Let A Thousand Flowers Bloom...

     

                         "For crowing there was not his equal in all the land…”

                                                                                                                     --Chaucer

                                            

                                                   Let a Thousand Flowers Bloom

               

                                        

 Siobhan and I have always kept chickens.  Presently we have eight nice laying hens and a fine young rooster; all are of the Mille Fleur d’Uccles breed, and are quite lovely to look at…Their name is French for “a thousand flowers”; it is an apt description of their beautiful plumage. Most d’Uccles are rather chummy by nature, and ours are no exception.  The little bantams often seek out our company, and seem content to follow us about the farm. They are industrious little creatures, earning their keep by eating bugs in the garden and generously supplying us with eggs…

Siobhan and I find chickens to be entertaining, as well as useful; they delight us daily with their antics.  They are bright-eyed with intelligence, and have wonderfully quirky personalities…

 One of my favorites is Marigold; she is a dear little hen, but she doesn’t seem to think she is a chicken…Each evening, just before dusk, I coax the chickens into their coop for the night.  They all go in ahead of me, clucking and fussing, except Marigold--she marches along beside me, with her chest puffed out and her wings slightly spread…looking for all the world as if she is saying “that’s it—go on in there, you chickens!”  

Oleander is our young rooster, still sweet and somewhat shy. Living with so many hens, he approaches all of life with great caution…He crows beautifully each morning from atop his favorite rock-- but he falls off his while doing so…

Dahlia is our eldest hen, and a favored friend of mine.  She is a gentle soul, and daily pecks the mole on my foot as if it were a bug.  If I sit in the grass, she will perch on my knee…

Poppy is Siobhan’s particular pet.  She has taught her to wear pearls and play a toy piano…Siobhan gives Poppy flying lessons—she carries the little chicken around the barnyard, tipping her gently from side to side, while Poppy calmly holds her wings out and pretends to fly...

Columbine and Aster are the greatest of mates—you never see one without the other; they often look to be gossiping as they wander about, clucking softly to each other…When these two are frightened, they bury their heads under the other hens’ bodies--often knocking them off their perch…

Iris, Lily, and Violet are our best layers, and would like to be mothers; but when it comes to sitting a nest, they all want to sit on the same egg!

                                         
                                     
                                                                     Marigold

                                    
                                                                   Oleander

                                                                          Dahlia





                                       

                                                                         Poppy

                                     
                                                       
                                 
                        

                                                           Columbine and Aster

                                                              Iris, Lily, and Violet
                                    
             
                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                   

Such is our little family of Mille Fleur d’Uccles.  Though they be but small, Siobhan and I value our chickens highly; they are a necessary and an  integral part of our life here on the farm.  We love our "flowered" chickens; they are cheerful little creatures, and they bring much joy to our lives.  They make us laugh.

When all is said and done, isn’t that what we all need—more cheerfulness, more joy and laughter?

Let a Thousand Flowers bloom!    

              

                             

Mother's Day Musings

                                                                                                                                                                                                                            
                                                               
                                        

                                                                   


Tomorrow is Mother's Day; I await it with pleasure and anticipation, for I am a mother...  I shall celebrate it early with my daughter, my dearest Siobhan. She will prepare an elegant brunch for two--feather-light muffins served with just-picked berries; fresh baked bread with homemade marmalade; luscious fruit with our own cheeses.   We shall share it by the goldfish pond, in the cooling shade of a gnarled oak tree.  We will dine among the flowers; soft conversation and gentle laughter will flow like the waterfall nearby.    Like Siobhan herself, the mood will be light and happy.

I often marvel at my daughter--how anyone could be blessed with such physical beauty, and have a beautiful spirit, as well.  There is no vanity, no meanness in Siobhan; no jealousy, nor envy.  Siobhan is Goodness and Light, Kindness and Compassion. She is a gentle soul with a tender heart.  She laughs easily and often;  I admire her attitude and her spirit. Siobhan is brave and true,  a Warrior in all that she believes in.   No one could be blessed with a better daughter or a truer friend.

                                                                                                                         






Tomorrow is Mother's Day; I await it with dread and trepidation, for I have a mother... I shall visit her in the afternoon, bearing gifts and flowers.  Silently and with a frown, she will add the flowers to her growing collection, and wordlessly toss the opened gifts onto the floor.  We shall sit in her formal living room upon her nicest chairs; with disapproval, she will condemn me for my weight,ridicule my clothes, and criticize my hair. She will speak with fondness of her beauty in younger days-- her jet black hair, her smooth olive skin, her flashing dark eyes, her tiny waist.  She will boast that even now she does not look her age--but Time has taken its toll.  She will complain of aches and pains, real and imagined; she will complain about her children, now grown. She will find fault with her house, her furniture, her clothes; all will be less than she deserves. My mother will berate and humiliate my father; he will quietly withdraw into that far-away place within himself, a place she cannot reach.  Like Mother herself, the mood will be dark and bitter.

My mother is a complex creature; for years I have tried to understand her.  Although she is often cruel, I love her for the simple  fact that she is my mother.  She did give birth to me; she fed me and clothed me as a child, although she did it grudgingly.  She is what she is. My mother thinks that physical beauty is the key to happiness, and beauty is all that really matters in her world.  She has spent her entire lifetime obsessing over her looks--constantly struggling to remain young, desperately trying to hang on to her beauty.  Throughout the years, my mother has used a mountain of face creams, eye creams, wrinkle creams...gallons of hair color, pounds of makeup.  But still Time marches on.  Reality creeps up on her, leaving insecurity and doubt.  She resorts to insulting and ridiculing others, so that she might feel better about herself.  Doing so publicly has left a lot of hurt feelings and enemies in her wake.  Her obsession with her own beauty has consumed her life, leaving  no time for friendships or hobbies.  It has blinded her to the true beauty around her--in all of nature, and in the faces and hearts of others.  It has left no room for kindness or compassion--or love. It has made her mean and bitter; still I pity her.  Beauty is fleeting-- when it is gone, what will be left but emptiness and misery?



                                                                        























              

Building A Gypsy Wagon--Part 3 / Repairing Wheels And Building A Floor / Work Progresses Slowly...

                     

  

  The wagon work progresses slowly; our farm work and housework have to come first. Even so, we manage to work on it most evenings… Siobhan and I work together well.  We share an easy comradery, laughing and talking as we work.

Siobhan and I both like to work with wood—to saw, sand, and paint.   We often use my father’s old tools, their handles worn smooth from years in his skilled and gentle hands.   I love the beauty of the wood grain on the hammer’s handle, and the way it fits in my hand.  Siobhan has a fondness for his wood chisels, and uses them with a master’s touch…The first time she held one in her hand, she said “I’m not sure HOW I know, but I KNOW that I can do this;  perhaps I have done this before— in another lifetime…”.  Then with confidence and precision, she chiseled a hinge mortise perfectly on her first attempt-- with no help, instruction, or advice. ( It was really quite unsettling-- but a welcome surprise, nonetheless!).

After much deliberation, Siobhan and I decided to use 1" tongue-and-groove lumber for the flooring, and 1/2" tongue-and-groove lumber with 2" x 2" framing for the walls.  We opted to  build each wall in three panels (bottom to top), painting and varnishing each piece before securing to the wagon floor, or to adjoining panels.
 

To date, Siobhan and I have completed the following work:

repair/paint/stencil/varnish wagon undercarriage and wheels;
build/stain/varnish a sturdy floor;

build/paint/stencil/varnish/secure 20" x 14' wall panel, left side of wagon;
paint/varnish/secure 8 wood corbels (12" x 14" x 3") along left wall at 2' intervals;
build/stain/varnish 18" x 14' ledge onto left side wall, secure to corbels;

build/paint/stencil/varnish/secure 20" x 14' wall panel, right side of wagon;
paint/varnish/secure 8 wood corbels (12" x 14" x 3") along right wall at 2' intervals;
build/stain/varnish 18" x 14' ledge onto right side wall, secure to corbels;

build/paint/stencil/varnish/secure lower back panel;
build/paint/stencil/varnish/secure cookery storage cabinet beneath back wall;
build/stain/varnish/secure hay cratch/rack onto lower back panel;

build/stain/varnish/secure framework for sleeping quarters, upper and lower berths, back of wagon;
build/stain/varnish door frame and bracing, front of wagon.



And our work continues...

                                

**For more in-depth details of our wagon construction, as well as an on-going list of building materials and costs, please visit us at our website:  www.just2gypsies.com 

The Heart Remembers...

                                  


 

 Siobhan and I often visit our young friend, George, who resides in a neighboring town.  Though long gone now, George is a true kindred spirit; his Celtic roots, his passion for horses, and his circus ties surely make him so.  We take him roses, red and gold…and fragrant stems of rosemary.  (Rich Red and Old Gold, the time-honored colors of the circus; Rosemary is for remembrance.)

 

 George was a circus equestrian by trade—an orphan from Scotland, a long way from home.  He was considered an accomplished rider, and was pleasing in both manner and appearance...

In the fall of 1827, with much excitement and fanfare, the circus came to town.  Here beneath the big top, in front of a cheering crowd, young George fell to his death.  His fellow performers were devastated.  With heavy hearts, they buried George in the town cemetery; and when the circus  packed up to go, tearfully they left him…

  The circus moved on--but for many years after his death, George’s friends would visit him whenever their travels brought them near.  Time-weathered and faded, you can still read the names and messages they carved on his tombstone...

  I smile to think what a picture they must have made, these friends as they came to visit …the exotic acrobats and proud lion tamers, boldly walking through the tall iron gates…the bright parade of clowns and jugglers strolling among the stark tombstones... the ringing sounds of the equestrians’ boots and spurs, tapping on the flagstone paths…and at the rear of the small procession, the sweetest of souls-- the tender-hearted Fat Lady, gently dabbing her eyes with a lace-edged hanky... How George must have smiled down from Heaven to see his old friends again!

But the years passed, and his friends grew old.  Then one by one, they too were gone…  Now, after 185 years, no one is left to visit poor George-- except Siobhan and me.   So we have taken him into our hearts and into our clan; we visit and leave fresh flowers on his grave.

   George, we hope you find comfort in our small attentions, such as they are--please know that you truly are not forgotten….”Chuid eile i siochain, mo chara.” Rest in Peace, My Friend.  “Cuimhin an croi.”  The Heart Remembers….


                                                                       

 

I Saw The Sun Rise...

 



               

I arose early this morning, and while it was yet dark I stood barefoot and bathrobed on our back stoop.  With steaming coffee cup in hand, I let the last vestiges of the night engulf me–that eerie quiet, the stillness that settles like an unseen mist right before the dawn. Then just as the sun began to rise, and the faintest glow of light painted the horizon, I heard the cry of a lone owl in the still-dark forest–so soft, so plaintive, so unbearably beautiful that it made me want to weep.  What a glorious way to start a day…

                                                       
                         
        








                                                                                   

Treasure in the weeds.../ Building A Gypsy Wagon--Part 2, Axles And Wheels...

                                                                        

Siobhan and I often roam about the countryside, searching for rare roots and wild herbs.  On one such jaunt we came across an old farm wagon, sitting forlornly in an overgrown field.  With baskets in hand, we wandered toward the wagon…

 Lightly I touched the weathered wheels, the sun-bleached axles, the well-worn tongue.  Beneath the aged grain, silken and grey, the old wood had remained strong and true.  I thought of all the seasons that wagon must have seen —of all the trips to town it had made, hauling corn and wheat, straw and hay; of all the trips back home again, with flour and sugar, cornmeal and molasses…I thought of how the much-heralded tractor had come along, and changed life forever for the old wagon.   No longer of use, it was abandoned and forgotten.

   It saddened me to think of such a fine old wagon left to rot in a field.  Siobhan felt compassion for the old wagon as well—perhaps we could use it to build our gypsy wagon… We inquired of the farmer, and he kindly agreed to sell it to us.  What good fortune, to find such a treasure in the weeds!  And now the old wagon will be useful again; we are pleased to give it a new life…  

                                                                           

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Believe In Your Dreams.../ Building A Gypsy Wagon--Part 1

         Siobhan once gave me a much treasured gift—a flat river rock, cool and smooth, with “believe in your dreams” etched upon it. Gently I held that small rock in my hand, and my thoughts drifted to the days of my childhood--back to a time when dreaming was like breathing, and a child’s innocence was the only thing needed to believe…back to the days when my mother’s favorite threat was to send me away with the gypsies—and my favorite dream was to GO.  How my child’s heart longed for a gypsy horse and wagon…oh, to live a gypsy’s life--to watch the world’s wonders roll past my window each day, and to sleep beneath the moon and stars each night… Such are the happy dreams of childhood.

Now I am grown, with a daughter of my own, and my childhood dreams all but forgotten.  To be sure, Siobhan and I have had horses most of her life.  Sadly, the gypsy wagon has remained a dim and dusty memory--until now!   A short time ago, I came upon Romany wagon plans for sale.   I bought a copy, thinking they would be a nice keepsake for Siobhan—a nod to our heritage, a reminder of our past.  To my delight, the plans were clear and concise, and beautifully detailed.   Siobhan and I decided at once to use them as they were intended—to build a gypsy wagon.  And so we shall…