ART AUCTION, BUDDY'S BRAKES AND MY BROKEN WALLET

          Since the last auction I had selling a piece of my art went so well, I've decided to have another one.  It's being held on my Facebook page https://www.facebook.com/pages/Len-Sherman-Canadian-Artist/222245371206927  The bidding is starting at $25.00 with a $20.00 shipping fee (can't believe how expensive postage has become) so if you're even a teensy-weensy bit interested in purchasing this painting - check out the auction.

Midnight Rider

          It's a sunny morning, here at the base of Green Mountain in Fosterville, New Brunswick and the snow that fell over the past few days is once again melting.  "Buddy" our mean, green big old diesel 3/4 ton truck gave us a might of trouble yesterday afternoon as we made our way home from the Woodstock Farmer's Market.  It was in the wee hours of the morning, daylight just breaking over the ridge, when we headed out down the windy, bumpy road to town, the truck slipping and sliding a bit on the ice that was just beneath a thin layer of powdery snow.  And it was then, Sarah began mentioning the brakes were a wee bit spongy and Buddy wasn't reacting in his usual manner.  After we left the farmer's market and were heading down the highway towards Houlton, Maine in the US, Sarah looked at me with a somewhat worried expression on her face and said, "When I step on the brakes, the pedal goes all the way to the floor, which even for a mechanical greenhorn like me, didn't sound too good because we still had a long way to go before we reached home.  Thinking perhaps, the brake fluid needed topping up, about the only fix I'm capable of doing - mechanical devices are as strange to me as a woman's behaviour - Sarah parked the truck in the VIP parking lot where we outfitted Buddy last fall with a set of brand new, black, shiny, rubber winter tires.  However, when the young fellow with a thin face, black gelled hair pushed up into a peak on the top of his head, a black goatee and wearing a debatable black earring through one ear and looking every part like a magician or hypnotist, laid down in the parking lot and peered beneath Buddy he said, "Your truck needs more than brake fluid, the brake line is blown and the cylinder may need replacing."  When we told him we had very limited funds and home wasn't very close by he said, "If it were me; I wouldn't drive this truck any further."
          His words brought back memories of while we were travelling across Canada hauling a trailer full of things, furniture and such to our new home, when Buddy broke down several times and was hit by a big semi-truck just this side of Thunder Bay, ON.  I could hear my already deflated wallet gasping as I rubbed my ass-back pocket.  So there we were, with about 30 bucks in our jeans, which we were going to put into Buddy's gas tank and I'm thinking - a thousand dollar bill - it had always cost us a $1,000.00 or more during our trip, whenever the truck broke down.  Since the young fellow wasn't a magician, he wasn't able to conjure up a miraculous remedy for Buddy's ailment, he brought in a very congenial, heavy set mechanic, with hands the size of a big league's baseball catcher's mitt - fingers like small cucumbers.  The mechanic, after checking out Buddy's condition, was in agreement with the man with the black goatee and said with a wry grin, "If it was me, I wouldn't drive the truck.  Well, there's no problem driving it down the road but it's not going to stop."
          Well what could we do; I could feel my VISA card cringing as he said, "So far, if all I have to do is replace one short piece of brake line, at $65.00 per hour, you're probably only looking at about $75.00 but who knows what kettle of worms is waiting when I take the back wheel apart."
          We gave the mechanic the go ahead, I mean what else could we do, we weren't even in our own country, let alone even a short bus ride to our home.  As we sat in a couple of chairs situated around an oak simulated coffee table watching 3 big men talking about football, the congenial mechanic returned and said, "Yup.  Just as I suspected, the cylinder needs replacing, the brake shoes are shot and hopefully we won't blow the rest of the brake lines when we fix it.  What would you like me to do now - you're looking about 3/4 of an hour labour and parts. The total will be about $190.00?  And, you should probably have all the other brake lines done as well, although if you're lucky, they should hold up for about another 3-5,000 miles."
          Sarah looked very sad, almost on the verge of tears when I said, "Fix it and we'll deal with the rest of the problems later, which estimated to a little over $800.00."
          So, after paying the bill, 20 bucks for lunch, 10 bucks for gas, we were back on the road again - however, we had to backtrack now - because the border crossing near Fosterville would be closed by the time we arrived.  At least it wasn't a thousand bucks but when you add the repair job and the estimate of repairs to come on the brakes together - well - there's the thousand dollar bill again - cheers, eh!  

SUNDAY COMING DOWN

          Where oh where did our summer like weather disappear to?  From almost hot balmy days, after the chores, sitting in a lawn chair in my shirt sleeves sipping a cold beer to a shiver my bony white legs snowy day.  I walked up Green Mountain this morning to visit my friends George and Margaret Probst and although the skies were cloudy, a heavy greyness was hanging over the high hill and a cold wind was blowing out of the south; the snow was not yet falling.  However, not long after arriving at my friend's house, while enjoying several glasses of potent delicious home-made wine and then a short time later, eating a delicious German potatoe salad and fried salmon cakes, the first of many snowflakes began slowly drifting to the earth.  As per usual, as the sounds of Bach drifted throughout the cosy kitchen, we all engaged in some stimulating conversation, which touched on the immediate dire situation of our planet and the fragility of mankind, actually the fragility of all the creatures of the world above and below the sea.  George, having once been a school teacher and an important figure at the beginning of the Green Party's existence in Germany years ago, is also a philosopher in his own right, contains a wealth of information and knowledgeable understanding at his finger tips.  He is also a gifted cabinet maker and carver, not to mention an artist and musician - did I mention he can sing well too?   At the moment he is building a rocking chair, which will soon be going in an auction to help raise money for the preservation of the Meductekeaug River.  The Probst's and I are of like minds in regards to Sunday, not because we are religious and respect the Sabbath as the Lord's Day of rest, but we don't work on that day unless it's absolutely necessary.  Six days of work is plenty for me and even if I was getting paid extra for overtime, I'd sooner take the day off - besides, life is too short to work for bucks every day of the week.
          On the way back home, the cold wind blowing at my back, about an inch of snow covering the ground, I  couldn't help noticing the recent logging that took place on our neighbour's property.  Hundreds of cords of trees were stacked on the landing beside the road and their snow-capped stumps, like tombstones, riddled the forest floor.  Before reaching my neighbour's property as I walked down Green Mountain, I also noticed where the land had been previously logged quite some time ago; if clear-cutting is healthy without replanting the forest, why were so few trees growing, the ground covered with thick brush, even a deer or a moose would have trouble getting through?  I've been watching some videos about the Earth and how its changed over the millenniums and judging from the way we humans are treating the land, oceans and atmosphere, where before all the drastic changes that occurred naturally, mankind may well be the only species to ever obliterate the Earth.
          I know I probably sound like the Prince of Doom and just because 99% of the world's population most likely think people like me are radicals and cynics preaching negativity, still doesn't make our beliefs wrong.  I don't know about you (whoever is reading this blog) but I'm seriously scared when I think about the future and the ever increasing populace.  I feel most people view the human race's fragility through rose-coloured glasses and think for whatever reason, the scientists will come up with a remedy, the politicians will pay a lot of money for a quick-fix solution to our mounting ecological problems, or God will provide, but the massive problems confronting us are far larger and too complex for mere scientists, the politicians are too busy stuffing their pockets with money and I suspect God is none too happy about the way we have cared for his garden of Eden and all its creatures; I mean holy crap, just about every animal, if they are not already extinct, is on the endangered species list or very close to it.
          I hope no one is thinking that my friend George has put any of these thoughts, which I have just wrote about into my head, because they have been there a long time before I ever met him or his wife.  Even a blind man should be able to read the dreaded signs and feel the anger of the Earth; not that the world has never been inflicted with tsunamis, earthquakes, droughts, floods and disastrous events before.  I wish I had a real happy solution to the impending destruction that is being brought upon us by our own self indulgent ignorance, addictive consumerism, media sensationalism, adoration of fake celebrities and personal capitalistic greed to have more and more as if the world owes us for just being here, but I don't.  Because of my age, I thought I might miss the main show, the possible apocalypse but the signs of our destruction seem to be growing more rapidly, so I wouldn't be surprised if I lived long enough to see the deaths of all those and the planet I love, completely destruct before my very eyes.
          The rain is falling now, like tears from heaven they are washing the snow away.  I'm a man and I'm not supposed to cry but sometimes when I'm alone and in the forest and I look about me, to think that all that I see may soon vanish, due to people who do not respect or clasp nature to their bosoms, I sometimes weep.  I would like to end this blog with cheers, eh! but at the moment, I don't feel too cheery.    

BIG JACK, WEE EARL AND THE PITCHFORK

          With the agility and ability to leap high bar stools in a single bound while transporting a buxom vixen upon my shoulders to her awaiting Lamborghini to have a high time in her eloquent aerie atop the highest high-rise of the city and not spilling a single drop of icy, cold, frothy beer from my manly mug, instead of sporting a muscle-shirt and a pair of tights highlighting my abs, pecs and buns of steel, I now wear a wide back-brace and don't so much as dare to hop over a steaming dog turd.  It appears as if my shoulders have attained a permanent shrug; my B-cup sized chest, lint-free navel and bony knee caps have also sagged.  Perhaps I'm evolving back into an ape of prehistoric times as my arthritic knuckles are almost dragging on the ground when I walk.  My posture and gait may be somewhat unsightly but with my knuckles only a hair width above the ground, I've found at least, there is less chance of losing my balance.
          Once again, since today was a definite ray of bold sunshine; the snow melting and running off to wherever snow runs to, I was able to push several wheelbarrow loads of manure from the barn and down to its designated location by the garden fence.  However, half way through scraping the strong ammonia scented chicken poop off the top of the nesting boxes and shovelling it off the gooey floor with an equally obnoxious aroma into the wheelbarrow and then gingerly taking it to the manure pile (few icy and muddy spots to traverse) remembering that I'd recently bought a back-brace, I immediately stopped what I was doing, went into the house and strapped it about my waist, which pushed my belly up to my breasts.  I almost looked as if I had a shelf poking out, which would have been alright, except it was too narrow to hold a mug of beer.
          Aint life grand thinks I, while cleaning out the barn with a sharp pitchfork and a dull shovel and then wheeling the pungent manure down to the garden fence, being very careful not to slip or fall, since parts of me that would have only bruised when I was younger, would now, most likely break  And speaking of a pitchfork, a memory of an incident involving one just came to mind.  I was just a young lad then, a bouncy teenager with only two things on my mind: popping pimples and dreaming of girls.  I was working as a groom at Exhibition Park for an Irishman by the name of Sonny O'Connell, who had a glint in his eye, a very pleasing Irish lilt and hell yeah, the luck o' the Irish as well.  But this memory has nothing to do with Sonny; it's about Jack, a large, strong, strapping young lad about my age and a skinny, arrogant, wannabe jockey named Earl.  It took place one morning, shortly after all the stalls had been mucked out, the thoroughbreds had finished their track workouts, groomed, then watered and fed.  I was just returning back to the stables from the track cook house when I heard a commotion in the feed room.  Upon entering the room, I was very surprised to find Earl, a pitchfork tine on either side of his throat, pinned to a bale of straw.  He looked as if he was about to wet his pants in fear because big Jack was at the other end of the pitchfork and the look in his bulging, bloodshot eyes was terrifying.  In those days, people didn't beat around the bush calling imbalanced people emotionally and mentally handicapped; they were called retards and apparently Errol had called Jack a stupid, dumb retard.  Now, Jack may have been dumb but he wasn't stupid and as big as he was, he was actually a very gentle and congenial soul.  However, when I tried to break up the situation, before I knew it, Jack had yanked the pitchfork out of the straw and was now pointing it at me.  Needless to say, if I hadn't just relieved my body functions before entering the feed room, there would have been a hell of a mess on the floor, not to mention in my pants. Fortunately for me, Jack's anger subsided when I began to reason with him and both Earll and I were allowed to leave the feed room without any puncture wounds.  Earl being a little guy, at 5' nothing and about 100lbs soaking wet, to ridicule someone as big as Jack, I would have to say that he was the retard, oh sorry, I forgot, mentally handicapped (so polite).
          Getting back to cleaning out the barn, Freya of course has been quite upset since little Simba, her wee buckling went to live on another farm.  She's been bleating so long and so loud that her voice is beginning to crack; not sure if a goat can get laryngitis?  I told the goat, as if she would listen to me, that she should stick her head in a pail of water and hold her breath for about 10 minutes.  I have no idea how short or long a goat's memory is but hopefully she will quiet down and not miss her little guy too much any more.  But then, even when she didn't have a wee guy, she never seemed to shut up anyway.  Most of the chickens went outside and enjoyed the sun today; many of them were stretched out, fanning their wings and tails, trying to regain their tans from last summer; a person would have thought Golden Unicorn Farm was a summer resort for good looking chicks - cheers, eh!
       

GOOD-BYE SIMBA

Simba and His Mommy Freya

          Never thought I would ever get even remotely attached to a goat but I have to admit that ever since little Simba was born and became a member of the Golden Unicorn barnyard, I actually came to like the little guy.  For one thing, even though he was just a wee buck, he didn't continually baaaaa, baaaaaaaaa, baaaaaaaaaa, like his mom; she definitely can belly-ache; kinda gets on this old guy's nerves at times.  However, I don't kid myself, if the time ever comes that for one reason or another we can't keep Freya, I'm sure my heart will be feelin' a touch sad when I have to say good-bye to her.  Strange things about animals, at least the way they affect me, I may tend to whine and complain about them at times, but for the most part, they become my friends; why hell, I even find myself talking to them as if they were human.  One thing about them, whether they agree or disagree about the one-sided conversation, they never argue back.  And for the love of me, sometimes I just don't understand animals at all, because if I happen to dislike them, like cats for instance aren't my favourite animals, they still come purring around and climb up on my lap.
          Well, today is one of those kinda sad days because I had to say good-bye to Simba this morning.  Jessica named him Simba after the Lion King movie but I jokingly and maybe not so jokingly called him Shiskabob, because chances are he was going to become someone's meal; perhaps even ours, so I was keeping his cuteness and friendliness at a bit of a distance.  I mean, it's impossible to slaughter and eat a member of the family.  Sarah listed him For Sale online and we were quite happy when a man said he was going to buy him for a petting zoo he was starting up and then later, would use him as a breeder.  However, when the man's wife began working at a full-time job, he decided not to.  So once again, Simba was listed online.  Apparently another man is going to buy him to use as a breeder, so that's good news for Simba.
          From what I could tell, Simba had a pretty congenial personality for a goat but he was definitely growing up to be a Billy-goat.  He was already looking at his mother with amorous eyes and had fervent intentions of mounting her - it wasn't from lack of trying to get it on with Freya, his ding-dong and his back legs were just too short; not that she would have let him have his way with her; at least not yet.  I will miss playing with him, rubbing his little head sporting two tiny horns and having him greet me in the morning but then the realistic part of me won't miss what he will become when he grows up; if he's anything like his dad, Jack; I pretty much had to take a big stick to him to keep him from trying to attack me; it's amazing how quiet they can be when they come at you from behind.  But just the same this morning, it was a little difficult to play with little Simba and give him his morning groceries one last time.
          I filled his large carrying-cage with a fresh bed of straw for the truck journey to his new home and I have to admit I felt a little sad as I picked him up and put him inside; his big trusting eyes looking back at me as I locked the door.  Then hearing him call to his mom and Freya bleating back as the truck drove off kinda tugged at the old heart-strings as well.  It's strange though, especially since Freya seems to be baaing all the time, I thought she would probably call for Simba all day and possibly into the night but as odd as it may seem, after about ten minutes, she shut up.  Now, that little Simba is gone and Sarah isn't going to be back until later this evening, I guess I will have to milk her.  Now, that should prove interesting since I haven't milked or should I say tried milking anything since I was about 4 years old at my grandfather's homestead in Woodpecker, BC.  Good thing the old cow was gentle; most likely thought I was its little calf squeezing its' teats - cheers, eh!  
                   

POP GOES THE WEASEL

          Sunday morning rising; the clouds dispersing rapidly as the sun warms the land.  The snow, not much more than just a thin, white mantel remaining, is melting; many newly formed small streams of cloudy water, since the logging next door occurred a short time ago, are draining into the main stream that twists and swirls its way along the base of Green Mountain and then into East Grand Lake at Sandy Beach.  The forest and the barnyard is alive with the sounds of birds just returning from the south.  Although spring is just a short step around the corner, it wouldn't be surprising if winter, in one last desperate stand to hold its relentless, icy clasp, let loose another brutal snow storm.
          Yesterday, while fussing about in the garage, which is attached to the barn and chicken coop, I noticed a clot of insulation drop from a small hole at the edge of the ceiling.  When I looked up to see what had caused the trivial incident, a little white head with roundish ears poked through a little hole - I was staring back at the bane of chicken farmers; the weasel.  These pesky, little varmints can fit through a hole about the size of a 25 cent piece and can clean out a chicken coop in a very short time.  Before I was able to load the .22 and arrived back, the little varmint had disappeared, vamoosed like a thief in the night, which it is.  Wondering if the weasel would attack the chickens, I got myself a chair and sat quietly in the corner of the chicken coop with the .22 ready to do some mortal damage to the wee sucker.  From what I understand about weasels, they generally attack the chickens during the night when they are defenceless but even though it was daylight, I wasn't taking any chances.  It was a good thing too, because it wasn't very long before I saw him sneaking into the chicken coop and making an attack on a chicken I had separated from the rest because it has an injured leg.  Now trying to take a shot at a weasel that's riding a big old hen like a bucking bronco is very difficult.  Luckily, before it could do any serious damage to the chicken, I hadn't closed the door very tight, she lunged with the weasel clinging to her back like a bare-back rodeo-rider, out the door and landed with a thump on the floor, which was about 4' below the cage.  Impossible to take a shot, without most likely hitting one of the chickens that were all going ballistic by this time, I watched the little varmint scurry amongst the stampeding chickens and quickly disappear through a little hole in the wall.
          After placing the injured chicken back in the cage, figure I'd use it for bait, I noticed Jessica and her friend Jamie in the garage.  I was of course quite perturbed that they were there because if I had taken a shot at the weasel, even if I had hit it, chances are the bullet would have gone clean through it because of its small size and then possibly continued through the wall.  Anxious about mistakenly shooting one of the kids, telling them the reason why I was more than a touch angry, I told them to leave.  I then resumed my position of sitting on a chair in the corner of the chicken coop, wondering if the little weasel would make another attempt at killing a chicken.  Unlike other animals that kill chickens and then eat their carcasses, weasels chew the chicken's heads off and suck out the blood like freakin' vampires.  However, in this case, unlike true vampires, hanging garlic around the chicken coop or nailing a silver cross to the door wouldn't have any effect on this little critter.  And then, upon hearing a slight noise, I readied the .22, hoping for a kill shot to the head if it came through the same entrance as before.  However, instead of the weasel; it was Jessica.  Now, for the most part, I'm a pretty easy-going guy but I admit it, I lost my cool and screamed at her to get the hell out of the garage because if the weasel had returned at the same time and I had fired the gun; I don't even want to think about what could have happened then.
          As darkness descended, wondering what I could do about the wee chicken blood-sucker, I decided to leave the light on all night; at least the chickens wouldn't be totally defenceless.  For added protection, much to Finnegan's chagrin, I locked him in the coop with the chickens; apparently a cat will kill a weasel if it can get its claws into one.  When I checked on the chickens this morning, they all seemed to have survived the night and Finnegan was one happy cat to be let out.  Since I can't keep locking the cat up with the chickens during the night, I've decided to install a radio, which I hear is deterring to small varmints and actually enhances chicken productivity in regards to laying eggs.
          The episode with the weasel brings back a memory of an old tune that I heard and used to sing when I was once just a wee boy, "Round and round the mulberry bush, the monkey chased the weasel.  Round and round and round they went, pop goes the weasel!"  And that's what I wish I could have done yesterday with the weasel; popped the wee varmint with a .22 bullet between his big black, shiny eyes - cheers, eh!

LIFE ON GOLDEN UNICORN FARM

          Here I was smiling and thinking to myself that spring was just a wee robin hop around the corner and then winter like a big old wolf starts huffin' and puffin' and blows a whole lot of snow all over Golden Unicorn Farm - now that's just plain rude.  Since we're located in somewhat of a sheltered area, the snow has been slowly melting and then, last night, we get another dump and just when the bare earth was beginning to poke through its cold white mantel.  Perhaps that's the way it goes here - sort of like last winter at the edge of spring - just as soon as most of the snow had melted and the flowers began to poke their happy wee heads out of the ground in search of the illusive sun, old man winter just heaped a bunch more snow on the ground.  Oh well, no use whining about the weather, not a whole lot a fellow can do about it.  I don't mind the snow and cold very much anyway but it would be nice to be able to let the chickens go scratch around the barnyard; they've been cooped up for quite a long time.
          The chickens are ready to cock-a-doodle-do right out of their hen house; strut their stuff all over the place.  Not sure if they get a touch of cabin fever or not but a bunch of them ganged up on one of the Polish hens.  They had pecked her so badly that by the time I found and separated her, she was in really bad shape.  She died during the night, much to Jessica, Sarah's daughter's dismay; she was plenty upset about that since she is doing a 4H  presentation on the three Polish hens.  I'm keeping a sharp eye on the two remaining hens and at the first sign of bullying, I'll separate them otherwise, if they get literally hen-pecked to death, Jessica won't have much of a presentation.  Although they're probably the dumbest of all the chickens; they're probably the friendliest - one of them used to follow me around the barnyard like a puppy dog last year.  Strange thing about chickens; I just watched a show about dinosaurs the other night and it seems that they are petty much direct descendants from them; I could definitely see the similarities.  It was interesting watching the dinosaur film and seeing how the changing world conditions, during the different eras, millions of years ago, pretty much exterminated them.  It's odd that through the different eras, aeons and aeons of years ago, natural events destroyed life on the planet, and now, threatened again, it could quite possibly be destroyed by man.  Hmm...I wonder if the chickens will survive - maybe that's the reason why the chicken crossed the road - to survive!
          Freya (our goat) and her little buck are doing well and unless it's bitterly cold or really wet, I let them go outside.  Of course Freya, the only thought on her mind is eating, immediately heads to where I feed the dog in search of his leftovers.  If for some reason, I've forgotten to take Luki's dog-dish away, whether empty or not, he's right there to protect it - took the goat quite awhile and a few scars to realize, it's not safe pushing a predator around that's larger and has big sharp teeth.  The little guy is really growing; although he's still taking milk from Freya, he's also munching on a little hay and definitely shoves his head into the feed bucket along with his mother, when I feed them a little grain and other treats.  The little buck was sold to a guy who was starting a petting zoo but after his wife got a full time job, they decided not to do the zoo idea, so he's up for sale again.  We were really pleased when he was going to be part of a petting zoo and then used as a breeder but now, if he isn't sold to someone who wants to use him for the same things, there's a good chance he will wind up being someone's supper - we're even considering that possibility - I hear goat meat is really tasty and lean.  As long as I'm not the one that kills the goat, I don't think I'd having a problem having a feed of goat.  There's a slight possibility we'd keep him but we can't risk the chance of him breeding his mother.
          I cleaned out the chicken coop and the goat's stall yesterday but I was very careful; the way my back has been acting lately, just picking up a dirty old sock could put me out of order.  Since there's no rush, not like I have to go to a job-job, I packed very light loads of manure off to the manure pile.  Also, to help alleviate the pain and give some extra support to my back, I wore a back-brace for the first time.  Although I felt twinges of pain, nothing too severe while I cleaned out the manure, and afterwards, had a good hot soak in the tub, this morning when I woke up, both my hips ached like hell.  Mind you, the pain has mostly ebbed away now, so I guess for the rest of the day, I'll just have to try and not work as if I was a young guy; just take my time and do the work slower, not lift anything that's too heavy so that I strain myself.  Having to admit that one is old is not that easy - at least I don't have to worry about being one of those old guys that always talks about when he was young - oh yeah, besides my strength, my mind is ebbing too - can't remember much of my younger years any more - and if I repeat myself - please put it down to old age forgetfulness - cheers, eh!

Posted a couple of paintings on Facebook - if you're interested in seeing them - check it out -   https://www.facebook.com/pages/Len-Sherman-Canadian-Artist/222245371206927

BIG BALL ROLLIN' - ROLLIN' - ROLLIN' - WISH IT COULD BE STOPPED

          For the most part, I enjoy taking in an auction, so it was kind of fun throwing my own online art auction. However, a farm auction, which I attended last fall, taught me a good lesson when I bought something by accident.  I thought I was bidding on a long white hose, which could be used for drinking water but what I eventually bought, by holding up my hand periodically, was a gallon of softener for the washing machine.  Fortunately, since we have a septic field, the contents were biodegradable and it was something we could use over a period of time.  I did manage to successfully bid for the hose but am now a whole lot more careful when I sit with a large group of spectators bidding on one thing or another at the farm auction - matter of fact, I'm almost paranoid about it, to the point that I'm even very careful if I have to sneeze, scratch my brow or nod in agreement to a friend of mine who is talking to me.  I may put another painting up for sale on my own personal online art auction since I was quite satisfied with the results of the last one.  However, since it ties up my blog for a week, I'll have to think of some other way to let the people who read my blog know that it's going on, rather than posting the same thing day after day.
          The logging next door has ceased and the trees, which were once standing like sentinels on the ridge at the edge of our property guarding Green Mountain, are now stacked about 30' high on a landing next to the road, which runs by our house.  I have to admit the carnage the trees were subjugated to didn't look too bad near the edge of the road and by the front portion of our property, thanks to several small streams that run in the area, but along the high ridge and on the other side of Green Mountain, a good portion looks as if it were scalped - nary a tree was left standing.  Our premier is touting fracking and logging like a crooked jockey riding a long-shot in the last race at the end of day, as a way of bolstering the economy of New Brunswick and giving the people here a lot of good-paying jobs.  However, I was amazed to learn from the person who is in charge of the logging operation on Green Mountain that the four people who operated the logging equipment on a 24 hour schedule were not hired from the local people.  The overseer apparently rents the equipment from a big logging company in Quebec, and all the workers, with perhaps the exception of the truck drivers to haul the logs to a mill, which is being partially subsidised by the government, employing a handful of workers, are from Quebec.  And if that's not ridiculous enough, the company in charge of the Crown Land in New Brunswick is East Indian - looks to me that the only economy that's being bolstered on a radical scale is the Asian one.  However, all that being said and done, what bothers me more than another country receiving most of the economic advantages, what really concerns me is the manner in which the oil is being extracted and our forests are being depleted - did I also mention how the agricultural land is also being laid to waste by care-less huge companies - the planet's natural resources, many of which cannot sustain these harsh methods of ripping the ore out of the mountains, blasting the oil from the depths of the earth, slashing the forests bare, and raping the oceans, lakes and rivers - it's as if the human race has evolved into some mega-sized piranha and is going on a feeding rampage.  However, when the destruction finally ends, which it undoubtedly will at some point in time - what does the mega-sized piranha do then - devour itself?
          When I look at our small farm located on 50 acres of mostly forested land, I am both elated and saddened.  I cherish our land, the trees and all the tame and wild creatures that reside here; a good feeling comes over me every time I step outside the house; I am at the moment, their only protector but living at the edge of my life makes me realize that once I'm gone, my wife, at some point, won't be able to keep up with all the physical chores, makes me deeply concerned; who will buy our place then - will it be someone of like mind and values or someone who only looks at the dollar bills that can be extracted by laying the property bare?  We have care attendants for our elderly; why is it we don't really have care attendants for our land, the oldest thing in existence?  Our loss of respect for our planet is quickly becoming our demise and I don't see a hope in hell on the horizon that the carnage will cease.  The big ball of destruction has been rolling for a long time but never before as rapidly towards a huge wall - the speed is out of control; brakes don't exist to even slow it down a smidgen because we are all standing at the base of the wall arguing who should be allowed to stand on top of the wall.  Cheers, eh! 

FOR THE BIRDS

          Spring time must be just a robin's breath away even though our 50 acres, except where it's been ploughed, is basically snow bound.  As I was walking the pasture's fence line with the dog and two goats at my heels, sections of the 4' fence only 2' above the snow, I heard the sound of wings just overhead near the apple tree.  Looking upwards, I was surprised to see a single red-breasted robin land on a branch near the top of the apple tree.  I doubt very much that it would be building a nest very soon, especially since the temperatures still drop well below zero at night.  I noticed other birds as well flitting through the branches and flying overhead but I wasn't able to tell what type of birds they were.  

          Birds, whether they are robins are not, really fascinate me and I've had some interesting experiences with them over the years.  When I lived on my sail boat, it was wonderful to hear the raucous cries of seagulls and fluting calls of eagles.  I remember one day, in particular, when I had my sail boat hauled out and it was propped up on the hard so I could work on it below the waterline; one evening, just as the sun was about to set, a small crow landed on the bowsprit very close to where my girlfriend (at the time) Sandra and I were standing.  Usually crows keep their distance but this one just sat on the railing looking at us but what really amazed me was when Sandra held her hand out, the crow flew towards her and landed on it.  I don't know if the crow had been raised by a person and then set free but it was without a doubt, the friendliest crow I ever saw.  The other interesting experience I had with a bird was when I was walking down a sidewalk by a busy street and felt something hit me fairly hard on the back of my shoulder.  When I looked to see what had hit me, there was nothing to be seen, so I continued walking along.  But dang, I'd hardly taken three strides before I felt the back of my shoulder being whacked again, only this time, I saw it was a crow.  To this day, I don't know why the crow hit me with its wing; I can only surmise that it was watching out for a young one it was teaching to fly and I must have been very close to the little fledgling.  Another interesting experience I had was when I was just a teenager and I had some pigeons, mostly rollers and tumblers.  I used to watch them fly round and round the house when I let them out of their pen and it was wonderful to watch them roll and tumble earthwards.  It turned out to be fortunate for one of my pigeons because as I watched him try to land on a neighbour's chimney because he fell into a chimney he was attempting to land on.  It took a bit of prying with a real long stick, after I climbed up onto the roof, to pry the pigeon out.  Now that I live way out in the country, I've been thinking about getting some pigeons.  I thought it was too cold here but I saw some living under a bridge that crosses over the bridge at Woodstock and they seemed to be surviving the winter quite well.

          We have 50 hens and 2 roosters and they too are quite interesting, but perhaps in a different manner. Although they have their own little characters and have a pecking order they adhere to, they are quite entertaining to watch as they scratch about.  Unfortunately, because of all the snow and below zero temperatures, they haven't been out of their coop for close to three months.  However, being in the coop, they've become a little friendlier than I would like.  I've had a couple land on my shoulder and hand but when one thought the top of my head was a roosting perch, I wasn't too fond of it.  Chicken poop is very runny, messy and the smell is a lot to be desired.  That being said, until you've had the wonderful experience of having a seagull drop its load on you, which I have, then you really know what being shit on is all about - cheers, eh!

ART AUCTION HAS ENDED

Howl at the Moon

         I'd like to thank all those who participated in the auctioning off of Howl at the Moon.  Having moved to Fosterville almost 2 years ago and painting very little since arriving, I was trying to get an idea what the paintings I've been doing would be worth.  Although satisfied with the results of the auction and it was kind of fun being an auctioneer of sorts, I'm not sure if I'll have another auction or not.  If I do, I'll have to try something other than my blog as it kind of limits me as far as writing the occasional blog.  Also, a special thank you goes to John who's final bid of $100.00 won the auction. 

          Well, it's Sunday, and after attending a house party until late last night, I don't think I'll do too much today, except hike off to visit a couple of friends on the other side of Green Mountain very soon - cheers, eh!  

johnMar 7, 2012 11:06 AM

I would like to raise my bid to 100.

Lyndon Canam I'll happily place another bid:)) $65  Mar. 6 2012 09:38am - this bid took place on FaceBook   

ToniMar 3, 2012 06:41 PM

I love the painting of Ethan. It is spot on!!! I have $25 on this beautiful painting. :) Can never have enough of your artwork in our house in my opinion!!

LyndonMar 5, 2012 05:30 AM

I'll happily raise it $5 for $30

CHINWAGGING, PAINTING AND BEING FAMOUS

john & sueMar 5, 2012 08:50 AM 

I`i raise it to 50.00

ART AUCTION - HOWL AT THE MOON

Howl at the Moon

           I've been having fun painting wildlife against a night sky with a big old shiny moon; actually feels good to pick up the brushes and splash a little paint around; hard to do much else since my back packed it in a couple of weeks ago.  Howl at the Moon is something I occasionally do myself; hope no one sees or hears me or they're liable to think I'm a hairless werewolf and grab their 12 gauge shot gun and let me have it with both barrels.  I've sold a couple of these wildlife painting online and since I sometimes go to the auction on Mondays with some friends, I thought I'd throw a little art auction of my own.  I'm going to start the bidding out at $25.00 - now who'll gimme 25; do I hear 25 dollars from anyone; how about the curvaceous blonde in the front row wearing a tight red dress with the big red purse full of loonies?  This is a one of a kind painting; 2,739 heart felt brush strokes - check out the mountains - when's the last time you saw such gorgeous mountains?  Do I hear 25 bucks?  Only 25 bucks to start this auction off with $5.00 increments after that - so do I hear 25, 25, 25...25 anybody.  Who'll give me 25, 30, 35, 40?  This 12"x18" acrylic painting on a .25" thick board is For Sale and may the highest bidder win!  Keep in mind, unless the painting is picked up at my studio or I deliver it to the Farmer's Market in Woodstock, there will be a $10.00 shipping charge.  The art auction will end on Sat., March 10 at midnight, New Brunswick time.  To bid on Howl at the Moon, please make a comment on this blog and tell me how much your bid is.  If the painting is to be a gift or you just don't want anyone to know your name, email me the amount you wish to bid lenwsherman@gmail.com with the name you would like used and I'll post it on the blog.

          Also, the Howl at the Moon painting is being auctioned off on my Facebook site, so I'll show their bids on this blog.  And of course, should someone make a bid here on my blog, it will be posted on Facebook.  

Moonlight Eagle

Buck at the Moon

          Buck at the Moon and Moonlight Eagle have both been sold for $125.00 each.  Although both of the buyers of these paintings read this blog, one of them just lives a short distance from me and I'll be danged, I hadn't even signed the eagle painting, the paint was still wet, when he walked into my studio and said, "I was wondering if you could paint an eagle?"  You should have seen the look on his face and the big ear to ear grin, when he saw the painting on my easel.

Ethan - Portrait of My Grandson

          Geesh, except for the painting I did of my grandson Ethan for a Christmas present to give to my daughter Brandi and her husband James, I haven't really painted anything for almost 3 years; almost seems like I'm coming out of retirement.  For any of you readers that are artists, I don't have to tell you how good it feels to pick up a brush and paints and watch the magic appear on a blank canvas.  I can't say that the feeling is right up there with great sex but man, at times, it gives me an eyeball orgasm.   Since you've probably got a smile on your face now, maybe I could interest you in a painting of your choice - besides wildlife, landscapes, seascapes, moonscapes, I can paint portraits too - kids, dogs, cats, moms, dads, grandfolks, the next door neighbour, your boss - clothed or nude, makes no difference - even a goldfish if you like.  All I need is a good clear photo to work from.  Prices depend on the size of the canvas and if the painting doesn't reach your expectations - you don't have to pay for it.  

          Dang; if I don't sound like a bleedin' salesman in this blog or maybe a stuttering auctioneer, "Who'll gimme 25, 25 dollar bill, only 25 bucks to start this auction off?"  - no use yelling out, nodding your head,  waving your hand or showing me your legs, 'cause that don't work on this old auction - cheers, eh!