You can see I did not struggle very long trying to hide myself away from the world of pain and bad news. I enjoy my positive Facebook connections too much.  People have interesting lives.  They have farms and animals. They spin, weave, dye and knit; they live in different places, and they travel to even more different places. I get to follow people in places like Mexico, Paris, Italy, Latvia, Denmark, Sweden, and Japan while they are biking or climbing mountains or diving in caves or eating glorious food while watching amazing scenery.

But my life is not all that dull. This morning I fell into the chicken water. 

Fortunately (?) I am big, and I go down slooowly, but I make a huge crash when I finally land.  OK, so here is the set-up.  Our dozen or so hens are loose in a big pen, shaded by an ancient live oak tree.  There are also two smaller A-frame "coops" where we have raised hens with chicks, or isolated newcomers for a while.  There are also two old stalls that serve as coop with nest boxes, roost space, and feeding areas.  A big feeder hangs from the ceiling of one stall, and it always has lay pellets in it - no matter how busy the ground squirrels and crows have been.

Two modifications were made back when we raised a litter of Kangal guardian dogs in the pen.  We put in a big black rubber bucket for water, then later placed a large,  plant saucer under the drip spot so that overflow from the steadily dripping hose would fill the shallow container for the chicks.  We also lined the inside of the fence with hog panels so the more determined dogs could not dig out. 

There are no dogs there now, unless the raccoons are on a rampage, but the wire panels remain, somewhat, but not always, buried in the dirt.  There are also chicken craters, as in the holes that chickens dig to dust in or to look for bugs, or  - I sometimes think -  just for fun. In addition to this, a variety of detritus from chairs for spectators to a phone-cable spool to branches fallen from the oak tree provide an interesting setting for the more athletic fowl, and a foul obstacle course for humans in their 7th decade.

During morning rounds this morning I filled a scoop with scratch and proceeded to wade in past the adoring throng - nothing is better than scratch, to these gourmets of grain.  I dribbled the in a long line so that everyone could get a place at the table, so to speak, and spent a few minutes at the end with two of our more, uh, special pullets.  They were part of a group of four that we bought to put under out great old broody hen, by now a Grammy several times over. But she only elected to care for the ones that were dark, like her - coo coo marans - and shunned the tweedy-brown Welsummers.  So they were raised in the house, by us, and sadly were not taught much about how chickens really live.  It has been a rude awakening, I am sure.

These poor orphans only accept treats from a human hand, and shun the food, scratch and bugs that are readily in the pen.  So I took a page from Gramma hen and poked at the scratch with a finger, clucking, "Look, look, LOOK!" This is what it sounds like to me when the hen finds a prize and is calling to her offspring. After a few minutes of crouching on the ground in my nightie/robe calling out, "Look, look, LOOK!" I figured the neighbors probably had enough ammunition for a court-ordered sanity hearing, so I went off to pour pellets and check the water.  The WS chicks, meanwhile, continued to peck listlessly at a few grains, then leaves, then sticks, an empty bowl, and finally began to flutter after me.  Oh well. 

The shallow saucer was dry, so I bent over to scoop some water from the bucket into the saucer, caught both feet under the hog wire panel, and started falling forward like a felled tree. I did manage to get one hand operating freely, which sadly didn't help, but instead, hit the big bucket of water, sending it caroming into the air, accompanying my scream in altitude if not decibels. This clever maneuver caused my whole body to rotate anti-clockwise - after both knees crashed into the wire panel, that is - and I landed on a big log with my "good" hip, somehow clutching dirt in my left hand while spitting out more dirt and dirty chicken water.

At this point I took a brief intermission to try to untangle the train wreck that was my brain at that point: ASS (Assessment of Stupid Situation) has always been a helpful tool for me. 

1. Roll off log and excruciating knees.
2. Give gratitude for postponing surgery on said knees. 
3. Sit up. 
4. No phone. Phone is in house, along with DH.
5. Take another minute.  
6. Put knees together in case neighbors are watching.
7. Wear undies next time.
8. Does anything appear to be broken - no.
9. Is anything bleeding - not much.
10. Muster the troops to try to stand - butt in the air, downward dog-style; ok, now walk your hands back, take a deep breath... WTF are YOU looking at?
11. And, why are all of the chickens cowering under their roosts, anyway?

PS - I'm fine. A few Tylenol, a bit of Cabernet, and I even managed to weed in the garden today. Perhaps these shake-ups are actually good for our aging bodies. Perhaps I should throw myself off the deck tomorrow morning... with undies, of course.

Ladybug, Ladybug

Where to begin.


I am mentally in a semi-fetal position, imagining myself under the covers, safe and dreaming.  Turning off the news, shrinking away from Facebook, looking into the dense, mostly-green tangle that is my unkempt garden, I want nothing more than to become a small insect that creeps or flutters along its inevitable way, mostly looking for something to eat.  I am too old for other urges, children have grown and flown. 

If I move now I can get outside before the day has burned through the morning gloom.  But that involves moving, and I am totally volition-less.  I have spent most of the last two days in my shapeless, old, gray sweatshirt-robe, except for some town errands, and putting on work shirt and jeans to help put down the two ewes last night.  That includes feeding animals.  That includes checking on chickens.  That includes meals (such as they have been) and evenings in front of the TV.  But no more news.  I can not watch news any more.