Don't Hate Me Because I'm Glamourous

For all of you wondering what life will be like when the chickabidees leave the nest and there are no more soccer games/softball games/t-ball games/fall festivals/youthorchestra/volunteer-at-the-school-planting-bushes days to take up your weekend- let me give you a little peek into what lies ahead of you.
The husband and I got up this morning and drank a few cups of coffee, read part of the paper and he unloaded a bunch of pecan wood off the back of his little truck. I made up to-go mugs of coffee, grabbed the parts of the paper I hadn't read, my purse, my phone, and a bottle of water and we jumped in the truck and headed east.
First stop was the Huddle House by the Monticello, I-10 exit. Now my usual breakfast is a bowl of flakes, fiber and fruit, but on this day (which I proudly proclaimed to be sin day) I ate a startlingly cholesterol-laden plate of eggs, grits, toast, and bacon. God bless the pig.
We drank more coffee and read the parts of the paper that interested us and people-watched at the Huddle House, which is an-almost successful imitator of the Waffle House. The food is good but they don't even have a juke box with songs about grits! Come on! Nor do they have salsa bottled under anything clever like Casa de Waffle. And they take credit cards! The Waffle House takes nothing but cash, which makes me wonder about a lot of things, not least of which is how do they get away with that?
Anyway, it was a fine breakfast and then we got back in the truck and headed down to Highway 27 to get to Perry which was our destination. We were on a mission to collect a truckload of chicken shit to put on our garden. A friend of ours had made a connection for the stuff and turned us on to it. We didn't really have the actual directions, but since we all have cell phones these days, even chicken farmers, we knew we'd find the place.
We got to Perry in good time. The little truck, despite having not been driven for months, ran like a merry little old Singer sewing machine, although something seems to have died in the engine, causing a bit of a nasty odor, but it disappeared as soon as we got up to highway speed. While we waited for the chicken farmer to return our call and give us directions, we drove around downtown Perry, Florida for a while and let me just say that Perry does not appear to be booming. The downtown part, anyway. But we saw some lovely houses and an impressive number of old train depots and then the chicken farmer called us and we drove east on Green street and took the turns off of that that were required and we found the chicken farm. Chicken ranch? Poultry farm?
Whatever.
It was a small operation and I have to say that it did not smell as evil as most chicken farms I have known. It was an overcast morning and there was a good breeze, so things were not so bad. We got there before the farmer and had to wait a bit and I did have a fairly bad moment when I got a hot flash, all the bad smells overcame me, and the flies were attacking like something out of a National Geographic article on Australia. But then the farmer showed up with his small and frisky Jack Russell boy-dog and things got moving along. He got on his green John Deere front-loader and proceeded to load up the truck bed with composted chicken shit. It really does not smell that bad although as the farmer warned us, there are a few chicken wings embedded in the shit, here and there. What would you expect?
I walked around a little while the loading was going on, more than grateful that the John Deere was doing all the work and not me and the husband with shovels. It was a beautiful piece of land with oak trees and an old barn that I spied an antique juke box in (did it come from a Waffle House?) and the little man-dog amused me.
The loading came to an end and we chatted a few moments with the farmer who is a very interesting man. He not only owns over five hundred acres of land, the chicken operation, and eighty head of cattle, but also two Dollar General Stores and some mini-storage operations. "Those things are a license to steal!" he proclaimed. "I'm sixty-two years old and I'm ready to relax a little. I'm trying to sell the Dollar General stores. I don't want to deal with anything but the mini-storages and the land, which is my real love."
I could tell he was a fulfilled individual and I liked him a lot. He told us to spread the word about his chicken shit and is thinking about selling it bagged up, as organic. He's an honest guy and would have the University of Florida certify it as organic before he does that, so if you're interested in getting any of it now, before it goes high dollar, let me know.
We got back in the truck after telling him and the little doggie good-bye and headed back out to Highway 27. I wanted to stop for something to drink, which we did at a convenience store. I bought some iced tea and a bag of Cracker Jack and my husband got some tea and a...fried chicken wing.
I could not believe he did that, but he did, and he enjoyed eating it and then he shared my Cracker Jack with me on the drive home.
We have not unloaded the chicken shit yet (and this will involve me and a shovel and I just can't wait) and have had a nice, slow afternoon and are now cooking some protein on the grill and I have a loaf of bread in the oven as well as some asparagus, red peppers and onions in foil.
We've listened to Prairie Home Companion and we'll probably fall asleep as soon as we eat our supper.
And it's been a good day as far as I'm concerned and I'm sure we'll grow collard greens and mustard greens and cabbages that would win blue ribbons at the fair in the chicken shit we brought home.
So that's what life is like when the kids grow up and move away and you have the leisure and ability to do whatever you want with your weekends.
I'm sure you can't wait.