Where Would I be Happy?

I love springtime

Long ago, well, in July of 2009, to be exact, during a personal crisis and financial crunch, I stood in amid an Oregon forest, in my horse paddock and lamented this question: “Where would I be happy?’

The answer was immediate. Talk about a thump on the head. And this was after we traveled to numerous places searching for our little spot on the planet. (Arizona, Utah, New Mexico, California). I don’t know if it was the Universe speaking, my intuition, God, or wishful thinking, it doesn’t matter, I  listen to all of those voices.

The answer?

“Check out Hawaii on the Internet!”

After I found a beautiful piece of property for half of what we owed in Oregon, my daughter said, “Let’s do it.” (Meaning let’s move there.)

We cleared our house of ten million years of accumulation—well, maybe 20, and packed up a 12 x 24-foot shipping container with stuff we felt we had to have. After our two vehicles left on a big flatbed transport vehicle, aiming for the Seattle Port, one husband, one daughter, one seven-month-old grandson, two dogs and two cats, plus me, flew away to live off the grid in Hawaii.

The story fits into a book called The  Frog’s Song. I think the frog is me. However, frog’s do figure predominately in the story.

A publisher has picked it the story, and the most stupendous editor in the world is editing it. She says The Frog’s Song will be out within two years. TWO YEARS!  Yipes, well it ought to be shorter now, for we are about six months into the process.

The editor gives her input in chapters, I rearrange them, and eventually, we will put all those flayed chapters back together again. I am grieving for I wanted to quote Mark Twain, from the book Mark Twain in Hawaii, Roughing it in the Sandwich Islands. (Hawaii in the 1860’s) He had only shortly before leaving on assignment for the most prominent newspaper on the Pacific Coast, “The Sacramento Union,” adopted the name, Mark Twain. He spoke so eloquently about the islands it made my mouth water, and I bet it would be yours too. The publisher, however, is worried about copyright. We’ll see what happens. It is nice, though, to have a gatekeeper.

Of course, I am wondering if anyone will want to read The Frog’s Song.

I‘m having fun, though, reliving the experience without the nervous expectations, and trauma of the first time around.

Aloha,

Joyce

(Aloha is hello, goodbye, I love you. Aloha is doing good without expecting anything in return. It is a way of life.)

The Dog and The Chicken

This morning I watched as Lafayette, my daughter’s Coon Hound, took a piece of an enormous dog biscuit into the yard. He dug a hole with his paws, put the biscuit into the hole, then with his nose as a shovel, he covered it.

Blonde, my free-range chicken, watched this procedure up close, like about three-inches away. She pecked at the dirt as he dug. “Ah ha, someone else who likes to dig.”

When Lafayette ran to another side of the yard to look out the gate, the hen,  her little behind bouncing along with her jogging, trotted right after him.   

Now, this dog had once killed one of my chickens. I don’t think he meant to kill it, but being roughhoused was too much for the poor hen, and there was Lafayette, proud as could be, carrying a dead chicken into the house.

What do you do with a dog that kills chickens? My dad would shoot it.

No shooting here.

I once had a dog that would catch a chicken that had escaped the yard, hold it with his paws, lick its face until we saved it from its tongue slurping, and put it back into the pen.

I couldn’t have a dog on the premises that killed chickens.

So I looked online (everything is online) and a little boy who had the same problem as me, told his solution. His problem was worse, his parents were going to get rid of the dog. He couldn’t let that happen. The dog had to learn, and although it broke his heart to do it, he picked up a switch and every time the dog even looked at that chicken he gave it a whack on the rump. Now, he said, the dog can be inside the chicken yard and doesn’t bother the chickens.

Okay, now don’t tell my daughter. She is so opposed to striking anything that she would kill me, but I got the pancake turner, and with the other chicken lose in the backyard, (I only had two) and Lafayette also loose in the yard, whenever he even looked at that hen, I gave his rump a resounding whack with the pancake turner. Daughter usually doesn’t read my blog,  so maybe I am safe, and I’m trusting you to keep quiet.

This morning as I watched the scene, I thought about how many people treat farm animals unemotionally, a cow standing in the field, chickens, whatever. And they must feel the same about us. But when we begin interacting with them,  their personality blossoms. Blonde wants to be with us. She does not care to join the three other hens that are cage bound. If the back door is open, she will come in.

I must handle her porch sitting, however.