Mulish & Co.

It rained again yesterday. There were a few random spits in the afternoon but it fell steady through the night. By the time I went to lock up the coop it was dark. I did the nightly head count and saw that La Bete, the guinea fowl was absent. She doesn't sleep with the girls every night but I like to at least have an idea where she is before I close the door.

There are two places she likes camp out - on the rail by the privacy fence and up on a high branch in the tree next to the coop. She was there, on the high branch. I think, in my human arrogance, that she could not possibly know that more rain was on the way and what a fool she is perched up in that tree. The truth is, she is probably more aware of it than me. Regardless of who knew what and when, she would be exposed to the wind and rain and there was no way that she was ever going to come down and in for me. We both knew that. The best I could do was leave the coop door open for her. So I did and I told her so.

Michael says she always picks the wettest and windiest nights to camp out. I think she likes the elements and only seeks out the hens for their heat. By the time I checked on them in the morning they were all out in the yard scratching and pecking and searching for anything green or anything moving. They're happy creatures, all of them. They laid four eggs today. We have a total of seventy-six for the month. Seventy-six beautiful eggs.

The Ugly Truth

I had one anxiety dream after another last night. It seemed that everytime I opened my eyes I could recount at least a portion of a stressful dream and by morning there were just too many to remember. In part, it's because it's Monday. It's the beginning of the work week.

I don't want to give the impression that I don't like my job. I'm happier there than I have been anywhere in recent years. The practice is honest, the vets are wonderful as are my co-workers. As always, it's me. I don't know how many people share this with me, probably more than I know, it's anxiety plain and simple. It's being put in a situation where I have to interact with strangers. I feel so out of my element. I can feel the knot in my stomach form, my tongue gets heavy and trips all over itself, I feel cold. I want to remove myself. I want an invisibility cloak.

I think about remedying the situation - going to a doctor, perhaps. But for what? For medication? No. No medication, thank you. I know that it helps a lot of people, I know that there is no shame and when I let myself think about seeking out help and the possibility of taking medication, I believe it would help. On the surface. It would lessen anxiety and make uncomfortable situations bearable. I don't want bearable. I want to be in my right element.

The anxiety is the only true signal that I have that tells me that I am spending hours doing the wrong thing. If I silence the signal I might settle and stay in an unrewarding job forEVER! (I can see now, writing this, that I've given value to my anxiety instead of entirely dismissing it.) I am an introvert of the first order and I take jobs, year after year that force me to go against the grain. My grain, my true self, my essence. It's maddening. I do it because I know how. I do it to contribute to our household income. I do it to take the burden off of Michael. I do it because I don't know what else to do. I do it and I know I'm not the only one, everyone has issues, this is minor in the scheme of things so I suck it up and do it. Over and over and over.

Today I decided to expose that little marred facet of myself. I usually keep it covered up and hidden. But I want to look at it in the light today. I want to look at it and not be saddled by it anymore. I want to sleep without dreaming that I am trapped on railroad tracks and in danger of being mowed down by a highspeed train at any minute.

The Dearly Departed

A moment of silence please for the dearly departed. Thank you. Our old and decrepit mower, Little Tecumseh, gave up the ghost today. She was ten. I know this because Michael, in his grief, kept saying ,"She was ten years old. It was about time. What year did we move here again? That would make her ten. She was ten years old."

Poor thing, Michael, not LT. They had a love-hate relationship to be sure. She was always chugging and choking like a smoker with a three pack a day habit but damn she was resolute. Up and down the hill in the front yard, circling around the back, scooting between raised beds and over rocks and tree stumps, too, then making a beeline to the shed.

It was hard to watch the decline. Every year she'd end up flat on her back so to speak, unable to move or even whimper. We'd have to get a special little pack of tools at the one small shop downtown that carried them. One time Michael hoisted her into the back of his hatch-back and drove her down to a small engine repair shop. The owner was standing outside and when Michael popped the hatch the guy saw what was inside and said, "Whoa, whoa, whoa. Don't even bother taking that outta there. I don't work on Tecumsehs anymore." The humiliation. That was how we ended up finding the shop that carried the parts. We were in need and it was the only place we could get the stupid rare part for our girl.

I keep in mind that she died doing what she was born to do, chomping out a swath of green under a clear blue sky. She died doing what she loved, I imagine. Like a seasoned mountain climber tumbling down a snowy peak. She still had grass in her teeth and sod on her wheels. So poignant.

We gave her a curbside burial. She sat for a relatively short time (30 minutes?) with a sign next to her and her little friend, Weed Eatah. It simply read, "FREE. Does Not Work" followed by a small frowny face complete with a single tear.

Little Tecumseh, your reign was long but perhaps not fine. It was marred but you chugged on. I always knew where you were by the noxious gas odor and, on occasion, the little puff of white smoke that trailed behind. May you live another ten years as an organ donor or as the adopted child of a small engine savant.

 

 

 

Henbit, Chickens and Tatsoi

It looks like the weekend is shaping up into nothing less than magnificent. I could use a little magnificent right now, after last week. I am no longer able to park on the premises of the building that I work at. Parking is tight and newer employees have been strongly urged to park elsewhere. I'm parking at a grocery store down the street and walking from there. So far, I have discovered a little hidden vegetable garden full of chard and I found a pretty cool ring. It just goes to show that one never knows what a new situation will yield. I'm trying to stay positive. But the weekend. The weekend!

My plans aren't grand. I will probably stand around some in the front yard then in the backyard trying to figure out the best way to deal with all of this:

 

 

Thanks to The Grackle, I now know what has taken up residence in just about every square inch of my yard. I love the little purple flowers, the round leaves and I love finally having a name for it. It's everywhere, it deserves a name. Several people (okay, two, a small child and a next door neighbor) have asked, "What is all that stuff growing in your yard?" I'm willing to give them the benefit of the doubt and read envy and wonder into their inquiries though the subtext is probably more along the lines of, "Why have you neglected your yard for so long?" and "Will the henbit envelop your home eventually?" I say to them, this is not neglect, this is foresight. These are emergency reserves for the chickens in case I cannot buy them grain next month because, truth be known, I really don't appreciate the parking situation at work and I'd rather just stay home and write all day, or procrastinate and neither, particularly the latter, has proved to be particularly profitable. As for the henbit enveloping the house? We'll have to wait and see.

After assessing the henbit situation, I will no doubt watch the girls "free-range" in the lush backyard for awhile before I pull out the giddy-up stick and corral them back into their dismal little portion of the yard. It wasn't dismal prior to the chicken occupation, mind-you, but carpeted with a thick and beautiful ground cover which, at this point, is nothing but a distant and fading memory. The little girl from across the street comes to remind me, "This place used to be so pretty with all that green growing under the trees. I used to come by and just look at it." She speaks the truth.

 

 

Being a kind and loving wife, I will keep watch over the husband as he dozes in the yard, making sure he does not become a mosquito buffet.

 

I may also turn some leaves over to see if I can find out what has claimed my tatsoi.

 

So, that's it. That is what I have planned for what I suspect will be the most beautiful weekend of 2012 so far, the last weekend of January. A whole lot of nothing very purposeful and I hope to enjoy every last minute of it. May you do the same!

Our rain gauge is a little unconventional, but you get the picture.

The Summer Day

by Mary Oliver

 

Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean-
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down-
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don't know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
With your one wild and precious life?

Dedicated Poo-Gliders

If there is one thing that keeping chickens has taught me, it's that you really need to have that one pair of unholy footwear, the kind you could leave behind if your house were on fire and you wouldn't regret it. The chicken yard calls for treadless shoes. Flat soled shoes are both pragmatic and a time saver. Who needs to spend ten minutes digging chicken poo out of the soles of a pair of high-end running shoes with a brittle stick? Not I, said the fly.

Last summer I had the foresight to purchase not one but two pair of ninety-nine cent flip-flops. If I'd really had foresight, I would have bought five pair or twelve but that is assuming that I'll have chickens until the day I die and I'm not willing to bet on that just yet.

Spontaneous shoe wisdom seemed to have rained down upon me because I also discovered that I could a. throw those bad boys in the shower with me and scrub them clean or b. throw them in the washing machine. I was late coming to the washing machine idea but it is now my preferred method of flip flop sanitation since I have also come to realize that flip flops are the cockroaches of footwear. Indestructible. The post-Apocolypse generation will all don flip-flops, let me assure you of that, my friend.

I never really imagined that I would become so fond of my foamy little sandals but you know what happens once you give something a pet name, it wraps it's little roots around your heart and doesn't want to let go. In our house, we refer to my flip-flops by one name only (flip-flop is the "formal" name, the one I use if ladies are present). They are affectionately known as poo-gliders. That's right. Poo-gliders as in, "Have you seen my poo-gliders? I thought I left them by the back door" and Michael will know exactly what I am looking for.

The poo-gliders must be a dog's dream of the perfect chew toy if it is true that they are drawn to scent. The newest addition to our canine crew made the mistake of taking a glider out for a spin only once before she was quickly and sternly corrected. She has kept a respectful distance ever since.

Yesterday, the solemn ceremony marking the passage of my coral-color, paisley patterned poo-gliders and the outing of a lively pair of blue gliders was marked by the family flag flying at half mast while trumpets cried. With this, I introduce to you this season's new gliders: