Socks

Around here, no one wants to wear socks. I find discarded socks everywhere.

Summer can't come soon enough for all these bare feet.

I also can't wait for summer.


I was a rebel and used my clothesline today.

I admit it was really not warm outside, but it was windy. The laundry almost got dry.


The little bean asked to see chickens today (she loves watching them through the window), so I grabbed her and some bread, and went out the back door.

We sat on the back step. I threw bits of bread at the hens and she laughed and laughed as the birds squawked and bounced off each other. She held a piece of bread tight in her little fist, and the chickens nibbled at her fingers trying to get to their snack.

She thought it was great.

After we were out of bread, she threw the one sock that she was wearing at them.

The birds checked, of course, whether it was something edible. I'm just glad they didn't run off with it (like they did with someone's glove last summer). Chickens are thieves.

Discarded socks are one thing. Stolen socks are another thing altogether.

The neighbor's babies

We had a blast playing with a few of the many new babies over at the neighbor's ranch.

My baby called them kitties, and then she cried.


It wasn't too long, though, and she was petting three-day-old Lucky...


with her sock-gloved hands while she laughed and laughed.

Now if that doesn't look like a kitty, I sure don't know what does.

Lucky's mama had eaten a few things she shouldn't have, yummy things like wire. She wasn't feeling too well. He was born by cesarean.

I wish I could have seen that.

My boys reluctantly helped bottle feed.

Just look at the milk dripping down on top of the cat. (The little bean was right, there were kitties around.)


The cats lap up what they can of the milk that dribbles down, while more blops onto their heads. After the milkfest, the cats clean each other off.

Maybe in a year or two (if my barn hasn't fallen over) we'll be ready to buy a bottle calf, like one of these, and raise it.

Do you eat beef? We do. Guess what, it really doesn't come on a plastic tray wrapped up neatly in clingwrap.

Although that is convenient.

It actually comes like this.



As Americans, we are horribly disconnected from our food supply. It is all too easy to open a package from the grocery store, and without thought consume whatever tasty meals we make of it.

I think that we all ought to slow down once in awhile, take a moment or two and think about where our food comes from.

When looking these babies in the eye, letting them try to suck milk out of your thumb, and feeling the soft swirl of fur on their foreheads, you realize just how precious they are.

That is not a gift to take lightly.

Three

Can't we just skip three years old?

I have this quote from Monty Python and Search for the Holy Grail running through my head.

"First shalt thou take out the Holy Pin. Then shalt thou count to three, no more, no less. Three shall be the number thou shalt count, and the number of the counting shall be three. Four shalt thou not count, neither count thou two, excepting that thou then proceed to three. Five is right out. Once the number three, being the third number, be reached, then lobbest thou thy Holy Hand Grenade of Antioch towards thy foe, who, being naughty in my sight, shall snuff it."

As always, Monty Python speaks the truth (although we will count to four, and beyond).

We must proceed through three, and believe me there are times (read: many, many times every day) I would like to throw a holy hand grenade at him. Not to destroy him, but to transform him into the well behaved boy I know he can be.

Terrible Two's has nothing on this kid.

He is a stinker. Plain and simple.

I should have five hundred rotten things to write that he did just today, but as survival (or foggy mommy brain) would have it, at this moment I can't think of a single darn thing. Not one.

OK, so it's not all bad.

He is so darn cute. Cuteness is a survival strategy, absolutely.


His new haircut makes him look like one of The Three Stooges, don't you think? I can't figure out if it's the hair or his ears. Or both? Maybe I'm just looking for comic relief wherever I can.

Tomorrow, I am going to tell myself over and over, all day long, "He is only three". It will probably echo through my head at least five hundred times.

Reaching

Every morning he reaches out with his voice, with his piercing eyes.

He sits up in the barn loft and waits.


He reaches out with every ounce of his being (and he is very large), as he waits for his breakfast.

You Capture - Reaching

Fritz's new kingdom

So sorry, people! I didn't mean to be mysterious about Fritzy's sudden exile from our little farm. Was it really that much of a cliff-hanger?

A rooster can only have so many chances, you know. And, well, he had more than he deserved.

That full-body aggressive maneuver against my leg the other day was the last straw. Well, not technically. Three shiny new straw bales arrived in my barn today, but you know what I mean.


That's an eight second shot, by the way, so just imagine the kind of light I was dealing with.

All I really know, is that I am rid of my rooster headache.

I had even gone so far as to consider trading my mother for a cat she has been threatening to get rid of for years. He's a very bad cat.

Darn lucky for Fritz, it turned out that a neighbor (in as much as anyone within ten miles of us is a neighbor) wanted him. Not in a pity poor Fritz kind of way either. The kids came with to pick him up, and they were excited. In fact, their Dad said he would likely whack his Leghorn rooster before Fritz, if it came to that (which made me smile). Barred Rock is a great breed. Leghorn, not so much, unless you like high-strung chickens with brains made of fruitcake who aren't amazingly cold-hardy but do lay lots of boring white eggs.

So it was that as the sun set, King Fritz growled as he rode off in a dog kennel, loaded up in the back of a truck. Transportation fitting of his royalty, don't you think?

Curious how things are going at the new place palace?

Here is how it went, as far as I understand the story.

It was evening when he arrived, and Fritz roosted up in the rafters of his new coop. He was on one side, by himself. The Leghorn rooster and all nine hens were squashed together on the other side, as far away from the intruder as they could be. The next morning Fritz and two hens were on the ground, and he was bossing them around, and crowing. Then, apparently there was some fighting between the two roos. Last I heard, the Leghorn spends his time sitting in the corner, and Fritz marches around doing his thing, and acting like he owns the place.

So there you have it. The dude basically walked into his new kingdom and set up his throne.

Looks like it turned out well for everyone, except maybe the Leghorn. That, and my mother, who is still stuck with her cat.

I will be in trouble if I don't announce that things turned out especially well for my husband on Monday. He has been busy leaving wheel tracks like this,


all over the place, as well as odd snow formations.


We have been waiting and waiting, and it finally arrived.

The muddy muddy

We went into town Saturday.

We went out for supper, which was a really huge deal because it is such a rare thing for us. Other than the broccoli, my food was awesome. I swear that was the worst broccoli I have ever had, and broccoli is one of my favorite foods. Truly.

Little frugal me moaned and groaned about whether I should spend ten dollars on a pie.

I came home with the pie.

A whole pie.

A French Silk Pie.

I have already eaten three-quarters of it by myself. And now, honestly, the remaining quarter doesn't even tempt me at all. But I really don't want to talk about that.

I want to talk about mud.

The guy we parked next to laughed and said, "That caddy is muddier than my truck, I don't feel so bad now."

Yeah dude, you should see where we live.

We have mud.

Lots and lots of really squishy wet mud.


I realized my photos of mud were rather boring. Then the chickens arrived, and they got the party started as usual.


And this guy,


has an attitude you would not believe.

Meet King Fritz, in all his muddy, crusty dried blood glory.


After I snapped that last photo, my camera battery went dead. I stood up, and something bounced off my leg.

It was not a friendly gesture.

Guess what who it was?

Yep. It was him.

It made me sad, because it meant Fritz was now on death row, awaiting his yet undetermined execution date.

But tonight, as it turns out, all is well. Instead of an appointment with the axe, or being used as coyote bait, Fritz is at this moment riding in his chariot to his new kingdom.

There is already a Leghorn rooster there.

But the rooster drama, here, at The Old Nichols Farm? It is finished. At least for now.

Bundled up

A memory from a crisp autumn day, and one of my most favorite photos of our little sweetheart.


Was that only a few short months ago?

She has been working on her walking skills lately, and I cannot wait to get photos of her toddling around the yard this summer (not bundled).