Time is Fleeting - Wear Purple Now!
"Time is fleeting and I'm not waiting to wear purple
Or red or kiwi or orange or magenta or any other color
I'll spend my time sitting under the sunflowers while the mares snuffle my hair and kittens play in my lap
Today I'll take my knitting to the pasture and chance a wet bottom when I sit on the ground
Samuel and Carly will nuzzle my pockets for treats of corn while the other sheep bleat at their boldness
My needles will lie quietly as I watch birds float on unseen columns of wind
The barn swallows and goldfinches and robins and even the buzzards will bring me joy on their outstretched wings
Tonight at midnight, the dogs and I will walk in the pasture
I'll whisper secrets to the horses and sheep
I'll look for falling stars and the big and little dipper and will nail Orion's belt with the north star
I'll drink good wine and strong beer and sweet water
I'll eat chocolate for breakfast and pastry for lunch
mix cream in my flavored coffee and turn up my nose at powdered milk and ill mannered people
Tomorrow I'll give compliments to perfect strangers and speak to people on the street just to watch their reactions as I grin at my silly self
I've worn hats for over thirty years and see no need to stop
I'll not waste happiness on tomorrow but spend it willy nilly today
Time is fleeting and I'm wearing purple now"
Sandra Bennett, copyright 2004
Monday, June 20, 2005
Friday, June 03, 2005
Cat Head Biscuits
How many hundreds of times have I watched my Grandmothers, Aunts and Mother’s hands deftly turn raw flour, shortening and buttermilk into biscuits? With the addition of a little sugar and vanilla that same mixture would turn into melt in my mouth sugar cookies.
In my earliest memories of Grandmother Hattie Gay’s kitchen I am seated on the 6’ long bench hand carved by Granddaddy, my elbows propped on the table, drinking in the sights and smells of Grandmother’s bustling endeavors. Grandmother made cat head biscuits...the kind of biscuits that would see a man through a day of cutting timber or laying railroad line. Her biscuits were huge, more like tomcat head size, and for a little girl of 3 or 4, required both hands just to lift them from plate to mouth.
She always had a churn of butter going so when those biscuits made their way out of the wood fired oven there was a mound of butter waiting to be slid between bottom and top. On special occasions she would have some black strap molasses heated on the stove, into which a pinch of baking soda had been whipped. Once the 'lasses foamed, the biscuits were torn apart and that hot ‘lasses poured over both sides. It was only when I was an adult that I heard the phrase that fit, “to die for”.
Aunt Bonnie’s hands could turn out a pan of cathead biscuits as well. She, like her mother, would use fresh ingredients, a wood fired oven and make the same miracle. Aunt Bonnie had the rolling pin that her Grandpa Samp had carved for his wife using a solid piece of poplar wood. Even so, Aunt Bonnie never actually rolled out the dough, but rather patted them into a round shape and took her tin can and cut out the biscuits. She said the more you worked the dough, the tougher the biscuit. The little leftover bits she would pull into a longish shape, sprinkle with cinnamon sugar and tuck in the bread pan alongside the biscuits.
Mother doesn’t make cat head biscuits. She likes her biscuits a little less doughy and a little smaller. They taste just as good but, somehow, my eye and my mind are at war with each other. It just seems like such a waste of effort to butter and ‘lasses what should rightly, to my mind, be a ham biscuit biscuit. You know, one of those cute little biscuits made by beating the dough 300 or 400 times.
I, as you might imagine, make cat head biscuits. When Mother and Daddy visit, I do try to remember to make a couple of ham biscuit size biscuits but my hands reject the betrayal. It is always an argument to get my hands to pat out thinner dough in smaller sizes. Too often my hands are the victors and the loss is my mothers. When I bring the biscuits to the table, I see in her eyes a slight disappointment. Once again, I have failed her and we are each reminded of the differences between us.
My parents have a snapshot taken of me when I was 6. I stare defiantly into the camera and am wearing a cowgirl outfit complete with hat, boots and twin six shooters. I’m seated on a pony attached to a carousel and the owner had interrupted my daydreaming long enough for whom – Mother or Daddy? – to take my picture.
I always wanted to be a cowboy and live on a farm (never a ranch). I wanted to tend to animals, fix fences, work a garden but never hang curtains, vacuum rugs or wash dishes. On top of the betrayal of not wanting to be a “girly” girl I also made cat head biscuits.
My mother has often despaired of me over the years; but she and I are also alike in many ways. I share her tender heart toward animals, children and old people, her love of books (especially the Bible), putting up (canning) the garden every year and her dislike of wasting anything.
As importantly, I share her hands. Side by side the older and younger hands speak silently to decades of honest work, of loving play, of making a life for our families and ourselves. In her case, she tries to keep her nails manicured; I simply try to keep mine trimmed and clean. In the years I’ve lived on our farm, I’ve had nail polish on exactly one time but I do wear good gloves and that helps. Working with the sheep also helps as the lanolin works its way into my hands and, eventually, softens them somewhat.
I don’t think Mother understands my love of the farm, the mountains, my horses and sheep. She questions why I do the physical labor necessary to keep the farm going. My lifestyle puzzles her much, I imagine, as I did when she was trying to tame an unruly tomboy into a ribbon and lace little girl.
It is not in our physical looks that we are alike either. She is dark haired, brown-eyed and turns a lovely golden brown in the sun. I am her exact opposite; I am blond, green-eyed and sallow skinned. Rather it is in what lies below the surface that bonds us more tightly than death could separate. We are both strong women with strong opinions, strong likes and dislikes, strong love and hatreds. It is in our strengths that I find I am, after all, my Mother’s daughter. I look at our hands, Mom...our hands and our hearts.
In my earliest memories of Grandmother Hattie Gay’s kitchen I am seated on the 6’ long bench hand carved by Granddaddy, my elbows propped on the table, drinking in the sights and smells of Grandmother’s bustling endeavors. Grandmother made cat head biscuits...the kind of biscuits that would see a man through a day of cutting timber or laying railroad line. Her biscuits were huge, more like tomcat head size, and for a little girl of 3 or 4, required both hands just to lift them from plate to mouth.
She always had a churn of butter going so when those biscuits made their way out of the wood fired oven there was a mound of butter waiting to be slid between bottom and top. On special occasions she would have some black strap molasses heated on the stove, into which a pinch of baking soda had been whipped. Once the 'lasses foamed, the biscuits were torn apart and that hot ‘lasses poured over both sides. It was only when I was an adult that I heard the phrase that fit, “to die for”.
Aunt Bonnie’s hands could turn out a pan of cathead biscuits as well. She, like her mother, would use fresh ingredients, a wood fired oven and make the same miracle. Aunt Bonnie had the rolling pin that her Grandpa Samp had carved for his wife using a solid piece of poplar wood. Even so, Aunt Bonnie never actually rolled out the dough, but rather patted them into a round shape and took her tin can and cut out the biscuits. She said the more you worked the dough, the tougher the biscuit. The little leftover bits she would pull into a longish shape, sprinkle with cinnamon sugar and tuck in the bread pan alongside the biscuits.
Mother doesn’t make cat head biscuits. She likes her biscuits a little less doughy and a little smaller. They taste just as good but, somehow, my eye and my mind are at war with each other. It just seems like such a waste of effort to butter and ‘lasses what should rightly, to my mind, be a ham biscuit biscuit. You know, one of those cute little biscuits made by beating the dough 300 or 400 times.
I, as you might imagine, make cat head biscuits. When Mother and Daddy visit, I do try to remember to make a couple of ham biscuit size biscuits but my hands reject the betrayal. It is always an argument to get my hands to pat out thinner dough in smaller sizes. Too often my hands are the victors and the loss is my mothers. When I bring the biscuits to the table, I see in her eyes a slight disappointment. Once again, I have failed her and we are each reminded of the differences between us.
My parents have a snapshot taken of me when I was 6. I stare defiantly into the camera and am wearing a cowgirl outfit complete with hat, boots and twin six shooters. I’m seated on a pony attached to a carousel and the owner had interrupted my daydreaming long enough for whom – Mother or Daddy? – to take my picture.
I always wanted to be a cowboy and live on a farm (never a ranch). I wanted to tend to animals, fix fences, work a garden but never hang curtains, vacuum rugs or wash dishes. On top of the betrayal of not wanting to be a “girly” girl I also made cat head biscuits.
My mother has often despaired of me over the years; but she and I are also alike in many ways. I share her tender heart toward animals, children and old people, her love of books (especially the Bible), putting up (canning) the garden every year and her dislike of wasting anything.
As importantly, I share her hands. Side by side the older and younger hands speak silently to decades of honest work, of loving play, of making a life for our families and ourselves. In her case, she tries to keep her nails manicured; I simply try to keep mine trimmed and clean. In the years I’ve lived on our farm, I’ve had nail polish on exactly one time but I do wear good gloves and that helps. Working with the sheep also helps as the lanolin works its way into my hands and, eventually, softens them somewhat.
I don’t think Mother understands my love of the farm, the mountains, my horses and sheep. She questions why I do the physical labor necessary to keep the farm going. My lifestyle puzzles her much, I imagine, as I did when she was trying to tame an unruly tomboy into a ribbon and lace little girl.
It is not in our physical looks that we are alike either. She is dark haired, brown-eyed and turns a lovely golden brown in the sun. I am her exact opposite; I am blond, green-eyed and sallow skinned. Rather it is in what lies below the surface that bonds us more tightly than death could separate. We are both strong women with strong opinions, strong likes and dislikes, strong love and hatreds. It is in our strengths that I find I am, after all, my Mother’s daughter. I look at our hands, Mom...our hands and our hearts.
Wednesday, June 01, 2005
Blackberry Winter
In the second chapter of the Song of Soloman, verses 11 & 12 it says, "For, lo, the winter is past, the rain is over and gone; The flowers appear on the earth; the time of the singing of birds is come, and the voice of the turtle is heard in our land."
Around here it's more the voice of the peepers at night while birds, sheep, horses, cattle, cats and dogs vie for attention during the day. Blackberry winter seems later this year but, at last, summer has arrived. We've seen the last of the cold until September and sheep have taken to the shade of the few trees located in the back pasture.
Blackberry winter is the cold snap/spell that comes after the warm spell that comes, usually, in May. It's sort of like Easter, doncha know? Easter is the first Sunday after the first full moon after the Spring equinox. At any rate, summer has arrived and to be dealt with by dipping my straw hat in the horse trough and then placing it, still dripping, atop my head. The bandana gets the same treatment and then tied, still dripping, around my neck. Thus, making a farm fashion statement, I trudge through the heat of the day *if* I don't decide to take to the lounge chair on the back porch first.
After all attempts to save it, the lamb died and was buried here on the farm and the other sheep continue on, healthy and convinced they are being starved. It would be funny if some of them didn't waddle when they ran.
Memorial Weekend was spent in the company of family and friends where Dad was born and raised in WV. My family settled the Appalachian Mountains of, what is now West VA, in the mid 1700's and established themselves as farmers and shepherds. The Appalachian Mountains are home for me; I enjoy their age and beauty and the history and tradition that so many of us share. Mountain and country folk have a special talent for porch sitting and savoring the niceness of food, fellowship and story telling. Many a pleasant hour has been spent listening to the stories that bind us one to another as well as to these mountains.
This family story is a bit fuzzy with the events having occured in the late 1800's. Granddaddy's daddy (this would be the Bennett side) had decided to move and, some say, uproot his family to travel, by foot, horseback and wagon, to a new homestead, some many miles and several counties, distant. Granddaddy's mother, his sisters and infant brother all traveled by horse drawn wagon, in the company of other folks in wagons. Most of the rest of the men and older boys (including Granddaddy who was a youngster) went by horseback and foot. Because the men could travel faster than a wagon, they went a longer route in order to buy supplies of sugar, salt, bolts of cloth, etc.
The wagon train had to cross a river that was swollen by flood waters. Usually, it was crossed at a safe place by locating a tree that had been uprooted and then lodged in a lower lying area. Great Grandmother found the tree and began the river crossing but didn't realize the tree had, again, been uprooted and moved further downstream. The wagon overturned and most cargo and all lives were lost.
When Granddaddy and Great Grandfather arrived at their new homestead it was to find seven coffins laid out with his mother, sisters and infant brother prepared for burial. Family lore also has it that Granddaddy's Grandmother was a Cherokee American Native, even a Chief's Daughter, but that knowledge, for certain, has been lost to time.
So many have gone on before; so great a cloud of witnesses. So many who have lived and loved and died in these mountains. We were cut off for so long by the very mountains we love and we've lost sight of so much knowledge and wisdom. So few of us pick ramps or branch lettuce in the spring or 'sang in the autumn. So much knowledge has been lost to us and, I believe, we're the poorer for the loss.
So, I plant a small kitchen garden, a few fruit trees and maybe a nut tree or two. I plant because I believe in a future where God's people will not only endure but triumph. I plant because I believe in a future where the stories will still matter and still be told.
Around here it's more the voice of the peepers at night while birds, sheep, horses, cattle, cats and dogs vie for attention during the day. Blackberry winter seems later this year but, at last, summer has arrived. We've seen the last of the cold until September and sheep have taken to the shade of the few trees located in the back pasture.
Blackberry winter is the cold snap/spell that comes after the warm spell that comes, usually, in May. It's sort of like Easter, doncha know? Easter is the first Sunday after the first full moon after the Spring equinox. At any rate, summer has arrived and to be dealt with by dipping my straw hat in the horse trough and then placing it, still dripping, atop my head. The bandana gets the same treatment and then tied, still dripping, around my neck. Thus, making a farm fashion statement, I trudge through the heat of the day *if* I don't decide to take to the lounge chair on the back porch first.
After all attempts to save it, the lamb died and was buried here on the farm and the other sheep continue on, healthy and convinced they are being starved. It would be funny if some of them didn't waddle when they ran.
Memorial Weekend was spent in the company of family and friends where Dad was born and raised in WV. My family settled the Appalachian Mountains of, what is now West VA, in the mid 1700's and established themselves as farmers and shepherds. The Appalachian Mountains are home for me; I enjoy their age and beauty and the history and tradition that so many of us share. Mountain and country folk have a special talent for porch sitting and savoring the niceness of food, fellowship and story telling. Many a pleasant hour has been spent listening to the stories that bind us one to another as well as to these mountains.
This family story is a bit fuzzy with the events having occured in the late 1800's. Granddaddy's daddy (this would be the Bennett side) had decided to move and, some say, uproot his family to travel, by foot, horseback and wagon, to a new homestead, some many miles and several counties, distant. Granddaddy's mother, his sisters and infant brother all traveled by horse drawn wagon, in the company of other folks in wagons. Most of the rest of the men and older boys (including Granddaddy who was a youngster) went by horseback and foot. Because the men could travel faster than a wagon, they went a longer route in order to buy supplies of sugar, salt, bolts of cloth, etc.
The wagon train had to cross a river that was swollen by flood waters. Usually, it was crossed at a safe place by locating a tree that had been uprooted and then lodged in a lower lying area. Great Grandmother found the tree and began the river crossing but didn't realize the tree had, again, been uprooted and moved further downstream. The wagon overturned and most cargo and all lives were lost.
When Granddaddy and Great Grandfather arrived at their new homestead it was to find seven coffins laid out with his mother, sisters and infant brother prepared for burial. Family lore also has it that Granddaddy's Grandmother was a Cherokee American Native, even a Chief's Daughter, but that knowledge, for certain, has been lost to time.
So many have gone on before; so great a cloud of witnesses. So many who have lived and loved and died in these mountains. We were cut off for so long by the very mountains we love and we've lost sight of so much knowledge and wisdom. So few of us pick ramps or branch lettuce in the spring or 'sang in the autumn. So much knowledge has been lost to us and, I believe, we're the poorer for the loss.
So, I plant a small kitchen garden, a few fruit trees and maybe a nut tree or two. I plant because I believe in a future where God's people will not only endure but triumph. I plant because I believe in a future where the stories will still matter and still be told.
Thursday, May 26, 2005
May Day
In the ten years we've lived at Thistle Cove Farm, I've slept in (without being sick) only a couple of times. And...every time I've slept in I've usually regretted it; this morning was no exception. It's been coolish and raining and perfect sleeping weather. Abigail, the Jack Russell, woke at pre-dawn because of a strange (as in doesn't belong to the farm) cat on the front porch. Nothing would do except for me to trudge downstairs and let Abbie (and now Shaddie, the Ridgeback) give chase. Grandma Gracie, our older Aussie Corgie mix, thought the whole thing silly and stayed put.
After a good chase, bathroom excursions and a drink of water we all trudged back upstairs where we claimed positions on the bed.
The next time our eyes sprung open it was 9:30 and animals all over the farm were screaming their discontent and telling the world of their immanent starvation due to nutritional needs not being met. To quiet your fears it should be mentioned that two years ago I paid our equine vet perfectly good money to stick his arm up a filly's rear end for a pregnancy check. Smudge, said filly, was growing and growing and growing...I feared she had gotten pregnant and, if so, should/could/would not have a baby at such a tender age herself. Of course, the vet was here on a day when so was half the valley...all men of course and all standing around as if they had nothing better to do than expect a good laugh at my expense.
And, without going into further detail, a good laugh was indeed had by almost all. Although I do admit it was some of the best money I've ever spent. I'm a person who believes life and death are in the hands of God and don't like my beliefs challenged by making stupid mistakes...although are there any other kind? So much of life is messy and, like most folks, I prefer it nice and neat in all the right compartments and a two year old pregnant filly is definitely the wrong compartment!
I'm pulling on clothes, can hear Dave talking to someone and then he runs upstairs to tell me I've got a lamb down. Our friend, JC, is at the back door and gives me the bad news...the lamb is down and stiff but still breathing; panting actually. I run to the pasture and find the lamb just as reported. The little fellow is stiff and, pardon the expression, dead weight. JC carries him to the front yard to put him under the shade of a tree and I head down the road to see Clinton, a neighbor who has been shepherding and farming all his life. He was born on a sheep and cattle farm and has forgotten more than I'll ever know. I find Clinton on his tractor in a back field and wait until he makes the turn to come back to me. While waiting I amuse myself by playing with cats, enjoying the beautiful day and praying. I say amuse myself by praying because if you've heard the expression..."if you want to make God laugh, tell Him your plans" you'll understand what I mean.
Clinton hears the symptoms, asks me a couple of questions and then says, "sounds like tetanus to me. Have you castrated recently?" Ummm...yes, last weekend and we cut, didn't band. We also gave all appropriate vaccinations at that time. Clinton tells me it's fairly unusual to have one get tetanus like this but it can and does happen. Even though it's never happened to one of my lambs before, it's happened now. At least that's our best guess and Clinton's worst guess is better than anything I know for sure.
I came home to give more shots in an attempt to save the lamb's life but it doesn't look good. I hate losing an animal even though I understand we, all of us, are terminal as soon as we draw that first breath. It's not a matter of if, it's a matter of when. Still, it rankles me to lose to death. I don't like it and fight against it even though death is more certain than taxes.
The good news is the ewe with bad scours is turned out with her lamb and both are doing well. The kittens at the barn are eating well and seem to be adjusting to being weaned too early by their mother. Dave's foot is doing somewhat better, dogs are healthy, horses and rest of sheep are fine, I'm good...all in all I'll take it.
As the Preacher in Ecclesiastes 3 said, "To everything there is a season and a time for every purpose under heaven. A time to be born and a time to die; a time to plant and a time to pluck up that which is planted..."
Nope, farm life is never static, rarely dull and always something happening at Thistle Cove Farm.
After a good chase, bathroom excursions and a drink of water we all trudged back upstairs where we claimed positions on the bed.
The next time our eyes sprung open it was 9:30 and animals all over the farm were screaming their discontent and telling the world of their immanent starvation due to nutritional needs not being met. To quiet your fears it should be mentioned that two years ago I paid our equine vet perfectly good money to stick his arm up a filly's rear end for a pregnancy check. Smudge, said filly, was growing and growing and growing...I feared she had gotten pregnant and, if so, should/could/would not have a baby at such a tender age herself. Of course, the vet was here on a day when so was half the valley...all men of course and all standing around as if they had nothing better to do than expect a good laugh at my expense.
And, without going into further detail, a good laugh was indeed had by almost all. Although I do admit it was some of the best money I've ever spent. I'm a person who believes life and death are in the hands of God and don't like my beliefs challenged by making stupid mistakes...although are there any other kind? So much of life is messy and, like most folks, I prefer it nice and neat in all the right compartments and a two year old pregnant filly is definitely the wrong compartment!
I'm pulling on clothes, can hear Dave talking to someone and then he runs upstairs to tell me I've got a lamb down. Our friend, JC, is at the back door and gives me the bad news...the lamb is down and stiff but still breathing; panting actually. I run to the pasture and find the lamb just as reported. The little fellow is stiff and, pardon the expression, dead weight. JC carries him to the front yard to put him under the shade of a tree and I head down the road to see Clinton, a neighbor who has been shepherding and farming all his life. He was born on a sheep and cattle farm and has forgotten more than I'll ever know. I find Clinton on his tractor in a back field and wait until he makes the turn to come back to me. While waiting I amuse myself by playing with cats, enjoying the beautiful day and praying. I say amuse myself by praying because if you've heard the expression..."if you want to make God laugh, tell Him your plans" you'll understand what I mean.
Clinton hears the symptoms, asks me a couple of questions and then says, "sounds like tetanus to me. Have you castrated recently?" Ummm...yes, last weekend and we cut, didn't band. We also gave all appropriate vaccinations at that time. Clinton tells me it's fairly unusual to have one get tetanus like this but it can and does happen. Even though it's never happened to one of my lambs before, it's happened now. At least that's our best guess and Clinton's worst guess is better than anything I know for sure.
I came home to give more shots in an attempt to save the lamb's life but it doesn't look good. I hate losing an animal even though I understand we, all of us, are terminal as soon as we draw that first breath. It's not a matter of if, it's a matter of when. Still, it rankles me to lose to death. I don't like it and fight against it even though death is more certain than taxes.
The good news is the ewe with bad scours is turned out with her lamb and both are doing well. The kittens at the barn are eating well and seem to be adjusting to being weaned too early by their mother. Dave's foot is doing somewhat better, dogs are healthy, horses and rest of sheep are fine, I'm good...all in all I'll take it.
As the Preacher in Ecclesiastes 3 said, "To everything there is a season and a time for every purpose under heaven. A time to be born and a time to die; a time to plant and a time to pluck up that which is planted..."
Nope, farm life is never static, rarely dull and always something happening at Thistle Cove Farm.
Wednesday, May 25, 2005
Spring @ Thistle Cove Farm
For such a low tech geek as I, this is a complete leap of faith...starting a blog! I'm more comfortable out in the pasture with my sheep and horses or sitting at the spinning wheel or loom than meandering my way around a computer.
Farm life is always interesting, seldom dull and never static. Such has been the case this week. It's been determined Dave does not have a broken foot (although it is the same foot the brown recluse bit him on last month - sigh) and, since learning this, he's been walking a bit less gingerly. He's still headed to Russia next month as a small business consultant and, hopefully, to help increase the flow of money by purchasing some delicious Orenburg shawls, hats and other offerings as they present themselves.
The Komi Kids Yarn Project was a huge success due to the assistance of so many people from around the world. The Children's Home in
Syktyvkar made many beautiful things from the natural fibers yarn we sent them. Those darling children recently sent me a hand crochet shawl they made as a thank you; please see our farm website - www.thistlecovefarm.com - for photos and the rest of the story.
Lambing is over this year and we had great success with a modicum of failures. I love seeing a pasture full of lambs playing and enjoying their young life; it greatly strengthens my faith in God and the order and design of the universe.
TCF Dan's Meri Scamp was born and he's a beauty! Scamp is a curly coated (sometimes a Curly horse can have a straight coat) American Curly horse with loud, pinto markings, a gaited step and the full knowledge he's special.
Today it's overcast again and the rain and cool temps continue; it's been an incredibly cool, rainy Spring. Kittens are calling for their breakfast, sheep are bleating their happiness at the weather and horses are calling my name. IOW, chores await.
Farm life is always interesting, seldom dull and never static. Such has been the case this week. It's been determined Dave does not have a broken foot (although it is the same foot the brown recluse bit him on last month - sigh) and, since learning this, he's been walking a bit less gingerly. He's still headed to Russia next month as a small business consultant and, hopefully, to help increase the flow of money by purchasing some delicious Orenburg shawls, hats and other offerings as they present themselves.
The Komi Kids Yarn Project was a huge success due to the assistance of so many people from around the world. The Children's Home in
Syktyvkar made many beautiful things from the natural fibers yarn we sent them. Those darling children recently sent me a hand crochet shawl they made as a thank you; please see our farm website - www.thistlecovefarm.com - for photos and the rest of the story.
Lambing is over this year and we had great success with a modicum of failures. I love seeing a pasture full of lambs playing and enjoying their young life; it greatly strengthens my faith in God and the order and design of the universe.
TCF Dan's Meri Scamp was born and he's a beauty! Scamp is a curly coated (sometimes a Curly horse can have a straight coat) American Curly horse with loud, pinto markings, a gaited step and the full knowledge he's special.
Today it's overcast again and the rain and cool temps continue; it's been an incredibly cool, rainy Spring. Kittens are calling for their breakfast, sheep are bleating their happiness at the weather and horses are calling my name. IOW, chores await.
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