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Learned to chop down a tree with a hand axe today, it was only three inches around but it was awfully tall! Also learned to use a reciprocating saw and bought a chainsaw, marked off the fence line with twine for the goats, and there was laundry in there somewhere. This is one of those too tired to write anything worth reading but promised I’d try to write every day posts. Feel free to forget it ever happened?
She lives for the photobomb…
…and to take up all the space.
Nose always in everything…
… I love my Hazel-face.
It was so hard to put her down, to hand her back to her Momma. Two days old and so tiny, her and two other sweet little doe kids that were born just yesterday are gonna start our little farm out right. Yesterday it was just dreaming, but today… today I held this tiny little girl in my arms, staring down at her as she tucked her nose in my jacket and fell asleep, and suddenly there was so much to do! The fence needs building, the barn needs cleaning and whitewashing, there’s hay and straw to buy, feed buckets and water troughs, and so much more! This two day old bundle of adorable is giving me seven weeks to make her home safe and secure and just right, and then the three of them are gonna turn this piece of land into an honest to goodness little farm. I own goats! Real live goats! I have bits of straw stuck to my boots and all over my jacket, the dogs have been sniffing at me all night trying to solve the mystery, and I can’t stop beaming!
I’m scared. It’s just past midnight, and I need to be up at 5:00 a.m., but I can’t snooze yet. Instead I just lay here, holding on to the Hazel pup and thinking about the pea seeds and the long, skinny pieces of wood for stakes. I think about making little hills for them and making the tee-pee trellis, and I’m terrified that I’m gonna fail. That no peas are gonna come out of this, that I’m gonna be terrible at growing things and feeding my family. That I’m gonna end up wasting these carefully cultivated, saved, and preserved heirloom pea pods.
I’m so afraid, at midnight, that I’ve made a disaster of a choice and that we’re gonna end up having to move back to the city where I can hide indoors and never come out, where I stay sick and frail and miserable.
I have to plant these peas this week. I’m terrified.
I’m gonna plant them.
It’s 27 F outside, and the whole world is glittering with frost as I bundle up and haul three already rambunctious dogs aside before dawn. Still in my pjs, wrapped in Don’s coat and a hat and scarf I made myself, I stomp my feet and grumble softly as they take their sweet time sniffing at each and every trail made by squirrels and foxes and mice, with no pity at all for the freezing human at the end of the puppy’s leash. Back inside, a fire is already crackling cheerfully, a little pat on the back for my fumbling with the logs before we went out, and once the dogs are released back into the house like wild animals being herded a pen, I head to the stove to put together some eggs with salsa and grits with cheese for breakfast, just as D comes down the stairs and drops onto a stool in the little kitchen eat in area.
And now… now he’s off to work, the dishes are in the sink and I’m on the couch under a little polar bear blanket my G-Ma B gave me, in front of a fire that needs to be stoked back up. Today my new work boots get here, and outside 6.73 acres of land neglected for years waits to take me on, ready to be brought back with sweat and tears to the productive, fertile homestead it was meant to be, ready to try to break my back. Inside is about the same, not a single bathroom is even fully functional, sub floors are rotten and wiring needs to be re-run. Ancient, crunchy, and soiled carpet needs to be ripped out, tile needs to be laid, chimneys lack caps and mystery smells so far defy explanation. Even furniture is lacking, just getting dressed in the morning requires trips to both floors and the basement, like an early morning Stairmaster routine nobody wants.
But… right now? Hazel, the bassadore puppy, snuggles under the blanket with me, 8 months old and sleeping as hard as she plays. Abbie, the yellow Labrador as loyal as she is pudgy snores loudly under my foot rest in front of the couch. Leaka, the German Shepherd, sprawls out in front of the fire, her arthritic, 11 year old bones soaking up the warmth with a contended sigh. And the 38 year old woman still in her pjs dreams of chickens and plans a new coop, lazily sketching out her plans for the herb garden and mulling over where to plant the peas. We are all just where we want to be.
Back in a bit, the hearth needs another log. I love winter.
Oh Special K cereal, you have gone above and beyond your usual commercial drivel to rise to the very top of my disgust list. At least most diet food and supplement commercials are relatively honest. They point to pictures of “fat” women, then point to pictures of very thin women (usually with impossibly large breasts for their size) and tell you to lose weight. Annoying, but straightforward.
Special K, on the other hand, has sunk to a new low with their current ad campaign. They talk about how great it would be if nobody cared about sizes anymore, if labels said things like Size Sassy and, if everything was just about feeling beautiful and confident… ya know, *if* you drop two dress sizes like they brag their plan will help you do. That’s right, Kellog’s thinks you are perfect just the way you are, as long as you are dieting and trying to get skinnier. How could you possibly think well of yourself otherwise?
Yes, Kellog’s. The same company that gives you Froot Loops, Frosted Flakes, Pop Tarts, and Eggo Waffles. Clearly they are super invested in your good health. Why, their website even tells us how good for us those products are, because all of their products are healthy and nutritious! It’s the combination of total dishonesty and a downright vicious assault on human insecurities that makes me shudder every time one of their new ads comes on.