Things are Changing
"My book came in," Craig announced as I came through the front door, still wearing the weariness of my work day. What nonsense is this? My husband does not read books, he reads the Internet and quotes Bill O'Reilly. I gave him a cautious eye. Earlier in the week, I had walked into the bedroom to find him sprawled across the bed with one of the bee books I purchased for his birthday wide open. "What's going on in here?" I ask, startled. "I'm reading my book," he says. "Really? Why?" I ask. "I've already read the other one." I am certain this is one of the signs of the Apocalypse but a quick review of Revelations and I found it didn't fall in the top seven.
He holds the new book up to show me. "My Pet Chicken," he reads. "My Pet Chicken? I think I have that in the picture book collection at the Library." "Nooo," he argues. "It's one of the best guides on raising chickens." "Chickens?" I ask. I have a history with chickens. There's the rooster incident, of course. I think any kid who grew up in the country has or knows of a rooster incident. But there's also the hen house from my youth, second only to the cellar for creeping me out.
"Cindy," Mom calls. "Go up to the hen house and see if we have any eggs." My eyes widen. "It's Marge's turn," I attempt. "No it's not," my sister argues. "Go get the eggs," Mom says. I get up slowly, walk to the front door, slowly, go around the house and climb the hill toward the hen house of death, ever more slowly. There's a fence around the hen house and chickens scratching the black dirt, still damp with morning dew. Dad has clipped the chickens' wings so they don't fly away. This has given them an "I don't give a damn, I'll scratch your eyes out for looking at me, kid" attitude. The few meandering around barely give me notice until I move the gate. They start to come closer but I stamp and scream at them until they think better of it. This part isn't so bad, it's the inside of the hen house that is dangerous. If one rogue chicken decides this is the day she's taking down the humans, I'm trapped in there.
I peek inside the door of the hen house. One brown bird sits on a nest and dares me with her beady, little, peck you until you're bloody eyes, to even think about taking her eggs. I size her up and she sizes me up. She smells the stink of fear oozing from my pores. She smirks, let's out a cackle of a laugh. She knows she's won. I back away, slip out of the fence and run down the hill at full speed.
Back inside, "No eggs today, Mom." My mother releases an exhaust of disgust. "Marge Ann, go up and get the eggs," she says. My sister growls. She stomps past me, "You're so stupid," she says, passing me on her way out of the door.
She shows up again in what passed as seconds bearing a handful of eggs, which she displays with raised eyebrows as if they only served to prove that I was indeed, stupid. Today, my sister is a strong, successful, and responsible woman and I like to take the credit for making her pick up my slack for 16+ years.
Back on the farm, tree removal day approaches. This old fence line is coming down so we can see the view and replant desirable trees on the new boundaries.
It's still dark when Craig awakens me to say he's heading out to the farm. "It's cold out there and windy on that hill. Bundle up. I've got a stocking cap for you." I'm still in bed. "A stocking cap?" I ask. "Are we knocking over a liquor store on the way?" I'm pondering if the the term stocking cap went out of use in the late 1800's. Sometime's Craig is just one pair of black socks away from being from another era.
When I arrive, the contractor is already at work, employing heavy equipment to remove trees and reshape the pond. Because I'm a girl who cares nothing for machinery, I refer to these things as the scooper and the scraper. (Insert collective groan from men and women who are equipment savvy.)
Enjoy this video of the scooper at work. Excuse the poor quality of video and my use of the term scooper.
It was indeed nippy, and our contractor was channeling his inner Cousin Eddie with a fur-lined, ear-flap hat. Craig was avenged somewhat when I slipped on my stocking cap. (Sigh.) It was brisk and the air smelled of fresh cut wood and chainsaw oil. It reminded me of cutting firewood with Dad in the Fall on the mountain above our house in West Virginia. It seems I can't make it through an Autumn without at least once falling back on a remembrance of that time.
We're saving the larger pieces for firewood and the root bundles for a large bonfire this October. I help Craig unload the wood. "If we're going to have a pet chicken, I will have to name her Minerva Louise and give her a mitten to wear on her head as a hat," I tell Craig. He looks at me, silently. "It's a book from the Library," I explain. "You and that chicken are crazy," he says.
"If I'm going to have a chicken, she might as well be a literary chicken," I say. "Chickens," Craig corrects. "Chickens? I'm going to need more names." He continues piling wood. "There's Rosie from Rosie's Walk." I'm silently considering whether I need to read more chicken books. "How about Pox?" I ask. He stops and looks at me. "We could say, Come see our chicken, Pox," I encourage. He smiles. "It would have to be a slow one, so children could catch it," I explain. Now he's laughing.
Our goal for the weekend was to get the trees lined up and ready for the chipper shredder. Quickly Craig decided that trying to line up 1,000 feet of downed trees with one small distracted wife, was going to be a slow business. We arrived the next day with Jr., Jr's truck, and a few chains to speed up the process.
See these pretty little purple pineapple-shaped flowers. Thistles. Aren't they lovely? They are the devil. They slip right over the top of your boot, melt through your jeans and sting your legs. I did discover if something stings you enough times, eventually you don't feel it anymore. Isn't that a nice lesson?
Now the chipper shredder has arrived and it's all hands on deck for making mulch. Booboo spent the night and so I was awake from 3:30 AM before heading to the farm. Look at those feet propped on my chest in the middle of the night. So worth it.
Before I show the next photo, I thought I'd show this one to demonstrate how far I've come in the farmer girl business. This is me checking out the land before we bought it, never even got out of the truck - too many grasshoppers.
But now, I'm out there, fighting thistles, brushing away grasshoppers, stomping cactus and shredding trees. I have never worked so hard in my life. Shredding these trees took 14 hours over 2 days with three people. And it wasn't cool. It was hot - mid-90's hot. Haul trees, shred trees, unload mulch, try not to die.
Day 1 of shredding went pretty well, it was windy and somewhat cooler on the hill. We were energetic, excited and sure we'd finish in one day. What fools we were. We only finished the easy part on Saturday. The dense tangled mess still lay in wait. The wind stirred up the sawdust such that we each coughed out a 2x4 when we got home.(I appear to be doing some kind of dance in this photo, not sure what is happening with my hands.)
We were also scratched to ribbons in any place we'd been crazy enough to leave bare flesh. Not exactly the professional look so...
I opted for the "fresh from the psyche-ward" look for the next day. It helped heal the scratches, protected my arms from more damage and left people asking questions at the Home Depot.
This is called pick-up sticks, farm style. It's one thing to pick up trees and feed them through a shredder. It's another thing to try and untangle hundreds of trees and branches from one another, then pick them up and feed them to the shredder.
Then there's the unloading of the mulch, which we all agree was the worst part of it. After about 5 hours of this, we started getting a little short with one another. Craig and Sawyer bicker over how best to feed things through the machine. I silently resent them (and their mothers for having them) as I drag trees to the shredder as they argue, certain that I've carried more than they have. After 7 hours, we're exhausted but still optimistic that we can knock it out by noon the next day. After 10 hours, the chipper breaks down and what little hope I had threatens to die.
Once we unclog the machine and it's running again, the heat of the day really beats down. Still exhausted from the day before, we're now too tired to argue with one another. We stop occasionally and sit in the AC because the hawk circling overhead is certain we're going to die and leave a fresh meal. We think he's right. After about 11 hours, the mind starts to go. I pick up a tree and my muscles burn. I look down and see a grasshopper perched with his head high looking around as if he's on a theme-park ride. "Hey, lard a$$," I tell him in my mind because my throat no longer works. His head turns slightly. "Yeah, I know you can hear me. No freeloaders. Start pulling or get off my tree." He doesn't move. With great effort, I slap him upside his grasshopper head and send him sailing. He was warned.
After 13.5 hours, I give up. The last little bit is a tangled up nightmare and I'm on the verge of tears. "Burn it," I tell Craig. "What? You really want to leave it when we're this close?" I throw up my hands. "I can't do anymore, I'm telling you. I don't know whether to cry or vomit but I'm done. I don't care what happens to it." He can see I'm really done. "Go sit in the truck and get some AC for a while." He follows me in a minute, covered in a thick layer of sawdust. Sawyer is already there. Three of us sit in the truck and try not to pass out. "Sawyer?" Craig asks. "Do you have anything left?" "Sure," Sawyer responds, surprisingly cheerfully. They get out and finish the trees. This is the last of it. I found enough energy to snap the photo.
The land is cleared now and we have a blank canvas on which to paint our own vision. We have been dreaming of our new home; sharing images of house designs, researching trees, naming chickens (Fricassee), and checking out honey competitors. Craig visited with a local honey producer. "We're going to be your competition in a few years," he tells the man. "I've got a hundred hives," the man responds. "We're not going to be much competition," Craig adds.
And we have a nice view of the little valley below. Our new house will sit right here and I'm already on the patio in my mind, looking down on Whoville and talking about all those Whos.
Our babies have arrived. Aren't they cute? I think they're funny. They're all standing so tall, looking at their new digs with great anticipation. That one on the right is so happy, he's dancing. Who knew Live Oaks were so lively? Next week, we give them their new spots. I'm going to dance with that little guy. I will name him Fred, as in Astaire. "Go, Fred! It's you're party."
Craig's been a busy bee this weekend. He is working on a rock berm for the pond to protect it from all the rain we never get. Rain is like Christmas in Texas. We all sit and wait for it and clap our hands with excitement over any sprinkle. Sawyer and I begged off because later we're going to buy him a new outfit for a college interview. Fancy.
Craig incorporated the heart of Texas into the berm. I may have to rescue it for my garden. I'll walk Rosie the chicken out there and tell her all about how we found it. We'll have to stop and wait for Pox anyway, because he's slow.
Look at that. We must be scenic because Craig snapped the hot air balloon over Justin this morning. You ain't seen nothing yet - come back in 5 years.
Adios Amigos!
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