THE BRAVE LITTLE GOAT

My amazing wonderful Precious:

My unicorn with glorious horns,

a little white beard, and split hooves.

You were so aptly named, for precious you surely were.

 I loved you so much.
Birth date reckoned 1996 
Died 2-21-2012

   You and Cowboy were my “first born”. We went through a lot together, you helped me to get on with my life after Gary died. When I first saw you at the Boulder Humane Society I fell in love with you and knew immediately you were the first animal to be rescued, then Cowboy ran up “take me too, take me too.”

       You were laying with the front end of your body in a wheelbarrow, your hooves, three of them because you only had three feet, were terribly overgrown and your long beautiful white mohair was a big matted mess. You had blood sucking lice and were sick. I looked at the lice under Gary’s microscope, yikes.

        I learned to love goats because of you and Cowboy. You suffered through me learning how to trim hooves and what to feed you and we spent hours every year trimming your hair. You were scared of the buzzy thing so I cut it by hand with a blunted scissors and you were so patient. We played the radio and listened to the oldies. At first you were strong enough to stand on the big wooden spool that made it a lot easier on my back but later I just sat on the floor and you stood on an old chaise lounge pad. I tried to spin the hair with a drop spindle but wasn’t very good at it. Now I have all those bags of hair but not you.

     You are the most noble, gentle, courageous, and kind animal it has been my privilege to care for. You learned to cross the little bridge at the first place so smart, so brave, and ran up the ditches with the best of them. When I broke my pelvis and was on a walker we were a pair to draw too hobbling across the field. The one time I put the donkeys and you guys together, Jack went down in the ditch and his head was ground level and you head-butted that donkey to pay him back for chasing you around, talk about a gutsy little gal, that was you.

 

   After 13 years I guess I should have more stories to tell about you and the times we had. But they were just simple and glorious days of companionship (a tremendous gift) and smiles, it went by so quickly.

   You came home in Craig’s horse trailer and walked all the way to the barn. You always did everything I asked of you. One day you took it in your head to climb the steps at the house with four doors. We played Goat Show Barbie and Cowboy Ken. I thought you bit me once but you were just trying to eat my flannel shirt.

We should have called first, Cowboy.

                                                  I don't think anyone is home

     Your favorite treats were animals crackers, especially the elephants because, hey they are the biggest. You looked so cute in your little red coat. The ducks and goose liked to sneak in the barn and eat your chow and mess up your water. You ate their cracked corn to pay them back. Lolly goose also liked to pluck at your hair, you would stand there and let her as if you were getting a beauty treatment.

      Please forgive me if I ended your life before you wanted. I hope it was relieving your pain, the indignanty of your brain outliving your body, ending the struggle and giving you peace. If there is any cosmic justice you now have 4 feet and are running around with Cowboy.

I love you.

From my arms to the Goddess……Cowboy and Bill are waiting. 

MOM



BERTHOUD HISTORICAL SOCIETY BOOKSIGNING

February 10, 2012

VALENTINE'S DAY BOOKSIGNING

      My thanks to the Berthoud Historical Society for sponsoring my booksigning at the beautiful McCarty/Fickel home built in 1916.

     
Somewhat unassuming from the outside, but spacious and bright and very remarkable within.  There is such a happy atmosphere in the house, nearly all of the furnishings are original and I think (or at least hope) many happy times were shared there. 

        My sister and two friends (Evy and Angela) came, they already have all my books but offered support and truly brightened the day. Darn, I didn't get a photo of them....It was nice to get to know Virginia, John, and Mark a little better. They are instrumental in running the Historical Society. Gees, didn't get their photo either, well wasn't it just a "me me me" day. Not too self-centered....

    Didn't have any other "fans" show up, but above mentioned folks bought a few books. It was VERY cold that day, but the sun came out and all in all it was a fun experience and a day filled with positive energy. 

    Looking forward to the day when I'm famous (rich is okay too) and people are lined up around the block to see me! Beautiful dreamer...

Gini.

HAPPY IMBOLC

     What do groundhogs predicting the weather, ewes, a Pagan goddess, a Christian saint and spring cleaning all have in common? They are each intertwined into the history of Imbolc, the feast day of Brigid, on February 2nd.

     This holiday is one of the Celtic fire festivals and is also called Oimelc, an Irish term that means ewe's milk. Traditionally, this time of year exhibited the first signs of spring shown by the lactation of ewes. It is a cross-quarter day signifying the midpoint between the Winter Solstice and the Vernal Equinox.

    Being a cross-quarter day it is also a reverse barometer. Just like the logic used on Groundhogs Day. If the weather is fair (sun is shining and Punxsutawney Phil sees his shadow) the weather will take a turn for the worse and there will be more weeks of winter. If the weather is bad, good news, better weather is on the horizon.

     The Christians usurped the day and tried to redirect the Pagans to worshiping St. Brigit and also called it Candlemas. And as the 

The Celtic goddess was  Brigid the Light-Bringer, it tied in nicely.

    St. Brigit is known for her special cross, said to have been woven from rushes as she tended a terminally ill Celtic chieftain, telling him the story of Christ and converting him on his death bed to Christianity. Many streams, trees, mounds are named for the Saint in the British Isles

     In many parts of the world, February is a harsh and bitter month.  In old Scotland, the month fell in the middle of the period known as Faoilleach, the Wolf-month; it was also known as a’ marbh mhiòs, the Dead-month. 


But although this season was so cold and drear, small but sturdy signs of new life began to appear: Lambs were born and soft rain brought new grass. Ravens begin to build their nests and larks were said to sing with a clearer voice.

     Brigid is also known as the daughter of the Daghda, the “Great God” of the Tuatha de Danaan (faeries). In folklore he calls her a “woman of wisdom…a goddess whom poets adored, because her protection was very great and very famous." Since the discipline of poetry, was interwoven with seership, Brigid was seen as the great inspiration behind divination and prophecy, the source of oracles.

     She is the goddess of poetry, healing, and smith-craft. Also described as the patron of other vital crafts of early Celtic society: dying, weaving and brewing. A goddess of regeneration and abundance, she was greatly beloved as a provider of plenty who brought forth the bounties of the natural world for the good of the people. She is closely connected with livestock and domesticated animals. She herself had two oxen called Fea and Feimhean

    This is a good time for spring cleaning of house, hearth, and spirit. So burn a candle, get out the broom, take heart and have hope as we look forward to the rebirth of the earth and our creativity. May your spirit be renewed.

Here are two ceremonial poem/chants from Patti Wigington’s site.

Hail, Brigantia! Keeper of the forge,

she who shapes the world itself with fire,

she who ignites the spark of passion in the poets,

she who leads the clans with a warrior's cry,

she who is the bride of the islands,

and who leads the fight of freedom.

Hail, Brigantia! Defender of kin and hearth,

she who inspires the bards to sing,

she who drives the smith to raise his hammer,

she who is a fire sweeping across the land.

-----------

Bride of the earth, sister of the faeries,

daughter of the Tuatha de Danaan,

keeper of the eternal flame.

In autumn, the nights began to lengthen,

and the days grew shorter, as the earth went to sleep.

Now, Brighid stokes her fire, burning flames in the hearth,

bringing light back to us once more.

Winter is brief, but life is forever. Brighid makes it so.

HAPPY NEW YEAR

HAPPY NEW YEAR

     I don't make resolutions anymore. I never keep them and then I feel guilty. However, while speaking with my friend, Angela, on New Year's Eve, she mentioned that rather than resolutions she makes plans. This sounded so much more logical, optimistic, and attainable. And hey, plans can be altered, added to, fall through, be scrapped, go awry, or culminate in great sucess. So here goes....

I plan to have a smashing vegetable garden this year.

           

                I plan to grow out my forlorn hair do (hair don't).

  

        

        I plan to write more, including westerns and contemporaries. 
     
                                                      
                       

                             I plan to become rich and famous.

 

                      

                                    I plan to try meditation. 
                                                   

                        

                            I plan, oh I can't tell you that one....  


      Anyway, I hope your New Year is filled with exciting new plans, happy days, romantic nights, and dreams come true.

  

                  And if things aren't working out, try a new plan. 

    

THE WINTER SOLSTICE: CELEBRATION OF LIGHT

     Last year at the Winter Solstice, I had barely moved into my house and I remember laying in the snow in the frontyard, hoping my new neighbors we'ren't watching as I gazed up at the Lunar eclipse of a full moon. How magical. 

    The festival was called Satunalia by the Romans as they honored the god Saturn. Yule by others.  My goats especially love the notion of Joulupukki, a Scandinavian tradition whereby goats pulled Santa's sleigh.

      On the night of the Solstice, the longest night of the year, darkness triumphs then gives way to light. Some believe the Dark King is transformed into the Infant Light, the divine child Sun who is the bringer of hope and the promise of summer. It is the rebirth of the King of the woodlands, the Green Man, and the days begin to grow longer and will do so until the Equinox.

         art wrok by Anne Stokes

    The word solstice comes from the Latin words "sun" and "to stop", due to the fact that the Sun seems to stop in the sky. The Sun is directly overhead at "high-noon" on Winter Solstice at the latitude called the Tropic of Capricorn. In the Northern Hemisphere, the solstice days are the days with the fewest hours of sunlight during the whole year.Winter begins in the Northern Hemisphere on December 22, 2011, at 12:30 A.M. (EST).

 Winter Folklore 
Deep snow in winter; tall grain in summer—Estonian proverb
Visits should be short, like a winter's day.
A fair day in winter is the mother of a storm—English proverb
Summer comes with a bound; winter comes yawning.
Onion skins very thin, mild winter coming in. 

                         and to all, a magical good night....

STILL MOMENTS MAGAZINE

Just saw my ad for LADY GALLANT in the lovely holiday issue of STILL MOMENTS MAGAZINE

    Thank you Darlene Fedette for the opportunity and the beautiful layout.  http://stillmomentsezine.blogspot.com/

        Lady Gallant is set during the holiday season and is the perfect read for winter. Hunker down and cozy up and go along with Josephine Posey as she heads off to the Black Sea with Florence Nightingale to tend the wounded in the Crimean War. 

       The hero, Garrick Allen, a reporter for the Times, is one of England's first war correspondents. He'll win your heart as well as Josie's as he champians the soldiers and tries his hardest to let the people back home know exactly what is going on.

     From the charge of the Light Brigade, to the backstreets of Constantople, there is intrigue waiting for you. And even black market schemes and bombs bursting in air can't stop the passion waiting for Josie and Garrick.  

Praise for Lady Gallant:

     “A very romantic Victorian love story,

circa 1854 set during the Crimean War.

Rifkin’s novel is epic in scope, meticulously

researched and finely detailed. A genuinely

sweet romance married to an exciting

war/espionage story.”

                                                ~RT Magazine

     “I was intrigued at the possibility that this story

might offer something fresh. I was not disappointed.

Reading Lady Gallant was a pleasure. The characters

are relatable and the romance is touching. I highly

recommend it to any fan of historical romance.”

                                              ~Long and Short Reviews

          A SMALL SNIPPET FOR YOUR CONSIDERATION
           

   Disowned by her father and still mourning the death of her fiancé, Josephine Posey joins Florence Nightingale’s brigade of nurses bound for the Black Sea. Thousands of British soldiers desperately await these angels of mercy and a new life awaits Josie. Amidst the chaos of death and despair, she finds a spark of hope, lighting the flame once more inside her soul.

    In search of the truth, Garrick Allen, one of Britain’s first war correspondents also journeys to the Crimean Peninsula. To him the soldiers seem all but abandoned by Queen and country, and as he smokes his cheroots and makes friends with a bottle, he writes his bold but honest dispatches for The Times.  Not wanting anything more than to finish his job and go home, Garrick is blind-sided by a nurse with attitude who offers him a new slant on life and a reason to love.

Excerpt:

    She wore no corset, only a camisole, and the curve of her firm breasts threatened to spill up and over the sleek fabric.

 

   Dazzled by the riotous accumulation of lace, roses, and ribbons, Garrick's gaze drifted lazily over her form, the combination of his prim image of Josie and the erotic under-things she wore exploded into a conflict of unexpected sensations—delightfully unsettling.

   

     “You’re quite bold in your choice of fashion,” he pointed out with a smile, as he envied the silk that caressed her in places he longed to touch.

     Doubt shadowed her expression. “Does it leave something to be desired?”

    “Oh yes, I dare say it does.”

    “What?” she demanded petulantly.

    “Only you,” he reassured.

     A naughty smile was her only reply. The expression didn’t appear to be practiced

or contrived. He ached a little more with wanting her.

    “You’re so beautiful.”

     She glanced down almost as if embarrassed or unbelieving. He tipped up her chin, forcing her gaze to meet and mingle with his. “Take off the rest of your dress,” he whispered.

     Like a cat uncurling from a sweet dream, she rose to stand before him. Then she slipped her thumbs under the fabric that hung gathered about her hips and with a slight bit of encouragement, the quilted taffeta slid downward over the wonderful curve of her bottom. The fabric billowed to the floor and pooled around her ankles.

Lady Gallant is available at The Wild Rose Press in paperback or e-book.

http://www.thewildrosepress.com/index.php?main_page=advanced_search_result&search_in_description=1&keyword=lady+gallant&x=41&y=16



http://www.ginirifkin.com/

GIVING THANKS & THE MAGNIFICENT SEVEN

NOVEMBER, the month for giving THANKS.

  Let me start by thanking the MAGNIFICENT SEVEN. (Yes, I know there are only 6 people in this photo, my sister went missing for a minute)

One year ago, on Halloween, I moved to the house I presently occupy with my small herd of feathered and four-footed "children".

   The move was one of necessity rather than true desire, and without family and friends, I don't think it would have been possible. 
   
    There were those who stood by at the new destination holding down the fort and preparing for our arrival, a stranger who offered to personally move the animals and hay, friends that put up fencing and unloaded said animals and hay, and new neighbors who came over with good cheer and welcome. 

THANK YOU 

    In a world filled with so much sadness, strife, suffering and  intolerance, what a joy to be surrounded by your kindness and glowing spirits.

                                  ******************

   November is also the month of the traditional Thanksgiving holiday. Most of us know how the first one started, but the story of how it became a national holiday is also an interesting aside.

When you sit down to dinner on that Thursday, give a toast to Sarah Josepha Hale.

Sarah Josepha Buell Hale, born October 24, 1788, was an American writer and an influential editor. She is the author of the nursery rhyme "Mary Had a Little Lamb".

She seemed to have a rather bipolar approach to women’s rights. Respected as an arbiter of taste for middle-class women in matters of fashion, cooking, literature, and morality, she also reinforced stereotypical gender roles, celebrating the "separate sphere" for women while casually trying to expand on it. She did not support women's suffrage and instead believed in the "secret, silent influence of women" to sway men voters

     Hale is credited as the individual most responsible for making Thanksgiving a national holiday. Previously it had been celebrated only in New England. Each state scheduled its own holiday, some as early as October and others as late as January; it was largely unknown in the American South.

   Her advocacy for the national holiday began in 1846 and lasted 17 years before it was successful, during which time she wrote letters to five Presidents -- Zachary Taylor, Millard Filmore, Franklin Pierce, James Buchanan, and Abraham Lincoln. Her initial letters failed to persuade, but the letter she wrote to Lincoln did convince him to support legislation establishing a national holiday of Thanksgiving in 1863.The new day of celebration was considered a unifying day after the stress of the American Civil War.

   Prior to the addition of Thanksgiving, the only national holidays celebrated in the United States were Washington's Birthday and Independence Day.

    Hale retired from editorial duties in 1877 at the age of 89. The same year, Thomas Edison spoke the opening lines of "Mary's Lamb": the first ever recorded message on his newly invented phonograph.

Hale died at her home on April 30, 1879 and is buried in the Laurel Hill Cemetery, in Pennsylvania.

Thank you Sarah Hale….now please pass the dressing and mashed potatoes.

   Here at Compass Rose we sponsor a turkey each year rather than eating one. This 12 year old tradition especially makes the duck and goose happy.  This year's rescue is the lovely Victoria.