Sometimes sunshine can perk up the most prickly set of hours. Then there is a day like this one:
The old hens laid their eggs in the barn. We hadn't noticed. The eggs froze.
The new cheepers are up in the roost without interruption for what is now the second day. I brought up food for them, feeling like I have two aging grannies rather than spry new hens.
The morning reading on my walk to open the coop was 5F (-15C).
At breakfast (in the sun room), Ed thought it was funny to hide behind the blender container.
At Snowdrop's home, the little girl wanted to pound on my laptop even more than she wanted to play with penguin, hat and jacket. When I refused, she was crestfallen. And no, distraction didn't work. At least not for significant parts of the morning.
She didn't finish her breakfast and was therefore hungry.
The banana I ate was so rotten that for a moment I wondered if even a pig would reject it.
And so on.
None of these are great menacing events in the scheme of things, but they show that the day was just a little off center. As if someone forgot to give us instructions on how to keep things on an even keel.
And yet, there is that golden warmth of the sun...
... and the snow and the sky took on beautiful shades of blue...
And Snowdrop never goes for long without showing her radiance.
After all, happiness can be as little or as much as a crumb of cookie after a cold, long walk to a cafe...
... or a page full of penguins.
Later, at the farmette, there is the usual negotiating with the girls: which chicken gets what treat in whose corner. Ed had intervened, picking up the new girls and placing them outside. I throw each pair of hens food, making sure that no one is expropriating the riches of another.
(not afraid to touch snow)
(still afraid of nearly everything)
Finally. Everyone is set for the night. Safely inside the coop. At the farmhouse, I heat up leftover soup for supper. Outside, a herd of some dozen deer pass through.
The start of the day was rocky. Now, at the end of it, I can hardly recall why. Looking back, it seems so very lovely.
The old hens laid their eggs in the barn. We hadn't noticed. The eggs froze.
The new cheepers are up in the roost without interruption for what is now the second day. I brought up food for them, feeling like I have two aging grannies rather than spry new hens.
The morning reading on my walk to open the coop was 5F (-15C).
At breakfast (in the sun room), Ed thought it was funny to hide behind the blender container.
At Snowdrop's home, the little girl wanted to pound on my laptop even more than she wanted to play with penguin, hat and jacket. When I refused, she was crestfallen. And no, distraction didn't work. At least not for significant parts of the morning.
She didn't finish her breakfast and was therefore hungry.
The banana I ate was so rotten that for a moment I wondered if even a pig would reject it.
And so on.
None of these are great menacing events in the scheme of things, but they show that the day was just a little off center. As if someone forgot to give us instructions on how to keep things on an even keel.
And yet, there is that golden warmth of the sun...
... and the snow and the sky took on beautiful shades of blue...
And Snowdrop never goes for long without showing her radiance.
After all, happiness can be as little or as much as a crumb of cookie after a cold, long walk to a cafe...
... or a page full of penguins.
Later, at the farmette, there is the usual negotiating with the girls: which chicken gets what treat in whose corner. Ed had intervened, picking up the new girls and placing them outside. I throw each pair of hens food, making sure that no one is expropriating the riches of another.
(not afraid to touch snow)
(still afraid of nearly everything)
Finally. Everyone is set for the night. Safely inside the coop. At the farmhouse, I heat up leftover soup for supper. Outside, a herd of some dozen deer pass through.
The start of the day was rocky. Now, at the end of it, I can hardly recall why. Looking back, it seems so very lovely.
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