TITLE ONE OF MY PAINTINGS AND WIN...

Buck at the Moon
SOLD

          Not only would I like to thank Sue (one of my blog readers) for giving this painting the title, Buck at the Moon, (there were some other good titles too)  but I would especially like to thank the person who bought it, as well as all the other readers who take time out of their days to read my ramblings and rants - can you believe it - even my wife reads them or at least she says she does - bless her heart!  I know that some of you have many of the same beliefs and feelings about certain issues as me and some do not -  I've had the occasional scathing comment (of course I don't post those - just kidding - I leave everyone's post as is and occasionally bring them over from Facebook - seems most people like to comment about the blog there, rather than here).  It's great to receive the odd comment; if there were too many, then it would become like a job replying  to them all and that wouldn't be fun - a job without pay really sucks!   

          Yesterday is much like today - the temperature is -16C, the snow is up to my knees and higer and as I sit here, my breath clouding the monitor, I realize I should start a fire in the wood stove, except Sarah and I are planning on driving to Danforth this morning - she's treating me to breakfast and filling up old "Buddy" - our don't mess with me, kick-ass diesel truck that took on a semi during our cross-Canada trip to Golden Unicorn Farm, almost two years ago now.  Although I had a couple of slices of home made bread lathered with butter and home made raspberry jam washed back with hand picked Goldenrod tea from the back pasture (certainly some good perks living on a small farm) already this morning before I fed the animals, I expect an old half-broken down guy like me will still be able to polish off a couple of poached eggs, bacon, pan fries and a couple cups of coffee.  Actually, just going to town is kind of a treat for this me since I actually grew up in the big city, Vancouver, BC - geesh, how did an old city-slicker, two-bit gambler, hustler, womanizer, drink-till-I-dropped boozer in those early days, wind up in a place like Fosterville - population maybe 50 people in the winter?

Untitled

         Since painting Buck at the Moon, I've painted a couple of other pictures, which are untitled.  The cowboy sitting on his horse enjoying the moonlit, starry heavens, a 12"x15.75" acrylic painting on a .25" board is FOR SALE - $100.00 plus shipping.  The painting kinda brings back memories of when I was a boy and my western heroes were Roy Rogers, Randolf Scott, John Wayne, Gene Autry, etc.  Back then, all I wanted to do was get myself a good horse, a good dog, a big white 10-gallon cowboy hat, a pair of silver six-guns with pearl handles, kiss the girl at the end of the day under the silvery moon and then ride off into the sunset - yuk - kissing girls in those days was about as appealing as eating soft tar off the edge of a road.  Things were a whole lot simpler back in those days though, no bills to pay; just play and play with my friends and oh yeah - go to school, mow lawns, deliver papers, collect empty beer and pop bottles and raid fruit trees and gardens in the night - silent as an injun (most likely a ninja today) creeping over a fence and up a tree.  The way my back and legs feel today at this age, just the thought of climbing up on a horse and riding off into the sunset is quite possibly the least appealing thing I would care to do - it's definitely not on my "bucket list" - nor is sky diving, rock climbing, or a bar room fight.  Sadly, the old rocking chair setting next to the wood stove in the kitchen is more my speed these days.  However, getting back to the painting - it's looking for a title too, so if any of you readers care to come up with an appealing one, I'll letter it in the lower left hand corner.  I'd like to say the person who comes up with the titile is going to win an all expense trip to Spuzzum, BC, a wad of chewing tobaccy, and a bottle of high-test hootch but unfortunately, you'll get squat, absolutely diddly-squat and on that note dear readers, I tip my Davy Crockett coon-skin cap to you and bid thee good day - cheers, eh!        

MY HEART IS SADDENED

          I wasn't planning on writing a blog today but when I stepped outside, on the way to feed the animals and chickens, the quietness of Green Mountain was being disturbed by an unnatural din.  It wasn't an all-night party that eventually ends with just a few people hearing gongs banging around inside their heads and their rumbling, grumbling stomachs.  No, it was the sound of a machine slowly making it's way through a toothpick of a forest. I'd been approached by Hugo Fillion a few days before, saying that they would begin logging next door and he wanted my approval of the line his company had marked off  by attaching pretty fluorescent pink ribbons to the trees that separates our land from Junior and Dougie Clark's.  After trudging through the deep snow in a great deal of pain since my back had gone out on me once again, I wasn't entirely satisfied with the border line and could probably have put up a bit of a stink but in the very short end, it would not save the forest next door.  When I think the pretty pink ribbons festooned around the trees along the edge of our property, there was a time when only the trees that were to be logged had a bright ribbon tied around them - now, the ribbons mark up to the point where the logging companies have to stop clear-cutting the forest.
          I have to laugh, but it's a sad laugh, when I was told how much employment logging brings to New Brunswick.  As I watched the machine drop the trees methodically and then buck them into desired lengths for the logging trucks to haul away, I could see, depending on how many logging machines were in use - only a very few and I mean only a very few men, if even a handful would be needed to log the neighbour's property.  And curiously enough, I've been told that the company in charge of the Crown land belongs to a company in India - so our trees and our employment are actually being exported.  And some other cheery news I heard, was that the smaller trees (which includes most of them) are chewed up into pulp at the mill, which only employs a handful of people.  So much for lots of gainful employment - talk about a load of bullshit - it's right up there with our premier trying to convince the people of New Brunswick that fracking would be wonderful and great for the economy - who's economy - obviously not the Canadian economy.  When the forests and the oil are basically owned by large Asian companies; whose economy is really benefiting from our natural resources?  And, unfortunately, since the procedures of extracting oil and cutting down the trees have very little laws restraining the companies from destroying the land, every living creature on the face of the earth, including us will pay for our own ignorance, greed and complete stupidity.
          I admit, I'm not a very smart man; not highly educated; nor do I understand or totally comprehend what a lot of people in charge of our country are telling me but I do have eyes and when I see first hand what is occurring around me, I'd have to be awfully dumb, very stupid not to notice that destruction without accountability is very detrimental, not only to the immediate landscape but to us personally.  We all know the air we breathe and the water we drink is getting more toxic; our food being modified to the point where I wouldn't be surprised if a baby, not too far distant in the future, will be born with cloven hooves or a chicken wing for an arm.  I've heard that some European countries have bought up huge tracts of land in Africa and China has done the same in South America for growing food.  Food and water is a growing concern, especially for many overpopulated countries - it wouldn't surprise me if the big companies, the war warmongering ones especially; instead of causing wars to enlarge their already fat wallets will soon be charging outrageous prices for food.
          My heart is heavy this morning as I listen to the neighbour's forest being logged.  One of the big reasons we bought our place was because of it's natural beauty and very soon a distinctive line will be drawn on the surface of Green Mountain that separates our small forest from the destruction that is happening this very moment.  And I guess what even saddens me more is that my life expectancy is not that long and I won't be able to protect our land - perhaps the next person that buys this place will have it levelled so they can shove some bucks in their pockets or pay some bills.  It amazes me that the people who have lived in this area most of their lives, have had their properties, their farms passed down to them through the generations allow the prominent destruction of their land that they love to hunt in, go snow-shoeing, fish and all manner of other things relating to the area.  When most people look at a tree; can't they see more than a dollar sign?  Enough of ranting - my fingers are getting sore from angrily tapping on the keyboard, my back is aching, my mind is hurting and my heart is cracking - no cheers today - eh!

BABY-BARN REBORN

Baby-Barn Arrival

          The baby-barn I purchased from Bill Leeman arrived a short time ago, which was very exciting.  Because of the recent mild weather (I really was hoping that spring was just around the corner) and the road leading from the Leeman's to our place was so bare, I was almost beginning to wonder if the building would arrive this winter.  However, after Bill and his son Brendan, finished spiking the building to a couple of thick logs, they hired Lynwood Lawrence to hook onto it with his back-hoe and had him skid it down to our property, which is about a half-mile away.  I'm planning on ripping out the studio I built in the garage when we first arrived from BC and will be using the materials to finish off the interior of the baby-barn.  Although the baby-barn looks quite a bit larger than my studio, it is in actuality only slightly larger.  However, I intend to build a loft in the baby-barn, which will give me quite a lot more space, after I rip the existing one out.  Luckily, since I'm not that tall, I'm going to lower the ceiling about a foot and a half, which will allow me to have standing room in the centre of the loft.  Since I'm going to put the computers upstairs and I'll be sitting down at them, I should be able to make better use of the baby-barn space.  I don't know why, at this age, that I keep looking for more projects to do, especially since I really ache these days and am not as energetic as I once was, but I do.   I believe it's a good idea to keep myself physically active and give myself something to look forward to in the future, even if it requires some hard labour.  

Baby-Barn In Place

          The plan is to give the exterior of the baby-barn the same appearance as the garage, even paint it barn red with white trim.  At the moment, the building is on quite a slant due to the sloping snow.  Since the area where the baby-barn is sitting was quite level in the summer, I'm hoping that when everything thaws, it  will be a lot more level than it is now and I won't have to do a lot of shimming.  At the moment, there is a ladder leading up to the loft, which I'm planning on replacing with an actual stair case.  Climbing up and down a ladder, especially carrying something on a somewhat regular basis can be a little dodgy - the last thing I need is to topple down onto the floor - I definitely don't bounce like the way I used to - could start breaking bones.  

          A friend of mine gave me a window shaped like an octagon, which I'm planning to insert in the top centre of the building and paint our golden unicorn on it, hopefully, giving the logo the appearance of stained glass.  I'm not sure if the image suits the window and if it doesn't, I'll just have to create something else to paint on the glass.  I'm also going to build a small canopy over the door to keep it dry in the winter.  Of course I'll be building some more windows for the studio as well so there will be plenty of  natural light.  Dang, just writing about what that building needs and seeing it in my mind's eye is starting to get me excited - can hardly wait to begin the necessary carpentry to finish off the place - really looking forward to working inside it next winter and there's actually a terrific view from the backside, where I plan to perhaps build a small outside balcony leading from the loft - have to see how ambitious I am by then - could be pooped out!

Untitled

          Since hurting my back last weekend hauling wheelbarrows full of manure down to the garden area, I've been painting a fair amount (5 paintings last week) a sort of moonscape series, which are smaller in size and a lot less intricate than I had been painting before.  The size of the painting depicting the stag standing on the narrow rocky outcropping is 15.5"x24" and is painted with acrylics on a .25" thick board.  I would be interested in hearing from anyone who reads this blog if they know a good title for the painting, which I could use.  Also, this painting is For Sale - $125.00, plus shipping or could be picked up at the Woodstock Farmer's Market on a Friday morning when we go there to sell Sarah's baking goods - let me know if you are interested in purchasing this painting or having something similar painted - all I need is a good, clear photo and a size to work from.  I probably should have painted something yesterday as well, since I'm in this painting mood, but thought I'd be down right lazy instead - just sort of relax - besides it was Sunday - except for the farmy chores that needed tending everyday, I didn't do diddly-squat - cheers, eh!

THE KINGDOM OF NUMB

          Yesterday, after Sarah and I piled her delicious baking wares into "Buddy", our big old green diesel truck, we drove off to the Woodstock Farmer's Market, which is what we usually do each Friday morning.  As we drove, an impending snow storm on the prowl was on our minds; the sun like a mischievous child playing hide 'n' seek amidst the building clouds, occasionally glinting into our eyes reinforced those thoughts.
          Either yesterday or today, was the day that Sarah and I first got together; both of us in a rather different traumatic state of mind, which had been caused by some dramatic and tragic events that had recently occurred.   Since we had been friends for almost 20 years and Sarah was in the midst of moving, she had invited me to come over for supper and help out with the packing.  However, after dinner and her girls had gone to bed, rather than working on the move, we sat and talked.  How long we talked I have no idea but what is often the case, when two people who are in a lot of emotional pain, one thing led to another and it wasn't long before I spilt red wine all over her yellow couch as we lustfully grasped some happiness and need from each other, not realizing that from that night on, we would begin to see each other on a regular basis, fall in love and get married.  So although our wedding anniversary isn't until July 7th, we still like to celebrate the day when our friendship grew into something wonderful and meaningful, a love, which hopefully, will last a lifetime.
          The Farmer's Market was very slow this Friday; hardly any people showed up, let alone bought anything.  But despite the lack of people, Sarah still managed to sell some of her baking and a couple of dozen eggs.  The board of directors at the Farmer's Market are having an election very soon, some of the members stepping down from their positions.  The president asked us if we were interested in being elected to the board but since Sarah and I have had enough of boards and committees, having both been involved up to our necks and beyond with the VIEx in Nanaimo for a number of years, we both declined.   Woodstock is too far to go for meetings, and also, some of the strong views we have regarding the Farmer's Market would probably not be acceptable by many of the people, so it's best if we just pay our monthly fees and try to sell our wares.  As much as we enjoy our social time at the market on Fridays, we realize that what we do is not a hobby but a way of earning an income; we're hoping that our little Golden Unicorn Farm will eventually earn us a modest living.
          Since cleaning out the barn, especially the chicken coop last week, I've been in quite a lot of pain; actually rather severe pain, which causes me to limp around like an old man - oh yeah - I am an old man. Seems pushing a wheelbarrow through deep snow when it's filled to the brim with heavy, steamy, odourous manure caused my arthritic, compressed lower back discs to hurt like hell - it was not a good idea - must have pinched the sciatica nerve too because the pain sometimes shoots down my left leg.  Because the pain at times has been rather excruciating and Sarah's blood results were ready on Friday, after we finished at the Farmer's Market we headed to the hospital.  Upon arriving at the Kingdom of Numb, a nurse ushered me into a small room and while taking my blood pressure, she asked, "Are you complete?"
          A little confused about her question I answered, "The last time I looked, I was complete."
          Suddenly she burst into uncontrollable laughter and said, "I didn't ask if you were complete; I said, what's your complaint?"
          After I told her that I'd hurt my back and had difficulty walking around because of the pain, she asked me what my pain level was, if No. 1 was the lowest and No. 10 being the highest?  I told her, at the moment, it's about a No. 5 or lower, which after returning to the waiting area, Sarah told me I should have said the pain was a lot higher because we were in Emergency - seems the worse off you are, the faster your problem is processed.  Although Sarah and I both napped in the waiting area on and off, sitting near a three year old boy who deliberately did as he was told not to was rather annoying.  As the minutes turned into hours and after nodding off during one of my short naps, I was rudely awakened by a man who was trying to give the little boy his Montreal hockey cap.  Fortunately, after the fearful little boy had crawled onto his mother's lap as the tall skinny man, with a completely bald head pursued his quest of giving the boy the cap, they were led away to have their problem sorted out.  Hoping the man would be quiet now, like shut the f--k up, and thinking my turn was next, unless some real emergency occurred, I chatted with Sarah over a cup of hot tea and a date square she had bought at the little cafe just down the hallway.
          However, the obnoxious bald, skinny man who was about 45 years of age, continued talking loudly to two people sitting on each side of him, who were apparently his mom and father or perhaps grandfather.  He said, " I can't believe I just fell face down and hit my head on the floor (he had a bump the size of a tennis ball on his forehead).  I don't know how it happened."
          His mother, a disgusting look on her drawn face said, "You didn't just fall; you passed out!"
          "No I didn't", he exclaimed rather loudly.  "I tripped on the clam chowder; you know, the thick chunks of what do ya call it?"
          At this point, in direct vision of one another, trying desperately hard no to make eye contact with the bald goof sitting a short way across from me, I almost burst into insane laughter.
          I don't know if baldy was on drugs or still drunk but he continued, "I'm going to get a job in the hospitality industry."
          His mother replied, "You'll have to get a phone then because after you've filled out the applications, they'll want to get a hold of you."
          "What do I want a phone for; I like that people can't get a hold of me."  After some reasoning with his mother, the dad just rolling his eyes, baldy said, "I guess you're right.  I'll get one hooked up tomorrow."
          How does one keep a straight face and not burst into gales of laughter; are these people inbred I thought, when his mom replied, "There's no use getting a phone; they're kicking you of your apartment at the end of the month for not paying your rent."
          Although the entertainment was somewhat delightful, I was glad when a woman arrived and ushered us in to see the doctor.  While we were waiting in a small room that was surrounded by a blue curtain, a smiling oriental doctor entered.  We were taken somewhat aback when the first words out of his mouth were, "I can't believe your 70 years old; you look like you're in your late 50's" and then looking at my wife continued, "This must be your daughter."
          Going from a bald, belligerent, banged on the head one too many times patient to a continually smiling, all the big white teeth in place doctor who then said, "How's your poopoo-peepee doing?" had Sarah and I in stitches - we couldn't contain our laughter any longer.
          After prodding me a bit, making me lift my legs one at a time and about to write me a prescription for pain killers, I said what was really on my mind and the reason I came to the hospital, "My mother had cancer in her hip - would it be possible to have some X-rays taken?"
          The doctor agreed that was a good idea and after writing out the pain killer prescription, had a woman escort us to the X-ray room.  Not only my hip was hurting by this time, so were my sides from laughing so hard, especially when the X-ray person wearing a black T-shirt with a white skeleton silk-screened on it, proceeded to take the photos.
          So much for travelling to the Kingdom of Numb yesterday; both Sarah and I were glad to get home before the snow storm had arrived; almost a foot fell during the night.  Just think what it would have been like if the snow had started falling when we arrived at the hospital and it would have been impossible to leave - no - I can't even think about that - cheers, eh!

CHINWAGGING, PAINTING AND BEING FAMOUS

          It's blog day today; not for everybody but for me.  Seems like living the way I do in the world of boonieville, if I'm not chatting it up with the chickens, grumbling with the goat, chinwagging with the cat or having a friendly discourse with the dog, I'm talking mainly to myself.  Now talking to oneself is actually a good thing because unlike the animals that may seem as if they're taking in my every word and nodding in agreement; I actually listen to the ramblings that spew out of my mouth.  It's a good way to let anger dissipate like an early morning mist, put problems into the proper perspective and sometimes, like a wild wolf, just howl at the moon and laugh till your guts ache.  Although talking to one's self  is often a good way for letting off steam, I still have to be careful that I don't keep just talking about the same old problem over and over again, turning a wee mole hill into a gigantic mountain until it takes a crate of dynamite to blow it to bloody hell.  I found when it gets to that point, I always find something or other to distract my line of thinking; often times a good sleep will solve the problem in a sort of abstract dream; pieces of the puzzle just seem to fall into play and a proper balance occurs.  After what I just wrote, a person might think that I've got an irritating woodpecker doing a tap dance on my backbone but things are relatively fine here at the base of Green Mountain, Fosterville, NB.  The sun is shining brightly; the snow glittering like pocket fulls of priceless gems are strewn across the ground and through the forest; makes one feel as if the breath of spring is about to kiss the earth and life will once again struggle to the surface of the frozen world.  If I have anything to gripe about today, I can't really think what it would be about - it's so good to be alive!

          Yesterday was my big day out to the wee town of Woodstock, not to be confused with the big love-in place that took place during Aug. 15 - 18, 1969 in the state of New York; three days of drugs, booze, sex and rock n' roll music.  It was a so-so day at the Farmer's Market as far as Sarah selling her wares; the slight snowfall making the side-walks and roads a little slippery.  Other than the truck making a cool sliding movement on the icy road similar to a smooth Michael Jackson fancy foot manoeuvre on a slippery stage, the trip to and back from Woodstock were both long but enjoyable.  

Teary Night

          We're beginning to gear up for our 2nd Annual Arts Festival here at Golden Unicorn Farm in August; artisans are beginning to sign up, the poster is ready and has been put in several locations to remind other artisans and the public of the upcoming event.  For my own preparation. I picked up my brushes and began painting again, what I hope will be affordable original art that most anyone can purchase if they like what they see.  Teary Night (for lack of a better title - if anyone has a good idea for a title, let me know) is just a figment of my imagination; although like a lot of people, I sometimes feel sad and somewhat adrift, just floating along taking the path of least resistance; without a real meaning to my existence.  Teary Night is a 12"x16" acrylic painting on board and is For Sale.  Can you believe that for just $100. (plus shipping) a person could own a world famous Len Sherman painting; well perhaps I exaggerated a wee bit; not "world famous"; guess I should be honest about myself; sorry not really famous either; not even famous, except in my own mind, where I scream out to Van Gogh, Rembrandt, Picasso, Worhol and thousands of other famous artists, "Move over!  Leave me just a finger hold on that silvery pedestal you've all got your asses planted on!"  Strange as it may seem though, some New York art gallery person has been reading this blog and sent me an email yesterday to get in touch with them.  Instead of writing this blog, perhaps that's what I should be doing but I'm a thinker, a cynic, a midnight-lover ( now where did those words come from?) and oh yeah, and more importantly, I'm broke; perhaps I should consider checking this gallery out; there's always something on a wee farm that needs built, mended, critters fed and tended properly, not to mention us, the care-tenders of Golden Unicorn Farm - we got our needs too.

          Guess I better end this blog now; maybe check out the weather since the sun has disappeared and snow is beginning to fall.  Ah, no point checking the weather, just looked out the window and what I'm seeing, is telling me to get off my bony ass; go clean out the chicken coop, muck out the goats' stall and shovel some bloody snow - there's always something here to distract my thoughts of becoming famous, perhaps joining a rock n' roll band - nah, can't sing or play an instrument - even my farts are out of tune - time to go; hope you had a good read - cheers, eh!

            

CHAINSAWS, HONEY BEES AND CANADIAN GEESE

          I awoke this morning, like the same few days beforehand; hearing loud buzzing sounds coming from the top of Green Mountain; not the busy buzz of honey bees producing life but the busy buzz of chainsaws destroying life.  Perhaps if the loggers are careful and are only selecting the larger trees, the forest will still be progressively intact, but if not, perhaps we'll be changing the name of Green Mountain to Bald Mountain.  My neighbour who owns the property, which is in the middle between ours and the one being logged at the top of the mountain, wants to log his as well.  I cringe as I hear the saws cutting swaths through the forest at the top of the mountain and the thought of the same happening to my neighbour's property.  Hopefully, the trees will be thoughtfully harvested, because if they are not, especially if the stumps are ripped from the earth as well; heavy rains could wash the muddy soil down through our property and into the pristine stream that flows into the lake at Sandy Beach; an environmental disaster occurring.  

          When I was a young man living in Vancouver, BC, fresh out of high school and without a job, I went to work for a small logging company near Hixon, which is located about 40-50 miles south of Prince George.  At 125lbs., a complete greenhorn, I never declared myself to be a logger of any status - my job was to measure the trees when they were skidded onto a landing so that they could be bucked into appropriate lengths for the sawmill.  However, one day when the choker-man fell and broke his ribs I replaced him for the remainder of the day, and let me tell you, a scrawny, skinny guy like myself packing a 50lb. bull-hook attached to a skidder by a steel cable through deep snow and over icy trees that a lumberjack had fallen, was no easy chore.  When spring arrived and logging had ended, because of the selective tree harvesting in those days, except for the small cleared landing and the road into it, very little damage was caused to the forest; the animals and birds still had a place to live and there was no concern for any permanent soil damage.  I realize trees are a needed commodity but when there is no reforestation in place and very little concern is given towards the forests, it brings back memories of a line I heard in a movie, "The only good Indian is a dead Indian."  Is that the way the majority of the people think about the trees, "The only good tree is a dead tree when it's turned into slabs of lumber, pulp and yes, even manufacturing money?"  We own 50 acres, mostly forested land, and as long as I'm alive, the only trees that will hit the ground will be already dead or absolutely necessary for our own existence.  I intend keeping whatever land is already cleared still in that condition as we are considering sometime in the future, perhaps having a bit more livestock.  Also, in the summer months into autumn, the fields are alive with Goldenrod and I hear the bees were eventually thinking about buying, just love the tiny little yellow flowers, which yields an excellent dark, tasting honey.

Heading South

          Heading South, for lack of a better name, a painting, which I did yesterday, although just made up within my own mind, is somewhat a typical scene of the area where I live in New Brunswick, low undulating mountains and placid lakes, albeit I've taken a shit-load of artistic license with the painting.  It's very late in the evening, the glowing harvest moon and a few stars illuminate the lake and the small flock of Canadian geese as they begin to fly southward.  Since moving to a rural farm, which is a completely different lifestyle compared to living in a city, as you may imagine, takes a little time to adjust and stow away that city thinking; instant this and instant that and so does earning a living.  At the moment the chickens are basically paying for all the livestock needs, which is a good thing; nothing like good, basically organic, free-range eggs in the morning or any meal for that matter.  We charge a little more for our eggs but I haven't heard anyone complain; you can really see the difference and taste it too in comparison to the store-bought eggs.  However, besides the expense of having animals and chickens, we have other expenses as well, so since we don't have any other products to sell other than Sarah's baking goods, moonshine is illegal, and we're going to be holding our 2nd Annual Arts Festival here in August, I've decided to pick up the brushes and hopefully try to sell a few affordable paintings like this 12"x21" acrylic painting for a $100. each..  (If anyone who reads this blog is interested in purchasing this painting, the cost of shipping will have to be added.  Also, if anyone is interested in commissioning me to do a painting for them (the subject doesn't matter) I would be happy to hear from you - gotta pay our bills somehow!  I can be reached at lenwsherman@gmail.com)  The person who runs the feed store says I can advertise "Painting Your Pet" there, so I am considering that as well - I actually enjoy painting portraits of people and animals, and since my prices are generally affordable to most anyone, I get a good feeling when I paint them and see the smiles on my customer's faces.

          It's colder today than it was yesterday and it's supposed to snow later this afternoon.  Hopefully, the snowfall won't be very deep as Sarah and I are planning to go to the Woodstock Farmer's Market tomorrow; my big day out once a week!  Time to fire up the wood stove, pick up the brushes and do another painting - cheers, eh!  

 

    

                         

RANT ON LENNY; RANT ON!

          Right here at the base of Green Mountain in sunny Fosterville, NB, the sky is clear, the sun is shining brightly and the temperature is slowly climbing to its High of -6C - time to break out the cold beers, swim suits, lawn chairs or pull up a hunk of ice and bask in the sunlight.  I just finished hauling enough wood from the woodshed into the house that should keep us warm for a week, unless the temperature plummets to -30C and stays there for quite some time.  My fingers are still a bit numb from handling the frozen chunks of wood and my toes are a bit tingling - expect they're beginning to thaw out.  Climbing into bed at night can sometimes be a rude awakening for my wife, especially when my icy 20 toes search for warmth on or under her warm body.  I can't believe she doesn't complain about my wee icicles but then again, I don't complain when she does the same thing to me.
          The wood stove in the studio is cranked up high; expect before long, I could actually begin sweating, which isn't good because if one goes outside, icicles begin forming on a persons forehead, arm pits and other more delicate areas I don't even want to think about; it's down right bloody painful when the crack of my ass is frozen shut and I have to eat about a gallon of beans just to bust the ice loose.  I can't believe I actually brought out the paints and one of the brushes yesterday; it hasn't been used for so long, it thought it was retired and expecting a pension.  And while I'm on the subject of pensions; what about that guy Harper; he's like a little dictator isn't he?  He wants the older people to work longer before they can collect an old age pension, which he's considering cancelling; now that really gives old people a lot of incentive; doesn't it?  I can understand his wanting the older generations to continue working, because they're not like many of the younger people I know who don't understand the meaning of work!  And getting paid, unless the amount is enormously higher than welfare, younger people just aren't interested.  For all the taxes we pay over the years, you would think the government would be happy to give the old people a bonus.  But you know what; maybe they should do away with the old age pension and just keep CCP - the more you work, the higher a person's pension should be when he or she reaches the age of 65; I mean just because a person lives to be 65 doesn't really give them the right to collect a pension if all they've done is bleed the welfare system all their life or are filthy fucking rich, but then I guess it's all based on the reasoning of keeping low-life, slime-ball serial killers like Olson and Picton alive.  Oh my gosh, I'm on a roll; I'm ranting again; one more kick at the cat!  And our illustrious leaders; what about their ridiculous pensions that they collect?  Imagine only getting elected for a short term and then receiving a pension - what kind of pure, unadulterated bullshit is that?   
          When I was living in Nanaimo, I used to get together with my good friend Ubo, a somewhat stubborn Dutchman but what Dutchman isn't bull-headed?  You know what they say about the Dutch, "Wooden shoes, wooden heads and wouldn't listen."  I can say this about my friend Ubo because he doesn't have a computer; he's not plugged in by an invisible umbilical cord to the Internet like the rest of us virtual babies.  We used to get together every couple of weeks or so, sit down, knock back a few beers and just rant about whatever was on our minds; be it politics, women, relationships, getting old, etc., the subject didn't really matter.  Just telling someone and listening in return can be very satisfactory; take a shit load of problems off one's shoulders and deposit them in the great porcelain bowl of frustration and flush it all away.  I don't have that any more and I miss Ubo for my ranting; I admit the rants can be sometimes useless and are meaningfulness but still, just to hear your own voice hit those high notes of anger that would put a soprano to shame can be really worth it.  Now I rant on here to people I don't know, except for a few friends and relatives; mostly to people who never say anything to me and it's not the same; I feel like I'm talking to myself, which I do, but it's not quite the same as having a sounding board; someone to agree with what I say or tell me I'm full of shit and my head is up my ass.
          So much for ranting and even though it's made me feel somewhat better, I realize nothing has been solved.  But now, I actually feel hungry so I'm going to walk briskly from the studio to the house and feed my gut - perhaps knock back a mug of rather potent apple cider I made this autumn.  I don't know what the alcohol level is but I know the feeling it gives back is almost as good as a good rant - cheers, eh!

LIFE AROUND AND IN THE BARN

          The sun is shining brightly this morning but it's brrrr cold.  The trees are stiffly swaying, slowly dancing in the cold breeze, as if they are trying to keep their roots warm from the wrath of winter, which still has a cold grasp on our 50 acre farm in New Brunswick.  For someone who enjoys heat, basking or working under a hot sun, I sometimes question my sanity of moving to such a cold place; one, that when it finally warms up, it's plagued by a variety of flies, like a cluster of miniature vampires that are hell-bent in sucking the blood right out of me until I'm as dried up as a mummy in an Egyptian tomb.  Many people say, "Give me all four seasons," but me, I say, "Gimme summer all year round," makes my aching bones not ache so much and the cold beers taste so much better and go down so much easier as well.  The wood stove in my studio is crackling, making a heated commotion but as of yet, it's still not warm enough to take off my Cowichan wool sweater or hat.  The tips of my fingers and toes feel quite cold but since I can still move them, I'm not too concerned.  Not sure if the temperature is going to attempt to climb up the thermometer today; since it's -18C at the moment, I doubt, even with the glorious sunshine, if it did decide to go higher, the temperature most likely still wouldn't reach 0C degrees.
          Like me, I'm sure the chickens and the rest of the livestock will appreciate the disappearance of the snow and ice, especially since it's been quite some time since they have been allowed outside.  What's the point letting the chickens out to scratch through the snow unless there's such a thing as delicious snow-worms abounding within this snowy barnyard and hey, have you ever tried looking for white chickens in the snow when it's starting to get dark, time for them to return to the coop for the night.  Our 50 hens are laying very well; we're getting over 40 eggs a day and because the two roosters are so randy and keep mounting the lot of them regularly, some of them are getting a little broody.  It's too early to allow them to have chicks yet but will have to keep it under consideration when the weather warms up.  I also have to think about enlarging the chicken coop too and if we can't sell the extra eggs, there's really no reason to have any more chickens until it's time to replace some of them when they become elderly and don't produce as many eggs as they used to.
          Sarah and I have been thinking about getting some meat-birds and letting them free-range like the other chickens.  Not sure if that's a good idea or not, especially, although the chickens are not full of modified chemicals and make healthier birds to eat, the costs involved to produce them may not be very profitable on a selling basis.  Perhaps instead of looking at selling them, we should just consider getting some for our own dinners - they certainly taste better than the pumped up chickens in the grocery stores that are fed inorganically and get so heavy from eating, their legs start breaking from being extremely overweight.  Apparently we are getting some ducks from a friend once spring arrives - guess I'll have to dig a small pond or purchase a small kids' plastic wading pool - either inset it into the ground or weigh it down with a couple of heavy stones, which might be better - that way I can empty the pool and keep the water fresher - don't need to make any more breeding areas for those pesky mosquitoes.
          Just brought in an armful of wood for the stove and toyed with the idea of letting the goats out to enjoy the sunshine but decided against it since the wind is very cold; don't want to risk the chance of the little  buck getting frostbite.  I ran my hand over the top of his head this morning and I could feel his horns beginning to grow; I expect that's not the only thing growing; takes so very little time before they become mature enough to start breeding and with his mother - now that would just be bloody incestuous wouldn't it?  From what I've seen, regarding all the animals we have here on Golden Unicorn Farm, the only one that thinks he's living in Barbados or some such place is Luki our Great Pyrenees dog; he enjoys stretching out on the icy ground as if he was lying on a tropical beach.
          The Fosterville Community Centre is having a pot-luck lunch today and except for Rachel, Sarah, Jessica, Jamie (friend of Jessicas's) and I will be attending.  It's free, just a good old get-together time to fill our faces and listen or spread some gossip - should be a fun time; a wee break from the isolation of winter.  I see Jessica and Jamie just got back from Sunday School and expect they will soon be outside playing on the sleighs or investigating the animals; probably push their little smiling faces into my studio as well.  This is a great place for kids to grow up, especially if they can kick a lot of the media-hyped bullshit about how they should look and act - even for city folk, I feel the crap they preach and push is detrimental to their growth.  I mean how many girls are really going to become movie stars, runway models or entertainers; especially successful ones?  However, before I begin on one of my rants, I think it's time to go into the house and perhaps have a hot cup of coffee with the wife - cheers, eh!        
         

FREYA, SHISHKABOB AND THE OLD GOAT

Milking Platform         

          My friend George Probst came over a couple of days ago to show me how to milk a goat, which is a good thing, because I haven't even milked a goldfish let alone a cow before.  George grew up on a farm in Germany and after moving to Canada, he and his wife Margaret had some goats, so it was good to get some first hand advice and see first hand how a goat is milked.  Freya, a first time mommy goat was a bit of a problem getting her to allow the baby goat to suck on her teats, so in that regard, I was expecting she would be equally obstinate about allowing us to milk her - I mean we're hardly related, although at times, I've been called a stubborn old goat.  The big trick to getting a goat to do anything and I mean just about anything at all, is to make sure they have something to eat; it appears the most important thing to a goat is eating.  However, that being said, goats just don't eat everything; they're actually quite particular and even turn up their noses at some of the goodies I thought they would really take a delight in devouring.  So, while she was munching down on some goodies we had saved, especially for her first special milking session, George quickly began trimming her hooves before beginning to milk her.  She made an expected fuss and unfortunately, when George began demonstrating how to milk Freya, she had pretty much devoured everything.  Although the milking platform I built especially for Freya was a success, she still struggled to squeeze her head out of the narrow opening that kept her in place.  So, to make the milking easier, I held one of her back legs up in the air as George gently squeezed her teats and sprayed the milk into a pail.  However, since very little milk was left to be squeezed out of her bag, since her little guy has been regularly sucking away on her teats, it only took George a short time to milk her dry.
          Last night, when Sarah and I went out to milk the goat, Jessica and Rachel followed along at our heels with a camera to document the occasion.  The goodies in her feed bucket must have been delicious because she never so much as made any fuss, never even so much as lifted one of her back legs; Sarah just happily milked her until her bag was drained.  Mind you, there wasn't much milk to be had but I believe even if the little guy was no longer in the picture, Sarah wouldn't have had a problem with Freya; I was amazed at how good she behaved after the first experience with George and I.  I'm guessing we must have set her straight; right from the beginning (wink, wink).
           I should mention before writing anything further that Freya's little buck was named Simba by Jessica; I think the name comes from the animated film, The Lion King.  Unfortunately Simba is hardly a lion; he's       more apt to be lion bait for some great white hunter.  Since I don't look at him as if he were a pet for obvious reasons; he's hardly a member of the family; I prefer to call him Shiskabob.

Freya and Shishkabob; First Time Outside

          Yesterday afternoon, while the sun was shining brightly, the icicles were dripping happily and the temperature outside was warmly agreeable, I let Freya and the her little guy go outside.  At first Shiskabob appeared to be blinded by the light but then seeing Freya munching on some hay, which was lying on top of the snow, he soon joined her.  I was sort of expecting him to start cavorting through the snow, leaping into the air and doing pirouettes but no, he just simply stood near Freya and strangely enough, wasn't even scared or overly impressed with Luki, our Great Pyrenees dog, when like all dogs it seems, just had to take         a big sniff of Shiskabob's bum.
          So here in the land of  two goats, fifty-two chickens, one dog and a cat and oh yes, mustn't forget, I just bought a 55 gallon aquarium from a friend of mine containing 11 tropical fish; the kids now wondering when I'm going to buy a monkey; everything is fine.  Hmm, a monkey says I; aye a monkey; now why didn't I think of that when I was living on my sail boat.  Oh yeah, I did, but I thought cutting off my leg and strapping a wooden peg to the stub would have been going a touch far, not to mention intensely painful.        Hopefully, this weekend coming up, the baby-barn I bought will be skidded into the yard and I can dream of      all the work that needs doing until it's a viable studio; did I say dream?  No, not dream; begin working on it; I'll be able to start on the interior pretty much right away even though heat will not be existent; only my own body heat as I saw up boards, pound nails, begin wiring and a variety of other chores that will need tending to keep me warm.
          Looks like the day is turning into a good one; not going to do much physical labour; well maybe not until later this afternoon with Sarah (dirty-old-man wink, wink).  Cheers, eh!