Note: This is a re-post from 2016
The
rainy mist is cold upon my skin today as I feed the animals. The water
beads on my duster and Stetson in little BB sized drops until gravity
persuades them to the ground. My breath steams as I load the containers
with recently purchased feed. The fifty pound sacks make my muscles
work, and the heat from the exertion feels good.
The
ground is soggy beneath my boots. The recent days of rain have left the
ground a damp multicolored carpet of brown, yellow, and red leaves.
The high winds from a recent storm stripped nearly every bit of foliage
from the trees, and has left their winter skeletons bare before the
gloomy gray sky. A huge late autumn storm passed by us before it
unleashed the many tornadoes that left horrible devastation in their
wake. I will not complain about the wet and cold; my shelter from both
is still thankfully intact. I have a warm fire and a hot cup of coffee to
comfort me. Some folks now have neither, and my heart goes out to them.
I
move to the lean-to shed and grab a bale of straw. The dog house, for
that chicken herding pet of ours, needs a little bedding. A fresh floor
of straw will provide a warm and dry haven for this chocolate
covered "mans best friend". Hershey sniffs the golden bale, then runs
off to the chicken pen to harass the chickens as they feed. He runs by
and gives one half-hearted woof. The hens look annoyed but don't
respond.They have a meal to finish, and no dog, safely on the other side
of the fence, will be allowed to disturb that.
I
gather the eggs from the many nest
boxes. Eggs are few in number today. We don't provide artificial light to our hen house to encourage more laying. We allow the
hens to rest in the short lit days of winter. Our hens lay for up to
eight years, partly, I believe, because we let the girls lay when they
feel like it. Spring, summer, and fall production is plenty to provide
us with 40 or 50 dozen eggs in the garage fridge at all times. We sell
some, barter some, give some to family, and use the rest for good ole
Chicken Ranch cooking. There is no comparison to store-bought eggs. Dark
rich yellow yolks are much preferred here over the anemic Super Market
type, which can be up to six months old and hardly "farm fresh" when you buy
them.
The wind picks up a little and ruffles the
feathers on the hens. A couple of stubborn leaves are finally urged from
their hold on the limbs, and they make their final descent to the wet
ground. The wet olive drab and brown prairie grasses are bent low in one
direction, looking like a bad comb-over on the bald soil. Here and
there, dark puddles are garnished with colored leaves floating like
little sailboats in them. I look around and realize that much has been
altered in the last few weeks. It is only the pines that stand resolute
and unchanged by the seasons touch.
I stop by the
woodshed to gather an armload for the fire. The pile is lean, time to
call the woodman or head out to my daughters land and cut some more.
Hmmm, think I'll call the woodman to get me by for awhile. I head up to
the house and balance the wood in one arm as I open the door to the mud
room. I give my boots a kick and walk sock footed to the rack by the
fireplace. I unload my arms with a clunk clunk on the hearth.I arrange
the longs so that small wood is available to start the fires, and larger
logs are left to carry through the night. I notice that I need a little
kindling, so I put on my boots again, and walk out the kindling pile.
As
I make my way to the back porch, kindling in hand, the rain picks up
again, and the wind blows a chilly wetness down my upturned collar. It
helps me hasten my steps a bit.There is a quiet moan in the pines as I
walk by, and I recognize the sound. It is the whisper of Old Man Winter,
warning that he's on his way. I smile to myself as I think of the
warmth of the crackling fires in the shop stove and living room
fireplace. And the hot coffee waiting in the pot.The hen house and
Hersheys abode are freshly strawed and prepared for icy cold nights. My
sheeps' wool lined Indian moccasins are waiting by the door. " I hear
you old man", I think to myself, "we've been expecting you."
I
step in to the mud room, and set the kindling on the step to the
kitchen. I put the door between me and the wet chill blowing across the
back porch. I hang up my drippin' duster and cowboy hat. As I slip the
warm moc's on my feet and gather up the kindling again, I take in the
slight smoky smell of the fire that is mingled with the roasted aroma of
the coffee in the pot.With the fireplace squared away, I walk over to
the west window and look at the rain falling from the cold gray sky. It
is a pleasant thing to be on this side of the glass on this cold and wet
late autumns day.
Yep, Old Man Winter, we know
that it's time. We'll be patient and accept you as you are. This isn't our first rodeo after all. A hot cup of Java makes your stay tolerable. And a soft easy chair makes a cozy place to dream of the coming spring.