Life is little more than a game of chance. A fate which affects all living things, flora and fauna alike, including the sometimes rational animals (also known as humans).
The battle for survival is constant and at times exhilarating. Ask any thrill seeker. They will tell you not knowing if they will survive a particular activity is a rush like no other.
Life is about taking chances, going with your gut and seeing where things lead. The choices we make will always have consequences, some good and some unpleasant. Even simple choices such as owning pets bring joy and sorrow into our lives. The joy is the unconditional love they give us. The sorrow comes when they die and leave a hole in our hearts.
Since we moved to The Funny Farm, Hubby’s agrarian roots have resurfaced. His vegetable garden grows bigger each year, yielding more than we can consume. Nearly every day yours truly hauls sacks of produce to share with co-workers. Going for a professional image is impossible when one enters the workplace imitating a beast of burden. Huffing and puffing with multiple heavy bags of vegetables in hand is not a sophisticated look.
Hubby planted different kinds of squash. No, he did not buy separate seed packets that would be too easy. He bought a packet of mixed squash seeds and forgot where he planted them. Squash popped up everywhere and the identity of some required research. For example, what in Hades were those huge honeydew melon-size squash beasts covered in greenish yellow warts, giant warts?
It turns out those warty squash were Hubbard Squash. Instead of the Spaghetti Squash the wife requested, we were overwhelmed by Hubbard, summer and a smattering of other squash types. After the squash fiasco, guess what Hubby did this year? He planted another mixed bag of unknowns.
The thriving garden served to whet his appetite for more farming adventures in the form of chickens. Hubby discovered chickens that laid blue eggs, known as Americauna, and he had to have them. He ordered twenty-five Americauna and Rhode Island Reds.
Since it was winter when the chicks arrived, Hubby put them in a giant metal tub, usually used for watering horses, in our huge storage shed. He added a heat lamp for light and warmth. Every day, Hubby checked on the chicks, feeding and watering them with care.
One day he left the door open and our crazy dog, Spaz, got in the container and slaughtered all but one of the baby chicks. Hubby was too tenderhearted to shoot the dog. Instead, he put Spaz in with the dead chicks to teach him a lesson. The dog did not like that at all and pulled a Houdini. Since then, none of our dogs go into the storage building. Do you suppose Spaz told them about his harrowing experience?
Hubby named the sole survivor, Lucky. Lucky walked with a limp, but he thrived. When a new batch of chicks arrived, Lucky became their mommy/leader. Once the chicks reached teenage-hood, he put them in the chicken coop.
The next morning all the chicks, including Lucky, were dead. The dog had torn a hole in the fence surrounding the chicken coop and killed them. Did that deter Hubby? Nope. He reinforced the fencing around the coop and included an electrified outer fence. Then he ordered twenty-eight more chickens.
But he became impatient and bought a mixed lot of ten from a local supplier and began the process once more. The chicks are thriving and living in their well-secured coop. He has even trained them!
At night, Hubby turns on the light inside the coop, all the chickens marched in, and he closes the door. In the morning, the light goes off; the door opens; and the chickens do their thing in their private yard.
The rest of the chicks will soon arrive, which will bring our flock close to forty. Before long, they will produce around two hundred eggs a week.
Hubby’s father called eggs cackleberries. Thanks to those productive chickens, I now have nightmares of being buried under a mountain of blue, white and brown cackleberries