Trying to keep warm in the barn during the birth of the third set of triplets last month.

Trying to keep warm in the barn during the birth of the third set of triplets last month.  To view more lambs, visit YouTube


Black lamb and Emily and I.

Black lamb and Emily and I.

Black lamb. photo taken by Emily Bernheim.

Black lamb. photo taken by Emily Bernheim.

Silver King is my favorite rooster.  He has developed from a “blue egger” chick, one which is a cross between a Blue Copper Marans (chocolate brown eggs) and an Amerccauna (light blue eggs).  Of course, he will not be laying eggs but late summer I had a hatching of chicks, and he is mostly like one of the fathers of some of the chicks.  So, he is passing on green egg genetics.  Meantime, the breeder I bought him from advised me that his coloring is a rare Birchen coloring.  He is magnificant with a silvery mane of feathers and silver/gold flecks in his blue gray body.  I think I will keep him.

Triangle Shirtwaist Fire


Brown Building, National Historic site where the Triangle Shirtwaist Fire occurred, now owned by NYU, New York University


This coming year is the centennial of the tragic Triangle Shirtwaist Fire in New York City in 1911, in which many factory seamstresses died in a fire because the doors were locked.  As a result fire codes were developed which required unlocked escape exits.  The following poem was inspired by a photo of two women falling to their death.  I was moved to tears at this moment of terror and beauty captured in their final hour.  And I was horrified that the Triangle Shirtwaist company had locked the doors and the women were unable to escapte the fire.



 I was researching and writing a paper on Margaret Sanger, the mother of the birth control movement, and discovered that she had been one of the nurses attending the injured women.  Most of them did not survive the jump out of the windows, their only escape.

Triangle Shirtwaist Fire

New York City, March 25, 1911

By Diana Lischer-Goodband

               Copyright 1998



A drab coat of New York night

hems in the wanton light.

Singers clack like laying hens,

their bobbins bob, their needles mend.

The bell buttons down the day,

keys jangle past the time to stay.

A call rings through, a fire brews;

smoke drifts along the seam of gray.

Maggie cries: “The doors are locked”!

She strangles in thin air.

The swelter stalks in heavy knots,

and snakes along the pin-lit stair.


Young women falling from the sky

Aglow in blackened rain;

with flapping skirts and hose they fly

in raven screams of flame.

Mere spider-nets, the men hand-hold.

They do not know the laws

of the physics of objects bowled

along a sheet of gauze.

The three entwine as lovers,

shoot like arrows through the silk.

The cough of shredded flowers

they spill like mother’s milk.

The earth resounds with every crash,

such beauty have they broke.

The idol of the hourglass

baptized in soot and smoke.

Factory girls with shoveled hearts,

track the company’s unholy slaughter;

a burial fit for cast-off parts:

the grave of the unknown daughter.

Sugarhouse foliage