They were my babies . . . sweet little chickens I had tenderly cared for since my birthday, diligent that they had the cleanest cage, perfectly set heating lamp and clearest water to drink. We lost one in those first few days, but 13 thrived, pecking at our feet in the house and eventually growing big enough to make the move to their super cute coop a few weeks ago.
Yesterday evening however, disaster struck. Rounding the corner into the backyard, I immediately knew something was wrong. There was no chirping coming from the chicken run, and the yard felt eerily still. Usually Tilly, our dog, is bouncing through the grass, eager to greet me and walk with me to the chicken pen to toss out more feed. But not this time. Instead, as I walked up to the pen, she poked her head out of their coop, tail wagging and gave me a little bark. Somehow she had made it through the chicken wire and inside . . . and the worst had happened.
Taco was laying there on the ground, his sweet little head looking towards me but unable to move. Of course, I'm a gigantic pansy about these things and began to cry. Scooping up my poor sweet little duck in one arm, I grabbed the scruff of Tilly's neck like a puppy with the other hand, tossing her into the shed and slamming the door, all the while calling her every name under the sun. The chicken pen seemed to be littered with casualties and all I could do was manage to call my papa.
Sobbing I asked him to come help me. There are only so many dead chickens a girl can handle on her own, and a few were just barely alive, needing to be finished off. It was too much.
Eventually we got the dead ones picked up and began the search for the missing black chickens. That's another thing about my chickens. I know to some people they are just farm animals, but they really do have little personalities if you pay attention. Since they were chicks, the 6 yellow ones were super friendly, always trying to pop through their cage and follow me around the house. They would hop into my hand and were a little mischeivious, tipping their water over and playing in the puddles. The black chickens on the other hand, were a little rouge. They'd bunch up to themselves and tended to sleep separate from the yellow ones. They only liked me when I had food and every night I have to pick them up and scoot them into the coop because they try to sleep outside in the grass.
So when Tilly decided to play tag with the chickens, I can only imagine the yellow ones played along, because she got all but two. Luckily, all but one of the black chickens made it out alive, 4 going through the back fence and hanging out in the neighbors lot, safe and sound. The 5th black chicken was still loose in the pen, hiding in the grass and for the first time in her life, she ran to me, letting me scoop her up, out of Tilly's reach.
Once my Papa arrived, he gathered up the survivors and secured their pen better than I had it before. He took care of the dead ones and almost dead ones, and I sat inside with my grandmother, talking about how sweet the chickens were and eventually reminiscing about Cheerios my old pet goose, and how hard it had been when she died a few years ago too.
Last night I kept Taco in a laundry basket, giving him water and bread crumbs trying to keep him alive. Later I held him while we watched TV and he nuzzled his sweet little head under my chin trying to stay warm. But with missing feathers from being chewed on and suffering from a limp leg, I wasn't sure if he'd make it through the night. Around 5 I woke up to check on him, and he had died. This morning my best friend came over and we buried him in the flower bed.
So now no more Taco the duck and half our chicken flock is gone. It's a sad day around our funny farm. As for Tilly, she stayed in the shed until dark, on the porch until midnight and had to sleep in the laundry room instead of the bed. She's going to be in the dog house for a while with me.
Thursday, May 8, 2014
Tuesday, April 8, 2014
Broken Glass
I want to write about my garden. About how excited I am that my row of romaine lettuce, spinach, and mixed salad greens are finally sprouting up out of the ground. About how Stanton cheered for them when he first saw it and we crawled along the ground together for half an hour checking out each little sprout saying hi, welcoming them to his garden and him promising them he wouldn't smush them.
I want to tell you about how interesting it is to find old bits of pretty, weathered glass in the dirt through out the garden area. It makes me curious about what the previous owners used this space for. Did they decorate in delicate wind chimes that slowly broke through the years and were just raked into the dirt? Or did they use this back space of the yard as a dump for broken things that just slowly broke down even more overtime until they became what they are now, bits of random rubble to be discovered every time I go to plant.
I want to write about those thoughts . . . but I can't. Because now I can't get her out of my head. Her. The girl I had to meet with today. The girl that for the past month and half has been nothing more than a filed away client, frustrating me to no ends by never answering the packet of questions I've mailed three times and instead sending me a barrage of random whiny letters from jail.
Her. The girl who was on my mind nonstop driving back to town today.
Finally sitting down across from her earlier this afternoon, ready to hammer home all the reasons she needs to stop being difficult with her attorney and get with the program, I couldn't help but see someone I thought I knew. Of course she wasn't anyone I've really ever known, but she still seemed familiar in a way. Just a few months older than I, she was the same height, the same hair, the same face shape, the same frame, almost everything - it was weird - only she looked like she had lived ten more years than me. And was on the other side of the glass.
Her skin was weathered more than any other 29 year old's I had seen. Not from sun, but from a hard life. You know what I mean, the way it just looks dull and rough, basically as if it had always been the last priority in the world. Her hair was also dulled and drab, hanging limp around a face that at one time was likely quite pretty. But now her skin told another tale as well, one that breaks my heart to recognize, but is a harsh reality these days. Drugs just have a distinctive way of sticking with people, and pock marks and hollowed sagging faces are hard to undo.
Upon entering the room I could sense her hostility, but just as my demeanor changed once I recognized something familiar in her, it seemed as if she recognized the same in me. And we visited. Despite having a very thorough list of questions and background information that I go through with most every client, today, I actually added even more questions. Because I needed the answer to the one burning in the back of my heart; why was she here? How did it come to this for her?
Driving home today I couldn't help but wonder about redemption. About people who have gone so far off their planned path to the point they are just wandering aimlessly. About the people who feel like they are in that haze of not knowing what is up and what is down. The people who feel so lost they give up and give in. And I wonder about what took them there, what terrible things happened in their life that led them to that point, or what impacted them so much they caved under pressure. One of my favorite songs is Wade Bowen's "Lost Hotel" - the lyrics are haunting and so true. Because most everyone has had breaking points, everyone has faced choices and for the fortunate ones, it was a matter of a friend or a loved one who pulled us through or else we could have lost. But some people didn't have that person to help them through. Some people, were just 15 with no one at home encouraging them to do something more, or to stop what they were getting in to.
And then I wonder about what those same people were like when they were just Stanton's age, so little and full of promise, some little kid who just wanted to cuddle and be loved.
Life is so ugly sometimes.
And then there is redemption. Can they come back from all that? And what could pull them back? Is there something I can do, something I can say in this limited role I play, to nudge their way of thinking. Can I plant a seed of some sort. A little hope. I like to think I can, but then again, I don't know. Today I had to say the words, "I'm not qualified to discuss that but I'd be happy to get you someone to talk to, that could help you address those issues." Because I am an attorney. Not a counselor. I have ethical obligations to not advise beyond my abilities. If she had been just my friend I wonder if I would have still been there for her, or would I have been one of those people who gave up a long time ago, writing her off as a lost cause. Today I really wanted to be her friend.
This morning I had planned to write about that glass in my garden. It is my favorite mystery right now at home (because in an old house, there are always mysteries to uncover). I like to walk around collecting all the random colors peeking up through the dirt, all sparkly chunks of heavy glass, so worn by the soil their edges have been smoothed over, almost like sea glass. So pretty, despite being broken and with no apparent purpose. I've been putting them into the fairy garden lately. Surrounding the succulents and moss planted in the shade of the dead stump, random bits of unwanted glass have now found a home to sparkle in again. They'll never be the "useful" item they once were, but in a way, they are redeemed to something else. Sparkling again and beautiful in their own right.
And thinking about that glass, I can't help but wonder if people can be the same way.
This is the only version available online of the song, but I encourage everyone to go buy it on iTunes! Heck buy the whole album, he's basically my favorite.
I want to tell you about how interesting it is to find old bits of pretty, weathered glass in the dirt through out the garden area. It makes me curious about what the previous owners used this space for. Did they decorate in delicate wind chimes that slowly broke through the years and were just raked into the dirt? Or did they use this back space of the yard as a dump for broken things that just slowly broke down even more overtime until they became what they are now, bits of random rubble to be discovered every time I go to plant.
I want to write about those thoughts . . . but I can't. Because now I can't get her out of my head. Her. The girl I had to meet with today. The girl that for the past month and half has been nothing more than a filed away client, frustrating me to no ends by never answering the packet of questions I've mailed three times and instead sending me a barrage of random whiny letters from jail.
Her. The girl who was on my mind nonstop driving back to town today.
Finally sitting down across from her earlier this afternoon, ready to hammer home all the reasons she needs to stop being difficult with her attorney and get with the program, I couldn't help but see someone I thought I knew. Of course she wasn't anyone I've really ever known, but she still seemed familiar in a way. Just a few months older than I, she was the same height, the same hair, the same face shape, the same frame, almost everything - it was weird - only she looked like she had lived ten more years than me. And was on the other side of the glass.
Her skin was weathered more than any other 29 year old's I had seen. Not from sun, but from a hard life. You know what I mean, the way it just looks dull and rough, basically as if it had always been the last priority in the world. Her hair was also dulled and drab, hanging limp around a face that at one time was likely quite pretty. But now her skin told another tale as well, one that breaks my heart to recognize, but is a harsh reality these days. Drugs just have a distinctive way of sticking with people, and pock marks and hollowed sagging faces are hard to undo.
Upon entering the room I could sense her hostility, but just as my demeanor changed once I recognized something familiar in her, it seemed as if she recognized the same in me. And we visited. Despite having a very thorough list of questions and background information that I go through with most every client, today, I actually added even more questions. Because I needed the answer to the one burning in the back of my heart; why was she here? How did it come to this for her?
Driving home today I couldn't help but wonder about redemption. About people who have gone so far off their planned path to the point they are just wandering aimlessly. About the people who feel like they are in that haze of not knowing what is up and what is down. The people who feel so lost they give up and give in. And I wonder about what took them there, what terrible things happened in their life that led them to that point, or what impacted them so much they caved under pressure. One of my favorite songs is Wade Bowen's "Lost Hotel" - the lyrics are haunting and so true. Because most everyone has had breaking points, everyone has faced choices and for the fortunate ones, it was a matter of a friend or a loved one who pulled us through or else we could have lost. But some people didn't have that person to help them through. Some people, were just 15 with no one at home encouraging them to do something more, or to stop what they were getting in to.
And then I wonder about what those same people were like when they were just Stanton's age, so little and full of promise, some little kid who just wanted to cuddle and be loved.
Life is so ugly sometimes.
And then there is redemption. Can they come back from all that? And what could pull them back? Is there something I can do, something I can say in this limited role I play, to nudge their way of thinking. Can I plant a seed of some sort. A little hope. I like to think I can, but then again, I don't know. Today I had to say the words, "I'm not qualified to discuss that but I'd be happy to get you someone to talk to, that could help you address those issues." Because I am an attorney. Not a counselor. I have ethical obligations to not advise beyond my abilities. If she had been just my friend I wonder if I would have still been there for her, or would I have been one of those people who gave up a long time ago, writing her off as a lost cause. Today I really wanted to be her friend.
This morning I had planned to write about that glass in my garden. It is my favorite mystery right now at home (because in an old house, there are always mysteries to uncover). I like to walk around collecting all the random colors peeking up through the dirt, all sparkly chunks of heavy glass, so worn by the soil their edges have been smoothed over, almost like sea glass. So pretty, despite being broken and with no apparent purpose. I've been putting them into the fairy garden lately. Surrounding the succulents and moss planted in the shade of the dead stump, random bits of unwanted glass have now found a home to sparkle in again. They'll never be the "useful" item they once were, but in a way, they are redeemed to something else. Sparkling again and beautiful in their own right.
And thinking about that glass, I can't help but wonder if people can be the same way.
"So say a prayer for the weary
Say a prayer for the lost
Say a prayer for the hungry
They’ve all paid the highest cost
You know hope is there to find
We’re all too quick to condemn
So lay your hands on a desolate soul
Yeah cause someday you just might see them
Down at the lost hotel"
Say a prayer for the lost
Say a prayer for the hungry
They’ve all paid the highest cost
You know hope is there to find
We’re all too quick to condemn
So lay your hands on a desolate soul
Yeah cause someday you just might see them
Down at the lost hotel"
- Lost Hotel
This is the only version available online of the song, but I encourage everyone to go buy it on iTunes! Heck buy the whole album, he's basically my favorite.
Monday, March 3, 2014
Bugs, Baths, and Battlestar gallactica
"Mom hurry there's a giant spider trying to take a bath with me!"
Never fails. Just when you've created the most refreshing concoction of fresca, wine, and orange juice (don't judge, gotta get my vitamin C somehow), a mom emergency arises and you have to leave it there, slowly watering down on the counter, while you rush off to battle. This battle however, did not sound like something I wanted to be a part of.
Heading into the bathroom I couldn't help but think of how much I hate spiders. Ick, spiders. But you know what I hate even more than spiders, Roaches. And so yes, in awesome Saturday night fashion, there it was. No, not a big leggy spider trying to crawl along the side of the sink next to Stanton's bathtub but a gigantic, brown, long legged, terrifying roach with its creepy antennas reaching out like they wanted to grab me. 16 year old Paige immediately backed away and thought about calling for reinforcements, but seeing Stanton trapped in the corner of his tub a lot closer to the beast of a bug than I was, made me rustle up every ounce of grown-up in me to face this sucker head on.
"Don't worry dude. Mom's got this." Aw hell. No I don't.
This sucker was huge. Wondering when the last time I sprayed was, it dawned on me, oh yeah, I never had. That was one of the ex's jobs, and thinking about it more, I'm pretty sure I hadn't heard him grip about having to do it since October-ish so . . . yup, four months. Three months is about the time frame of my home bug spray kit we bought for the house. And given the drama of the break-up last month, I didn't think to ask him to make another round with it before I ended things. Dang it. I should have thought to make a check-list or something with him so I'd know how to run this place better. Oh well, guess now the top of my new check-list will be: Don't be so dependent on a guy. Check.
But nevermind all that. The fact of the matter was that now here I stood, facing the Godzilla of roaches and it has my child trapped in the tub. This was war.
Quick Paige fact though: I don't like squishing things. The whole 'smushed bug on the floor' mess is about the grossest thing to me so I generally like to find other methods to kill things with. Quickly I opened the cabinet to discover the worst - no bug spray. Of course not. Why would I have bug spray? I've never had bugs. Damn it again! So I grabbed the next closest thing that made sense, Scrubbing Bubbles and while throwing up a silent prayer that the "Kills 99.9% of Bacteria" might also include megaRoach, I hollered for Stanton to cover his eyes and I doused the bug in fluffy white foam.
And of course. Nada. If anything, I made the stupid bug slide quicker across the floor at me and for a split second I wondered if they bite. I continued spraying in vain as it ran at me. "Mom it's gonna get you!"
And then before I realized it - I had done it. With my BARE HANDS I instinctively picked up the foam covered bug right before it got to my toe and tossed it into the toilet.
Flush. And gone.
It was like one of those terrible parenting instincts that you can't control, like when you reach out to catch the vomit from your baby's mouth only to realize about 10 seconds later, that was a very terrible idea. (You know you've all done it.) Ick. So gross. But we can't help ourselves. It's in our nature.
Stanton started cheering as I did everything to not cry from knowing I had actually held a freaking roach in my hand. It was completely covered in scrubbing bubbles Paige. Hell, the whole bathroom was now covered in scrubbing bubbles. 99.9% of germs are dead in this room. You'll be okay. I kept repeating that to myself as I slowly washed my hands and finally allowed myself to feel that slight tinge of victory. I totally did it.
Perhaps my weekend was not as exciting as everyone else's, but I had totally beaten Roachzilla and conquered some serious fear issues in the process. And become a 10 minute hero in my son's eyes.
AND, my drink hadn't even watered down yet. Victory! Now, if I could just catch that loose hamster . . .
Never fails. Just when you've created the most refreshing concoction of fresca, wine, and orange juice (don't judge, gotta get my vitamin C somehow), a mom emergency arises and you have to leave it there, slowly watering down on the counter, while you rush off to battle. This battle however, did not sound like something I wanted to be a part of.
Heading into the bathroom I couldn't help but think of how much I hate spiders. Ick, spiders. But you know what I hate even more than spiders, Roaches. And so yes, in awesome Saturday night fashion, there it was. No, not a big leggy spider trying to crawl along the side of the sink next to Stanton's bathtub but a gigantic, brown, long legged, terrifying roach with its creepy antennas reaching out like they wanted to grab me. 16 year old Paige immediately backed away and thought about calling for reinforcements, but seeing Stanton trapped in the corner of his tub a lot closer to the beast of a bug than I was, made me rustle up every ounce of grown-up in me to face this sucker head on.
"Don't worry dude. Mom's got this." Aw hell. No I don't.
This sucker was huge. Wondering when the last time I sprayed was, it dawned on me, oh yeah, I never had. That was one of the ex's jobs, and thinking about it more, I'm pretty sure I hadn't heard him grip about having to do it since October-ish so . . . yup, four months. Three months is about the time frame of my home bug spray kit we bought for the house. And given the drama of the break-up last month, I didn't think to ask him to make another round with it before I ended things. Dang it. I should have thought to make a check-list or something with him so I'd know how to run this place better. Oh well, guess now the top of my new check-list will be: Don't be so dependent on a guy. Check.
But nevermind all that. The fact of the matter was that now here I stood, facing the Godzilla of roaches and it has my child trapped in the tub. This was war.
Quick Paige fact though: I don't like squishing things. The whole 'smushed bug on the floor' mess is about the grossest thing to me so I generally like to find other methods to kill things with. Quickly I opened the cabinet to discover the worst - no bug spray. Of course not. Why would I have bug spray? I've never had bugs. Damn it again! So I grabbed the next closest thing that made sense, Scrubbing Bubbles and while throwing up a silent prayer that the "Kills 99.9% of Bacteria" might also include megaRoach, I hollered for Stanton to cover his eyes and I doused the bug in fluffy white foam.
And of course. Nada. If anything, I made the stupid bug slide quicker across the floor at me and for a split second I wondered if they bite. I continued spraying in vain as it ran at me. "Mom it's gonna get you!"
And then before I realized it - I had done it. With my BARE HANDS I instinctively picked up the foam covered bug right before it got to my toe and tossed it into the toilet.
Flush. And gone.
It was like one of those terrible parenting instincts that you can't control, like when you reach out to catch the vomit from your baby's mouth only to realize about 10 seconds later, that was a very terrible idea. (You know you've all done it.) Ick. So gross. But we can't help ourselves. It's in our nature.
Stanton started cheering as I did everything to not cry from knowing I had actually held a freaking roach in my hand. It was completely covered in scrubbing bubbles Paige. Hell, the whole bathroom was now covered in scrubbing bubbles. 99.9% of germs are dead in this room. You'll be okay. I kept repeating that to myself as I slowly washed my hands and finally allowed myself to feel that slight tinge of victory. I totally did it.
Perhaps my weekend was not as exciting as everyone else's, but I had totally beaten Roachzilla and conquered some serious fear issues in the process. And become a 10 minute hero in my son's eyes.
AND, my drink hadn't even watered down yet. Victory! Now, if I could just catch that loose hamster . . .
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