Yesterday Miss Lucille, that hen in the foreground, sat on the nest for hours and looked most unhappy. I immediately jumped to the conclusion that she was egg-bound because I've always feared that happening to one of my hens. I looked it up online, of course, and checked her abdomen for hardness but it was soft as could be and mushable so I abandoned that train of thought and today she seems fine. I am glad of that. I do worry about these chickens of mine. Not to mention that the first thing in the instructions for tending to an egg-bound hen is to find a rubber glove and some lubricant.
Just as soon not do any internal exams on any of my hens, as much as I love them.
The men are back at it. They just came in for breakfast and I made them a good one this morning because they tend to skip lunch entirely. Eggs with peppers and onions and mushrooms and tomatoes and cheese. Biscuits. Sausage. Grits. It'll probably take me half the day to clean up the kitchen but I have nothing else I am obligated to do and I do not mind at all. It makes me happy to play what little part I can. They are working so yard.
August and his mother stayed at home today. As you can see, August is pining away for me.
I told her that no, I am not, but that the landline phone is in my bedroom and for sure, it's turned on.
I can't believe it is almost time.
I can not believe it.
Well, that child is going to be born whether I believe it or not.
And I just got off the phone with May and it's almost one o'clock in the afternoon and either I've drunk way too much coffee or someone slipped bad speed into my coffee or I'm having the physical manifestations of anxiety or...I don't know. It's not pleasant, whatever it is.
Anyway, here we are. It's Sunday and I need to clean the hen house and maybe do some weeding if the cooler weather has done its job on the mosquito population.
It's supposed to be in the eighties here for Christmas.
More like Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum and a trip down the river on the boat for Christmas.
Sounds good to me.