Thursday, March 31, 2016


In an effort to keep things quiet for Ed in the morning, allowing him to catch up on needed sleep, I open the coop for the cheepers, then stay outside and work the yard for a good bit of time.

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(a flower bed, from a chicken's vantage point)

You could call it a poor day for gardening -- it's muddy, it's wet and there's a trickle of rain now and then, but I don't mind. Weeds are easy to dig out, wet leaves are pungent with earthy aromas, new growth looks fresh, as if bathed in the wetness of spring.

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Eventually, Ed and I eat breakfast in the front room...

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... and then I'm off to be with Snowdrop.

If grandmas occasionally have lazy days, I'd say this would be mine. The little one and I watch the rain fall outside and I think to myself that any activity with my granddaughter that does not require being in an upright position this morning would be just fine with me. Luckily, her mood is equally mellow.

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You could say we chill together.

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At least until she has a nap and I have my own quiet time.

The rains pass and my desire to get up and get going grows strong again. And for a short interlude, the skies are less angry looking. Snowdrop and I are off!

But not for long. I see some menacing rain clouds hovering just to the west. We pause at the closer coffee shop. If the rains come down, we can wait it out here. And that would be just fine. Snowdrop shares this love of mine -- people watching.

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Over a (coffee and a) cookie, but the cookie I swear is just an excuse.

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Indeed, if you put together all the crumbs she has had in the course of one month, they still would not add up to a whole cookie.

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The point is to nibble slowly and watch the world go by.

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Just like her grandma, the little girl loves to go out, but she also loves then to come back home, where you can be yourself (newest love: walking on all fours, perhaps imitating an animal?)...

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... and do what your heart dictates, be it hugging a penguin, or studying for time on end books about pliers and wrenches.

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It's evening now. Time to put away the cheepers -- that's Ed's job. But I like going out with him, if only to make fun of the job itself, which is no job at all, because, as he'll tell you -- he's got them trained.

Scotch and Java are in the coop. Butter is on the fence. Henny is -- yes, laugh if you want -- in a tree. This, apparently, is the norm.

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Ed approaches. Butter, as if on call, rises, walks the length of the fence, then jumps down and goes inside the coop. Ed mumbles -- your turn -- and Henny flies down and follows suit. The door is latched, the job is done.

That's all you do?
He grins. Trained.
You can't train chickens!

Or can you you? Perhaps "train" is the wrong word. Encourage. Teach.  Support.

The coop grows quiet. We walk back to the farmhouse listening to the sounds of the night. At this time of the year, even with the fading light, it's all so very beautiful.