It is 11:44 pm and I am exhausted. I made it church this morning finally, which was wonderful. I love our church. Someday I'll have to talk about why.
As soon as I came home I got back to work on patching all the holes in the coop (a new one every time I looked, I swear. I think we used about as much wood patching it up as it took to build in the first place) and finishing the door. I thought yesterday I had about an hour of work left. But not only did I underestimate the work it would still take, I also overestimated the kids' enthusiasm to help this time. I worked alone for several hours, because I didn't feel like dragging reluctant kids out in the heat only to have slow grudging help. This is probably a sign of bad parenting. On the other hand, when I finally did tell them it was time to put the door up and I couldn't do it alone, I had between 3 and 6 out there cheerfully offering to hammer nails in all sort of unnecessary places, yanking on the chicken wire, losing screws, and helping me move the heavy ruggedly sturdy door back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, and yes, still more back and forth, as we figured out how to actually attach it in such a way that it would open and close with a minimum of gaps. I am not great at planning ahead, and if the door is an ugly patchwork of random bits, attaching it in place was a whole 'nother adventure in "making do." Get this: the chicken door I lovingly made, probably the best looking piece of the door, wouldn't open because it bumped the side of the coop just the barest amount. Did I grab sand paper or a wood plane? Nope, don't have those. I attacked the side of the door with a machete. I can hear the gasps of horror. I know. But I was going to finish that dad-blamed thing tonight!! After a while of swinging the machete and getting only a little ways along, I started using it as a chisel with my hammer. That worked slightly better. And you know what? That chicken door opens great. Take that, you "right tool for the job" people. I'll show you a picture tomorrow. You perfectionist will have nightmares. Did I mentioned my saw horse is stacked cinder blocks? My kids absolutely forbid me to jury-rig their bikes into a wheelbarrow. Hm. Jury-rigged Farm. Maybe that would work.
My hands are torn up because I'm a weird sado-masochist who doesn't believe in gloves. I'm proud of the blisters and can't wait for the callouses, but I have to buy a finger-nail brush. I'm the tannest I've ever been in my whole life, I think, along with touches of sunburn, and since I'm living in tank tops and workout shorts it's not even a farmer's tan. I may have to scrub my feet with steel wool if I ever want them to be clean again. I have mosquito bites all over, whole lots of them. My roots are over a inch long, I think, but I still can't find any gray in them. I'm still about 50 pounds overweight, but I've lost an inch or two. I think I will let farming be my workout for a while, maybe forever. I'd love to look "good" but I'm pretty pleased with what my body is doing for me right now, and I think that is transferring to what I see in the mirror a bit. I'm down to 31 chickens and 5 guineas, but what I have seems healthy and vigorous. All the weaklings but one have either died off or gotten strong enough to not be noticed anymore. No more goat, but plenty of plans for more animals. Later, later. I have enough new stuff going on at the moment. My garden is awesome and I'm about to make it awesomer, but since this is only supposed to be a short picture-less post I'm going to go to sleep now and put it all out there tomorrow. Good night!!
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| Tomorrow I'll talk about this, and why I'm not so happy with our dog right now. |
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