Going Gray

Ever since we bought this farm, my hair has been going gray at a much faster rate than before.

You think it's related?

Do you think that chronic worry, stress, and exhaustion really does make your hair go gray? Or is it just that I'm over 40 and would be going gray by now regardless of what I was doing for a living?

I discovered my first gray hair on my 17th birthday. By the time I was in my 30s, I still had less than a dozen. But now... they're everywhere! Not quite enough yet to change the visible color of my hair, but it's getting there.

My feelings about it have been interesting to observe. On the one hand, a woman's hair is a symbol of her youth---and when I was younger, my thick, curly, waist-length hair was always my one vanity. So naturally, I feel a pang at seeing the symbol of my youth morphing into a symbol of my age.

On the other hand, I've always admired those confident, all-natural women who let their hair go gray without fussing about it or covering it up with dye. These women are always so beautiful... in their confidence and simplicity, they usually end up looking younger than the women who fight the aging process with dyes and makeup and face lifts.

What's so bad about getting older, anyway? As the saying goes, it's better than the alternative!

The difficulty is that it's a transition, and transitions are hard. When we first admit that we're passing into a new era of our lives, we're not sure what our new role will be. What will people expect of us now? What should we expect of ourselves?

For me, it feels psychologically and spiritually healthier to keep the gray hair, so that it's there as a reminder of the stage of my life's journey that I have now reached.

Middle Age... If I tilt my head and squint just so, I can almost envision it as a magical Tolkien-esque land, filled with hobbits and elves. Oh. Wait. No, that's Middle EARTH. Darn!

Well, it'll be an adventure, just the same. Day-by-day, I'm building the person I'm going to be when I'm old. What will THAT be like? By the time my hair is fully gray, who will I be?

I won't know until I get there.

Leeloo and the Sheep Crook

One thing I can't abide, is a barking dog.

My two big dogs are pretty good. Mostly they remember to be quiet. And when they forget, I tell them, "Quiet!" and they shut up.

Of course, it wasn't always that easy. For a certain period of their lives, I'm sure they were convinced that their name was "RUBYJESSEBEQUIETNOBARKING!" But, like I said, now they're pretty good.

It's another challenge altogether to try to teach a Pomeranian not to bark!

Leeloo is a spoiled princess who doesn't actually believe that humans are the dominant species in the house. She humors us because we're the ones who can reach the fried chicken, the macaroni and cheese, and the popsicles. But she doesn't actually think we're the boss of her.

She has a private doggie run outside, which she hates. She's not in it that much, but for the time she is there, she usually runs back and forth nonstop, waiting to be freed. We call this place "Puppy Jail."

She knows we disapprove of her yapping constantly while she's in puppy jail. She knows that if she's barking, we won't let her out until she's quiet. All this means is if she thinks we're looking, she'll be quiet. If we don't hasten to immediately let her out, she proceeds to curse us out: "Yarp! Yarp! Yarp!"

Scolding her merely convinces her that she's succeeded in getting our attention. Spanking her has no effect. Neither does ignoring her---she'll persist in barking all day long if we let her.

But, quite by accident, we discovered a secret weapon: the sheep crook we recently bought to assist us in catching our sheep. You know, the classic Little Bo Peep tool with the long handle and the hook at one end.

When we first got the crook, we played around with it for a while getting used to how it handled before we tried catching sheep with it. During this experimental phase, we tried gently hooking a few cats with it. We were amused to discover that we could hook it under a cat's belly and hoist up a little, and the cat couldn't get away. The cats, while disgusted with our antics, were relatively tolerant.

When we playfully tried it on Leeloo, however, she was horrified beyond words. Scolding and punishing have no impact, but apparently EMBARRASSING her makes a huge impression. Now if she ever sees us brandish the sheep crook at all, she slinks into a corner and makes herself small and humble---and most of all, QUIET---for a while.

It's become something like a visual exclamation point between us---a canine hearing aid, if you will. If we tell her "Quiet" and she still keeps barking, we go out and wave the sheep crook at her. Suddenly, she can hear and understand our commands again---and we can enjoy a few blissful hours of peace!

Why I Love Her

Our financial situation is still really bad. With hay prices going up and the horse market depressed beyond belief, just trying to keep feeding the animals is a strain.

Now with winter coming on, we'll have to start paying heating bills too, on top of everything else. I don't know how we're going to do it.

With all the continuous worry about trying to pay our bills, the anxiety has overshadowed the joy of owning these wonderful animals for quite some time now.

There have been plenty of times lately when I've just wished all my horses would vanish... at least that way, my poor, hard-working, long-suffering husband would not have to keep facing so many worries and bills brought on by my farm endeavors.

It's a hard situation, knowing that for all the work I have done---I spent a year searching literally thousands of "horse for sale" ads to build this herd of excellent mares, invested countless amounts of time, labor and money---and yet, financially, it seems that we would have been better off if I had done nothing but sit home and watch soap operas all day.

All my work has managed to bring us to the brink of financial ruin. Not because I had a bad plan, but simply because I chose to enter into my venture just as the drought hit and the horse market crashed.

I know I'm not the first business venture that has suffered from abysmal timing. Still, this hasn't been my most hopeful time ever.

And yet, when I go out to feed the horses feeling this way, numb to their beauty because I'm filled with despair, I see my mare Char, and all that fades away, if only for a few minutes.

I love this mare.

I love her for the unquestioned, queenly dignity and power with which she rules all the other horses in the herd.

I love that, for all her power, she's not above purposefully putting on her "sweet" face---neck outstretched, head tilted hopefully, ears pricked, and twinkling eyes---if she thinks it might earn her a cookie.

I love that when she approaches me, she stands very close and looks me in the eye in a way that hints that we have a secret, known to just the two of us. We have a connection, we know the inside joke, whatever it is. It's us against the world.

I love that she is so feisty that, despite being pregnant with twins, she once jumped a four-and-a-half foot gate, just to get to where her sister was.

I love that she's smart enough that, having banged her knees on that jump, she never did it again!

I love that, when she miscarried her twins, she had the loyalty to stand by them and investigate them until she understood they were dead---and the wisdom, when they were gone, not to mourn too long.

I love that, even when my riding skills are rusty from lack of use, I can get on her bareback, feel that 1400 lbs. of muscle coiled like a spring beneath me, and still sit to her trot like I'm sitting on a comfy chair.

I love the way her mane falls all around her face in long, natural ringlets. I love the extra-cresty arch to her neck. I love that her forehead is too broad to fit a standard-sized browband, but her nose is dainty-small.

She's like every little girl's dream pony, in giant size.

I love my girl. And even if I end up having to sell most of my meticulously assembled herd, I don't want to sell her.

If I have my way, I want to still be able to go out to the pasture twenty years from now, see her put on her "sweet" face for me, and give her as many cookies as she wants.

Senter's New House (Part 1)

A while back, I mentioned that we had some design ideas that might work for building an affordable new shelter for our stallion Senter. Today we (meaning mostly Ken, with some design suggestions from me) started the first stage of the building process.

First, Ken had to gather his materials together, and get the approval of his supervisor, Madrigal (aka Maddy-Cat):

After a lot of measuring and conferring, and weighing the pros and cons of various options, he started cutting the base pieces:

Okay, so that's not a huge amount of visible progress for one day, but look---he made nice neat notches for the end joins, almost as if he was a real carpenter who knew what he was doing!


I'll post more on this topic as we make more progress.

Last year we used one of those tarp sheds for the shelter in Senter's paddock, but it didn't hold up very well, so when we had all the stone dust put into the paddocks to improve the drainage and footing this spring, we pulled the tarp shelter out.

It's hard to design an inexpensive shelter that is still sturdy enough to safely withstand the wear and tear a horse will put on it. I hope our design works out okay. At least Senter is not particularly destructive---unlike the broodmares, who destroy everything in sight, just by scratching their enormous 1400-lb. butts on it!

Another chore that couldn't wait today: We had to mix up a new batch of minerals for the sheep. I think the mineral content of the soil in Iceland must be very different than the mineral content here in the USA, because the sheep's health really suffers if they don't have constant access to a good mineral mix. They simply can't get the nutrition they need from hay and grass grown on our mineral-depleted soil, without good supplements.

I mix up my own combination of sheep minerals, soy meal, kelp, and selenium/vitamin e powder. My recipe is in a constant state of adjustment, trying to get the levels just right. This time instead of using just sheep minerals, I mixed them half and half with regular pasture minerals intended for cattle and goats.

I did this to increase the copper levels in the minerals. Most shepherds have been sternly warned away from allowing their sheep to have access to copper, because it is supposed to be highly toxic to sheep. However, more and more Icelandic breeders are finding that their sheep are actually becoming copper DEFICIENT, which is practically unheard of in other breeds. Again, 1100 years of evolution on a volcanic island apparently leads to some slightly different mineral requirements.

Unfortunately, these needs seem to vary from region to region, from farm to farm, and even from sheep to sheep. So, like most other Icelandic breeders, I just keep experimenting and watching the results demonstrated in my flock's health.

Every time I adjust my mineral mix recipe, I worry, of course, that maybe I've added too much of this ingredient or not enough of that. But that's the essence of experimenting: You have to take some risks.

I just keep watching what happens, and try to make the best decisions I can from there. Surely after I've been doing this for a decade or so, I'll have more knowlege and experience to go by, and will be able to refine my choices even better.

Freedom Is Overrated

So apparently Peri didn't think it was a privilege to be allowed free reign over the yard. Instead of appreciating the liberty, she just wandered around nervously, feeling out of place and trying to find a way to get in with the other sheep.

So I relented and put her in with Nicholai, even though it will mean she has to tough it out, being the only three-and-a-half legged sheep in the group. Nicholai pursued her for a few minutes, but I dumped some feed into their dish, which effectively distracted him.

When I left them, Peri and Moriah were in a low-energy struggle for dominance: They were just locking horns and leaning on each other.

The yearling colt Shane has been being naughty lately. Every night he deliberately knocks over the huge feed tub and spills all the hay and grain into the dirt. As if feeding these horses was not already putting us in the poorhouse, he's out there deliberately wasting it!

I caught him at it tonight and chased him out of the paddock as punishment. He was very upset that the other horses were getting to eat while he was having a "time out" so he was prancing and galloping all over the pasture.

I have to say, he sure is pretty when he moves. He went through a really awkward, dumpy stage this summer, but now he's growing again and WOWZA, he's got a trot that just flies along. I can't even picture how he's going to look when he's full grown, but it's nice to see he's developing all of his mother's beautiful gaits.

50,000 Words

This is completely un-farm-related. But hey, even a farmer needs a break every now and then, right?

Despite the many things on my to-do list that are urgently clamoring for my time, and the rapidly collapsing budget that is screaming for me to find ways to somehow make more money NOW, I've decided to set aside a little time each day this month to do something completely different.

I'm going to participate in National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo), which is a light-hearted yet energetic event that challenges writers to compose a 50,000 word novel (or the first 50,000 words of a longer novel) during the month of November. Ken and I each did it once before, in 2003, and had a lot of fun. So we're going to give it a try again this year.

With everything else piled up that I have to do around here, I'm not sure I'll be able to complete the challenge this time (as I did in 2003), but it will be fun trying. I haven't had a chance to prepare as well as I might have liked, but the story is a concept that has been kicking around in my head for quite a while now.

The story is called Crossroads. It's kind of a mystery/ghost story with just a bit of a supernatural twist. It opens with the heroine driving alone on a dark, stormy road when she encounters a mysterious girl who gives her a cryptic warning.

Want a taste? Here's the first draft of Crossroads, Chapter One:

By the time I saw the girl, it was too late.

I'd been driving for three hours through the remnants of a late autumn hurricane. It was like driving underwater. The windshield wipers slapped back and forth, useless against the downpour. Rain hammered the roof, hissed beneath the tires, streamed in sheets down every window. I gripped the steering wheel tighter and squinted into the night. The faded yellow line was the only sign that I was still on the narrow, winding road.

I remember thinking I must have taken a wrong turn somewhere. There wasn't a house or streetlight to be seen. Nothing that looked like the landmarks the old woman had described on the phone, just mile after mile of shrubby woods and run-down cow pastures. According to the directions I'd scribbled down on the back of an envelope, I should have reached the turn-off to the village of Kingsley Crossing by now, but there was no sign of the old country store that supposedly marked the spot.

A smarter person would have waited until morning instead of driving all night through the storm. But the old woman had sounded so urgent.

"Hello? This is Margery Greenacre. I need to speak with Kerian Cook, please." The connection was bad, crackling with static, but even through the interference, her voice still quavered with some unexpressed emotion.

I frowned and set down the book I'd been reading. "I'm Keri."

"You don't know me, dear, but please believe me when I say that I have information vital to your---"

I shifted the phone to my other ear. "Look, I don't mean to be rude, but if you're selling something, I'm not interested. A college student's budget isn't exactly---"

Her voice sharpened. "Does the date August 17 mean anything to you?"

"No. Why?"

"It should. It's your birthday. Your true birthday, not whatever one your adoptive parents made up for you."

"How do you---"

"I was there, dear. I helped bring you into the world. I know who your parents are. But I can't talk about any of this over the phone. You have to come here, and it has to be soon, before it's too late. Can you come tonight? I'll give you directions."

I didn't know what she wanted to tell me that couldn't wait or why it couldn't be revealed over the phone. But it was the first lead I'd gotten in eight months of dead-end searches for clues about the identity of my birth parents, ever since my adopted parents died in a hit and run accident with a drunk driver last March. With the only family I'd ever known suddenly taken from me, I'd become obsessed with locating the family of my origin. If this Margery person had information, I wasn't about to let the opportunity pass me by.

Now here I was, a young woman alone on a dark, deserted road: possibly lost and certainly miles from any decent cell-phone reception. For the past forty miles the radio had refused to play anything but static, and now the windshield was beginning to fog up again despite the air conditioner's feeble stream of tepid air. It was already after eleven, and the needle on the gas gauge was edging down towards empty.

"Brilliant. Just wonderful." I tried to swipe at the foggy windshield with the sleeve of my rumpled sweat jacket. Too late, I saw the dog.

It loomed in the middle of the road, so black and still against the reflected raindrops that for a moment it looked more like a gigantic pothole than a living animal. Its eyes caught the glow of my headlights and shone back at me like two yellow-green beacons. Then the lights swept past and revealed the figure of a girl on the pavement gripping the dog's collar.

I hit the brakes hard. The old Sentra bucked and twisted in protest. Its right front tire shuddered off the slick pavement and onto the soft gravel shoulder. For a moment, everything swung into sharp focus. A grassy embankment and a sagging barbed-wire fence loomed just beyond the scattered beer cans and fast-food wrappers in the ditch. My stomach lurched, and the shoulder belt slammed into my collarbone. With a sickening crunch, the Sentra came to rest, nose down in the ditch.

Shakily, I unbuckled the seatbelt and flung open the door. Rain rushed in, drenching me to the skin. My first step landed me ankle-deep in cold water, then the night split open. A light pierced the darkness, a whistle bellowed, and a hundred tons of thundering metal roared past… and past… and past.

It was so close I felt its rhythmic clatter through the soles of my shoes, felt the breeze of its wake cool my wet cheek. But it was already receding into the distance before I could pull myself together enough to identify it. A train. Just an ordinary freight train, probably carrying coal or lumber or corn across the rural landscape to-well, to wherever those things go.

Suddenly my knees felt weak. If I hadn't gone off the road, I would have been crossing the tracks a few seconds later, just as the train barreled through. If that had happened, I wouldn't be standing here now worrying about how far it was to the nearest house or pay phone where I could call a tow truck.

Why had there been no warning? I hadn't even seen the railroad crossing sign, leaning drunkenly to one side, half hidden by bushes. Its black and white paint was peeling, its two red bulbs shattered and dark, shot out perhaps by a frustrated hunter or some rowdy farm kids out on a spree. If it hadn't been for that stupid dog---

I grabbed my purse and keys from the car and went to look. The dog was still standing in the exact same place, and the girl had not moved from its side. She was thin and fair-skinned, about eleven years old. Her red hair hung down her shoulders in two long, neat braids. Her raincoat was open, and beneath it she wore a pair of faded overalls cut off just below the knee. Water flowed over her tattered, discount-store sneakers, but she didn't seem to notice. She just stroked the dog's wet fur and watched me floundering in the ditch.

As soon as I caught my breath, I'd meant to say, "Are you okay?" but her calm composure unnerved me. I'd no sooner opened my mouth than I heard myself ranting, "Are you nuts? What are you doing standing in the road like that? Do you want to be run over? Look at my car. I could have been killed!"

Solemnly, she nodded. "It's not safe."

I don't know what kind of response I'd expected, but that wasn't it. "What?"

Her eyes were dark hollows beneath her brows. The dog whined and pulled against its collar, tail swaying gently. The girl rubbed its head until it subsided. "Go back," she said. "It's not safe for you here."

"Go?" As I crested the slope my foot slipped on the slick grass and I tumbled onto my hands and knees. Shards of gravel bit into my palms; cold mud saturated my jeans. Now soaked, filthy, and stranded in the middle of nowhere, I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. "I just crashed my car into a ditch. I'll be lucky if it ever goes anywhere again!"

I wiped ineffectually at my muddy legs, then straightened up and tried to push my dripping hair out of my eyes. "I'll need to find a phone. There's no cell reception here. Where's the nearest---"

Finally able to see again, I stopped in mid-sentence, gaping like a fish. The little girl was gone. Vanished like she'd never been there. The dog stood there alone for a moment longer, then gave one sharp bark, turned, and trotted off along the yellow line in the center of the road, its furry black tail swinging cheerfully behind it.

Lover's Meeting

Sheep breeding season began today, which meant that Ken and I spent part of the morning rearranging all the sheep into their separate breeding paddocks, where they'll stay until the end of December.

For all of you who voted in The Dating Game for Sheep, to decide which ram our ewe Moriah would be paired with this year: The votes are in!

Our senior ram Nicholai would like to thank you for your support, which allowed him to win the lovely Moriah by a landslide of 62% of the votes. He received far more votes than the other four rams on the ballot put together!

But their story isn't over yet! Click here for a funny video of what happened when the happy couple finally got to meet.

Taj and Tut, the runner-up rams, were not too dismayed, however, because---like Nicholai---they each got a small group of ewes for their very own today.

Nicholai's son, Titan, will be used as our "clean-up" ram this year, which means he'll be turned loose with all the ewes at the end of breeding season, just in case one of the other rams for some reason was unable to do the job.

Because our ewe Peri, who was bitten by a rattlesnake this summer (see Peri's Reprieve, Not For the Faint of Heart, Getting Used to the Maggots, Peri's Progress, and A Peg Leg for Peri? for more of her story), still has limited mobility due to her injured leg, we decided not to put her back with the rest of the flock for breeding season. She will be allowed to roam free in the yard, getting spoiled by her people, and when she comes into heat, we will allow her to breed with Titan.

For all of the commotion of moving everyone to their breeding pens, none of the ewes were in heat today, so no actual breeding took place. Most of them will probably start coming into heat in the next couple of weeks.

Lambs should start arriving in late March or early April.

Those Who Went Before

If you live in an old house, people invariably ask you if it's haunted.

I neither believe nor disbelieve in ghosts, but I love ghost stories. I'm open to the existence of things we can't explain, but so far I've never witnessed anything that made me suspect that Ingleside is haunted.

Even so, Halloween is a time to remember the dead. In that spirit, I'd like to introduce you to Those Who Went Before: the residents of Ingleside's very own family cemetery.

When we purchased Ingleside, the cemetery was so densely overgrown with thorn bushes, vines, and poison ivy, we would never even have known it was there if the realtor hadn't told us. You could not even SEE into it, much less enter.

About a year and a half ago, our friends Randy and Nyxana spent a strenuous and rather hazardous day with us, clearing out as much of thorny, toxic growth as we could. We were not able to get rid of it all, but we opened it up enough that since that time our sheep and horses have cleared out most of the rest.

(Yeah, I know... I felt a little bad about letting animals roam over the graves, but the cemetery IS located in our back pasture. Besides, I figure a few animals wandering through is better than being completely covered in poison ivy.)

If time and finances ever allow, I'd eventually like to tear down the old, broken fence and erect a new fence around the cemetery to keep the animals out, and restore the area inside to a more pleasant, garden-like setting. They're not my relatives, but they were our "ancestors" as far as owning the farm. So I'd like their graves to have a little more dignity than they've been allowed over the past few decades.


Front row, right to left:

Charles D. Agee
1861 - 1940

Charles Davis Agee purchased Ingleside from Parke Poindexter Perkins Bentley for the sum of $800. The purchase date is unknown, but my guess is that it was probably between 1887 (when Parke's father Thomas Fearn Perkins, who originally owned Ingleside, died and presumably left the farm to her) and 1894 (which is the date of the first "Agee" burial in the cemetery).

You can read more about Charles Agee and Ingleside's history here.


Hattie V. Agee
1872 - 1956

Hattie Virginia Garrett Agee (known as "Virgie") was Charles Agee's wife.

You can read more about their life at Ingleside here.

Alma E. Agee
(birth date illegible due to broken stone) 1895
June 19, 1944
Her memory is blessed.

Across the top of the stone, it says:
Adjutant

Alma was the daughter of Charles and Hattie ("Virgie"). I presume the "Adjutant" refers to her rank during her extensive work with the Salvation Army.

You can read more about her life at Ingleside here.


Mary L. Agee
1903 - 1966

Mary was another daughter of Charles and "Virgie."

Middle row, right to left:

James F. Garrett
1846 - 1895

James Garrett was Virgie's father.

James D. Agee
Nov 15, 1893
June 18, 1894

above name, it says:
Gone to be an angel

I haven't found any record of who this infant was, but given the name and dates, I'm guessing he was the son of Charles and Virgie.

Minnie E. Agee
July 31, 1901
Sept 10, 1901

Above name it says something that is illegible due to the broken stone.
It starts with "As" and ends with "Jesus"

Again, I don't have any records of her, but considering the dates, I'm guessing she was another daughter of Charles and Virgie.

Judith A. Garrett
1847 - 1935

Judith A. Davidson Garrett was James Garrett's wife and Virgie's mother.

Far back, right corner:

Sarah J. Lewis
1838 - 1924

Sarah Jane Davidson Lewis was Judith Garrett's sister, and Virgie's aunt.

Far back, left corner:

Agnes R. Garrett
1898 - 1904
Nettie B. Garrett
1902 - 1904

I don't know who these little girls belong to, or what sickness or tragedy took them at the same time at so young an age. Presumably, they must be cousins to the Agee family, related through James Garrett.

If you enjoyed the historical accounts of some of the residents listed above, here are a few more accounts about the lives of family members who are NOT buried in our cemetery:

• Willie Agee (Charles and Virgie's son)
• Roy Jones (husband of Ruth Agee, another of Charle's and Virgie's daughters)
• Arthur Garrett (Virgie's brother)

If anyone who reads this has any additional information about any of Ingleside's former residents, I would love to hear more about them!

Last Chance to Vote!

Okay folks, this is your last chance to vote in the Dating Game for Sheep. Who will father Moriah's lambs this year? It's up to you!

We have a clear front-runner right now, but there's still time to cast your vote and influence the outcome.

So far, the majority of you seem to be voting in favor of "true love." You want Moriah to have a chance to be with the ram she seems to prefer. She's the only ewe I have who expresses any preference at all. Does she know something we don't? Nicholai is an awesome ram, but his conformation may not complement hers as well as some of the other rams' might.

I can tell you that if this wasn't going by vote, Moriah would once again be deprived of being with Nicholai during breeding season. If I were choosing a ram for her, I would choose Tutankhamen, because his exceptional shoulders would complement her coarse ones, and her wide horns would offset his slightly narrower ones.

But this time the decision isn't mine. It's all up to you. So cast your vote in the upper-right corner of this screen before the end of the day tomorrow.

And stay tuned... when the lambs are born in the spring, I may let you name them for me!

First Frost

Summer is really, truly over now.

Yesterday, Ken turned on the heat in the house for the first time this fall. Last night, I put the electric mattress-pad on the bed. That has to be one of my favorite all-time inventions. There's nothing like a toasty warm bed to lull me to sleep better than anything else.

We had our first frost last night, so it was pretty chilly out. When the nights are cold, the first thing the horses do in the morning is pick a patch of sun and lie down to take a nap and absorb all the warm rays.

As you can see by the photo, I guess Shane and Libby decided it would be even warmer if they snuggled up together!

My cat Sterling has been rather persistently bringing me "gifts" lately. Two mice in the space of half an hour yesterday. This morning, before dawn, he brought in a live bird and released it to flap around my office. I had to toss him out of the room and then open all the windows and chase the bird around for 20 minutes before it finally went out.

I do have some good news today: Libby has found a buyer! She's not going to leave right away, as the person is going to pay for her over the next three months, but it's great to know that she'll be going to a good home with someone who appreciates her excellent potential.

I'm not sure what's going on with the other potential buyers at the moment. I've been having a lot of problems with some of my email not getting through lately, so I'm never sure if someone (1) never got my original message, (2) replied and I didn't receive their message, or (3) dropped of the face of the planet.

I guess I'll have to wait and see.