Monday, September 10, 2012
It's Like Magic!
Guess what I just discovered just this moment?
After MONTHS of not being able to log in to this here blog (except for a fleeting moment in July when I could get on but couldn't format, hence the astoundingly long run-on paragraph below), I decided randomly to try again (I do this every week or so and then I "harrumph!" and pout with my arms folded for a second when I get the same poopy error message) AND IT WORKED!!
And what do I do first thing out of the box? Saddle you with an astoundingly long run-on sentence. I'm nothing if not consistent.
Now, I just need to start uploading some photos and we can get this show on the road! I just plopped that photo up top there for fun - just so you know that even with long absences, some things don't change around here. We still have chickens. And stuff sitting in front of the barn. All is well.
That's one of the girls -- one of our scrawny, home-hatched girls, bless her little pea-pickin' heart -- on the old "hay for sale" sign that the former owner of our little farmstead likely had on account of all the alfalfa fields that still surround us that he used to hay and that I hope one day we'll be able to buy. (By the way, "hay" is not only a noun but a verb around here, as in "hey, I saw you out haying the other day. That cutting looked sweet." I say things like that sometimes to make it sound like I know good hay from a hole in the ground. I don't. Mostly I just think it's really pretty waving in the field and like when it has pretty purple blooms and bees buzzing. You know what bees mean - pollination goodness for everyone. And the smell of fresh-cut alfalfa? Oh my goodness.
But I digress.
While we're digressing, though, and talking of hay, did I ever tell you I have an Uncle Hay? George Hay to be precise, and we always grew up calling him "Uncle Hay," but at some point I heard he decided he didn't want to be called "Hay" anymore. I don't know why, and I'm the tiniest bit ashamed to tell you that I have flouted his wishes and still call him "Uncle Hay" because that's all I know and I can't get used to anything else. I speak to him about once every 6 or 7 years; it's hard to develop a new habit with that level of infrequency. Plus, he doesn't look like a George to me. And, I already had my Uncle Frank and Aunt Lois decide earlier in the decade that Uncle Hay laid this on us that they had decided to go by George and Anna, after five decades or so of life, and that was a hard change for me, too. So really, Uncle Hay's request was just too much for me that decade; I'm sorry, Uncle Hay. And if it's really a problem, let me know. It's a new millenium, I'm up for a new challenge.)
Back to the hay fields surrounding our property. I'm not holding my breath they'll become ours anytime soon yet because a) medical bills and taxes mean it will be a L-O-N-N-N-G time before we make any more major purchases, and b) **and this here's the big one** the fields come with a couple of wells and a S*W*E*E*T big ol' irrigation pump. And around these high desert Arizona parts, any farmer/rancher worth his salt is reticent, to say the least, to let go of water. And the farmer/rancher who owns the surrounding land is worth a lot of salt. And, his exact words to me when we purchased this place that also has its own well were (picture middle-aged, weathered farmer man shaking his head and looking down as he says,) "I can't believe I let those women talk me into selling my water." Not 2.75 acres of land, a house, barn and outbuildings, mind you. To him, the thing of importance was that he'd let water slip through his hands. Even just a modest homestead/small irrigation well. It all counts. This here's drought territory.
I don't expect we'll be posting that "hay for sale" sign anytime soon, hence my not shooing the hen off it.
But I do hope to be posting here more again soon.But in shorter sentences. I promise I'll try. Swear.
Love from the farm,