hey, you know what?

Chicken butt!!!

That was one of my son's favorite jokes last year. I think I almost get it.

Here's a sweet pic of SheDog the Aussie with the two remaining pullets. The container tomatoes I planted are visible, too. I salivate in anticipation of the day we finally get to pick some fresh 'maters.

Meanwhile, it continues to feel like the Avian version of Apocalypse Now around here.

This morning, Angel caught a bird. SheDog chased her (bird guarding has become very serious business to the Aussie since the chicks were little, though she slept right through the coyote incident. Shhhh. We've told her the two missing pullets moved to a nice, big ranch.) Angel dropped the bird. The bird lived. It sat for several minutes in a state of shock, during which I figured it was a goner. Then it took off running, unable to fly because of a broken wing. I spent the better part of an hour trying to catch the thing. Call it a personal demon in need of redemption. This bird is about three inches tall, and I - armed with my sharpest wits and a pillowcase - was completely unable to get close to - much less catch - it.

So, it, too, will no doubt meet its doom here at the Brackett Bird Motel, where "Birds check in, but they don't check out!"

Here's a nice picture of Mothra, finally located after all these years by a neighbor boy in our yard. Who knew she could fly all the way from Japan to Arizona? Though I guess a critter who's able to wipe out Battra can do just about anything.

Here. Check out some Maxfield Parrish clouds I found in the sky outside our window last week:

And here's a shot of the prairie set against a nice, black cloudbank:

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and then there were three

Harrowing night last night. I was awakened at about 1:30 a.m. by chicken distress signals - not a pretty sound, in case you haven't ever heard them right outside your window. Of course, by the time I got out there in my nightgown, flashlight in hand, it was too late. The beam shone first on my husband's old gelding who, ears pricked, was staring intently at the chicken coop. Walking out there I passed a great mound of feathers, and my heart sank. I moved the flashlight around a bit, and there they were, right on the other side of the fenceline separating us from the great prairie beyond: a pair of glowing red eyes staring me down until I made enough scary noise to frighten whatever it was away. Coyote or raccoon, I assumed. Whatever it was, it didn't help that my husband was down in Tombstone on business this week (yes, that Tombstone).

When I finally got up the nerve to look in the coop, I found two of the five chickens alive in there - Bootstrap Bill (the rooster), and one of the fluffy yellow Banties. The others were nowhere to be found, though I made a thorough, shaky search, hoping against hope that they were maybe hiding out. But chickens are light-activated, as my husband has always told me. When the sun goes down, they're basically in standby mode. Sitting ducks.

I felt heartsick and stomach-sick. After all, it had been my decision at feeding time yesterday to finally just let the chickens come and go as they pleased and to not lock them up as we always have. They've been doing so well in free-range mode during the day time, after all, as did the Aracona (sp?) hens we owned years ago. But those hens roosted high in tree branches, whereas these do not. It was a foolish decision, a foolish mistake, and a heartwrenching one, considering that two beautiful, sweet pullets had to pay with their lives.

I got back to bed sometime around 2:30, and maybe got two or so hours of restless sleep, during which I dreamed (nightmared) over and over again about telling the children about their Easter chicks when they woke up. It was truly one of those "dark nights of the soul," and I'm not talking about the fullness of the moon.

The kids were okay about it when I told them. They immediately wanted to check out the scene of the crime, so we headed outside to a strange sight: What I thought was the remaining pullet was cruising around, pecking at the ground. I wondered how she'd gotten out of the coop after I'd secured her in there hours earlier, and then I thought, "Could it be?" We raced to the coop and saw the other yellow fluffball in there, just as alive as you please. So, a little miracle came out of the whole thing, especially considering the fact that the Mystery Pullet was running around out there for several hours, completely unprotected. I still don't know where she was hiding to have missed the flashlight beam during my search.

The kids set right to work gathering up memorial service feathers from the feather trail left by the varmint - from the entrance to the coop right out to the prairie. I got online and learned that raccoons and skunks will usually leave a big mess consisting of headless chicken carcasses, etc., whereas coyotes will leave nothing but feathers. I tried track identification this afternoon in vain - whatever it was moved too nimbly, and the ground was too dry, I think, to make an i.d. possible. But when my son looked out the kitchen window at about 11:00 this morning and said, "Hey, Mom. Is that a coyote out there?" I was doubly conviced that we were watching the felon trot casually right past our fenceline in broad daylight. He was a big sucker for a coyote, too, so I immediately implemented an indefinite, No-kids-outside-alone rule. Then I spoke to my neighbor - WHO SHALL REMAIN NAMELESS (lol) - and who mentioned the very real possibility of a local wolf population. So, I guess I can pretty much kiss any fantasy of a good night's sleep goodbye for the foreseeable future.

We'll see how tonight goes. The coop has been relocated, fortified, and hung with a set of lovely wind chimes I was given years ago after judging a horse show. I plan to keep one eye and one ear open, though if I know prairie varmints (and I think I do), they'll work in sneaky, swift silence. There's a lawyer or politician joke in there somewhere, I'm sure, but frankly I'm too fried to tease it out.Follow @nicole_mcinnes

as promised

So, there was birthday cake way back in late June (pre-Disneyland).


And then, come July, the birthday boy - the very fruit of my loins - was being used as a projectile with his cousin on the Delta in northern California.

There was this sexy lily:

And this wall. That I climbed. All by myself. Do you see the size of those little itty-bitty people standing next to it? There was a bell at the top for climbers to ring. It was my Oprah moment.

There was a trip to Santa Cruz, where I lived for five years during - and a little after - my undergraduate years. Oh, the stories. Oh, the humanity. (That's my husband on his sweet ride near Natural Bridges State Park. I lived just a couple of blocks from there for a while).

There was a pool, and there were children. Many, many children.

There was one of my oldest and dearest friends, and her talented, pie-baking hands.

There was nautical therapy.

And there was me, doing my thing.

Oh, look. My boy has inherited my freaky E.T. toes.

There was, in fact, MUCH nautical therapy.

And there was the Jelly Belly factory in Fairfield. Yes, People, there is a factory where those miraculous beans are born. Willy Wonka has nothing on this place, I tell ya.

And then it was back home to Arizona, where there was/is handiwork therapy.

Introducing Bootstrap Bill. Remember when he was just a little fuzzball?

My old dude, Zzari, should need no introduction, but perhaps he does anyway. I love the lighting in the evenings during monsoon season, which is in full swing now.

And that's about it for my summer thus far, folks.

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'nuff said

So, I'm not going to go into great detail about how the past month and a half has been one of the most difficult times in my life, mainly because those difficulties involve people who have a right to remain anonymous in every possible way. Suffice it to say I am feeling tired but cleansed from a lot of introspection and tears, and I am feeling renewed by friends and family who came to my aid in various ways and with the kind of love that can make you reel from its power to heal. (Hey, I made a rhyme that time; I'm a poet and don't know it).

There's a moment during childbirth when you enter a phase known as "transition." Every mother reading this right now is probably nodding and grabbing protectively at her nether regions, because "transition," though a benign-enough sounding word, might be more accurately described as "that period of time wherein the Evil One and his minions seem to descend upon your innermost ladybits with their pitchforks of fire."

However, once you're through it (in my experience, and especially if your epidural has not yet worn off) you find that the worst is behind you, and you finally get to push. That's where I am right now, in a non-childbirth-related sense. I'm on the other side of a life-changing trial with much work ahead and, finally, a vague notion of what that work might entail. So, in the spirit of feeling like the worst of this particular trial is behind me, I'd like to share a pictorial of some of the stuff I've been up to since we, Dear Readers, last communed via the Internet ether. Look for the pics in my next post, though, because at this moment I have to get to work.Follow @nicole_mcinnes

rain

Okay, okay. Natasha's a little overdone, I know. So sue me.

Can I help it if THIS is applicable to life in so many ways right now?

Crank up the volume, Baby. (And I dig it that she was, for years, a gospel singer).

Oh, yeah. Here's this evening at feeding time...looking up, of course:



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blog's going dark

for a while, at least. Got some figurin' to do.Follow @nicole_mcinnes

last night, looking up

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no words

I wanted to post the joyful story of our Disneyland adventure before sitting down and writing out this one. Truth is, I've gone back and forth, wondering if I should even blog about this subject at all, but since it's been weighing heavily on my mind since late last week, I'll go ahead and share it here. Warning, though: If you don't particularly want to learn of someone else's tragedy, I suggest skipping this one.

I got a call last Friday, just hours before we were to head home from Southern California, that a local family was involved in a horrendous accident in which three of their four children perished. They were also in SoCal at the time, not terribly far from where we were enjoying ourselves without a care. Now, I understand that this is a tragedy of nearly unthinkable proportions no matter where it happens, but when I say "local," I'm talking about a town that's not even a town, and that can't be found on most major maps. I believe we're called an "incorporated area," though the homesteaders and a well-known wagon party were here at least as early as they were in Flagstaff to the east of us. The enrollment at our little local school - once a one-room schoolhouse next to the railroad tracks - is up in recent years: I think they had just over a hundred kids this year, from Kindergarten through eighth grade.

Two of the children killed were students at the school.

A few weeks ago, our community came together for a spaghetti feast/Bingo night benefitting a much-loved employee at the school who is battling a serious illness. She was the first person I met there when I was still debating whether to homeschool or not, and her warmth and obvious love for the students was one of the things that convinced me that maybe public school wouldn't be so bad for our son.

I remember looking around the gym that night a few weeks ago, paper plate in hand, and agreeing with one of the cafeteria ladies who, with tears in her eyes, said something about what a special community we had. I remember thinking how hard it was to believe that someone we all knew so well was battling something life-threatening. I remember laughing with friends that night, all of us keeping an eye on each others' children to make sure they didn't fall off the bleachers or get too wild. We also watched those kids because most people around here seem to understand that life doesn't get much better than that. We cheer for those kids at games. We marvel at how fast they grow from year to year ("Seems like I saw your daughter just yesterday, getting on the school bus, and she was just a little girl. Now look at her!"). We open our doors to those kids when a family's at wit's end and needs extra help - or when the parents are just delayed in town.

Today was the last day of school, and no one knew quite how it would go, since everyone is still reeling from last Friday's news. It was debated whether the traditional Field Day - the tug-of-war, the basketballs-balanced-on-plungers relay, the barbeque - should be cancelled. It wasn't, and that was a good thing. Because despite the unthinkable enormity of what has happened here, those kids still need to be kids. They need to mark the end of another school year not just with tears and confusion, but with laughter, with the kind of joyous celebration of the start of summer at which schoolchildren excel. So, against the nearby backdrop of the growing memorial of flowers and teddy bears and posters of the three children's faces framed by notes upon notes from all the people who loved them, our kids laughed, and played, and leaned back against that rope as hard as they could until the other team collapsed, also laughing, onto the sand.

Another benefit dinner/Bingo night is planned for tomorrow in the gym, and it looks like the memorial service will be held at the end of this week, also at the school. This seems fitting, not just because the school is pretty much the central meeting place of our little "incorporated area" in the pines (the mercantile comes in a distant second). Mostly, it's fitting because the final farewell for those three children will happen where the heart and soul of our community - those hundred or so students - spend much of their vibrant young lives on this mountain.

There is a time for everything...a time to weep and a time to laugh...a time to mourn and a time to dance....
~Ecclesiastes 3:1,4

"Life is short. Shorter for some than for others."
~Augustus McCrae from Lonesome Dove

So, I suppose this post is mis-titled. I suppose there really are words that can be used to describe, to wonder, to grieve. It's just that they seem wholly inadequate for the task of comprehending how quickly life can change, how quickly this present world can matter not one bit, and how there had better be something else we cling to with all our hearts and with all our souls and with all our minds and with all our strength, if hope is to prevail.

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I'm baaaaaack

For those of you who have emailed, tried to leave comments, etc. for the past week or so, please forgive me, as I was working from a place that didn't allow me to access my Blogger account. Or maybe Blogger was just being bratty - I'm not sure which.

Anyway.


Since my last post I've been deeply immersed in birthday stuff for my son, which included the following: bringing cupcakes to his classroom, celebrating at a Flagstaff park with a bunch of his/our friends before heading to the movie theater to watch Shrek the Third (funny, but definitely the weakest of the three Shreks, in my opinion), hosting a slumber party, and then, on his actual birthday a couple days later, surprising him with a trip to the House of Mouse:

Say what you will about Disney. Despite the corporate shenanigans in recent years, and the schmaltz, I truly, madly, deeply love that Happiest Place on Earth. My first memory there is from when my parents brought me and my brother there when I was four, and I looked out through our hotel window at the late-night fireworks lighting up the sky. I also remember the Country Bear Jamboree (which is now where Winnie the Pooh and Friends is located) and that cool "Inner Space"-type attraction, where they shrank you down to the size of a bug (which is now Star Tours). The old submarines have been renovated, and will open this week as the new Finding Nemo subs.

Last year, while living in California, a big family group of us visited the park and upgraded our tickets to annual passes (a great deal if you've already bought multi-day tickets), so I wanted to get us there before our passes expired later this month.

And what a week it was. As if the surprise of the trip wasn't enough for our boy, we stepped onto Main Street that first day just as a huge parade with all the classic Disney characters in full regalia was approaching. Then (this was painstakingly arranged), I turned him around and said, "Who's that walking toward us?" as my mom and nephew (who is the same age, give or take a few weeks) approached. We haven't seen them since moving back to Arizona at Christmas-time, so it was quite emotional and awesome. Suffice it to say that the boy was stunned. He quickly got over it, though, and we spent the next five days in total, full-tilt Disney immersion.

Dude. It so totally rocked.

Last year we were there for the Pirates of the Caribbean; Dead Man's Chest premiere, and, while I didn't yet have the Nikon back then, I camped out next to the red carpet on Main Street for SEVEN hours just to get this picture of Orlando (insert dreamy sigh):

And this picture of Keira (gorgeous girl, but MAN was she wearing too much makeup that night):

The Governator passed right by...

As did Johnny, though he was bringing up the rear of the celebrity parade, and went by much too fast and far away for me to get a decent pic (he's the one in the fedora):

We missed the red carpet premiere of At World's End by a couple of weeks this year, which was just as well. And heading toward the park on Memorial Day might have been a bad idea traffic-wise, but it also meant that we didn't have to deal with any massive crowds for the whole week. That was cool.

I stayed with the boys most of the time, which meant that the week was filled with all the crazy, thrilling rides like Splash Mountain, the Matterhorn, Space Mountain, Indiana Jones and Star Tours. Meanwhile, my mom and daughter cruised through A Bug's Land via a Heimlich the Caterpillar coach multiple times, sailed through A Small World and joined us for rides like Pirates and Soarin' Over California (one of my all-time favorites in the California Adventure park). I had to go back to the hotel in the afternoons to log into work for a few hours, but it actually worked out fine, since the afternoons are generally when we'd start to poop out anyway. We ate way too much junk food, but since the train was out of service the whole time we were there, we walked most of it off. I'm hoping to post pictures soon, but we used only those throw-away film cameras, and I don't know if I'll be able to get them on a disc.

And now that we're back to "real life," I'm experiencing those familiar, post-Christmas-type blues that happen after a trip to Disneyland. Most people are probably relieved when it's time to leave the chirpy music and the cutesy facades of the Main Street stores, and the hordes of children on a communal sugar high, and the long waits to get on the rides (if you weren't smart enough to get your FastPass tickets).

Not me. I'd go back tomorrow if I could.

Come to think of it, our annual passes don't expire until the 20th.

Hmmmm....

If only my bank account balance looked as promising as the view from FantasyLand.

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I have to be honest

I really didn't know that Smokey Robinson was still alive. But seeing him on American Idol last night? It made me LOVE this country all over again, Baby!

I mean, okay. Let's face it. There's a good chance he'd been pulled out of the rest home to lip synch Tears of a Clown. (And more than a good chance that Gwen Stefani was doing the same with her new single, in my opinion - and I really like Gwen: I love running on the prairie to Just a Girl and Sweet Escape (a great "new mommy" number). Some day - I share this because I trust you all not to blackmail me with it later - I even aspire to be known as the Gwen Stefani of literary fiction). But I digress.

And then, good Lord, they trotted out Gladys. "I found a man who can put it all together," she sang, with the top several A.I. female contenders as her backup singers, and I thought, Ms. Knight must be about 103 years old by now, but by golly, I'll bet she's still gettin' busy. She belted out Midnight Train to Georgia, and I thought, I hope those young whippersnapper girls up there with her know just what an incredible honor is being bestowed upon them at this moment.

And then....really, it was almost too much...Tony Bennett came back to the A.I. stage to sing - of all the perfect, wonderful, tear-inducing things - one of the most gorgeously joyous Stevie Wonder songs ever: For Once in My Life. This is one of those songs I like to blast at eleven on the PowerStroke's stereo while fishtailing around the dog-leg turns at 50mph on the cinder road heading toward home. Tony is the kind of guy who makes you realize that your parents and grandparents (depending on your age) came from a generation So. Much. Cooler. than your own that you might as well just give up now even trying to aspire. Even Simon looked moved.

But were the A.I. producers going to stop there? Oh, no, Missy, they certainly were not. Because then my favorite contestant of this season (other than Jordin, an Arizona girl who is darned hard not to love) - Melinda Doolittle - sang some butt-kicking modern Gospel with BeBe and CeCe, for whom she has apparently been singing backup until now. I really applaud Idol producers for airing such a blatantly Christ-centered song: I very simply DIG that about them.

Okay, three words to describe the embodiment of the un-self-conscious joy I strive to someday achieve: African Children's Choir. I mean, there they are, in this big concert hall, on this big. momentous night in American music history, and they're all like, What's the big deal? They asked us to sing, so we're singing. Isn't this fun?

And, did I ever think I would actually laugh out loud for joy at a Sanjaya performance? Well, I did laugh. (Aerosmith's Joe Perry actually made an appearance in an early version of my newest novel draft, so it was pretty cool to see him rockin' his Sanjaya cameo so hard).

The Divine Miss M. came out a bit later. I love Bette. Who doesn't? She's like everyone's favorite wacky drama/dance teacher from high school - complete with leather mini-skirt and amazingly well-preserved/surgically-enhanced face. Another joyful gal who makes me smile.

I mean - Lord have mercy - did all these established and soon-to-be superstars just look around at each other backstage and say, "This, right here, is what it's like to be blessed," or WHAT?

Okay, so then there was this sort of tweaky Beatles tribute/fugue...but it didn't last too long.

Look. I fully understand that American Idol is, first and foremost, a big, contrived, corporate form of dopamine for the masses. I do. I also know full well that there's more than just a little of the "Sing out, Louise!" element to the whole thing. But does it make me a complete schmuck to say that I like it? Call me David Hasselhoff, but not once have I heard someone say, after finishing their performance, "Oh, and by the way, I really HATE George Bush,"...or, "Those evil Democrats are ruining EVERYTHING." And I believe our country needs more of this right now. So, the show has that going for it.

And, then?

I don't know. Because, while the kids and I were driving home from a Little League game near the Grand Canyon, my lovely Dish Network DVR decided to STOP RECORDING about 10 minutes before the end of the American Idol finale.

So, you tell me. Who won?Follow @nicole_mcinnes

so, me and my bad self...

...sat ourselves down in a dental chair first thing this morning to get an ancient filling (one that's been causing me grief for several months now) replaced. I was nervous enough about this simple procedure, but was completely unprepared for The Dentist to tell me that, if I was interested, he had time to go ahead and also do that ROOT CANAL he mentioned yesterday - the one I'd need on another tooth that I didn't even know had problems until they showed up on the x-ray.

Gulp.

I was so nervous last night about the root canal, and about the very real possibility of losing the tooth, that I called my oldest friend ever (not oldest as in she's old, but oldest in that we grew up on the same street). She's a dedicated dental hygienist, and managed to settle down my neuroses considerably (so, if your reading this, C, you ROCK). I'd never had a root canal, but just knowing what it entails has always been enough to make me shudder in horror. Suffice it to say I lost a little sleep last night, wondering how long I'd have to wait in painful anticipation to get it done.

I was also planning to enjoy a little sedative or nitrous oxide aperitif when the big event happened, but since I was already in the chair with one side of my mouth numb, I figured what the heck. And you know what? It wasn't bad at all. In fact, the worst part of the whole procedure was feeling like my mouth was some kind of construction zone, with all the metal and latex and heavy equipment moving about in there. It'll probably feel sore at some point, I'm sure, though it's already been several hours and the filling is bugging me more than the root canal.

Of course, it didn't hurt that the dentist is a dead ringer for Joaquin Phoenix. I mean, if ya gotta have someone drilling away on your teeth...

(If you're reading this, Dr. O, you and your staff rock, too!) :-)

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wednesday night lights and some minutia

Turns out Little League games are great girl bonding time. Our local team "blew it out the box" (as Randy Johnson would say, though I shouldn't even start talking about American Idol, traumatized as I am by Melinda's departure), winning their second of two games while we mothers chatted it up by the bleachers. Of course, we stopped to cheer when our boys were at bat.



Here are April's fingernails (the pink ones - mine are the plain Jane ones below hers) which I photographed before the game. Did I lie when I said they were glorious? I was hoping to get a picture of the opalescent tips she had the other day, but she'd already gotten them re-done. Because, like many women, she has her nails done on a regular basis. My nails, on the other hand, no longer look like they do in this picture, because I chew them to nubs on a regular basis. Hey, it's cheap maintenance.


My books arrived from Amazon a few days ago, all of which were recommended by another dear friend. I've started reading A Severe Mercy, which she tells me is going to be made into a movie.


Other than that, I got nuthin'.Follow @nicole_mcinnes

'tis the season

...for this:

I love baseball season. It's my son's fourth year (if you count his two seasons of t-ball), and it's like a yearly rite of passage when that first game rolls around and all the parents come out of the woodwork to unload camp chairs from their vehicles, clean their camera lenses and chat up other parents they haven't seen for a while. Our team's first game was last week, and the kids looked so spiffy in their new uniforms. Kicked some Little League tail, too. :-) I must blog about my friend April's fingernails, which never cease to amaze me, and which I was admiring at the game. They're perfectly manicured, with tips that look like OPALS! And she even has horses, which is just inconTHIEVEable to me (movie reference pop quiz: Let's see who can identify the origin of that word the fastest). I need to do a photo comparison between April's nails and mine so you can get the full effect.

I'm putting the chicks (I guess I can officially call them pullets now) outside during the day, in a temporary pen. Angel is happy about this. They seem to bring out her latent livestock-guarding instincts. (heh. As if. You just know she's thinking, "Chicken. It's what's for dinner.")

Unfortunately, it's also weed season. This double-whammy, dandelion/foxtail combo is the current bane of my existence:

Fortunately, though, where there are weeds, there are also these (I don't know what they're called, but they're very delicate and paper-like):

And these wild Irises:

This is one of my favorite sights of all, come spring. No one shoes a horse like that husband of mine:

Now I gotta get back to work.

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gallows humor for writers

My crack-up of the day: While researching alternate terms for a character's demise, I came across this list of writerly euphemisms for death on DeathSlang.com:

Made the big deadline.
Taking minutes for the Maker.
Went to that big spell-checker in the sky.
"Lateral mobility."
The final Edit.
The eternal offsite assignment.
Documented the Big D.
Reformatted.

And my favorite...

Very, very passive voice.Follow @nicole_mcinnes

why wait 'til Sunday?

Happy Mother's Day to all the Moms in my life!Follow @nicole_mcinnes

return of the soap queen, part 1

Way back in 2000 I got a hankerin' to make some soap. I had stalked the Primal Elements display at a local bath and body shop for months - you know, those pricey loaves of incredible looking (and smelling) soap sold by the slice/ounce? I started researching the melt and pour technique, because I've loved glycerin soap since owning my first Neutrogena bar as a pre-teen. I was also drawn to the intense colors and fun designs that were possible with glycerin soap-making.

I bought my first supplies from Michael's craft supply store- little pre-cut shapes for inserts, teeny squeeze bottles of fragrance and coloring, and some cheapo plastic molds. My first successful loaf of soap was some kind of berry punch; each slice was bright pink and looked like it had ice cubes floating inside. I was hooked. My mother-in-law ordered some expensive vertical molds from Canada for my birthday, which allowed me to branch out into some fun designs, one of which earned me first place at the County Fair (insert visual image of Nicole hooking thumbs proudly in her suspender straps).



My first craft show was a small gig benefiting the local volunteer firefighters auxiliary. I had no clue how to price the bars, my wrapping technique was iffy, and I was incredibly shy about selling. Still, I moved a decent chunk of my fledgling inventory that afternoon. From there I sold at a larger holiday gig in a nearby town, and the next year I hit the two biggest holiday craft fairs in Flagstaff. In 2002 the local paper came out to do a Sunday Arts & Living feature story on my little home-based soap business, which was incredibly cool.

In all, I had five good years of soap-making and selling before we picked up and moved to the San Francisco Bay Area, where the wonderful, glycerin-rich base I used misbehaved terribly; it actually sweated beads of glycerin in the humid air, making it difficult to package and work with. I did spend a day in my son's first grade classroom showing the kids how to make pretty jewel soaps for Mother's Day, but other than that the business went on hold.

Until yesterday. Yes, folks. The Soap Queen is back. Well, that might be a bit of a stretch, since soap-selling season really doesn't pick up until November. Applications for the big shows will be mailed next month, though, so it's not too early to start ordering ingredients. I need to update my website, too, since it's been languishing for over a year. Soaping, I've found, is a great way to get the creative juices flowing when it comes to writing, which is so non-physical. So, as I get ready for this latest book to leave the nest and start working on the next one, it will be good to get back to creating something that involves getting my hands dirty - er, clean.Follow @nicole_mcinnes

cue Vangelis

On second thought, rather than cueing the theme music from "Chariots of Fire," today's story might be better set against music from a movie titled something like "Rickshaws of Warm Milk."
Yes, I ran in my first 5K this morning.

It was actually kind of fun! Except for the part about waking up at 5:45 a.m. and seeing snow outside my window. Yes, snow. In May. The boy was excited to run in the kids' half-mile fun race, though, so I resisted the urge to dive headfirst back under the warm covers.

Also, the part about my hands going numb from the cold and my face feeling like it was going to fall off during the first half of the race (running into the arctic wind) wasn't so fun.

And neither was the end, when I gave all I had in the final stretch and, after crossing the finish line, thought I might throw up on the shoes of my nice neighbor, who's job it was to pull the little information tab from my paper number.

But other than those things, it was great.

Actually, I'm being more melodramatic than is warranted (a REAL shocker, I know). It was big fun to start the race with our son, who is basically a rocket ship with feet. He flew out ahead of me immediately, so I got to watch him and the other kids hit their halfway mark, then u-turn it and race back to the finish line (we gave each other a high-five as he passed me going the opposite direction).

I had driven the course last week, so I had some idea of how long 5 kilometers is. Let's put it this way: It's longer that I am accustomed to running. This course is mainly on asphalt, too, so it was also harder than the prairie/trail running I prefer. But I did run (rather than walk) the whole thing, which was a good feeling. It was humbling, however, to see the winner of the 10K come in only minutes after I finished the 5K. What kind of supplements are these people TAKING? And while I was nowhere near first place, I did get first place for the female 30-39 age group. So, that was pretty cool. The boy came in second place in the kids' race, which meant that both of us got pretty medals to show off.

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may musings

Son's baseball season is winding up, and the school year is winding down. An icy, feisty wind is still blowing outside and I still have a bunch of adolescent chickens living in the guest bathroom, but that's okay. Last weekend the daughter and I rode my gelding Zzari out to the old cowboy shed on the prairie. It came down in a storm several years ago, and is now not much more than a pile of weathered lumber on top of some rusty mattress springs. Still, an interesting landmark. Maybe I'll get a picture of it one of these days, and scan the picture my brother-in-law took of it when it was still standing.

I'm hoping to get some update work done on the blog this afternoon (links, nightstand books, etc). I don't have too many more hours, though, since Friday nights are pizza and movie nights around here. I asked the husband to pick up Talladega Nights if he makes his usual trip to the video store. I haven't actually read or heard a single review of this flick, so I don't know if it's any good.

I've been getting some very helpful feedback on the rough draft of the new novel - Beta readers rock. Also, I recently read Joan Didion's The Year of Magical Thinking, which I never blogged about. A painful read, not because of Didion's prose style, which I enjoy, but because of her nearly unbelievable story of surviving the loss of her husband at the same time that their daughter came down with an (ultimately fatal) illness. Also, just to look at the picture on the back of the dust jacket (an elegant People magazine shot from the 70's) compared to the author photo on the inside back flap is shocking. I'm not sure what else to say about that book.

I've recently gotten my hands on The Time Traveler's Wife, which, sadly, is very likely to be eclipsed by Thirteen Moons, which I picked up just yesterday. I've read mixed reviews of Frazier's sophomore effort, so I'll be interested to see if it captivates me as thoroughly as Cold Mountain did.

That's it for now. I hope you all have a great weekend!Follow @nicole_mcinnes

prodigal cat

Took a couple of the chicks (now gawky, half-feathered/half-fuzzy teenagers) to son's school for show and tell yesterday. We finally had some beautiful weather, and even had to keep the windows open until well after dark last night to stay comfortable.

After we got home I brought all the chicks outside in the bigger wire cage to start acclimating them to the outdoors. I also did it so they don't get too used to the lap of luxury they've been experiencing as bathtub/house chickens. I tell ya, it's champagne wishes and caviar dreams for animals around here. Our Aussie sits next to the cage when we bring the chicks out like this, because she takes her guarding duties very seriously (as the cats will tell you). My daughter wanted to tell stories while we sat out there, so I told the story of the beautiful princess who had a cat named Angel, and it was a big hit. Then it was daughter's turn. "What story do you want to hear, Mom?"

"Hmm," I said. "How about The Very Tired Mama?"



Daughter thought about this for a minute. Then she said, "How about a story that doesn't have any scary parts?"

Anyway, I went out at around 10 pm last night (as I always do) to check on the horses and let Mr. Fatso gelding out of the corral where he eats his Jenny Craig rations while the older boys get the 2 flakes each/Equine Sr./corn oil feast. Life's not fair, I know, but if we didn't separate them, I have no doubt that I'd walk outside one day to see that Bearkhat had exploded. (I affectionately refer to him as a "Snausage" because he's the easiest keeper I've ever known. I'm convinced he could get fat on air alone.)


So, I'm out there and I hear a high-pitched meow. This is not unusual in the least, since Angel and Milo are outdoor kitties, and Angel frequently accompanies me for horse chores. As always, I say, "Hi, Angel." I hear the meow again, and look around for her gray stripes in the dark. Nothing. "Where are you?" I call out. Meow.


Now lets backtrack a bit to Christmastime 2005. A move to California was imminent. Arrangements had been made for the horses, and we were taking SheDog the Aussie with us. The only animal that didn't yet have accommodations waiting for him was Pepper Kitten, a half-feral black cat that I'd managed to remove from his entirely feral mama when he was about six or seven weeks old. I then tamed him, neutered him (well, I didn't neuter him - the vet did. I'm a fairly self-sufficient, handy gal, but there are limits), and generally transformed him into a pretty great (albeit still a tad wild) outdoor kitty. Now, for those of you who believe keeping a cat outdoors is tantamount to animal cruelty, I will tell you that I've owned outdoor cats all my life, and they've always been well-cared for, well-loved and extremely happy, spoiled rotten little beasties. Plus, my husband and I are allergic: He makes a run for the Albuterol inhaler when cats are inside, and my contact lenses start feeling like someone squirted Elmer's glue into my eyes.


So, when it came time to move, I was very torn about what to do with Pepper. I knew bringing him to California was out of the question: He'd lived his entire life at the end of a long dirt road, with prairie all around and no traffic. I knew he'd be flattened on the street in front of the CA house right away. I also had doubts about trying to re-home him. He knew his territory, and he owned it, and I could also imagine him running away from the new home and getting equally squashed. I knew he could probably fend for himself fairly well as the rural kitty he was, and I knew he occasionally visited neighbors, but still... Then my mother-in-law, who lives next door to us for part of the year, said she'd look out for him, which made me feel a bit better. So, we essentially did nothing with Pepper, and I agonized over this literally the whole time we were in CA.


The few times we returned to visit our place, our horses and our friends here in 2006 I looked for Pepper, and went out late at night to call for him (since that was traditionally when he liked to visit). Nothing. I had to believe he was either being shy or that he'd found a new home (probably with the Cat Lady, who lived right across the dirt road from us, and who has a local reputation for taking in cats that actually have homes already, keeping them inside and basically adopting him whether they need it or not. She even has a big yellow "Cat Crossing" road sign in front of her house. Clear enough picture?) My MIL had been putting out food, and she assured me that she'd seen him around, but I still worried. I take animal care very seriously, and not knowing how Pepper was doing was one of those things that I'd fret about in the middle of the night when I couldn't sleep. I know the other animal people out there get this.


So, in the four-plus months that we've been back in AZ, I've actively searched for PK, but to no avail. I've been putting food out in the horse trailer, and have called for him at night. I've also had to find a way to come to peace with the fact that I had very possibly made the wrong decision to leave him here when we moved, and that has not been easy. But you know what's coming, don't you?


I couldn't see Angel's stripes in the dark, but I did see something black and hairy. I had to stand there for a minute and let my brain catch up to what I was seeing, but there he was.

I said, "Pepper, is that you?" and he answered in the affirmative, winding around my legs like he'd always done, and drooling uncontrollably as soon as I started petting him. I couldn't believe it. Since both kids were already asleep, I ran to get the camera so I'd have proof when I told them this morning that Pepper was just fine. Then I went to pick him up and discovered that the whole year-plus I have spent worrying about him has been for naught. Because Pepper has apparently done more than just eke out a life of bare-bones survival here on the prairie. He apparently has a sugar mama (or several sugar mamas). I have included another photo for illustration purposes. Everything outside of the California and Texas-shaped areas roughly represents Pepper's mass as it appeared when we left for California.

He used to be a sleek, trim, efficient barn-type kitty, and now he is....how to put this delicately...

A lard ass.

Yes, our poor, deprived half-feral rescue has somehow managed to amass two entire states' worth of tonnage since being left behind.

And I feel like I've had at least that much weight lifted from my heart.

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story time for adults

This is how I described the Northern Arizona Book Festival to my son this past weekend, when he asked where I was going.

Billy Collins was there, and stole the show. After his (far too brief - I could have listened to him read for hours) reading, Lemony Snicket took the stage. Or rather, some guy whose job it was to explain Mr. Snicket's unfortunate demise (via a too-hideous-for-words creature at a picnic) took the stage. That guy was quite funny. I suspect he may have actually been Mr. Snicket in disguise, but one never knows. The whole thing was very mysterious and unfortunate.

I didn't get to devote as much volunteer time to the festival as I would have liked, though I did spend several hours (some of it with the husband's help) updating their address list. Those school board secretary skills have to come in handy somewhere.

In other news, we've got a whole lotta truck love going on at Brackett Villa. Herewith:

oh yeah.

that's what I'm talkin' about

uh huh.

come on, baby - bring it.

Let me hear ya TESTIFY!

I loved my trusty Chevy S-10, which has carried me and the children around faithfully for the past couple of years (and that's saying a lot, coming from a Ford woman).

But Mama's big truckin' again, and that means life is GOOD.

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