Winter Blah Blah Blahs

*this is a reprint from 2012*

Daughter has informed me that I stink at blogging since it's been six months since I wrote anything. I beg to differ, I write on Facebook every.single.day. I also write shopping lists, notes for the family that say things like "there's dinner in the crockpot and your sports socks are on the line", and reminders to myself. So there.
Besides, it's been Winter in the pasture. Winter starts in September and ends on Memorial Day here, and there's only so much you can do when you're surrounded by snow,or mud, and you only get six channels. There has been absolutely nothing mind-boggling or audience-worthy, I assure you.

My main source of amusement is online shopping. I have so many cardboard boxes from deliveries that I'm now flattening them and using them as mulch in the garden. Even after that, I'll have enough to build a cardboard house, a cardboard car, and maybe even a cardboard dog (which would be great, because it wouldn't poop and I wouldn't have to feed it).  The UPS man doesn't even need to beep any more. We all recognize the sound of his truck coming down the road, and then we sprint across the floor to the front door. Besides getting something new, it gives us a few seconds of fresh air, after which we scurry back inside squealing "cold feet, cold feet", and all stand in front of the woodstove.

Other Winter entertainment consists of stalking free-range hens to find their eggs, walking to and from the mailbox, and driving to work.  I told you it wasn't very exciting.

The good news is Spring has come. Or at least it was Spring for about 5 days, long enough for me to plant all of my "cool-weather" vegetables like peas and onions, and then it got cold again.  Now, the weeds are all flourishing, and all of my Daikon radishes are dead. Funny, I thought radishes were cool-weather, but I guess the ones from Japan don't like the snow. Poor little Japanese radish babies.  I don't know how to mourn appropriately for Asian plants, and I wouldn't want to offend anyone, so I just sprinkled a little dirt on them and said a few words. Actually, they weren't words that were very nice, so I won't repeat them.

Well, I should go. There's a TON of stuff I have to do, ranging from brushing my hair to reading a book.  If you want to do something worth doing, you go right ahead, there are plenty of weeds in the garden, and I've got a pile of old chairs that should be burned. Stop by. I'll give you the gloves, and a pack of matches. Just close the door tight on your way out, and try not to trip over any cardboard.

Chips Off The Old Block

If I didn't spend so much time watching people, I might actually get some things accomplished in the house. Today's victims are the local tree-chipping guys. I was watching them from the driver's seat, and in nightmarish rural traffic (there was a car in front of me). There were three of them. Not exactly "men", I would call them tree-chipping "boys". Of course, anyone under forty anymore looks like a kid. They were either brothers, or really good friends. They were all dressed alike, in their hard hats and mirrored sunglasses, and the poor guy who was sitting in the middle of the truck looked a little squished. The reason I think they were probably brothers is that lack of personal space. They were close enough to start giving each other shoves and complaining that "he's on my side" and "he's looking at me" and "make him stop making that noise". Don't make me come over there.

I'm pretty sure that's not a real job, either. They seemed to be having too much fun. Young man plus chain saw plus big truck plus mirrored sunglasses. That's a dream come true for anyone with testosterone. Their big truck was taking up my lane yesterday, and as I approached in my car, I slowed down looking for a flagger. Brother #1 grabbed the "slow/stop" sign from somewhere in front of the truck and with a little leap and a "ta-da!" pose, took his position
in the middle of the open lane. Brother #2 came out from somewhere in front of the truck (I don't know what they were doing up there, but I've raised three boys, and I'm sure it wasn't good). Brother #2 grabbed Brother #1 by the shirt sleeve and dragged him over to the side of the road with his sign, where the flagger belongs, also with a little "ta-da!" pose. Like, duh, don't you even know how to be a flagger? All the rest of us had to learn how to flag, but we always knew you were the "favorite".  Favor-ite, favor-ite.  Plus, they were smiling. They were always smiling. They probably have to go home and pick the bark out of their teeth (a dental hygienist's nightmare)

As you go out today, be thinking about the smiling tree trimmers. Their job is not glamorous, and I imagine it's hot and sweaty work, and that they're pretty darn tired at the end of the day. They could be miserable, but they're not. They've found ways to make work fun. Bet you could, too. That's my lesson from the pasture today. Don't forget to floss.

Arsonists and Old Lace

In the asphalt jungle, we lived under a "no burn" notice, which never made a whole lot of sense to me. There we were, living mostly on concrete and blacktop, and we weren't allowed to burn our trash. Any fires in town were always labeled "suspicious", like nothing could ever burn there by itself. There were days, when the boys were little, that they would sit out front with a magnifying glass torching blades of grass, leaves, and the occasional innocent ant. I would always hover nearby, saying mom-things like "you be careful with that, or you'll burn the whole neighborhood down". I don't know why I bothered. The firehouse was only three blocks away, and we had "live-in" firemen. "Live-in" in the sense that they were always in the bowling alley on the other side of the firehouse, so there was a pretty good chance there'd be at least one guy in a team shirt who could get the firetruck to your home in time.

Contrast that with life here in the field. We can burn whatever we want, and no one asks any questions. Well, my husband says you "can't burn whatever you want, but people do it anyway". On my morning drives to work, I daily pass the same elderly farmer taking out the trash. He's always all dressed up, so I'm not sure exactly what, or who, he might be burning, but it is definitely a button-up occasion. After crossing the road, he tosses his bag in the ditch, lights it up, and goes back inside for breakfast.  No one stops their car and knocks on the door to tell him the other side of the road is on fire, and no one worries about burning the neighborhood down. It's just fire, and we love to play with it here. If it escapes the confines of the pit, well, somebody will see the smoke eventually. Then, they'll call the volunteers (God bless them all), who have to leave work, drive over hill and dale to the fire station,  get the trucks, and make their way back to the site. We have seven smoke detectors in our house, two fire extinguishers, and four exit doors. That would be why. Plus, there were those two small incidents when I was burning trash, and set the field on fire, so I can't be trusted. The good news is, my fire extinguishers are always fresh, because I have used them so many times.

Today, I built a bonfire. Bonfires are an acceptable form of country entertainment and waste disposal. Basically it's burning your trash, with beer. You don't burn that. Well, you do, kind of, if your metabolism is high enough. I don't drink, and I didn't have any company, so this wasn't a very social bonfire. I did talk to the rooster if that counts.  A little newspaper, a couple of matches, some old cedar shingles, and I got a nice little blaze going. The only drawback is that I'll have to hide when the family comes home. "Honey, have you seen my______?" Oh, um, was it in the living room, or on the back porch? "Yes." Try the burn pit.

I'm going to go out and throw another old piece of furniture on the fire. If you're bored, come over. Bring a chair, the fire's getting low.




*this blogging thing is brand new to me. If this is something you like to read, please follow me. If not, at the end of the week, I'm going back to facebook posts LOL*

Chicken Stew With Biscuits

Most of my suburban life, I had idealistic visions of someday having a house with a little more grass around it and a few chickens. That was back when I perceived it to be a bit more "Little House On The Prairie"-ish. Ma and Pa all snuggled in bed in their caps, and the kindly rooster crowing to wake them at dawn, then fresh eggs from the coop for breakfast. Contrast that with what I've got instead. Billy Kelloggs (he's the rooster) chooses to roost in the rhododendron outside the kitchen window. I think he figures my daughter and I are two more hens he needs to keep track of, and he can watch us that way. He's a little clueless, but I'll take whatever protection I can get out here, because the dogs are no help at all.  Billy decided it was time to crow us all awake at 3:45 a.m. I'm not sure if it was the moon or the porch light that got him started, but he wouldn't shut up. He did his job. He woke me up, and as I lay there contemplating which recipe to use him in for dinner, he got quiet (he may be clueless, but he's not dumb).

I did have fresh eggs for breakfast. They're really good once you wash the poop off of the shells. That's a pretty important step that they never mentioned in those Laura Ingalls Wilder books. You have to wash your hands good before you put the toast in the toaster, too, and throw the dishrag in with some Clorox. I don't think Caroline Ingalls had Clorox.

So, this is how the day begins out here in the pasture. The moon comes up, the rooster crows, we all wonder why on earth we didn't just buy an alarm clock. Blessings to all, have a great day!