Fuzzy-Wuzzy and Fully Woolly

The birch in its fall glory

It's hard to leave behind a garden that you've cultivated for nearly two decades. One can't help but feel sort of parental about living things carefully tended for years and years. 

So it felt very sad to say good-bye to the birch tree planted the year before my child's birth, the vine maple bought at a farm stand as a spindly sapling now grown to three-trunked splendor, the vibernum and dogwood shrubs framing the living-room window, and the perennials that faithfully reemerged every spring like good friends who travel far and wide but always stop by while in town.

The garden at our new home is still terra incognita as our first priority has been unpacking all those wretched boxes and moving furniture around. 

A professional landscaper created the space, aiming for an easy-care garden of shrubs and small trees, with one small densely planted flower garden. So it's got some structure...and appears to be just begging for the cottage-garden treatment, when time and budget permit.

In the meantime, I did some poking around in the flower bed to see what was there, and came across this fellow hanging out on a dock leaf.

The caterpillar, nearly two inches in length, was exceedingly fuzzy and exceedingly placid. It scarcely budged even as I turned the leaf over to observe it from all angles. 

After some research online and in books, I'm guessing it's a caterpillar of the Virginia tiger moth, commonly known as a yellow woolly-bear. This makes it a cousin of the more familiar brown-and-black-banded caterpillar of the Isabella tiger moth, called just woolly-bear and known in folklore for predicting how severe winter will be by the ratio of brown and black on its fuzzy body.

It took a while to find its head.

Yellow woolly-bears range in color from black to a yellow so pale it's nearly white. Golden yellow is the most common hue. This one's vivid orange-red is a variation often seen. I don't know if certain shades are linked with different areas of the country.

Virginia tiger moths are a widespread species, found across most of the temperate United States and Canada. 

In the Pacific Northwest, they're abundant at lower elevations and are found in habitats ranging from coastal rainforests to meadows and farmlands. And, as you can see, Cottage Lake back yards.

Caterpillar feet

There are two or three generations of caterpillars each year, and the last generation overwinters as a pupa.

This one will surely be looking for a safe place to settle down , if it hasn't already done so by the time I hit "publish" on this. It will spend the soggy season as a glossy, dark pupa cloaked in a cocoon made of its own bristles.

I couldn't find anything particularly fascinating or noteworthy about this particular species in any of my books or online, but it does have some pretty cool relatives in the tiger-moth family. 

Adult moth, from Wikipedia

One species, for example, is able to make ultrasonic clicking noises with a set of membranes, called tymbals, on its thorax at a rate of up to 4,500 clicks per second for the purpose of jamming the sonar of bats and thus avoiding being a bat's midnight snack.

When our resident woolly-bear grows up, it'll emerge in springtime as a fuzzy white moth fringed antennae and a row of orange and black dots on its abdomen. How long it will be until spring, and how harsh our winter will be, is not in the skill set of this woolly-bear...but after last night's furious rain, thunder, and lightning, I hope it's found a place to live that has a sump-pump, french drains, and clean gutters.

The Trailer of Doom

You can lead a horse to a trailer, but you can't make it get in.

That is what we neophyte horse parents learned the other day when we confidently rolled up to the barn to transport Avi to his new home in a borrowed trailer. Nothing, not even offers of apples, carrots, and peppermints, could induce him to step into this vehicle, which he seemed to think was some dreadful tumbril about to transport him to certain death.

Never mind that he'd ridden in trailers of various sorts since he was a little one. This van was Different, and therefore it was Dangerous.

"he won't load it's a no go" came the text message from the Resident Teen, which I received as I sat waiting patiently for an hour or so at the new barn, watching for the trailer's arrival.

The big event would have to wait another day or so while we looked for a larger trailer, one with a ramp that would make it a cakewalk for Avi to stroll aboard.

And so on Friday, determined to move the horse even if it required a winch, we rolled up bright and early to Avi's barn, where four horse-girls were already busy wrapping Avi's legs in polo wraps to protect them on the ride.

An hour before, he'd also received a dose of Quietex, a pasty concoction that was supposed to help settle any jitters and calm his nerves. 

All doozied up, Avi strode unsuspectingly out of the barn and into the lovely morning sunlight of a beautiful summer day.

The horse-girls disappeared along a track through the forest that led to a quiet area where we'd parked the truck and trailer. Tony followed them, schlepping a net full of hay that would go into the van to induce Avi to step inside for a little snack.

At first Avi approached the trailer like a pro.

But then he noticed that although it looked like an innocent horse trailer, it was actually a tunnel straight into the fiery pit of Hades. "Not going,"  he said.

A half hour of standing with forefeet on the ramp and hind feet off to the side commenced, broken up by occasional walking-in-circle episodes and lots of proddings on the rump. (And yes, that is a sign of his disgust with the proceedings in the corner of the picture.) We wondered if they made a product called Cooperatex.

Finally, most likely through sheer boredom, Avi suddenly plodded aboard. The horse-girl team and Tony immediately swung into action, along with help from two stable workers who'd happened by. Whump went the butt bar (which is exactly what it sounds like--a padded bar that is locked in place behind the horse's backside). Slam, went the ramp. Avi lifted his tail and produced some more evidence of his disdain for us all. Slam, slam went the two top doors. WHAM! WHAM! went Avi's hooves as he kicked the lower door in irritation.

Ten minutes later, Operation Stubborn Mule pulled up at the new barn. The horses in the paddocks neighed shrilly to welcome the newcomer--or rather, to warn him that they knew what was in the horse-box and that they all had sturdy teeth and hooves. Avi emitted a weird mooing sort of neigh in response and lustily kicked the walls of his trailer some more.

After all that fuss, however, he tiptoed out of the trailer and into his new digs at the barn. "Cool," he said as he nosed around in the bedding (a material made out of pine chips that works basically like a horse-sized version of clumping kitty litter).

Then he noticed the hay. There and then he decided this was definitely a 5-star establishment.

Late Summer: Walk in the Woods

I trailed my daughter as she and Avi ambled through the woods on a late-summer morning, a day that dawned clean and fresh after a furious downpour of nighttime rain. They were soon out of sight, leaving me on my own in silence that was punctuated now and then by the caroling of a winter wren.

Several trees growing from a "grandmother stump" 

A ravine, one among many--no wonder the news here is full of stories of ponies stuck in ravines

These two soon receded into the distance

Detail of old wooden table languishing in the woods

Beautiful leaded windows on old farmhouse

Old farmhouse in woods

A Tooth-Rasping, Bone-Cracking, Foot-Filing Sort of Day

"I  have a funny feeling about this."

We are into our second week of horse ownership, and it was time to have a well-baby checkup for the 1,100-pound (give or take a few hundred pounds) baby.

The veterinarian who gave Avi his pre-purchase checkup--a quick look-over to make sure he didn't have any significant problems that hadn't come to light--gave us succinct advice about finding the perfect horse.

Basically, that there was no such thing as a perfect horse.

"I tell people that if they want a good horse, don't get a horse," he said gruffly, "but that if you're determined to get a horse anyway, get this one." (Meaning, of course, not our particular horse, but whatever horse he's examining at the time.)

We already knew that, like any off-the-track Thoroughbred, Avi's joints had probably endured a lot of pummeling (racehorses are being ridden when they're still babies and they work hard; a two-year-old Thoroughbred has already gone through training and is being raced at an age when youngsters of other horse breeds are just getting acquainted with saddles and such; it's bound to take a toll on young bones). A huge percentage of them also suffer from gastric ulcers, due to stress. So it was likely that, despite his excellent care, Avi might have them, too.

And we knew that he had what's known as a "lazy flapper" or "roaring"--a condition in which one of two flaps in the windpipe doesn't stay properly in place and gets sucked into the horse's airstream, which as you might guess seriously limits its respiratory efficiency and endurance. Avi had "tie-back" surgery to nail that little flapper in place, but it didn't take, thus bringing an early end to his racing career.

We'd also been told he's a real tenderfoot. He's got four feet of different sizes and sensitive soles. It's a good thing he doesn't have to shop for shoes at Macy's.

Part of Avi's going-over included chiropractic work. This is what chiropractics looks like when it's done to a horse:

I am being somewhat misleading here because it was just funny to witness what looks like somebody doing to a horse what we always tell children not to do to cats and dogs. The vet explained that she was working on decompressing the horse's spine; she also applied pressure with hands, forearms, and elbows to various points on his neck, spine, and shoulders, and worked on his head and legs.

Avi seemed to enjoy the attention and was visibly relaxed. He was even more relaxed after he was given a sedative to prepare him for some dental work.

"Whoa. Where am I? Who am I? WHAT am I?"

Be glad that you are human (as I assume you are, if you are reading this). Because when you go to the dentist, you do not need to have your head in a sling and a gigantic mouth speculum inserted between your jaws and strapped to your head. (This explains the sedation.)

You also do not need to have an electric file thrust into your mouth--a file so loud that the dentist has to wear protective earmuffs to spare her hearing.

Equine dentistry is not for the faint of heart. It's a vigorous workout. The vet wore knee guards as she spent much of her time braced against the floor as she rasped, or "floated," Avi's teeth (horses get sharp points on their teeth over time, which makes eating painful and also wastes hay, as they dribble and drop a lot of it when chewing hurts).

Finally all the dental work was done, and all that remained was to let the horse fully regain consciousness before allowing him to have access to hay and grass again.

"I have no idea what just happened."

Less than 24 hours later, the farrier arrived to trim Avi's soup-tureen front feet and replace both front shoes, one of which had already been lost.

This meant more filing--but nothing that required sedation. Getting shod was no big deal for Avi because he'd been through it umpteen times already.

Modern-day farriers have wonderful modern-day tools at their disposal, but their craft is inherently much the same as it ever was. There is still the ringing of iron on an anvil, the roar of flame, the dull tapping of nails, and the sizzle and burning-hair stench of hot metal applied to hoof.

And, at the end of it all, a horse cantering around his pasture, testing out his new shoes. No more sore right front sole!

When Wishes Become Horses, At Long Last

If you had told me, when I was about eight, that someday I would really, truly have a horse, I wouldn't have believed you.

But here he is.

His name is Avi. And to be precise, he's not mine. He belongs to the Resident Teen. But I can bask in the glow of  her adoration of him.

He is a six-year-old Thoroughbred gelding, born in Kentucky.

He actually did some racing (more on that in another post), but retired from that and so joined the ranks of many other off-the-track-Thoroughbreds, or OTTBs, as they are known.

His second career began straightaway as he went into hunter/jumper training at a local stable.

He even picked up a few ribbons in his new job.

And it was at the stable where he met the Resident Teen, who is also in hunter/jumper training.

Before you could say "double-jointed snaffle," we had ourselves a horse.

Well, whoa there a second. Not so fast. First he needed a vet check.

And then he had to get into a trailer in order to travel to his new stable. He wasn't having any of it.

Eventually Avi must have decided it was getting boring to stand on the ramp being gently poked by a crutch (one of the experienced handlers loading him was laid up with a badly sprained leg) and so he responded to the encouragement at his other end and stepped in nicely.

A short ride later, he followed his new rider into a pasture to check out the surroundings.

Later, he met some of his new companions, all of whom were intensely curious about the newcomer.

I think I am still in rather a state of shock.

New House, New Town, New World

Everything is different, and yet I feel as if we have lived in our new home for always.

There is a new view out the kitchen window.

And a new view from the office, one that allows chickadees and hummingbirds to peer in at me as curiously as I look out at them.

Fewer planes fly over us, but more fire-breathing dragons, of a sort. This giant balloon sneaks up on us every evening; you don't know it's there until you suddenly hear the roar of the flames heating the air inside it.

There are new walks to take and trails to explore.

There are different things going on down the block. Like rodeos and gymkhanas.

Some of us have had new experiences such as learning that crawling under the deck may require extra time devoted to face washing.

The "lived here for always" feeling can't be due to the place being a big mess, as our old home often was (having had a  natural inclination toward entropy). Things are slowly coming out of boxes and finding niches for themselves in cabinets and on shelves. So it won't be a shambles forever. I hope.

And these are just the book boxes!

I've lived in cities for the past 30 years; first Hoboken, New Jersey, then New York City, and finally Seattle.

But I grew up in a suburban neighborhood, where I enjoyed a very happy childhood. I spent endless summer days in a big backyard drenched in blazing East Coast sunshine, drowsy with heat, listening to cicadas whir and mockingbirds sing, drawing pictures and reading and downing glass after glass of sweet iced tea.

So moving out to an unincorporated area of King County, to a home that's sort of suburban but dips its toes into the vast pool of countryside around us, doesn't feel as jarring as I thought it would after three decades of city life.

Our former house's living room, which faced west

Sure, I miss being close to my friends in Seattle.

I miss the garden I nurtured for 17 years, the birch tree and the shrubs and the living-room window view of the birds at the feeder and the Steller's jay that perched on the fence by the patio. And the light that poured in through the windows of our westward-facing house and dappled the wall with shimmering shadow-patterns of fluttering birch leaves.

And I miss the easy access to the things that make city life so enjoyable. It takes a lot of planning and good shoes to walk to a coffee shop around here, whereas I could step out of my previous house and grab a latte, buy cowboy boots, sample some gourmet chocolate, and even go get a tattoo, if I pleased, without walking more than a block's circumference away from home.

Venturing out a few more blocks, I could dine on pizza, Greek food, Mexican cuisine, or pub grub, then wander over to a world-class zoo or poke around in book shops and vintage stores. And that's without even putting any thought into what else I could do that day.

But this habitat feels good, too. Sitting in the backyard, on a small deck a bit like the one my father built on the house I grew up in, I felt a lot like my 12-year-old self, reading a book while chickadees chirruped overhead. I feel very fortunate that I have moved from a place I love to a place I love.

And sunlight still finds a way to flood our northern-facing home, even if for just a portion of the day.

Top 10 Weird Things Found While Packing to Move

We are in the home stretch of packing for our move out of Seattle and to the neighborhood of Cottage Lake in Woodinville. (Cottage Lake! I never knew I'd ever live in a place with such a twee name. Don't get me wrong; I like both cottages and lakes. It's just that I have lived in cities for the past thirty years, so it's a bit of a change.)

We've turned up a number of unexpected items in the process of packing, such as my sister-in-law's black sweater, lost a year ago during her visit here and shipped back to England yesterday; a big tablet filled with drawings of blimplike horses with tiny legs, sketched by my daughter when she was about four; and a left shoe whose partner has been sulking in a closet for nearly a decade.

Among the finds were a few somewhat unexpected objects, just one of which is of unknown provenance. So here are The Top 10 Weird Things Found While Packing to Move.

Weird Thing 1 is a user's guide to a 1950s range.

I guess it would be truly weird if there had never been a 1950s range in the house, but as we had said range sitting in the basement for the 17 years we lived here, it's not really ultra-weird that the guide should be kicking around the place; it's probably just weird that it turned up at all.

(When we moved in, we brought a new oven with us, hence the needed-repairs range was put in the basement with plans to get it going and install a canning center downstairs. Never happened, alas.)

The second strange piece of flotsam: a mid-1900s fold-out driving map for Middle and South America. 

I have never even been to Mexico, let alone South America.

I can only think that it came from the archives of my uncle, who was well-traveled in a bus-tour sense. He frequently jetted off on vacations that involved touring places by bus and came home with endless out-of-focus pictures of what looked like the same canyon over and over again. He didn't know how to drive, so why the road map? We'll never know.

Oddment 3: A cassette single of "Jingle Bells" by the Singing Dogs, Dolly, Pearl, Caesar, and King.

This musical wonder was a hit in the 1950s and repeated its success when it was reissued in the 1970s, when many things of dubious taste enjoyed a heyday.

Yes, kiddies, before there were YouTube videos of talking dogs and philosophical cats, arranging differently pitched dog barks into a musical arrangement was considered a remarkable technological achievement! I am quite sure I got a kick out of this back in the day, probably while wearing my wide-wale deeply cuffed brown elephant-bell pants with my "ghosts boogie-ing in a graveyard" polyester shirt.

However, we don't even own a cassette player. So I don't know why this is still floating around.

"Huh!" tidbit number 4: a feather from my pet parakeet Fleckle, who also dates back to the early 1970s, having lived his two-year lifespan in that fashionable era.

I loved that little bird, and saved one of his feathers in a tiny ceramic box--as I rediscovered upon finding that box and opening it as we packed. Fleckle would sit on my finger and even endured being shown pictures of parakeets in the World Book Encyclopedia as if it were a family photo album.

"What's this?" number 5 is a bread-dough self-portrait made by my daughter when she was in preschool. It turned up inside the china cabinet inside a Belleek creamer that belonged to my grandmother. Trust me when I tell you that my daughter is considerably more charming looking than this self-portrait would suggest.

"Where'd this come from?" item 6 is a canceled stamp from Argentina.
Provenance is surely my uncle's ephemera once again (see: fold-out map of the Americas). He collected stamps, among many, many other things.

Such as Disney figurines, Christmas ornaments, Christmas figurines, decorative plates, almost anything made by the Franklin Mint, records, coins, dragon statues, Betamax disks, more decorative plates, etc.

And my husband is annually alarmed by my little-animal collectibles.  He should count his blessings.

Item number 7 is a wheel off a vehicle that belongs to Noddy, a taxi driver who is a wooden toy and drives happily around in Toyland. Noddy is the brain-child of author Enid Blyton and got his own TV show in the late 90s. Noddy and his car came home with our daughter, then age two, from a visit to relatives in England.

Since then, the car, the wheel, and the Noddy figurine have never, ever been all in the same place at the same time.

"Er, and this is...?" number 8 is a yellow piece of plastic that looks like a little wig. That is because it IS a wig. A little, plastic, yellow wig.

It came off the head of one of those blue-bodied Fischer-Price "mom" play pieces that most American kids who grew up in the 1960s will recall. Recently, an entire nation of these little people trooped through our house, passed along to me by my mom (who does not wear a cobalt blue dress or have yellow plastic hair) as she downsized her own possessions after moving.

Somewhere in the mix, there is a bald-headed Fischer-Price mom.

"EEEK! What the heck is this doing in the freezer??" item number 9 is a dead bushtit.

Stop looking at me like that. If you aren't a vegetarian, chances are high that you have dead birds in your freezer, too. Ever hear of chicken? Right. So, OK, we were never going to cook the bushtit for dinner. And never mind that this is a second creepy reference to finding feathery things.

See, it's like this: One day a few years ago, I was walking my dog Luna and saw something about a block away fall to the ground. When I reached that spot, I saw that it was a tiny little bird called a bushtit, which was not merely resting or pinin' for the fjords. This was an ex-bushtit, off to join the bleedin' choir invisible.

Luna lunged forward, seemingly intent on reclaiming her Labrador-retriever heritage, but I intervened, knowing it was far more likely that she was about to reclaim her guzzling-Hoover heritage. I pocketed it and took it home. And then? Reader, I froze it.

Reason being that I thought the local Audubon society might want to eventually stuff it and use it in their educational programs for kids. I am not making this up. I asked a friend who works there and she said yes but apparently Audubon's own freezer was crammed full of dead birds waiting to be eviscerated and stuffed and could I hold on to it for a bit longer? (I am trying to visualize freezers so full that there isn't even room for a tiny bushtit.)

As we are quite busy right now, I will no longer pursue this angle and will simply return the birdie to the earth in our backyard. It is NOT coming with us.

Nobody wants a photo of a dead bird, so instead here's a closeup of the amazing structure of  its wing feathers. You can probably deal with that.

And (drum roll), last but not least, and definitely the creepiest, in part because its provenance is unknown, and in retrospect because it bears an uncanny resemblance to the aforementioned Bread Dough Self-Portrait, is...

       Weird Scary Clown Head on a Stick

"Hi, kiddies! I love you!"