The Way Life Goes

How wonderful that it was raining hard as I milked this morning. Yesterday the biggest of the chicks, who are now somewhere around 11-12 weeks old, got put into the Taj MaChicken. This morning we’ll re-bed the Chickatarium and put the next batch in there, and put the last batch into the rabbit cages since Chickatarium, Phase 2 hasn’t been gotten ‘round to yet.

Last weekend the blue-eyed puppy found her home. Even though I’d already chosen which pup I was keeping, it didn’t seem quite official somehow until the others had their homes. He’s really laid back for a pup. And fun.

My cousin told me this story about Uncle George and his son. Sonny was only about 14 when he was driving his daddy’s truck making a delivery down by the river. Getting back in the truck, his coat got stuck in the door, and trying to wrestle his coat free and drive a truck (this is before automatics and power steering), he lost control and drove that truck into the river. Uncle George chewed him up one side and down the other, using the old timer’s favorite curse word, shitshitshit, a lot.

Not a week later, old George was making a delivery himself, this time up the mountain. The roads were very narrow then, just enough room for one car, and to turn around you had to look for a point where the road goose-necked up the mountain. So George was trying to wrestle that truck to turn around on the side of that mountain and backed it right on over the side!

Husband says there ain’t no such thing as good enough. Life on the farm is always forgiving and unforgiving all at the same time. It doesn’t worry itself with good enough. Like the flowers don’t worry about what to wear or the sparrows what to eat. I am that I am. May the whole dichotomous dualistic religiosity bull in which I was raised pass away.