Camping

When we lived in Colorado, Aaron and I were big on outdoor activities. The culture and climate of the entire state really supports healthy living, and we tried it all. From kayaking to rafting, to hiking to biking to rock climbing to skiing to snowboarding to camping. It was a blissful existence; we were all alone out there, and literally spent every penny we had trying every kind of new adventure. Growing up in Minnesota had really only developed a hatred of the cold and an appreciation for corn, so all this new adventure made us feel alive, somehow.

We were truly unprepared for Colorado. Our first attempt at camping there became the family joke for years to come. In Minnesota, you camp in campgrounds. You pay a small fee and set your little tent up in a pre-arranged little area, next to a fire ring and a picnic table. So when we got to Colorado, we went looking in the yellow pages for a campground to camp in. We found only one entry in all of Denver, called Chief Hosa Campground. I was pretty surprised to find only one campground in the entire yellow pages; there were stores specializing in camping every three blocks, so I just assumed we would have a plethora of campgrounds to choose from. (Thanks, Mr. Plocker, my high school math teacher for the word "plethora"; I use it whenever I can.)

Anyway. We called Chief Hosa and reserved a tent space for the weekend.Then we moseyed on down to the local REI Outfitter, and spent a boat load of money on lots of fancy camp gear and headed on out to the campground. It was exactly what we were expecting; a small campground full of RVs and tents. Our tent space was nestled in between two campers. We marveled at the quality of our new gear, we experienced the first-timer's feeling of arrogance as we expertly set up our campsite and sat down on our special camp chairs. We drank cocoa out of our special camp mugs. We inflated our special Thermarest sleeping mats. We spent two days there and went home feeling proud of ourselves.

It wasn't until I spoke with a friend at work about the weekend that I realized our blunder. The reason there was only one campground listed in all of Denver, is because the entire National Forest is open to camping.

To anyone.

Anytime.

Pretty much anywhere.

Oh.

I felt kind of silly. I remembered with a flush that arrogant feeling I had as I was setting up our perfect little campsite. The whole set-up probably screamed tourist. Oh well.

Once we figured it out, though, it was on. We explored every twisting winding mountain road we could find. We found high mountain lakes, abandoned mining camps, rock outcroppings on the top of jagged cliffs, and we began to camp in earnest. We quickly discovered what materials we could buy to enhance the experience, and carefully whittled our camp gear down to high quality essentials. We bought a tent that withstood temperatures below zero and camped in the snow. We hiked in for miles and set up camp and left reality for days. Those days were truly blissful. I have strong memories of sitting in the perfect silence surrounded by stars and moonlight, with no sign of civilization beyond the blue and white Kelty tent staked out next to us. We had our best conversations on camp trips. I learned so much more about Aaron and we learned so much about how to be together from those trips. I think it was perhaps the single most influential activity that would eventually help strengthen the bonds of our marriage.

We moved back to Minnesota in 2007, and the camp gear box was carefully stored in an outside garage. I've given little thought to it in the last  five years, honestly. We've had the whole "farm thing" to learn now, you know. But last weekend, Aaron came into the kitchen and said, "Let's take the kids camping."

Because Aaron is Aaron, going camping for a weekend was a very simple endeavor. Everything we needed was still carefully and meticulously packed away. All together, all in the same place. It was truly a matter of moving it from garage to car. We didn't open anything, just trusted it would be what we needed, and headed to the campground.

We found a nice little spot with a fire ring and picnic table. Aaron grinned at me when we pulled in and said, "Chief Hosa?" A flood of memories engulfed me and I developed a little lump in my throat.

Once we began to unpack, that little lump turned into a thickness that I could barely swallow. The blue and white Kelty tent came sliding out of it's package. The guy wires were still wrapped around the tent stakes, exactly the way we had last used them. I managed to get it up in a matter of minutes; this time, I had three sets of eager little hands helping me clip it together.

The best part, or maybe I mean the worst part, was when I opened the gear box. There, in perfect little bags and packages and containers, were living embodiments of a time long past. I realize you will think me a fool at worst, or wildly sentimental at best, but I swear when I opened up a tupperware container and saw the dish towels that I bought at a tiny little convenience store in the middle of nowhere, I got tears in my eyes. Those tears swelled to actual puddles when I opened another box and found the set of camp dishes Aaron gave me for Christmas that first year.

There was the propane lantern that Aaron tried unsuccessfully to light the first four times that we used it because we didn't understand what mantles were and that they really are as fragile as they advertise. There was the small cutting board and utensil pack that I color coordinated with our sleeping gear. There were tiny boxes of matches, a box with tea bags, a dry bag that contained a cook set that nested one inside the other to form a compact little unit. There was a wide collection of instant oatmeal packets, hot cocoa mix, and our spices and seasonings box was still neatly organized and carefully labeled. I was overcome with feeling; I could barely speak. I looked up at Aaron with this stricken look on my face. He laughed at me, and shook his head. And I know, I know...what a silly thing to cry over...but there I was, crying anyway.

But I could not dwell in the moment; I had three buzzing little bees getting into this and that and the other asking, "Mom, what's this?" and "Mom, what's this for?" and "Mom, how does this work?" When Carys pulled out the shovel and axe kit, I decided I better snap out of my reverie and take control of the unpacking.

I took great delight in cooking our supper with all the forgotten pieces of my life. I am totally serious...I really love that stainless steel spatula and cast iron skillet. Everything was in perfect working order. Even the oatmeal, I discovered the next morning. To my horror, I woke up to Cooper happily eating peaches and cream instant oatmeal out of my favorite camp mug. (It turns out Quaker Instant Oatmeal has an impressive shelf life - I bought that box more than 8 years ago.) And when we managed to (successfully!) light the lantern and play a vigorous game of Uno with cards that are older than all of my children, I decided I was going to be okay.

I just need to make a few new memories.

Summer

Finally, summer. This is an indication of what my summers are like; I haven't posted since May 25th. Here it is, July already, and this is my first chance to sit down and record my thoughts.

The first week out of school isn't ever a week off; I have to pack up my classroom and finalize my grades, and clean up any committee/paperwork issues from the year. Then I spend a week coaching youth basketball camps. By the time summer actually starts, about the end of June, summer gardening is in full bloom and my days are spent weeding, watering, getting the patio ready, and trying to take my kids to the pool at least a couple days of week to head off their entertainment demands.

Lots of fun stuff to recap though, so buckle up.

Let's see...last August sometime, one of my munchkins got a popsicle out of the outside freezer and forgot to push it shut all the way. That resulted in the great Freezer Panic of 2011, in which I was cooking ridiculous amounts of pork and chicken in an effort to save it. Now, a smart girl would have taken that little lesson to heart and purchased a freezer alarm to prevent that from happening again.

But this is me you're talking about here, and buying a freezer alarm would have resulted in an extra trip to an appliance store AND having to admit that I was not vigilant enough to keep it from happening again. Well as it turns out, I'm not vigilant enough to keep it from happening again.

This time, I rearranged the freezer to get some things out from the back, and when I pressed it shut, it popped back open. I didn't notice for about 36 hours...just enough time to partially defrost 16 chickens and completely ruin 4 boxes of Schwan's ice cream treats.

And because this is me you're talking about here, it happened in the same weekend that I was baking/building a 3-tier wedding cake for my cousin. The cake was due in approximately 1.5 days, and now I have the freezer to deal with. I started cooking chicken at 11pm on a Thursday night, and cooked, roasted, shredded, diced, chopped chicken the whole night through. That was super fun, especially the lovely scent of cooked chicken and sugary fondant ruminating nicely in the kitchen all night.

I still haven't gotten the alarm, but I SWEAR it is on my list.

Now on the Great Gardening Extravaganza 2012. The early spring and warmer than usual temperatures this year allowed Aaron to get our garden and greenhouse planted extremely early this year. Last year, we were lucky to get everything in the ground by mid-June. This time around, I am already harvesting cucumbers, peas, carrots, kohlrabi, potatoes, green beans, yellow beans, raspberries and strawberries.

The cucumbers in particular went crazy; we put just a few hills in the greenhouse, and thought we might get a handful of cucumbers before the outside field took off. It just so happens that Aaron is also a big believer in composting. He has been using our home compost as fertilizer all winter, and this year the cucumbers went crazy. I didn't think anyone would believe me if I said that the cucumbers grew taller than me, and have grown out the doors and on to the ground. So I took a picture to prove it.

I have been pickling since June 20th, and it shows no sign of slowing down in there. PLUS, the outside cucumbers are now flowering, so I anticipate that my August blogs will be dominated by snide remarks about that particular vegetable.

Let me elaborate a little on the joys of gardening. Do you know me well enough yet to hear the sarcasm in that sentence? Just wondering.

Anyway. Gardens, when planted prudently, can provide an adequate amount of fresh vegetables for a small family to enjoy for the summer. Gardens, when planted by my husband, can provide an abundance of fresh vegetables for our family, my in-laws, my neighbors, my teacher friends, the friends of my kids, and random strangers who are kind enough to take them off my hands.

This summer is hot and dry, so the watering begins in the early morning before the humidity really takes over. I'm up around 6:30am most days, rotating sprinklers and checking soil conditions in each of the nine (yes, that's right, I said nine) plots that Aaron planted this year.

And every summer we have a different pest to battle in the garden. This part may seem a little odd, but it is actually true. Every year, some new pest invades our area, and many of the big farmers spray chemicals of various kinds to eradicate that particular pest. So a different one takes it's place next year, and the cycle continues. One year we had ladybugs like crazy. One year we had those little green aphids. One year it was gigantic black crickets. One year I had thousands upon thousands of frogs and toads in my yard. This is the year of the Picnic Bug. Sometimes known as Raspberry Bugs, these little nightmares are everywhere. EVERYWHERE.

Any vegetable that nears ripening is invaded by one of these little bugs. We have had to harvest early and meticulously to try to save our veggies before they are eaten. We are philosophically opposed to chemicals and pesticides and insecticides and other unnatural things, so we are doing our level best to deal with the little buggers the old fashioned way, before they ruin our crop. (Incidentally, the farmer who farms around us is super-awesome...he knows we don't spray, and will choose a very still day to spray his own crop so as not to over-spray on our property. Good people, they are, and we're lucky to have them as neighbors.)

But these black bugs are the bane of my existence this summer. They also bite. And it hurts. I think maybe my favorite part of this summer has been bending down in the garden to look carefully at every single developing vegetable, in 85 degree heat at 6:30am 7 days a week and being bitten at random intervals by tiny black bugs that fly in your ear, down your shirt, up your shorts, inside your socks, and in Aaron's case, in your mouth.

You caught the sarcasm in that one, right?

After I've done the daily hunt for ripe stuff, I am off to the kitchen to prepare a box for sale, or can/pickle whatever the family can't eat. When I'm all done canning this year, I'll take a picture of the outcome...you really have to see it to believe it.

So far, that's my summer.

We have a few fun activities planned for late July and August, but this is me you're talking about here. I'm sure there will be plenty to write about.

Listen

Listen to me. Are you listening? Did you hear me? What did I say?

I can’t count how many times a week I say this to one of my kids. On some days I say it to all three of them. It is exhausting, really. It feels like I am talking to thin air sometimes.

Put on your shoes.

Find your shoes.

I’m leaving in 2 minutes, please put some shoes on.

What?

Your jacket?

 I don’t know, I didn’t wear it.

Are your shoes on?

I’m leaving in a minute, seriously.

Leave the cat alone. It’s time to go.

Did you find your shoes?

We’re leaving.

Did you hear me?

I’m leaving.

Now.

Shoes.

Find them.

And nine times out of 10, I am walking out the door when I realize he/she is still barefoot.

It’s a small thing, perhaps, but enough to make me crazy. I often lament to my friends on how much I talk and seem to be ignored completely. They don’t hear me call their names when it’s time to come in. They don’t hear me ask them to get their jammies on. They don’t hear me say that no, you really can’t have any more snacks before bed tonight. They don’t hear me tell them to clean up their rooms. They don’t hear me ask them to put boots on before they collect the eggs in the chicken coop.

I question my parenting abilities on a daily basis. If they can’t follow a simple direction like “put on your shoes,” how in the world are they going to navigate the hard parts of life?

And just when I am convinced that they hear nothing, they absorb nothing, and I officially suck at parenting, I overhear a conversation that stops me cold.

I was in the kitchen making supper, and I could hear the girls in the backyard talking. I couldn’t make out their words, but the tone was pleasant. I decided I wouldn’t check on them, since I was in the middle of a complicated recipe, and they didn’t appear to be killing each other yet.

Before long, I could hear Emma shouting “Mom, Mom! Come here quick!” I bolted outside, convinced that there was some disaster in the making, and privately berating myself for trusting the quiet a little too much. I rounded the corner of the house to see Carys riding her bike (no training wheels!) and pedaling her little heart out. She was laughing out loud with that incredulous giggle, like even she could not believe what she was doing. Meanwhile, Emma was jumping up and down and cheering from the sidelines.

I was overcome. This was a long time coming for my middle one…she has always been more timid, more careful, more cautious, than her older sister. When she finally stopped and I was able to scoop her up into a hug, she exclaimed, “Emma teached me, Mom!”

That alone, was a proud moment, knowing my oldest took the time to pass on some knowledge. Then Emma decided to start her up again. As Emma held the seat, she was quietly murmuring instructions. I heard her say, “Okay, get the pedal up to the top. Good job. Now put one foot on the pedal, sis. I’ll hold the seat til’ you get goin’. Don’t worry, I got you! Pedal hard, remember. You can do it!”

I can still hear Aaron using the same words when he taught Emma to ride. Once Carys got going again, Emma threw her arms up in the air and yelled, “Whoo Hoo!” She came over to me and said, “I’m so proud of her, Mom!”

I was feeling the same thing. About both of them, actually. She’s listening. They’re listening. Maybe not to the day-to-day boring parts of life, but at least some of the time, our words are getting in there.

I just hope I can remember that, the next time I stub my toe on the kitchen table leg and have to answer the question, "Mom? What does that word mean?"

Truth

The difference between Moms and Dads, according to Aaron:

When little boys crash, Dads put them back on the bike.

Moms pick them up and carry them to the house.

True.

Unplugged

On Friday night, we unplugged the satellite dish from our television sets. It was more or less an impulsive decision, based largely on the fact that our kids are gravitating more and more to the TV than to anything else on the farm and also that I can stand right next to them and call their name and they don’t even hear me. Our television must have some strange magnetic pull or something. Lately they have chosen television over outside play more often than I’d like to admit.

I will be the first one to say that I thought it would be torturous. I use the DVR on our satellite to record lots of shows, and I watch them back after the kids go to bed. I am a night owl, so I am often up until midnight “catching-up” on things I missed. I really thought it was going to be difficult, and it was. For about 24 hours. That’s when I came to the rather painful realization that TV has been my escape hatch for far too long.

Okay, let’s be honest, here. I look forward to the kids’ bedtime so that I can have a couple of hours to myself. From 6am when I’m getting the kids up and fed and dressed and off to school, to work where I interact all day with middle-schoolers, (yes, you’re jealous, I know) back to home where I cook and clean and bathe and check homework and strain lard and start kitchen fires, to bedtime at 8:15pm, I am at the beck and call of a whole lot of other people. My husband wonders why I like to stay up late…I tell him it’s the only time all day where I belong to me.

Until last Friday, I devoted way too much “me time” to the television. I won’t even try to defend that decision with excuses about staying culturally relevant and mindless entertainment. Until I Unplugged I didn’t really see a problem. Once the television was no longer available to me, I experienced a strange, mindless phenomenon. More than once I wandered into the living room before I remembered there was nothing to do there. Except vacuum it. (Which I finally did, BTW.)

I actually wandered aimlessly for hours around the house. The only thing I could find to do in the kitchen was clean off a countertop. In the dining room I decided to disassemble a fort made of afghans and pillows. The bathroom was a disaster, as usual. Spent almost 20 minutes in there. Hmmm….it’s only 9:15. Let’s see…I can fold some laundry. And pick up the toys on the steps. (Are you sensing a pattern, here?)

I finally went to bed at 9:45. Of course I couldn’t sleep, so I wrote a quick note to a friend in a card, then picked up a book I’ve been meaning to get to. I read until about 10:15 and then I actually shut off the light and went to sleep. At 10:15!

The result? I woke up without an alarm at 5:15. I was ready for work more than 40 minutes before I usually am. And I actually felt pretty rested. And my house was clean! (Well, clean-er, but you know what I mean.)

Sounds awesome, right? It actually is. I got a little panicky when I realized I was going to miss the finale of The Amazing Race. And The Voice. And the next episode of Chopped: All-Stars. But honestly, once I resigned myself to finding something else to do, I stopped missing it.

We left the DVD hooked up; I rented RedBox movies for the kids on Sunday and we had a popcorn night. That was super-fun, and after they went to bed I was able to organize three drawers in the buffet and bake a loaf of banana bread. I am making no promises about how long I can sustain this. But I will say it has improved the quality of my life for the time being.

The kids, you ask? The kids didn’t even blink an eyelash. I said the TV was done, and they put on their shoes and went outside. We have two new baby piglets to take care of…the trampoline is swept off…the bike tires are pumped up…the tire swing is ready to go. They haven’t missed it at all.

Saturday

I had a terrible Saturday. A terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day as Alexander might say.

When my kids came downstairs at 6:15 on Saturday and wanted me to make breakfast RIGHT NOW (please, mom? I’m really hungry…insert puppy dog eyes and cute 4 year old smile) I grudgingly got out of bed and made my way to the kitchen.

I’m kind of abstract-random in my everyday life, so it isn’t really surprising that getting milk into the cereal bowls turned into noticing that someone spilled on the shelf in the fridge. Which turned into noticing that what they spilled was dripping down from the shelf above. Which turned into noticing that someone had shoved a bowl into the shelf so far that several open containers had overturned, creating a sticky puddle of congealed mystery liquids in the back. Which turned into deciding right then and there at 6:30am that I needed to clean out the fridge.

So while the kids argued over who got to use what cereal bowl, and who had more cereal, and who got to use the “zipper spoon,” (please don’t ask…that’s a whole other post) I was methodically removing items from the fridge and stacking them on the counter. Which turned into realizing I can’t take out shelves and drawers for cleaning without moving the whole fridge away from the wall. Which turned into getting my husband to move it for me.

Still with me? By now the fire was lit, and I was gonna clean that fridge, gol’ darn it. (That’s the clean version because you never know who’s reading this and I don’t want to call into question my upbringing.)

So. Fridge is moved. Stuff is out. Things are clean. Enter the husband, who has stopped back in the house to get the egg basket for the chicken coop. He says, “Are you going to vacuum under the fridge before I move it back?”

Um. Well, I guess I am now.

I took off the front grill and was shocked and appalled and horrified at how much yuck accumulates under your fridge. No, I have never in all the years I’ve been on my own pulled off the grill of a refrigerator and vacuumed under it. Don’t judge me.

I must have looked really disgusted, because he took pity on me and crouched down to vacuum it out for me. Which turned into a really big job, because Aaron never does anything half-way. He started mumbling about how all that dirt makes it hard for the motor to work, blah blah blah, and how we should really do this a few times a year, blah blah blah and how we don’t want to have to buy a new refrigerator just because I was too grossed out to do this blah blah blah. I swear he would have used a toothbrush to make it sparkle, except in all his cleaning fervor he bumped the water line that runs to the ice maker. And suddenly the compression fitting broke and water began spraying all over the kitchen.

Fabulous. To make this long story a whole lot shorter, I ended up spending the next hour and a half driving to hardware stores looking for parts. I preferred the hunt for parts to staying home alone with a potential flood problem in my kitchen. The local hardware store had no compression fittings. The hardware department at the Wal-Mart had no compression fittings. Neither did the other two stores I visited.

By now I was pretty worked up and sick of driving all over the county. Did I mention it was pouring rain? Well, it was. And all the in-and-out of the car was getting me soggier by the minute. That’s when it occurred to Aaron to have me call Culligan, who supplies our water filters. Quick promo for the Fairmont Culligan people: one phone call to the on-call guy resulted in me getting parts and pieces replaced almost instantly. They were super wonderful, and I sure wish I would have called them right away.

It is 11:30am when I finally get home, and I discover that all my fridge contents are warm and barely salvageable. (No, Aaron did not put anything back in the fridge while I was gone, thank you very much.)

And now I have three kids clamoring for lunch. And my kitchen is pretty much trashed. *sigh*

But it’s not over, folks!

After throwing together chicken noodle soup and sandwiches and letting the kids eat in the living room in front of the TV, (don’t judge me, I said) I got my kitchen put back together. I will say my refrigerator rocks. Sometimes I like to open it just to look at how clean and sparkly it is right now.

If you read my previous post about straining lard, you’ll better understand Round Two. If not, please go read it right now. Thank you.

So I have a bag of lard to render. It is a simple thing to do, but the one part that is a little time-consuming is the straining process itself. It’s sometimes hard to strain it quickly, and I was feeling like finding a new solution to that problem. I have a great stainless steel kettle with a spaghetti strainer in it. I put the lard in the strainer, and turned the burner on low.

Now, in my mind, this is a great idea. The lard will drip slowly through the strainer into the kettle below, making it a really simple way to separate the lard from the crackling. Right? That sounds reasonable, right? Right away I could hear the hiss of a drop of lard hitting the pan. Perfect. I’ll just come back and check on that in a few minutes.

About 10 minutes later, I can smell a rather unpleasant smell. When I looked over at the stove, tiny tendrils of white smoke are emerging from the sides of the pot, and the smell of burning lard (it is horrible, just so you know) begins to fill the kitchen. When I get closer to the pot, I can see that there is a fire (a FIRE!) in the bottom of the pot. Fabulous.

I picked up the pot to carry it outside. When I jiggled the pot, the strainer wiggled loose and now smoke is POURING out of the pot. The fire alarms are going off, the kids come barreling down the stairs into the kitchen, I am trying to hold my breath as I stagger toward the front door with the pot. I didn’t even put on my shoes, I just managed somehow to get outside and set my very expensive stainless spaghetti cooker outside on the ground in the pouring rain, hoping to put out the fire.

When I return to the house, it is smoky and horrible, and the kids are coughing, and I made them go outside too. In the pouring rain. Barefoot.

I am a great mom, I will have you know.

My husband comes out of the shop and sees his wife and three kids huddled in the garage with a pot of smoking something planted in the yard and smoke alarms still going off in the house.

But it’s not over, folks!

Believe it or not, right at that exact moment, the tornado sirens in town go off. We live about 4 miles from Sherburn, but we can hear the sirens plain as day. I absolutely could not believe it. The rain stopped, it got very still, and off to the north you could see the black clouds rolling eastward. I herded the family out to the shop where we could listen to the radio. (I got their shoes and jackets for them, first, don’t worry.) I was honestly thinking, you have GOT to be kidding me. This day just keeps getting better. Fortunately, the storm continued eastward, and despite a quick smattering of hail, we remained unscathed in the storm.

Many hours later, I was able to take care of the mess in my house, get the kids fed and bathed and read and in bed, and I even managed to clean my scorched kettle thanks to my mom. (Vinegar and baking soda, in case you were wondering.) I thought I would try to get a last load of laundry done before I went to bed. I went upstairs to get a laundry basket, and I missed a step coming back down.

I’m sure it was a sight to see. I landed hard on my bottom and I think I actually felt my spine compress as I subsequently hit the next three as well. I slid the rest of the way and bounced off the wall on the landing at the bottom. Swell. I kind of laid there for a minute or two. Once I established that though I was certainly sore, I was more or less intact. I promptly went to bed before I had a chance to wreck anything else.

Yes, Alexander, it really was a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day. Here’s hoping tomorrow is a little less exciting.

Lucky

When we bought our farm, I knew that my husband planned to have a few animals. We came here 5 years ago with just a cat. Taking inventory of the situation last week, I realized we now have three dogs, three cats, 9 hens, 1 rooster, a lot of homing pigeons (they keep multiplying – I don’t know how many) and lately we’ve been trying our hand at raising a few pigs. Aaron is talking about adding a couple of cows this summer – we’re still working out the details on that one. And not long ago the kids were telling him how much they’d love to have some goats. (Goats? Seriously?) The worst part about suggesting new animals to my husband is that he is more than likely to follow through. He buys animals for the kids the way I might buy them a candy bar at the grocery store.

At some point or another, I’m sure I’ll write about each of the animals that have a home with us. Every animal is important to someone for some reason, and I like the level of responsibility that having them is teaching my kids.

Today I want to write about Lucky. Lucky is our outside Tomcat. He lives in the garage, and has the auspicious responsibility of keeping the mouse population at a minimum. He’s also taken it upon himself to keep feral cats off our property too, which is no small task. Before Lucky came to live with us, we would have a different random cat wandering our property at any given time.

Aaron found Lucky about 3 years ago, when he rescued him from the burn pit out back of our house. We don’t burn all that often, and it’s a fortunate thing, because this poor, tiny, mewling kitten was trying to live in it. There was no mama-cat anywhere around, and this little creature was barely recognizable as feline. It was jet-black and its fur was so matted and dirty, I couldn’t really tell it was even a cat.

We brought him in the house and bathed him. We already had some ear drops for the mites he was carrying, so I dropped a few drops in him and made a little nest in the front porch. When he was wet, his body was no larger than a gerbil. He was clearly in bad shape, and I didn’t have a lot of faith that he would make it. But never underestimate the love of a young child; it is powerful indeed. My oldest daughter spent hours in the porch with that cat, coaxing food and milk and water into it, and loving it just as hard as she could.

When we were pretty sure he was going to make it, we decided it would be okay to name him. 5-year old Emma had a lot of ideas. First she wanted to name him “Strawberry.” Given his jet-black color, that was a little difficult for me to go along with. After much deliberation, Dora, Nemo, and Princess were also eliminated as options. Finally Aaron said, “We’ll call him Lucky because he’s lucky to be alive.” That satisfied her, and Lucky he became.

Eventually, the cat looked strong enough to bring into the house. It was clear from the start that it would not be getting along at all with the cat in residence. Seven is my 12-year old tabby that I got when I first moved to Colorado. She’s been my baby for a long time, and considers the house to be her personal castle. I somehow thought that “Lucky” and “Seven” seemed to be names that went well together; therefore it was a good omen for their future relationship. In reality, they hate each other with a ferocity that is both impressive and alarming.

What reasonable pet owner could banish an established member of the family in favor of a younger version? Not me, I say. We made a comfortable home in the garage for the new kitten and Emma transferred her daily food/water/attention/love ritual to the garage.

In the last 3 years, Lucky has evolved from the “Little Kitten That Could” into something you would be afraid to meet in a dark alley. We must live on a feral cat highway or something, because we’ve had a lot of cats wandering around, at least we did in the early days. Come to think of it, I haven’t seen one in a long time. The boundary he’s created for the farm must reach beyond the line of my hearing. His arrogance grows with every cat he battles, and he swaggers around the farm like the seasoned Tom he is. I think his job description prohibits him from being a very cuddly cat.

Lucky is the one animal on the farm that no one messes with. And I mean no one. Every dog on our farm maintains a wide berth around that creature. The house cats will sometimes play at the deck screen and if Lucky happens to be on the deck he will pace the screen making god-awful sounds trying to get at the house cats. He’s friendly to me in an “I won’t claw you, but don’t touch me unless I want you to” kind of way.

But he does have a well of affection for Emma. She’s allowed to pick him up, and he purrs something fierce in her arms. He rubs his head hard all over her chin, which is actually a little endearing and also kind of disgusting. The top of his head bears the scars of his many battles, and it is rough, scratchy, and missing chunks of fur. But these two have a bond, of that there is no doubt.

One morning we came outside to find him loudly meowing in the yard. Emma could see he had some swelling over that eye. It took three of us to get him wrapped in a towel and put in a kennel to take him to the vet. We were able to get an antibiotic for him, (do not ask me what the vet was thinking…do you really expect me to forcibly get 10 tiny little pills down the throat of a cat who doesn’t like me all that much anyway?!) And I won’t go into the description of that event. But he healed up, and lives to battle another day.

Lucky’s birthday is this weekend. Well, his “Found You” day, anyway. We’re thankful for him, and consider him to be part of our animal family. I will find a way to celebrate him whether he wants to acknowledge me or not.