   
5. SUPER-SECRET ERRAND. This involves buying ingredients to make fudge. It's a secret because I already made fudge. And have eaten most of it. So I'm sneaking out to get supplies so that I can make MORE fudge while Jonny is at the Seahawks game today. For some reason I entrusted Dylan with this secret and he has been chatting with me all morning about fudge, in a stage whisper. I may just need to admit that I have eaten an entire pan of fudge in the last three days. DONE
   
6. SUPER-SECRET PROJECT EXECUTION. Wherein your heroine makes fudge, part II. DONE
   
7. Paint salt-dough ornaments made last night. This was supposed to be a fun family craft. Conrad really enjoyed mashing cookie cutters into the dough over and over again, and Dylan managed to make one ornament in between doing things with the dough that made me say, "Dylan, if you're not going to make an ornament, you can leave the table."
8. Knee and neck exercises.
9. Take ibuprofen. Lots of ibuprofen. DONE
   
10. Exfoliate feet. Cuz that's how I roll.
11. Fill bird feeder and suet thingie. DONE
    
12. Make dinner.
    

Freaking Out

I just got a phone message from the chicken-sitter [I originally wrote "chicken tender" but realized that evokes a different image] -- from Friday night, why did I not check my messages earlier???? -- telling me that when they went to put the chickens to bed, they only found two (WTF?) and the coop was locked (WTF??).

Now I need to wait until a decent hour to call her and find out what the hell is going on.

I spent 15 hours reinforcing the chicken run with hardware cloth before we left for Corvallis.

UPDATE
Conversation with sleepy chicken tender/neighbor girl, who I awoke with my frantic call...
Me: Hi! I, um, just got your message. So what is going on with the chickens?
D: Oh, we found them. They were up on the roost and we couldn't see them.
Me: Oh! Good. So they are fine, then?
D: Yeah.
Me: Okay.
D: A raccoon was in the chicken run last night.
Me: Oh my god, you're kidding!
D: No. But we hit it with a broom and it ran away.
Me: Could you tell where it got in?
D: The door was open. It walked right in.
Me: It walked right in while you were there?
D: Yeah.

Fucking BALLSY ASS raccoon!

Apparently I will be spending my holidays in a lawn chair, in the chicken run, holding a borrowed BB gun, waiting to go medieval on the little fucker's hairy ass.

Stewart Holbrook and Making History Interesting

Blog readers (all three of you), I would like to introduce to you a fellow I will probably be talking about a lot in the future. Meet Benjamin Legg:



Isn't he babe-a-licious? This photo was taken on a hunting trip with several other locals. Ben was about 16 at the time. I love this picture because I feel like it shows Ben in his element - with a rifle and a hunting dug (that blur on his lap is a wriggling canine), out in the woods. This was during a relatively happy period in his life. His mother was still alive and had not yet developed the madness that would lead to her death. His younger siblings had not yet been parceled out to orphanages and adopted homes. He had not yet encountered the deep sorrows that would drive him to a life of drink and reclusiveness.

Ben Legg was born in 1889 and died in 1960, and lived most of his life in Issaquah, Washington. I have been fascinated with Legg, and the rest of his family, for at least the last five years. I first learned about him as an Issaquah outlaw, but as I started digging around into his backstory, I found him to be a sympathetic and multi-dimensional character.

This summer I stumbled across more information about him, which tied him to the Everett Massacre. I had known that he was a member of the Industrial Workers of the World (the I.W.W., or Wobblies), but I hadn't known the extent of his involvement. At that point I decided that it was time to commit myself to the story of the Legg family, with the aim of turning it into a novel for NaNoWriMo.

The NaNoWriMo dream died as I started researching. I realized it was going to take some time to figure out Ben Legg's story -- the historical, factual one -- before I could start fiddling around with a fictional version. I threw myself into research at local libraries, courthouses, and the Puget Sound Regional Archives. The archives are enough to make a history geek swoon. I found myself literally salivating. (There are also a bunch of Washington State archives available online -- I found my parents' and grandparents' AND great-grandparents' marriage certificates, among other treasures). I learned all kinds of new things about Legg, although as usual, the more you learn, the more you want to know, and the deeper you have to dig to find details.

Having harvested both the low-lying fruit and the fruit at medium height on this particular tree, I turned in all my library books and stopped scheduling research appointments in order to turn my attention to Christmas crafting, wrapping, baking, and general freaking-out.

But in the process of researching Ben Legg, one of the many books that I checked out from the library was Wobblies, Wildmen and Whistle Punks by Stewart H. Holbrook. Which led me to another book by Holbook, Murder Out Yonder.

Holbrook was a journalist in the 1940s and 1950s, after working as a logger in the Pacific Northwest earlier in his life. His books tell many of the weird, wonderful, and murderous stories of the Pacific Northwest circa 1900. I've been reading Holbrook because it's enjoyable reading, but also because Holbrook is a master of making history come to life. Since he was writing in the 1940s, he has the significant advantage of interviewing eye-witnesses to the events he recounts. But he's also very skilled with taking the names and dates and facts and painting a vivid picture with them. When I look through census records and probate records and court records, I can see the story unfold in my mind, but I don't have as much practice in giving the context that will enliven the same story for a reader.

So, to recap:
Ben Legg: complex, and a babe
Stewart Holbrook: great writer
Me: big history geek

Perhaps as an antidote to spending so much time mired in the day-to-day challenges of life in the 21st Century, I've been pondering radical feminism more and more lately. Up until a few years ago I self-identified as a liberal feminist. Liberal feminists believe that equality can be attained within the current societal framework. Radical feminists believe that the entire structure is flawed and we need to tear it down and start over. Liberal feminism is more optimistic, but there is a feeling of freedom in espousing radical feminism. I like being able to look at a steaming pile of dung and identify it as bullshit instead of trying to figure out how it can be improved upon.

At the same time, it means that I have to recognize the ways in which I operate within a culture of oppression. There is a laundry list of things that I do/say/feel/wear that are constructs of the patriarchy.

Anyway, two of the feminist blogs I've really been enjoying are Feministing (which is written primarily by women younger than me, which gives me hope) and the palate-cleansing I Blame the Patriarchy. This is not the web site to read if you want a comforting pat and reassurance that it's not really that bad. But if you want to read someone who identifies big steaming piles of dung as the bullshit it is, check that one out.

All this intro is intended to provide context for the following list, posted at I Blame The Patriarchy, which is protected by a Creative Commons copyright:

I Got Yer Rape Prevention Email Forward Right Here

Sexual Assault Prevention Tips Guaranteed to Work

1. Don’t put drugs in women’s drinks.

2. When you see a woman walking by herself, leave her alone.

3. If you pull over to help a woman whose car has broken down, remember not to assault her.

4. If you are in a lift and a woman gets in, don’t assault her. You know what? Don’t even ogle her.

5. When you encounter a woman who is asleep, the safest course of action is to not assault her.

6. Never creep into a woman’s home through an unlocked door or window, or spring out at her from between parked cars, or assault her.

7. When you lurk in bushes and doorways with criminal intentions, always wear bright clothing, wave a flashlight, or play “Boys Who Rape (Should All Be Destroyed)” by the Raveonettes on a boombox really loud, so women in the vicinity will know where to aim their flamethrowers.

8. USE THE BUDDY SYSTEM! If it is inconvenient for you to stop yourself from assaulting women, ask a trusted friend to accompany you when in public.

9. Carry a rape whistle. If you find that you are about to assault a woman, you can hand the whistle to your buddy, so s/he can blow it to call for help.

10. Give your buddy a revolver, so that when indifferent passers-by either ignore the rape whistle, or gather round to enjoy the spectacle, s/he can pistol-whip you.

Don’t forget: Honesty is the best policy. When asking a woman out on a date, don’t pretend that you are interested in her as a person; tell her straight up that you expect to be assaulting her later. If you don’t communicate your intentions, the woman may take it as a sign that you do not plan to rape her.

Before I went to grad school, I worked for an organization that didn't distinguish sick leave from vacation days, which meant that it was perfectly acceptable to call in and say you were taking a mental health day instead of fibbing and saying that you were sick. One of my favorite I'm-not-coming-in messages was from a woman who lived out in the country, and who had achieved her dream of keeping bees: "I won't be in to work today! My bees are swarming!"

I'm taking a short day today for a similar reason.

I am at war. At war with raccoons.

I got home from work last night relatively early, at a little after six, and decided to go out and clean the chicken coop, which I tend to neglect in winter when it's cold and dark by the time I get home. The chickens put themselves to bed when it gets dark, but I also need to go out and secure the coop. I put on me headlamp and picked up my plastic gloves and set forth.

As I rounded the corner of the house, I could hear some rustling. Something was climbing up the tree. My first thought was that there was a rat out there. I looked up the tree, and the beam of my the headlamp illuminated a raccoon. And another raccoon. I looked at the coop, expecting to see carnage. Instead I saw a THIRD raccoon exiting the coop. And then a fourth.

FOUR fucking raccoons! In my chicken run! With my chickens!

I hollered at them, but that only resulted in the neighbors lights coming on (probably wondering who the crazy screaming lady was) and three of the raccoons scaled the tree, escaping through small gaps in the mesh. The fourth raccoon hung stupidly from the netting, staring at me. I ran to get a broom and came back. Banging the broom on the tree resulted in more dumb staring and a big bend in the middle of (metal) broom handle. When I started actually prodding the raccoon, he started trying to get through the netting to follow the rest, but couldn't quite figure it out. I ran to get reinforcements.

Jonny came out and we assessed the situation. He suggested we secure the coop and leave them alone. I was not very excited about going into the run with a raccoon suspended above me. They seemed to be hypnotized by the headlamp, so Jonny kept the beam on the closest raccoon while I checked on the chickens (all four of them were alive! if seriously FREAKED out -- the raccoons had kicked all the food out of the feeder chute, but the chickens were okay) ran zip ties through all the various hooks and slots. This left the food chute unsecured. Jonny went to get a hammer and some nails to secure it, temporarily, and left me with the headlamp and the hose, thinking that might encourage them to depart. Instead, a leak in the hose left me soaked while the raccoons remained huddled in the tree, eight little eyes glowing down at me, seemingly impervious to the water.

Once the coop was secured, Dylan came out to look, but couldn't see anything, not even the little glowing eyes.

I came back outside an hour later, and then two hours later, to check the perimeter and all was well. I did some research on raccoons and read that raccoons have a litter of 2-4 kits in the spring, and 8 months later the young raccoons start venturing out on their own. I am theorizing that these were four siblings. Since they were young and not very experienced, they didn't do as much damage as they might have. And hopefully their early impressions of our home (screaming harpy with a broom, steady flow of cold water, etc.) were not welcoming. However.... they will grow and learn and they know we are here and have chicken feed. And chickens. So I have an adversary. With thumbs.

More good news -- they apparently are not able to sneak up on us. Jonny woke me up at 3:30 to tell me they were back (we have a system -- children noises wake me up, animal noises wake Jonny up). I put on my bathrobe and head lamp and went out to assess. They were gone. Since they had come right in the front door of the chicken run during their first foray, finding the door closed probably stumped them. Temporarily.

Apparently it's legal to trap raccoons in Seattle, but not to relocate them. Seattle's animal control web site admonishes would-be live trappers that relocated raccoons would either try to return to their territory and get hit by a car or killed be a predator, or stay in new territory and be killed by resident raccoons or other predators. I frankly don't have any problem with these raccoons dying, and if it were legal to shoot them, I would be buying a gun right now. Seriously. Raccoons are cute when they are crossing the street with their cubs, but not cute at all when they are messing with the girls.

So today I'm off to the Grange to get more chicken feed, locks, a catch for the feed bin, and some advice. And then home to secure the chicken run and check for raccoon poo which harbors a parasite fatal to humans. Whee! So much for saving history.

Here's an attempt at updating... I have been spending a lot of time and energy over at Facebook and on my online mom's club. Sigh, so many web sites, so little time.

I was laughing at my last entry, where I stated that it would be a long time before Conrad was able to really appreciate and use the play structure. He loves the slide (though he goes down either with Dylan, or with me holding his hands), loves the sandbox, and can't get enough of the swing:



When we went in for his 18 month well child visit, the pediatrician (an overly thorough second year resident, who I really do like, but who has contributed to maybe a tad more worry than is strictly necessary) referred us for a language assessment. I'd been trying not to panic over Conrad's lack of words, and it's hard to compare him and Dylan at the same age because Dylan had a ridiculous amount of words at the same age. The bottom line on the assessment was that he was a late talker, but still within the "normal" range. Since then he has added a bunch of words, of course. His first word was "car". Dog, duck, kitty, go go!, bubble, ball and others have developed over the last couple weeks.

Conrad's other major milestone was his first trip to the emergency room. He bonked into a bookcase at school and needed two stitches:

He got a blue fuzzy bear out of the deal, which is now his lovey and constant companion. I don't know if it's just my kids or if most kids are like this, but I seem to be the only parent dropping off FOUR people at daycare in the morning (Dylan and Babi, Conrad and Bear).

Dylan continues in his efforts to drive us insane. I can't believe how tall he is. He's finally getting enthused about learning his letters. Now that Conrad is getting bigger, they can play together. Predictably, their relations swing from one extreme to the other. He can be really sweet with Conrad, looking at books with him or going down the slide with him.



I've been interested in some of the differences between him and Conrad that I'm starting to notice. Dylan has never been that into drawing or coloring or writing and Conrad loooooooves to scribble. His mechanical skills are also better than Dylan's were at this age. I guess that's what he's doing with his brain power.






Probably the biggest event of the spring/summer was MomCon West, where eight of the moms in my online due date club converged on my house for a long weekend of coffee, food, and fun. I'd met two of the moms before, but just knew the rest from online. It was really fabulous to spend time with people who've become some of my best friends. Mamas and kids (and dads, in a few cases) traveled from Winnipeg, Edmonton, Alaska, Napa Valley, Phoenix and Portland. Good times. Here I am with Conrad and his bride to be, Lucy:



I went a little crazy with the garden this year and it is taking a lot more time than I thought it would. The zucchini is now threatening to take over the neighborhood. I'm growing basil, tomatoes, peppers, onions, chives, cilantro, zucchini, broccoli, chard, lettuce, radishes, pumpkins, arugula, carrots, beets, and fennel.

I continue to struggle with chicken containment. The chickens and I are in a battle of the wills and wits. They want to poop on the porch and I don't want them to. There has been a lot of fence building and construction. They figured out how to get over the 2 foot fence that constituted the chicken moat. After some experimentation with wing clipping, I decided I needed to upgrade to a 4 foot fence. PingPong could still hop over it (she is supposedly a heavy breed able to fly about 3 feet, AND her wings are clipped, but no one told her that, apparently) so I added a bunch of netting over the top. If she's really motivated, she can still find a break in the defenses, but she doesn't lay waste to the garden the way LuAnn and Daisy do, so I can live with it.

Tallulah went on walk-about for a week. She kept coming back and sort of mocking me and then taking off again. We decided she must have a boyfriend somewhere. She's contained again and seems okay with that.

In May, Frieda disappeared for 6 days. I was totally beside myself. I ran around putting up posters and calling neighbors and checking the animal shelters and thinking about coyotes. She had a name tag on, but it had our old phone number. I had SERIOUSLY given up and decided that I needed to get through the mourning process. She reappeared about an hour after Jonny put away the food and water dishes and litter box and cat tree. She was thinner and with a bladder infection, but no worse for the wear. Now she is tagged, chipped and licensed.

And if anyone knows a surefire way to keep an almost-five-year-old from wetting his pants frequently and with no shame, I'd love to know.

Mea Culpa, Mea Culpa

I'm sitting here in the backyard supervising Dylan's first school-friend playdate (as opposed to the kind of playdates where I go over to a friend's house and Dylan is forced to play with their child). Dylan's little friend Tyler came home from school with him and is staying for dinner. Dylan and Tyler get into all kinds of trouble together at school, and bear watching. Tyler seems far more interested in feeding the chickens, which involves picking plums. My own plans for the plums was more along the jam line and less along the chicken feed line. Tyler is pretty cute, nonetheless. He has blond hair and this little piping voice. Cute probably gets him all kind of slack.

I am currently also lamenting the disintegration of the space bar on the lap top.

The Latest from Our Back Yard

For Christmas my mother wanted to get Dylan (and Conrad, though it will be some time before he can use it) a "play structure". I don't know what they are officially billed as, but all of us, including Dylan, now call it The Play Structure. For some time now my love of watching the chickens free range and forage has been at war with my crankiness over washing chicken poop off the porch and glider. I had mental images of the chickens roosting on the swings and pooping in the sandbox of the play structure and was not pleased. This would not do.

In a chicken discussion on backyardchickens.com, someone had been lametning the state of their garden and another BYCer suggested a chicken moat. Not an actual moat, but a chicken run that went around the perimeter of the yard. A moat made of chickens! So on the way down to Corvallis, I worked on my plan for a chicken moat. Here it is:


(The yellow is the approved chicken zone and the blue is the chicken-free zone. The little dots are the fence posts. At some point I'll have to add another fence around the garden, but for now they are free to roam and forage and fertilize).

I've already had to make chicken-proof fences for my tulip bed and my garden plot, and I figured I would do this the same (tedious) way -- covering those little wire fences with chicken wire. It turns out that our friendly neighborhood nursery carries these awesome coated-wire-and-post sets. You pound in the posts, hook the wire fencing to the little hooks, and hey presto! You're done.

The only trouble is that we need easy access in at least two points. Jonny and I can step over the fencing, which is only 24" high, but I wanted Dylan to be able to move around at will, etc. I took some of the fencing that was guarding my tulip bed and modified it. I cut the bottom tines (which usually stick in the ground) off one of the wire panels, bent one connecting tine up and out of the way, and bent the other down so it could serve as a sort of door stop. I used a thinner wire to create little loops that act as handles and go over the fenceposts to secure the whole thing.

I am indordinately pleased with my chicken moat. It makes me so happy to look out and see my chickens puttering along on the right side of the fence, secure in the knowledge that I need not encounter their poo.



Meanwhile, Jonny put together the play structure. My initial thought was that it would take up a lot of space and sort of ruin the zen fantasy I have for our yard. But, I have to admit that it looks quite spiffy. And Dylan seems to be enjoying it very much.