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Magnetic North

Vicki with her angora rabbit, Peaches

Vicki Biggs-Anderson
Vicki lives  on a 100-year-old homestead in Colvill that she and her late husband, Paul moved to from the Twin Cities 23 years ago.
She shares this special place with five cashmere and milk goats,  a dozen-plus laying hens, three talkative geese an assortment of wild and domestic ducks, six angora rabbits, a house cat , a yellow Lab and a rescue retriever/kangaroo and one very spoiled Bourbon Red turkey.
When not feeding, chasing or changing "sheets" for all of the above, Vicki writes, volunteers, knits, wanders the woods, balances rocks and, "when a fit of discipline strikes," dives into her decade of weekly columns for the old News-Herald in search of a book or screenplay or, more like, a sit-com.  Listen at your convenience by subscribing to a podcast.

Arts, cultural and history features on WTIP are made possible in part by funding from the Minnesota Arts and Cultural Heritage Fund. Check out other programs and features funded in part with support from the Heritage Fund.



What's On:

Magnetic North: A Time To Let Go Or Make Soup

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Welcome back to Magnetic North, where the first fingers of fall tickled us awake on the very last days of August. Even the State Fair down in St. Paul couldn’t seem to bring back the sauna weather of the past months. And, along with Fred Smith of Wildersmith on the Gunflint, I am nearly delirious with joy. Ahhhhhhh, cold weather is so close I can taste it!
Of course, there are a few drawbacks to our six months of hard winter weather. For me, the first is the departure of my little band of mallards. Having finally found our pond two weeks ago, the seven drakes and 10 ducks spend more and more time away from mama duck. They show up for breakfast and dinner, as usual. But fewer hours are spent snoozing under the deck or asparagus fronds. Now, more often than not, when I hear their raucous quacks, the sound comes from afar. Either high in the sky as they strengthen their young wings. Or from away out on the west meadow, where the cattails and duckweed on the pond hide the birds from the eyes of circling hawks and eagles. 
In keeping with my resolve to raise the mallards for the wild, not one of them has a name. They are all simply, “Baby.” 
And yet, this year, I’ve crossed a line I swore I would not. I’ve fallen in love with a little female mallard. One who stands out from the rest because of her honey color. Her feathers are so different from the other females that I couldn’t help but notice her. And before long, I began looking for her first thing in the morning, before I even took a beak count to see how many had survived yet another night outside. Three of the original flock have gone missing since June 4. So far, the only predation we’ve had this year. Knock wood!
Now, as the mallards inch closer to their migration date, I dream of keeping that one pretty little honey duck - and, of course, a mate. My rationalization for such a dastardly act is pitiful. I tell myself that if I keep her and a drake I won’t have to buy ducklings next spring, saving about 40 bucks.  No, I have not factored in the cost of feeding a pair all winter and the prospect of losing both to illness as they’ll be cooped up with the domestic ducks and a couple dozen snarky chickens. As I said, pitiful!
I ask for prayers that I do the right thing and let her go. Or, that she is wily enough by now to avoid my clutches in the event I weaken.
My other dilemma involves my recent goat cheese making success. Each batch of delicious chevre leaves me with more than a quart of whey. Whey is the liquid that drains off the curds as they hang in the cheesecloth. I poured the first few quarts down the drain before realizing that surely such nutritious stuff would be useful. It is! Thanks to Google and a community of obsessive cheese heads like me, I now use my excess whey for soup stock and baking. Very cool and very yummy.
Soup and real bread are two more reasons to love winter at our house. That and stoking the wood furnace and cook stove, standing over the grate where the warm, maple scented air rises in the morning, and letting my robe billow out around me like a dirigible about to ascend into the clouds. Hardly a likely outcome for someone who has taken to stuffing herself with goat cheese and crackers twice a day!
Ahhhh, the joys of winter. They are so many and so delightful, what need have I of more ducks? Even one the color of honey who I’ll miss more than all the rest.
Airdate: September 6, 2010


Magnetic North: A Cheesy Success Story

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Welcome back to Magnetic North and one happy goat milker. I have just turned out my first successful batch of chevre. Chevre, that’s French for creamy, sweet, almost-better-than-dark chocolate, cheese! 

My first batch, made soon after I acquired my Alpine milk goat, turned out - well.....yucky. Think Silly Putty and you’ll pretty much get the picture. Well, that was over a year ago and since then, I’ve gotten more and more milk from the goat and learned a thing or two about cheese making.

First, read the cheese-making book. Second, follow the directions for processing the milk. Third, read the recipe and don’t improvise like you usually do. One would think that having arrived at the venerable age I have, I’d have learned to do all of the above. But no.


Lucky for me, I’m stubborn. I come from a long line of Brits and defeat is not in my genetic profile.
And so, on the eve of our last wave of summer guest invasion, I began collecting quart jars of goat’s milk and readied my cheese-making supplies.


I should tell you that my goat, Harte, named not for the organ, but the writer, Brett Harte, is too much fun to milk to consider the task work. Once or twice a day I take a big old blue zippered carryall bag and stuff it with the following:


* two coffee cans half full of scrumptious feed, a blend specially made for lactating goats,


* A tall plastic pitcher with a twist-on top,


* A washcloth that’s just been soaked in hot, soapy water packed into a plastic bag,


* antibiotic spray, udder balm - like the richest hand cream you’ve ever known, and a few slices of gala organic apple.


Once inside the corral I am surrounded by six anxious goats and one very polite, but hungry, llama. To their credit, no one lays a hoof on me as I distribute the contents of one coffee can between two feeding stations. Then, as the rest snarf down their chow, I take Harte by her collar into the barn and shut the door. She is already up on the metal milking stand by the time I get all my supplies ready. Then, it’s give her the other can of feed - she gets as much as all the rest combined because she is making milk - thread the milk stand chain through her collar and prepare her udder. A spray of antiseptic, a rubdown with that warm washcloth and a couple of clean-the-jets squirts of milk and we are into the routine.


Harte finishes the grain before I have even an inch of milk in the pitcher. So keeping her content for the next 15 or 20 minutes is a challenge. Massage, scratching and my pathetic attempt at singing gets the job done. And no, I WILL NOT be sharing Harte’s top 10 milking songs. That’s between me and my goat!


Each milking nets anywhere from two to four cups of milk, all of which has to be cooled within a half hour to a certain temperature to qualify for the two top grades of milk. Sloppy cooling results in off tasting milk or cheese. And who wants that? Well, besides my Lab, Scout?


After cooling the milk in a sink full of cold water and ice cubes, I pasteurize it in a double boiler. Bringing the milk to 160 degrees for three minutes, then pouring it into sterilized glass jars which I store in the fridge until cheese-making time. I need 16 cups of milk to make two pounds of chevre. That, and some rennet tablets, yards and yards of cheesecloth, about a day to set and drain the curds and that’s it.


Simple? Yes. Easy? No. But then if I wanted easy I wouldn’t be living up here. Wouldn’t be keeping chickens for their eggs or angora rabbits for their fabulous fuzz. And, need I say, I wouldn’t be having nearly as much fun or stuff to write about!

Airdate: August 28, 2010


Summer road construction is in full swing

Summer drives in unfamiliar territory

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Welcome back to Magnetic North, a place so spectacularly wonderful that human beings will put themselves through summer road construction hell numerous times just to be here for a matter or hours or days. Driving anywhere for pleasure in the summer in this state is what my adult daughter would call counterintuitive. Or, in plain English, bat crazy!

Bad enough that everyone who owns wheels is out on the roads and, for the most part, driving as if they are either drugged or in dire need of a restroom. Add to that the ubiquitous orange cones dotting the shoulders of every freeway and donkey path in the state - icons for the phrase “Abandon hope all ye who enter here.”

Paul and I have had several unavoidable trips to the Twin Cities this summer. Memorial services for dear friends. Sad times that inexplicably turn into delightful hugs and conversations with those we haven’t seen for ages. We end up smiling more often than not. A nice thing, given that we had to navigate through the massive redo of the Duluth freeway, the unannounced closing of our exit in the cities near midnight on a stifling hot night and a torrential downpour as we returned via Duluth during the hour when lightning took out the lift bridge between Park Point and the city. And, because as we all know so well, God has a really big sense of humor, yes, the bridge was in the “up” position at the time.

In-between construction delays and detours to places that aren’t on any map, we can relax and enjoy the scenery. Until someone realizes that we’ve passed the same lake or cabin or pile of Red Bull cans twice in the past hour. This is no biggy....unless the driver is male. What is that about anyway? Asking for directions apparently is akin to admitting one is lost. So does lost equal loser?

I am the designated driver in our marriage and so, when I got lost last month somewhere near Two Island Lake and The Grade, I promptly admitted it. Paul seemed unconcerned. He loves to drive the back roads of Cook County.  Coincidentally, though, just as I was plotting my next wrong turn, I came upon a shiny blue sport car at an intersection with two guys and most of the contents of the Cabela’s catalog crammed inside.

The older of the two, the dad and driver, was looking both ways and the son had what appeared to be a wall map open.

I lowered my window and smiled at the driver. He pretended not to see me. So I honked my horn and shouted, “Are you lost?”

The man was trapped. “Well, we might be,” he said, at last lowering his window. “Daaaaa-aaad,” the boy croaked. “Ask her if we are anywhere near the Gunflint Trail!”

As badly as I wanted to say, “Oh, you mean back in Minnesota?” or “Define near,” I answered politely, “Just minutes away.” And I gave them explicit directions back to the Trail.

As we parted company with the visitors, Paul looked puzzled. “How come you could give them directions but we are lost?’ he asked.

“Well, I may not know where I am,” I replied. “But I know where I came from.” That struck me as the essence of summer driving. Especially in rural and remote areas like ours.  So often, I hear tourist complain that they drove miles and miles without seeing any signs indicating what road they might be on. Worse, a road might be called Bear Paw Path, but the gal at the bait shop tells you head for The Old Dump Road. Methinks that’s what happened to the boy and his dad on The Grade.

All this wouldn’t faze a true North Shore aficionado. Only heat and humidity the likes of which they planned to leave behind in the cities can do that. Uh, oh. This summer might just have wrecked that myth. Yes, some of my friends DO have air conditioners. And when summer comes with road work and lost boys and their fathers, some Cook County residents actually leave the country! After all, Canada’s only one culvert replacement two asphalt overlayments  and three “Reduced Speed Work Zone” signs away.

Meanwhile, back on the farm, all is well. Summer the llama has run away twice in the past week. She is for sale. The White Chinese goose gosling is all white, no more yellow down, but still peeping, not honking. The young mallards are flying around the house and over the pond. Maybe they’ll actually land in it one day. Harte, my Alpine goat is putting out two quarts of milk a day. Too much for us to drink. And the cashmere goats’ winter fleece is coming in. Even in this heat!

All in all, the summer has been better than good. We can’t call it great. Not with two memorial services behind us and one to go this weekend. The world without dear friends, those who make up our notion of not just where we are but who we are, is a different place. A bit unfamiliar. Slightly off. And because of that, our journey, through all the seasons we have left will be....well, different.

In Minnesota Speak, that means it’ll be “OK, but could be better.” God bless you, “Super” and Paulus and Frank. We miss each one of you so doggone much.



Magnetic North: Failure-To-Launch Ducks And Chicken Neuroses

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Welcome back to Magnetic North, where fireflies light up the nights and the meadow wears a rainbow of flowers. As always by mid-July, we are awash in yellows: birds’-foot trefoil and buttercups. Then there are the purples of clovers and joe pye weed. The daisies: big, small and nearly invisible. And, to the foragers among us, of course, the itty-bitty strawberries hiding beneath leaves so close to the ground only a clever bear could sniff them out. My summer’s harvest of these fruits wouldn’t fill a tart shell. But I’ve got my eye on two fabulous wild raspberry patches that will fill a corner of my freezer.
That is....if I remember to go pick. Mainly because even with so many more hours of daylight, there seem to never be enough to get everything done. My to-do list of chores looks like the outline for a farm-based reality show. Take this entry, for example: move the mallards to the pond. Today!!! 
Fact is, I first made that move last month. Still have the scratches on both arms to prove it. Trouble is, you might notice should you visit my farm that there are no mallards on the pond. But there are 20 such birds, larding around under our deck and eating their fill of grass and slugs. Note to gardeners out there: If you have slugs and don’t want them, get a duck. 
But I digress. Paul and I get mallards each year to enjoy watching them swim, not to listen to them noshing and gabbling to each other underfoot. Too bad. This year’s flock apparently took a vote after a night or two in the willows at the pond’s inlet and decided to move back in with mom and dad. I believe in human terms this is called, “failure to launch?”
And so, as each day dawns, I vow to move them down to the water  - once and for all. First, I tried bribes…like the pied piper, only without the pipes. Instead I shake two red coffee cans filled with duck feed, a delicious marimba sound that brings them quacking and fluttering around me. Sadly, before I’ve led them to the pond’s edge, the little flying rats have gorged themselves once more on creepy-crawling yum-yums along the way and fly back to their deckside pad. Next, I set the dog on them. Then I threatened them with starvation. They laughed at me. Well, not really laughed. But they definitely snickered!
Next on my list of Herculean tasks is moving yet another flock of birds. It’s high time for the new barn rooster and his girls to go to the barn. However, timing is everything with chickens. Up until now, the birds have known only a large, airy but snug garage and their straw-filled kiddy pool crib. Their digs in the barn are ready, but I waver as to the right time of day to enforce the move. If I do it in daylight, it means catching all 10 of them - scaring the wits out of them and adding more scratches to my poor arms. But they would have hours of daylight to get used to the barn before dark.  If I do it at night, though, I can pick the birds up without a struggle. They can’t see in the dark and are super easy to handle. But they would wake up in a strange place and who knows what kinds of neuroses that might bring on.
As I ponder these weighty issues, I do envy the critters, both domestic and wild. My bunnies and birds and goats doubtless don’t worry about where their next blade of grass or slug is coming from. Much less where they’ll go to sleep after dinner. And the wild things, the two does out on the meadow with their three fawns...well, all they seem to care about is keeping the little dickens safe. And loving them. A lesson for us all, I think. 
And so, on these gorgeous summer days, with meadow flowers to count, naps to take in a sunny spot, and those two wild raspberry patches to keep an eye on, maybe the best To-Do is just To Be. Methinks I’ll give that a shot. The ducks and chicks can wait a bit longer. Heck, maybe even ‘til August!
Airdate: July 24, 2010

Hope, the baby gosling

Magnetic North: Hope Hatches

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 Welcome back to Magnetic North, a place of constant beauty AND almost hourly surprises…most of them pleasant. But others...well, others might just prove to be somewhat of a trial.
Case in point - a few weeks ago when I opened the door to the goose pen and heard an unfamiliar peep along with the usual wild honking of Hold Me and Touch Me. My two White Chinese geese are without a doubt the least appealing inhabitants of our farm. They drown out conversation with their ear-breaking shrieks. They hiss. They bite. In short, they offend everyone. Except each other, of course. Devotion between mated geese is legendary. And my pair are mad about each other.
Naturally, such involvement leads to more geese, so I have conscientiously gathered Touch Me’s eggs, allowing her to set only on fake wood eggs to satisfy her maternal instincts. I figured when she was sick of zero results, she would get up and rejoin Hold Me on his rounds. I was anxious for that day to come only because the male goose was so lonely without his mate that he followed me everywhere, nibbling my ankles and even pinching my arms if I didn’t pet him or pick him up for a little cuddle.
My prayers were answered on Father’s Day. Another proof positive that when I pray I really, really MUST remember to BE SPECIFIC!
As the late John Lennon so aptly said, “Life is what happens when we are making other plans.” And life in the form of a fluffy, yellow, wildly peeping gosling is what greeted me when I opened the door to the goose pen. Oh, yes. I am Gramma goose. Lucky me.
The proud mama and papa now parade their little fuzz ball all over the property, terrorizing any goat/duck/dog or chicken that dares to gaze their way. As for me, well, I am allowed the usual gramma perks. I can help the gosling up a steep step. And feed her without fear of losing an eye. Other than that, I’m on the D list.
Her name, in case you wondered, is Grace. Not for her sense of balance or manners. She is every bit as fractious as her parents. No, I call her Grace in the fervent hope that she is a female. Goose eggs, you see, are very big and very useful. And if one of the parents go missing, an extra girl would be way better than two grief-stricken bachelors. Trust me on that one.
And what if she is a he? In that case, the name will be pretty close to unspeakable on a family radio station, I can assure you.
That said, Happy Independence Day, everyone. May your fireworks be glorious, your charcoal stay lit until the burgers are done and all children be willing to go to bed before July Fifth.
As I said before, specificity in prayers is vital. Vital!

Mallard ducklings

Magnetic North: Wisdom from the beaks of birds

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Welcome back to Magnetic North, a place that people who absolutely, positively HATE hot call the best place on earth...usually.  This past week, temperatures inched above 80 degrees waaaaay too soon. And that makes most of us more than just a little snarly. Fact is, we really don’t expect more than a handful of sauna-like days in a whole summer. And here we are, well BEFORE Memorial Day weekend, sweatin’ like prize piggies at the State Fair. All I can say is, this better be short-lived. 
Despite wanting to do nothing more than curl up in the cool and comfy downstairs level of the house with a good book last Monday, I dutifully readied the outdoor pen for the mallard ducklings. That means stringing a tarp - for shade - over the top of the wire enclosure built onto our chicken coop: a job calling for flexibility, working overhead bent over backwards, and the willingness to ingest spider webs and their winter leftovers. 
In the process of doing that I find numerous breaches in the wire perimeters. My new electric staple gun closes the gaps in minutes. A good thing, since I’m seriously considering ripping all my clothes off just to cool down a bit. To complete the duckling palace, I lay a deep layer of straw on the dirt floor of the pen, plunk a big old round rubber stock waterer in the center of the pen and place a plywood panel up against the coop for their bunkhouse. I’ll transfer the little darlings from their nursery in the garage later tonight. One of my favorite to-dos, as I get to catch, cuddle and release all 21 ducklings in the process.
Paul and I have raised mallard ducklings for years, putting them on our pond and feeding them until the leaves turn and they strike out for warmer places. We watch them paddle around all day, obsessively count the flock, worry about raptors and land predators but, best of all, just sit on an old bench close to the water’s edge, and the growing ducks and drakes swim and bob for food as the cattails and duckweed grow taller and then go to seed. One or two birds stand out, usually drakes. This year, that one will be the duckling with a super-dark face. We haven’t picked a name for the bird yet, but it will be gender neutral. Like the one we gave our oldest Blue Swedish, Bubba. When Bubba began to lay eggs, she became Bubbles without any strain.
Doing seasonal chores like duckling transfer is one of the joys of living as we do. Less fun are the unexpected break-downs and -outs. I think of the six-hour-long llama chase last Sunday that had Summer, our gorgeous llama, leading me and our friend Nick up and down Caspers Hill Road and through two neighbors’ property before she allowed herself to be penned up. 
But not even that compares to being dragged to the ground by a hungry goat, Bosco, who decided to plant both his front hooves in my right coat pocket in his quest for grain. I’ve had many a pratfall courtesy of my critters over the years, but this was a first. And thanks to WTIP news director Barbara Jean, who just happened to be doing a feature story involving our farm that morning, this ignominious moment is yours to behold on video on the station website. Note to self: Be aware that ANYone these days is possibly filming every move I make, so no matter how hot it gets, keep clothes ON.
Frankly, I’d sooner concentrate on the beauty all around us now that heat and moisture has arrived. The wild strawberry blossoms underfoot in the meadow, the red buds on the tamaracks, the bullfrog channeling Pavarotti in the vicinity of our rain barrel and the wild song of Canada honkers overhead. When first I heard them this year, I felt a stab of envy for my earthbound White Chinese geese. Descended from wild swans, my noisy pets can fly, but only high enough off the ground to lightly sweep the grass with their feet. “Don’t look up,” I muttered as the honkers soared and taunted us. But my gander, Touch Me, just rubbed the underside of his beak on the ground while making his “I need - I need” noise. I pick him up, lifting him farther off the earth than his wings will ever take him. And for him, that’s enough.
Me too.
Just a little critter wisdom on a much-too-hot-day in the best place on earth.
For WTIP, this is Vicki Biggs-Anderson with Magnetic North.

Summer the llama

Magnetic North: Retrieving Summer

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Welcome back to Magnetic North, where the first green Easter of my life here is about to dawn. Other Easters have seen blizzards, ice storms and weather so bad even a hungry bunny wouldn’t venture out in it. But this year, with temperatures in the 60s this week - yes, I said 60s - greenup is hinting at coming with the first good rain.

Of course, being Minnesotans, we rave about the warm weather for all of 30 seconds before prophesying gloom and doom from lack of moisture. True, fire is a factor in these woods and roadsides. Especially with lightning strikes and the influx of people. So before you know it, we’re into full-blown “Remember when....” tales of fires dating back as far as the oldest one at the talk-in can recall.

As I crunch across our meadow, our llama, Summer, in tow, I remember past dry springs and the fires that threaten to follow in their wake. “Don’t worry girl,” I tell her, more for my hearing than hers. “It’ll rain soon. Probably the whole month of June - just like it always does.”

Summer doesn’t know what “always” happens in Minnesota in spring. She is coming up on her first anniversary here, having been brought up from her Iowa home last May. Summer may or may not remember those first three years of life down south. But lucky for me, she remembers the sound of grain shaken in a can and how yummy goat chow is. Because from time to time, Summer goes walking - walking without me OR my permission. Add a night of ferocious wind gusts to that tendency and you have a situation.

Wind undoes all kinds of things. From entire forests to puny human plans for a morning. My barn doors are a case in point. A week ago the wind huffed and puffed and blew the back door to the barn open wide…so wide that when I looked out in the morning, all looked just fine. The door was flat against the side of the barn and the goats and Summer were long gone. Of course, I saw none of that. So I sat slurping oatmeal and chatting on the phone until I was good and ready to do chores. Only when I got to the corral gate and saw the front barn door still shut and latched did I get the picture.

Before I’d even gotten into the corral, the herd of six goats surrounded me, forming a vortex around the one coffee can full of grain I held high in the air. After the biggest goat, Bosco, managed to hook one hoof in my barn coat pocket and another on my shoulder, I chucked the can heavenward, accompanied by a few choice words.

After banishing the goats to the corral and securing the gate, I beat it back to the house where my patient husband was waiting to go downtown. “Sorry, honey, the llama’s out so we’ll have to go later,” I said as I grabbed the car keys and slammed out the back door. Not that I planned to get her into the car when I found her, mind you. My hope was to find her, then get OUT and walk her home.

Before getting as far as the end of our driveway, I spied the brunette hulk across the road in a neighbor’s yard. I imagined she passed up grazing in her own meadow simply because it felt so delicious to gallop down our long driveway and peruse forbidden grass. But would she forego the taste of freedom for a bit of goat chow?

She would. Without so much as crossing the road myself I retrieved my runaway with a few shakes of the grain can. And you know, I think she was genuinely glad to be retrieved! Once she recognized me and heard the shake/shake/shake of the can calling, she perked up her gorgeous ears, batted her to-die-for lashes and cantered merrily back to her mama. It was a simple thing to walk her home, grain can perched on my shoulder so that Summer could eat her way home.
Mission accomplished, I slammed back into the house and called for Paul to get ready to go to town after all.

He was not impressed with my speedy capture.

“You know, this place is getting crazy,” he said, as he pulled on his hat and gloves for the second time in less than a half hour.

“Getting?” I laughed. “I’d say we’re already there!”

Airdate: April 3, 2010


April Fool


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Welcome back to Magnetic North, where mud season seems to have come and gone. But wait, April Fool’s is right around the corner. Remember last year? I had to don snowshoes to get out to our barn that day. This winter has been merciful in its duration, cold and snow. Just enough to have fun, but not so much that it takes two summers before we recover. And while most Marches find me muttering “I don’t think I’m going to make it,” while staring out over our still white meadow, this year I can see the first hints of green on the ground.

I WILL say that chores are more of a drag now. My old green plastic kiddy sled I use to haul water buckets, grain and hay, glides over snow no matter how much stuff is piled on it. Now, with only dry grass between house and barn, I fantasize about a nice little four-wheel wagon instead of my suddenly sluggish sled.

The chores take hours and hours on these first days of spring. Mainly because its so darned cool to be outside without hat, coat, gloves and ice cleats weighing me down. And the joy of being able to simply toss out the water in buckets! No more thawing them, and the frozen mud on their bottoms, in our hallway.

Not to mention the fun of puttering around, picking up the detritus of winter - the deer mouse carcass outside the barn door. The earring I thought I lost in the coop, found in the corral. The fallen branches that make a nifty hay feeder for the goats. And the petrified Halloween pumpkin skin that makes our Lab’s favorite-ever Frisbee.

We finally got the 60-foot tall spruce that fell on the outhouse last year fully down. When our friend and his two grown sons finished the job, the reason for the old tree’s tumble came to light. Solid rot except for a small living artery that kept the tree’s top alive these past years. So when those terrific winds sneaked up on her in the night, she broke.

And yet, she twisted just enough on her way down to miss the chicken coop and run by inches. And the outhouse? Just a small hole in the roof. Hey, free ventilation!

On another goat note, the electric fence around the corral is on the fritz again, so my darlings are roaming free alongside me for now. They peel off in twos, Alpine mom and kid lounge with their sides pressed against a large rock, shamelessly soaking in the warmth.

Yearling cashmere kids butting each other for a turn in the sandy horseshoe pits, marvelous rolling and scritch-scratching fun. For them, as for me, the possibilities of what to do with a day seem endless.

The waters themselves can’t seem to be still.  Even in the dark of evening, I can just barely hear the familiar voice of hundreds of intermittent streams as they rush around the meadow. Winter’s silence is broken. Long live the spring of 2010.

April Fool’s blizzards and all!


Oscar statue

Magnetic North: Return from LaLa Land

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Welcome back to Magnetic North, a place I find so hard to leave that only grandchildren and my only child, their mother, could pull me away. Yes, even in March.

This time last week I was in Los Angeles, dreaming huge dreams about Oscar night. My daughter and son-in-law traditionally attend a party. And I - quite UN-traditionally, go too if I am in town.  Lest I mislead you any further, this party is a neighborhood soiree. Were it anywhere but L.A., you’d call it a potluck. Deviled eggs, lasagna, too many cakes, salad and so forth. But instead of chips and pop, foo-foo cheeses and wine.

And of course, a fat kitty of $5 bills for the lucky person who gets the most winners right. My son-in-law won this year. As perhaps the only one there with a direct line to the movie industry - he’s a film editor - there was understandably some carping about unfair insider information from the first runner-up.

Observing these highly unusual events is one of the things I like about trips to L.A. But frankly, without family there to hug and fuss over, I’d rather be just about anywhere else.

But what would you expect from someone who spends hours combing out cashmere goats at midnight in a freezing barn and thanks the good Lord every day for the privilege?

Traveling to L.A., or anywhere for that matter, is nearly as dramatic as anything encountered upon arrival. The weirdness at airports could keep a comedian in material for a lifetime. Take my check-in pat-down at LAX upon departure this week.

Thanks to modern medicine, I am packing metal in both knees, my back and my right shoulder.  So ever since 9/11, I’ve spent at least 15 minutes before getting on any plane being “wanded” and patted down by a female security agent. These gals are humorless and totally averse to chitchat whilst doing their job. And so I was surprised to hear gales of laughter coming from the checkpoint next to mine while I endured what I try to imagine is a free healing touch session.

The bursts of mirth came from a rather portly woman of a certain age who was also at the pat-down part of the ordeal. Trouble was, the poor thing appeared to be excruciatingly ticklish. The arms and legs were bad enough - causing ear-piercing shrieks followed by apologies and spasms of breathless giggling

“Oh, she’s gotta go into a private screening booth,” my guard muttered more to herself than to me. Then, “Please turn the waistband of your blue jeans outward, ma’am,” to me.

But my poor neighbor was going to be publicly tormented, it seemed.

“Oh, geez, I’m so sorry!” she squealed, “I just can’t help it! - Ha, ha, ha, OK, OK, I’m fine now, go ‘head.”

And then, the instant the guard touched her back, the laugh track began anew.

She was still whooping away as I made my way to my departure gate. And off and on I’d catch bits of conversation about her between other passengers. Like, “With my luck she’ll be in the seat next to mine.” Or, “Poor baby, it’s like when you’re in church and you think of something silly and start snickering and can’t stop because you know you’re making a scene, and maybe even getting into big trouble, but that only makes it worse?”

Yep, for the first time since I’d landed in L.A., the people around me were talking about something besides the Oscars. Real life always wins out.

Paul and I sure felt that way when we drove into our mud and ice driveway. Dear old Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz was right, there is no place like home. Now, if only I could find a pair of magic ruby slippers to click together to get me to and from.

Airdate: March 13, 2010


Vicki's cashmere cuties, Daisy and Dolly

Magnetic North: Ruminating on ruminates

MagNorth_20100305.mp38.37 MB

Welcome back to Magnetic North, where winter’s grip is loosening, day by day, drip by drip, and we who count the hours of daylight wax poetic…over just about anything.

As a woman of a certain age, it’s been a while since I wrote love poems of the exotic, e.e. cummings sort.

Still, this early spring finds me musing on the touch of a beloved, but in a still-frozen goat corral. Here, I contemplate; a white and cinnamon colored chicken pecks stray grains from the goats’ hay, a widowed tom turkey trills his displeasure over the slim pickings left for him, and six youngish goats chew contentedly on green hay as Summer, my ravishing brunette llama, glides among them like a soft breeze.

And I,  - the Goddess of Breakfast and Dinner, a/k/a She Who Gives Treats and Needles in the Butt  - I sit on a lawn chair in the 10 a.m. sunshine, eating dark chocolate studded with sea salt and almonds and reading poetry. Out loud.

Last week I found the poem, “Pescadero” by Mark Doty, in the New Yorker magazine. I am beginning to suspect that at least one of the senior staff of this publication is as much a goat fancier as yours truly. Last month, a goat cartoon, now a fairly mushy goat poem.

My goats like poetry of all kinds. Shakespeare’s sonnets. Even mine. This poem, though, found a particularly receptive audience.  Bosco, the lone male, was the exception, choosing instead to butt and eat his way around the corral. But his two younger cousins, cashmere cuties Daisy and Dolly, batted their long eyelashes as I read. And Summer lifted her upper lip, showing two teeth, a llama’s way of saying, “Ohhhhh, that’s soooooooo nice!”

It seemed only fair to share this lovely poem with many. And so, I give to you my friends, “Pescadero” by Mark Doty.

The little goats like my mouth and fingers,

and one stands up against the wire fence, and taps on the fence board/
a hoof made blacker by the dirt of the field,

pushes her mouth forward to my mouth,
so that I can see the smallish squared seeds of her teeth,
and the bristle-whiskers,

and then she kisses me, though I know it doesn’t mean “kiss,”

then leans her head way back, arcing her spine, goat yoga,
all pleasure and greeting and then good-natured indifference; she loves me,

she likes me a lot, she takes interest in me, she doesn’t know me at all
or need to, having thus acknowledged me. Though I am all happiness,

since I have been welcomed by the field’s small envoy, and the splayed hoof,
fragrant with soil, has rested on the fence board beside my hand.

Nice, huh? Add chocolate and sunshine and that’s my idea of heaven on earth.

I’ll leave it to other poets to extol the other signs of spring; the softening of the ice collar around Superior, the re-emergence of the whitetail deer who nibble greedily on something just uncovered by the thaw on the south-facing slopes along Highway 61, and the eagles - soaring overhead, feasting on roadkill in the ditches and taking up residence in last year’s nests

I won’t ignore these wonders. But my poetic bursts of fancy spend themselves right in my own backyard, among creatures who, like my goat-lover friend Mark Doty, acknowledge my presence, welcome me into their world and make my day. Every day. Rain or shine.

This segment aired on Saturday, March 6.