A Chicken in the . . . Window

Very often, when things are crazy around here -- dinner getting made, someone needing help with a homework assignment, someone else needing picked up from piano, all with Anders crying at my feet for attention -- I find myself saying, "Can someone please take Anders outside to see a chicken?"

It usually seems to do the trick.

Lately, however, Anders hasn’t needed to be taken anywhere to see a chicken. Every time Mike lets those hens out of their pen of late, they gather, somewhat to my alarm, on our back little deck.

They fluff their feathers and preen a bit. They stare inside – watching me go about my business. Judging? Begging? One can’t be sure with those unrevealing beady black eyes. I have to shuffle them all aside every time I need to get out into the backyard. They cluck and flap and protest, then, like a cloud of kicked up dust, slowly resettle.

Anders loves it when they are there. So much so, that if it weren’t for the disagreeable stuff they leave behind, I might almost grow to love it myself.

Jesse, Abe, Penny, . . . Chicken

The other day, Jesse walked in from outside with his hand absolutely covered in mud and dirt.

“Jesse!” I exclaimed, “Why were you playing in the dirt again?”

“I wasn’t” he unconcernedly assured me.

“What’s that on your hand?” I asked.

“Oh that?” he said, looking calmly at his filthy hand. “That’s just nothing.”

And with that he wandered back outside.

Sigh.

Also, Saturday Mike came home from dropping Abe off at baseball practice carrying a small personal size cooler in his hands. You know the type: you can carry them like oversized lunch boxes and push a little button on the lid to slide it back. He’d apparently stopped by a garage sale and found it there. “I thought Jesse might like to mess around with this” he told me.

I shrugged and nodded my head that yes, maybe he would, and the cooler was left on the kitchen table.

A few minutes later Jesse came in from the back yard. He immediately zeroed in on the cooler and exclaimed, “Mom! What’s THAT?”

“Oh, it’s just a little cooler,” I said, “Would you like to play with it?”

Jesse spent the next few minutes figuring how to open it and taking out the small Tupperware-like containers inside before closing the lid and carrying it off  with a parting, “Mom, can I play with this . . . forever?”

When I returned from my run an hour later he was still hauling around his little cooler only he had gained some extra information about its contents from Mike and was telling me how he could put a little drink in one container and ice in another and bread in another and how then, if he had those things, and found it necessary, he could “take a little break” and eat them so his “tummy wouldn’t be hungry”.

Can you see why it is that Mike is left in charge of so much of the birthday and Christmas shopping around here? He’s good. He deserved far more than my shrug and nod.

Also, there is Abe. Here he is hiding in a closet with Jesse.

I thought it deserved mentioning that a big to-do was made over him at school last week for being the only kid in the ENTIRE world to read eight billion Newbery books this year. Actually, it was the only kid in his school . . . and it was 25 Newberry books. Still. The librarian has her special little shelf of Newberys and she encourages the kids with all her might to fill out an entire Bingo sheet of 25 squares with finished Newbery books. Abe faithfully read the Bingo sheet full – acting as if it was no big thing, having me sign each finished square, mentioning now and then how many Newbery books were actually not very enjoyable to read (judging from what I read on the back covers I kind of agreed – those Newberys seem to love to be about serious and glum things). There was a moment of panic when the end was nearing – two days left and two books to read – when we thought one book wasn’t a Newbery, but, in the end, all went well and his sheet was finished. It was only when he came home afterwards that I realized what a fine accomplishment and how very pleased the librarian, principal, teacher, and school at large was. An announcement was made over the school intercom (letting all the students know that Abe had bested each and every one of them), and the principal came to his class to make a little presentation and to offer him his certificate and ultra super giant candy bar. Two years ago Abe won a bike at school for all his reading. It was a drawing, but the number of times your name was put in the box correlated directly with time read, so I have no doubt Abe’s name was in there quite a few times. That kid likes to read. . . . Or maybe it is just that we keep trying to insist he keep with his younger siblings bed time . . . which is probably too early for him . . . which might give him nothing to do but read. Hmm. Well, poor fella or not, I sure love that boy.

Lastly, there is Penny. Last Sunday I was a bit surprised to look outside and see her rounding up our not-quite-fully-grown chickens and playing, what seemed to be, a game of “gather chickens and put them all in a big bucket”. I wasn’t so much surprised by the game as I was surprised by her ability to catch and bravely hold our chickens. I have maybe hinted at this before, but I am terrified of holding our chickens . . . and our guinea pig . . . and pretty much any animal.

Anyway, she must have gotten more and more bold because not long afterwards I heard Mike calling off of the back deck, “Penny! You can’t throw the chickens!”

Yes, something might, perhaps, need to be done about her grand chickening adventures. Fun as the “put the chickens in a bucket” game sounds, I am not positive the chickens themselves are loving this attention so much.

Here are some recent moments I have caught of Penny with the chickens.

Penny climbing up a ladder to take a chicken down the slide:

Penny swinging with a chicken:

Penny holding a chicken:

Penny singing to a chicken?

Penny putting a chicken on her baby brother’s back:

Penny putting a chicken on her baby brother’s head:

Penny putting a chicken on her own head:

And a few more . . . because its Mother’s Day and I can do what I want (even if it means putting into one post what should have been in three separate ones):

And, my favorite:

Umm. The end? I guess.

The Chicks Have Hatched!

I do believe I owe little Hennykins an apology. Did I say something about lacking fortitude, earlier, when I spoke of her egg hatching prowess?

I take it back.

She sat on those darn eggs for three plus weeks before hatching these cute little chicks. And even now that they are hatched she sits on them to keep them warm and leads them around and pecks Mike’s hands to death if he tries to come near them.

I used to think things like, “Bah” and “Pshhh” when/if I thought anything at all about the puny little variety of hen this gray one was, but I have a newfound respect for the small chicken. Perhaps it is because I can relate – being as I am getting ready to hatch and care for my own little one. And I must admit: despite all my mockery of our chickens, it is a cute thing to see a mother hen looking after her little chicks . . . and it makes me sad thinking of our previous chicks who had to learn to survive totally motherless. Why, this very hen was one of those. How did she know how to be such a perfect little mom?

Nice work Henny. You’ve done us proud.

P.S. I had no idea, back when one little chicken flew to our window well, and I then named my blog “A Chicken in the Window Well”, just how apt the title would continue to be. This little hen flew down there to lay and sit on her eggs in privacy. Then, when they were hatching and it was so cold, Mike moved them to the garage for awhile. Today, however, when they were out pecking around and a certain Jesse began to terrorize them, Henny lead her chicks straightaway to the safety of the window well (though it seemed a bit of a leap for the poor chicks). Anyway, it all keeps coming back to our window well . . . and chickens being in it.

Don’t Judge People . . . Well, Maybe Judge Them for Some Things, but not for Other Things . . . Like Coming Late to Church Things.

We should never judge one another. No. Never. Because, take little things. Like, oh, say . . . I don’t know . . . just off the top of my head: someone coming in very late to sacrament meeting. Or, maybe not just one someone. Maybe even . . . like . . . SEVEN someones. And let’s say they are trying to sneak in all quietly with downcast eyes, but they are having to step over and past other seated-on-time people’s knees, and five of the seven are actually rather small and rather irreverent and probably not having properly downcast eyes at all.

See. You want to judge them. You want to say, “Come on! Church doesn’t start ‘til 11:00! Get here on time.” I mean, I want to judge them because that would certainly never be me. But, I don’t because who knows really? I mean any number of things can happen, if you think about it, between one walking out their front door (with church only a half block away and ten minutes to spare) and one actually arriving at said church. Yes, any number of things.

For example, they could be heading off happily – pleased at their perfectly curled girls’ hair, and their overall promptness. And then, who knows? Maybe their two year old might see a wasp of some sort, and he might think to himself, “I ought to catch that wasp post haste!” and he might catch it, and then the mother – who was poised and pleased as could be – might turn and see her two year old shaking his little hand and sobbing and she might, through instinct or experience (one can never be certain with mothers) say, “Oh no! Did you get stung?? Did you pick up a bee??” And as she runs to him, she might notice an angry and disgruntled little wasp crawling away. And she might know, “Yes, you did pick up a bee . . . or something very like it.” And she might scoop her son up and think about how he is always swelling up and having allergic reactions to everything. So, she might decide she ought to give him some Benadryl and probably ought to find his epipen to bring along just in case, and she might be about to run in to get those things when a neighbor might drive by (in a perfectly timely on-time-to-church fashion) and that neighbor might stop and say, “Umm . . . I think you have a chicken on my front porch.” And the mom holding the crying toddler might say something like, “Oh . . . is it grey and kind of little . . .” as if, perhaps the neighbor is mistaken. As if it might possibly be someone else’s chicken (in a neighborhood where chickens do not live and are, quite probably, not allowed).

So, then the mom of this little group might run in and tell her husband (who is still tying his tie – which seems odd as they were all out on the front porch, with ten minutes to spare, ten minutes ago) that a chicken is loose and might possibly be leaving unmentionable things on a very well swept, well kept neighbor’s porch. And then she might shout for another daughter to find a little cloth to wrap around the stung brother’s hand (as some sort of placebo comfort mechanism), and that daughter might open the closet in the bathroom and purse her lips and think and think about which little cloth would be best as the mother is reaching rather frantically for it. Then, the mom might go to the medicine cabinet and stare and stare – trying to find the Benadryl, but not finding it – even though it is directly in front of her (because maybe she is a little frazzled and slightly less poised by this point). But eventually she might find it and give it to her sad little son as she continues to remind him about not picking up bees because that is just what they do.

Then, the mom might go back outside – only not really thinking that now they will all get to church, but thinking, “I wonder if they’ve caught that chicken yet.”

And she might look down the street and see her husband and several of her children trying to slowly hem in the chicken – only to have it pass them. She might then watch them all leap and dive and miss (time and again). And she might think about how these neighbors had workers there sprucing up their yard “just so” for several hours the day prior to this one, and she might wonder a little about the chasing of the chicken through flower beds and the like. And she might think it is a little embarrassing that her family is chasing a chicken across this yard in their Sunday best instead of sitting reverently in church in their Sunday best. But then she might remember that her neighbors can’t see because her neighbors are all at church already (or, possibly in a drunken slumber – as all neighbors who aren’t at church would certainly be).

And, in the end, she might find herself actually enjoying the sight and chuckling to herself as her husband instructs his young helpers to “make a tight circle” and “walk slowly” and, in the end, when a brave leap allows the husband to catch the squawking chicken (pretty much by its tail feathers), she might be laughing out loud.

Only, then she will see that it is about ten minutes past the hour, and the girls’ hair and dresses might not look quite so proper anymore, and the older son might be happily brushing dirt off of the knees of his pants. Still, the sight might have at least calmed the wasp-stung smallest boy. And, in the end, they might all make their way to church and walk in at the very back – only to have the very back full. So, they might make their way sheepishly up a few rows and have to climb over several people to find a place to sit, and the boy (who nobody in the congregation knows was just stung by a wasp) might start to cry loudly about needing his little cloth wrapped around his hand (even though nobody recalls which hand anymore – not even the boy).

And that is why we shouldn’t judge people at all. Mostly at all if they are late to church (or don’t go to church – because some judgmental people might say something like, “oh, they are probably all drunken and asleep anyway”). Because true, most likely that is not a scenario that would occur (heaven knows how I came up with it), but it could possibly occur, or something kind of like it, and I just thought it would be a good and important thing for us all to think about . . . 

Disturbing Postscript to the Last Post!

Those chickens! They are not worth their salt. No, they can’t be trusted at all. Unreliable. Flighty. Mike went to check on them this morning – to see how they were adjusting to their new precious eggs (as opposed to the DUDS they’d been sitting on) only to discover they’d flown the coop! Or the window well rather.

Mike had just been praising them – hinting that I could never be the mother these hens were (because when have I ever been willing to sit on my kids for 21 consecutive days? – never mind the whole carrying them inside of me as they grow larger and larger for NINE months). But who’s the good mother now?

And, actually, one of the two broody hens has half heartedly returned to her little clutch – but she doesn’t seem to be exhibiting the kind of fortitude I expect from a chicken who is serious about this hatching eggs business. The other has simply turned up her beak at these new eggs: insisting that she, for one, won’t be found raising some other hen’s little brats. Can you imagine? What foolish pride. Fine, go back to sitting on your plain old yolk and whites eggs. See if I care. Bad chicken. I now officially prefer the black hens to you – even though their front breast feathers keep going missing and I constantly avoid looking at them because they look kind of gross that way.

Bacon, Movies, Gingerbread Houses, Chickens and Eggs

Here it is – 10:30 at night, and I am sitting here . . . eating (dare I even say it?) some . . . bacon. Surely this can not be good. Who on earth do I think I am? I mean, did you read what I just typed? I am eating BACON while all reasonable people are sleeping, or, at the very worst, eating a bowl of ice cream in front of the television. It doesn’t feel right, but it is, to be honest, rather tasty. Only, where will such behavior lead? It can’t possibly lead anywhere good, can it?

What else. Well, Mike is off helping a brother lift an entertainment center and then his mother download something. Before leaving, he told me that he thought we should “spend some quality time together ‘til at least one in the morning”. And that doesn’t mean anything eyebrow raising (though he did raise his eyebrows repeatedly at me when he said it); what it means is that he wants me to stay up and watch a movie with him no matter how late the hour of his return. He gets so sad when I try to tell him that if it is past 10:00 it is too late for us to begin a movie. But, it is mostly his fault because he is wholly unwilling to ever watch part of a movie. Sure I’d be willing to start one . . . and save the rest for another night, but that doesn’t sit well with Mike at all. We must press forward and see it through to the bitter (or perhaps pleasant – depending on the movie) end.

Speaking of Mike, we let Daisy have a little friend party today. At one point (several hours before the girls’ arrival), I asked Mike to come help me finish a task. I was making little gingerbread houses out of graham crackers so the girls could decorate them with jelly beans and the like (creating Easter themed ginger bread houses), but I was running late on meeting an out of town friend (who was in town) for lunch. I wanted to make sure the frosting would have plenty of time to harden and so wanted the houses done before I left. Mike came to my rescue (as he had earlier when, for the life of me, I couldn’t separate egg whites from yolks), only, here was what he said as he took over, “The problem is, if I make some and you make some, the girls will all cry over who gets the ones I made.” Smart alec. All I could do was laugh because I knew that he would never settle for making his houses as quickly and efficiently (and thus, necessarily, sloppy) as mine. Here ours are, side by side:Goldie did come to my defense – saying she would absolutely LOVE to choose one of the ones I made (bless her heart). But if you just pretend like they are supposed to look “snowy” – then mine totally looks better. Besides, the girls had a lovely time and nary a word was said over messy vs. nice-and-neat houses.

BUT! Speak of the devil, Mike has returned! (Incidentally, I was reading a book by a Scottish author the other day and at one point, a character said, “Speak of the angels!” – that strikes me as a much kinder phrase. Why have we warped it so?) Yes though, my husband, devil that he is, has arrived, so I shall cast this blogging business aside. Besides, there are exciting things afoot. Not only is Mike going to try and persuade me to watch a movie until all hours, but he is also going to trick some of our chickens!

Two of them have gone broody! Broody I say! That means they are faithfully sitting on a little pile of eggs. Mike has so much been wanting a broody hen, but hens don’t brood much these days, it’s all bred out of most breeds. So, when it was discovered that two of our hens had confined themselves to different window wells (I told you they like it down there) to sit on clutches of eggs, well, it was all excitement around here.

Only, as we’ve discussed (don’t say we haven’t), our eggs don’t currently have chick producing potential. So, their loving little broody efforts are all for naught. Or were all for naught, but they won’t be in a few more minutes because Mike bought some fertilized eggs today and he is now about to go and steal their chickless eggs and replace them with different eggs! I know, it seems like a mean trick and you are all envisioning swapped babies in a hospital, but it is actually a nice trick. They never had any babies at all, but now they will (assuming this all works of course).

Anyway, goodnight!

Another Day. Another Rooster

I had to call Mike the other morning with this report, "So, guess what? I have bad news." (And then I had to hurry and answer what the bad news was before Mike had to actually guess about the bad news because if there is anything my husband doesn't like -- besides miracle whip and ranch dressing -- it is having someone slowly tell a story of bad news. He needs the bad news straight out, then you can back track and tell the story if you must -- which is less fun, but is something I try to do so as to help him keep his sanity. For example, if the dishwasher broke down, I would like to say something long starting with, "So, I went to wash the dishes the other day . . . " continuing with something along the lines of, "and I had the whole thing loaded and the soap in . . ." and finally ending with, "and no matter what I tried, it wouldn't turn on." But that method would have Mike pulling his hair out and feeling like he might break something for want of just knowing what went wrong. Was the kitchen flooded? Was something simply jammed? Did a dish break or is the whole dishwasher on fire?? He can't abide the slow build up when something serious may, or, as they case may be, may not be at stake. So, I always have to use straight-to-the-point style: "I got in an accident. The front end on the right side. Dented a little. Everyone OK." Then, I can go on and tell him the beginning and how it all came about and all the details. It really takes the fun out of a good "bad news" story, but it's the way it has to be with that man). Ooh. Goodness. Was all of that in parenthesis? Wowzers. Maybe I'll do a paragraph break now just to loosen things up.

Well, so, I got straight to the bad news -- probably dilly dallying more than Mike was comfortable with by my initial "Guess what? Bad news" shenanigans. But I came out with it pretty quickly, "We have another rooster." Then I told him about how I heard it crowing away that morning and how it seemed just awful that we only JUST got someone to come take our first rooster. He agreed this was indeed bad news. Then, later, he had the gall to suggest that it would have been nice had I actually been able to report just exactly which chicken had decided to go rooster. (I guess I was supposed to get up and go look at who was crowing rather than put my pillow over my head and moan). You see, usually roosters look way cooler than their henny counterparts. It's sad that it is so, but it is. That's why Mike was bummed we had to get rid of first rooster. They have bigger combs and look tougher. None of our remaining chickens look this way. They all look pretty hen like if you ask me (sorry rooster -- no offense intended). I guessed that maybe it was one of the two scrawny little sissy gray chickens -- they look wimpy enough as is that it stands to reason one might be a less robust rooster. Who knows. What if all our chickens turn out to be roosters? Even the one who lays eggs. Actually, that would be a stroke of astonishingly good luck. Zoologists, young and old alike, would be vying for the chance to come study our chicken. It would probably end up as famous as that chicken who lived for years with out a head (admittedly, some of you may not be in the proper social circles to know all about that chicken, but I'm sure you could google it). Our rooster hen would probably appear in all kinds of scientific research journals, and we'd be RICH RICH RICH!

Or, maybe we wouldn't be rich. What would those zoologists want with our chicken anyway? Don't zoologists work in a zoo? Just so you know, thanks to that question, I have taken to lying about my major and just telling everyone it was biology -- which it essentially was. Anyway, turns out I should probably switch my lie to something totally different like . . . english. That way no one will think I should be able to tell a rooster from a hen. Next time Mike and I have this discussion, I am just going to say, "I was an english major. How should I know?" Not that english majors don't know things. They do. Oh how they do. I know because my whole family majored in english -- well nearly -- some of us majored in other things like zoology. Dang. I said it again. Plus, if I said I majored in english, someone might say, "Well, so fine, you wouldn't know about the rooster then, but what if you have a sentence that ends right at the end of some parenthesis. Do you put the period in or out of the last parenthesis?" I think I majored in economics. No. Communications. Leave me alone. Yes, you too, rooster. And, while I'm at it, Thor, you leave me alone as well.

P.S. Mike just said, "I didn't hear the rooster this morning. Did you?" When I said that I didn't and that was what was so confusing, he said that maybe it was some other rooster who had come to eye our hens, and, "heckle them."

Chickens All Grown Up

Some of you (well, probably most of you) have been near to tears of late for want of a chicken post. So, a chicken post is what you will have.

Here the little critters are -- all grown up. Well, mostly grown up. As you can see, those little gray chicks didn't turn into either of the varieties we thought they might -- rather a kind of pretty and sissy little chicken. The one in the next picture that is staring right at you as if he might peck your beady little eyes out -- no wait, your eyes aren't beady; his are -- still, the one giving you the look proved himself most grown up of all by beginning to crow this past week. Mike thought he was the best looking of our chickens and so was sad about the discovery of his roosterness -- our neighbors won't be hip to his crowing jive, so he will have to leave us. It's just as well for me. Mike was out of town this past week so I was in charge of sneaking up on the fella and grabbing him, putting him in a dog carrier, and shutting him in a room in our basement each night so our neighbors wouldn't wake to his lovely calls in the early morning. Something like grabbing a hold of a rooster "just firmly with a hand over each wing," as Mike tells me, is nooo big deal to my husband, but it gives me a minor panic attack every time I have to do it. The other day Jesse was heading out the back door. Daisy was nearby so he called, "Daisy, bye!" to her. Then, as an afterthought, he paused and added in a serious and informative tone, "Daisy, bock bock." Which was cool because we both knew exactly what he was telling us -- which was, "Daisy, goodbye. I'm headed outside, and if anyone should need to know of my specific whereabouts, I will be paying a visit to the chickens."
Here he is feeding them some nice dead leaves. Chickens love to eat leaves. (Chickens do not love to eat leaves, but no matter, they never learn -- they simply continue to grab for each leafy offering, entertaining my kids for hours, in hopes that it might be something of a more grainy variety).Here Jesse and Goldie are "feeding" the chickens. They've both had their fingers pecked good and hard, but it hasn't stopped them. I'm glad my kids can have a nice healthy farmy upbringing on a normal city block.

Chicks

When you change your blog name to a name about chickens being in your window well, soon EVERYONE wants a piece of your window well chicken (I don't mean a piece to eat . . . though some of you might want that, but it's not happening). Or, if they actually don't want anything to do with your window well chicken, they want something to do with your other chickens. Chickens you probably don't even have!!Chickens that are more chicks than chickens.

Chicks that they assume you have just because you have a chicken in your window well. But, when they make those crazy requests, you don't even respond because you are above that sort of thing. You won't have people left and right assuming that just because you have one full grown chicken, you likely have every other type of chicken -- including not full grown chickens. But then, you humble yourself when you realize that they know you far better than you know yourself . . . or at least know your husband better than you do . . . or just even a tiny fraction as well as you do . . . which is enough . . . enough to know that one chicken in your window well assuredly means more chickens/chicks will soon follow.Well hello, honey, aren't you handsome.(Look, that little one thinks he's an eagle . . . how disappointed he's going to be when he learns the truth someday)

Here is the funny email Mike sent to his family about it:

h

I have been twice blessed this Easter season. First, I purchased six baby chicks which have been a delight to all. Second, one of the chicks have been prominently featured in a blog header http://atypicalmormonchick.wordpress.com Nancy was the photographer so she does deserve some credit. I have great expectations for this chick, but of course I love them all in their own way.

h

Mike

h

That blog link is to a friend's blog. She was starting a blog about her day to day life as a "Mormon Chick" and was the one who requested I send her a picture of a chick with a Book of Mormon BEFORE I even had a chick! OR a Book of Mormon (oh wait, we do have quite a few of those . . . though, Daisy did lose hers . . . and Mike thought he lost his for a week til I found it under my dresser where I accused him of hiding it so we wouldn't be able to read it together).

Anyway, I feel like I am a famous photographer now what with my chick displayed so prominently in someones blog header. In case you didn't click on the link, this is the picture she used.

Look how cute our little chick looks. No wonder Mike's so proud of the little fella (the "little fella" might actually be a girl).

h

Here are a few others I took (before trying to blur the lines in the paper out with our paint program). Mike's favorite is the last one because he thinks those two tiny little gray chicks are the cutest things he's ever seen (excluding our children I assume).

They are pretty tiny and I think they are in constant danger of having their eyes pecked out by the bullying bigger chicks.

h

He isn't certain of the variety of chicken they are, but told me they might grow up to be Blue Cochins -- which look something like this:

He also told me that that is what we are too strongly hope for because if they don't turn out to be Blue Cochins, then they might turn out to be Silkies . . . which look like this:and would clearly make us the complete laughing stock of any and all chicken owners.

From Sissy to Stone

I used to be such a sissy pants. That's right. A total wimpy wimp. Once, at Lake Powell, my dad and brothers were fishing. Fishing and then throwing the fish back. That was all good and well, but then one fish got the hook stuck too badly in his mouth, and they had to kill it, and I cried and cried and can't remember who finally calmed me with talks of eternity and Heaven and no sparrow falling unnoticed. Then there was the time when my older brother took me, just me, with him hunting. "Just me" was a big deal in a family of 11 kids. Anyway, we were off in the mountains happy as could be when suddenly my brother recalled that I was a complete pansy and that if he did indeed shoot a bird and I then saw that bird, I would likely fall into a state of sobbing despair. So, he sadly (and nicely) suggested we just have a picnic of sorts with all the snacks we brought and call it good.

Luckily, this earth we live in has hardened my heart into pure stone. Whew. Pure stone is waaaay better. Sure, there was the time when I tried to save a chicken from our dog's jaws. The time when I only saved it . . . sort of. Sure I called Mike in tears with the mostly dead chicken at my feet. But, those other chickens -- the ones that our dog killed that I didn't actually have to see? Ha! Big deal. I could simply guffaw and say, "Tough break, chickens. That's the risk you run being a chicken! Hahahahha!" And remember how I laughed and laughed when our horse threw our dog with it's mouth? Stone I tell you. Pure stone.

Anywho, I planted some little seeds a week or so ago. CA giant Zinnia's to be exact. I was instructed to plant two seeds per little container and then, when they sprouted, I was to pluck the lesser sprout from each tiny cubicle. Piece of cake, right? Only, there they all were -- new and growing and green -- each one hoping to become its own lovely flower. Big deal. I pulled the first seedling out of cup number one. Then, I got a little sad for a minute when I saw its puny little roots that had just taken hold. So, I took a break. But that's totally natural. Anyone with a heart at all . . . even a rock for a heart . . . would do the same. It doesn't mean I'm still a sissy. I am going to kill off the rest of those tiny in the way seedlings first thing today . . . or maybe tomorrow. How dare they aspire to flowerhood? . . . Or, you know, if Mike feels like doing it himself, I'll let him. And then, when they are thrown away, and I can't see them, I will laugh and laugh at them. Easy.