I drove home two weeks ago, excited to see Andy as he'd just started his new job. I drove past our house (as one must do before turning into the drive), and I see Andy standing in the yard near the chicken coop, looking at me with hands held as a warning, as if perhaps I should just stop there and stay there. I drove slowly past where he stood, near the chicken coop, and although I couldn't see much, I could clearly see that the bodies in the chicken yard aren't moving.
My heart stopped.
I parked, got out of the car, and walked into the chicken yard with him. It was one of the most horrifying things I'd ever seen--chickens all dead, two roosters barely breathing, and a stunned, paralyzed turkey. (The ducks were fine, though, just waddling around happily. We will never understand this.)
We had no idea what had happened--Mason was tied up (no, this is not our first choice of dog treatment but he cannot be contained as he hurts himself trying to escape and the invisible fence--which worked beautifully for a while--was shorting out and he was constantly loose). We were just stunned.
At one point in our silence among the carnage, Andy choked out, "Maybe the ducks did it."
It was welcome laughter.
It didn't take long before we heard the story--our wonderful neighbor (an older man whose family lives near us and he takes care of cattle next door) had driven by and seen Mason in the coop, so he intervened and tied him back up. So by the time we got home, Mason was contained and snuggling with a dead chicken. (He'd managed to burrow under a tiny spot under the fence after he slipped off his collar. We never said we were good at this stuff.)
Before we found out about Mason, I was stunned and sad, but when we found out it was him I just broke down. He's been such a difficult dog since we adopted him last winter, and now this? I called our rescue, I called other rescues, I called the vet, and I called a trainer. We got conflicting advice, but have decided to Fort Knox the invisible fence, electrify the chicken pen, and hire a trainer for an afternoon for the outside dogs. None of this is ideal, since we know his prey drive is set, it's instinct, but we think it's the best solution. If we didn't keep him, he didn't have much of a future. (And unfortunately, we learned of the old wives' tales about "fixing" the problem with a dead chicken after the fact.)
As for our poultry... we had raised them from chicks, so it was hard to see so much work and time be erased in a few minutes' of "Look at me play, mom and dad!" Our Ameraucanas had just started laying (we had 13 eggs--we still do, I'm planning something special for them), and the Barred Rocks hadn't even started. Turkey's fate was not to be a long-time pet, but he was getting so big and, dare I say meaty? I had to finish off one rooster, but our survivors were the ducks, Buster and Lucille, and Gob the rooster (he's still healing).
We drove to Silex the weekend after it happened, as they were hosting a twice-yearly poultry festival. We came home with three sex-link (Barred Rock and Rhode Island Red cross) hens, three white Cochins (one rooster, he came with the set), and two Buff Orphingtons who are already laying (the others are about five months old). They're living happily in the coop now, as we fix the fencing systems so this doesn't happen again.
We bought most of the new birds from an Amish man. We told him the story, and he said he'd had to shoot a dog who took out about 40 of his birds. He said that these things happen to people who are trying to keep livestock, and they will either quit, or persevere. "If you're going to share something," he said, "you have to be willing to lose it."
We're not going to stop. Even when we should stop, many times we don't. We might be trying to do the impossible again by wanting everyone to live together outside, but we can't not try again.
For now, those 13 little blue eggs will go untouched in the refrigerator, until we can share them and appreciate them fully. Because that's what this is all about.
Monday, September 20, 2010
Louie, Louie
We have a cat.
When I tell people about our pets, most often I start the introduction with "then we accidentally got___"
Avy and Rio were planned (as much as one plans these things--"Look at that precious dog! Let's adopt him/her!"). Then Zippo just showed up and wouldn't leave, then Avy needed Mason, and then... and then, the cat.
My aunt convinced us to adopt two of her neighbor's barn kittens, as we've had mice and we have a barn. Perfect equation. I'd taken Avy and Mason to the vet earlier that week (only Mason had an appointment, but Avy got in the car and wouldn't leave), and they reacted with pure apathy when the vet's cat wandered near. I thought, hey, let's get a couple of kittens. I grew up with barn cats, and if they're anything, they're low-maintenance.
Three days later, I was driving home from St. Louis (where we did the cat pick-up, like a furry stinky drug deal) with two kittens.
One day later, we managed to find one of the kittens in a tree and brought him in (what happens between A and B involved some ugliness on Mason's part, which we just don't need to re-hash. I'll save the gore for the next post). We kept the little guy in the bathroom/laundry room, and decided we'd transition him slowly to be an outside cat, and everything would be fine.
Two months later, he's curled up on the couch with me.
And that's how we accidentally got a cat.
By the way, my cat allergies (which have been significant since a young age) disappeared after a few days of having him inside. Cats are pretty awesome, which I never knew, although litter is one of the worst things ever. I still haven't figured out how to make that not awful (except for the covered box and flushable Swheat).
No more animals now. We're done.
When I tell people about our pets, most often I start the introduction with "then we accidentally got___"
Avy and Rio were planned (as much as one plans these things--"Look at that precious dog! Let's adopt him/her!"). Then Zippo just showed up and wouldn't leave, then Avy needed Mason, and then... and then, the cat.
My aunt convinced us to adopt two of her neighbor's barn kittens, as we've had mice and we have a barn. Perfect equation. I'd taken Avy and Mason to the vet earlier that week (only Mason had an appointment, but Avy got in the car and wouldn't leave), and they reacted with pure apathy when the vet's cat wandered near. I thought, hey, let's get a couple of kittens. I grew up with barn cats, and if they're anything, they're low-maintenance.
Three days later, I was driving home from St. Louis (where we did the cat pick-up, like a furry stinky drug deal) with two kittens.
One day later, we managed to find one of the kittens in a tree and brought him in (what happens between A and B involved some ugliness on Mason's part, which we just don't need to re-hash. I'll save the gore for the next post). We kept the little guy in the bathroom/laundry room, and decided we'd transition him slowly to be an outside cat, and everything would be fine.
Two months later, he's curled up on the couch with me.
And that's how we accidentally got a cat.
By the way, my cat allergies (which have been significant since a young age) disappeared after a few days of having him inside. Cats are pretty awesome, which I never knew, although litter is one of the worst things ever. I still haven't figured out how to make that not awful (except for the covered box and flushable Swheat).
No more animals now. We're done.
Pregnant Pause
So about a month ago, I was convinced I was pregnant.
We weren't trying by any stretch of the imagination--I had been a bit haphazard at the time of day I took my trusty blue pill, and I just felt weird. So the first two weeks of my semester were spent taking test after test and scouring online message boards to compare symptoms. Now, I normally have a fake scare once a year or so, but this one felt real. And terrifying.
We are not ready, the house has not been painted, we are broke, but we can see a light at the end of the proverbial tunnel--things were falling in place, and I was convinced something very much out of place had happened.
I felt like a scared 16-year-old, not the 28-year-old, married-for-four-years person I am. I had just come to peace with our timeline and actually imagining being parents someday, but not now. I was obsessed, overwhelmed, and scared. I was not the sophisticated lady I imagined myself being when we were trying to conceive.
I finally went to the doctor, and as I was waiting to get my blood taken, I started my period.
And then I started crying.
I called Andy, and we were both utterly confused at my reaction. I suppose I'd just convinced myself, and figured it would work out, and then it wasn't true.
Why do these things have to be so scary?
I look around me, and many of my peers are on their second, even third babies, and everyone seems to have their shit together. I feel so dumbfounded by these people. I know, I know, everything's not as it seems... but seriously, our neighbor just dropped off some pickles his wife had made (I'd given them some pepper jelly and blackberry-peach sauce), and I was *horrified* that he was getting a glimpse into our slovenly home. The items strewn around our house, and the laundry baskets and dirty dishes are nothing short of a David Sedaris essay ("Nuit of the Living Dead," to be exact).
Since the August freak-out, we've talked a great deal and are considering moving up our timeline. Since then, I've had significant opportunities presented to me (which I've taken) for the nonprofits I volunteer with, and school is becoming better and busier every semester.
How do people do this? I'm scared we won't make it back to Europe before it happens, I'm scared our finances won't be in order enough before it happens, I'm scared I won't be a good instructor or volunteer when it happens, I'm scared... I'm scared it won't happen when we want it to happen.
But, for now, I'll just keep trying to be a grown-up as best I can, and hope the rest falls into place.
We weren't trying by any stretch of the imagination--I had been a bit haphazard at the time of day I took my trusty blue pill, and I just felt weird. So the first two weeks of my semester were spent taking test after test and scouring online message boards to compare symptoms. Now, I normally have a fake scare once a year or so, but this one felt real. And terrifying.
We are not ready, the house has not been painted, we are broke, but we can see a light at the end of the proverbial tunnel--things were falling in place, and I was convinced something very much out of place had happened.
I felt like a scared 16-year-old, not the 28-year-old, married-for-four-years person I am. I had just come to peace with our timeline and actually imagining being parents someday, but not now. I was obsessed, overwhelmed, and scared. I was not the sophisticated lady I imagined myself being when we were trying to conceive.
I finally went to the doctor, and as I was waiting to get my blood taken, I started my period.
And then I started crying.
I called Andy, and we were both utterly confused at my reaction. I suppose I'd just convinced myself, and figured it would work out, and then it wasn't true.
Why do these things have to be so scary?
I look around me, and many of my peers are on their second, even third babies, and everyone seems to have their shit together. I feel so dumbfounded by these people. I know, I know, everything's not as it seems... but seriously, our neighbor just dropped off some pickles his wife had made (I'd given them some pepper jelly and blackberry-peach sauce), and I was *horrified* that he was getting a glimpse into our slovenly home. The items strewn around our house, and the laundry baskets and dirty dishes are nothing short of a David Sedaris essay ("Nuit of the Living Dead," to be exact).
Since the August freak-out, we've talked a great deal and are considering moving up our timeline. Since then, I've had significant opportunities presented to me (which I've taken) for the nonprofits I volunteer with, and school is becoming better and busier every semester.
How do people do this? I'm scared we won't make it back to Europe before it happens, I'm scared our finances won't be in order enough before it happens, I'm scared I won't be a good instructor or volunteer when it happens, I'm scared... I'm scared it won't happen when we want it to happen.
But, for now, I'll just keep trying to be a grown-up as best I can, and hope the rest falls into place.
Saturday, July 24, 2010
Imposter Syndrome
It's becoming more and more clear to me, as I collect years and experience, that I have a lingering case of Imposter Syndrome.
When I was in the waiting room at the Vet's office the other day (just a check-up for Mason), I picked up a copy of the newspaper at which I used to be editor. As I flipped through the pages, I had an unflattering mix of emotions--mostly smugness that he wasn't perfect, and bitterness that he was (repeatedly) doing things that my boss had given me absolute hell for.
So often, I can't accept accomplishments, because I think they weren't deserved, and I think I'm probably not taken seriously, so I shouldn't take myself too seriously.
I don't think I have ever uttered the words "I'm a writer," or "I was a journalist," or "I was an editor," or "I was an organic farm supervisor and farmhand." I mean, the closest I get is: "I'm a [fill in the blank]-ish." Even though I've been paid to do all of those things, I don't think I was real.
Perhaps it is because I never tried too hard, and all-too-often made decisions and floated where life took me without conviction. Maybe it's because I didn't give my not-prestigious graduate work my all. I just didn't know who I was or what I was doing until, um, a couple of years ago.
I've not had that problem at my current job, because it is something I worked for, and it took a long time (in Leigh time) to truly accomplish. I can easily say, "I'm an English instructor" and not feel like a poser (to borrow from my eighth-grade boyfriend's skater vernacular). Although I do still feel like it was a heap of luck that got me where I am. So that Imposter Syndrome--it's lingering.
It's kind of like our farm. It's not reallly a farm, it's only eight acres. We're not reallly farmers, as we have no cash crops or meat livestock (well, except for Turkey--and we're still not sure about him). We're not reallly homesteaders, as we have full-time jobs and don't work hard enough. It just doesn't feel real, just like it didn't feel real to be a newspaper editor or freelance writer.
Well, it's starting to feel more real--perhaps because we're persevering this time, not just wiling away the hours in a job, or a home, that isn't it. We've dealt with more death on our farm(ish)--which was a terrible short story with a moral that we can probably never have cats--and we have piles of barn junk in plain view as they wait for a trip to the dump. My garden is mostly weeds (don't get me wrong, it's already produced enough to more than pay for the seeds I bought--have you seen prices for organic tomatoes?). And this is all OK. Because we're learning, and we plan to get better, to improve. Maybe that's the key to not feeling like an imposter--keeping going.
I'm standing at the threshold of my real (not real-ish) life right now--a career I want, and a lifestyle I want--and I'm determined to not let myself feel like an imposter all of the time. I think it's important to be thankful for what one has, and a good dose of "How on earth was I able to land this gig/house/land?" is good for the soul, but I need more conviction to be confident in what's on my resume and on my to-do list.
Sure, someday I'll tell my grandchildren about the time when I was a journalist-ish when I confused "Chinese" and "Japanese" when referring to interment camps in a (otherwise pretty good) newspaper column. And I'll still feel ridiculous and embarrassed. But hopefully I'll never put -ish at the end of "English instructor" or "Homesteader."
When I was in the waiting room at the Vet's office the other day (just a check-up for Mason), I picked up a copy of the newspaper at which I used to be editor. As I flipped through the pages, I had an unflattering mix of emotions--mostly smugness that he wasn't perfect, and bitterness that he was (repeatedly) doing things that my boss had given me absolute hell for.
So often, I can't accept accomplishments, because I think they weren't deserved, and I think I'm probably not taken seriously, so I shouldn't take myself too seriously.
I don't think I have ever uttered the words "I'm a writer," or "I was a journalist," or "I was an editor," or "I was an organic farm supervisor and farmhand." I mean, the closest I get is: "I'm a [fill in the blank]-ish." Even though I've been paid to do all of those things, I don't think I was real.
Perhaps it is because I never tried too hard, and all-too-often made decisions and floated where life took me without conviction. Maybe it's because I didn't give my not-prestigious graduate work my all. I just didn't know who I was or what I was doing until, um, a couple of years ago.
I've not had that problem at my current job, because it is something I worked for, and it took a long time (in Leigh time) to truly accomplish. I can easily say, "I'm an English instructor" and not feel like a poser (to borrow from my eighth-grade boyfriend's skater vernacular). Although I do still feel like it was a heap of luck that got me where I am. So that Imposter Syndrome--it's lingering.
It's kind of like our farm. It's not reallly a farm, it's only eight acres. We're not reallly farmers, as we have no cash crops or meat livestock (well, except for Turkey--and we're still not sure about him). We're not reallly homesteaders, as we have full-time jobs and don't work hard enough. It just doesn't feel real, just like it didn't feel real to be a newspaper editor or freelance writer.
Well, it's starting to feel more real--perhaps because we're persevering this time, not just wiling away the hours in a job, or a home, that isn't it. We've dealt with more death on our farm(ish)--which was a terrible short story with a moral that we can probably never have cats--and we have piles of barn junk in plain view as they wait for a trip to the dump. My garden is mostly weeds (don't get me wrong, it's already produced enough to more than pay for the seeds I bought--have you seen prices for organic tomatoes?). And this is all OK. Because we're learning, and we plan to get better, to improve. Maybe that's the key to not feeling like an imposter--keeping going.
I'm standing at the threshold of my real (not real-ish) life right now--a career I want, and a lifestyle I want--and I'm determined to not let myself feel like an imposter all of the time. I think it's important to be thankful for what one has, and a good dose of "How on earth was I able to land this gig/house/land?" is good for the soul, but I need more conviction to be confident in what's on my resume and on my to-do list.
Sure, someday I'll tell my grandchildren about the time when I was a journalist-ish when I confused "Chinese" and "Japanese" when referring to interment camps in a (otherwise pretty good) newspaper column. And I'll still feel ridiculous and embarrassed. But hopefully I'll never put -ish at the end of "English instructor" or "Homesteader."
Sunday, July 11, 2010
Feathers and Puffy Eyes
Marriage Rule #74:
Don't talk about finances at 3 a.m. after one of you has been sleeping on the couch and just found out her hen has died.
You live, you learn.
Two weeks ago, one of our Barred Rocks became very lethargic and basically stopped walking. We put her in a box separate from the rest of the flock, got her antibiotics, gave her antibiotic-laced water with a syringe (and apple cider vinegar water), concocted various meals of Greek yogurt, apples, oats, gave her a bath of epsom salts... there was some intense nurturing going on at the Kolb homestead.
But still, her little toes were flaccid and while she gained weight and was healthy otherwise, her feet just weren't working. I was holding on hope she'd start walking, though.
And last night, she was taken from the coop by a predator. The coop, with its cracked-open door and a lack of adequate covering for her (we never leave it open so late, but we did last night). Andy returned from a friend's house at 2 a.m. (where he'd been learning investment tricks and debt advice), and he woke me up as I was sleeping on the couch. "Did you check on Henrietta?" "No..." "She's gone." Just a few feathers remained.
Was I irresponsible? Yes. Was she going to ever walk again? Probably not. I'm not trying to justify the negligence, but I can't help but hope that if her life wasn't ever going to be healthy, that she was part of the food chain instead of us having to cull her. We know that's a part of being who we are becoming... but divine intervention sometimes makes things easier for us.
So I was tired, and so upset with myself and at losing her, and poor Andy tried to bring up that we needed to seriously talk about debt reduction, and I just started sobbing--a few minutes for Henrietta, a few minutes for money, back and forth, back and forth. I went to sleep and awoke with a puffy face and eyes, the tell-tale emotional hangover.
We're just fine now, and these outbursts are necessary--at least that have been for me for as long as I remember. (One of my favorite stories involved my mom leaving me at my Grandma and Grandpa Kellmanns' house when I was two or three, and I proceeded to lie by the backdoor, kicking and screaming and sobbing for about a half an hour. When I'd finished, I walked into the living room and announced to my grandparents, "I don't know why I do that sometimes." That pretty much sums up me at times.)
So we lost our first hen, and one of our hens turned out to be a rooster, so we're down to seven future layers. My parents have a few too many chicks (Mom hatched them in her classroom), so we'll probably adopt a couple more Barred Rocks in the near future. Andy and Denver dug post holes and placed posts for the chicken yard, so soon that project will be finished (there is not much we don't do backward). Mason and Avy have taken quite well to the invisible fence, so their lives have improved ten-fold--lots of buddying around, running and digging and sleeping. (Yes, a year ago I would have argued that invisible fences are cruel, but that was before we adopted a dog who could climb over 5' fences and jump out barn windows. Another homesteading rule: You just do what you have to do sometimes. Pragmatism trumps idealism.) Seeing them run together, and greeting us when we get home makes me want to cry--the happy kind of tears.
It's been quite a weekend. Many projects are moving forward, but reality sinks in before we get too comfortable. We need to get serious about budgeting and being smarter with our finances. And I really, really need to weed the garden.
Don't talk about finances at 3 a.m. after one of you has been sleeping on the couch and just found out her hen has died.
You live, you learn.
Two weeks ago, one of our Barred Rocks became very lethargic and basically stopped walking. We put her in a box separate from the rest of the flock, got her antibiotics, gave her antibiotic-laced water with a syringe (and apple cider vinegar water), concocted various meals of Greek yogurt, apples, oats, gave her a bath of epsom salts... there was some intense nurturing going on at the Kolb homestead.
But still, her little toes were flaccid and while she gained weight and was healthy otherwise, her feet just weren't working. I was holding on hope she'd start walking, though.
And last night, she was taken from the coop by a predator. The coop, with its cracked-open door and a lack of adequate covering for her (we never leave it open so late, but we did last night). Andy returned from a friend's house at 2 a.m. (where he'd been learning investment tricks and debt advice), and he woke me up as I was sleeping on the couch. "Did you check on Henrietta?" "No..." "She's gone." Just a few feathers remained.
Was I irresponsible? Yes. Was she going to ever walk again? Probably not. I'm not trying to justify the negligence, but I can't help but hope that if her life wasn't ever going to be healthy, that she was part of the food chain instead of us having to cull her. We know that's a part of being who we are becoming... but divine intervention sometimes makes things easier for us.
So I was tired, and so upset with myself and at losing her, and poor Andy tried to bring up that we needed to seriously talk about debt reduction, and I just started sobbing--a few minutes for Henrietta, a few minutes for money, back and forth, back and forth. I went to sleep and awoke with a puffy face and eyes, the tell-tale emotional hangover.
We're just fine now, and these outbursts are necessary--at least that have been for me for as long as I remember. (One of my favorite stories involved my mom leaving me at my Grandma and Grandpa Kellmanns' house when I was two or three, and I proceeded to lie by the backdoor, kicking and screaming and sobbing for about a half an hour. When I'd finished, I walked into the living room and announced to my grandparents, "I don't know why I do that sometimes." That pretty much sums up me at times.)
So we lost our first hen, and one of our hens turned out to be a rooster, so we're down to seven future layers. My parents have a few too many chicks (Mom hatched them in her classroom), so we'll probably adopt a couple more Barred Rocks in the near future. Andy and Denver dug post holes and placed posts for the chicken yard, so soon that project will be finished (there is not much we don't do backward). Mason and Avy have taken quite well to the invisible fence, so their lives have improved ten-fold--lots of buddying around, running and digging and sleeping. (Yes, a year ago I would have argued that invisible fences are cruel, but that was before we adopted a dog who could climb over 5' fences and jump out barn windows. Another homesteading rule: You just do what you have to do sometimes. Pragmatism trumps idealism.) Seeing them run together, and greeting us when we get home makes me want to cry--the happy kind of tears.
It's been quite a weekend. Many projects are moving forward, but reality sinks in before we get too comfortable. We need to get serious about budgeting and being smarter with our finances. And I really, really need to weed the garden.
Monday, July 5, 2010
A New Year
A year ago today, we went to go look at a house in the country on a whim. This would turn out to be one of the most terrible experiences Andy or I had ever experienced, but it lead us to where we needed to be. (If you're interested, she's still listing it on craigslist!)
I'm no Dickens fan, but this past year has epitomized the whole "best of times, worst of times" dichotomy.
On one hand, we sold a house for a profit, found our dream home, my best friends have gotten married, I've gotten to travel a bit, my garden and our new flock of poultry are doing well, and I got a new, stable position at work.
On the other hand, we discovered how untrustworthy people can be (while losing money in the process), were without our own home for a couple of months, work has been on thin ice at times for both of us, we dealt with some dog medical/emotional emergencies, health problems for those we love, and perennial money problems.
One of my favorite things about teaching is the ability to press a reset button after every new semester and school year--I have an internal calendar that lets me know come May, it's time to turn new leaves for September.
This year, July 5 has been added on to my internal calendar. I fully expect that we will be dealt numerous difficult hands in our time on earth, but I'm looking forward to this next year being one of stability, where we can grow what we've planted and keep building for the future. Just a year and a day ago, we thought moving to the country was a couple of years away. We didn't know how to drywall, lay flooring, paint well, do tile work, build a chicken coop, or raise chickens. We'd never cleaned off a dog who swam in our lagoon, laid awake with a maimed pet, dealt with a mice invasion, asked neighbors to bale our pasture, or administered antibiotics to an ailing chicken. Now we do, and we have.
I'd always heard that the first year of marriage was the hardest, but I didn't find that to be true at all. The first year of living in the country? There you go. I'm finding out new and wonderful facets of my husband every day, but we're both having to grow accustomed to the work load and one another's expectations for this life we've carved. Like all things, we'll figure it out.
I'm pressing the reset button on this blog and my life today.
And perhaps, next July 5, there will be goats.
I think anyone who reads this is on facebook, but in case you aren't, here are a couple of photo albums of what's been going on:
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=160537&id=504008552&l=bad241e00c
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=156705&id=504008552&l=d62715bb8c
I'm no Dickens fan, but this past year has epitomized the whole "best of times, worst of times" dichotomy.
On one hand, we sold a house for a profit, found our dream home, my best friends have gotten married, I've gotten to travel a bit, my garden and our new flock of poultry are doing well, and I got a new, stable position at work.
On the other hand, we discovered how untrustworthy people can be (while losing money in the process), were without our own home for a couple of months, work has been on thin ice at times for both of us, we dealt with some dog medical/emotional emergencies, health problems for those we love, and perennial money problems.
One of my favorite things about teaching is the ability to press a reset button after every new semester and school year--I have an internal calendar that lets me know come May, it's time to turn new leaves for September.
This year, July 5 has been added on to my internal calendar. I fully expect that we will be dealt numerous difficult hands in our time on earth, but I'm looking forward to this next year being one of stability, where we can grow what we've planted and keep building for the future. Just a year and a day ago, we thought moving to the country was a couple of years away. We didn't know how to drywall, lay flooring, paint well, do tile work, build a chicken coop, or raise chickens. We'd never cleaned off a dog who swam in our lagoon, laid awake with a maimed pet, dealt with a mice invasion, asked neighbors to bale our pasture, or administered antibiotics to an ailing chicken. Now we do, and we have.
I'd always heard that the first year of marriage was the hardest, but I didn't find that to be true at all. The first year of living in the country? There you go. I'm finding out new and wonderful facets of my husband every day, but we're both having to grow accustomed to the work load and one another's expectations for this life we've carved. Like all things, we'll figure it out.
I'm pressing the reset button on this blog and my life today.
And perhaps, next July 5, there will be goats.
I think anyone who reads this is on facebook, but in case you aren't, here are a couple of photo albums of what's been going on:
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=160537&id=504008552&l=bad241e00c
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=156705&id=504008552&l=d62715bb8c
Reset
My, five months goes quickly... time to start blogging again in earnest. I hope to switch to a different Web host soon, as I don't love Blogger's photo uploader, but perhaps that's just a terrible excuse for my lack of writing. Let's get back on track, shall we?
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