A Day To Remember

Horse Stalls in the New Barn

Thursday dawned bright, sunny, and most of all - warm. Just what I was waiting for; a day designed for painting. Yes, I was going to try again. And another ceiling yet. This ceiling was in the extension of the new barn where the horse stalls are located. The stalls have 3 walls, with the 4th wall not there but open to the paddock. This is where the sheep go to shelter from the weather. The back of the stalls are stacked with bales of hay to within about 3 feet of the ceiling.

So I put on my painting togs, mix the turpentine and polyurethene in a cut off milk jug, swipe a new brush from Dan's stash and down I go to the stalls. Since I cannot manage the fence lock, I heave the tarp, ladder, and paint supplies over the gate then heave myself over. I have a hunch that my fence climbing days should be behind me but needs must.

There are a few challenges to working with polyurethene. One is that it is awfully sticky, another is that it runs down the brush and then your arm. I am a towering 5'3" and even standing on the 3rd rung of the ladder I cannot easily reach the ceiling. I am afraid to go up the 4th rung; that is when I call in the professionals. So I decide to start at the back of the stalls and lie on the hay bales and paint that section of the roof. The 3rd problem with polyurethene is that hay sticks to it and I look a bit like the straw man from the Wizard of Oz within 5 minutes.

There is also a problem with painting a barn ceiling. The problem is spiders. There are lots of them and they dangle in your face, get caught on your polyurethened arm, enmesh themselves in the hay and scare me a lot. I never used to mind spiders but then a white tail spider bite almost cost me my leg and I have been skittish ever since.

I have crawled down to the corner of the stalls and am lying on my back painting my way up. That is when I discover a truism that should revolutionize art history. Michelangelo did not like to sing. I think that this contributed mightily to the lyricism of the Sistine Chapel. He channeled his thwarted musical aspirations into his painting. The result is a miracle of beauty.  How do I know he didn't like to sing. Because I was singing the Teddy Bears' Picnic while I painted and got a mouthful of polyurethene and spider. I bet the same thing happened to Mike. He was singing away and got a glob of blue right down the tonsils. Probably didn't have any spiders in it; they would not have been so irreligious as to hang around a Chapel (or would they)? Anyway, I am spitting out poly and spiders (careful not to taint the hay) and I wipe my mouth with my shirt. Please don't tell my mother!

With mouth fully shut, I inch my way down toward the center of the stalls. And then the hay shifts. And it falls into some black hole. And so does my milk jug of polyurethene. And so do I. Well, actually I fall to the outside of the bales onto the gravel in front. I have a huge bruise on my hip and a slightly sprained wrist and a massively dented ego.

So much for not tainting the hay; I have now dumped an entire jug of polyurethene and turpentine into the cows' winter feed. I am not precisely proud of my morning's efforts but I face the music and Skype Dan to tell him what happened. He is gratifyingly more concerned for my well being than his ceiling, or his hay. I retire to bed for a nap.

I awake around 4:30 and after puttering around for a while I go to the main house to make myself an early dinner. That is when I realize that my day of disasters is not yet over.There are six gigantic cows in the patio and destroying Dan's perfect patch of lawn. Two cows have stayed in the paddock but the other six have broken through the fence, climbed the berm, and are now chowing down on the good stuff - formerly known as our lawn.

At any moment, they will break the glass topped table and metal chairs, knock against the deck stairs, and wander to the front of the house and from there out to the driveway and up and out to freedom. Thinking clearly and quickly (take note, Dan) I dash for the front gates which are always left open. I stop to spring the possum trap to avoid having a heavy hoof step in it and snap a bone. I shut the gates, go back to the house to make sure I'm not halucinating, shut all other gates and head up to a neighbor's to get some help. It is growing very dark but as I step to the roadway, I see headlights. Sir Merv is driving home and being the gentleman he is, he stops and lends a hand. Really, he is all the hands. I have no idea what to do.

He tries to herd the cows back into the paddock but gives up. Even he, a master cowman, cannot work with these cows. He calls them wild; I call them a gift from Hell. He leaves and comes back with a friend and the two of them patch the broken fence; somehow get the cows back into the paddock and reassure me that everything will be fine until tomorrow when I can open a gate to another paddock and the cows will saunter into that lower paddock where there is fresh grass.

I check that all the gates are shut and go to my quarters with paeans of praise for Merv and the kindness of strangers. New Zealanders have to be the loveliest people on planet. I also start Googling pot roast recipes. I think it's time to cull the herd.