What Does One Wear to a Beheading?

 "Like the dew on the mountain, like the foam on the river, like the bubble on the fountain, thou art gone-- and forever."
(With apologies, I'm sure, to Sir Walter Scott. )

As Benwick mourns the loss of what might have been, so I too am mourning today for what surely now must come.  I have, Ladies and Gentlemen, a traitor in my midst. 

Whilst all the henfolk look to be docile little creatures, squabbling over trivialities, knitting tea cozies as they sit upon their common nest, one of them is a conspirator, a turncoat, a defector, a deserter, a spy, a double agent, even, dare I say it,  a quisling!  Yes, one of them is eating eggs. 

I know, I know this is hard to believe.  Yet I tell you it is true.  The first broken egg was an accident.  So I thought at the time.  Someone had tried to lay an egg on the shelf and it had fallen off, broken and most of its contents absorbed into the wood shavings.  There stood one of the Black Biddies, clearly disturbed and sad, unhappy til I had cleared up the mess.  But this second egg, half of the shell was missing and there were no remains of the interior!  I tell you I have an Egg Eater! 

I would do well to suspect the Black Biddy Hen, you say?  Yes, she crossed my mind.  But then I recalled an incident from three days ago:  The Red Hen, the Queen, wanted to lay an egg on the shelf but Squeaky had been there previously and laid one of her Green Eggs.  This so upset the Queen that she sang an Upset Song for half an hour and would not stop til the offending egg was removed.  I think the Queen has developed a hatred for Squeaky's off-color eggs and is pecking them and eating them. 

Off course, more investigative work must be done.  I've had sporadic egg laying from the biddies for a few months now and their days are numbered in any case.  But an egg eater cannot be tolerated.  Once they start they do not stop.  I shall have to confirm it is the Red Queen and in a ironic reversal of Alice in Wonderland,

It shall be "off with Her head!"!

This is only an acceleration of her eventual fate, but one I was not looking forward to.  Maybe the hens will be easier to butcher than the roosters.  The roos were sooo big but with a disappointing lack of meat for all the work.  I may have to invest in Cornish Rock hens to accomplish my meat production goal. 

But all of this in neither here nor there.  I shall have to don my Holmesian Deerstalker and have at it:
I say, all along it was Colonel Mustard in the Library with a Chicken! 
My Word!  With a Chicken, you say?
Well, yes, it appeared to be some sort of poultry....
You are acquainted with the penalty for poultry perversion in our part of the world?
Quite, quite. It's off with their heads, I'm afraid.  
Cursed bit of luck.  I'm not dressed for it, you know.  Bother.

What do you mean, it's a decorative wood stove?

After last winter's electric bills I was determined that we should have an alternative to electric heat, and the most logical one being that we have 5 wooded acres is a Wood Stove.  So, I called Allison and asked if we could have their wood stove since they weren't using it.  Joey and she were gracious enough to fit it into their lovely car and drive it all the way down from Bland to us.

I did endless amounts of research on proper clearances from wall, floor, ceiling.  Stove pipe, chimney specifications and instructions.  I compiled a file folder.  We even went to Lowe's and checked out their stove pipe kits.  Then Ronny decides we shouldn't hook it up because it wouldn't be allowed under homeowners insurance.

Yeah.

Warning:  Flashback ahead!  We had not gotten homeowners insurance when we bought the property because it was in such bad shape I don't believe anyone would have insured it.  After several years worth of work we were able to get insurance.  All good.  Oops, economic crash, a missed payment, insurance lapsed.  Called after a few months to get it reinstated.  Got a quote.  Couldn't afford the down payment.  Got the down payment together, called to get a new quote.
"We don't insure mobile homes."
"Well, clearly you do, because we had insurance from you.  You even came out and took pictures.  It was clearly a mobile home." 
"Well, we never should have.  We wouldn't have covered any claim you made.  We don't insure mobile homes." 
"(grinding teeth) Can you recommend someone?"
"Sure,  we have our sister company who covers mobile homes.  Let me transfer you."
Some questions later:
"So, you've had a lapse in coverage?  I'm sorry.  We don't cover people who have had a lapse in coverage."
"Um, why?"
"It's against our policy."

So, we can't get coverage because we've lapsed.  We can't hook up the wood stove because we can't get insurance with it.  We can't afford to burn the house down because we don't have insurance.  Aspirin, anyone? 

None of this seemed to bother Ronny.  He just took the stove outside and spray painted it  copper and silver and put a watering pot on top.  Makes just as much sense as anything else, I guess.

Show and Tell

 
 Remember when you were in Kindergarten and you would get to bring in things from home and show them to everyone in the class?  "OOOHHH", "AAAHHH". "COOL".  Yes, thank you, I know I'm wonderful because I have such cool things.  It was Materialism 101.  Things=Admiration=I feel good about myself.

Of course, I've long since outgrown such nonsence.  I don't need things to feel good about myself.  I can feel good about myself without the approval of others!  Really.

But LOOK WHAT I MADE!:

 

This is actually a picture of several accomplishments:  The apron came as a kit, but I improved upon it with the extensive use of that Tape stuff to enhance the old fashioned look around the edges.  And I changed the neck-ties so that they didn't tie, which would have bothered me, and they just cross with a button holding them together.  And I tried to make a proper belt, but this was mid-way through Paxil detox so I had to destroy them with my bare hands and make little Tape Ties.  (But I'm feeling better now, thank you.)

Then, in the background is my newest creation.  The Sign for Good Enough Farm.  I want to figure out how to attach it to the bedstead I pulled out of the trash about a week ago.  I haven't worked out the details yet; I'm sort of vague on that part--I think it involves Ronny, drills, cement, posts, stuff like that.  We'll let you know how that turns out.  

And furthest back in the picture is the Mural that I Hate.  I have been working on it without enthusiasm from Day One and hate it more every day.  I have offered it to people but no one will take it.  I'm afraid this means I shall have to paint over it with Kilz and come up with something I do like.  I know I want something minimal.  I hate all the "stuff" that other people seem to like about the Mural:  "oh, look at that little thing!"  "and see that there!"  "there are just so many things to look at!"  Yeah, my point exactly.  It's dark and heavy and it says nothing about something.  Of course I know that doesn't make any sense!  But there you are. 

Ronny's gone away to Kentucky on an overnight and the Truck is getting it's brakes fixed so this may be the time to go ahead and Armageddon it.  

Is that blashpemous?  

No, it's just Def Leppard.  

Oh, Ok. 

Reading Between the Lines

While doing my Bible Reading of 2 Samuel chapters 13-15 I was struck, as I often am, by the way words or expressions occur in the Scriptures which are unique, perhaps, to the language or culture from which they come.  The phrase which started today's particular thought stream:  "the bread of consolation."

As part of an elaborate ruse, Amnon schemes to get Tamar to come to his private room to feed him what is called "the bread of consolation."  Now other people, I'm sure, think "oh that would be like his favorite food or something" and go right on.  But my curiosity is like a squirrel with ADD and I must know what it is.  Is it a particular dish?  Is it like giving someone their favorite meal when they are unwell?  What?

Google Books tantalizes me with half-explanations:
I & II Samuel: a commentary by Hans Wilhelm Hertzerg gives me juicy tidbits; "The basis of it evidently the custom of preparing a special meal for the sick (birya); the root bara is also used for bread of consolation.  In addition, the dish in question is lebiba...This has been thought to be connected to lebab, heart, and thus heart-shaped cakes have been envisaged.  But such a view is highly improbable; the more likely meaning is "what the heart desires"...in other words, what the invalid has an appetite for, his favourite dish."

This is interesting.  Partly because Amnon specifically requests "heart shaped cakes" but when passing on the request David reduces it to "the bread of consolation."  It is not for nothing that different words are used. We know what Amnon is up to:  he wants what he wants.  But David is not aware of Amnon's desires and attributes to his request simply a special meal for the sick.  


Amnon would perhaps describe himself as "lovesick", although he is simply consumed by lust for his half-sister.  He has no good intention.  A commentatry by Jenny Smith states that the "unusual preponderance of long vowels...the languishing tones help us to imagine the lovesick Amnon bewailing his passion....the last clause of verse 4, in which Amnon confesses his love for Tamar, consists of a 'series of gasping sighs' achieved by repeated alliteration of aleph and by repetition of long o and long a."  

I think of all that I am missing by not having an interlinear of the Hebrew Scriptures!  But even if I had one, would I know, could I hear  what I am reading?  Would I hear it with the ear of someone who attributes meaning to the use of long or short vowels?  Would I understand the difference in asking for "what my heart wants" and "my favorite meal"?  I wish that I would.  


Side note, not at all necessary, but I must say it:  It would also be helpful to note that commentaries are not without danger.  Both sources cited here disagree with each other at times, with other commentators, and Ms. Smith has the nerve to build an argument on the main sin of Amnon as being incest, rather than rape, then to throw it all away casually with a statement at the very end of  this line of reasoning; "Questions have been asked as to whether these prohibitions (against half-brother/half-sister marriage) had come into force by this period in Israel's history."  Certainly not by her for she bases her whole argument on this idea of incest being the main focus of this drama, forgetting that it is called THE RAPE OF TAMAR even in her first paragraphs!  Oh, well.  

What a Difference a Drug Makes

http://content9.flixster.com/photo/30/74/84/3074847_gal.jpg

Well, we have reached the end of my Paxil detox.  Somewhere around 10 PM last night when I told Craig I was going to throw him out of the house I recognized Crazy was knocking on my door.  I have a long acquaintance with Crazy, but he is not someone I allow in my house.  When I saw who it was I said, "I know you!  No, You can't come in !"  And I took a Paxil and a Nerve Formula and a Benadryl and A Glass of Milk and a  Time Out on the front deck.

Even though I may have some side effects that I don't like, I'm not going to do that to my boy.  Crazy Mom is not one of the epitaphs I want on my tombstone.

Thanks for visiting with Laura today, but her nurse is coming by with her medication now, so you'll have to leave.  Take care, and do come again.  She should be out of her restraints by then.   

P.S.  There is actually a site for Adult Time Outs, and I have to say I recommend it not only for it's lovely artwork which I have sampled above, but for the whole concept.  Everybody needs a time out now and again.

www.selftimeout.org/STOUTfivestepA.html

Reading is One of Life's Great Gifts

I have always believed that reading is one of life's greatest joys.  Through books you can leave your current state of mind, residence, body, emotion far behind and be transported to entirely different climes, bodies, thoughts.   I can be lifted out of my life even if just temporarily, and gain some sort of refreshment in the process.

This sort of transport is usually inexpensive, comfortable, and while one starts the journey alone, along the way other passengers jostle into the carriage.  Before long we are fast friends with our fellow riders, and when we must part ways we do so reluctantly.

I would wish you were fortunate enough to be given this gift as a child, not just the ability to read, which is poor cousin to the Delight in Reading.  In Jane Eyre, Mr. Rochester recognizes such a thing in Jane as he looks at her portfolio.  He selects three watercolors and asks as to their inspiration.  She replies she does not know, but it is clear he sees that they are images planted in her mind from reading she did as a child.  She has previously answered his query: 'Have you read much?' by saying "Only such books as came in my way; and they have not been numerous, or very learned."  Aha, but we have caught her out!  For certainly we recall even if she has forgotten:

"A small breakfast room adjoined the drawing room, I slipped in there.  It contained a bookcase; I soon possessed myself of a volume, taking care that it should be one stored with pictures.  I mounted into the window seat:  gathering up my feet, I sat cross-legged, like a Turk; and, having drawn the red moreen curtain nearly close, I was shrined in double retirement.....I returned to my book-Bewick's History of British Birds:  the letterpress thereof I cared little for, generally speaking; and yet there were certain introductory pages that, child as I was, I could not pass quite as blank...The words in these introductory pages connected themselves with the succeeding vignettes, and gave great significance to the rock standing up alone in a sea of billow and spray; to the broken boat stranded on a desolate coast; to the cold and ghastly moon glancing through bars of cloud at a wreck just sinking..."

As she goes on to recount in the following pages, even at the age of ten she has read Goldsmith's History of Rome and formed such an opinion of Nero and Caligula that she is involuntarily compelled to utter the likeness between her despotic cousin John Reed and these figures. 

Should I now be ashamed, Gentle Patron, to admit to no such knowledge of Caligula?  Should I hang my head in humiliation at the sum total of my learning of Nero:  "Nero fiddled while Rome burned."

I refuse.  Jane might not sympathize, but I think her reading subjects served her ill.  Her hysteria in The Red Room shows an imagination stoked on the coal of morbidity:  "I began to recall what I had heard of dead men, troubled in their graves by the violations of their last wishes, revisiting the earth to punish the perjured and avenge the oppressed; and I thought Mr Reed's spirit, harassed by the wrongs of his sister's child, might quit is abode...and rise before me in this chamber...bending over me in strange pity.  This idea, consolatory in theory, I felt would be terrible if realized..." 

Instead I say with pride that my children were never served platefuls of such claptrap!  Steady yourself, my Friend, for the leap is difficult and disorienting--

No, I stand with head erect and Teddy in my arms.  Reading is One of Life's Great Gifts; but shake the package before you open it.  If it Growls you might want to open something else.

If I Only Had a Goat!

 One of the difficulties of writing and reading something is supplying the appropriate emotion.  I may write in sarcasm what another reads in sincerity, or vice-versa.  I realize emoticons were invented for exactly such a purpose and may find myself making more use of them.  Why?

Yesterday's post about Holy Spirit vs. Cake, Walmart, and Armadillos  was read by someone in my "wider" audience.  My niece, whom I do not know as well as I should, read it and in response, recommended to me a site called  www.peopleofwalmart.com.  I found the site, looked at it for little, and realized something:  My niece doesn't know I'm a hick.

See the first picture up there?  That's my truck.  I drive it everyday.  I love my truck.  Right now I have brake parts on the front seat and 50 pounds of wood chips in the back.  Oh, and the Wrought Iron Bedstead that I pulled OUT OF THE TRASH at the transfer station.  When it stops raining I will lean it up against the tree where some 20 windows are leaning, that I got at the same Transfer Station, waiting to be made into a greenhouse. 

These are some of my chickens, right outside the back door.  They don't have quite that freedom of movement since the Great Hawk Attacks of 2010, but more than once I've had chicken in the kitchen, alive and kickin'.  (I sense a song in there! I invoke my authorial rights to the above sentence, you potential song-stealing varmints!  Hands off!)

Playing with my first flock of hens.  Overalls.  Bought another pair since then a little more heavy duty.  Guess what is my favorite thing to wear?  Yep.  (And those under the misapprehension that those are Real Croc's obviously do not know I would never pay over 4$ for a pair of shoes whose only purpose is keep the chicken poop from between my toes.)

One of my other favorite outfits when it is not warm outside:  dress, long johns, sandals.  I do wear it in public.  Yes, the long johns show underneath. 

So, when I wrote: " I skipped with glee down the aisles, thinking, "Yes, my fellow country dwellers!  This is our Walmart!  Bring your goats in the back of your truck!  Stop by with your chickens!...", you must understand that  I Am Serious.

But,  I don't have booster seats for my chickens, and the ducks won't stay behind the seat belts. ( I know this from experience.)  I suspect a goat might be a better travel companion. If  I only had one.  :(

http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_G1vRCA3RJh8/StJ3Q2NvPSI/AAAAAAAACwo/kayLPracluU/s1600/finnday1.jpg

Holy Spirit vs. Cake, Walmart , and Armadillos

 I am not allowed to write about Holy Spirit until our family finishes the Butter Cake with Chocolate Icing.  (Not unlike when Paul was not allowed to speak the word in the district of Asia, nor permitted to go into Bithynia...Waiting for the bolt of lightening.....waiting...Okay, we're safe for now...)  So, where shall we go then in our wanderings?  I shall tell you:  Walmart.

Yes, we traveled to the wilds of Appomattox today, braving both Wendy's (who really should close for their renovations because it is just too gross) and McDonald's.  After stuffing our faces with food of varying degrees of healthiness, we made our First Visit to the new Walmart there.  I have several observations I would like to share with you:  The parking lot is probably a little small for the amount of people that I would anticipate going there.  I wonder if they miscalculated, like they did when they built the little teeny McDonald's in Rising Sun because it was just a small town, not realizing that "if you build it, they will come,"  only to have to break out the front and expand it into the parking lot because of the people who came from Out of State just to go to McDonalds.  Are you still with me?  Okay, and it was a little dark inside. The Appomattox Walmart, not the Rising Sun McDonalds.  KEEP UP, PEOPLE!   Warehousey.  But, this may have been strategic on their part--"Yes, America, we here at Walmart stand side-by-side with you in your being victimized by the Evil Electric Company and we can't afford it either."  Also, "You'll get a better deal here because we are so cheap we won't even light our store!" 

Now, I have experience with Walmart and it's clientele from many different states.  Delaware, Maryland, Florida.  Even within each state, depending on the city of location, there is a tremendous variety in the Sort of Person who will shop there.  City Shoppers vs.  Country Shoppers.  This is a Country Walmart.  I saw my kinfolk, wearing their overalls, strolling up and down the isles.  The unique sort of heavy woman that is a heavy Farm woman accompanying her overalled partner. The Walmart Worker asking a man what sort of tub he is looking for only to be told "A Washtub."

I rejoiced!  I skipped with glee down the aisles, thinking, "Yes, my fellow country dwellers!  This is our Walmart!  Bring your goats in the back of your truck!  Stop by with your chickens!  Let us spit tobacco out the windows and look in vain for the restroom because it's not in the store, it's out back!"

It took me back to Florida.   In that State of Eternal and Unrelenting Sunshine if one wanted to go to Walmart one had to travel to Gainesville in Alachua County--say it with me:  Al aaaahhh chew a.  Or conversely and in the opposite direction, one would have to journey into Chiefland.  Each city with it's own flavor.  Each Walmart with it's own peculiar clientele.  If you know anything about me you will know that I picked the more "country" one.

This was about a 50 mile trip, but certainly one to be taken with excitement and anticipation.  There also lay the Wondrous Save-A-Lot, and Taco Bell, and a McDonald's with a memorable color scheme.

This is not me on the motorcycle, merely a vicarious visit to the Save-A-Lot, home of Bubba Cola.

Which brings us, very nearly, to Armadillos.  As you travel the vast distances necessary to get from Here to There in the vast interior of Central Florida one becomes acquainted with all manner of wildlife not commonly seen other places.  Wild Boar.  In Herds.  Crossing the Road.

http://images.townnews.com/oleantimesherald.com/content/articles/2009/10/26/news/doc4ae607e23fffe626880531.jpg

And, At Long Last, whether you had one living in your yard or not, you certainly have burned into your mind one of the most common sights in Gilchrist, Alachua, or Levy Counties:  The Armadillo In Its Natural Habitat. 

http://www.animalpictures1.com/r-armadillo-35-armadillo-469.htm

Thank you for joining us on our Mental Meanderings, Oh Person of Great Patience.  Enjoy your local Walmart wherever it may be, but watch out for the Armadillos.

They're always after me Lucky Charms!

Sometimes where you start is nowhere near where you end up.  This is true in more ways than one.  For example,  I was halfway into writing tonight's blog about all the charms I used to wear as an Irish-Italian-Pagan-Catholic:  the Italian Horn, The Hand, A Holy Spirit Hand/Dove Combo, the Scapula with the red cords and pictures of Saints on little cards.  That's where it started.  I was going to tie this in with how when I was a child I didn't understand anything spiritual at all, despite the fact that I went to Catholic School for 8 years and then 4 years of CCD.  All I knew really was magical charms and praying to Santa Claus at Christmas the same as you would pray to God, because frankly there didn't seem to be much difference.  Both really big on Nice and Naughty Lists.  Both rewarded you for good behavior and punished you for bad behavior.   I was going to talk about how I came to get the Truth about all these things. Propound on the True Nature of the Holy Spirit and Cultivating The Soil of Your Heart. 

Instead, I made Golden Butter Cake with Chocolate Icing.  I grudgingly shared one beater with Craig for licking,  licked both the bowl and the spatula all by myself, and had the nerve to not even feel guilty.  

I suppose Holy Spirit will have to wait for another day because my face is full of cake.  

Yummy.

flickr.com/photos/36348786@N00/2686618101

A Day on Skates

I love children's books. If well written they are ageless. They take us back to being children ourselves. They may give us glimpses of the kind of lives we wish we had or wondered about. They may be magical windows into how our forefathers lived.

While I am using " A Day on Skates" as an example, it is true of so many books: The Velveteen Rabbit. A Child's Garden of Verse. The Five Chinese Brothers.

We were fortunate as children to have teachers in the near family. Thus through our largely unappreciative hands went the Teacher's Copy to many children's storybooks. It was like looking behind the curtain to see the Wizard, and finding that did not make him less magical, but more. It was the Annotated Version before I knew such a thing existed.

One of the things I treasure from Good Children's Literature is the Illustrations. The Art and Artistry which can stay in your mind long after any recollection of the words remains. Simple line drawings or lush paintings. The feelings that can wash over you as you call them to mind or unexpectedly see them somewhere. Like a voice calling through a thick mist, an illustration may hint at times forgotten. Sitting just in that certain spot to read: Was it under the bed? In the Mulberry Fort?


I thank the Online Powers That Be for sites like http://digital.library.upenn.edu/women/writers.html. A vast library of memories made, memories awaiting.

So, while I spend the day skating with little Dutch boys and girls I never knew, perhaps you will find some Old Friends waiting in the shadows. Some New Friends peeking out from behind the shelves.



Put the Kettle on and have a cuppa. Lovely Weather for Reading, don't you think?

Do They Make Meds for That?

It has been my long-standing belief that if there is A Pill for It, take it. I suppose this was fostered in me by my Mother: "Here, Laura, take a Cope!...Maybe you should take a Midol!".

Thus began the epic Search for Pills That Would Make Me Feel Better. All legal. Most OTC. Most herbal or homeopathic. If I thought it would make me feel better, get out of the way, I'm taking it!
Ten years into a steady relationship with Anti-Depressants, I began to feel like the meds were not helping me feel better. My anxiety had actually increased with my last two prescription changes. On a medication for anxiety and my anxiety increased....Houston, we have a problem. When you take meds because you feel you are not really functioning all that well and you end up almost confined to your home due to the meds, just maybe it is time to take a step back.



I would much rather take painted steps back that have to do that with a Brain Pill. I weaned myself off, using progressively smaller doses until, voila, no more! See, you think you are done then. No, just starting. You become a living, breathing Pepto Bismol commercial for one thing. “Nausea, heartburn, indigestion, upset stomach, diarrhea.” Throw in some vomiting. Add something which deserves its own paragraph: Brain Zaps.

I did not make this name up. It existed previously in the literature. To describe it, hmmm....It's like someone crawled inside your head and nestled up just under your brain and every once in while, for no good reason, SHAKES IT! As Fred says in Galaxy Quest, "That was a heck of a thing."



Mix this with light sensitivity, auditory hallucinations, really intense feelings of OverWhelmingness and you have it: Withdrawal.
Do we ever think of it that way when we are taking these strong medications? One day we may have to Withdraw from them. Not a Pretty Picture.
Getting in the truck and going anywhere requires Ear Plugs and Sunglasses. Going to the Kingdom Hall for a meeting is like Torture: Too many people, too much noise, Too bright. I really want to make a comment but I'm afraid that the sound of my own voice in my ears might cause my head to explode. Besides that, I'm unmedicated crazy. It's one thing to be medicated crazy, but unmedicated? Not too sure how that comment is going to come out, are you now?
Mental Tourettes. If I stand up in my seat and scream will anyone notice? Let me think about that....

I'd like to take something for Withdrawal, but they don't make meds for that.


(Update: Apparently They do make meds for that. Gingko for Brain Zaps and Chamomile for the "Pepto" problems. Do herbs count as meds? Get outta the way! I'm trying to feel better over here!)

http://www.flickr.com/photos/waldopepper/ / CC BY-NC 2.0

http://www.flickr.com/photos/migrainechick/ / CC BY 2.0

Green Eggs, Hold the Ham

When I was first Possessed of the Idea of Owning Chickens I had no idea what kind of chicken I wanted. One breed was as good as another, as long as it was dual purpose. Translation: I can eat it after it stops laying eggs. After owning chickens and seeing their personalities in action, however, I concluded that there were differences between breeds. Thus, it was in late fall that I placed an order for chicks that I carefully studied and researched:

Beautiful Silver Lace Wyandottes.

Stunning Black and Gold Americaunas.



Old Fashioned Plymouth Barred Rocks.


Imagine my shock when I received my order in the mail and there were an additional 11 Birds of Unknown Breed included "for warmth". Translation: We had a bunch of Roosters that we didn't want and so we decided to stick you with them. These freeloaders were gradually disposed of through Craigslist and the stewpot.

I sold the Silver Laced Wyandottes in a fit of sentimentality to a sister whose mother used to have them when she was a child. I sold two of the Americaunas to my Chicken Disciple. Hawks ate three. In the end I was left with one bird from that order: Squeaky.

Squeaky is a Black and Gold Americauna. How can you not love a bird with crazy feathers on the sides of her face like a Bearded Lady from the circus? Unlike all her Chicken Sisters, Squeaky does not cackle or cluck or laugh like an escaped lunatic. She sort of chuckles: "Uh huh, uh huh, uh huh" in a squeaky sort of way that must really be heard to be appreciated.

Squeaky, being the sole survivor of her brothers and sisters from that order, became low hen on the totem pole. She did not enjoy this position. She was ostracized by the other hens and lived a lonely life. Until Chicken Month at Tractor Supply. A Great Sort of Giddiness seized me and I was carried away by Pekins and Golden Comets. Suddenly Squeaky had six little chicks lower than she. What would she do? Would she torment them, treat them with disdain, never let those poor little chicks play any chicken games with the others?

No, Gentle Reader. She decided that they were hers. She squeezed herself through the bars which protected the chicks from the hens and adopted them. She makes sure they eat before she does. She paces back and forth at dusk when it is time for them to go to bed, making sure that they are all inside. She chaperones them in the "Play Yard" to protect them from the Old Biddy Hens should they make a hostile move, and monitors their interactions with the ducks. She is an excellent Mother.

What more could I ask for in a chicken than a Gentle Disposition, Squeakiness, Loyalty and Affection? Yet Squeaky felt that she was not pulling her weight. She went to the Library and researched her Proper Place in the World. She came home and went right to work.

I'd say it was the cherry on top, except It's Green. I love my Squeaky.

The Art of Storytelling

It's after 1 AM and I can't sleep because I realized I have committed a crime. I was making dinner when I first realized that I had assumed my readers Knew something that they had no way of knowing. This is a Storytelling crime. It's like watching a movie and wondering how the characters knew Such-and-Such only to find the answer later when you watch the Deleted Scenes. The Director cut out vital information in his efforts to tell a concise story. I have sneered at such errors in the past. I will have to take my sneer, wrap it in tissue and store it in the closet for I have made such an error.

When we last visited Good Enough Farm, the subject of Kitchen Adventures was being examined. Let me set the scene: No beautiful bowls, no photo-worthy ovens. And inexplicably, as I work in the kitchen I am comparing myself to the robotic bakers of the television show "How It's Made." Why, you must have wondered, Unfortunate Reader, does she compare herself to robots? I know, you said to yourself, she has issues, but really...! How could you know, Oh Patient Follower, what I have not told you?

You may know that Craig is The World's Most Curious Person. An honor he has earned through many years of Shameless Eavesdropping, Window Peering, and the time honored practice of Asking Too Many Questions. This Quest for Knowledge reached it's Peak when he discovered the show "How It's Made." Countless hours of seeing factory made products resulted in the following incident: As I took two loaves of freshly baked bread out of the oven, Craig sighed Compassionately. Looking at me Piteously, he said, "Mom, that's not how you make bread. Let me show you how it's really made." I was then forced to watch what he pronounced The Proper Way to Make Bread. I rather haughtily explained to him that I was, in fact, making bread the Proper Way, and they were only imitating my perfection, but he remained unpersuaded.

This contest of the wills has remained. I, insistent on my home-baked goods--He, staunchly holding by his televised factory blasphemies. This is what brings us to the Great Pretzel Debacle. He desired me to make Soft Pretzels From Scratch. Being the loving Mother that I am, I grudgingly gathered the recipe and the required ingredients. All things assembled, as I begin this Labor of Love, he pushes the Play button for the Episode on Pretzel Making. Yes. I am forced to compete, step by step, with the ballet of robotic motions on the screen. "How much flour are you using?...That's not enough...They use this much...That's not the way to twist it...See, the robot does it this way...Watch...Try it again..." It is a contest I can never win.

There. Now. Do you see how this knowledge, this deleted scene, was crucial? I accuse and convict myself of the aforementioned crime. My sentence? Sleeplessness. The Editorial Ghost of My Father peers over my shoulder and Tsks at me. Shakes his head. *sigh*

It's okay, Daddy. I'll try again tomorrow. Tomorrow I'll get it right.

So, Is Your Blog About Cooking?

There are a lot of blogs out there by Stay At Home Moms that cook. They have eloquently worded descriptions of food. Beautiful magazine-worthy images of bowls and whisks and ovens. This is not one.

I have no beautiful bowls. No fancy whisks with handles that are still in one piece. No ovens that should ever be photographed. My baking endeavors are an adventure of sorts.



My kitchen adventures are accompanied by the simultaneous playing of a How It's Made episode. Each step I make is compared to the poetry and beauty and Unfailing Perfection of robotic hands combining, stirring, pulling, shaping, baking.



How can My Efforts possibly compare? So, Why do I bother? Why, why, why?




I have something no other blogger has in their kitchen. I've got a Craig. And even if I never quite measure up to the Robot, that's what makes my Kitchen Adventures worthwhile.

Why Good Enough Farm?

The Process of Naming Anything can be difficult. Frustrating. Time consuming. I spent hours looking up the names others gave to their farms or properties. I plugged various nouns into Name Generators and let it spin like a roulette wheel, hoping for a winner. Inevitably someone else will have come up with the name first, or the the results will be uncreative, not reflecting what you want Your Name to sound like at all.

Thus, names like "Waddledown Town", "Little Acres", "Notta Farm" came and went. How do you represent yourself, your dreams, your essence? If someone were to distill you into a bottle, what would the result be?

If you know anything about Ronny and myself you will be aware that we would rather build something than buy it. But once we start building it Ronny will launch into his Song of Doom and Gloom:
Verses 1-5
"It's not level! Look, I think we connected the wrong side and now we have to tear it all apart and start again!"
Chorus (to be sung gently and with feeling)
"Don't worry! It's good enough. Good enough for chickens, good enough for ducks, good enough for us."

This is how I arrived at the name: Good Enough Farm. It reflects everything about my life and my dreams and my realities. No, it's not perfect, but it's good enough.

You gotta start somewhere

It started with Facebook. I kind of liked posting something about my day. I liked to read what people might have to say about my day. Then I started to have a problem. I exceeded my character limit.

The first time it happened I thought "Well, I am a little wordy." The second time it happened I ruthlessly rewrote, thinking, "Daddy would be so proud of me! I only said what needed to be said in the least possible amount of words!" I remembered with affection the little piece he let me write for the Army Times when I was a teenager about rabid squirrels at a Fort Something: He made me pare it down and condense it until it was perfect!

But, the third time it happened I said, "But the joy in the post comes from all the extra words! The nuance, the atmosphere... Would Facebook tell Jane Austen that she used too many characters?"
Yes, they would. It was at this point that I decided I needed to write a blog. I need space for my daily rantings. My dramas require an excess of characters. Facebook is not good enough for my needs.

As I embark upon this adventure I vow to only use creative commons images or my own pathetic attempts at picture taking. I promise to give credit where credit is due if quoting someone. I promise that I will not post unless it is Good Enough.