A Dirty Bath

We’ve crossed a milestone here at the J&A Chicken Ranch. The chickens spent their first night outside last night. As one friend said, they made their maiden voyage. 

Yes dear friends, the little boogers are growing up.  They are spreading their wings and getting the heck out of dodge.

You mustn’t ever let J-Dub know I told you, but I do believe he was more worried about them than I was.  We stood in their coop, with chickens at our feet,  checking their temperature, watching their behavior, plugging up drafts.  The temperature was going to drop into the mid thirties.  He said he thought they should come in for the night.  I questioned him.  “Are you worried about them?”  He replied, “I’m worried about you.”   Sure you are J-Dub, sure you are.

I convinced myself they would be alright.  They were predator-proofed, heat-adjusted, fed and watered.  I went to bed.  But before I could allow my conscience to rest, I googled what age chickens can live outside,  just to double-check that they would be okay.  Last night, we put 14 chickens to bed.  This morning, at 7:00 there were 14 chickens alive and well.  Yea! 

I am beginning to understand the term chicken however, after watching these birds.  They are scaredy-chickens.  They would rather stay in their coop and not venture into their chicken yard.  Twice today, me and Ashy had to go in and throw them all out of the coop so they could get some outdoor time. 

I played hookey from church today (don’t tell the preacher) and enjoyed some time at home this morning.  It’s hard to believe that I can waste nearly 3 hours watching chickens and reading magazines, but I can.  Although Freedom is black and white like the others, she is a chicken of a different color.  She enjoys outside and often is the only one pecking around.  I got such a fright today as she began to do something I hadn’t yet witnessed. 

Had I not previously read ahead, I would have thought she was spazzing.  

She was only taking a dirt bath.  Yeah, I know that sounds like an oxymoron.  Chickens like to do this.  They dig a shallow hole, kick up some dirt, waller around a bit, and get dirty.  “They” say it helps keep the bugs and mites off of them.  “I” would like to think it cools them off a little too.

Dust baths are where me and chickens relate.  Since I’ve been living outside of town, dirt has become my second skin.  I have given up trying to look pretty.  When I wear makeup, it shortly becomes caked with dirt.  It’s in my hair, my eyes, my mouth, my toenails, my belly button. 

It’s on my floor, my dressers, my computer, my canisters, my Raisen Bran. 

It reminds me of a little saying I’ve heard before, “God made dirt, and dirt don’t hurt.”

The chickens don’t need to be reminded of this. 

So why should I?

In Memory of My Dad #8

Good Saturday morning friends, 

The wind has laid, finally.  I feel like I can breathe now.  It really has battered us, our homes, our fences, our shingles.  But today is a good day and I have a story from my dad for you.

Hanging with Watoshy, in ’95

Sitting there playing with my bacon and soft scrambled eggs ,my roomie’s voice came to me as if in a dream.

“So what do you guy’s talk about on your Wednesday night boy’s night out?’  She asked slowly sipping her cup of java.

That question is being posed by countless hundreds of thousands of wives in as many countries as there are wives to ask the thing.

My mind goes back to the night before.  There are five or six guys sitting around a too-small table that is covered with beer steins and ashtrays so that you can’t get comfortable.

What do we talk about?  Banal chatter.  Inane conversation.  Most of these conversations would put the proverbial fly on the wall to sleep faster than a shot of Ny-quil.

One member of our group is halfway in his cups and  he is talking incessantly about making an eagle on the 4th hole at Crosswinds Golf Club.  His audience, a male nurse, nods his head and pretends to listen intently.

Another member expounds on the relative merits in the difference between East coast women and their counterparts here in Oklahoma.  The rest of us listen half heartedly and try to decide, should I have another beer now or wait five or six minutes.

Looks are deceiving.  We aren’t just sitting here getting stupid.  We are male bonding.  Getting in touch with the inner man.  Getting in touch with that beetle browed individual that lives in all of the male species.  That Cro-Magnon type that laughs a loud, raucous laugh that predates the invention of the wheel.  That huge, hairy-chested, callous, double hauled man who laughs in the face of danger.

I’ll call him Watoshy for the sake of conversation.  Women don’t understand Watoshy, but then women aren’t supposed to understand.  Women are here to jerk on that spade bit when Watoshy starts to roar.  Women are here to help us up when we get to drunk to dance.  Watoshy likes women, he just doesn’t bring one out with him every time he decides to go to Ned’s.

Anyway, it takes a lot to waken Watoshy.  He lives in every man that you know.  He is sleeping, just waiting to be awakened by some pointless male chatter, or by some sports activity such as a rousing game of eightball, or a spirited game of ping-pong.  Maybe a night of poker playing or just a lot of beer drinking.

Suddenly one of our group says that he put his boss on a plane to Pittsburgh earlier that day, and now his boss wants him to work all weekend, uncompensated.

Watoshy stirs and grumbles in his sleep.  An imperceptible moving of the shoulders goes ’round the table as we watch the speaker out of the corner of our eye, wondering how he will take this bit of news.

Beast that he is, Watoshy comes awake, shakes his head.  He is hungry and begins to feed off this emotionally charged bit of information.

Another of our group says that he and his main squeeze, a buxom blonde named Stella, are no longer a twosome.  Serious trouble.  So we all make noises in support of him.

Watoshy is fully awake by now.  He looks around the rapidly filling room, he has made male contact and Watoshy feels good.

Val springs for another round of brews.  We all watch the last speaker, his face is white and his hands squeeze the now empty beer glass as he conveys this last bit of information.

Watoshy rises and makes a full circle of the room, stopping at a table filled with college men, he joins them in a rendition of an old drinking song. 

Later…..much later, outside the lounge, my brother and a lifelong friend trade friendly insults and pummel each other around.  Nothing is meant by it, it’s just Watoshy flexing his muscle knowing that he has the rest of the night and that it belongs to him.

“Remember those girls from college?” says one friend, “you could tell them anything and they’d believe it.  I sure miss the seventy’s.”

“Yeah, they were gullible,” says my brother.  “The military girls were my favorites though, talk about gullible.”

“Gullible girls,” someone ought to write a song about that.

“Worked half the time though,” says my brother with an evil grin. 

I stared at the sky hoping to witness a supernova when I heard J.R. say why don’t we adjourn to his house for any unfinished business or an unopened bottle of Jim Beam.

Watoshy is feeling 18 and slim once again, and the mood is infectious as I hurry to my pick-up.

We’ll all feel bad in the morning, but what the heck.  We’ll live.  All of us.  Besides, you gotta play hurt sometime. 

Bob, on the left.

The Wind Does Blow

The Wind
by Robert Louis Stevenson

I saw you toss the kites on high
And blow the birds about the sky;
And all around I heard you pass,
Like ladies’ skirts across the grass–
O wind, a-blowing all day long,
O wind, that sings so loud a song!

I saw the different things you did,
But always you yourself you hid.
I felt you push, I heard you call,
I could not see yourself at all–
O wind, a-blowing all day long,
O wind, that sings so loud a song!

O you that are so strong and cold,
O blower, are you young or old?
Are you a beast of field and tree,
Or just a stronger child than me?
O wind, a-blowing all day long,
O wind, that sings so loud a song!

RL Stevenson visited the Texas Panhandle on a day like today and then wrote this poem. I know he did.

Oh my word. That is all I can say. Well actually it’s not. The wind is awful. It’s more than awful. It’s harrowing.

It causes me to ponder the Dust Bowl Era. As I look at images, I’m struck by the notion of how tough those people were. We’re a bunch of wimps nowadays.

Black Blizzards, Black Rollers. Woodie Guthrie wrote songs about “dust pneumonia blues”.
I got that dust pneumony, pneumony in my lung,
I got the dust pneumony, pneumony in my lung,
An’ I’m a-gonna sing this dust pneumony song.

I went to the doctor, and the doctor, said, My son,
I went to the doctor, and the doctor, said, My son,
You got that dust pneumony an’ you ain’t got long, not long.

Now there ought to be some yodelin’ in this song;
Yeah, there ought to be some yodelin’ in this song;
But I can’t yodel for the rattlin’ in my lung.
My good gal sings the dust pneumony blues,
My good gal sings the dust pneumony blues,
She loves me ’cause she’s got the dust pneumony, too.

It it wasn’t for choppin’ my hoe would turn to rust,
If it wasn’t for choppin’ my hoe would turn to rust,
I can’t find a woman in this black ol’ Texas dust.

Down in Oklahoma, the wind blows mighty strong,
Down in Oklahoma, the wind blows mighty strong,
If you want to get a mama, just sing a California song.

Down in Texas, my gal fainted in the rain,
Down in Texas, my gal fainted in the rain,
I throwed a bucket o’ dirt in her face just to bring her back again.”

At least we don’t all have the dust pneumony.
Yet.

I have the need to read

I’m craving a book.  Yes, I said craving.  Like Elvis craved a fried peanut butter and banana sandwich.  Longing, pining, desiring.   Sometimes all I need in life is a book, a blanket, and a couple of hours.  I don’t usually make it that long before falling asleep.

Mark Twain Image

Good friends, good books and a sleepy conscience: this is the ideal life. ~Mark Twain

I couldn’t agree more, Mark. 

If I think real hard, walk around the house a couple of times, and eat a chocolate chip cookie, maybe I could remember the last book I read.  Right now I’ve got a blank screen in my mind, occasionally flickering.  It’s been too long. 

Unless you count school reading, which doesn’t really count does it?  Right now I’m reading the book Sounder to my class.  Just today the poor, black boy in the story was saying how badly he wanted a book.  He probably could teach himself to read if only he had one.  He’d heard somewhere that some people had so many books, they only read them once.  Surely, there couldn’t be that many books in the world. 

I usually only read books once as well.  My dad, on the other hand, would read a book again and again.  One in particular was the Grapes of Wrath.  My mother finds it a waste of time to read a book twice.  I’m with her on this, unless it’s To Kill A Mockingbird, which I try to read every summer.  I also loved Eat, Pray, Love and vowed I would read it again someday, yet that someday hasn’t come.

But it’s coming.  Very soon. 

When June 1st arrives, I’m driving myself to the public library.  I’m checking out a stack of books and turning off the phones.  The grass can grow tall.  The dishes can pile up in the sink.  The tomatoes will need pickin’.  My legs will need shaving.  The chickens might even go hungry. 

Nah.  I’ll feed the chickens in between chapters. 

I plan on delving into some good books.  If you have a suggestion, let me know. 

Outside of a dog, a book is a man’s best friend.  Inside of a dog, it’s too dark to read~ Groucho Marx

Maybe I have a thing for men with bushy moustaches. 

Yosemite Sam

 I hope your innards turn to outards and your ears go visey-versey!   ~Yosemite Sam

Or maybe they just have good quotes.

What’s your favorite book?  Or quote?  Or moustached man?

A Dirty Little Secret. No I Am Not Ashamed.

You wanna know a little secret?

I’m a Bob Ross fan.

This man relaxes me.  His voice is soothing and his happy trees and happy little mountains calm me.

There was a time in my life, not too many moons ago, when I DVR’d old Bob Ross episodes.

If you go to his website at bobross.com, you can buy the whole collection for only $1,400.00.

Yes I know people make fun of his hair, his words, his ways, but I don’t care.   Me and Bob are tight.

I’m not an artist.  I would never in my life claim to be.  I’d like to be, but it’s not my talent.  

I won’t ever be a supermodel either.  Big deal.

He uses a wet-on-wet technique where he covers his canvas with a color and then paints right on top of that.

Once I bought a Bob Ross painting kit from a craft store, laid an old shower curtain down on my living room carpet, and painted a picture following along with him on a DVD.   Pause. Paint. Play.  Pause. Paint. Play. Pause. Paint. Play.

It sucked.  The blue was too blue, the mountains were about 3 different colors, the river was too wide, but for my first time ever, I guess it wasn’t too shabby. 

The next time I tried to paint, it didn’t go so well, so I threw a little temper tantrum and ended up scribbling all over the canvas, then hauling it to the dumpster in the alley.  I’m getting mad again just thinking about it.

I haven’t tried to paint since. 

Even though I am not an artist, and I have taken a vow to not buy any new clothes all year, I think I’m going to break my resolution just once.

RAMD

I must have this shirt.  I must.

And while I’m at it, I might as well buy this one too.

 RCMD

It’s good advice.

Tuesday Night

The evening is breezy and mild. I’m sitting in my front yard in one of those vintage iron chairs as I type this. The birds are perched in the tree and on the high wires singing me a melody.  The cows are grazing in the next pasture.  The horses are munching alfalfa, and chickens are pecking in their pen.  Occasionally the hawk soars overhead, keeping me on my toes.  Dang that chicken hawk.  The dogs lay at my feet.  Occasionally they tussle.  When Drew Miller’s adrenaline rises, I catch a hint of skunk smell waft my direction.  I guess he did get sprayed after all.  The sky is clouding up, teasing us with rain.  Makes me feel like a teenage boy sitting next to a girl in a low-cut blouse.  Life is good.  The only thing missing is a creaky wooden screen door banging closed and a wide porch.  Maybe even a glass of sweet tea.

I’ve taken to wearing an aunt Jemima scarf on my head out here.  Or as the cool kids would say,  a do-rag.  The wind does blow and whips my hair about.

I sit here and contemplate my garden.  Today I took full advantage of 2nd grade science curriculum and had my second graders help me start my indoor seeds.  It might be considered child labor.  I call it learning the life cycle and parts of plants.  We planted tomatoes, peppers, green beans, okra, squash, and radishes.  I don’t even like radishes that much, but they’re easy to grow.  I got some seeds planted and children had a good time learning.  Can’t beat it.  I want my garden in my front yard.  J-Dub says, “who puts a garden in the front yard?”  I do, that’s who.  I’m going to attempt a companion garden with vegetables and flowers.  I’m going to walk up my path and pop a cherry tomato in my mouth as I pick a bouquet on the way to the front door.  My no dig garden didn’t get finished.  I started with such gusto, only to find the cardboard blown up against the fences in a couple of days.  Oh the toil I wasted. 

I long for care-free summer days, fresh garden veggies, and tan legs.

I glance up to see dust billowing on the road.  The dogs’ ears perk up at the bellowing diesel of my husband’s truck. They run to the gate to meet him.  Dogs are such great friends.  Always glad to see you.

Nothing’s ready for supper.  Do you think he’ll be mad? 

First thing I notice when he steps out of his truck are his boots are red.  Initially, I think he’s gotten new boots, but no.  It’s his old boots, they are covered with red dirt from Oklahoma where he was working today.

I’ve got a hard-working husband, a little home, a lot of love, and wonderful people in my life.

And yet sometimes, I allow myself to cater to self-pity.  What a shame I should ever feel mistreated.

I’m blessed.

Well, the sun has moved and I’m in the shade now.   The breeze is cool and I must warm some leftovers for supper.

Until tomorrow, friends.

May God Bless you richly.

One Step Closer to Coopdom

The chicks are 4 weeks old this week and are slowly being prepared for their new outdoor home.

This weekend we worked on the chicken pen, and it won’t be long until they must spread their wings and fly from this chicky mama’s box in the bedroom out into the coop and the big, wide world.    

I’m exposing them to the outside more and more.  The perils and dangers, the fun and frolic.  The Scot’s Fertilizer that I forgot I sprinkled on the lawn the day before.

If the wind isn’t blowing too badly, we take a daily outing.

I have yet to introduce them to the dogs.  Drew Miller had better learn some manners first.

Unbeknownst to him, a chicken sandwich is not on his menu.  He is sticking with the Ol’ Roy.

While most chicks are content to explore the ground, pecking about, not Freedom, my little pet.

Freedom marches to a different beat.  She’s got a quirky personality and is quite the loner. 

Although she loves people and gravitates to them, in the flock she can usually be found off by herself.   She’s not too crazy about her pen mates.

I sat in one of my white Adirondack chairs to keep a close eye on them.

 

Freedom decided to crawl up the other chair and sit next to me.  Don’t you wish she sat back, stretched out her feet and put on her big red sunglasses?

 

She stayed there a good long while soaking up the sun,  until she began wondering how in the world she was going to get down.

She stood there contemplating the situation and finally managed in her graceful chicken way, with wings flailing.

I am still enjoying these happy little chicks but I’m anxious to get them out of the box and into their pen.

My house stinks.

Ranch Security

 I don’t know how many of you are familiar with Hank the Cowdog books by author John Erickson.   Good ol’ Hank, Head of Ranch Security, can usually be found protecting the ranch from varmints and keeping everyone safe with his side-kick Drover.

Well here at the J & A Chicken Ranch we have our own head of ranch security by the name of Drew Miller.



Drew Miller was rescued by the animal shelter as a pup.  My mom and niece Ashy picked out this little, cute ball of black and white fur.  They were told by the shelter that he was probably a Border Collie.  Well, he ain’t no Border Collie. 

We don’t really know what he is.  

Drew ended up at our house at about 6 or 7 months of age.

 

 He’s a good, gentle boy most of the time.  Except when there’s a varmint on the loose.  I’ve seen a side of Drew on the attack that I don’t like seeing.   He killed a mama possum once that I witnessed and am still having night sweats over.  You can read about that murder here.



But that was a possum.  They play dead.  I mean, how hard is it to kill something that’s playing dead?  Even Hank and Drover could do that. 

 

Then there was the porcupine.  You know those fights where one says, “You should see the other guy?”  That’s what the porcupine was telling his friends back at the Prickly Pub.

Either last night or this morning, we had a very close call.  After church I went out to tend to all the animals and there lying dead in the back yard about 3 feet from the house was a  black and white animal.

Yep, you guessed it.  A skunk. 

My mama used to sing a little song to me when I was a little girl.

Black and white kitty, sitting in the woods.  Isn’t that little kitty pretty? 

 I went right over to pick it up, but shooooo weeeeee, (pinch your nose here) it wasn’t that kind of a kitty.

I’ve never seen a skunk up close.  For obvious reasons.  I thought he would look more like Flower in the movie Bambi.  Uh, No.  Skunks are uuugggllly.

Drew  killed that poor rascal in our backyard.  And miracle of all miracles, it did not let off its stench.  Had this been a Hank the Cowdog story, Hank would’ve  gotten sprayed, tried to go home for supper, got run off from the house ’cause of his stink, and sent to live with the barbaric coyotes for a month till the smell finally wore off.

Which makes me envision Drew Miller, stealth-like, stalking that skunk, then pouncing before the poor fella could even defend himself.

Either that, or these 50 mph winds we’ve been having for 2 days are tricking us.   Only time will tell.

 Drew Miller, a.k.a. Killer, serving and protecting. 

I think I’m going to get him a badge.

In Memory of My Dad #7–Golf

My dad was a golfer.  There was usually a set of golf clubs in the back of his work truck, just in case.  As a little girl I remember times when he’d suddenly remark, “Let’s go hit some golf balls.”  Oh the joy I would feel.  I was going to get to golf!  So he’d grab his clubs and that handy little golf club picker-upper and we’d head to large park or walk across to the empty field across the street.  I quickly learned I wasn’t there to golf with my dad, but I was sent to get the balls after he’d hit them.  He’d holler at me, “There’s one to your left, or farther, go farther.”  I never even got to swing the club.

Here’s a story written by my dad about golfing:

You may hear women complain of being a golf widow.  Big Deal.   It’s you the golfer who is hurting.  It’s your hands that are numb and bleed at night, it’s your back that aches and twitches.  Your legs are sore and your neck is sunburned almost black from hours of standing over the golf ball.  You are in a mortal panic, it’s you who is one of the walking wounded.

When you play a good round of golf, you are deathly afraid that you can’t repeat the swing your next time out.  When you play badly you think, “why couldn’t I have been born a mule, then I could get some use out of all this green grass.”

You say to yourself, “I don’t need this kind of suffering,”  but you know that you’ll be back tomorrow and that’s what makes the wonderful world of golf so exasperating.

Golfers like to wear shirts with small animals emblazoned over the pockets.  Penguins.  Alligators.  The small Polo horse and rider.  I have many shirts with the alligator logo.  Once playing in South Texas I hooked a ball far into the left rough.  When I went into the jungle grass looking for the ball, I spied an alligator with a shirt that had a little golfer over the pocket.  I don’t even think he was a member of the club either.

I used to play a pretty decent round of golf, but since having this stroke, anytime that I don’t fall out of the golf cart is a good round.  I could play the game with a broom stick and a road apple now and still score as good.

You’ve got to look good to play the game halfway decent.  I have a pair of green canvas golf shoes and an oversized Reebok Sweatshirt, and a pair of wide shorts that end just below the knee.  Billy Brewski calls it my grunge look.  I may play to a thirteen, but I look like a three out there.

Shoes are more important than “top of the line” golf clubs.  Especially if you are just starting out in golf and walking a lot of holes.  You need to invest in a good pair of golf shoes if you are going to take the game seriously.  Cheap golf shoes have crippled more men than Madonna.  I first started to play the game of golf with a pair of shoes bought from Sears-Roebuck.  They were a putrid black and red check against a cream background.  I liked to have crippled myself before investing wisely in a pair of Foot-Joys.

Better yet, take an already broken-in pair of shoes to the cobbler and have them converted into a pair of golf shoes.  Say to the cobbler, “I’m giving these shoes to a friend, the lucky stiff.  He don’t know how lucky he is getting to play golf everyday while I’m at work.”  This may get you a price break from the cobbler. Now he may only charge you $17 instead of the $20 for the $9 job that he is doing on you and the golf shoes.  Also you won’t feel so bad when you throw the shoes away and swear off the game for good after shooting a light running 85.

To have a good time on the golf course it is imperative that you get to the course bright and early.  You can’t have much fun on the golf course at night, unless you are accompanied by a blonde and a blanket, and are waiting for a Drambuie front to move in.  Of course this kind of stroking and putting isn’t recognized by the USGA.

The first order of business when you arrive at the course is to order a Slo-Gin fizz.  This will steady your nerves and stop the churning of your stomach from the night before when you made the golfing date show up bright and early to have a good old-time.  It will also help relieve the pressure on your sternum so you can make at least a partial shoulder turn without tearing something loose deep inside of you.

Next move.  Find out who you made the golf date with the night before.  Greet everyone you meet with a big smile and a huge “Hi there.”  Soon you will see someone else with a puzzled look on his face, saying, “Hi there” to everyone he meets.  It’s 8 to 5  this is who you made the date with the night before.

Get on the first tee and follow tradition, lie about how you are playing.  Say “my handicap is a thirteen, but I’m playing to a nineteen.”  Then the other golfer will tell a couple of lies himself and the games are ready to begin.

Forget about playing even close to your regular game.  It’s the deal you make on the first tee that counts.  Keep the bets small, never more than a $2 nassau.  Then lose about $6 or $8 bucks maneuvering your opponent into the unenviable position of buying lunch.  On a good day you can come out ahead by $8 or $10 using this ploy.

Advice is always prevalent on a golf course.  The best I ever heard was when a guy came in after shooting about 150.  He asked the members of his foursome what he should give his caddy following the round.  “Your clubs,” was the answer he got.

So go on out on these unseemly warm days we are having.  Remember these few rules and you’ll have a good time.  And if that don’t work, say to heck with the USGA—-grab you a blonde and go at night.

Country Living

We moved out to our Little Trailer House on the Prairie on March 15th.  Less than 4 weeks ago.  In this short time, there are a few lessons I’ve learned. 

First off, there ain’t no rest out here. 

Yes it’s pretty peaceful, no one comes to my door selling magazines, and Toby, the dang barking dog next door, is no longer my problem.  But mind you, I’m not laid up in a hammock reading a book each evening listening to the wind rustle through the prairie grasses either.

During the early part of February, when I was still living in town, it snowed enough for our school district to cancel school.  Since I’m a mean, old school teacher, I got the day off.  I posted on facebook something to the effect of “Snow day, Now what can I do?”

Friends chimed in with many suggestions and then along came my dad with a remark of, “Get any snow out that way ang?”  Of course, my answer dripped with sarcasm.  He chided me for being sarcastic, my sister said I was the mean daughter, and then he said the following to my sister: 

“I hope she gets a whole plethora of animals, then she’ll have plenty to do.  I’ve been up since 0400, slopping hogs, milking and getting in wood and water.” 

Of course that was bologna.  More than likely he’d been laying with his head at the foot of the bed, on his belly, propped up on one elbow watching TV and reading a book at the same time.  That’s how he rolled. 

But oh boy, he was right about having plenty to do.  I don’t even have a plethora of animals, but each day they gotta eat.  I gotta change their water, put out feed for the horses and dogs, change the straw in the chicken box, take the chickies out for exercise, walk the dogs, and chase the horses out of the yard. 

By the time I tend to all the stock, I can barely feed my husband and myself.  Maybe I’ll lose a few pounds. One can only hope.

Second lesson:  Internet service sucks.  We can’t get DSL or cable out here, so our only option is satellite or dial up.  We opted for satellite with their lightning speed advertisement.  What a pile of horse hockey.  

Lesson #3:  I know absolutely nothing about water wells and septic tanks.  I’ve got questions.  How do I know when the septic tank is full?  Gross, I know, but an important piece of information to learn. 

Lesson #4:  I am losing the battle with dust.  Should I wave my white flag now? 

Fifth lesson:  Despite these tiny, itsy-bitsy, miniscule issues, I am super happy here.  We have room to run and sunsets to watch. We can do almost anything we want. 

At my garage sale the other day, Ashy’s Slip n’ Slide didn’t sell.

Me:  I guess we’ll take it out to The Place with us.

Her:  Yea!!  We can even do it naked!

Alrighty then.