Stuff and Things

What is it about this time of year that gets under my skin so much? It's too cold or the ground's too hard to work outside on garden prep, chickenhouse building, or the (continuous, dammit) home repairs.... It's not really cold enough for me to want to pretend I'm a bear instead of a wolf and hibernate 23/7.... I half-want to clean, organise, declutter things... I half-want to say "Oh the hell with it, I can't keep ahead of the ravenous junque collecteurs I live with"... Part of me wants to yell and holler at the people who for SOME unknown reason cannot put an item back where they got it, even when they are standing 3.2 inches from its proper place....

And don't even talk to me about the animals.... Horrid little beasts! One of them has forgotten what a litterbox is for (Clone). One of them knows quite well what it's for -- kicking the litter and *ahem* stuff out of onto the floor, in a walkway (Lucky). Two of them hate the litterbox anyway, and would rather go outside and DIE than poop in a sanitary plastic tray full of environmentally sound corn-by-product (Nana and Visions). Snowy (Lyn's cockatiel) now screams for no reason -- not just because someone has bothered her -- just to scream. And the sugar gliders are itchy, so we have to run a NON ULTRASONIC humidifier which frankly is noisy as hell. We got a companion dog for Cat (the person) for Yuletide; he looks like what we called a "poi dog" when we lived in Hawaii. Buster's a great kid; he plays with Biddy. It's total comedy, particularly when you consider, Buster at age 3 probably weighs all of 9 pounds (hell, Lucky is heavier!) and then there's Biddy... at 89.2 pounds. So, Buster's on one end of a rope tug, dangling.... From Biddy, who has the other end of the tug in her mouth. They do other cute stuff but that's the bestest.

I mentioned Lucky, above, and it made me think about the whole crew really. Clone, the oldest, was the kitten of Mist, a barn cat given to me when we first moved back to the Ozarks. She's about 17 years old, possibly 19. I can't even remember now because she's been around so long. She's still able to eat, purr, and pee (anywhere but her box) even though it's evident that she's really old now. She can also still catch, and eat, mice. Her silver-grey fur has a slightly brownish tinge now; the vet says that's just age, which is also the reason that her sea-green eyes have faded to a more golden shade now.

Next oldest of the bunch is Snowy, the cockatiel. Small bird, not the huge screaming thing, big difference between a cockaTIEL and a cockatoo, which is what most people think I mean when I mention her. She's white with a yellow crest and pale orange cheek patches; like all her breed she's pretty fastidious about her grooming and her food. Now she's cranky, though, and instead of saying "Ryu" and "Whee!" she mostly communicates in a noise similar to fingernails on a blackboard. She's the last of 3 cage-birds we had; Artie Deco was the first, and Snowy was originally supposed to be his girlfriend, but that didn't really work out for him. There was also Skittles the Lovebird. Everyone says not to have a single lovebird, but that's baloney; Cat raised him from the time he wasn't even fully fledged, and believe me, he never needed a mate. Both Artie and Skittles are gone now; we were told that cockatiels generally live 10 to 12 years, and lovebirds live 10 to 15 years. Both birds far exceeded this projection, as has Snowy, who is still alive and screeching at 17.

So, Clone, then Snowy, then Nanashi. Now, if you know Japanese, you may realise that Nana's name is a pun. Nana was rescued from under the porch of a rundown house on the wrong side, of the wrong side of the tracks. When I hauled him out, he was smaller than your average coffeecup. Hells'Bells, the FLEAS on him, were almost as big AS him, I swear. I bathed him in a Motel Six sink the night I found him, and discovered he was even smaller than I thought. When he finally dried, he was a delicate ball of long ginger fluff. I'd seriously never seen anything so beautiful and so unimaginably soft to the touch. He forgave me for that bath finally... about 3 years ago. Nana is 15 years old, and he's still one of the most beautiful creatures I know. A lot of the time, Lyn refers to him as the Little Lion, and Nana-baby-kitty-kins. (Don't laugh. She's 25 years old; there is no way I'm going to be able to make her stop babytalking to that cat now.) Now for the pun... He's a little bastard, not really by temperment but by actual birth. In the old days a bastard was a "nameless one". Nanashi means -- no-name. Get it? hahaha?

Like most of our animals, Lyn taught Nanashi to drink from straws and eat from forks. Oh. Did I say taught? Well, not really. When Lyn was growing up, and when she'd come home in summers from university, she would sit at her desk, writing programs or drawing, or any of the other things Lyns do... and when she'd have a drink or snack, she'd share with whoever was nearby. I'd sit and watch sometimes, distracted from my own stuff, as Lyn would take a bite of noo-noos, then wind a noo-noo round a chopstick and offer it to Nana. Lyn would take a slurp of tea or soda (she always has loved straws and sippy cups, even as a "grown up"), and then offer the sippy-lid or straw to Nana. She also did this with other dogs and cats as they entered our lives. It was hilarious. Nana would sit on top of her monitor (this was before flatscreens) and Clone would sit on her lap -- or vice versa, but either way, they'd share. Nana also used to LOVE to lean over the top of the telly and watch the screen as Lyn played Sonic or any one of a few dozen other Sega games.

During this time we also had Ren and Milo and Lassie, all of whom are gone now.

Then came Biddy. Lassie had been gone for a few months, and Cat and Lyn decided they couldn't stand ME without a dog, so ... they got me one. My little Biddy black puppy.... You know, that dog now weighs more than Lyn. I think that's hilarious. But there's plenty about Biddy in other places, so on to ....

Visions. Visions the cat is a beautiful shorthaired, goldeneyed, black male. At the moment, he's been outdoors (yes, in below-freezing weather) for over 24 hours, because for some reason, he can't stand being in the house other than to eat. He and I have been arguing for the past month or so about whether or not he needs to be out in this weather. I've given up, frankly. I just hope he has brains enough (he does have) to crawl up into the torn bellywrap of the trailer and sit on the ductwork, and not freeze, and I'm just relieved when he mews imperiously at the door to be let in. If he didn't weigh as much as a small dog, I'd be more worried, I think. Like, crawling under the house or searching the woods, worried. I don't even like cats, really, and I like Visions, but the idiocy has to stop or I'll go nuts.

And then there is Lucky. Last August, Lucky wandered up onto the lanai, screaming. His throat had been torn out, then the wound had abcessed, and.... He was a mess. I've never seen an animal hurt that badly that survived. We brought him in and bathed him -- he was so ill, he LET us. Then I gave him warm chicken broth, every four hours, with vitamins mixed in. I was afraid to give him solid food -- you could count every bone in his body at that point. By the next evening, his fur was already softer and the horrendous wound under his chin and on his throat was granulating. By Monday when I was finally able to get him to the vet (David Edwards, DVM, of Osceola Missouri, is a saint. If there is a heaven, David should be at the highest level of it) Lucky was actually starting to look like a cat. David said he was astonished that he'd lived through the weekend. He cleaned Lucky's chin and throat, shot him full of antibiotics, gave me a liquid antibiotic to squirt down Lucky's throat twice daily... And said he was amazed not only that Lucky was alive at all, but that he'd found the house of the ONE crazy old lady who would take care of him. Yes, there are other houses on this road, though they're few and far between. And yes, I think I know quite well who abandoned this cat to the mercies of the forest. And yes, I am emphatically a "dog girl". But Lucky knew. He saw the lights, he heard and smelled us, and he knew -- he would be safe here.

A year later? wow. Amazing. He's a big, well-muscled, yelloweyed beauty. He's a shorthair, and he's black and white. He looks as if he's wearing a mickeymouse hat because the top of his head and his ears are black. His back is black -- except for a narrow white strip of fur. People keep telling me to get a Sharpie and colour it in, because he looks like a skunk. Hmph. I'm sure you can figure out, from his story, why he's called Lucky. And, although as I said above, I'm not really into cats, I admire the hell out of this cat. It took balls -- and luck -- for him to even be here.

Don't get me wrong, I find cats very valuable for vermin control round the house and farm. And I enjoy watching cats move or hunt, because they're so elegant even when they're... well... not being elegant. But I never really liked them as pets.

This pride, however, is changing my mind.

Winter Holiday Week!

Wheee, it's Midwinter!

Whatever it is you celebrate this holiday as, we all know it's an awesome time of year. And one of the best things about this time of year is ... THE FOOD!

So without further ado, on to the food.

Roast Beast and Yorkshire Pudding, Green Beans, CranOrange Stuff, and Cranberry Bread
This is our traditional Solstice dinner. I'm pretty sure I've given the Cranberry Bread recipe somewhere in this blog, so I won't repeat it.

Roast Beast
You'll need 6 ounces uncooked weight of meat per person you're serving. A family of four, for instance, needs a roast that's about a pound and a half. Check your cookbook to find the proper internal temperature (and therefore the hours of cooking time) for your roast. Remember, POULTRY finishes at a much higher internal than beef, pork, lamb, or venison.

Take the thawed roast (or turkey or large baking hen) and rinse it well. Pat it dry.

Turn the oven on to the recommended temp for the type and size of beast you're cooking.

In a bowl mix salt, pepper, garlic powder OR crushed fresh garlic, diced onions, and possibly your fave "spice mix". In another bowl, soften 2 Tablespoons of butter, and then moosh it around with an equivalent amount of good olive oil. Now, rub this all over your meat. Then sprinkle on your spice mix.

The oven won't be ready yet, so get the pan you plan to roast this in, and a rack. If you haven't got a rack, then take some aluminium foil and make tight "snakes". Coil these in the bottom of the pan and you can put the beast on that. If you haven't got a lid or top for your pan, make a foil tent.

Stick the roast in the hot oven, insert a thermo if you have one (DO NOT rely on the "pop up" thermo in purchased turkeys. Really. Please dun't.) If not, get out your stick-in meat thermo and keep it handy by. When the specified amount of cooking time has elapsed, check the meat temp. If it doesn't match what the book says it should -- Leave the roast beast alone for another 15 minutes. You can repeat this process till the temp is right.

During the roasting time, you're going to make your CranOrange stuff and your Green Beans.

CranOrange Goo
For the CranOrange Stuff, take 1 cup of cranberries and chop or food-proccessorise them to a coarse grind. Scrub an orange, then zest the entire outside. Then peel off the weird white stuff, and squish up (but not "juice) the orange. Put the cranberries and the orange squish into a small pan and add 1 cup of water, and 1/4 cup of sugar. Turn the heat on low, and stir till your hands get tired. It will thicken and gel very slightly. When it has, turn the heat off, get a dish, and pour it into the dish. (I use a crystal bowl, cause I like lookin' at the Stuff). Put the dish UNCOVERED in the frige to chill and set. This will not taste like the strange stuff you get in a can. It's tonnes better!

Green Beans
Once the Stuff is made, toward the end of the beast-roasting, get out the green beans. If you bought them frozen, just run warm water on them to thaw, and don't tell anyone. If you froze them yourself, thaw them gently in slightly cooler water. If you just went out and picked them (Oh you lucky south-of-the-equator people), then wash them and snap the ends, but leave them long. Once they're thawed or washed, drain them. While they drain, cut up 2 slices of bacon into about finger-widths and fry them, then pour off MOST of the oil, and set the bacon aside. Fry the beans, very quickly -- you basically just want them hot all the way through, and want them to turn a beautiful bright green. Once they're cooked, sprinkle the drained bacon back on them, and cover to keep warm.

Gravy
Open the oven and check the roast beast. Pour off about a half cup of dripping (carefully). Heat this in a pan on the range top. While it heats, mix about 1/2 cup of flour, a pinch of salt, and about 2 cups of water together till smooth. Easiest way to do this? Why, in a jar with a lid! and shake it baby! When the drippings are bubbling, slowly pour in the flour-water mix, stirring like a madwoman the whole time. When the flour tastes "cooked", and not like flour anymore, turn the heat almost off, and use a "tamer" if you have one. Keep the gravy warm, and stir it once in a while to preclude lumpifying.

Yorkshire Pudding
Now, for the Yorkshire Pudding! In a bowl put 1 cup flour, 1 teaspoon of salt, and a PINCH, a bare pinch! of baking soda. Stir it up good. In a separate bowl, combine 3/4 cup milk, 1/2 cup water, and up to 3 eggs. Mix or beat or whisk this until it's a pretty sunny yellow colour. Now, stir it into your dry ingredients, just until everything is moistened -- do not over mix this, seriously. It's okay that there are little bumpy floury bits. Really. Trust me.

By now the beast should be done. It will need to sit for about 15 minutes before you carve it, or all the juices will ooze out and frankly, who wants a non-juicy roast beast? Take the beast out and set it aside. Turn up the oven to 400 degrees, and put an iron skillet on the middle shelf. If you haven't an iron skillet, you can use a pie pan or a heavy baking pan -- DO NOT use glass. After about 5 minutes, very carefully take the skillet out of the oven -- it's going to be hot! -- and remember the bacon fat you poured off earlier? Pour that carefully into the skillet, and be sure it covers the whole bottom. If it doesn't, it's perfectly fine to add a tiny bit of vegetable oil. Now, pour the Yorkshire Pudding into the very hot pan, and put it back into the oven for a good 15 minutes at 400 degrees. While it cooks, you chase the cats off the table, get out the china, and yell at people to start washing their hands, and carve the roast beast. (If you're doing a turkey, and you have the whole "carve at the table" tradition -- then just make the preliminary cuts at wing and drumstick.) Check the green beans; if they're not hot, zap them in the micro for a few seconds (about 30 for most micros). Put the gravy in a bowl or boat.

The Yorkshire Pudding should be done by now, the beans should be hot, and the Stuff should be cold. VERY CAREFULLY get that skillet full of Yorkshire Pudding out, and slide the pudding onto a plate (yes, I know. In some families, they put the skillet on the table. I do too, when there aren't small people running about) and cut it as you would a pie.

Make sure you've got out whatever wine you're using, or bubbly juice if your family doesn't do booze. Get everyone to the table, and serve -- Beast first, then Yorkshire Pudding, then Green Beans, then CranOrange Stuff, then pass the gravy round the table. Once everyone is served, say whatever grace or blessing you feel is appropriate, then pour out the wine or bubbly juice and start the toasting! But don't let the toasting interfere with the eating. At our house we generally toast the President of the US, the Queen, and each other.

Have a very happy holiday, and enjoy your meal!

Holidays!

Wow, it's been a while since I was able to post. We've had a few interesting things go wrong here at the farm, and I had some more reconstructive surgery.

But I'm still in the holiday mood! Oh wow!

One of the forums I read had a question about sending holiday cards. So I thought I'd share my take on that, since for me, this is a wonderful part of the season.

I only send about a dozen cards each year to surviving parents, siblings, and very special friends. But the dozen that I send are special!

I keep my eyes open all the time for Yule cards -- and they may not be exactly "Christmas" or "Yule" cards; one year I found a box of gorgeous blank cards with a painting of a cardinal in the snow on them. (To me, cardinals and snow symbolise this season better than any other image!) One year I found some with Pooh and Eeyore and Piglet and Tigger on them, and so on. And, I don't necessarily find 12 of the *same* card. I just find a dozen cards I like.

On the afternoon of 25th of November, every year, I get out Enya's Oiche Chiun album (that's Silent Night, for non-Gaelic speakers) sit down with a slice of cranberry bread, a cup of coffee, and the cards. I sit down on the couch in the living room, so that I can look out the windows at the woods or the yard depending on whether I look out the south side or the north side.

Sometimes during the year I will have taken a cute, funny, or sweet photo of the animals or a pretty one of the farm or woods, so I print out a dozen small full colour copies. I also make sure to have bought a dozen really lovely Yuletide stamps. I have a dozen "gold foil" monogram seals, too, and my favourite pen.

I write a little note inside each card. I let the music and the view and the snack tell me what to write for each family, if that makes sense. Then I sign each card and tuck it into the envelope with a photo.

When all the cards are done and in the envelopes, by then the Oiche Chiun is over. So I clean a very old vinyl record of "various artists" including the Beach Boys when they *were* boys, Elvis, Bing Crosby, and so on, singing Yule and Christmas music, refill the coffee cup, and address all the envelopes, then stick the flaps down. I put a fancy gold initial seal on each envelope flap, and then the pretty stamp on the front.

By now, the old record is finished, so I put it away again. I rinse out the coffee cup, let the dog lick the cranberry bread plate, and then put on my boots and coat and mittens, and the dog and I walk the mile to the mailbox. Sometimes it's cold and clear, sometimes it's cold and windy, sometimes it's snowing or raining.

As we walk, I sing a very old Yule song called "The Holly".("Oh, the Holly she bears a berry, as white as milk. And the Mother she bore the Son, all wrapped up in silk"... there is also a Christian version of this carol, I think.)

We post the cards, the dog and I, and then we walk back to the house, still singing. By now the sun is setting, and the trees make black lace against the dim grey of the sky. Beside the branches of oak and maple and elm, are the dusky-green brushes of cedar, like embroidery between the lace. All around is the scent of winter, the cold, the odour of woodsmoke, the smell of the cedars, and often, the scent of "wet dog".

And then we're back home, in the light and laughter of the house, and it's nearly suppertime!

I make this into my own special part of the holiday thing. Because the family is fairly spread out, we generally don't exchange gifts. That's why the cards are so very special. Because the cards are special, I make the whole process of sending them special too. This is one holiday thing that I do alone, and if I am not in the holiday spirit because of illness or worries or whatever, then by the time I am done with the cards, and the cranberry bread, and the coffee, and the music, and the walk to the mailbox -- well, by then, I *am* in the spirit and have my equilibrium back.

Pumpkins!

It's pumpkin time! Finally!

Pumpkins rock. They're my favourite veggie, no joke. I like 'em even better than carrots or radishes for eating, or as the kids say for "nomming". (I'm told that comes from the programme Sesame Street -- it was the noise the Cookie Monster made as he ate.)

What pumpkin should you choose?

Well, what are you going to do with it?

It doesn't matter what variety the pumpkin is, nor what colour. What matters is the size. A bigger pumpkin will have less flavour to it, and may be tougher.

How you deal with the pumpkin depends on what you're doing with the pumpkin. For instance, most of the pumpkins people in the US buy are carved for jack-o-lanterns. The white pumpkins were developed to mimic the turnip and tater lanterns carved by people like my grandmothers years ago. The other varieties were hybridised to meet decorating needs, not eating needs. Go figure, huh?

What pumpkins aren't sold for decorating are processed into canned pumpkin, pre-made pumpkin pie "filling", commercially prepared pumpkin pies, and pumpkin seeds.
But guess what, you can do that stuff yourself!

If you are planning to carve the pumpkin for decoration, and are going to use the meat as animal food or compost, then it doesn't matter what size you get. Pumpkin skin, like any squash, is fairly tough. You may find it easier to use small saws, punches, and drills to do your pumpkin, instead of kitchen implements. If you want the pumpkin for eating, then buy pumpkins no bigger than your own head.

When you get your pumpkins home, hose them off outdoors. Let them dry a while. Then decide what you plan to do.

If you will be using the punkin for decorating, then you will probably cut off the BOTTOM. If you are using it as a bowl, you will probably cut off the TOP, leaving the stem intact if you can. If you are just going to use the pumpkin for eating, you will want to cut the pumpkin in half, watermelon-style.

Do this carefully. Pumpkin skin is VERY tough.

Once you have the punkin "open", then you need to get out all the seeds. Pull them out, sqoosh off any pumpkin "string", and put them in a pan of water. We'll get to them later.

Carefully, using a sturdy big spoon -- NOT a knife, and not some silly "pumpkin scraper" from a kit, scoop out the pumpkin guts.

*If you are not going to use the pumpkin, but only the insides, then you would cut the pumpkin into slices, again melon-style, and with a sharp knife, going slowly, you would peel the pumpkin.

Next, rinse off the guts. Make sure you have gotten all the seeds out, and gotten out any of the "slimy" bits. Slimy bits aren't bad or rotten, they're just the parts where the seeds were attached.
Put the guts into a pan and barely cover with water. Turn on the heat to the absolute lowest setting, and leave it alone for a while. You will want to check it every now and then, to be sure there's still water in there. Eventually, the guts will change to a deep rich golden orange (about an hour or two, depending on how much you've got.) At that point, turn off the heat.

Meantime, you have your hollowed out punkin now!

If you're using it as a serving bowl, then go around the inside again and scrape carefully. Remember to leave the BOTTOM fairly thick and unscraped. Slide the pumpkin onto a baking pan; later, half an hour before serving, you'll put it into a 300 degree oven and bake it for 20 minutes to soften it -- but be careful, you don't want it so soft that it won't hold the soup you're ladling into it!

If you're using it as a jack-o-lantern, then go over the inside again, scraping very carefully. You want the pumpkin to be fairly thin, because this makes it much easier to carve your designs.
Once you're finished with the inside, rinse the punkin and dry it again.

Set it on a sturdy work surface, and with a marker, trace your design. Or, take a printed design and lay it on your punkin, taping it in place. With a toothpick or a large sewing needle (like a darning needle) go over the design, punching in carefully -- like making a "connect the dots" in reverse. Take the pattern off, and very lightly dust over the punkin with flour. This will make the dots stand out so you can see them.

Now, using a sharp knife, small saw, punch, and heck I've seen people use their craft drills like Dremel tools -- now cut out your design. Be very careful, and supervise small children. Please!

It's traditional to use candles stuck into a pool of their own melted wax to light your lantern. But I find it more practical to use votive candles in glass holders, or little tiny lights sold for this purpose. I mean, come on, look at the size of my dog, and calculate the average windspeed of her tail wag.... Little lights are safer than candles sometimes!

Punkin Seeds
Now... remember your punkin seeds? Clean 'em good, get all the slimies off them, and rinse them. Bring about 2 cups of water to a boil, stir in about 4 tablespoons of kosher salt and maybe a sprinkle of seasoning salt. Put the seeds in that. Leave them alone for 2 hours. After two hours, pour the water off, spread the seeds on a baking sheet, and roast in a very slow oven for four hours.
OR
After you pour off the water, heat a heavy pan on the range, pour in about two tablespoons of your favourite oil -- barely enough to cover the bottom of the pan -- and drop in your seeds. Stir! Stir, stir, stir! When the seeds begin to sort of "puff" and "pop", you are done. Turn off the heat, cool the seeds, and seal them up in a jar or bag for snacks.

Note -- if you are doing this to make birdseed or small animal seed, don't use the seasoning salt, and cut the kosher salt back to two TEASPOONS.

Preserving Punkin
After you cooked up all your punkin (see above) and cooled it, you'll need to strain it. If you have a fine seive or colandar, use that. If yours isn't so fine, just lay a piece of muslin, or cheesecloth, in the bottom of the colandar and drain that way. Save what you drain to water the houseplants with. It makes them happy.

Once your punkin is drained, you can have some fun, mooshing it up with your hands. Or you can use your blender or food processor. Hands is more funs, as my Nana used to say.

Once it's drained, can it as you would jam or jelly. Or, you can put it into zip-top bags to freeze.
But what are you going to "do" with your punkin? Well....

Pumpkin Soup

Pumpkin Bread

Pumpkin Cookies

More rain??

For goodness sake.... I'm starting to feel as if I live in a rain forest or something!

But at least today it's just cloudy... no rain *yet*.

I've been playing with a worm farm a little, and doing indoor chores like washing and rehanging curtains and stuff, and getting my gear ready for deer hunting in November.

I must say, I'm sort of half-looking forward to that, and half-not. I mean, I love the taste of venison, but oh my, we'll have to butcher and pack the meat. I love the cool crisp smell of November in Missouri, but oh my, I'll have to be out there awfully early in the cold! I want to make Cat and Lynk some mittens out of the deer hide, but oh, my, I'll have to tan and work the hide first...

Talk about ambivalence! But... In the end, it'll be worth it and it'll be nice to look at packages of jerky in the pantry, and packs of yummy steaks and ribs and roasts in the freezer.

Now if the deer will just co-operate. You know, some years I am totally convinced that Mizzourah Whitetail Deer have digital calendar watches. They know the exact date that firearms season starts, and they know to the second what shooting hours are. I sometimes think they synchronise their watches so that from opening day onward, they can be sure to hide for the duration of the season!

I bet they sit around playing cards in the caves or the deep woods, and laughing about hunters. You know, sort of like that cliche' black velvet painting of the dogs playing poker?

But I am determined to outsmart them again this year and if not bring home the bacon, at least bring home the venison!

More rain and more and more....

I like rain as much as the next girl, but I'm beginning to feel like the old lady from Scotland:

Tourist: How long has it been raining here anyway?!

Old Lady: Weeel, this week 'tas only rained since Sunda. An' last week 't only rained from Sunda to Saturda.

I know how she felt! That's about how long it's been raining here. I haven't been able to work on getting my garden beds ready for next spring, and I haven't been able to start putting together my banty coop yet, partly because I'm too scared to run the saw when the ground is wet, and let's face it, I can't exactly cut parts in the kitchen, can I?

So I've been doing other things.

When I posted the story of Jack o' Lantern, my family reminded me there are a bunch of traditional things that people never do or teach their kids anymore. That includes the little songs and fingerplays that I taught all of them as they grew, and that they now teach their kids or the kids they babysit.

What happened to all the magic that used to permeate childhood? What happened to fairies and dragons and magical coins and little creatures who hid in the sand and granted wishes? What happened to little old women who swallowed flies or spiders who climbed water spouts?

The emphasis lately seems to be on killing things or blowing up things or otherwise destroying things. But it wasn't always that way, and it doesn't have to be. I wouldn't presume to go into the psycho-social implications of today's images on today's children, but I will say this: Gentleness, laughter, and love, are never out of place or out of fashion.

Some people may blame the loss of these old-fashioned images on the advent of television and computers and video games, but that's nonsense... we have all those things at our house, and we never forgot the magical things of childhood. Perhaps these things may bring back some of the wonder of your own young times. Perhaps you can use these things to amuse younger brothers and sisters or the children you babysit for. And perhaps if you have children of your own, you will pass these little things along to them, so that the magic and the wonder will not be forgotten.

Here are words and titles, and if you don't know the play that goes with some of them, you can always look them up online and chances are, you'll find a video for them to teach you, so you can teach others.

The Old Woman Who Swallowed a Fly
There was an old woman who swallowed a fly – but I don't know why she swallowed the fly. I guess she'll die!
There was an old woman who swallowed a spider – it wiggled and jiggled and tickled inside her.
She swallowed the spider to catch the fly.... but I don't know why she swallowed the fly. I guess she'll die!
There was an old woman who swallowed a bird – Absurd! She swallowed a bird!
She swallowed the bird to catch the spider that wiggled and jiggled and tickled inside her.
She swallowed the spider to catch the fly.... but I don't know why she swallowed the fly. I guess she'll die!
There was an old woman who swallowed a cat – Think of that! She swallowed a cat!
She swallowed the cat to catch the bird,
She swallowed the bird to catch the spider that wiggled and jiggled and tickled inside her.
She swallowed the spider to catch the fly.... but I don't know why she swallowed the fly. I guess she'll die!
There was an old woman who swallowed a dog – What a hog! She swallowed a dog!
She swallowed the dog to catch the cat,
She swallowed the cat to catch the bird,
She swallowed the bird to catch the spider that wiggled and jiggled and tickled inside her.
She swallowed the spider to catch the fly.... but I don't know why she swallowed the fly. I guess she'll die!
There was an old woman who swallowed a horse... She's dead, of course!

~~~~~

The House That Jack Built
This is the house that Jack built.
This is the malt that lay in the house that Jack built.
This is the rat that ate the malt that lay in the house that Jack built.
This is the cat that chased the rat that ate the malt that lay in the house that Jack built.
This is the dog that worried the cat that chased the rat that ate the malt that lay in the house that Jack built.
This is the cow with the crumpled horn that tossed the dog that worried the cat that chased the rat that ate the malt that lay in the house that Jack built.
This is the maiden all forlorn who milked the cow with the crumpled horn that tossed the dog that worried the cat that chased the rat that ate the malt that lay in the house that Jack built.
This is the man all tattered and torn who kissed the maiden all forlorn who milked the cow with the crumpled horn that tossed the dog that worried the cat that chased the rat that ate the malt that lay in the house that Jack built.
This is the priest all shaven and shorn who married the man all tattered and torn who kissed the maiden all forlorn who milked the cow with the crumpled horn that tossed the dog that worried the cat that chased the rat that ate the malt that lay in the house that Jack built.
This is the cock that crowed in the morn that waked the priest all shaven and shorn who married the man all tattered and torn who kissed the maiden all forlorn who milked the cow with the crumpled horn that tossed the dog that worried the cat that chased the rat that ate the malt that lay in the house that Jack built.
This is the farmer who grew the corn that fed the cock that crowed in the morn that waked the priest all shaven and shorn who married the man all tattered and torn who kissed the maiden all forlorn who milked the cow with the crumpled horn that tossed the dog that worried the cat that chased the rat that ate the malt that lay in the house that Jack built.
And this.... Is Jack!

~~~~

Soldier, Soldier, Will You Marry Me?
Verse One:
Oh, Soldier, Soldier, will you marry me, with your musket, fife and drum?
Oh, no, fair maid, I cannot marry you, for I have no shirt to put on.
So up she ran to her grandfather's chest
And found him a shirt of the very best.
She found him a shirt of the very, very best
And the soldier put it on.
Verse Two:
Oh, Soldier, Soldier, will you marry me, with your musket, fife, and drum?
Oh, no, fair maid, I cannot marry you, for I have no pants to put on.
(Continue as above)
Verse Three: The soldier needs stockings
Verse Four: The soldier needs boots
Verse Five: The soldier needs a tie
Verse Six: The soldier needs gloves
Verse Seven: The soldier needs a hat
Verse Eight:
Oh, Soldier, Soldier, will you marry me, with your musket, fife and drum?
Oh, no, fair maid, I cannot marry you –
For I have a wife at home!

Here is a second version of the Soldier Song:
Oh, Soldier, Soldier, will you marry me now, with a hey, with a ho, with the sound of the drum?
Oh, no, fair maid, I canna marry you, because I have no pants to put on!
So she ran to the shops as quick as she could run, with a hey, with a ho, with the sound of the drum.
She bought him a shirt of the very, very best – "Now here, my small man, put this on!"
The song continues the same way; this is just another version that I learned from my granny.

~~~

Skinna Marinki Dinki Dink
Skinna marinki dinki dink, Skinna marinki doo (pretend to strum a banjo)
I love you, I love you (hug yourself)
I love you in the morning (Make a big sun-shape above your head)
And in the afternoon (make a round shape in front of you)
I love you in the evening (make the shape at tummy-level)
And underneath the moon! (Swing the round shape up over your head)
Ooooh, skinna marinki dinki dink, Skinna marinki doo!
I love YOU, I DO!


Something in My Pocket
I've got something in my pocket (reach into a pocket)
It belongs across my face (pull one finger across your cheeks)
I keep it very close at hand (pat the pocket)
In a most convenient place.
I'm sure you couldn't guess it (shake your head)
If you guess a long, long while (reach to your pocket again)
So I'll take it out (take "something" out of your pocket)
And I'll put it on (make a smiley shape over your own face)
It's a great big happy smile!

~~~

I hope these give you ideas for things to do with your younglings.

Goodbye, Milo

I haven't a lot to say today, nor am I really in the mood to say anything at all. Milo, our Basenji, went to the vet for the last time today. He was a good dog, and lived a good long life, and he will be missed.

Autumn's chill

Well, after the rain passed, it sure got cold. Really cold, like "see your breath" cold. And everywhere today there's the smell of woodsmoke.

I love that smell. It brings back memories, and it makes me think of long evenings with the family reading aloud or singing and making music together. It makes me think of punkins and jack o'lanterns and roasting turkey or venison and the dance at the high school gym for Harvest Home.

I'm sure most people know that the squashes -- of which the pumpkin is one -- are new-world plants. That is, they came from the Americas, from the Western Hemisphere. But did you know that there were jack o'lanterns long before Columbus (or even Leif Ericsson, or anyone else) "discovered" the new world?

It's true! Back before we were all "civilised", the fall festival symbolised the true "end of the year". Our ancestors watched the sky and the seasons to determine when to plant, when to harvest, when to gather stores for winter, and so on. They didn't have our sophisticated scientific equipment, and they didn't have the laws of physics set down in a text book somewhere, but they knew what they were doing. Toward the end of the moon-cycle that we now call October, the ancient people observed, and worked with, the changes in weather and the world.

Later, people began living in tribes and communities. We know about the long-barrow houses in the British Isles, and we know about the mead-hall communities of the Norse countries, and so on. And of course, any time people interact, they begin to ask themselves questions about the world around them and so on. These early people developed what we now call a "mythology" but is in fact a religion. The wanted explanations of why things happened, how they happened, and that sort of thing, so they looked for answers. Maybe we'd look at their questions and answers now and laugh, but then 10,000 years from now, maybe someone will look at us and laugh too!

Somewhere along the line, the final harvest for the locations north of the equator became associated with the death of the earth for the year, and then with the deaths of family and friends. Eventually, through time and intermingling, that final harvest became what we know as Halloween or Samhaine, and it's still celebrated by many people all over the world. Some people celebrate it as the night of all souls, or all saints, and some people celebrate it as a fire-festival. But regardless of the religious teaching behind it, the holiday has some very old traditions associated with it, which make it both holy and fun!

One of those traditions is the jack o'lantern, and one of the stories that goes with that, is this one. There are a LOT of stories about jack o'lanterns, and some of them mix a "devil" or other figures from non-pagan religions in with the stories. Almost every person will have a version of the story, and some of those versions are not fit for little kids because they're dark and scary and attempt to teach through fear instead of through love. But this is the story my great-grandmother told us:

A very long time ago when the world was younger and so were we, the Sidhe, that the English call the Faeries, decided to leave this land for the Other. But from time to time they visited here because they had kin and friends and clan here, and they loved them, so they came on the quarter days and cross days to make feast and tell stories and harp together.

But the Sidhe didn't want just any stranger walking into their feasting and singing, so they often gathered and gathered their friends, in the hidden places and it's said they would take revenge in a playful way on those who sought to disturb them.

Now about this time there lived a lad named Jock. Jock was the fairest lad you ever saw, he was tall and he was strong, and he had hair like an otter's pelt, and eyes like the leaves on the oak. But Jock had a fault. He was lazy, and would spend all manner of time avoiding work, if he could. Not for him ploughing and planting! Not for him harvest and thresh! Not for him anything but fun and the peaty taste of the whisky he brewed away up in the hills, and the dancing and the singing and the fun.

Jock's mother sighed and put her back into her work alone, and if any asked, she would always say, "Let the lad have his fun, soon enough he'll be an old one."

One year as evening fell on Samhaine, Jock decided he'd find a party of the Sidhe. After all, they were known for their dancing and singing and drinking and fun, so what better people to join for the night's feasting than they? But the moon was dark that night, and there were no stars to see, so Jock took a turnip and hollowed it out and hung it on a string, then put his candle inside it to protect it from the cold, cold wind of the night at year's end. Then he kissed his mother where she sat worn out from the week's work by her peat fire, and slammed the door as he went out into the night.

"Ah, me," his mother sighed. "Tis a shame and no mistake that my fine lad canna think of aught but his fun. He needs a lesson and that's sure!"

... And someone heard her!

Jock went out into the woods to an oak he knew, thinking surely, the Sidhe would hold their party there. Sure enough, as he approached, he heard singing and harping and laughter, but just as he got close enough to see the flash of jewels and the flicker of fire, all went dark, and the Sidhe vanished away!

Well, thought Jock, I know where a rowan grows. Surely there will be Sidhe feasting there! So holding his turnip-candle before him, Jock went through the woods to the rowan tree. Sure enough, as he approached, he heard singing and harping and laughter, but just as he got close enough to see the flash of jewels and the flicker of fire, all went dark, and the Sidhe vanished away!

Well, thought Jock, I know where a thorn tree grows. Surely there will be Sidhe feasting there! So holding his turnip-candle before him, Jock went through the woods to the thorn tree. Sure enough, as he approached, he heard singing and harping and laughter, but just as he got close enough to see the flash of jewels and the flicker of fire, all went dark, and a hand took his arm!

Jock struggled and twisted but even his strength was no match for the strength of the man who held him, and at last he gave over fighting and said, "Who are you? What do you want with me!"

And the Sidhe man said, "I am Aengus Og, and I want to know why three times you have disturbed my people and their friends at their feasting!"

"But I only wanted to join you," Jock protested.

"Join us, eh?" said Aengus Og, that is Fair Angus the way the English say it. "You can join us, right enough! Light your candle and you can join us, by leading us away to some place where we can feast in peace and undisturbed!"

So trembling, Jock lit his turnip-candle again, and all the Sidhe fell into procession behind him. Jock led them first to a clearing by a stream.

"Too damp!" cried the Sidhe. "Find a better place!"

So Jock led the procession, showing the way with his little turnip lantern on through the night, up on the high ben where the wind blew.

"Too windy!" cried the Sidhe. "Find a better place!"

So Jock, tired and weary, his teeth chattering in his head, led the procession, showing the way with his little turnip lantern on through the night, to a fine cave on the side of the mountain.

"Too dark!" cried the Sidhe. "Find a better place!"

So Jock, tired and weary, cold and hungry, led the procession, showing the way with his little turnip lantern, on through the night, and on, and on, and on, with each place he found not good enough, and all greeted with cries of "Find a better place!"

At last he had led them all over the land of his clan and his chief, and could find no place that met their approval. The candle burned down inside his turnip, and he was fainting from cold and weariness, and still the Sidhe were not satisfied with any place he showed them. Desperate now, Jock led the company to his mother's cottage and her little farm.

"This is the last place I ken!" he cried to the Sidhe, before they could say, Too wet, or Too cold, or Too windy, or Too dark, or anything else.

"This is the best place of all, Jock of the turnip lantern" said Aengus Og. "For this is your home and your hearth, and your mother waiting patiently for you. I hope you will remember this, Jock, and I hope you will stop your wanderings and roamings and help your mother. See what a fine cottage this is, see what fine fields you have, see what a strong cow you have -- and all through your mother's work, and none of your own!"

Jock trembled, because Aengus Og looked so stern and harsh, and Aengus went on. "You are always off to play and always off to dream. Instead of following a lantern all the night long, you should follow your mother and help her at her work. Every year now we will come to you here, and you will take your lantern and lead us here to your home and your mother, and we will bring meat and drink and feast here. And if you have worked hard and made your mother toil less, then every year we will give you a golden coin for each cycle of the moon, when you have led us to our feast." Then Aengus frowned, and if he was bonny when he smiled, he was terrible when he did not. "And if you have not helped your mother, and minded your manners and done your chores, then you will lead us all the night long, with never a bite or a sup, as you have done tonight!"

"I will," Jock promised. "I will that, I will help my mother, I will guide your procession!"

And then Jock's mother brought out food and drink and her own harp from the corner, and the Sidhe made merry for the night.

And Jock became a good man, who held house well and worked his mother's fields, and tended his mother's cow. He cut the peat when he should, instead of roaming off up the mountain. He brought fish for the table instead of dreaming over his hook all day.

And every year, on Samhaine, he led the Sidhe around the village and into his mother's house, and every year they feasted and gave blessing on Jock and his mother. And every year, the people of his village could see him go by, with his turnip lantern bobbing and flickering, as he led the Sidhe to their feasting place.

Rain!

Wowie! It's a good thing I enjoyed the sunshine yesterday, because last night, the storms moved in.

It rained, and it rained, and it rained .... As A.A. Milne says in Winnie the Pooh.

And my favourite little rain chant:
The rain is raining all around
It falls on field and tree.
It rains on the umbrellas here
And on the ships at sea!

Rain always makes me smile. Icy cold or soft and warm, little misty dribbles or pounding driving drops, it's all good.

But rain also always makes me think, so here's some of the stuff I thought of today!

• A few drops of essential oil in the toilet reservoir, or a little liquid potpourri; smells good!
• Inexpensive mild or unscented lotion, with some lavendar leaves crushed into it
• Cheapie baskets, or thrift-store baskets, or hand-made honeysuckle vine baskets, with ribbon laced through the weaving or the handles (right now, orange and black and harvesty colour ribbon!)
• Unpick a short seam on a stuffed toy, and push in a few tablespoons of a yummy herb like lavendar, or a dried vanilla bean, or some sage, and then sew it back up; or do the same with a throw-pillow
• Clean one closet, top to bottom, side to side. Pack up seasonal clothes; sort out charity or yard-sale items; cut up favourite but unwearable clothes for quilt blocks to use later as bed covers, placemats, or even pot holders

Have a lovely rainy day!

October is Breast Cancer Month

I'd like to tell you a little story.

In 1998, on a summer afternoon, I found a lump the size of a US dime in my right breast, near the underarm side, when I was showering. I immediately called the doctor and was scheduled for an ultrasound and mammogram the following Monday.

By that Monday, the lump was the size of a US quarter. It was fairly hard to find even on ultrasound because it was against the chest wall, and buried in layers of muscle. I've always had good upper body strength, but that very strength made it hard for them to find the lump.

Eleven days later, I had a biopsy with excision, which means that they took out as much of the lump as they could find, and then checked it in the lab.

When I woke, the resident who had assisted with the procedure said, "You did have a walnut-sized lump there, and I don't really like the look of it, but we're going to do what we have to do."

I was astonished. I'd done everything right. There was no history of this on my mother's side of the family. I'd never taken birthcontrol pills or any other hormones. I ate right, I was active, I didn't smoke much, I'd nursed my baby for almost two years. I checked my breasts every day in the shower. How could this happen? How could it grow from dime to walnut in a total of 16 days from the time I found it?

The results of the biopsy came back; the cancer was already in end-stage, and had spread not only into the lymph nodes on the right side of my body, but also into muscle tissue.

At my next consultation -- by now it was September -- there was not only the head of the oncology department, there was also a legal aide and a chaplain present, because, as they informed me, I would need to make a will, since I would be dead by December.

I looked at the three doctors, the paralegal, and the chaplain, and I said "Fuck you, I am not going to die."

It was the first time I had ever used that word -- outloud or otherwise.

A treatment plan was devised, including chemotherapy, surgery with immediate reconstruction, chemotherapy, radiation, and chemotherapy again.

I consulted with the reconstructive surgeon and tried to explain my lifestyle and why I wanted the reconstruction done a certain way. I had assumed she listened.

I consulted with the oncology team and reviewed the drugs they'd chosen, including Taxol, which was a drug I was familiar with as a pharmacist. What I didn't realise at the time was that the treatment they'd planned -- in response to my rather pungent comment at the first consult -- was so aggressive that they had needed to get special authorisation to use the dosage they planned, because it was so very high.

Lynk was too young to drive a car at the time, and Cat has epilepsy, so she can't drive at all.

So every 10 days by the calendar, regardless of day of week, I made the two-hour drive to the hospital, sat for four hours with an IV catheter in my arm, to have poison run into my body. The IV cocktail consisted of diphenhydramine to help combat nausea and the horrendous headaches caused by the chemotherapeudics, as well as normal fluids to help with dehydration. And then I drove home.

I'd get nauseated just as the drugs began to flow, then I'd get sleepy from the benadryl, then I'd wake up a bit and feel itchy all over, inside my skin. Then I'd get some orange juice (shoving the IV pump computer around with me) and then they'd finish the drip, and I'd smile and say Thanks, and drive home. By the time I'd pull up to the house, I'd have a headache so bad that I could barely think or do anything beyond the automatic acts of habit.

The day after chemo would be worse. I'd be so ill that sometimes I'd actually wet the bed rather than get up and walk an entire 10 steps to the potty in my own bathroom. The second day would be better, and things would ease off a little at a time, and just as I felt all right, it would be the 10th day -- and back I would go.

I had to discuss breast cancer with my 13 year old daughter. I had to explain it. I had to reassure her but prepare her for the "just in case" scenario.

I had to discuss it with my best friend Cat, and explain it, and reassure but prepare her, too.

After the second chemo visit, all food began to taste like dog feces smells. I am not exaggerating for dramatic effect, that's a fact. The smell of any food cooking made me violently ill, not only with nausea but with a stabbing headache. I ate primarily bacon, carrots, orange juice, and coffee, until nearly Thanksgiving. Cat and Lynk would try to do what they could to cook when I wasn't around, since I could eat, just not bear to smell the cooking. Sometimes what they fed me would stay down and sometimes it didn't. I took iron tablets and a women's multivit, and smiled.

Three days after the fourth chemo appointment, my hair fell out -- all at once. That was one of the most traumatic things that EVER happened to me. I was 36 years old, and my hair was coppery, browny, silvery -- and to my waist. It fell out. That was the only time I cried, and I did it alone, out in the woods, leaning against one of a pair of cedar trees that we call the Sisters.

Two days later, the REST of my hair fell out. Think about that. I mean all my hair, body hair, leg hair, underarm hair, eyebrows and eyelashes. I couldn't even go outdoors without dark glasses, partly because there was nothing protecting my eyes from wind, but mostly because nothing protected them from even winter sunshine.

Then, because chemo strips all fast growing cells indiscriminately, the lining of my intestines and mouth vanished, and my mouth and gums were further weakened by the iron stripping that occurs, since "fast growing cells" also means bone marrow and red blood cells for iron transport. My teeth loosened and came out. Then the lining of my vagina vanished. I was in absolutely incredible pain, as the vaginal walls literally stuck to one another and tore each time I moved.

At the end of October, the first round of chemo was over, and I had three weeks clear, on high doses of iron, prior to my bilateral radical mastectomy surgery. The surgery itself went well, but the reconstructive "surgeon" hadn't actually listened to me, had dis-counted my own knowledge of my body's ability to heal (I'd surprised other practitioners in the past with speed of healing; I'm fast) and had dis-counted my statements about my lifestyle and my own medical knowledge and experience. But at least I did wake up with breasts, and I believed the "surgeon" when she told me they'd settle and my body fat would take over. They had taken both breasts, some chest tissue, some back tissue, all the lymph nodes on my right side, tissue from my right arm, and even some tissue from down my flank, just to be sure everything was gone. Even at that, I was informed, they weren't sure they had gotten everything, and they weren't entirely sure it had been worth it anyway. Staff at KU could certainly use some training in patient interaction, I remember thinking that, fuzzily, because I wasn't even all the way out of the anaesthetic yet.

I made them let me leave the day before Thanksgiving. However excellent the Kansas City Missouri Veteran's Hospital is -- and it is SUPERB -- the same can't be said for the University of Kansas Medical Center. That is the worst hospital I have ever been in, with the worst nursing care, and the least competent physicians and surgeons -- and it is dirty. So by the third day, I wanted out of that place. It had nothing to do with the fact that some yuppy female was in there having cosmetic surgery, and cried -- I kid you not -- non stop, all the time she was awake, and screamed -- no, I'm not exaggerating -- every time she wanted a nurse.

So, a neighbor (also a breast cancer patient, and also a medical practitioner) took time off work and came to pick me up and bring me back to the farm. I had drains that I was supposed to take care of, but they were positioned in such a way that I couldn't reach the ones in my back -- so every morning after her shift, this same neighbor came and took care of the drains. Why? Because KU had "forgotten" to put in a request to the VA to authorise home care. The neighbor realised this about Sunday (I was really sort of out of it) and she called the VA herself, ranted about KU, and demanded that home care be provided. The VA had a nurse out to the farm the following day.

I healed, not as quickly as I'm accustomed to, but faster than the doctors had thought I would. I'd been fitted for dentures and they'd arrived, so I actually enjoyed Yule that year.

I'd had horrendous headaches and body aches. The VA oncology nurses and I decided that this was actually withdrawal from the chemo drugs -- just like withdrawals from recreational drugs. The VA nurses also noted down other things that no one had ever mentioned -- the vaginal issue, the short term memory loss and gaps. Prior to my insistence that these things be tracked and studied not just in me, but in all cancer patients, it had been assumed that this was due to the "emotional stress" of a "catastrophic illness", but as they tracked this, they discovered that the chemo drugs themselves could interfere with brain function and could strip even brain cells.

But on Boxing Day, since I was by then recovered from the surgery, I started chemo again.

Every 10 days, regardless of day of week and weather -- and let me tell you, Missouri winters can be capricious, either snowy and frozen, or rainy and warm -- in the same day! Every 10 days.

I remember at some point, someone mentioning that I should be grateful I'd lost my hair, and not my life. That is seriously the closest I have ever come to killing another woman in cold blood. I can't explain why, but the loss of my breasts was bad -- the loss of four feet of hair was devastating.

But I didn't, and I drove myself, every 10 days, to the appointments, and drove myself home, and went back to sometimes not even being able to get out of bed, not being able to taste anything but a metallic dog-shit flavour to everything, losing the hair that'd started to regrow, and being so tired I literally couldn't take care of my family sometimes.

That lasted until spring, and then I had another four-week break, prior to starting radiation therapy. One thing they don't tell you about that little treatment is, they are going to make PERMANENT tattoes in your chest to mark the grids for focusing the Xrays. To this day, I still have a couple of those horrible little black dots on my skin. And it HURTS, it's not like a regular tattoo. I can deal with pain, but I almost jumped off the table with EACH of the 16 dots.

And then, every day, six days a week, for six weeks, I drove the two hours to lie for 15 minutes under deadly radiation.

After 5 days I had burns. After 9 days I had blisters the size of my palm on my chest, neck, upper arm, underarm, breast, and even on my back! Even I don't want to contemplate what my insides must have looked like at that point.

The burns hurt to the point where I'd take off my shirt to drive home. I didn't give a damn if I got stopped, either, because even cloth touching those burns was more than I could take.

That ended, finally. But I was sicker from the radiation than I had been from the chemo, and my hair fell out again. And I was lucky to keep any food down by then, but Lynk and Cat kept feeding me, so I kept eating.

I had another four week break, and then I had another six weeks of chemotherapy.

My immune system was so compromised at that point that I wasn't even allowed to attend school events for Lynk, so Mrs. Lloyd, the mother of one of Lynk's best buddies, who was also a teacher at this small country school, well, Mrs. Lloyd took Lynk to school events, and helped Cat so that she could go too, so that SOMEONE would be there for Lynk's special moments.

Then I had nipples created for my breasts, but the funny thing was, when the VA surgeons saw what the KU "surgeon" had done, the first words out of the mouth of the poor inexperienced resident? "My god, what did they do to her!" Then he blushed and apologised. I told him, "Honey, you hit the nail on the head."

And then, one year to the day from the time I found the dime-sized lump, it was over.

I hadn't died when they said I would.

I hadn't lost weight and become dangerously malnourished because my family wouldn't let me.

My hair was coming back again.

Two years ago, I got into the hands of a wonderful plastic surgeon at the VA. He undid all the damage that the "surgeon" from KU did.

Today, I have nice breasts. I've got hair, though it's only to the middle of my back even now, and it's a bit different colour.

Tomorrow I will be 46 years old.

I wasn't even supposed to make it to 36.