A Letter To My Cousin Once Removed

Dear Jeff-

When I talked to my mother this morning, she said she told you she wasn't going to tell me that you commented on the increasing infrequency of my blog posts. Obviously, she did anyway.

Just so you know, I was about to start this letter, when I remembered that I needed to call my accountant before I didn't remember to. He told me it wouldn't be a bad idea to put off invoicing until after the new year, so that is one thing off my plate for now. That is welcome news, since my plate seems fuller than my husband's on Thanksgiving Day. There is the load of laundry sitting in the washing machine begging to be dried. (I'm not worried about that, though. It's winter, and the laundry can sit in there for a solid day before starting to smell musty and needing a re-wash.) The toilets are about a week overdue for a scrubbing. Finley baked cookies yesterday for holiday parties at school, and the kitchen counter is littered with dirty pots, pans, and utensils. (I have been threatening and coercing and heaping guilt upon that girl in an effort to get her to clean up after herself without being asked, but apparently the part of her brain that dictates order does not function. I am hoping it is just a hormonal, pre-teen thing, and not something that is permanently broken.) It's a good thing we don't have mice. The amount of crumbs scattered throughout would make them fat and happy. The truck needs to have its intake gaskets replaced. I have bales of pine needle sitting in my un-weeded flowerbeds. You are beginning to get the picture.

Truthfully, there have been at least one hundred posts I've started in my head, but pushed aside in an effort to accomplish the things on my mental list of priorities. A few times, I actually sat down and started to type one out, but I was either interrupted or my thoughts veered completely off the original path and I gave up. Today, however, priorities have shifted and come hell or high water, I'm writing.

It occurs to me that some of the blame for my failures lie squarely on the shoulders of your cousin, my mother. I have people suggest that I set aside a time slot for writing (or other artistic endeavors that fall short of the survival category). Frankly, though, my mother did a lousy job instilling a habit of self-discipline in me. As well-intentioned as my intentions are, I just can't seem to keep appointments with myself.

Now, if some one else gives me an assignment and a deadline, I'm on it. Paper due in the morning? I will eek it out in the wee hours of the night. Kids out of underwear? The washing machine jumps to action. Knowing this about myself, I did sign up for an art class this year. Having shelled out a chunk of money and someone to tell me what to do, I've actually painted a few things this year (see below). Perhaps I should hire you to be my writing boss, and then the words will flow.

I don't know why I've let your expectations dictate my morning, but they have. And what will I get in return? You have a way with words, but aside from a clever poem every decade or so and the occasional (and I mean occasional) e-mail, I never read anything from your pen. If I ever find out that you have a trove of stories and poems ferreted away in a desk somewhere that no-one has had the pleasure of reading, I will be first upset, then delighted. So I suggest that unless there are a myriad of legitimate excuses your retired self cannot write, you make use of the frigid, Montana winter and scribble a few things down.

I hope you and Sandy are staying warm and well.

Fondly,
-w

Road Trip

There are things I really miss about Nashville. The library. The variety of fun parks. The variety of food options. Good coffee shops. Wishing Chair Productions' shows at the library. Did I mention the library?

Sometimes I wonder why we don't go hang out in Nashville more often.

Today, we headed to the big city to meet friends at Cumberland Park on the river. Z and Joe were absorbed in electronics for most of the ride there. It wasn't until after we had turned off Vietnam Vets Blvd. that they looked up, saw Nissan Stadium and FREAKED. "We're in Nasvhille! I love this place!!"

We found a parking spot, got out of the van, and started walking toward the park, the kids taking in everything around them.

"Look at those buildings! I'd be scared to go in one. I'd be scared to walk across that bridge!"

Etcetera.

I almost felt like a failure, having unintentionally sheltered my kids from big-city experiences for six long years in the country. Why don't we come here more often?

We played at the park. We walked. We crossed the scary bridge. We got some coffee and treats. We walked some more. We looked at fountains and climbed walls and walked some more, crossing the not-so-scary-anymore bridge again, and ended up back at our vans.

It was a good day.

Then we started the hour-long drive home.

I don't deal well with tired, cranky people when I'm tired and cranky myself. So I will spare you the details of the melt-downs each one of us had on the way home. And that drive home, I realized, is one big reason we don't spend more time in Nashville.

The Van

I've been driving our Chevy Venture van for ten years.

Ten years.

I cannot remember the last time the check engine light wasn't lit. The ABS light came on about 5 or 6 years ago. Last year, the power-sliding door decided to become temperamental, and sometimes refuse to open with button-pushes, so the kids would have to yank on the handle with all their might while the other cars in the pick-up line had to wait. A few weeks back, the door got even more touchy, and after pretending to close all the way, would pop back out just a little with the DOOR AJAR warning lighting up another space on the dash. And then the red airbag warning light came on. It's hard to focus on the road with all the amber glow.

I'm not the sort of person that wants a brand-new vehicle with all the bells and whistles. In fact I still daydream about my old Toyota pick-ups, and am sure that if I they hadn't been totaled in one accident or another, I'd still be driving them. And while I kind of hope that the van can make it another 14,000 miles to 400k, I was about to throw in the towel Monday morning.

As we loaded up to head to school, I warned Z to stay off the door. Although she was buckled in, and the door was mostly shut, I didn't want there to encourage any freak accidents. I dropped Finley off, then Z, the door almost shutting between schools. And then, as the door started to close behind Joe, it freaked.

Like a little kid that was having a melt-down trying to decide between chocolate and fudge, it bounced back and forth on the rails, refusing to fully open or close. I put the van in park, hoping that would help the door make up its mind. But no. So I drove down the road with the door doing its dance until I found a safer place to park.

Turns out, some trim piece had slid out of place and was in the way. I ripped it off (who needs trim?), and sure enough, the door closed. All the way.

I can't decide if I'm mad I don't have a good excuse to buy a newer vehicle right now, or excited I still might be able to coax this piece of [steel] to 400k.

Sometimes it must be a drag to have a mom with a physics degree.

We were on the way to school this morning, a truck in front of us.

"There's a generator!" Joe announced, spotting the piece of equipment in the bed. My heart swelled a little with pride.

The sight of the generator must have set his wheels a-turning, because soon he was yammering about his new idea: In the event of a zombie apocalypse, he could take two electric generators and using them alternately to power the other one, and somehow end up with "infinite electricity." I missed a lot of the details, but as I have a good understanding of that pesky concept called the conservation of energy, I was pretty sure his idea wouldn't work.

After voicing my doubts, I asked him, "How does it create electricity? Does it use gas?"

"No."

"If it isn't using gas, how is it creating the electricity? Is there a motor, and if so, what is it powered by?"

"Electricity. It's an electric generator, Mom."

I then tried to explain to him that if one generator was using energy to power the other one, but you also needed to use that energy for other things (say, powering a light), you would lose the energy eventually- like pouring water back and forth from one glass to another while taking drinks.

He wasn't buying it, and was getting frustrated with me, because obviously, I didn't understand his genius idea.

After I dropped him off at school, I felt bad. Who was I to shoot down his ideas?

I remember not so long ago, discussing with a friend how great it would be to have wireless power. But, silly me, I thought it would never happen. But it exists. So who knows.

Sometimes, a kid can't (or won't) listen to his mom. That's okay. Someday, he'll come to understand the conservation of energy on his own. And someday, he will probably engineer something I thought would be impossible- because he dreamed big and ignored his mother's doubts.

Summer of '16

Apparently, summer is almost over. At least that's what the school calendar is telling me. August 1st is scheduled for class orientations, and the kids start back in full bore on the 5th. (Let's hope not full bored.)

Finley is away at band camp this week, so it has been 75% less dramatic around the house this week.

Last week, the girls turned 8 and 12. We had the usual party on Saturday, and Reanna came out sporting her almost 8-month pregnant belly. We will be grandparents by the end of August!

We have a thing in the Knight clan that provides great amusement and satisfaction, in that we all turn odd ages on odd years and even numbers on even years. Even the little grandson will continue the pattern. But then we discovered that Reanna's fiance' will be turning 23 this year. He had to ruin everything...

Business is booming. We are hoping that we haven't over-committed ourselves. Chris is working long hours, and I am doing my best to keep up with the administrative mess while caring for kids and laundry and whatever else. Someone asked me last week, "How's the farm?" "It's out there, I think," I responded.

And it is.

My garden is asprawl with squash vines. I pulled out a summer squash and zucchini plant to give the peppers more air, but the Pennsylvania Dutch winter squash vines are invading  and overgrowing everything. I had plans to trim them back and re-route vines to a confined space, but I am not very consistent in my gardening habits. They have started climbing through the tomatoes, and seeing a few fruits forming, can't bring myself to cut them out. Slicing one of those huge crescents open come mid-winter for soup is one of the great joys of life.

The calves are doing well. Banded nut-sacks have finally fallen off, and horns are starting to peek out out of fur. The grass, thanks to recent rains, has turned lush and green into a magnificent salad bar for their bellies.

Then there are the chickens. One of these days I am going to learn my lesson and resist the temptation to buy all those fancy chicks. Or at least I will pay an arm and a leg to order them through a company that will sex them for me. Out of the 13 chicks I bought from Co-op this spring, five of them turned out to be roosters. We had one grown rooster already, then last month, my nephew, Robert, who lives in the city, discovered that his favorite hen, Ginger Ale, was really a rooster. He had started crowing in the early hours of the morning, and as that is something looked down upon in the big city, we agreed to offer him refuge, lest he be slaughtered by a mob of sleep-deprived neighbors. I have renamed him Trans-Ginger. And now we have seven roosters.

If it weren't for the fact that nearly all those boys have unique characteristics that make me hesitate to cull them, I would re-purpose them as chicken pot pie. What to do?

At least we have Goldie (the 3rd). She's a sweet little silkie that has been handled enough, she's easy to catch, hold, and take pictures with.

Until next time...

My Dad

This picture. It might seem silly, but this is one of my favorite pictures of my dad. It speaks volumes about the dad he was while I was growing up.

I had this bright idea as a kid that if I tied a string around an orange, hung it from something, then took a picture of it, it might look like it was floating in space. You know how it is when a kid gets an idea.

I couldn't find anything convenient to hang the orange from, but there was my dad, sitting in his chair, reading the paper like he did every evening when he got home from work. So I asked him to hold the string.

I don't remember if he asked me what I was doing or if I told him. I'm pretty sure he didn't criticize or even offer suggestions (and I'm sure this time I didn't ask for any). He just let me try my experiment and figure things out for myself. Want to nail two boards together to make an airplane? Go for it. Car broke down? This might be what's wrong with it. Go get a Chilton's manual and fix it yourself.

I remember someone asking me when we were in the middle of building the house, "How do you know how to do all of this?" The truth was, we didn't, but because my dad was the way he is, I had the confidence that we could probably figure it out. And for that, I am eternally grateful.

The Gag Reflex

It was evident early in life that my gag reflex was exceptional. I spent hours sitting at the table trying to choke down bits of liver because the slightest taste would trigger responses of rejection from my body. I remember reclining in the dentist's chair with the fluoridated-goo-filled tray in my mouth. My stomach muscles heaved as it felt like that foul tray and taste was threatening to lodge itself in my throat and choke me senseless. 

It isn't just the typical gross-food tastes like liver and Brussels sprouts that activate the reflex. Even food as seemingly innocuous yogurt can make gag. I can happily be eating my favorite flavor of the creamy substance, when all at once, the texture will feel wrong, and my throat will shut down and refuse to let any more pass.

And odors. It is a small major miracle that I never threw up on any of my kids while changing their diapers. This is not to say that I didn't hold my breath or cover my nose up with my shirt whenever possible. I was dry-heaving quite a lot when things were extra-messy. And the only time I actually threw up was when Finley had the runs and removed her diaper during nap-time. So I figure there mast have been a special anti-gag hormone my body created along with the baby. That, coupled with a steeling of the mind, quieted my gag reflex to the point I thought I was largely done with gagging as long as I didn't overwhelm my senses with something utterly disgusting.

About the same time we bought the calves this year, I came down with a bad cold. The dehydration that came with taking decongestants and that nastiness of having thick snot caught in that junction between nasal passage and throat just made me feel sick. On top of that, I was going out twice a day to feed the calves who can't seem to help but sit in their own poo. I would lug the bottles out to the stinky calves and have to watch as the they slurped down their milk, thick ropes of milk-spit froth forming at the corners of their mouths. It was rough. 

I thought I would be done with the gagging when the cold cleared up, but it's only gotten worse. Now that the calves are older and bolder, they slorp and smack their bottles empty. The sound alone can make me gag. Once finished, they nose and suck their way onto another calf's bottle who hasn't finished yet, all the while, slinging their meringue-thick slobber everywhere, leaving me a slimy mess to wash. (I'm gagging as I type.)

I'm hoping I can get things back under control by August. We are going to be grandparents, and I really don't want to be gagging or throwing up around (or on) the kid.

This has got to be one of the weirdest springs ever. Usually, by now, we are sweltering in the humid, Tennessee heat of mid-May, and everything is growing lush and green. Today, however, it struggled to get to 70 degrees, and the grass is a bit yellow and crunchy underfoot.

I finally got some tomato plants in the ground. If they don't do better than they did last year, I might cry. I wanted to expand the garden this year, but figured I would never get around to doing it properly, so just tilled the plot I had from last year. Maybe the lack of space will motivate me to finally get some raised beds going.

We set up the pool last week in spite of the chill, and I set the water a-dribbling to fill it. It takes a while to fill the pool with clear water out of the well. Draw too much too quickly, and the dirt gets stirred up into the well water. The next morning, there were puddles around the feet of the pool frame, so we think there is a leak somewhere. Now we are in a quandary. Do we keep filling it and hope that if there is a leak, it seals itself somehow? If it keeps leaking, will it be at a tolerably slow enough rate? And what is that tolerable rate? Do we just trash the thing and head to the parks' pool more often this year?

I bought the ducks a little pool of their own and filled it today. They were rather suspicious of the thing, but their curiosity won out after they saw a chicken drinking from it. They took a few hesitant sips, then one dunked her head. A few more seconds, and another jumped in. The ecstasy  must have been immediate, as suddenly there was a flailing of wings and feet and duck under water. It made me a little sad, though, to see the joy limited to such a small radius. If only they would know to come back home to safety after swimming in the big pond...

Zivah got braces on her top teeth yesterday. Although smiling in this picture, she wasn't smiling much this morning as the ache had set in.

Tomorrow is the last full day of school for the kids. Somebody check on me in two weeks to see if I'm still alive. ;)

Spring in Full Swing

Last weekend as I was walking across the yard, I looked up and saw my girls digging in the flower bed and realized I was having one of the best weekends of my life.

We started that Saturday off working on the chicken coop. The metal roof sheltering the run had been salvaged from the old barn out back, had been used on the chicken run when the coop was close to the house, and was being re-used again. But the previous nail and screw holes needed caulking in order to keep the roof from acting as a sieve. The kids climbed on top with me and helped wipe down the areas that needed caulk.  Then, outfitted with latex gloves, Zivah and Joe followed behind me, smoothing the dollops of caulk over the holes. After the first row of holes, I relinquished the caulk gun to Joe. Finley stood underneath checking for missed or inadequately caulked holes, while I sat and supervised.

That job finished, the girls and I went off to the nursery to buy some plants for my freshly-dug flower bed while Joe stayed behind to mow the go-kart track. Back home, with the girls planting their flowers in spots I would not have chosen, I was a little overwhelmed by the joy working alongside my kids was bringing me.

The business has been busy enough that we hired a kid young man part time to help Chris. We knew he would need some training, but had no idea how much of an understatement that would be. The poor guy didn't know what a Phillips head screw driver was. He had never used a drill. He couldn't figure out how to use the snips to cut a cable. (Fingertips won't work, son.) My kids? If I do my job right, they will know how to do things. At least I hope they will know how to figure it out if they don't.

Flowers planted, we took a moment to play with chickens and take some pictures.

Thursday, we bought some future meat. The big calf (on the right) had the scours (diarrhea) when we brought him home, and we were a little worried he wouldn't make it, but I've been giving him Power Punch with his milk and some probiotics, and he seems to be doing better. He's still a little weak and unsteady on his feet, but his poop has thickened up, so I'm feeling optimistic.

Our neighbors were kind enough to lend us some bottle holders. There was no way I could handle feeding three calves on my own without them.

This weekend, the kids asked me to pull the truck into "The Nature Club" so they could load up sticks into the back and clean the area up a bit. Any time they ask to work instead of playing video games, I'm more than happy to oblige.

The Woods

Not feeling particularly sane today, I shirked all responsibility for half an hour and headed out back and into the trees, camera in hand.

Little, bitty flowers are sprinkling additional color to the green-brown-gray landscape.

This mighty oak is beginning again.

 While other trees are slower to push out their leaves.

Yesterday was rough.

I woke up feeling like the cosmos was out of balance and that the setting right of things was entirely out of my control.

I felt a lot like this little squirrel probably did. It had gotten jostled out of its warm, safe nest and was being held captive by something so large and strong, all it could do was hold its breath and wait.

Then, mid-morning, Zivah's hamster, Whiskers, met with an accident. A few minutes later, Z brought her to me in concern. "She's cold, and she's not moving much," she told me. I took a look at the hamster, and it was pretty obvious Whiskers was in real trouble.

The next span of time was awful. Zivah was in tears; Finley was shook up, but trying her best to ease Zivah's pain; Joe filled a water bottle with warm water, trying to do anything to help Whiskers and keep her warm. And then Whiskers passed, we tucked her into a check box, and Chris went out with the kids to bury her.

Thankfully, we were going to Nana's that afternoon to celebrate her birthday. We all needed distraction. I tried my best not think about Z's excitement and joy the day after Christmas when we went to get Whiskers or the tears of loss...

This morning, the kids were getting ready to leave for school, and I was standing in the living room, and looked up out of the window facing east. The sun was a big, orange circle of warmth, it's light reaching out to our house over the tree tops.

The steadfast love of the LORD never ceases; his mercies never come to an end; they are new every morning; great is your faithfulness. - Lamentations 3:22-23

There is nothing quite so wonderful as a sense of peace.

I am relishing in the sound of the light rain on the roof and water trickling out of the downspouts. The windows are open, and 69-degree, fresh air is seeping slowly through the screens.

This morning was all business. We have a handful of quotes to throw together for next week, and with Chris working out in the field most days, there isn't a lot of time to hash out details together. We finally called it quits about lunchtime. Chris headed out to the shop to sort through his stuff, but I decided I needed to immerse myself something more natural.

Wandering around the farm, I discovered the weeping willow had sprouted leaves:

And the peach tree is about to bloom:

I headed to the garden. I had completely neglected it last summer, so the tomato cages still supported long-dead plants in sloppy rows. Yellow grass was thick around the fencing, and a pile of mulch lay hidden beneath brown weeds.  One long, laid-over cabbage stalk held a half-eaten, miniature head on its tip. I pulled up the cages, emptied them of the dead stalks, and lined them up in a corner of the garden. I am wondering if I can whip it into shape this year. It's going to take some work.

But now, it is raining. A good excuse to ignore the politics, business, and busyness of life and just sit.

Love Covers

Back when it was winter break, something reminded the kids that they had baby books hiding in storage upstairs. They asked if they could get them out to look at them, and so I dug through the bins to retrieve them.

Finley's book is full of pictures and documentation of her growth progress. First bandages and hair clippings and notes of special memories crowd the spaces around pre-printed fill-in-the-blank lines.

Joe's baby book is almost as full.

Zivah's book goes blank around the sixth month.

I try not to feel guilty.

Somehow, though -in spite of my apparent neglect- this kid loves me.

We went sledding a few weeks back when we actually got some good snow. We were getting ready to wrap it up, when someone suggested making a train. Chris took the lead as engine, with Finley right behind. In my mind, I knew that Zivah, the smallest of the bunch, ought to be last, but somehow in the excitement, she ended up in between Joe and Finley. I instructed her to loop the rope of Joe's sled around her arm, and away they went halfway down the hill until Chris lost control and there was a collision of sleds and bodies. Zivah came up from the fray, crying, her arm hurting from the rope.

The next day, Zivah went to Grandma's house for a piano lesson. When Grandma asked her how the sledding was, Z mentioned that her arm got hurt and that "it was Mom's fault." But when pressed for the details, my mom told me she said, "Oh, I love Mom too much. Never mind," then refused to tell.

And every night, she tells me, "I love you so much! You are the best mom in the world!"

I don't know if she realizes it or not, but I haven't done a whole lot to deserve that kind of love. None of us have. But love covers over a multitude of sins, and insists on calling out the best in us. Love transforms us.

It Is Tuesday

The kids are back at school after a long, holiday weekend. I have made the bed, been to the grocery store, put the shopping away, sorted and started some laundry, emptied the dishwasher, and have decided that now is a good time to drink another cup of coffee and ignore some of the other things that need to get done.

It rained all day yesterday. All day. Finley had a 4H workshop to attend, and Zivah had piano lesson with Grandma. When we got home at 5 o'clock the rain had not let up, and we all sprinted to the house. The van has a motorized sliding door, which, for the most part, is a wonderful convenience. When the kids were little and didn't have the umph to open or shut the door, all I had to do was push a button to open or close the thing. Sometimes, though, this creates a problem. Like yesterday, when no one remembered to push any buttons. I noticed the door was open about 15 minutes after we had gotten home. I was thankful that I could stand inside the house and push the button on the key fob instead of needing to run across the yard in the rain. This morning, I wasn't so thankful when we realized I had locked Dragon in the van overnight, and the van smelled like cat pee.

Thanks, Drag.

We have had to deal with another stinky, animal smell recently. Daisy got loose a few nights ago, and managed to find herself a skunk. It was the middle of the night, and I had to get her locked back up so that she wouldn't keep waking us up with her barking as she ran beneath our windows in joyous, unfettered freedom. The next time this happens, someone please remind me to put my hair up. Leaning over to pet my stinky dog for coming to me when I called her, my hair must have brushed against hers, and I wasn't allowed back in my own bed until I had shampooed my hair several times.

In other news, Netflix is ruining us all. We have taken to having family movie nights on a near-weekly basis. I have my own memories of movie nights growing up. We would pop a bunch of popcorn into a cut-down, paper grocery bag and settle in front of the TV to watch "Silver Screen Classics" on the PBS station. We didn't get a choice as to what movie we were going to watch. Movie nights at our house, while originally sheer joy, are now starting to become less so. There are usually 5 of us at home, and, thanks to the variety and instant gratification Netflix promises, 3 or 4 of us expect to be able to watch something we are convinced we will enjoy. I don't think I ever took a statistics class, so I am not sure what the odds are of finding a movie that all 5 people with differing tastes will like, but it is at least 125 to 1. We are working on our attitudes.

This weekend, I managed to snag control of the remote, and we started watching the 1956 version of Around the World in 80 Days. The kids, in spite of their obvious intrigue at times ("How do hot air balloons work?" "Look at the Chinese dragons!" etc.) claimed it was totally boring. In between captivating scenes, Joe and Z ended up doing this:

Finally, this drizzly Tuesday, a last, not-worth-mentioning bit of news:

The coffee is gone. 

I must move on with my day.

Books You Might Want To Read

Grandma Moses started painting at the age of 78. Toni Morrison published her first book at the age of 40. Madeleine L'Engle's best know work A Wrinkle in Time wasn't published until her 40's.

I go through the list of "late bloomers" in my mind to remind myself that I still have time.

Meanwhile, I have friends out there that have actually written and self-published books. I am really excited for them, and this sad, little blog post is my way of cheering them on.

First on this list is Elizabeth Adams. In 2014, she published a Jane Austen fan-fiction novel called The Houseguest, and I cannot imagine anyone who enjoys reading Austen not liking this book. Not long after, E.A. wrote Green Card. Similar to novels like those of Emily Giffin, Green Card is a modern romance novel. Although I am typically not into this genre, I  found myself completely sucked into the story, love-hating it all the way through. (A word of warning. Green Card is a strong PG-13, so if juicy make-out scenes make you uncomfortable, just stick with The Houseguest.)

Next is D. Marie Prokop. The wife of a friend from my old youth group, I don't know her well, but she has my admiration. She knits! She plays the guitar! She is as short as I am (I think)! And aside from a children's book, she has also written a full-on, young-adult, sci-fi trilogy while raising two boys, working at a farm-to table cafe, and being married to my old friend, Todd. I read the first two installments of her Days of the Guardian trilogy in quick succession, and was eager to read the third, but when I went to look for it on Amazon, realized she hadn't published it yet. Torture. Thankfully, she published the third book a few months ago, so the rest of you won't have to suffer the suspense I had to.

Lastly, C. R. Leverette, a guy from the church we frequent, just put out a novella called Trouble in Peaceful Haven. What I loved about this read was Leverette's combination of two genres: sci-fi and western.

It's winter out there. The Super Bowl is over. Daytona isn't until the 21st. You can only watch so much TV before your brain starts to fry. So if any of the above books spark your interest, just shell out a few bucks and get yourself something to read.

Hope Springs Eternal

I was already having a bad day when I went out to check on the chickens. I had forgotten to go out the evening before to see if all six bird were roosting in the coop. And that also meant that I hadn't closed the door to lock them safely in.

As far as I knew, Rockstar hadn't even left the chicken run since I had lured her out there nearly a week earlier. But I wasn't sure if the three hens that were foraging were sleeping back in the coop or had reverted to sleeping in the stable again.

As soon as I flung open the coop door, I saw the half-eaten carcass of one chicken and a thick layer of feathers over the floor that could only have been Rockstar's.

Guilt, regret, anger, grief...

What business do I have keeping animals if I can't keep them safe? If only I hadn't locked Rockstar up in the coop... If only I had at least remember to check on them that night. Why hadn't anyone reminded me, anyway? ...

And then today, the McMurray catalog came in the mail, filled with drawings of dozens of breeds of birds and pictures of cute little, fuzz balls.

So I started plotting and daydreaming.

This year, I'll build a nice, wooden brooder instead of using the metal watering trough. That didn't seem to work too well last year in the chilly weather. And I'll need to put chicken wire up on the field fencing and look into aviary netting for added protection. And maybe build a second coop if the kids are going to be doing 4H.......

Around the Farm

A full week into January, and those promises for an above-normal snowfall this winter appear to be empty. The forecast for the rest of the month only dips below freezing during the night hours.

The Christmas Eve storms shook some dead limbs out of the big, rotting hackberry tree on the fence line to the west of the house. Since the farm truck has been confiscated for business purposes, I fired up the tractor today to haul the refuse back to the brush pile we have stashed back in some woods. The soft rumble of the diesel engine stoked some of the joy that had been dwindling in me; it felt good to be outside and moving with purpose. The business requires that I sit and stare at this computer screen, and once here, roots seem to grow out of my butt and into the cushion of the office chair. I am learning to stand up and walk away before they get too deep.

After dumping the hackberry wood, I parked the tractor and went to get my pruning tools. The young trees I had planted in past years needed some attention, and I had been waiting for the weather to cool some before I started amputating unwanted branches. One of the trees that needed shaping was our Japanese maple. It had started looking a little furry this summer with numerous wisps sprouting from the trunk and its beautiful structure was hidden in a fog of little leaves. The leaves had also been hiding a nest I didn't realize was there until fall stripped the tree bare. I will have to pay more attention this year to see if any birds come back to nest there again.

We are down to six chickens. Isadora is gone. I found some of her feathers strewn about in Queenie's pasture last month, so it was obvious something had snatched her. That same day, I found another dead chicken in the coop.  We're not sure what killed it, but all its guts had been eaten out leaving the legs, back, and wings. We set up traps and caught a couple of possums, but I'm not sure they were the real culprits. The remaining hens must have been traumatized by the event and started roosting in the stable near the house. A couple days ago, I lured them back out to the coop with food. Even Rockstar, who normally stays close to the house, followed me out. I closed up all the entrances to the coop and run, and am going to leave them penned up for a few more days in hopes that they will return to the coop once I let them wander again. It would be nice to clean the chicken poop out of the stable.

With so few hens remaining, I have been daydreaming about raising a variety of chicks again, but both Finley and Joe are involved in 4H this year and want to participate in the chick chain. The only options for their project are Black Sex Links and Rhode Island Reds, and they have to order a minimum of 10 chicks each. The thought of having nearly three dozen birds roaming the farm is unsavory. We need to get that aviary built around the coop that Chris keeps hounding me about. Maybe the mild winter will let us get something like that done.