They're Not Hatched, but I'm Counting Them Anyway

Annabelle's chickens have been ordered, and in just a few weeks the chicks will be here. Since the inspiration of this blog is based on chickens, I thought it would be a worthwhile exercise to share each step of our chicken journey. Because, as my previous post The Little Match Rooster taught us...there is simply a lot about chickens I didn't know so I'm certain I'm not alone.

DISCLAIMER: I am not pretending to be a chicken expert.  Any chicken stories, input, advice, knowledge, etc. that I share is strictly from the point of view of a novice (aka moron) and is by no means instructional.  So if you know more than I do about chickens and raising chickens, please do not get upset with me. If this was an educational blog about chickens who would want to read it? That's no fun.  This is the blog of a woman who has no business doing HALF the things I do...and sharing it with a small group of curious people.

 If anyone reading this blog thinks any of the content is "How To" then they are most definitely in real trouble.

So begins the adventure that will be Annabelle's Chickens...

Let's pretend the first step in chicken ownership is selecting a breed. I do not know if that is really  the first step, but that was OUR first step. I'm guessing smarter people probably decide how many chickens they want and then actually make sure they have a functioning brooder and coop before actually purchasing chickens, but that's not how Bryan and I do things.  So....the first step is selecting a breed.

We knew we wanted laying hens (for eggs), and we wanted brown eggs.  We preferred they also be tasty in the event we have to thin out our flock, and we knew we wanted chickens with a good temperament so Annabelle can play with them (and so they do not peck out my eyes when I feed them which has started to make me a little anxious).  Because we live in Wisconsin, we also needed birds that were cold-hardy.  So after much research in my chicken book, the internet, and our spring edition of Chickens magazine we arrived at two breeds: Buff Orpington and Black Sex Link (or Black Star..or as I call it Black Sexter or as my mom calls it Black Sexy).

Buff Orpington

According to our

hatchery's website: Orpingtons are fluffy, sweet chickens. The Buff is a gorgeous, rich, golden color. Buff Orpingtons are excellent dual purpose chickens, as they will grow to a good, heavy table weight, but are also productive egg layers. You can expect between 175 and 200 eggs per year from one Buff Orpington hen. Orpingtons are known to be docile, sweet birds. Aside from their practical aspects, they make good pets.
Due to their weight, Orpingtons do not tend to be flighty and are easily contained. And, because of their feathering, they can withstand cold weather. There are many reasons for the Orpingtons’ continued popularity, both here and across the world.
Average Mature Weight: 5-8 pounds


Black Sex Link / Black Star

Also from our chicken supplier: Black Sex-Links are produced using a Barred Rock as the mother and Rhode Island Red Males.The Laying ability of this cross is phenomenal, you can expect to see eggs as early as 15 weeks of age. They are planned crosses, which are hardier and more productive than their parents' respective breeds. The Sex Link Hybrid is the result of crossing two purebred standard breeds. This hybrid makes for very vigorous chicks, rugged brown egg laying hens and good cockerel fryers.

So while there is a crazy amount of chicken breeds, we decided on Buff Orpingtons and Black Sexters.  Choosing the breed was the easy part.  You also have to decide if you want them "sexed" or not.

Chicken sexing was a lengthy conversation Bryan and I had  a few months ago in early chicken discussions. I don't really know where to begin with sexing, or how much info on chicken sexing is too much.  Basically determining a chick's gender is called sexing.  Bryan went into great detail how chickens are sexed, and all I will say about that is that it is worth the extra money you have to pay to get the gender of your choice.  So we deiced to get a "straight run" of Black Sex Links which means we get what we get..boys and girls.  I asked Bryan if he has to sex them, and he said no.  He claims that in a few weeks you can tell by looking at them who the boys are and who the girls are. Just add "chicken sexing" to the list of things I never thought I would be talking about.

There are some other things to consider when purchasing chickens.  When you order chicks from hatchery they ship them to you via the US Mail.  There are, of course, places you can purchase live chicks but we found this to have the best selection, best pricing, and best live delivery guarantee.  Now you may be asking yourself  "What's a 'live delivery guarantee?'" and I am here to inform you it is exactly as it sounds.  They guarantee that you will receive 90% of your order...alive. I hope Mrs. Church is reading this because not only did she have a number of chicken questions, we are about to get into a serious mathematical equation and since she was my 6th grade math teacher, I will need her to check my math.

We ordered 27 chickens.  The hatchery guarantees 90% of our order will arrive alive.  10% of 27 = 2.7.   That means if more than 2.7 chickens are D.O.A., we get a refund for the dead chicks. Right? WRONG.  It is a LIVE delivery guarantee.  So you have to count the number of live chickens you receive. As it turns out, they toss in a few extra chicks expecting that some will not survive the trip. So you have to count the number of live chickens you have, because you are actually getting more chickens than you ordered.  So, let's start again.  

We ordered 27 chickens. 90% of our order will arrive alive. That means we need to have 24.3 chickens alive in the box when it arrives.  What I would like to know is how do I determine if .7 of a chicken is living or dead?  If only 24 are alive, doesn't that mean that I am entitled to a refund of .7 of a chicken?  I don't know.

Really all of this math is irrelevant because what it means is that in a a couple of weeks there is a good chance I will come home to a box containing up to 2.7 dead chickens in it and that is moderately disturbing.  Sadly, I am learning this is all part of "farm living."  27 chickens is a lot of chickens (and most assuredly a lot of eggs), but Bryan is planning for a 30% mortality rate.  We expect some to perish in our homemade brooder due to chick disease (of which there are plenty), the cold weather may take a rooster (or at least part of their combs), and while I am embarrassed to admit it...we expect Milton to be responsible for some chicken deaths as well. Obviously every effort will be made to prevent such a massacre but...well...it's Milton. What can I say?

I spent a good portion of my evening last night reading up on chick care and how to properly raise your chicks (Bryan has extensive chicken knowledge,but I feel I should be educated as well) and I am still convinced that caring for an infant is easier than caring for a puppy or chickens.  Milton was far more challenging than Annabelle is, and now these chicks seem to require a great deal of care and attention.  For example, did you know that when you approach your brooder full of chicks you shouldn't approach from the top???  This is how predators swoop down on baby birds, so it is traumatic to baby chicks for me to come stomping in from above.  Stress is responsible for many chick deaths.  According to my chicken book the "polite" thing to do when approaching your brooder is to sing or hum to let them know you are coming.  These are things I did not count on when I suggested we get chickens.

 When I expressed my concerns to Bryan about our ability to properly care for these chicks for 4-5 weeks his response was "Honey, it's not that big of a deal. Chicks are really loud though, they're going to drive you nuts."  Apparently he thinks I am going to be bothered by the noise chicks make. What kind of monster is bothered by the sweet chirping and cheeping of baby chicks???  It's not like they're going to be in the bed with us. It certainly cannot  be worse than Milton's toenails scrambling across the floor when Bryan puts his boots on. And for someone who has to construct both a brooder AND an entire chicken coop this weekend, he is being awfully cavalier about the responsibility of owning chickens.

I told Bryan we need to go on a vacation because I am SO excited about these damn chickens it is all I can think about. Last night we had a beer to celebrate "Chicken Order Day" and it has been all I've been able to think or talk about (aside from Annabelle's teething which only permitted 4 hours of sleep last night, that has crossed my mind a time or two as well). That reminds me...if we go on vacation we now need someone to fill the woodstove, take care of the dogs, and now...feed the chickens. Crap. I really didn't think this through.  At any rate, I am so excited for our chickens to arrive.  And I can't lie, I get slightly emotional when I think that spring is just around the corner and we've already ordered the chicks. It seems like it was just a couple days ago when I was on maternity leave (God, I miss being on maternity leave), sitting in my brand new kitchen, surrounded by boxes, while preparing for Thanksgiving dinner and planning for Annabelle's Chickens.  She's almost 6 months old already and the chickens will be here soon. I can't believe it. I'm so excited for eggs and I'm excited to hear our very own roosters crowing in the morning.

But...always remember what my Grandma DeSalvo said about roosters, you have to watch out because they have those hard little peckers.

Annabelle's Avocado Plant - Day 9

Orange you glad I didn't say Avocado?

Clearly I have been unable to keep up with the demands of life and my blossoming writing career this week. In an attempt to make up for it, I am hoping to post twice today. Once during morning coffee, and once before bed. The second post will be dependent upon my ability to remain awake past 9:00pm. I don't want to combine the happenings of the last two weeks with the weekend outings and fun because, well... how much longer can these posts get before people lose interest completely?

Illness visited the farm over the last two weeks. Annabelle got her first cold, which I think we all handled very well. There was some confusion in the wee hours of the morning two Saturdays ago as to whether or not she had a fever.  I have decided that my thoughts on taking a baby's temperature are very similar to my thoughts on laundering, folding, storing, and putting on of baby socks.  The whole process needs improvement and accuracy is often sacrificed for my own sanity.

While I was certain Annabelle had a fever, I later realized the 101.3 temperature I believed she had was most likely due to operator error and was probably the reading from MY temperature from my last week of pregnancy.  Either way, a little Children's Tylenol wasn't going to kill her.  All I know is that there are many ways to take a baby's temperature but there is then a series of complicated to mathematical equations to arrive at her "true temperature."  So we put all the thermometers away and decided she had a cold and would most likely live.

Unfortunately Annabelle shared her cold with Bryan and I. Poor Bryan.  Since I have known Bryan, he has almost never gotten sick.  And after Annabelle and I joined him out here on the farm, he's been sick frequently.  I told him that Annabelle and I are like the Europeans discovering the New World and introducing disease to the American Indians.

Annabelle's cold lingered for about a week and a half. She does seem to be more aware of the world around her now. Annabelle HATES having her nose and face wiped.  The most traumatic part of her cold for her was having me constantly running after her with a Kleenex or washcloth to wipe her nose and face. She would scream and behave as though I was wiping her face with a gasoline-soaked rag.  So when I would blow my nose she would stare at me in utter amazement of the fact that I was not only tolerating the Kleenex on my face, but that I seemed relieved it was there.  Let the life lessons begin for Annabelle.

Along the lines of sickness, Bryan and I took ill as well. On top of our horrible colds, last Sunday we were the victims of food-poisoning.  Now I am told there is also a stomach flu circulating, and I suppose it is possible that was our affliction.  All I know is that last Sunday night Bryan made a wonderful dinner of grilled salmon, grilled asparagus, and wild rice. One hour and forty three minutes after finishing our dinner Bryan looked over at me and said "You look purple. Are you okay?" and I said "Well...I think so." knowing that I did NOT feel okay but did not want to hurt his feelings.  And then he asked again and I admitted that I did not feel so great and Bryan said "Neither do I." Two hours after that conversation that we were both scrambling for the one bathroom in our home...which is where both of us spend the next 12-16 hours. And after all of the violence of our illness ended we were left weak and dehydrated, unable to move...taking turns moaning and caring for our sweet Annabelle who remained unaffected by whatever was slowly killing her parents.

What no one tells you when you have a baby is that when you are sick you still have to take care of your baby. She will not go lay quietly in her room and read a novel while you lie on the bathroom floor begging your loved one to go get the .45 and put you out of your misery.

Another thing no one tells you is that when you are sick and the very idea of food makes you scramble for the bathroom (insert dog toenails on hardwood floor sound here) to heave into the toilet until your eyes are black and blue, you still have to feed your baby pureed Rutabagas.  I am lucky to have Bryan, he is much better in combat than I am, and he fed Annabelle her breakfast in the morning when we were still the the throws of the illness.  Later though, when it was my turn, and I grabbed that little frozen cube of Rutabaga..it took 3 seconds for me to say "No Rutabagas tonight, Annabelle. You're getting Pears."

I was  not so lucky either when I drew the short straw and had to go the nearest grocery store when we ran out of baby formula that night. I got in my car after spending hours throwing up, not bathing, no food or water for over 15 hours and drove my vehicle, delirious, to the nearest grocery store to get baby formula.  I pointed out to Bryan that if we lived in the city  the CVS pharmacy was 4 blocks away and I had friends that lived within minutes who would have helped us.  He wasn't interested in this information...and I still had to go to the store. Once I got to the store I had to go to the service counter where they keep the formula locked up. By the time I figured this out (actually I didn't figure out until after I grabbed a young stock boy by the elbow and sputtered "Baby Formula?" and he shakily pointed to the counter) I had passed the deli twice and was now dripping with sweat trying to keep myself from gagging and heaving while I asked for one can of formula.

When the manager handed it to me slowly, mostly likely trying to ascertain if I was a heroin addict attempting to steal formula to sell on the streets for drug money, I realized that Bryan bought the fish at this store.  So there I stood, dripping with sweat, braless, stinking of sick and God knows what else, in an orange sweatshirt that said CLINTONVILLE with the neck cut out of it (ala Flashdance), black yoga pants, Ugg slippers, and for good measure...fingerless gloves.  "Excuse me, I think you should know I look like this because my husband and I got food poisoning from salmon we bought from your store 2 nights ago."  The narration was met with a blank stare and silence.  This shrewd businesswoman was employing a sales tactic I learned early in my career.  Silence. People will always want to fill silence, so what did I do ? I kept talking.  "I mean, I think you should probably go check what is left and make sure no on else gets sick."  The woman smiled and said "Well I've never heard of such a  thing, what did you put it in?"  I couldn't begin to understand what she was talking about. "The Grill," I was incredulous, "We put it on the grill."  and she was still confused "But what did you cook it in?"  I lost my patience at this point. I was sick, sweating, and fed up with this country bumpkin not knowing what grilled salmon was. "Salmon. Grilled Salmon. Haven't you ever heard of grilled salmon?" I snapped.  She smiled and started giggling, "Oh, I thought you said CINNAMON."  it was at that point I sighed, took my receipt and my can of formula and left the Piggly Wiggly so I could return home to the couch.

The next day I was still unable to function normally and still hadn't eaten. But on the counter I had 3 ripened Avocados that was intended for Annabelle's dinner that day.  I personally do not care for avocados, or guacamole.  But I have made it my mission to make sure Annabelle tries a wide variety of fruits and vegetables, especially ones I don't like.  And avacados have a number of health benefits. 

Since I don't like them, I have no idea how to prepare them or what they are supposed to look like.  We tried to make her avacados a few days earlier and could barely cut it open, nor could we we mash it with a fork which everyone said you could do.  I did some googling and still couldn't figure out what the hell this thing was supposed to look like.  So, thankfully, I have a good friend and coworker who I knew would not make fun of me for being avocado-stupid.  And I still give myself credit for not just chucking it in the garbage and saying she didn't need avacados.  I packed it up along wit a knife and a container and brought my avocado to work.  I left it on the desk of a coworker and sent her an email that simply said "When you have time..."

She immediately informed me that my avocado was nowhere near ripe and that I needed to put it in a paper bag on the counter for a few days. I told her I had been keeping them in the fridge and she said they are like bananas and they won't ripen in the fridge.  I explained that I had these avocados in my possession for two weeks already and couldn't believe it wasn't ripe yet. I also couldn't believe that as a grown woman with a college education and a baby and had no idea what a ripe Avocado was supposed to look like.

As an interesting side note, the next day Bryan and I happened to watch an episode of "Good Eats" called  Apple Family Values which was all about apples.  We learned that apples give off more gas (pectin) than other fruits, so if you ever want to quickly ripen your other fruits or vegetables, you just place them in a bag with an apple, or place them near and apple and they will speed ripen.  And as it turns out...it works and the avocados were ripe...just in time for me to prepare them while recovering from food poisoning.

Basically, I attempted to fork mash the avocados in advance, early in the morning so they would be ready for Annabelle's dinner that night.  Had I been able to add a little formula (or breastmilk) to them I think things would have been ok.  But I couldn't do that in advance, so I decided to puree the avocados in the blender like I do with her other foods and then just store them in the fridge. 

I happen to have a high-end commercial grade blender.  It cost more than one of my car payments and I purchased it from QVC while I was 8 months pregnant and hormonal deciding it would be the perfect appliance to make her babyfood with. As it turns out, I was right, but this blender is very loud and scary and sounds like a fighter plane landing in the kitchen.  I scraped the avocados in and switched it on...only to watch it fling the 3 avocados to the sides of the blender.  To remedy this problem I added liquid. I used some of the steamer water from the peaches I just made for her.  It seemed to help, so I continued to add more liquid.  By the time I was done and satisfied with the consistency of these avocados, I had successfully made avocado whipped topping for Annabelle.  I have no idea what happened, but these 3 avocados were the consistency of cool whip when I was done.

Again, I do not care for avacado.  And while they do not have a particularly strong fragrance, there is something very wrong about seeing them in cool whip form.  I grabbed a spatula and started to scrape them into her little containers and felt the bile start to rise in my throat.  "You can do this." I told myself.  I was determined that Annabelle will like all the foods I do not like.   But I was not convinced a whipped avocados were a good first food for Annabelle.  I decided I would let her daddy decide when he got home.  if he couldn't stomach them, well then they would go in the garbage chalked up to another lesson I learned that week.

When Bryan surveyed the avocado whip he determined the constinacey was probably not ideal for her new little mouth just yet. But of course, me being me, I left them in the fridge just in case. I learned that avocados are similar to bananas in two ways, they need to be left out to ripen...and they will turn brown if you leave them out too long.  Needless to say Annabelle did not get to try her avacados last week, and it will be a while before I try them again.

Before I leave you with you I will share one more positive outcome of the avacado and two weeks of sickness.  My friend and coworker who helped me understand how avocados work told me that when she was in college she and her roommate would use the avocado pit to grow a plant.  I was disappointed to learn that they will not in fact yield and avacado, but it will grow a nice plant.  So that is exactly what I decided to do.  I'm not a plant person and I'm not an avacado person, but here is day one of Annabelle's avocado plant.

Day 1

When Good Cows Go Bad: Tales of Winter Boredom

It's been a busy week.  The activities and corresponding exhaustion have been endless.  We've been very lucky for a number for a number of reasons, mostly for an unseasonably warm winter here in Wisconsin.  I love that it has been 45-50 degrees and I don't care if the impending apocalypse is causing this climate change, I will sign up for 45 degree winters any day. 

I have learned this week what types of things I can do to entertain guests out here in the country.  I am hoping the warmer spring and summer months will attract more visitors, but I am fortunate enough to have a small handful of friends who wanted to make the trip out here in the winter. Last weekend my best friend Emily and her fiance Barry came to visit for the weekend.  Luckily they are easy to please and were not at all bothered by the random activities we planned. Friday night we simply grilled pizzas and the boys watched Emily and I drink two bottles of wine, easily the most alcohol I have consumed in the last year.   Daytime activities proved to be more of a challenge.

Emily and I bundled Annabelle up and took her in the stroller to the outlet mall to do a little walking and shopping.  Upon returning we learned the boys had the guns out and were shooting clay pigeons.  Not one to be left out of the action, I was given my chance to shoot as well.  For those who are not a fan of firearms, I believe it would be irresponsible for me to live in a house where weapons are kept and to not understand how they operate and how to use them.  That is a component of responsible gun ownership, which I support...obviously.

So after Annabelle went down for her afternoon nap Emily, Barry, and Bryan watched me do a little target shooting. Someone asked me if it bothered me that I revealed so much in my blog about our personal life, and aren't I worried about someone knowing where we live and so much about us? The answer is no.  Because, as it turns out, I am a very good shot with the .45.

Though hard to see, I did hit my target
almost dead center.

Emily chose not to take a turn, but was a good enough friend to stick around to see what kind of skills I have. Doesn't everyone do this when they have friends come visit for the weekend?

Saturday night we decided to go out to dinner, something Bryan and I rarely do now that we have Annabelle.  Our choices for dining are limited not only because of where we live, but the radius we are willing to ravel when we leave Annabelle with someone.  The place we chose seemed fine, however their nightly special seemed very bizarre, and I was alarmed when Barry ordered it.  It was an 18 ounce Chipotle Rubbed Prime Rib, with Pear Chutney and a port wine sauce.  That is a lot happening to a Prime Rib, which historically stands alone.  I was even more concerned when I discovered my Fillet Mignon had barbecue sauce on it.  I mean, that's simply not done.  Perhaps this is why when we returned home at 9:30, instead of playing board games, we all retired to bed.  Welcome to being a grown up.  I think regardless of the entertainment (or lack of) we had a nice visit and I was happy to see my friends.

Tuesday brought its own measure of excitement.  While getting ready for a work at 5:15a.m. I was certain I smelled skunk while I was in the bathroom. I chose to ignore it because anytime I think I smell something in this house, its better to ignore than task where it originates from.   And quite honestly, how much can you really care about something at five o'clock in the morning?   But while I was upstairs getting Annabelle dressed Bryan called up the stairs "Do you smell skunk?"  and I had no choice but to admit the truth.  I didn't need to wait for Bryan to go outside and investigate to know where the smell was coming from. That's right...the smell was coming from Milton.  Milton had been outside for less than 5                     minutes before locating and getting sprayed by a skunk.  I did what I do best. I finished getting ready kissed Bryan goodbye and said "I'm sure you'll have that taken care of before I get home, right?"  and he said yes.

In my defense I did assist with Milton's Silkwood Shower.  In case any of your pets ever get sprayed by a skunk, don't jump for the Tomato juice.  It doesn't work.  The recipe for skunk smell removal is  1 quart hydrogen peroxide, 1 cup baking soda, and 1 teaspoon liquid dish soap combined in an mixed open container.  Apply liberally to your sad sack of a dog who LOVES to swim in muddy retention ponds and creeks, but will do anything to escape the bathtub.  The only negative aspect to the de-skunking solution is that you can't get it in the dog's eyes, so you can't apply it to his face.  And I'm sure Milton was nose deep in that skunk when he sprayed, so we're just patiently waiting for the smell to wear off his face in good time.

I was also fortunate that this Friday a good friend of mine wanted to drive the 60 miles outside of the city on a Friday night to visit Annabelle, Bryan, and I when I'm sure there were a number of better ways she could have spent her time.  Because it was going to be dark when she drove out here I was very concerned about her getting lost.  If only there was some large landmark I could have given her to help find the house...

Oh wait! I do have one. A giant poo-covered semi! Why didn't I think of that?  Perhaps that will help narrow down which house is ours.  I supposed I need to quit getting anxious about various pieces of farm equipment, machinery, and vehicles in the yard. That's going to just be a part of life.  And there could be worse things to have in one's front yard. I once found a condom (I did not get close enough to investigate if it was new or used) in my yard in Milwaukee, so perhaps I should just count my blessings.

My visit with my friend on Friday night was fun, a much needed "girls night" for me as they are now somewhat sparse.  I do feel bad for her because while my night consisted of beer, wine, snacks, and girl talk, I have a feeling hers consisted of drinking in moderation, watching "Dance Moms" and "Toddlers & Tiaras" while trying to look the other way while I clumsily nursed Annabelle with a blanket over us that Annabelle repeatedly just pulled off me.  And the evening was rounded out by watching Bryan and I fall asleep on the couch at 10:30.  She's a good friend.

Yesterday brought another day of gorgeous weather so I couldn't just sit in the house another moment. I bundled Annabelle up, snapped her securely (or somewhat securely) into the stroller and decided to take our first walk in the country since moving out here.  I decided to head to the north because I drive to the south every day and wanted a change of scenery.  I was so excited.  Annabelle was getting fresh air and sunshine and I was doing some much needed physical activity and personal reflection. 

Now I debated whether or not to share this story, because it does somewhat diminish me as a hearty country woman.  It makes me seem very citified...and stupid. My mother and sister and both attest to the fact that I literally grew up with cows in our backyard, so I have no idea  why I reacted in such a way.

To begin, while walking on a road with no sidewalk and no shoulder, you need to walk in the road but facing oncoming traffic to prevent getting run over by farm implements (or cars).  For some reason I could not for the life of me figure out which side I was supposed to be walking on!  It was as though if I wasn't in a car I had no idea which side of the road traffic was supposed to be on.  So basically I ran a zigzag pattern back and forth and waited for a car to come by to help me figure out where to walk.

Annabelle and I walked about a half mile down the road when I decided she would love to look at the cows in the pasture.  I saw that there were two cows by the fenceline so Annabelle and I walked toward the fenceline so I could show her.  She had by this time fallen asleep so it was somewhat pointless. But I still went through the motions "Look Annabelle, do you see the cows? What do cows say? Moo.  That's right, Moo."  I heard myself acting like an idiot, but I'm learning that's what parenting is. Just acting like an idiot each and every day hoping the law of averages allows you to occasionally get something right. 

Now perhaps I was shouting because I had my iPod on and maybe that is what set her off.  But while I was talking I realized that one of the cows was aggressively approaching the fence.  I stopped talking and could hear my heart pounding in my chest as I found myself face to face with this grizzly beast:

After snapping this picture I found myself paralyzed with fear. Every time I took a step, she took a step. And I realized that I had now challenged her by looking her in the eye.  I started to walk a little faster and she ran toward the fence. I was trying to think of ways I could prevent Annabelle from being trampled when this cow decided to charge us.  I kept walking and tried to remember anything I learned from Steve Irwin when he was challenged by a Croc.  I could remember nothing, and could feel the adrenaline coursing through my heart.  I quickened my pace only to see (out of the corner of my eye) that the cow was GALLOPING toward the fence. I thought about running but was afraid it would spook the cow and, well...let's be serious, I am not much of a runner and it would most likely result in further incident.  

I did a u-turn and crossed the road and debated yelling for Bryan.  But we were a half a mile from the house and he was most likely running machinery and would be unable to hear my cries for help.  The cow also turned around and followed us back the way we came from.  I kept walking and waiting for her to break through the wire fencing and trample me me to death, certain I could fling annabelle into the weeds, hopefully sparing her young life.

As the cow got to the end of the pasture she lost interested and returned up the hill to the barn. I walked quickly back to the house where I had to explain to Bryan why I had returned after only being gone a short time.  To his credit, he did not laugh at me immediately when I explained that Annabelle and I had been charged by a cow.  He didn't even try to convince me that I was stupid or over-dramatized the events.  He very kindly said that she was curious, and perhaps she had just had a calf because they do get protective when they have calves. 

The conversation quickly got stupid because I told him I was upset that I was scared of a cow, so he asked me if I wanted to bring the gun with next time.  I said no because I needed a license, to which he replied "you need a license to shoot a cow?" and then he slowly started to make fun of me.  We agreed that I would simply have to try it again, perhaps when I didn't have Annabelle with and could maybe keep my wits about me.

The only downside of this week is that Bryan claims to have woken up this morning with no ability to hear out of his left ear.  While I want badly to feel sorry for him, it is mostly just annoying me. He now has an excuse to ignore me and pretend he did not hear.  He also has said that if his hearing isn't better tomorrow he wants to be put down, which is very possible now that I know how to safely and effectively operate the .45. He also has the lost the ability to control the volume of his own voice and keeps shouting things like "A German grenade went off right here."  and then points to his ear, or he plugs the good ear and yells "Nothing. I can't hear anything."  This may be his last day on Earth.

Other than being charged by a cow, and Bryan's recent disability, I think it was a good week. As usual all these events just remind me to be thankful.  I'm thankful to my friends who still want be my friend despite my present geographical restrictions, and I'm thankful to Bryan who not only wants to keep his family safe (from intruders and Holsteins alike), but is also willing to put up with my daily antics.

I am also thankful for owning a mop and broom as the warm winter also means perpetually muddy dogs.



Commutisms: In the beginning there was...

Yesterday morning on my drive to work I did a little bit of math.  I thought perhaps we could all benefit from this math lesson.

 My commute to work is 60 miles each way.  That is 120 miles a day.  If you are a math whiz like me you will quickly figure out that I drive 600 miles a week.  The math spiraled out of control after that:
600 miles a week  x 52 weeks in a year = 31,200 miles driven to work per year - 4 weeks of vacation (2400 miles) = 28,800 miles I will drive this year.

Here are some places I would much rather drive to if I was forced to put 28,800 miles on my car each year:

• Walt Disney World once a month except in August, when it is too hot so I just stay home and look at my pictures from the previous eleven trips this year
• Charleston, SC fourteen times a year to eat shrimp and pretend I am a southern belle
• My parents' house 6.6 times a month so Annabelle could spend time with her Nana and Poppy
• And if it wasn't for the pesky little problem of being unable to navigate my vehicle across the ocean, Athens, Greece and back....twice a year
• And because I love sea creatures so much, the Shedd Aquarium 13 times a month, to perhaps get a part time job there feeding the squids

I'm guessing I lost a few readers somewhere in the math, not because it was too complicated, but because it appears this post is devoted exclusively to my complaining about my commute.  It's not.  But I will complain about my commute often.  The point, I think,  is that all those miles on my car also equate to two hours a day spent in the car. Two hours a day spent in the car equals a lot of time on my hands to think about things.  So to I have decided that any post that is conjured up by my brain in the car will go under the label of "Commutisms."  There is so much that goes through my brain in the car I'm sure I would be doing everyone a dis-service if I kept it all to myself.

Today's Commutism is brought to you by Pregnancy.

While driving I was thinking about Annabelle, as I often do, and how quickly the last four months have flown by.  Many people have already asked when we will have our "second." And now that Annabelle is all grown up and on a steady diet of formula, breastmilk, cereal, and dog hair...I have to confess, the thought has occurred to me as well.   And I don't have an answer to that, but I do know two things:  1. The grown up time Bryan and I have is limited.  Not because of Annabelle, but because any attempt at grown up time is usually interrupted by one of us saying "Do you smell that? I think Milton farted"  and  2. I don't believe I am ready to be pregnant again just yet.  While I love being a mama, I did not particularly enjoy all aspects of pregnancy.

While pregnant I specifically remember more than one person saying to me "Just wait until you feel your baby move. That is the best part of being pregnant."   It is?  I couldn't wait! Because until those kind people clued me in to that very exclusive info I thought that feeling as though I had the worst hangover of my life for 3 solid months was going to be my favorite part. 

Please do not misunderstand me, I am not at all complaining about being pregnant. It would be not only insensitive to do so, but it would be completely inaccurate. I am simply saying that I am not running out tonight to sign up for another tour of duty.  If I happen to get drafted, well then I will bravely and proudly fight for my country. And who knows, after some rehab I may be ready to sign up again. For now, I'm just enjoying Annabelle.

So if you ask me when we're having a "second" my response will be: Whenever the dog stops farting and I feel like being pregnant again. 

While driving, my mind drifted back to all the pros and cons of pregnancy and I remembered one of the highlights from early on. People who have been pregnant love to share their war stories to newly pregnant people.  But armed with all the knowledge of battle people shared with me, I was not prepared for my first brush with pregnancy-related humiliation.  I remember it vividly and at the time the event occurred I emailed the account of the incident to my mom and sister.  That was back when I foolishly believed I would still be allowed to cling to some shred of dignity while pregnant.  Luckily, that email is still in my sent file, so I can share this little anecdote with the 6 people who read this blog.  I suppose this technically may fall under the category of TMI, but as far as pregnancy stories goes...strangers on the street have told me far worse when I was actually pregnant.  This is very tame.

This email was sent to my mom and sister in March of 2011.  I hope you enjoy it.


To begin with, they screwed up my appointment and I had to drive to the Franklin office, only to be told they booked my appointment with the wrong doctor and I had to turn around and go back to West Allis, because that's where my doctor was today. I didn't really mind, except for the fact that I had to pee really really bad, because that's the first thing you do at the baby doctor...give them some pee.

When I got to West Allis they asked me to go ahead and leave a sample. I find that OB doctors and nurses are very casual about urine.  It's a pretty laid back process.

you go into the bathroom and they have all the "supplies" in there.  You grab a plastic cup and a sharpie and write your name on the cup (I used to do this at frat parties too, but you'll be glad to know the cup was never filled with pee).  I personally like to add a smiley face under my name just to brighten the day of the person handling my pee.

so I performed my task as requested and then opened the little metal door in the wall, only to learn that it is a SPRING-LOADED door so it is NOT the kind of door you can open and let go of and expect it to remain open.  I learned this the hard way...

so I half-opened the pee-depository door only to have it slam shut onto my hand- the hand holding the pee-cup. this sent my cup of pee somersaulting through the air with the ease and grace of a 15 year old Romanian girl.  So it's not like I just "spilled" the cup of pee...the cup flipped around sending my urine all over the pee-box, the wall, the door, the garbage can, the floor...and I'm sorry to say...my hands and clothes.

As soon as I felt the door hit my hand I yelled out in that low, growly, slow-motion voice you seen in movies while I watched my cup of pee fly.

The good thing (if there is a good thing about flinging your own urine all over a bathroom) is that it landed right side up in the garbage and there was some left in the cup so I just left it in the pee-depository just in case. And the nurse was really very nice about it when i told her what happened.

Choose Your Column: Analyzing Units of Measure

So I woke up bright and early this morning and came down to the kitchen to make the coffee (I hate making the coffee).  And I looked at the temperature and saw that it was 14 degrees and looked out the window to make sure Bryan plugged his truck in, and it occurred to me that my definition of "normal" has dramatically changed.

Bryan's truck needs to be plugged in because it has a block warmer.  I don't really understand why, or how it works.  His truck is not brand new, but was made after the year 2000 so one would think that someone would have improved diesel engine technology at some point, but when I ask questions, the answers I get cause my eyes to glaze over and remind me of why I didn't really care in the first place. And I've already explained that our home is heated by wood, and that we have two dogs.  So let's look at this equation:   a truck that must be plugged into an outlet  +  a home that is heated by a woodstove that must be "stoked" daily  +  two dogs  =  it is almost impossible to travel as a family in winter.

From what I have gathered MOST people who have an outdoor woodburner to heat their home also have a backup furnace in their house that runs on electricity.  But in case it has not been made painfully clear at this point, we are not most people. I used to be "most people" but my relationship with Bryan and my move to the country has moved me into the "not most people" column of the worksheet. Want to know what happened to our furnace?  Refer back to Little House on the Scrapyard.  We took it to the scrapyard for cash.  At some point during the household construction and remodeling I did question Bryan about a backup method of heating the house, and I don't remember what the answer was.  But obviously the answer was NOT "we'll have an electric furnace in the basement."  

So when we plan winter activities, this must be considered.  We now have to find someone who is willing to not only watch 2 dogs, but willing to drive to our rural residence which is an hour from anything that I would classify as fun or cool, and about twenty-five minutes from any food our fuel source (though this problem will be solved when we get Annabelle's chickens in the spring), but they must also be able to fill the woodstove 1-2 times per day depending on the temperature.

What makes this even more challenging is that all of our firewood was cut by Bryan. So we are not dealing with a cute little Martha Stewart armload of firewood here. We are dealing with TREE TRUNKS. I have yet to be put in the position of filling the woodstove, and I am certain I cannot lift any of the wood that Bryan cut.  I certainly hope it will not be a problem when Bryan returns home to find that I have filled the woodstove with used Kleenex. So it is becoming clear to me that we have to find someone willing to help us out if we want to travel together as a family unit in the winter.  And  what would the add to find such a person say?  Wanted: Reliable non-smoker with own transportation to house-sit in the country.  Must love dogs.  Must be able to lift 50 pounds.  And I suppose I need to be sure whatever poor soul who would want to do this for us has not read my blog.  I doubt people will be lining up to dogsit for a dog who throws up deer parts in our bed.

The journey from being "most people" to  "not most people" is a slow and gradual excursion, sometimes you don't even realize you've made the trip. Bryan, for example, made the trip over to the "not most people" column around the age of 3.  He doesn't even know he's in a different column.  Very often when Bryan and I are having a conversation and he counters one of my points with a statement that begins with "yeah, but I..." or even a "When I.." I immediately have to stop him and say "You are not the measuring stick."  It's not that I am eager to discount his opinion, it's simply that he lives by a different unit of measure than the rest of the planet.  But Bryan's world of logic and normal is perfect for those in the "not most people" column.

Before we were together Bryan knocked out one of his teeth. When I asked him how it happened (on our second first date) he said "Oh it was raining and I slipped on some cats."  See? Perfectly logical. He did not feel that statement required any further clarification or elaboration.  Most people would require more details attached to that story. Because this was our second first date (our first first date occurred approximately thirteen years ago) I was still living blissfully in the "most people" column and did have to ask for further explanation and was still left puzzled.  But now I reside in the "not most people" column and I have come to understand that there is always a barn cat hanging out at every entrance of this home, and they are a trip hazard.  And when it is raining they will pile up together on our front stairs under the overhang, and they really don't care if you need to use the stairs or not.  So it makes perfect sense to me that he slipped on some cats in the rain.  This is now my normal.


Last summer when Bryan and I were planning a trip to South Carolina he informed me that he wasn't going to wear sandals or swimming trunks.  The horror of being on a beach with a grown man wearing workboots and cutoff jean shorts was too much for my brain to process. His refusal to ever even be within 3 feet of a flip flop surprised me. Who hates flip flops?  But I thought my acceptance of his flip flop hatred was a fair compromise. I was wrong.  He was adamant that he would not wear a sandal of any kind.  I also was struggling with his boycott of swimwear. He didn't understand why he couldn't wear a workboot on the beach, and I didn't understand why he would want to.  So a large portion of my days were spent scouring the internet for some sort of woorkboot-based sandal, and men's swimwear that was not made of a "slippery, silky" material.  I never found something acceptable to him and we never reached agreement.  Unfortunately our beach trip was canceled because I decided it wouldn't be much fun to kayak in South Carolina in the July heat while i was seven months pregnant (when in actuality I called it off because I refuse to be seen on a beach with a man wearing workboots).  These types of conversations are my normal.  A special note to Bryan: do not confuse the issue.  The conversation is my normal...WORKBOOTS ON THE BEACH ARE NOT NORMAL BY ANYONE'S STANDARD AND NEVER WILL BE. Remember, you are not the measuring stick.

In fact I took a break from writing this just now to do some dishes. There was a frying pan with a spatula left on the stove. I picked up the spatula to find it had some sort of yellowish cement-like substance on it and I asked  Bryan "what did you use this for?" and he said "fried corn pies."  So I shrugged and took it over to the sink to begin chiseling at the spatula.  Most people would have responded with "What is a fried corn pie?"  and maybe "When did you make these?" and perhaps even taken it a step further and asked "Why is a 'fried corn pie' the consistency of concrete?" But we are not most people so I simply shrugged and walked away, never again wondering or caring what Bryan's definition of corn fried pies might be.

And workboots on the beach and "fried corn pies" in winter aren't the only indicators of which column we're in.  Since our home has been and will continue to be under perpetual construction, and after our trip to the scrapyard, I didn't even bat an eye that this is now a fixture in our front yard.

This is now my normal.

I know that use of the term "normal" is taboo and excludes people.  But I spend a lot of time identifying and defining normal.  And it was not until this morning when I started to think back upon the last couple of years of my life that it occurred to me that I had drifted into the other column. The shift was imperceptible to me, but noticeable to those close to me.  Slowly over time my social activities started to evolve from going to a Brewer game into moving firewood. Nights out at the bar with friends shifted into evenings at home watching the burn pile blaze and setting off fireworks.  Going to the movies is now a second choice to a trip to the scrapyard.  I am in the "not most people" column...and I never saw it coming.

If you would have asked me three years ago what my definition of fun was, what my definition of important was, and what my definition of normal was...it was very different than what it is today. 

This is my normal. 

A Dog By Any Other Name...

The other night Bryan, Annabelle, and I were enjoying some quality family time together in our living room. I was having a rough night to begin with, as I appear to be suffering some PTSD on a daily basis as a result of placing Annabelle in daycare each day.

The three of us were on the couch enjoying Annabelle’s latest trick, screeching like a wounded Pterodactyl. She does not screech because she is fussy or unhappy, she screeches because she has just recently learned that this is super fun and this unbelievably LOUD, high-pitched noise comes right out of her very own little throat! What could be more fun than that? Bryan called them “Creature Noises.”

So Bryan and I were discussing these new sounds and trying to predict how long they may last when our attention turned to the dogs. Milton was lying on the floor in front of us and Bernie was curled up under Bryan’s desk in our guest room. Bryan confessed to me that earlier in the day he had been petting Milton and whispered to Milton that he may like him more than he likes Bernie. He was afraid that Bernie heard this comment and was now depressed.



I said that it was a ridiculous statement because eve n though Milton is “my” dog, Bernie is hands down a much better dog than Milton. I don’t even know where I would begin if I wanted to create list of reasons why, but he is definitely the better dog. I think the overall reason is that Bernie is a more empathetic and sensitive dog. Last night I was feeling a little blue, and I just know that if Bernie had thumbs, he would have fixed me a drink and brought me a handkerchief to dry my tears. Milton, on the other hand, would have just said “Is dinner ready yet? What are we having?” Bernie cares more about my feelings than Milton does.



While I was contemplating which dog I loved most, Bryan called Bernie over. Bernie did not move. Bryan called him again and he didn’t move. Bryan said “come on, let’s go” and nothing. Then he said “Get in the truck,” and nothing. It was at that point that I feared the worst. I could tell Bryan thought the same thing I did. We sat there not breathing believing that on the very day bryan told Milton he was his favorite, Bernie died. And he died believing he wasn’t loved anymore. I, already on the verge of an emotional Tsunami, began to panic while I clutched Annabelle close. Bryan got up and went to go look at Bernie. We really were certain Bernie had died of what I would most likely state for years to come was a broken heart.



Fear not. Thankfully, Bernie was not dead, he was just pissed at us apparently and didn’t feel like getting up, moving, or letting us see that he was breathing. So it turned out to be a good night after all.



But it occurred to me this same thing happened very recently with Milton just before Christmas. When Milton is asleep on the floor, you cannot see his little doggy body move when he’s breathing, at all. We were eating dinner and the exact same thing happened. We called his name, and he didn’t move, and then we joked that he was dead, and then we really thought he was dead, and then I got up to poke him. Upon the death poke, he halfheartedly opened an eye and looked at me.



What I cannot figure out is why our pets look dead when they are resting. I suppose it’s possible they both have Sleep Apnea and need some sort of doggy CPAP machine, but I don’t have enough scrap metal in the house to generate the income required to pay for CPAPs for the dogs.

What is irritating about this voluntary condition our dogs suffer from, is that Bryan can silently slip one toe into a boot without making an audible noise and both of those dogs somehow feel the air shift and come running from every corner of the house at full speed (frantically clicking their DOGGY TOENAILS ON THE HARDWOOD FLOOR THE WHOLE TIME) to go engage in whatever fun activity they think Bryan is about to go do without them. But if we request their presence for an activity and they believe it isn’t worth their time, well…they just really don’t care.

As I do with everything that goes awry in our house, I blame Bryan for this affliction our dogs have. He is forever talking nonsense to these dogs. He’s always in their faces just spewing forth nonsensical babble because he believes the dogs enjoy it. I believe it has become noise to them and they now listen to NOTHING he says because they think it is all ridiculous.



For example, my dog’s name is Milton. But very quickly after I got him Bryan gave him a nickname. That nickname was Pokuernoes (pronounced POE-CARE-NOSE), because he believed that was the Spanish word for “small” or “little.” I did inform him the word he was thinking of was pequino, but he was uninterested. So Milton became Pokuernoes. Then it quickly evolved into just “Kuernoes (pronounced CARE-NOSE). Sadly, his fourth alias is my fault.

I developed an obsessive, borderline psychotic crush on the Latvian anesthesiologist who was present during my C-Section. I spoke of him often (and still do), and shamelessly flirted with him in my hospital room when I was probably the MOST unattractive a person can possibly be while still having a measurable pulse. Upon returning home from the hospital I downloaded his picture from the hospital website and put it on my phone, emailed it to friends, and briefly had it as my desktop wallpaper on my laptop. Bryan and I continually joke about him and my obsession with him often. In fact, when Bryan is not behaving to my high standards, I often threaten to leave him for the anesthesiologist. I suppose I am just assuming the anesthesiologist feels the same way. I guess it is possible that he may not share my feelings as his only interaction with me was while I was the size of a water buffalo and had not slept, showered, or eaten in 3 or 4 days.

MY POINT (yes, I have one) is that the doctor’s last name was Milshteyn. So because the name Milshteyn is so close to Milton and was getting thrown around by both myself and Bryan rather liberally, it just made sense to start referring to Milton as Milshteyn too. SO when it is all said and done Milton on an average day is called: Milton, Pokuernoes, Kuernoes, and Milshteyn..and lately, sometimes just Shteyn. Bryan commented that we may have turned him into a Schizophrenic.



The bottom line is that I threaten the lives of these animals routinely. There is not a day that goes by where I do not threaten to shoot them, punch them, hang them, throw them onto the burn pile, or shave them bald. I also routinely tell them I hate them and that they smell bad. And they do smell bad. Very bad. And everything I own is covered in dog hair. But I love both these dogs and Bryan loves these dogs more than I do. Bryan would carry Milton around in a Baby Bjorn if I let him. But these dogs are happy and fun-loving, and a part of our little hillbilly family and I can’t imagine not having them around.

Bernie is the sensitive and caring dog who will put his head in your lap if you are crying, and remain there until you feel better. Milton is the fun “look at me” dog who will lick your face from the moment you wake in the morning until the moment you go to bed at night. He will lick your face until his tongue bleeds if you let him, all because he loves you so much. They are wonderful dogs.  There is nothing that makes you love your dogs more than thinking they’re dead. Twice.

After reading this over I decided Bryan and I should probably think long and hard before having a second child, because clearly we pick favorites…and then tell the favorite they’re the favorite. I think that’s maybe a parenting no-no.

I also wish I would have sent Dr. Milshteyn a Christmas card.

The Little Match Rooster

Today is the first day it has felt and looked like winter out here in middle earth. And now that Christmas is over, it's not as much fun as I thought it would be.

This week went by all too quickly after a wonderful Christmas spent with family, and several days with my mom, dad, and Annabelle in my hometown…I returned home only to be reminded that Christmas is over, the tree must come down, and I am forced to return to work tomorrow which means leaving Annabelle again.

So immediately after waking this morning, I gingerly put away all the Christmas ornaments and supervised Bryan removing all the lights and labeling each string “partially out” with my label maker. It’s much more fun to fix Christmas lights before Christmas than after, trust me on this.

As if taking the Christmas tree down isn’t depressing enough, I had to watch Bryan hacksaw ours into 3 pieces and stuff it into our woodstove and burn it. I suppose I should take comfort in the fact that it heated our house today, but mostly it was just depressing. And there’s something not right about hearing a loved one say “Ok. Going to burn the Christmas tree.”

(Feel Free to make note of Milton about to eat a mini-pumpkin that we heaved into the yard after the season of giving Thanks).

To distract myself from the impending Seasonal Affective Disorder, and the fact that I am going to be again separated from my baby for far too many hours and days, I am attempting to distract myself with one of my Christmas presents from Bryan.

Yes, that’s right, a book about raising chickens. Bryan is not going to let me skip around the property collecting eggs and giving the chickens clever names like Cluckles and Bob, I apparently must KNOW what we’re doing. Sigh. So let me share with you some highlights of chicken ownership that I may not have been aware of prior to receiving my chicken book:

1. Under the section “Poisons and Other Hazards” was the following chart:
Poison - Source
Copper Sulfate -Antifungal Treatment
Ethylene Glycol -Spilled Antifreeze
Mercury -Disinfectant or Fungicide
Lead -Paint or Orchard Spray
Carbon Monoxide -Carrying chickens in trunk of car

Ummm…is this a potential threat? Other than getting your initial chicken purchase home, when is this going to be an issue?? I’m sure those of you who are coworkers of mine will be disappointed to learn that with this knowledge I can no longer transport my chickens to and from the office every day.

2. In the chapter “routine management” I learned that if your chickens are not given space and time to “scratch” you have to trim their beaks. Chickens can develop serious eating and health issues if their top beak is allowed to grow too long. When I was pregnant it was quickly decided that Bryan was going to be in charge of trimming the baby’s fingernails, as it seemed (and still does seem) to be too frightening a task. How am I expected to trim a LIVE CHICKEN’S BEAK? How does one even execute such a beauty regime? And while the book does give simple instruction on how to handle this, I guarantee you my beak-trimming will not end well. That can be one of Annabelle's chores.

3. Under the section “how to butcher your chicken” I learned the four acceptable ways to humanely end a chicken’s life. I think if forced into that situation I will choose method number four- a handgun. “A .22 handgun makes a fast, clean job of it but is a suitable option only if you live in a rural area where shooting is legal and may be done safely.” Am I the only one who thinks shooting a chicken is a bit excessive?

4. And finally…you can learn to communicate with chickens using such chicken words like “tuck, tuck, tuck.” This point was illustrated by the author’s own personal account of using this language to communicate with a rooster. She told a story about finding a strange rooster in their yard during a snowstorm. Knowing it would surely freeze and die, they tried to catch it and coax it with food with no success. It would just fly up into a tree and remain there. The woman finally came out and said “tuck, tuck, tuck” and the rooster flew into her arms. It’s possible I’m paraphrasing.

Bryan was reading this section to me while we were driving to my sister’s for Christmas day. My only response was “Where do these people live that they have rogue roosters just flying around their yard in the middle of winter?” and of course Bryan said “that happened to me once.” He then shared his own tale of rogue roosterdom.

Basically the exact same thing happened to him. One snowy day in winter there was a rooster in his yard and he tried everything to catch it. He apparently did not know the patented “tuck, tuck, tuck” method of rooster-catching because he didn’t catch it. He said after two days he gave up. Now I assumed this story would end with the rooster meeting his demise via butchering method four- being shot with a handgun. But no…sadly this rooster froze to death. We know this because Bryan found him in the spring. I said it was just like that Christmas story, the Little Match Girl.

In case you, like Bryan, are not familiar with the story, the Little Match Girl is a heartwarming Christmas story by Hans Christen Andersen wherein a little poverty stricken girl is forced to sell matches in the street. It is freezing cold out, but she has to keep selling matches because if she doesn’t, her father will beat her when she gets home. So she decides to sit down and rest, and while resting she sees her grandmother. As it turns out, she sees her grandmother because she is in heaven as she has died in the street. Merry Christmas to you too, Hans.

It was this heartwarming holiday tale that reminded me of Bryan’s rogue rooster from the Christmas of 2007. We will never know his story.

Many thanks to my not-quite-yet-a-husband for a Christmas present that continues to amuse me daily. And while I look out the window and realize I have to get up at five a.m. to drive 60 miles to work with a wind chill of -12, I think of the poor Little Match Rooster, frozen to death under a winter’s worth of snow, having been moved twice by a snow plow, and I am counting my lucky stars...but not before they're hatched.

Happy New Year.