Sunday, December 3, 2017
6:29 pm est
"Help! I've fallen and I can't get up!" If you live with
poultry long enough you become fluent in chicken-speak. I'm fluent and that's what Grace was screaming. Now just how a hen
breaks her leg in the first place is a mystery. Osteoporosis maybe? But, she's so young.... Had she gorged on fermented fallen
pears, gotten drunk and tumbled off the patio bench? That possibility was as likely as any other I could come up with.
However it happened, the sad fact was that my favorite hen was hopping on one leg as the other dragged uselessly
behind. It didn't take an orthopedic surgeon to determine the leg was indeed broken and would require immediate attention.
Here's a tip; setting and splinting a chicken leg is not a do it yourself operation. I tried, but it takes more than just
two hands, so I called my friend Fran who agreed to "...take a look at it."
Grace seemed to enjoy the truck ride up to Fran's. After all, she is no ordinary bird. As
tongue depressors were cut to size, gauze padding put in place and the entire leg encased in vet wrap, Grace proved herself
to be the perfect patient.
"I don't feel
good about this," said Fran with a furrowed brow, but we'd done our best and would just have to wait and see. Back home,
Grace was placed in a corner of the coop, ensconced on a thick bed of straw and should she feel peckish, food and water were
just inches away. A week passed and despite
her injury, Grace (resilient girl that she is) had been managing quite well although the leg served more as a crutch than
a functioning limb. Even so, she was keeping up with her gal pals and even fluttering to her favorite uppermost perch at days
I myself am an early bird, so as I returned from
the barn today after morning chores just as dawn was breaking I heard frantic clucking and turned to see the bad asses harassing
the cripple who had been making her way toward to the house. The full moon-crazed boys were chasing and kicking out at Grace
who huddled against the fence in an effort to avoid the assault. Reversing my direction I flew (so to speak...) back
into the barnyard to rescue the trembling hen, but approaching the house the reflection in the glass door took my breath away;
a woman wearing blue crocs, striped jim-jams beneath a red bathrobe, topped with a big red parka carrying a hen with a cast
on her leg. It was not a pretty sight and I was ever so thankful there was no one around to witness this scary apparition.
There's a reason I live alone on this old farm.
Tuesday, October 10, 2017
Being In The Moment
3:20 pm edt
I've been telling myself that while 2017 has been a tough year so far,
things are certain to get better. I almost had myself convinced of this--until yesterday.
Ernie is the oldest of the canine crew here. He'll be eleven in December and the big black and white lug
has always been as healthy as the proverbial horse, but a couple of months ago he developed a worrisome hacking sort of cough.
‘Off to the vet, of course, but I was assured that it was "...probably just allergies...," and nothing to
I doubted that diagnosis even then, so when Ernie recently began panting regardless of the temperature or
activity I knew it was time for a second opinion from another clinic. After a thorough exam which included chest ex-rays,
my worst fear was confirmed. Ernie has congestive heart failure. I watched this disease kill my mother despite all the drugs
prescribed to lessen her symptoms. Ernie is now on those same drugs, but there is no cure and I know his fate will be the
same as hers.
For animal lovers like me, it's easier to deal with personal illness than to watch helplessly as the health
of a beloved pet deteriorates. The drugs seem to be helping. Old Ernie is romping about like a puppy and eagerly taking the
pile of pills which I conceal in hot dogs twice daily, but how long will this last?
The original intent of this blog (recollections
of a single woman living on an old farm) was to share joyous and amusing events of the day, but sadly, this year hasn't afforded
much of anything joyous or amusing. Even so, hope springs eternal.... My inspiration comes from Ernie who finds happiness
just being in the moment.
Saturday, September 23, 2017
2:24 pm edt
Doesn't it just figure; you go away for a week or so and return to all that had its way in your absence-like mowing the weed patch that
passes for ‘lawn.' And so it was.... Mowing is not my favorite chore under any circumstances, but it had to be done,
so I trudged down to the tractor shed, opened the hood of the New Holland and pulled up the dipstick, knowing the engine would
need to be topped off. It had been using a good bit of oil lately, but oil is cheap and labor to ‘fix' the problem is
expensive. This year had already been one big financial hemorrhage, so I dumped in enough oil to bring it up to the full mark
and backed out of the shed, ignoring the shiny black puddle left behind.
VAH-ROOOM, BIP BIP BIP went the engine
and with each BIP BIP BIP, the mower disengaged. A dreaded task just became more bothersome. Something was wrong, so I called
Tommy, my tractor guru and in a flash the young mechanical genius arrived on his ATV, made a few adjustments and said, "I'll
just mow for you." (Ah, music to my ears!) "I hate to tell you this, but that oil leak is getting worse
and you're gonna have to have a ring job pretty soon. It's gonna be expensive and you'll probably have trouble finding someone
to do it," he warned before setting off in a cloud of blue smoke.
Tommy does a good job mowing. In no time at all he finished
the ‘lawn' around the house and asked about mowing the pasture. "Sure, go ahead and do that too," I replied.
"I'll get the gate for you."
He'd only made a few passes when I heard him scream, "FIRE!" I turned around
and sure enough, orange flames were licking from under the motor. "GET OFF!' I yelled although he was already beating
feet across the pasture. I ran to get the bad asses into the barn and grabbed the fire extinguisher. Here's a tip I learned
after the fact from the fire chief: Those fire extinguishers that seem like insurance against such situations don't work after
years of languishing on the wall hanger. They need to be up-ended and banged on the floor once a year to keep the chemical
powder inside from solidifying. Such was the case with the useless red extinguisher. It was dead.
retrospect I'm not sure which of us dialed 911 as we waited for the gas tank to explode. It was pretty obvious the New Holland
was a goner. The flames were really spectacular by the time the tanker truck, the police and countless volunteer firemen arrived.
Rubber-neckers in cars slowed to watch as an impressive young woman, delicate as a butterfly dragged the heavy hose from the
tanker to the flames and with the help of a young man who appeared to be about fourteen years old aimed the foam-spewing stream
at what was once my trusty tractor. When at last the flames died down, all that remained was a blackened heap of metal that
a scrapper was happy to haul away later that week.
in less than two months I've had to call 911; first for EMS who transported me to hospital and then for the fire department.
I don't think I ever fully appreciated these life-saving services until I was on the receiving end. I will be forever grateful,
but sure hope I won't have to call on them again anytime soon!
Big Blue has been replaced by Big Orange (Husquevarna). What else can go wrong before 2017 is over?
Sunday, September 17, 2017
What could go wrong?
5:54 pm edt
Who among us hasn't said, "Oh, go to hell!" Answer:
my mother. Ever aware of her assumed role as a ‘good Lutheran,' she'd exclaim, "Oh, you can just go to Halifax!"
As if in compliance to that order from the grave, that's precisely where I found myself, but for much longer than I'd planned.
The birthday celebration trip to Nova Scotia recalled that hilarious film Trains, Planes and Automobiles, but when
you are the ‘star' it's not so funny.
thought I'd covered all bases; a good flight, car rental and hotel all paid for in advance. What could go wrong? Umm, pretty
The flight got in to Halifax at quarter after midnight. ‘Easy peasy through customs,
etc., then off to the Hertz counter to collect the rental car. So far, so good-until the agent looked at my driver's license."Sorry,
but I can't give you a car and no one else in the Province will rent a car to someone with an invalid license." What?
How did I not notice that my driver's license had expired 3 days earlier-on my birthday.
"But, but, but...,"
I stammered. ‘A grace period perhaps? No. What to do? It was raining in Halifax when I crawled into the cab and began
to weep. For a $63.00 fare the driver delivered me to the pre-booked hotel 14 miles from the airport where I was met by a
flashing NO VACANCY sign.
"Sorry, no room for you," said the bored desk clerk who remained unmoved when I
flashed my printed confirmation. "You should have reserved it for yesterday," he said. Clearly this man did not
understand the difference between AM and PM, an issue I had emphasized upon booking the room that he was now telling me did
not exist. Not even a chair to sit upon in the cluttered office, but then, appearing like a bespectacled angel from a dark
adjoining room a tiny woman informed me that she had located a room at another hotel and would even drive me there. The room
was more than twice the price of the room that I'd booked, but at least I'd sleep in a bed instead of under a bridge and could
deal with the unfolding dilemma in the morning.
When I called my friend who was expecting me at her farm around noon and explained the situation,
she advised getting myself to the bus station which would drop me in a city not too far from her place and she would be there
to collect me. I breathed a sigh of relief, opened the draperies and looked out upon a beautiful sunny Nova Scotia morning.
After a lovely breakfast and another costly cab ride I purchased a $51.00 bus ticket and climbed aboard with a handful of
others including ‘Mary' who was apparently a regular rider.
Poor Mary was not young. She weighed about
90 pounds and sported just a few teeth, none of them in good shape. Her skin tight jeans and a fringed leather jacket enhanced
her performance as she danced madly and hopped about the terminal and onto the bus like a jitterbug, clearly hyped up on more
than just coffee. Other than Mary, who quickly ran out of steam, the long ride was silent. At last the bus hissed to a stop
and there was my friend. Surely she would know how to ‘fix' my predicament, right? Not quite....
I had so looked forward to visiting another friend, hiking in the Cape Breton Highlands,
spending long hours alone walking the beach and to recharging my mental and physical energies, but that was not to be. While
her farm is lovely, it is essentially where I spent the entire trip with only a few respites. Even so, the change of scene
was nice as was catching up on events since last years visit. I read a couple of good books and cataloged some projects I'd
implement when I returned home.
At last I pulled into my own driveway, happy to finally be alone with my animals and to sleep
in my own bed. All was well-until the fire....
Sunday, September 3, 2017
Up, up and away.
1:50 pm edt
Another birthday has come and gone (thank goodness) and so to ‘celebrate'
this landmark I decided to spend time at one of my favorite places-Nova Scotia. In a few hours I'll be soaring through troubled
skies toward a peaceful sanctuary in the Maritimes. The purpose of this trip is to hopefully restore tranquility and
to revive creative inspiration. Keep fingers crossed.