Travelling write along…

Okay, yesterday’s post was a bit of a downer

I’m fine. Not perfect. But who is perfect? Exactly. I am fine. I have lots of great things in my life. Like chickens!

Hmm…not the most uplifting photo.

How about one of the dog?

Now look at that. Pure, pure, happiness on the beach. You can practically hear Born Free playing in the background of that one.

Anyway – Good news! Well, for me, anyway. I’m going to the Cape Town Book Fair to, er, gawk. These book events are kind of like my own private Hollywood. I sit there going ‘oooh, oooh that’s…’ and laugh like a loon (inside, if I did it out loud people would give me the sly eye) and become rather delighted with life.

So I am going. Very happy.

I am also looking forward to meeting Rachel Zadock in person. Yes, the woman who is charge of this Short Story Day Africa festival of madness. (Oh, it isn’t driving you mad? Fair enough.)

In the meantime, I am polishing up my plans for the writing workshop I’ll be doing on the 20^th of June. I am thrilled about this. But in the back of my mind there is always this worry the kids will turn on you.

Like zombie garden gnomes*. Did you hear about them? (Google at your peril!) And yes, these garden gnomes are another thing I’ve picked up from Rachel.

Internet friends: they can be a bad, bad influence.

*I do not seriously believe children are in any way like zombie garden gnomes. They are always perfect angels whom I love dearly. All of ‘em. Even that teething baby in the back sporting a double ear infection. And that toddler over there who has ingested every E chemical under the sun with a healthy dose of high-fructose corn syrup. Darlings. Love them!

My grandparents owned a chicken farm, ya know

I don't blame my husband for squiring five chickens and then going straight back to work. I'm not angry that I have been left, on pain pills, on a weekend, with two children, a golden retriever and five chickens. I may have had some ugly thoughts about the situation; but deep down I am aware that this is simply poor timing and it wasn't his fault. 

Such is life that it is up to me to begin the introductions between beast and poultry. It isn't that Orwell doesn't like the chickens. Oh no, golden retrievers love them - as in they see all those walking pile of feathers and quiver with delight, 'Play fetch! Play fetch!'

The Evas demurred the suggestion.

This may take some time.

I confess, I left the whole research the chicken thing to Husband. This is his long time dream, one that he has had since I was pregnant with Thing 1 almost eight years ago. The fact that the Evas are far more beautiful than I anticipated helps, but I still can't get all that enthused about the prospect of flying feathers and chicken shit.

But I did grow up in Oregon where I was occasionally banished to a ranch. I'm not totally ignorant about farm animals. Which makes my reaction to the egg on the ground highly amusing.

I just blinked at it going, 'There's an egg on the ground.'

To be fair, it isn't Easter. When in my life other than Easter do I see eggs randomly lying on the ground? Okay, so there is the tiny fact that there were five chickens milling around the egg. But these chickens, we were told, were still too young to lay. It would be like a lemon appearing on our lemon tree.* And again -  I can't stress this enough - the egg was just lying there in the dirt. Nesting box was empty. If my children were a tad older I'd have suspected they'd snuck it in there.

So I went into the Eva lair. They squawked and flapped, one running over the egg. I picked the egg up. It was still warm. I brought it into the house. The Things squealed, 'Let's eat it!' The dog wagged his tail in agreement.

I thought of Husband stuck at work and said, 'Why don't we let daddy see it first.'

'Ah, man,' The Things moaned.

The dog flopped down in a huff.

I do have some store bought eggs in the fridge. Perhaps I should scramble them up?

 

*We inherited the lemon tree. We keep thinking it is dead. Then another leaf emerges. If we were nicer people we'd euthanize it. Instead this has turned into a warped science experiment.

The importance of being Eva

Because if any of you are actually Earnest, you'll be evicted. 

 

Look - I'm blogging

Hello. It has been awhile. I thought I'd be back by yesterday. But, you see, first I needed to load up all that software for my very cool and very wrist friendly magic touchpad and...it took some time. Then, because I am so woefully out of date, the new software immediately required updating before the touchpad would do anything more than be a one click old fashion mouse. Which is hardly magic. After that (4am this morning, if you are wondering. Yes. Long! Time!) there were the rest of the updates and now...now I think we are done for well - a week?

Honestly people, my needs computer wise are fairly basic. A wee bit of iphoto, my internet, my Word doc programme and we're good. But given old fashion mice are one of the main culprits in my wrist, my computer can now do a zillion things that I'll never bother to try.

But it is done. The Things are back at school. Both doing beautifully. Orwell is signed up for school (technically he is too old, but the teacher is a sucker for SPCA pets) and at last I have time to write. And at last my wrist may be able to stand it? Not sure. Kind of aching while I do this post. Then again, this is my first day off pain meds since...well...mid November?

Slowly, easy does it. Yeah, I know. The pain is backing off. At one point I was waking up in the morning and rushing for those meds like a drug addict. This last week it would sometimes be near lunch time befor I was like, 'Hey, wait a minuite...'

My shoulder is definitely getting stronger. I'm standing up straighter. But oh my, just as I start feeling over confident - bam - reality strikes.

I am going to write. See...doing it right now. And when I get frustrated? I have Orwell. Orwell is an awesome dog. Still can't believe we found him at the SPCA. He loves to go walking / running. Does not yank on his lead. Is not vicious. And he adores me.Told the SPCA this morning (Orwell had a check up) that if those old owners (who have been AWOL for over 5 weeks!) come back tough luck. Given a few signs on Orwell's body, SPCA agrees. Somebody hurt my poor dog once-upon-a-time and it is truly amazing how the dog can still be so bloody wonderful despite it.

Orwell is lovely.

Makes up for the uprooted bell pepper plant (Husband may not agree), the hose nozzle (Husband may not agree) and the jumping up (Husband's already got the dog to not do it to him. I'm still a work-in-progress. I tell myself it is because the dog loves me more AND I'm the first person to greet Orwell in the morning).

Thing 2 is also in love with Orwell. First being she greets in the morning. Of course this is after I've walked the dog and the dog is significantly calmer. But it works.

We're happy.

Psst - did you see this link BookLive highlighted the other day? 25 Things Writers Should Stop Doing. It is brilliant!

Trees produce oxygen, ya know

1. We are headed off to spend two nights in a treehouse.

2. This was Husband's doing. On the way back The Mud Run he saw a sign and said, 'I've heard good things about that.'

3. When he got home he began to describe it to me. What I heard was: 'No need to pack tent, sleeping bags, and there is indoor plumbing.'

4. When booking the accomodation Husband noted that they come with safety ratings. Recalling Thing 2's spectacular fall off a loft ladder which resulted in a cracked skull,  he selected the one they recommended for insane toddlers. This may mean that rather than staying in a treehouse, we are actually on a platform amongst the trees.

5. I'm okay with that.

6. Speaking of trees, we are having those palm trees taken down, along with some trimming and pruning.

7. It is going slowly due to the great quantity of never-ending-wind we have been experiencing.

8. The tree cutters seem like a nice bunch of people.

9. However, in the spirit of Mossel Bay's 'No hurry, no worries,' they just pitch up with no warning and without a ring of the doorbell or an sms to the phone, begin to do things. The first time they came by I thought it was next door causing all the racked until my house shook. Then I looked outside to see 2/3rds of a palm tree down.

10. Let us all be grateful it was the correct one, as there are more than two out there.

11. Not that I'd have actually been that upset. But I may have pretended to be so if it made not having to pay for the oops.

12. Not sure I should have told you that.

13. However, I think this is the perfect opportunity to inform you that palm trees are not actually trees. So really, we are not actually having trees cut down, but having somebody mow them with a chain saw. (It's true! Google it.)

14. I hope you all have a wonderful weekend.

15. I shall leave you with a quote from a George Monbiot article that has been all over FB and various parts of the world wide web:

If wealth was the inevitable result of hard work and enterprise, every woman in Africa would be a millionaire.

 

Guarding the arachnid

This garden thing, which is Husband's hobby, is rubbing off on me. (Oh, you noticed?) But nothing brought home how much I've gone down the gardener's path when I found myself cheering for a spider.

A spider.

I have a rather shameful record with these creatures. I know they are a very useful predator which help keep the nasty pests in check. But I've been known to act a wee bit crazy when discovered in my house. (Husband just calmly fetches is eco-catch-and-release thing and deals with 'em.)

That said, if a spider is outside I tend to just stay out of its way. Until recently. Husband spared the one rosebush along the house when he dug out the area for our veg patch. Rosebush now has aphids, which then try to wander over to my herbs. So I've been spraying the rose bush with soap and oil and carefully washing its leaves. Well, one day while doing this out popped a white spider almost the exact colour of the pale pink rose petals it sat on. An aphid eater! I was sooooooo excited.

I could hardly recognize myself.

Worse, now I check on the damn thing! And take care of it! Like the day I was cutting some roses off for a friend and discovered it on one. I gently put it back on the bush. Two days ago I discovered it was a parent, the little brown babe clings to its back. I ran to tell Husband. He was rather amused by my, err, enthusiasm.

Well, he should have seen me this morning when I found it had caught a blue bottle.

Thing 2: So spider going to eat it?

Me: Yes. Leave it alone. We don't want lots of flies in our house.

Thing 2: Okay. Me be nice to spider. Me leave alone. Me be nice to ladybirds, also. Do you know where my ladybird is?

Oh yes, the children have adopted a ladybird hanging out on the tomato plants.

We're hoping the frogs don't get too jealous.

In the meantime, who wants to educate me on the edible nature of nasturtiums?

Books and Gardens

We have a pseudo-gardener for the moment. In that he works for us less than once every two weeks. From time to time Husband realises that life is too short, time is moving on and a little assistance would get things moving along much faster. When these random moments strike husband I send D an sms and she shows up with her neighbour's son that she's known since nappies. (The guy helped us moved. I know where he lives. D is very good friends with his mother.)

At the end of the work day, while he waits for D wrap it up, we chat. The young man is currently trying to sort his life out, which he apparently royally screwed up a year before he was to matriculate. He was top of his class, wanted to be a paramedic. Now he tries to keep busy while looking for opportunities to get his behind back on track. (Anybody know how he could finish his matric? He has no money.)

Even before he told me all this, it was obvious that this was not a person who should be unemployed. He works too hard, quotes Shakespeare and then launches into in depth criticism of why Shakespeare isn't really for him because ...

Yep, I have a book worm for a pseudo-gardner. With such luck you'd think I'd have all these really, really, close friends who read lots - but sadly, that is rarely the case. Hairdresser friend and another one in my mummy circle and that's about it.

I digress.

Anyway, despite the young man loving the written word, the guy was oblivious that there are plenty of young black men setting alight the South African writing world. Then again, given what our local libraries have to offer, I can see how he would be under that impression. I own Thando Mgquolozana's Man Who is Not a Man, but given the subject matter have wondered if I'll just end up having the book tossed back at my head. Or maybe he'd love it?

Given what he said he would like to write* about, Young Blood popped into my head. But I haven't read it. Thoughts? He also said he'd like to read poetry, but wants something real and not  - well, to paraphrase - no flowery nonsense. May lend him a New Contrast and see if he likes anything there.

Also thought he migh enjoy Zoo City, not that Lauren is black or a man, but I hardly think it really matters. Just wanted to show him that contrary to what he thought, there were black men writing and getting published. But he is probably open to reading other things. (Although heaven help him if he borrows any of my books and doesn't return them.)

Suggestions?

* Yes, we have had a chat that writing is a crappy way to earn a living. He happily has acknowledged this. But he pointed out that until he actually gets accepted to this program he keeps getting rejected for, lands a proper job or does find a way to finish his matric then get accepted into further training that he has far too much time on his hands.

Quack

I am now the proud owner of four fruit trees. I am told this is only the beginning. The problem is that the fruit trees need to be planted in the same place where two large palm trees occupy, along with paving and a parking canopy. A parking canopy approximately three people have used, all of whom do not live locally. (Mossel Bay peeps dare to be different.)

I tried to like the palm trees. I tried. The four in back are a different variety. We've declared a truce. The Brazilian pepper (which doesn't actually produce peppers) and the monkey-puzzle still have question marks hanging over their heads, but I'm afraid the palm trees must die.

It isn't just the fruit trees. This is all part of a bigger plan to make the front half the property more usable. Right now it is currently acting as one big parking lot (where everyone parks everywhere except under the canopy). Why is it a parking lot? Because apparently that is exactly what is was when the local cult held its meetings here. Yes, I said cult. But to be fair to me, I had no idea about any of this until after I was living here. Ah, the things you people who build new miss out on - the stories.

Palm trees are causing a debate in this household. Not that they must go. In that, there is a united front. But there was a moment where Husband thought he could cut them down himself.

?

I pointed out that I prefer him alive.

He countered that he would use an assistant.

Given our recorded in such situations the word assistant tends to mean me. I pointed out that I, too, prefer to be alive.

He pointed out that I insist we'll die on many adventures and so far I've been wrong every time.

True.

I still think trying to cut down those enormous suckers on our own is insane.

That, and we may have used up our 18 lives.

We bantered back and forth on this subject where he eventually asked what better use of his time could I think of than him saving the family X number of rands. Given the amount that must be done to the property I had a long list. But none of it was getting me anywhere. Suddenly I found myself going for the juggler - 'Building the home for your chickens.'

He paused.

Caught up in the excitement of my possible win in the argument I caught a strange form of Tourette syndrome and started spouting about ducks and what lovely snail and slug eaters they are. And he could make a house for ducks, too.

Ducks.

I've been talking about wanting a dog. I blame a writing project where I had to research pack behaviour. Made me nostalgic. Oh, and I'm tired of running with pepper spray. But it has been made clear that there is no dog until after we acquire said chickens (need them to be friends) and building front garden fence. But not ducks. Although I do see that both dog and duck start with 'd.'

There are many words to describe Husband; slacker is not one of them. But given he works at work and I work at home, it is an unavoidable truth that any more dependents we acquire will have a huge impact on me. Not that Husband won't do his share. In fact, to be honest, when he is actually home, he'll do more than. But he has to be here first.

So then I bring up ducks.

It did change the subject from palm trees.

Then again, perhaps I will

Husband informed me he had no time ...

Which is true, he doesn't. But he has been informed if the plant dies, it is his fault.

Then Husband 'gave' me a section of the garden. I thought I'd begin by weeding, which was easy peasy. Then I stuck a fork in it - gah! Roots galore. I spent three hours essentially playing tug o' war and thought I had done a great job. I piled the Things into the car; we went to the nursery; I showed the man my list of 'plants that like shade' and bought most of the plants I needed.

Then I tried to plant them. Two hours later I sank my shovel in for the final, sixth, plant and with one shovel flick there was a hole just its size.

"Mummy, you finally did it,' Thing 1 said.

Previously during the adventure of planting he had also said, 'I did not know you could do this,' and 'My mummy is so strong!' and 'Those are a rather lot of roots, mummy. Do you think those are a lot of roots?'

Yes, the five holes previously had been a wee bit of a battle.

Dear new plants, I hope you like your new home. Please don't die. Love, t

Plant Murderer

As you may have noticed, there is a new category on the sidebar - Garden & Co. I thought for half a moment to start a new blog re: the garden*, and then realised that the only time I'll probably be mentioning the garden is when a chicken (which we do not own yet) bites me or I make a royal f--k up. And yes, funnily enough, I have made a royal f--k up, which some of you FB'ers are already well aware of.

Ahem.

There was this plant:

The above plant sheds its leaves in winter (and flowers) and thus looked more like a bunch of sticks right now, but there it was, in all its sticky glory when last week my MIL spotted a very bad Australian bug thing on it. She told me to prune it (which we did) and burn the infected bits.

Then she went home.

In the meantime, remember this?

Fugly water feature is now history, as is the pond bed it sat in. This left a very sizable crater. Husband, while working night shift, took his little Corsa Bakkie during daylight hours in for sand to fill crater and after numerous trips realised this was going to take ages. Next thing I know a dump truck is dumping a ton of sand just inside the garden gate, which is helpfully at the total opposite side of garden from pond (that's a lot of wheelbarrow rides).

Husband tries during his whole 1 day off since returning to SA to fill the hole and it isn't filling. So we hire a man to help, and he does, but it still isn't enough.

Husband is upset at the slow rate of hole being filled. I promise to do my best, and with the help of pukey-Thing 2 on her Hoppity Ball (don't ask how she can stand to be on the ball while having a wobbly tummy, suspect it has something to do with being 3) she and I fill that hole.

But man also did a bit of weeding. And the lack of weeds means that I now notice that the Australian bug is everywhere on that poor plant, especially at the base. Can't prune the base. Prune the base, plant is dead. Thus, by this logic, I dug up the plant. Took me 2 hours. It was hell.

Husband was not pleased. Informed me it had been his FAVOURITE plant and next time I think a plant is infested to talk to him because while he isn't a fan of sprays, sometimes they are necessary and useful.

Oh.

But a wee bit too late for poor plant. Plant is truly dead.

So I email my MIL (who was rather shocked to discover I resorted to such extremes) and my gardening friend editor and I post the pic on FB. Because, you see, neither Husband nor I knew what the plant was. We inherited it, as we did most of the plants, when we bought the house.

Nobody knew what the plant was, but MIL, thankfully, had far superior picture of our plant than we had. So I printed it out and went to the local nursery. After they laughed at me (kindly) and gave me a wee lecture on what to do next time should a plant be infected by BUGS, they found me a new one.

I'm afraid even the excuse that it is winter does not disguise the fact it will be a few years before this thing (a type of Jatropha, apparently) reaches the glory of its predecessor.

Ahem.

But let me remind you, as I reminded Husband, I did fill that f@$%ing hole:

(Hoppity Ball in red)

*For those in need of a REAL gardening blog a famous SA editor recommends Jane's Delicious Garden, which, thanks to editor's advice, I do have on my google reader (not that I have managed to put any of Jane's words to good use, but never mind).