MATE OR NOT TO MATE - THAT IS THE QUESTION

'Tis the Season - At Least Freya is in Season

          One would think it was spring time at Golden Unicorn Farm instead of almost autumn but then apparently unlike birds and many other creatures that mate soon after winter melts away; talk about lengthy foreplay, our goat Freya is just now getting into the mood for a little tussle in the straw.  Jack or should I say Jacques (heavy on the French accent)  has been splashing the left side of his face and one of his long ears with au du urine, prancing around with his tail in the air and demonstrating the prowess of his penis (it's unbelievable what he can do with it, almost makes me enviable) yes,  he's been a wonder wooer on the prowl for love the past few weeks - one horny goat.  He has been amorously nuzzling her face and private parts unabashedly; almost makes me blush where he sticks his nose and hairy chin.  And, as the photo demonstrates, his amorous bleating and caresses have finally paid off - typical guy - happy as a clam once he gets laid.  On the downside of his amorous attitude, unrelenting foreplay, Jacques, because of his rank odor and bullying attitude will soon be separated from Freya permanently, which hopefully will give Luki (our Great Pyrenees dog) a break, although I can't be sure about that since Freya seems to be the one that frequently butts him in the head - poor dog needs almost a full bottle of Tylenol a day.  I'm hoping that once Jack is no longer here, has perhaps found greener pastures and a herd of nubile Nubian's and the dog will be her only company during the cold winter ahead, she will become a little chummy with him and not bully him any more - I know I would - he has a lot of warm hair to cuddle up into - smells a whole lot better than lover Jacques too..

Squeezing Crushed Apples Using a Motorized Apple Press

(It has a hand crank if the motor conks out.)

              Yesterday, I mosied on down to the apple tree that's growing a short ways from the house and picked up a bunch of the apples off the ground that Hurricane Irene took a notion to blow down.  About 50 lbs of apples gathered up in a chicken feed sack generated about 2 quarts of apple juice.  I probably would have squeezed more juice out of the apples but the electrical cord, which was in very sad condition, crossed bare wires and exploded.  Forgetting that I'd tied another chicken feed sack over the studio chimney to stop the hurricane's deluge of pounding rain with the spare electrical cord, which I was going to attach to the apple press, I decided to feed the chunks of compressed apples to the goats and chickens.  The goats, being somewhat fussy, nibbled at them for a little while, but the chickens loved the sweet treats - mind you - chickens eat most anything.

          I've never been very partial to apple juice - I've always preferred my apples to be crunchy and on the tart side.  However, the apple juice that I squeezed (most likely along with a few worms as well) was delicious!  Instead of looking like day old urine for a doctor's test, the juice had a rich, dark amber colour and was quite thick.  That's the way I like to drink orange and grapefruit juice as well; the pulp being so thick, one almost has to chew it.  A lot of apples are still waiting to be harvested but I'm thinking, instead of turning all of them into pies, tarts, juice and other tasty wares, apple cider with an extra kick should be considered; does anyone have a good recipe?

          Sarah and I went to Woodstock yesterday; well to be more specific, to the hospital yesterday.  She had to have some tests done on her heart, which because I was allowed to watch, I discovered was really quite remarkable.  Computers, although mostly a time-waster for most of us, I can see, are really marvellous tools.  I literally got to watch her heart beating on a large monitor and was able to hear it as well.  The medical technician working the computer was able to blow up specific segments of her heart and photograph them and although most of the images were grayish tones and appeared to be unreadable to me, most likely for her and the doctor that would later look at the results would be able to form some sort of a decision regarding her breathing condition - snores like a grizzly bear - I believe a sleep apnea test is next.

          Usually, I wouldn't have gone to town with Sarah yesterday, but it seems that I too had developed a medical problem of my own over the past few weeks - a large bump in my groin.  I didn't give it much consideration until it grew relatively large and then began oozing in a few places.  Oh my gosh I thought; I've got herpes or even worse; aids from some long ago encounter of the opposite sex.  Anyway, all the talk about lumps and how they should be immediately looked into, I saw a woman doctor in the Emergency sector of the hospital while I waited for Sarah.  As she probed around my sacred private parts, eventually squeezing the lump until it made my toes curl in pain, I was of course considerably worried about what she might say about my problem.  Since I've been totally faithful to my wife since the time we first got together during a very private joining of our two bodies, I couldn't imagine how I would have acquired some sexual venereal disease.  I can't remember her exact diagnosis regarding my condition but it seems rather than a sexual encounter, my dilemma was caused by over sweating (armpits are another location) and that it had become infected by most likely scratching my balls.  She never of course said "scratching my balls" because that would have been completely inappropriate.  However, yeah, I was relieved that some long ago love affair hadn't left me a little present and hey, what guy when he has sweaty balls from working hard under the glowering sun, doesn't reach down occasionally and scratch his sweaty gonads?  I think it's time to clip my finger nails - cheers -eh!          

GOODNIGHT IRENE

          The name Irene conjures up a couple of memories for me; I actually have an Aunt Irene and when I was a boy lying in bed at night above the Spotlight Cafe near the corner of Boundary Road and East Hastings in Vancouver, BC, I sometimes heard its sad refrain playing on the juke box, "Goodnight Irene, goodnight Irene, I'll see you in my dreams..."  However, last night as I lay in bed, Hurricane Irene howling relentlessly outside, as if lamenting her waning power, her tears falling in torrents, I was hoping she would blow herself out by morning.
          Before heading off to bed last night, after the wind had knocked out the power and a lull in the rain had occurred, Sarah, Rachel, Jessica and I went for a walk down to Sandy Beach.  Before we were halfway there, the dark roiling clouds split asunder and we were caught in a heavy deluge - we were pretty much instantly soaked.  Although the wind and the rain actually felt warm, we decided to continue the walk.  I was expecting to see the large lake in a frenzy, frothing whitecaps crashing on the shore but it was unbelievably calm and flat.  As we began walking up Green Mountain on our way back home, a sudden gust of wind wound its way towards us and I actually witnessed a large fir tree in the wake of its fury, snap like a toothpick and plunge into the swollen stream rushing towards the lake.
          This morning, although the wind is still blowing, the sumac tree growing just outside my studio window dancing to its steadfast music, the dark grey clouds appearing to diminish; I see patches of blue sky and the sun attempting to show its warm face through the breaks.  Somewhere I just know there is a huge rainbow but I doubt that I shall see it.  The goats and the dog seemed to have survived the storm just fine and the chickens aren't crowing any complaints, so I guess all is well here on Golden Unicorn Farm.
          I notice the leaves are slowing changing colours; autumn will soon be upon us with winter not far behind.  A lot of outside work still remains so I hope the rain will hold off for awhile.  I still have to batten up the barn, caulk up some of the tiny holes in the metal roof where screws were used to attach it to the barn it originally came from, put in a new chimney to my studio (leaks like a sieve), cut up some wood and pile it in the wood shed, not to mention build a stall and milking station inside the barn for the goats, plus build a small pen inside the chicken coop to separate a few chickens from being pecked to death; boy, some of those hens have a very nasty streak!

Jack Looking at Me Through the Studio Door - Horny Old Goat        

          Jack or I wonder if it's Jacques is certainly becoming a very smelly goat.  He is desperately wanting to get laid and in the process, like many men who douse themselves with aftershave or cologne, he sprays his head with urine.  One side of his face and one ear has taken on a yellowish tinge and I imagine he thinks he's irresistible to Freya but to us - my gosh, does he look some awful and does he ever have a disgusting aroma.  If I could coax Freya to lift her tail towards Jack's affections, I certainly would because once she's bred, the billy goat will be heading off to a new home pronto.
          The goats can no longer look inside the studio as I recently built a small chicken run just outside the doorway.  When we feel it's safe to let the chickens have full run of the place, I may take it down because they certainly are messy.  However, on the other hand it may be a good idea to keep the pen in place, Sarah's been thinking some ducks might be nice - I could be turning into a Dr. Doolittle soon.  I like that name: Doolittle.  That's the way I'm hoping to become this winter - do little - cheers -eh!  
                 

HURRICANE, ARTS FESTIVAL AND BUCKET LIST

          I awoke early this morning and when I peeked outside the bedroom window, I was surprised to be greeted with a calmness; a rosy sunrise still below the ridge and an ethereal mist rising silently from amidst the trees.  Not the morning I was expecting but perhaps we're in the eye of the hurricane, which was supposed to hit the state of Maine and possibly New Brunswick.  When I stepped outside, not a breath of wind could be felt; perhaps it's the calm before the storm.
          Quite a lot has occurred this past week at Golden Unicorn Farm; besides resuming building the barn, our first, hope to be annual Golden Unicorn Arts Festival, was a successful hit with the artisans and the general public who came to view their wares.  Although some of the artisans had been reluctant to participate, they, were by the end of the day, very happy to have been a part of our event and vowing to return next year.  Although I was very busy bar-b-quing wieners and sausages during the event, I did manage to discuss my art a little bit with a few people; one of the highlights being able to meet Bob Ellis and his wife (avid sailors) and especially their daughter who lives in Hawaii and delivers sail boats.  She told me that the little sailboat, Dove III that I'd crewed aboard in 1995 during her successful voyage through the Northwest Passage was moored there.  (I've often wondered over the years whatever became of little Dove.)
          As I sit here at the keyboard sipping a hot cup of goldenrod tea, my mind drifts backward to just before I climbed out of bed after being cuddled up to my wife's warm body.  I'd been awake for a short time before realizing I wouldn't fall back to sleep, might as well get the hell up and get on with the day.  However, during that short time of wakefulness, before deciding to get dressed, I lay in bed thinking about some of the places I've lived and some of the people I've lived with over the years.
          I hope whoever reads this bog doesn't think that I'm being cynical and negative (something I've been told quite often, especially when I very seldom have the same views of many other people). When one is nearing the end of their days such as me, I sometimes think about how I would like to have my life end, that is if I'm able to have any say in that particular matter at all.  Just think for a moment, if you were suddenly told that your life will be coming to an end shortly; what would you do (stop reading for a moment and think about having a very short time to live; really give it some honest self-provoking thought)?  If your life started rapidly ebbing away and you could see your eminent demise on the horizon drawing closer with each breath; would you be happy where you're at right now?  I realize we all have regrets but would you regret being where you are in your present life and let's just for the moment say you were; if it were possible, would you do anything about it or just go cest le vie, that's all she wrote?  I know that's kind of a defeatist's attitude but I wouldn't be surprised if there are actual people who think that way; just say to themselves, "What's the point?  Life sucks; I'll just be glad when it's over."
          When I look about me here at the base of Green Mountain, this teeny, itsy-bitsy, wee particle situated on what we call the planet Earth, I think there is no place better than where I'm at now but I don't kid myself either when I have this thought because I've felt this way before about different places on several occasions during my lifetime.  It's not possible to step back in time and situate oneself in the place one most felt at home; the best place on Earth; however, I wonder if it's possible to bring some of what has been, back into the present?  Like me, I imagine dear reader, over the years, you've left many things unsaid or were reluctant to feel but if you were very near to the end of your life right at this moment; are there things you should say and feelings you should express?  Intimacy is tough; so easy to utter a disparaging word, criticize, be sarcastic (apparently I read somewhere the "lowest form of humour") in anger or playfulness; I for one have had to bite my tongue in retaliation or fear of hurting someones feelings I love.  And then again, there have been times when my silver tongue, honed as sharp and deadly as a Samurai sword, I've taken great pleasure wielding hurtful words with a vengeance  Forgive me, I feel as if I'm straying from my topic, like a knight on a glorious steed slaying a terrible dragon to protect a fair damsel and nothing could be further from the truth - how my mind wanders - must be an age thing or the fact that my mind doesn't always exist in the real world, more often in the surreal or a figment of my own fascination.
          Has your bucket as in "kick the bucket" list been emptied or are you still filling it up; wishing you could do this or that or the other thing?  Don't make the list too long, fill the bucket to the brim because when the time comes, which it does unfailing for each and every one of us, there may not be enough time remaining to empty your bucket.  There's not too many wanna-dos or wanna bes in my own personal bucket because I've been a rather selfish man during my life.  It's not that I don't share most of what I attain; it's the closeness, the nearness that I seldom allow complete access.  However, that being said, there are still a few things in my old dented and scratched bucket (life aint always been easy) that I tend on doing, not because I know the date of my impending death but just because I feel it's necessary to help complete my life.        
             

HOMEWARD BOUND AND TOMORROW'S ART FESTIVAL

          Homeward Bound, the title for the article I recently wrote for Our Canada magazine is perhaps rather apt for the journey I've experienced during most of my life.  As odd as it seems, I'm not sure that I know the meaning of "home".  I've lived in many places over the years and in several different cities; each place I moved to, thinking it would be the last, however, like the "bear went over the mountain to see what he could see", greener pasture's have always beckoned.  Here on Golden Unicorn Farm, near the base of Green Mountain on the very outskirts of Fosterville, NB, I am once again calling another place "home".  I've shared my life with several women and approximately 13 kids during the many moves and different places I've lived, each time hoping my unsettled life would settle down but it never has.  Even now, I wonder if this will be my last move, the last place I will live before I take my last breath, the last journey over forever.  Maybe that's why I keep moving towards the horizon; it's unreachable.
          It's been quite a long time since I've had a book or an article published and I have to say it still feels good to have one accepted, to know that someone out there will perhaps enjoy or learn something from what I've written.  Sometimes, like many of the talented friends I've known over the years who became quite successful with their creative endeavours, I wish I had their drive to pursue getting my stories and poetry published - someone once told me they were worthwhile and should be read by others.  However, like many things in my life, I just haven't been able to get that serious about it.  I really enjoy the creative process to write a story or paint a canvas but after I've read the finished story and hung the painting on a wall; my interest in them soon goes elsewhere.  I suppose like "homeward bound", always on the move; going from place to place, project to project; never really satisfied, the horizon always beckoning; my lot in life would be to accept my nomadic ways but I think even a true nomad prefers a home base.
          I've had money, been broke and busted but through it all, the horizon has never dimmed nor has my talent ever wavered.  I've been lucky that way; I don't know the meaning of boredom.  If there is a pencil and a sheet of paper within reach, no matter where I'm at, before I move on, that piece of paper will be filled with words or doodles.

 

          Tomorrow, my wife Sarah and I are holding an art festival at our place.  At the moment, we have signed up 14 artisans that create a variety of different works.  Several others have been in touch, including a few musicians and hopefully, they will still show up - the more the merrier so to speak.  Our intention is to revive the art exhibition that used to occur annually at the nearby Hide-A-Way Inn on East Grand Lake.  Unlike the other artists that are participating, I will not be able to give any possible art lovers or fanciers my undivided attention regarding any interest they may have in my art as I will be bar-b-quing wieners and sausages for the better part of the day.  And, as I glance about my studio in total disarray, although it's still fairly early in the morning, some farm chores still needing tending, I best end this blog so I can start getting my artwork presentable - cheers - eh!   

 

FOSTERVILLE FIELD DAYS - PARADE, BULL MOOSE, PARTY & DANCE

 Sarah & Our First Prize Float at the Fosterville Field Days Parade

Best Commercial Float

          My wife Sarah and I participated in the Fosterville Field Days parade on Saturday.  Mostly, through the years, I've only stood along the edge of the road watching a variety of marching bands, the strutting leaders throwing their batons twirling high into the air; pretty pageant queens waving adorably and smiling as they rode one of the many colourful floats; politicians, celebrities and such in fancy automobiles waving with their award winning smiles and of course clowns doing what they do, making the crowds, especially the wide-eyed children laugh and giggle.  I can't even say that Fosterville is a small town; the only buildings of public note are a Community Centre and a Baptist Church, so the parade as one would expect would not be that huge or elaborate and thankfully the parade route was very short since it was a very hot day.  The parade didn't have any marching bands but it did have politicians - the Premier of New Brunswick, David Alward and the Minister of Finance, Blaine Higgs were there shaking hands, waving and smiling to all.  Rumour has it that the Premier's crew called ahead to make sure no "frackers" would be in Fosterville.  A friend of ours by the name of Jacques said, "There won't be no frackers showing up around here, we all have guns."
          Since we were participants in the parade; No. 8 of about twenty, I didn't get to stand by the road side under the shade of a large tree and enjoy the fire engines, tractors, a few floats and whatever else slowly made its way down the parade route, which was about three blocks long.  However, we did get to see a big bull moose, at least the hind end of one because that's what was strolling along the road in front of us.  Not a real bull moose - no - it was two teenage girls dressed up in a moose's costume and it was very comical the way it was portrayed.  The lead girl made noises like the mating call or the lost call of the last bull moose, while the one at the end, whenever they stopped in front of a group of children, she would drop a load of tootsie rolls on the side of the road for them to scoop up. 
          Sarah baked 500 small cookies shaped and coloured like the Canadian maple leaf, which we handed out to many of the bystanders, young and old alike.  It was a lot of fun and I think the older people were a bit surprised when I ran up and handed them a cookie enclosed inside a cellophane bag with a Golden Unicorn Farm logo attached to it because usually just the children get the goodies that are thrown along the edge of the road.  We figured there were about 700-750 people lined up on both sides of the parade route because we came up short on cookies.  Sarah, her spirit always gay and uplifting said, "Next year, I'll bake 700 cookies!"
       Our entry won first prize for best commercial float, which made Sarah ecstatically happy.  I never even thought prizes were given away but much to my surprise, they were.  We won $30.00 but I think Sarah would have been even happier, if they had given her a ribbon instead of money.  Unfortunately I didn't get a photo of Brendan Leeman driving the ride-'em lawn mower that was pulling the float - freekin' camera decided to pack it in.
          Shortly after the parade had ended, Sarah and I went to Anita and Bill Leeman's place for a party - the cold beer sure tasted good after sweating my way down the hot parade route handing out cookies!  As evening approached, some thunder clouds gathered in the nearby distance and then began drifting towards us.  We could see the heavy rain falling over the lake but it just moseyed on past us, dropping a few rain drops as it went by.  Around 9:30pm, we drove up to the Community Centre where a DJ was playing some canned music.  The parking lot was full of pick-up trucks - must have been about 100 young people having a tail-gate party - no booze was allowed in the Community Centre.  When Sarah and I went through the doors planning to kick up our heels and have us a dance or two, besides the DJ, only one couple was dancing - but hey - more room for us to dance and leap around to some good old rock and roll music.  Before long, our friends from the party joined us and we all had a great time.  I don't know if the young folks were going to dance or not.  However, after some coaxing from us telling them that if they didn't head on in and pay 5 bucks, this would be the last dance held, they eventually all went inside - place was really rocking then.  I heard tell that after we left the dance shortly before midnight, we missed a pretty good cat fight - a couple of young girls decided to sort things out.
          So much for the parade and dance; it's all over for another year.  Besides baking more cookies for next year's parade, Sarah is going to try to convince the people who hand out the prizes to give the winners some ribbons as well - she's determined to hang a blue ribbon in the coffee shop next Fosterville Field Days. 

RESTLESS NIGHTS AND BIRTHDAY PARTIES

          Sleeping has become sort of a formidable problem lately and, for the life of me, I don't know the reason for this nightly malady.  I don't seem to be beating myself up over some subconscious or real dilemma; my mind isn't whirling around any deep thoughts or repetitive thinking; for the most part I'm quite content.  Perhaps it's just an age thing - I've heard that old people don't need much sleep; is that because they often have naps or because they perhaps live a more seditentary life style and are not really tired?  I'll soon hit the big 7-0 and I'm not sure if I'm in the almost old or old category yet.  What age is considered old?  Hmm, I seem to be writing about the age thing rather than why I'm not sleeping as well as I once did a very short time ago - perhaps not realizing it, once I shut my eyes to drift off to slumberland, my mind is dwelling on my age and the amount of time remaining in my life.  It's true, I'm definitely not a young buck any longer with countless years ahead of me but neither do I feel like I'm ready for a rocking chair.  I still have goals I dream of attaining and I still enjoy learning many different things, especially working with my hands and becoming closer to nature, that is, before I become real close, like 6' down and sprouting daisys.  
          My wife is planning a party for me on my 70th birthday and we still occassionally talk about my 50th; she couldn't believe how many wheelbarrows were filled to the brim with bottles of beer on ice.  As I recall, it was a great party and something too, which I remember about that party that didn't seem remarkable at the time but is now, is what Sarah said to me when she arrived with a good friend of mine, her soon to be new husband.  She doesn't remember saying, "I like older men" but I do!  However, who would have thought, everyone being very colourfully drunk at the time, Sarah and I would one day wed?  I have to say, although I've had quite a few birthday parties over the years, my 50th was probably one of the best if not the best party ever.
          Most of us have had good birthday parties, memorable birthday parties, happy laugh out loud and emotional teary-eyed birthday parties and I expect like me, many have experienced a not so good party.  I suppose my worst ever birthday party was when I had turned the big 1-0 and had just moved to a new neighbourhood and was enrolled in a new school.  I hadn't made any real friends at that point but I was having fun at school making new friends.  Since the kids living in the immediate neighbourhood wouldn't have anything much to do with me, I didn't invite any of them to my birthday party but at school, that was a different story - I invited just about everyone in my class to attend.  When the birthday party day arrived, which was held on a Saturday afternoon; pot full of weiners boiling on the stove, chocolate birthday cake hidden away in the cupboard with 10 candles waiting to be lit and chocolate ice cream slowly melting in the icebox, I was ecstatic.  I guess you might say that a boy by the name of Owen Hughes was my best friend that day because he at least phoned to say he couldn't come to the party.  All the other kids that I'd invited who said they would be at the party never arrived.  I can laugh at it now but at the time, I can remember feeling quite sad.  Perhaps like on my 50th birthday, had my mom and dad filled a few wheel barrows full of ice and beer, I would have had a better turn out.
          I've got a lot on my plate these days and with winter not too far away and wondering if I can get everything done outside before the snow flies may be on my mind.  Possibly the upcoming parade this weekend and the Arts Festival on the 21st, so much to do before we are ready for the artisans and crowd of people to arrive may have something to do with my restless nights as well.  And then again, perhaps it's just an age thing since I've noticed ever since I hit about 50 years of age and every five years or so after that, there have been some subtle and not so subtle physical changes.  I know for a fact, although I have no idea how many people will be at my 70th birthday party, that's not keeping me awake at nights. And one thing for sure, I'm glad it's not a surprise party - at this age, if everyone jumped out, yelled happy birthday and scared the bejeezuz out of me - it just might stop my heart - cheers -eh!  

SUPERMAN, OH SUPERMAN - WHERE ARE YOU?

Poster for Our Upcoming Golden Unicorn Arts Festival

          As a kid, I often read comic books in my bedroom; Super Heroes like Batman and Superman always caught my attention.  At the moment, with so much to do here on Golden Unicorn Farm, like in my younger years, I still kind of wish I could be like Superman - not so much to take on all the villains and make the world a safer place but to have his super human powers so I could get some of the work around this farm done, most of it in very short order.   I'd wear a skin tight super blue outfit, bright red knee boots and a cape; why hell, I'd even wear a crest on my chest and my bright red undies on the outside, even though at my age, my pathetic old man's sagging physique, it made me look down right comedic, as long as it would insure getting some work finished around here.  I zip around the barn yard the odd time thinking and feeling like I'm a little old Superman, that is, until holy kryptonite, after I sit down for a break and then try to stand up, I can hardly straighten my legs and my back feels as if it had been compressed into an Oreo cookie for about a day and a half.  Besides trying to finish off the barn, (rafter braces and battens, etc.) nesting boxes for the chickens and a manger for the goats still need building and we also have an Arts Festival happening, not this coming Sunday but the next.  And that's not all, it's Fosterville Days or Field Days this weekend and my wife has volunteered me to join her in the parade handing out 500 tiny cookies, in the shape and color of the Canadian maple leaf, to all the bystanders.  We're trying to promote the upcoming Arts Festival and her little coffee shop.  Our float consists of a ride-'em lawnmower driven by Brendan Leeman.  It will be pulling a wee trailer containing a bale of hay with a couple of signs advertising the coffee shop and the arts event.  I told Sarah if she wanted a real grabber for the parade, we should get a white horse, scotch tape a horn to its forehead and then she could ride the beautiful unicorn as Lady Godiva.  She'd look great up on the unicorn's back, as long as the it wasn't spooked and lit out across the fields because then her big hooters would most likely bounce up and hit her square in the face - then WHAMO - I'd have to make like Superman and come to her rescue - SWOOSH - before she hit the ground!

         I most likely shouldn't be writing this blog but since I just finished four signs advertising the Arts Festival, I thought I'd take a wee break, crack a beer and knock off a few paragraphs.  Although I'll be participating in the art event as an artist, opening up my studio to the public, hopefully sell something, my main job will be bar-b-qing weiners and sausages.  It's hard to believe that I haven't worked on a painting for almost three years and wouldn't be surprised if I don't pick up a paint brush for another year - just so much to do - still haven't finished the upstairs bedrooms (a winter project if I can get some lumber to put in the flooring).  Bill and Anita Leeman gave us some large floor tiles, enough to do one bedroom, Rachel's (16) the oldest of Sarah's two girls but the way she feels about ghosts, I doubt very much that she will use it until everyone else moves up too.  Oh well, even if I don't get to paint this winter, it will be nice when the Arts Festival happens, get to meet a lot of artists, some of which I know are extremely talented.  

          It's raining at the moment - not that it's unusual - rained almost everyday it seems this summer so far.  At least the well won't go dry like it almost did last summer.  It's peacefull here as I listen to the rain drumming lightly on the metal roof over my studio and watch the shiny green leaves dance about when the rain drops hit them.  I've noticed the goats are not too partial to rain; as soon as it begins, they head straight to the barn - Luki the dog right on their heels. Rain or shine, I haven't had much of an opportunity to go for a walk; there's just been too many things to do - hopefully I can manage a few hikes in the fall when the landscape is extremely colorful and vibrant - a feast for the eyes.

          What's that I see in the sky...it's a bird, it's a plane, it's...nope...it's a bird - just shat in my eye - time to get back to work - no Superman here, just an old guy dabbling on the computer - cheers - eh!

FREYA, JACK AND THE OLD GOAT (ME)

    

   Freya and Jack Coming Up Behind Her

          I've never had much to do with goats - the first recollection was when I was a wee lad driving with my mom from Woodpecker, BC to Prince George, BC.  Just as the car was winding its way down a long hill and shortly before entering Prince, my mother always pointed out some goats that were living on somewhat of a hilly farm.  They of course always brought to mind Three Billy Goats Gruff, a Norwegian tale about three billy goats and a troll.  From what I remember three goats wanted to cross a bridge because the land was richer on the other side but a mean old troll was in control of the bridge and wanted to eat them.  The first two convinced the troll that the last goat to cross the bridge would be the biggest and have the most meat so he let them go across.  However, what the troll didn't know was that the last goat was very big and he pushed the troll off the bridge.  I'm sure there's a moral to that story but like many things that occurred in my youth, they are long forgotten.  However, since we now have a couple of goats here on Golden Unicorn Farm (Freya and Jack), if there is one thing I remember, goats are indeed very pushy and ours are no exception.        
          Although Freya seems to have a few more smarts than Jack, he is definitely more the boss - very pushy.  I'm not sure if being close to mating season or if both goats were terribly spoiled, having the run of the place where they used to live, but they both seem to think that everything should go their way, they should be able to do whatever they want and go wherever they please.  However, short of butting heads with the goats, because I'm sure Jack would win that contest, they are slowly discovering that the meanest billy goat in the barnyard is me.  They sometimes put the run on the big dog and I'm amazed that he lets them get away with it because he could easily have one and then the other for dinner.
          Goats are jumpers too; great escape artists.  Although their pasture fence is only 4' high, which I knew they could easily jump, I thought since they have a very large area with an abundance of trees, shrubs and bushes to eat that they would stay in the enclosure but no - I guess the grass always looks greener on the other side.  The first goat to leap the fence was Freya, which she easily did without even taking a run at it.  However, I'm hoping she may have learned a lesson about jumping over the fence because as soon as she leaped over and was returned to the enclosure, she immediately cleared the fence once again.  Unfortunately for her, this time, she must have misjudged it a little because she caught one of her hind legs in the wire and slightly hurt herself.  Jack, perhaps because he's hung like an Arabian stallion, a few days later decided to leap the fence where it's lower because the ground is going uphill slightly.  He thought he was terribly smart because as soon as I put him back in, he immediately leaped out again.  Since I fixed the fence problem and he's very concerned about the family jewels, he hasn't attempted jumping over the fence.  But somehow, beginning to learn a little something about goats and realizing how stubborn and bull-headed they can be, I have my doubts that the fence will contain them much longer.
          Besides jumping the fence, I do believe Jack has dreams of jumping something a lot more desirable - as far as I can see, Freya appears to be looking more appealing each day - certainly a lot of foreplay happening in the barnyard.  He's constantly nuzzling her and spraying his face with urine (supposedly a major turn-on for female goats) besides doing some other unmentionable things, so I expect she is nearing the point where his affections will soon be rewarded. Unfortunately for Jack, when the mating is completed, we will most likely find a new home for him.  We weren't really keen on having a buck to begin with but they came as a pair.
          It should be interesting when Freya's kids arrive (I believe goats usually give birth to twins) because I hear they are real keen jumpers.  Hopefully if they leap over the fence, Freya will remain in the barnyard and then they will leap back to be with their mommy.  We're looking forward to getting fresh goat milk and Sarah plans on making feta cheese and using it for her baking.  I can remember a long time ago being coaxed into drinking goat milk after I had belligerently turned up my nose at it, figured cow's milk was the only type that was drinkable.  However, I have to admit I was quite surprised how good it tasted - couldn't really tell the difference from cow's milk.  But no matter how good it may taste, I doubt that I'll drink much goat milk because I don't really drink much milk anyway - usually just have it with a bowl of cereal or in my coffee.
          It will be interesting to see how the goats fare or maybe how I'll fare with the goats might be a better way to put it.  They certainly have their own personalities and see things very differently from me.  However, I'm sure as time goes on, we will work things out between us. 

     

WE MAY HAVE A GHOST IN THE HOUSE - DO YOU?

          Things that go bump in the night doesn't always mean that a person from another long ago era or who has died as recently as yesterday have decided to take refuge in one's home, which was perhaps their own home that they lived in while they existed amongst the living, but recently I've begun to wonder, especially since I've heard some unusual sounds in the old farm house where we have been currently living for the past year.  Personally, I've never much believed in ghosts but there are countless mysteries that cannot be explained and indeed, having no answers for their existence, I do not discount their distinct possibilities.  I've heard about so called ghosts inhabiting castle towers, wandering through gardens, clanking about in attics or wading in mist covered lakes and like reading Casper the Friendly Ghost comic books, I've never really given them much thought other than their purely entertaining values.
          When I was living in Nanaimo, BC on my sailboat Dreamer II, which was moored at Newcastle Marina, I often walked the trails on Newcastle Island, which was about a five minute row away in my dinghy.  In the past, when Nanaimo was but a wee town tenaciously clinging to the rocky shores while miners toiled far beneath the surface of the land and sea chipping out chunks of coal, many people also lived on the island; abandoned coal shafts and remnants of old machinery, building sites and wharfs still apparent.  Native middens can be seen as well along the shoreline.  I have no idea how many times I walked the well-traveled trails and never thought anything other than how enjoyable it was, especially during the winter when I would hardly ever see another soul; only my little dog Misty, shy deer, bounding rabbits, flitting birds and the occasional bald eagle were my companions.  And then, on a trail that cut its way through the thick salal near the centre of the island, I encountered an eerie feeling that gave me the weebeejeebeeies.  As I remember, it was a hot summer day when I felt a sudden chill, which made the hairs on my body stand at attention and my skin tingle.  I never thought too much about it then except that I was somewhat hot and I was in a shaded area; tall, thin evergreen trees were growing all around the trail at this point.  However, after two or three times arriving at the same spot and getting the same feeling, I began to wonder if there was some sort of spirit lurking about.  I was so concerned about the odd sensations that occurred almost every time I walked this part of the forest I decided to poke about and see if I could find anything unusual, such as the grave of the man that had been hung at Kanaka Bay for murdering a family many years ago.  I envisioned the Hawaiian murderer's ghost perhaps creeping around in search of another victim but I never discovered anything unusual, plus the salal was so thick, I could hardly wade through it.
          Since moving to the old farm house at Golden Unicorn Farm in Fosterville, NB, I experienced that same feeling again while I was renovating the upstairs bedrooms and what really got to me, I thought I saw something whitish enter the first bedroom at the top of the stairs.  Thinking it was just a trick of the sunlight glinting through one of the windows, I never thought too much about it, other than to tease the kids we had a ghost living in the house with us.
          Because we ran out of money to complete the upstairs' renovations, we have yet to use the bedrooms.  However, the bathroom contains a large tub and because I often ache from building the barn and other chores, I often have a long soak in the evening before bed.  The bathroom is located directly across from the first bedroom at the top of the stairs and one night, while the tub was filling up with steaming hot water, I got that eerie feeling again; the hairs on my body felt so rigid, my skin not only tingled it seemed to burn.  Feeling somewhat alarmed, I reached for the door knob to shut the door and then I got really scared.  Instead of the door closing easily, it felt as if someone had a hold of the other side of the door knob and there was slight tug at the door.  Feeling very uneasy at this point, I slowly opened the door and reluctantly looked behind it to see if anyone was there but the space was empty.  Thinking I was just imagining it all, I went to shut the door once more and again it felt as if someone or something was holding on to the other side.  After not only looking behind the door and searching through all the rooms, satisfied the upstairs was empty, I shut the door tightly behind me and had a wonderful hot soak in the tub.
          I'm not sure if there is a ghost cohabiting our house or not but if there is, I pretty much decided it was at least friendly, even if it is somewhat of a prankster and likes to hold onto door knobs.  However, the other night, my wife Sarah woke me up and said, "Do you hear that?"  As I lay in the dark, rubbing my eyes, I clearly heard a very weird sound and it wasn't being made by a mouse or some other small varmint that might be living in the house.  And what really got to me, whatever it was, had long nails because I could distinctly hear what sounded like dragging footsteps coming towards our bed.  Half asleep and feeling kind of scared, I didn't know what to do, so I turned on the light that's situated next to my side of the bed.  The noises immediately stopped and we couldn't see anything, even though our eyes must have been bugging out of their sockets.  Sarah thought the noises were in the kitchen but I thought they were closer than that.  Reluctantly, being the man, the protector, I walked to each room and switched on the light but couldn't find or hear the sounds of an intruder; the house was as quiet as a tomb; the only sound I could hear was my bare feet padding on the floor and the pounding of my heart.  Sarah couldn't believe we just went back to sleep after that scary episode and said in the morning, since she seemed to hear the noises in the kitchen, "If there's a ghost in the house, at least they could have done the dishes!"

COMMENT: Ian
Hey Len, yikes! I'd be getting a dog that sleeps inside the house, lol. 

We encountered a ghost once too. We rented a townhouse in North Van when we were first married. It had a matching building right behind us with only a 4' pathway between and we could look right into the neighbours windows. There was always lots of arguing from the neighbours next door but thought nothing of it. One night the RCMP knocked on our door and asked about the neighbours, but we didn'have much to offer. The next day in the paper on the front page, a story about a mentally handicapped son that was so tired of being yelled at by his father, hit him over the head (which killed him). The son was so distraught and worried about the 'bad thing' he had just done, grapped an axe and chopped up his father and threw him in the fireplace. Bit messy. From that night on, we were woken up in the middle of the night by loud chopping sounds which we thought was ice forming on the flat roof and was cracking the beams. We called the landlord and he got up there with a ladder but there was no problem. We were so freaked out by the noise which would be one loud 'chop' every few nights, that we started sleeping downstairs in the living room and gave our 30 days notice. Outta there baby.

Well, maybe your ghost is Jimmy Stewarts old 6' rabbit Harvey :)  cheers!

COMMENT:  Len

Pretty scary Ian - no - more than scary!  I know of two people that lived here in the house and their bodies were laid out in the living room waiting for burial but I think that was a common thing when people lived way out in the country.  If indeed a ghost exists in our house, I'll be happy if it's a 6' rabbit named Harvey even if I have to call it "Sir" - cheers - eh!