Zombie Chickens and Fashion Statements

The law of averages dictated that the new hens would begin laying eventually.  I wasn't expecting this:

What the hell is that?  It was soft, and kinda meaty inside.  (I did NOT take pics of the autopsy--even I have my ghoulish limits.)  I found a few more a day later.  I looked at a million images online, and read dozens of chicken-owner blogs.  The Internet told me that it is a horrifying disease that will mean that the hen will never lay again.  It also told me that it could be a starter egg, from a young layer making some premature attempts to begin laying.  My personal theory (because I KNOW who produced such a disgusting thing), is that the hen who lays shell-less eggs is now laying shell-less FERTILIZED eggs, and she is now birthing a flock of zombie-chicks...and I am so not a scientist.  But it was kinda fun to poke at that nasty thing and try to figure out where the head was supposed to be.  It says something about me that my son hovered over, trying to remember what he learned about eggs in school as we poked and prodded at it.

But, to my amazement and delight, yesterday evening, the Husband came in from shutting the girls in for the night, and showed me this very welcome sight.

ABOUT EFFING TIME!!!  Although, I am a teeny bit disappointed that my zombie chick-ghoul theory was wrong.  I think they must have known I was considering this as an option...

In other news, yesterday I finally got off my lazy bum and canned tomatoes.  Rather than do another 7-8 quarts of my amazing arrabbiata sauce, we decided that I would can whole tomatoes.  But, being the lazy person I am, I decided to can half-tomatoes instead.  This meant that I didn't have to spend time trying to match sizes.  This meant I just chopped the wee ones in half, and the medium ones in quarters, and the big humongous ones in whatever size felt right.  So, I got 4 quarts and 7 pints canned, and put another two quarts in the freezer.  I was going to do some peppers, but I found that I am clean out of pickling salt.

Go me!

But, that burst of energy came after I managed to drive the riding mower into a tree as I frantically tried to wave off a big spider web I was passing through.  Fortunately, all I did was unseat the wheel... but it meant that I needed to take it to our local small engine place to get fixed, which meant I didn't get to practice my lawn meditation yesterday.  And boy did I need to.

In an effort to cheer me up (well, to stop me beating myself up), the Husband got me started on the big tractor.  I think he must be a brave man or a very silly one to let me on a big tractor after I managed to break the small one, but he gave me a lesson on the controls.  It went in one ear and out the other.  Then, he rode with me for a few minutes and told me to do a pass around the upper field.  I managed to do the loop without running into any spider webs or trees, and did not kill anything (that I noticed, anyway).  He snapped this adorable picture of me.  And yes, the tractor IS moving.

Notice the red circle.  City Kitty has had to amend her fashion-nightmare country wear.  When one is sitting on a riding mower or tractor, one cannot see the controls next to the seat when one has shirttails flapping.  The adorable knots manage the problem nicely.

And plus it looks kinda cute.

Mud

I could bore you to tears with how bad my allergies got last week, how I contemplated on whether or not I might be turning into a zombie, and how that turned into a discussion about whether I might be more interested (as a zombie) in wine or just the sommelier.

No, I won't tell you about the combination of medications I've been taking, or the fact that I lost two days pretending to be a slug.  Or, how I got to attend a birthday party wearing a mask over my nose and mouth.

No, I will direct this entry to what is foremost on my mind.  Mud.  Because, April showers bring May flowers.

I feel virtuous.  I spent an hour today clearing two garden beds for seeds.  I'll be planting beets and carrots and lettuce and kale, swiss chard and onions and peas.  Tomorrow, I'll add a barrow of lovely compost to mix it all up, and then press seeds into the soil in a semi-organized fashion.  But today, I cleared the beds of all remaining vegetation, I turned all the soil thoroughly, and I picked out the usual spring harvest of rocks.  Amy wandered around, keeping me company.  Even Elasta-girl came by, scratching where I cleared.  I hope she found lots of naughty bugs to eat.  

But, I did all this in the rain.  And it was raining most of the night.  Two words:  fashion nightmare.  From my head to the soles of my boots.

I wore my pretty red raincoat with a ball cap to keep the rain from my eyes.  There is mud all over the hood, and a bit on the brim of the cap.

My raincoat itself looks as though I lay down and wallowed in the mud.  I am not certain how that happened, since I was always on two feet.  But there is mud on the shoulders, up and down the arms, all along the sides, and smears all over the front.  The bum is still red.

My pants, of which only the knee to mid thigh were exposed, had mud on the knees, behind the knees, and a smear about where the coat ended.

The muckers... Well, they are no longer a nice dark chocolate.  They now look like lumpy milk chocolate.

And the lined leather gloves have fat fingers now.  Fat with encrusted mud.

What's that you say?  Pics or it didn't happen?

It happened.  But there will be no pics.  I wouldn't want word to get out about how bad my hair looked.

Goldfish, Peonies, and Tadpoles

I am gonna pretend that Sunday was just a blip.  Spring is here, and fighting off Winter with all Her might.  She might be a little muddy now, Her dress might be torn, Her shoes, totally ruined.  But She did a smack down on Winter; because I spent this afternoon, and Friday afternoon without a coat, outside, watching Her shake out Her hair and wonder where Her hat is.

Okay, that was muddled, and there is a reason for that.  We are in the season for mud.  I am so glad I had all autumn and winter to come to embrace my muckers.  I wear them everywhere.  I keep a pair of "city" shoes in the car.

Anyway.  Oh, to be outside, in the sun!  What a joy!  The Boy and I took advantage of the dead and still-wintered weeds and vines surrounding the pond and followed the usually inaccessible deer paths... and it was worth it.  We saw the pond from the other side.  It was a fantastic view!

We observed no fewer than four schools of goldfish in the pond.  We came upon some really odd scat (that has defied my Internet skills to identify), and several animal holes along the deer paths.  We also took souvenirs:  I gathered several wild-blackberry thorns, and the Boy got his first tick of the season.

But it was worth it.  Observing the duck and his mate.  Figuring out that the goldfish were busily devouring floating eggs on the surface.  Coming across the slightly worse-for-wear snowdrops, and the fledgling crocuses.  And only last week, I took a moonlit stroll through the field and disturbed several splashy swimming things at the pond.  I couldn't see them, but I suspect that it might be otters!  There is no scientific basis whatsoever other than a whim.

Today (because I am ignoring Sunday, which was Winter's dying gasp), it was a school holiday, so the Boy and I spent the afternoon outside.  I did some long overdue clearing of the garden, and also used the net to clear out the pond...

You catch tadpoles that way.  Lots and lots of tadpoles.  I picked them up with my bare hand and dropped them back in the pond.

Did you read that?

I PICKED THEM UP WITH MY BARE HAND AND DROPPED THEM BACK IN THE POND!

After I did that the first time, I wondered who the hell I was today!  City Kitty doesn't go outside to pick up a fallen branch without gloves on.

Hydrangea buds; Dead heads

And yet, I continued gardening without gloves.  I clipped the hydrangea heads from last year, carefully clipping ABOVE all the buds coming out already.  There were even leaves.  I am ashamed.  And then I used a small rake to clear out the leaf piles...and found that the peonies are unfurling their stems already.

New and old peonies

I LOVE PEONIES!!

And while I was doing all this, the Boy decided that he was tired of waiting on me to do the research on raising tadpoles.  He found a small tub, added water from the pond, placed a few rocks, and caught his tadpole.

I finally did the research.  We'll be raising a tadpole starting on Wednesday, I think.  First I have to boil lettuce.  It's a thing they like.  Apparently.

Can you tell that I needed a little bit of Spring?  I feel like I am buzzing on Spring.  I see green covering the lawns and, where there is NOT a mud wallow, pretty green spikes of bulbs pushing out of the soil.  

I feel like one of those bulbs, finally warming up, reaching for the sun, about to bloom...  Yep.  I am high on sun, the best drug of all.

Cleaning a Chicken Coop

For those of you who know me, I am NOT a domestic goddess.  I've learned to cook because I like controlling ingredients.  It is rarely beautiful food, but it tastes beautiful.  For the same reason, I do not bake.  I mostly have no interest in sugary, pretty desserts.  I don't even know how to make pudding.

Cleaning?  Well, mostly I'm the kind of kitty who grabs a cleaning wipe and scrubs off the accumulated toothpaste spit from the faucet.  In order for a thorough cleaning to happen, like when your parents are coming to visit, well... one of my parents has to be coming to visit.  I'm more of a tidy girl--I hate disorder.  When I go on a tear, no one can find anything but me since I have done the unthinkable and put everything back where it belongs.  But dammit, it looks nice again.

Yardwork?  I am prime lazy.  I mow as infrequently as possible, and I design my garden beds so I don't HAVE to weed.  Or water.

But I got a bee in my bonnet this last weekend, and decided that Saturday, the Boy and I were gonna clean up the chicken coop.

See, when we got the pullets last month (those would be Acid, Mocha, and Elasta-Girl), the established girls (Ginger, Peaches, Vader and Leia) decided that no new chicken could walk on the floor.  Or eat from the feeder.  Or drink from the waterer.  I kicked the old girls outside into the cold in order to give the new girls a break from living in the nesting boxes and on the shelf over the nesting boxes.  I set out an alternate dish of food so they wouldn't starve, and placed a dish of melting snow up there so they had more access to water.  I finally had to rearrange the whole layout of the coop, and that did the job.  They are all sharing space now, although Leia still tries to nip at Mocha occasionally.

But while the pullets were living in fear, they pooped EVERYWHERE.  The nesting boxes, once filled with clean pine shavings, were now filled with poop.  The shelf had several layers of chicken poop.  Even the ledge along the big windows had chicken poop all over it.

I tried cleaning the ledge once, but found out that really cold temps mean that chicken poop gets hard, and clings to the wooden boards.

Saturday was supposed to get up over 60.  

The Boy and I were prepared, and looked oh-so-fashionable.  Muck boots, old jeans, work gloves, dust masks, and hats.  I had a big shovel, a small shovel, a garden cart, a gardening rake, 2 trowels, a hand-held rake, and a putty knife.

We emptied out all the nesting boxes and dumped the shavings and the poop in an old compost heap.  Then we filled the boxes with fresh pine shavings.  Prettier all ready!  The Boy took on the task of using the putty knife to scrape the layers of poop off every surface he could find.  He just wanted to use a knife.  He performed admirably, even filling a pot with the scrapings.  While he did that, I got the garden rake and dug out the 52" of poop from under the roosting stick.  That was a LOT of poop encrusted hay, but once it was gone, I turned over all the remaining hay.  I hauled all the yuck into another compost heap.  When that was done, I cleaned out the waterer again.  Finally, I looked around, thinking how pretty the coop was again, now that the surfaces and pine shavings weren't encrusted with poop.

I wanted clean surfaces in the chicken coop.
I wanted CLEAN surfaces in the chicken coop.
I wanted clean SURFACES in the chicken coop.
Why would I want clean surfaces in the chicken coop?  They are chickens.  Chickens poop.

I cannot explain myself.  Just like I cannot explain why I haven't  vacuumed the front room since before Christmas.  Well, that I can explain, actually.  When we keep tracking in snow and mud and ice, despite our best efforts, you just wait.  At least that is what I'm doing.

So the farmhouse is un-dusted and un-vacuumed, and yeah, there is still wrapping paper in the dining room.  But gosh darnit, I have a nice clean chicken coop.

Resilience

Resilience: the capacity to recover quickly from difficulties; toughness.

We just had a major snow event (as in, a foot and a half of snow).  And I survived.  The Weather Witch drew no blood.  Well, some blood was spilled, but it was from common carelessness, and certainly not an elevator full of blood.

I am frankly surprised I did as well as I did.  Country Kitty told me that, back during the Snowpocalypse of 2010, they didn't get off the farm for TWO WEEKS.  And the forecasts for the Lovelanche (Love+Avalanche... I totally think that is a stupid name for the storm, but the interwebs never lie.) were showing up to two feet of snow.  I should have been full of dread.

But I wasn't.  I had stocked up ahead of time, so we had plenty of milk and fruit.  We already have a well stocked freezer, and we buy TP at Costco, so we are set well into May.  We had already purchased our generator and tested it.  I felt... prepared. Ish.  All I had to do the day before the snow was to prepare the chicken coop, and figure out some way to cover the generator in the event we needed to run it while it was snowing.

Wednesday, the day before the Lovelanche was to begin, didn't begin particularly well.  The recycling center was full, so I had to bring home two big bags of recycling.  The sump pump outflow hose had frozen again... and there was a wading pool in the cellar.  It should have been a relatively small issue... but it wasn't.  I had to pour hot water into the outside end of the hose and move it around to get the ice chunks loosened.  I also hauled out my nice, professional grade hair dryer in an attempt to warm the hose.  No dice.  I eventually had to set up the old sump pump, attach it to a garden hose, and snake it up the cellar stairs, out the dining room window, and across the yard.  River in the middle of the front yard?  Check.  I had muddy boots and shirt, wet gloves, and an open window in 30 degree temps.  But dammit, I no longer had an increasing flood in the basement.

It didn't take long to deal with the chickens, but I still hadn't begun the genny shelter, and it was already long after noon.  I had already decided that I would use part of the dismantled scaffolding in the corn crib.  But I had to figure out how to cover that structure in such a way that two feet of snow wouldn't destroy.  I also had to move the frame and cross braces all by myself.  It was exhausting, and my muscles were trembling by the time I had carried them all the way to the location we'd picked. 

After lunch, I had the pleasure of trying to erect scaffolding by myself.  (NOT a one-person job.) Moving it into place over the generator was hilarious.  By the time the bus delivered my son, I had it placed, and was glad to accept the Boy's help in building the roof.  I tell you, there was something comical about an exhausted woman and a 7 year old carrying a big sheet of 3/4" plywood all the way across the semi-icy barnyard and back yard, and then maneuvering it to the generator site.

I had to use more brains than brawn to get it in place--there was no way the Boy could help me lift it up to the cross braces (I needed a raked ceiling, so the snow could slide down rather than pile up.)  I managed, and then we had the excellent adventure of extracting the big tarp from the ice and frozen cardboard on top of it.  (Frozen cardboard is terrifyingly heavy AND inflexible.  Never, ever, kick it.) Getting the tarp in place was also hilarious, although my sense of humor was too tired to laugh by then.  But, here you see the fruits of my labor!  It wasn't pretty, but it did the job!

But, there was an unexpected bit of good news.  In dealing with the sump pump, I was outside under the front porch, wiggling that hose back and forth as I tried to loosen the ice, when I heard a rustling in the leaves under the porch.  I know we get skunks sometimes, so I backed away, and then took a careful look around the space.  As my eyes adjusted, I saw a brownish shape moving.  And then I recognized it.  It was Acid.

I don't know how that damn chicken survived 5 nights outside in below freezing temperatures, all by herself.  Nor do I know what she was eating, or why she didn't join the other girls when they were outside.  But she was there, healthy and more than willing to come out from under the porch.  I walked her back to the coop, and she hopped inside and seemed quite ready to eat.

So, we have seven girls again, but I notice that the hen-pecking has quieted.  She is more confident now, and not as scared of her shadow as she was.  It is amazing just how tough the smallest chicken can be.  

Now, the odd thing about her return was, that I was surprised, and that was all.  I was happy to return her to the flock, but I wasn't overjoyed, or even joyful.  I tried to tell myself that I had already accepted her death, and that she was not a pet.  I started wondering if I had become callous.

But then something occurred to me.  Acid had survived all that time on her own.  She came through her experiences, and none the worse for wear.  She'd figured out how to stay hydrated, she found her own food to eat, and she found a safe shelter.

I've survived too.  I've already faced so many experiences here on the farm that, at the time, seemed like the hardest lessons I've had to endure.  Each episode seemed enormous:  Gandalf's death, the icy driveway, the grumpy sump pump, the isolation.  And yet each of those experiences helped me to get through that preparation day with only a little blood, plenty of sweat, and few tears.  That preparation day was just another day.

I have accepted the reality of life out here.  The driveway will be an icy nightmare, therefore, I have to park the cars at the top of the hill, really close to the road.  Having free-range chickens means that I will lose some.  The arctic cold means the sump pump may freeze, so I have to be prepared to do what needs to be done to remove the water. And sometimes... sometimes you just have to embrace the inner redneck and run a garden hose out your dining room window.

A Fashion Nightmare

Ah, Friday.  Friday was supposed to be my day to do my social thing.  I was going into Arlington to deliver our guest cat back to Wine Friend, and I'd also checked with a few friends about maybe meeting up for the local First Friday after.  And, the boys were going out for an evening without me!  I was going to have a fabulous evening!

Ha!

My hair was all adorable and curly.  I actually put on a cute top and skinny jeans, and planned to wear hawt high heel boots.  Pretty earrings, light makeup... well, except for the eyes.  I did dramatic smoky eyes, in purple.  Hey, I was getting off the farm!

But, before I could escape the farm, I had to do less glamorous things.  I had to pick up the Boy from school.  I had to take Katt to the vet to get her nails clipped, and get more of her anti-vomit medicine.  And then I needed to pick up two big bags of the water-softener salt.  Muck boots were worn for those errands, and I only got two smears of dirt on my jeans.  I wiped them off, and thought, in an hour, I'll be heading east.

And then my cell phone rang.  I have a cool phone now (sorry, crackberry), and I told it to answer.  It was the Husband.  A hawk had been at the chickens, and he couldn't find any of them now.  It was already 3:30.

I got us safely home, let Katt inside, and the three of us began the search, taking Amy with us.  We walked through the woods and fields, searching for the freaked out chickens.  Eventually, we found Elasta-Girl and Peaches-and-Cream in a tree.  We lifted them out, and they were carried home.  Then we found Darth Vader, hiding in another tree.  Her tail feathers had been ripped out, and we found more sign of lost feathers there.  Had we lost a girl or not?

We continued stalking the trees, but it was getting later, and the boys had movie tickets for 5:30.  I told them to go on, that I would keep searching.

And I did.  I contacted my chicken friend, and got a few suggestions.  In the meantime, I took a break so I could prepare for the evening.  Emptying the litterbox, gathering all the cat's toys and the remaining food.  And, of course, making sure her cat carrier was ready.  And, since the driveway was still icy, I dragged the garden cart to the front of the house, so I could haul all everything up the hill.

I did another chicken search.  I let Wine Friend know I was running late, and let the other friends know that my time schedule was shot.  Texting while walking through the woods is hazardous, however.  I got caught by a low hanging branch and got a pretty good scratch across my forehead.  I exchanged the phone for a bowl of chicken feed to shake as I walked, and still managed to run into tree branches.  I was grateful it was winter, at least-- no spiderwebs or need for my web-wand.

Leia had shown up by then.  Ginger, Acid and Mocha were still missing.  But Mocha darted toward me just after the sun went down.  I took her home and conceded defeat, hoping that one or both would return in the morning, assuming they survived the night.*

By then, it was almost six!  I had to get out of there.  I was running so late!  I grabbed the kitty and my purse, put on the boots by the door, and wheeled the cart up the ice.  It was heavy, and I took off my coat again because I was starting to, ahem, glow.

Let's fast forward, shall we? I delivered the cat, and Wine Friend took me out to dinner, since I was shaking from hunger.  (I'd planned to eat something after the guys left and before I needed to leave, but that didn't happen, obviously.)  We went to a nice wine bar, and I ate a lovely meal and drank lovely wine.  I visited the lady's room.

Oh, and what a sight I beheld.  I might have been okay if I had freshened my powder and lipstick, although the smokey eyes were more smudged than anything.  And truthfully, the scratch across my forehead would have taken a bit of concealer or something.  My cute curls were in a ragged mess.  There were bits of twig in them!  I had smears of what I hoped was only dirt along my collar bone.  Never mind that I had mud on my jeans.

And I'd put on my riding boots, and not the high heels.  The boots that had been cute when I got them, but then had become my field boots, not to be confused with the muck boots.  These only had mud and a few scratches, and I am almost certain, no chicken bombs.  That I cannot say for the muck boots.

But yeah, the best laid plans of the City Kitty were pooped on by the chickens.  And I wasn't sure which I was more embarrassed by: being late because of the chickens, or looking awful because of the chickens.

*For those of you who could care less about the fashion nightmare, then rest assured, Ginger was there in the morning.  But Acid, the bottom of the pecking order, has gone to the great hawk in the sky.

Last Week

So, we had a winter event last week.  You probably know about it, it seemed to hit half the country.  We had a lovely three day weekend beforehand, and then snow on Tuesday.  And more snow.  And more snow.  And it snowed almost until midnight.  Supposedly, we had seven inches.  But really, we had ten.

Ten inches of snow is no big deal, although this was the first major snow event since the Snowpocalypse.  We were prepared.  We parked both vehicles at the top of the hill, made sure we had milk and supplies.  The propane tank was full(ish), and I made sure the chickens had a full tank of water and plenty of food.

I wasn't prepared for a whole week of no school.  Nope.  No siree.  

Since Tuesday was the snow day, I thought, I totally understand and support not having school.  The roads were a mess, and it was coming down!

Wednesday, the roads were still a mess, but we'd dug out the top of our driveway, and dug paths to the cars, the chicken coop, and around the entire house.  We even got mail that day.

Thursday, no school...and not because the roads out here in the west were still a mess.  (I mean, some were, and that is no joke.)  But more importantly, some of the town roads still hadn't been cleared, and the HOAs hadn't finished clearing some of their roads and sidewalks.

Friday turned into Monday, in that, today we were supposed to have another day off school, a moveable teacher workday.  It got moved to Friday.

The Husband teleworked the entire week.  I got very little writing done, although I did move approximately 18 tons of snow.  I didn't tidy much, but I tried to get the chickens to get along with the new girls.  I failed to cook anything exciting, but I hosted two neighborhood boys on different days.  I didn't leave the farm much, but I got to visit with various neighbors.

Do I sound a little nonchalant?  I think so, too.  Even when the basement sump pump stopped working, it was a shrug versus out-and-out panic.  Nothing that a hairdryer and some hot water couldn't fix, it turned out.  

And now we prepare for another polar vortex.

Yawn.

I mean, I should be uneasy.  We still don't have the driveway clear.  The road south of us is growing narrower and narrower as the snow drifts cover the sides.  I could use some gas in the car.  I don't have a space cleared for the generator, in the event we can use it.

It could be I am getting used to this.  We as humans have this amazing ability to adapt.  For example, now, when I hurt myself or feel pain, I rate it on the scale of childbirth.

Mother blankety blank!  I fell on that blankety blank step again!!!  Ow ow ow! There's blood!  Dangit!... Well, this IS only a four on a scale of childbirth.  Eh, I'll survive.

I layer clothes, use my ski pants whenever the heck I want to, and have been holding my big warm lamb coat in reserve.  I have new sweaters, and add an extra pair of socks when I use my muck boots to go out and check the chickens.  I assess the wind and the sun before deciding if I need a coat or not (trust me, when you are wearing 4 layers, top and bottom, a coat can be too much at times.)  And I keep a pair of nice shoes in the car, so that I can just hike up there in my muckers and change when I arrive wherever I am going.... I've got this down, I think!

We all know what's going to happen now....  

A River Runs Through It

What a weird last week we've had here on the farm.  I've lived in this county for over a decade, and I knew how often bad weather days were driven by the western end of the county (the school districts here are by county, which is the weirdest thing I've ever heard of, especially since this county is over 500 square miles and is geographically split).  But being here experiencing the conditions has been an eye opener.

First, we had snow the afternoon of the first day back at school.  As in, it may as well have been an avalanche in slow-mo.  We were supposed to get like 2-4" of snow beginning late afternoon.  It hit before 2 p.m. and didn't stop until LATE at night, when I measured at least 8" on our patio.  But guess what happens between 4 p.m. and 7 p.m?  A little something called RUSH HOUR... which was about the time it turned to freezing rain.  

The Boy got home on the school bus okay, although I met him with snow boots in hand.  He and I skidded our way down the river of snow that was our driveway.  (I had already taken precautions and parked the car at the top of our neighbors' drive again.)  But the Husband didn't make it home because I was a little bossypants and made him go slide the truck over the ice to a friend's house in town.  He stayed the night.

The second day of school in 2014 was cancelled.  Then we had the weekend.  And then no school the following Monday. Nor Tuesday.  And if they had called Wednesday, I would have duct-taped my son to the wall.  Five days of cold winds and arctic temperatures and snow and ice.

Yeah.  Our driveway was no longer a river of snow.  It was a bloody river of ice.  The hill.  The parking area.  The turn around.  All of it.  There was snow frozen under ice which was under windswept snow, and then sheets of ice, and then rain frozen on top of all that.  I'd crunch through a layer, think I was safe, and then slip on the layer below that.

Even the chickens decided to stay inside.  The bravest, our lovely Peaches, took a step out and promptly turned around, hustling the other girls back in.  I was glad I followed them into their coop, because even their HEATED CHICKEN WATERER HAD HOARFROST INSIDE IT.

It was so cold, I was dressed like an astronaut to go out.  The condensation from my breath froze in my eyelashes.  The normal moisture in my nostrils began freezing.  I discovered every last spot in my Columbia winter coat that DIDN'T keep the cold out.

But, we all survived, even if cabin fever was about to lead me to chant, "All work and no play makes Heather a dull girl."  It helped that I made damn sure the Boy made it to karate on Tuesday night.

There was school on Wednesday and Thursday.  The ice was not quite thawing, but at least the temps were back in the 20s and low 30s, so I was able to use the driveway.  I discovered that I had learned a lot already about driving the car in the snow and ice and frozen earth.  I was pretty happy that I never panicked, and could recognize areas that were going to be trouble.

And then we hit Friday.  School should have been cancelled.  I'm sorry.  There was freezing rain that hit around 6 a.m. and continued for hours.  And they called a 2 hour delay, which was okay...except it wasn't.  When the Boy and I left for school, the amount of ice made me nervous, but I felt (semi)confident that I knew what to do as we turned out of our very icy driveway onto our very icy road.  But I followed a school bus for fifty feet or so before we turned off onto a side road toward the school.  The back of that bus was sliding all over the road.  It was terrifying to watch.

We got to school safely; but honestly, I was afraid to drive home.  Our road was pretty darn close to a solid sheet of ice that I would have to go downhill and make a tricky turn into my driveway.  So I asked if I could put in some more volunteer hours.  I wasn't the only parent hanging out.  The last bus arrived thirty minutes late.  I heard all sorts of gossip from around the county.  And when I finally left to go home at 11:30, I heard on the news that there were kids still sitting on buses in other parts of the county.  And that afternoon, I waited for fifteen minutes for the bus when I got called by the school that the bus driver had not been able to get to our road, and would I therefore please come collect my soon from school?    

The weekend temperatures warmed considerably.  Yeah!  But they brought about two inches of rain with it.  Boo!  The driveway was now a river of snowmelt and rain.  All the lovely snow melted in the yard, and I was left with a boggy yard that was so muddy it seemed intent on sucking my muck boots into the ground.  And my chickens looked a lot like drowned rats stilts.

But, there was incredible beauty in the midst of all that.  Country Kitty had told me that the front area on either side of the driveway had hidden springs, but they usually only showed up after LOTS of rain.  Well, we found one yesterday, and I stood in awe, watching that clear and cold water bubbling out of the earth and washing down to the small creek bed that surely has caught that spring's water for decades.  What a gift, and worth wading the driveway to see.

It is gone today, of course, and we were able to wander about without jackets most of the day (funny how the mid-40s seem warm to us now).  The chickens were happy for the sun, even if they were pecking in the mud.  At least the mud isn't frozen anymore.

Well, until next Thursday anyway.

Happy New Year!

I hope everyone had a lovely time the last few weeks.  I'm surprised at all the inquiries about whether or not Cthulhu had actually driven me insane, since I'd gone silent.  Rest assured, Devoted Readers, I was simply taking my own Christmas vacation.  (Or, if I may be honest, I had the Boy home for two weeks and there was simply no posting anything other than lame Facebook statuses.)  I continued working, however.  This blog entry has been simmering for almost a week.  So...

Happy New Year

or 

You Can Take the City Kitty Out of the Country But You Can't Take the Country Out of the City Kitty

College Friend was going to be in town after Christmas through New Year's Day.  The last few years, we've been seeing in the New Year with Wine Friend and/or going to the old neighborhood, but this seemed like an opportunity to go into the District and do a grown up party.

I won't go into all the nail biting, the back-and-forth discussions, the endless texts and frequent phone calls, making child-care and animal-care arrangements, the wardrobe anxiety, and transportation issues.  Let it suffice to say that we planned, and it all worked out beautifully.  The Husband and I got to go stay at a very nice hotel and attend a kick-@ss party in Washington DC with our friends.

I will also gloss over are the preparations to leave that day:  herding the chickens back into the coop; cleaning out the cab of the truck so that I could cram in our luggage, Amy, and the Boy; and even the dilemma of switching cars so that our wee-little Saturn wasn't spending the night at the commuter lot.

No, the real story is what happens when City Kitty enters a nice hotel after 5 months of living on a farm.

First of all.  Mud on my sneakers and the car when I pull up.  Oops.  I could see the too-polite-to-say anything look on the doorman's face.  The Husband had already checked in, so he met me in the lobby, handed me the key, and I got directions for the parking garage, which was full of nice, expensive, big, and CLEAN vehicles.  I wondered if there was a car-wash entrance that I'd missed.

Now, it was a cold day, but remember, I layer every day just to stay in the farmhouse, which has the thermostat set at 62, but varies depending on what side of the house you are on.  So, I was hauling luggage and had my big sheep-skin duster over my arm.  I was a bit warm.  I found the elevator and then the room.  I walked in and unloaded, smiling as I looked around.  Nice room, cool view, and four hours before we had to leave.

And I realized I was hot.  As in, is-my-antiperspirant-actually-working? hot.  I pulled off my sweater.  And then the flannel lined jeans.  The top long-sleeved shirt.  The silk shirt under that.  My socks.

Him: Is this a hint?
Me: I'm burning up!
Him: Ah.
Me: What is the thermostat set at? I'm dying!
By now, I was down to my tank top and leggings. The Husband looks at the thermostat and chokes a little.
Me: So what is it?
Him: Sixty-eight.
Me: Well, set it lower!

Sparkly Silver Sandal

We finished unpacking, and I needed to paint my toe-nails.  I painted, let it dry, and we got ready to go down to grab a bite to eat.  I had to wear my sparkly silver sandals, so that the nail polish wouldn't smear.  Except, all I had were the flannel jeans.  Not a fashion-do, lemme tell you.

After we got back to the room, it was time to start getting ready.  Shower and all.  I turned on the hot water all the way up and waited the usual four minutes to make sure the water had time to get hot.

Four minutes.

I was amazed to pull back the curtain and get hit with a blast of hot steam, and step onto an uncomfortably warm shower floor.  (shaking head)

I finished with all my primping and dressing.  I looked amazing.  (I really did, the Husband said so.)  But, there was a snag.  The original plan was for us to get picked up in a car by our friends.  That wasn't happening.  So, they were metro-ing in, and the Husband wanted to know if I was up for that.

My first thought was for my new sparkly silver sandals, and how they wouldn't really keep my feet warm.  So, I thought, just wear your other shoes until you get to the party, just like you normally do when you leave the farm...

College Friend!

Sneakers, under a fancy evening gown.  Beat up sneakers with mud caked in the treads.  Sneakers that would not give me the extra three inches required for me not to step on my dress.

The Husband!

We took a cab.  Party party party.

We got back to the room at a respectable 1:15 a.m.  We got ready for bed.  And then we both lay there, wondering why the hell we couldn't get to sleep.

We were hot.  The room was set at the extravagant 65 degrees.  We usually sleep with the thermostat set at 55 degrees.  

We set the thermostat down again.

It was surprisingly nice to get out of that too-warm hotel with its too-clean floors and the hot water that scalds you when you test it to see if its gotten warm, and get back to the farm.

Oh the humanity...what in the world has happened to me?

Bloody Cold

Okay.  Full disclosure here.  I grew up in Texas.  I am a total weenie when it comes to the cold.  I've learned to adapt (sort of) and live with it (complaining all the while, and enduring the mocking from my Alaskan friend) but I grew up in a place where they freaking closed the school system one time because it was too expensive to heat the buildings.

The temps have not gotten above freezing at night recently.  The days were in the high 20s, and once you factored in the wind chill, in the teens.  Bundled up in a drafty farm house, I've felt a little like A Christmas Story's Randy:  "I can't put my arms down!"  And I look about as cute.

Today is a heat wave of up to 36 degrees, so I'm managing with a tank, silk layers, blue jeans, a fleece sweater, and sheep-skin boots.  Inside.  When I go out, I add a cashmere scarf, a wool hat, and a long duster.  Oh, and the matching bronze opera length gloves.  In my defense, there is also some wind today.

This winter has been bloody cold so far.  Even the squirrels have fat rolls!  Yesterday, the Husband went to check on the girls in the morning (23 degrees, thank you!), and we found their water frozen solid.  Oops.  We  purchased a heated chicken water reservoir.  This required extensive rewiring and re-arranging of the coop.  (But you know what?  It is worth it.  LEIA LAID AN EGG!!)  And don't try to lecture me on it technically still being autumn.  I will throw some ice chunks at you.  Because we have ice.  Lots of ice.

Ice from the chicken water dish.
Oh, and my cute bronze leather gloves!

Iced frog pond with heater.
I saw a bird land on the heater
to drink the unfrozen water
at its edge.

The big pond with ice.  Small break at bottom left.

 I've been so cold that when asked to put together a Christmas list, the first two items were sweaters and long sleeve shirts.  And I admit, I couldn't wait.  See, there was a sale at Target with 40% off of some cute sweaters and long sleeve shirts.   (2 and 3)  At the rate I am going, I will be layering the sweaters by the time Christmas hits.  Again with the "I can't put my arms down!"

So, you are probably wondering why I don't just turn up the heat.  Our heating runs on propane.  That means, every so often, a huge truck comes and fills a 500 gallon tank, and we pay about a billion dollars for that.  So, we keep the house around 60 or so during the day, and around 55 at night.  What do I do?  I hang around in the part of the house that has radiant heat in the floor, or I just put on extra layers and force myself to get quite energetic if I want to take them off.  I vacuumed the whole house Saturday morning, and I was free of layers for an entire two hours!

And bed time?  Ha!  I wear my thermal pajamas and then crawl into a bed with flannel sheets, a comforter, a thick fuzzy blanket, and a velvety/fleecy blanket over me.  

Now, I do own a very useful garment called the Couch Potato.  It is basically a very thick fleece sack with long sleeves and little elastic bands at the bottom for my feet to stick out of.  It zips from the high collar down to about my knees.  It isn't really attractive.  I look like a waddling amoeba in purple.  I mention this because I have been resisting it so far.  I keep thinking I can get by with lots of layers over my lined jeans.  But I know it is coming.  And I am thankful to have it in reserve.

Just wait 'til I have to pull out the Dog.  But that is another post altogether.

Katt and the Other Kitty

Everyone in the house has been sick except for the dog.  The Husband and the Boy have colds.  I am suffering from allergies exacerbated by the chicken house construction (why oh why didn't I wear a mask when moving all that dirt?).  The Husband is also still suffering from throwing out his back when we were finishing the chicken coop.  And Katt is not well from something we don't understand yet.  And my girlfriend's dog had to have emergency spleen surgery.  Okay, her dog doesn't live here, but it sure seems as though sickness is everywhere.

Lemme tell you about illness in the country.  There is no quick five minutes to the doctor's office when you live out in B.F.E.  It is more like twenty minutes.  Not terrible, but think about last time you were suffering from a cold.  You think, yeah, I can manage to get myself to the doctor's office without killing anyone.  You don't have that option in the country--you have to be well enough to dodge the suicidal deer and raccoons  (Why are there so many raccoons running across the road?!?)  and not turn off the side of the road when you sneeze 8 times in a row.  Or, think about when you go to the doctor and they give you a prescription for a hard-core nasal spray to combat the allergies that have been making your ears pop for two weeks and leaving you gagging from the amount of mucus dripping down your throat.  What do you do when the pharmacy says it'll be an hour?  Do you drive twenty minutes home to wait for twenty minutes and then drive the twenty minutes back?  No.  You spend an hour wandering through the drugstore and packing a shopping cart with all sorts of shit that you never knew you needed because you cannot remember the things you actually might need.

Do I sound a little cranky?  That is to be expected.  Don't get me started on what happens if the Husband's back pain gets so bad that I wonder about whether or not I can get him to the hospital if need be, and remember that there is a narrow twisty staircase to navigate just to get him to the main level.  And wow, if I called an ambulance?  What are they gonna do?  Cut a hole in the building and lower the stretcher out by crane?  The crane that could not possibly get down the gravel driveway without hitting about seventy trees?

And then there is Katt.  Katt was a fairly tough country kitty when we got here.  In the last two weeks, she has suddenly had a personality switch.  She is affectionate, and demanding attention, and always underfoot.  And she paces.  All.The.Time.  She's still eating and drinking.  But her foot slides every once in awhile.  And, unlike most cats, she keeps being underfoot, actually under our feet.  So, I think, I ought to take her to the vet.  OOOO!  Another twenty minute drive over gravel roads with a displeased cat bouncing around the backseat as I attempt to miss the worst of the potholes.  And then the vet thinks that maybe Katt had a stroke, or brain trauma, and that she ought to have blood work and a few other tests done.  Poor Katt.  At least she can still chase Amy when she want to.  But she's no longer the Katt I've grown to enjoy.

I am desperately trying to remember what the City Kitty used to do, other than drive a lot less.  I am haunted by the pretty party clothes and gorgeous and impractical footwear that catch my eye in the closet.  My new ring will likely collect dust with all the other bright and sparkly baubles that go unworn as I miss art shows, spontaneous dinners out, or even hanging out with friends at my favorite bar. 

Going into the bigger town, where I used to live, is about a thirty minute drive with traffic, but mostly on paved roads at least.  But going in to teach a lesson or go to an appointment or visit Costco is suddenly like an outing.  I dress up as much as I can justify.  I add earrings and try new eye makeup. I accessorize with cute scarves and try to remember to change purses so they actually match my outfit.  But, I mentioned driving on gravel and dirt roads?  Your car gets dirty.  Like crazy dirty.  And then you brush up against it as you get out of the car and get a white smear on your clean pretty dress.  Real cute.

You probably wonder if this rant is going anywhere.  It is.

I miss city life.  I feel like Katt, whose personality is changing to fit her new physical limitations.  She cannot see as well, so she stays at home and cuddles with the warm people.  I am throwing myself into making that chicken coop, and baking pizza crust from scratch since no one delivers out here.  I spent all day yesterday in the kitchen, making homemade chicken soup for the boys and canning the last of my peppers, before making that pizza crust.  But I am raging against the change in me.

I recently went to a party that I overdressed for-- I had to carry my high heels into the car so they wouldn't sink into the gravel and mud.  And I bought that crazy town ring.  It is bigger than my thumb.  And I never wear rings.  (Where am I gonna wear it?  To open the chicken coop door?)  Last night, after all day in the kitchen, I decided to go into town at the last minute, so I could sit at a bar and look pretty, and then watch a movie in a climate controlled, bug-free environment.

I am clearly having some adjustment issues.  I ought to learn from Katt's example, but the City Kitty is not as adaptable as Katt is.  I get frustrated and should go for a walk, and commune with nature and appreciate what is around me.  Instead, I dress up and flee into town.

I'll be in town tomorrow.  And I am looking forward to it.

(This clearly isn't over.)

City Kitty Dresses for the Farm

I spent last evening with a group of girlfriends.  We were drinking wine (we polished off about 4 bottles) and eating wonderful food, enjoying the sunset over the mountains.  I was glamorous in my white tunic paired with a floor length black "skirt with a slit up to your butt," as one of them put it.  (I cheerfully replied that my butt did not sag that low, if at all.)  My hair was in a sleek pony tail, and I accessorized with black sandals with gorgeous silver buckles and my favorite hoop earrings.

The topic of spiders came up as we sat outside on the deck.  I shared how, last weekend at the farm, I was weeding along a fence line when a huge spider crawled across my arm.  I'd shrieked and flung him away, and then burst into wild laughter, my husband just shaking his head.  One of my friends HATES spiders, and she couldn't understand how I could be so casual about a huge wolf spider crawling up my arm.

Farm Fashion

I had forgotten to describe my gardening attire.  I described it and watched her eyes get bigger and bigger as I painted the picture.  You see, this is what my son and I look like when we go to the farm, ever since the first weekend, when we found a tick on Daddy, and I got my first sunburn in ages.

My son picking blackberries

Big floppy hats.  I love them.  The sunglasses are 100% blah blah blah, and the sunscreen is SPF 50.  My over-shirt is one my husband's retired work shirts--heavy poplin and oversize to catch the breeze even when buttoned.  The boy's over-shirt (not pictured) is oversize... for now.  Both have been treated with permethrin.  I wear a tank under so when I am under a tree hydrating, I can cool down more quickly.  My cell phone has to be in a safe place so I can receive texts from the husband on the other side of the property.  Long-cuffed leather gloves (goat leather in the palm) are great for weeding, planting, watering, and protecting against spiders crawling up my arm.  The capri-length jeans have also been treated with permethrin, good for up to 40 days.  (The boy picked his almost too-short camo pants for treatment.)  The heavier material also protects against thorns.  Finally, the rainboots to wade through mushy straw and protect against ticks.

Okay, do we look funny?  Oh yes.  Do the big shirt and jeans show off my figure very well?  Not even a little.  But I don't have to spray bug repellent on me now, and I can avoid a lot of sun and thorns, as well as itchy plants.  So far, no mosquitoes, ticks, or poison ivy.


For the record, I didn't plan to have my tank top match the boots.  I promise. And I don't always wear earrings.