And just like that, Ed and I lost our window of opportunity to eat out in the evening. The clocks moved forward and therefore, so did the chicken lock up time -- now standing at 6:50 p.m. A bit earlier on dark days, a bit later on cloudless days. Maybe you think heading out to dinner afterwards, meaning after 7 is great. For us -- that's winding down time. By 7:15 I'm ready for my evening piece of chocolate, not for a server to hand me the menu and ask if I'd like a predinner drink.
In thinking about this, I considered the possibility that we were getting to be caricatures of a senior duo. You remember the Seinfeld episode, where the parents are itching to go out to eat at 4:30? True, Ed and I typically eat between 6:45 and 7, but that means dinner is ready by 6:45 and 7. Were we to go out, then, to eat in our normal dinner window, 6 p.m. would be our target sit down time, which means we'd be heading out at 5:45. That seems awfully close to 4:30! Gulp!
Other changes brought about by the clock adjustment? Well, there's no reason for me to be up with the chickens now at 7:15, when to them it hardly matters what the clock says. I open the coop door and feed them when it's bright as can be outside, so that the predator danger is minimal. So today, that's closer to 8:30. It really doesn't matter when the magic moment of freedom comes for them, so long as it's not too early.
(teenagers, on the run!)
I notice that the bowls of water scattered in strategic places across farmette paths are frozen or empty. We do have warming dishes plugged in both in the garage and in the coop, but when the hens are out and about, they dont always remember where those are, so we supplement with these additional watering holes. These then become water sources for the hens, but also for cats, birds, raccoons -- you name it. And yes, we cornered another raccoon overnight. Our hens are in high demand!
(new chickens and fallen willow branches)
Breakfast, with just Ed. The cats are out enjoying the lovely sunshine.
And we are too! Eventually. When the crocuses open up for the day -- that's the time you want to head out. Before that? Too cold.
Okay, off we go. To the local park. We're not ambitious.
Prairie flowers and forest greens are still dormant, but you can almost sense their new buds forming. It's a wonderful time to be a gardener: you notice every detail of the plant world. The story of the growing season is about to unfold before our eyes!
(nearby...)
Back at home, it's time to get dinner ready for the young family.
(here comes the tail end!)
(dinner)
(and yes, we're Oscar fans! we sneaked in a quick viewing session! well, some of us!)
The day does feel shorter. That one hour did a fictional disappearance, of course. March 10th did not have 60 minutes sucked out of it. And yet, despite the sunlight streaming in at dinner time, despite the pleasure of having that longer spell of daylight, it feels like I lost some minutes in the course of the day.The mind works in weird ways.
Now, back to the Oscars. Mostly alone. The young family has long gone and Ed refuses to watch the endless thank-yous from those who won for films he never saw. Me, I watch as much as I can on long flights, but it hardly matters. Tuning in to the Oscars is a habit. Sort of like ending the day with a chocolate.
