LENNY'S HAREM

Chicken Coop

          Yesterday was a sunny, balmy day, almost took off my shirt to catch a few rays, grab a wee bit of a tan, so I let the chickens out while I cleaned their coop, which was really a disgusting mess I have to admit.  However, when the temperature drops below zero for long periods of time, everything freezes, including chicken shit and boy, do those girls crap a lot.  When I opened the door to the coop, to make my job a little easier to clean it out, all the pretty girls just came sashaying through the doorway and strutted their stuff - talk about doing the Can-Can, the old Bardrock rooster was some excited, almost went out of his mind, I tell you, didn't know which one to jump first but then being the horny little guy he is, he simply chose the one closest and then worked his way around - my goodness, could be a lot of wee chicks peepin' about the barnyard come this spring.  It's been awhile since I let them out; the temperatures have been so low, they'd have froze their feathers off.  When they got the hang of the ice and slippery snow, the cluckers were all doing fancy pirouettes and circle eights all over the barnyard; they were just plain having a fine old time - I never heard such happy cluckin'.  Duncan, our dog decided he was being left out and tried to join in but I had to discourage him with a wee bit of a scoldin'; I didn't want those chickens scattered all over the place, could have been a bit of a problem getting them back in the coop once the sun started dipping below the horizon and besides; you'd think they were on vacation by the small amount of eggs they're layin' and I didn't need him unnecessarily upsetting them.  I'm not sure how many of the fine- feathered hens there are, close to 70 I expect, and at only about a dozen eggs a day, they really aren't producing much, just barely paying for their feed.    

        All my pretty girls really enjoyed the clean coop too; a lot of them just stretched out on the floor and gave themselves a dust bath.  I know they prefer flappin' about in a dusty hole in the ground but since that doesn't exist at the moment, they did the best they could with the dry wood chips and sawdust.  I find it a touch odd, that with all those nesting boxes and the girls aren't laying so many eggs these days, I'll be danged; there are sometimes up to three hens in one box trying to lay an egg when all of the other boxes are empty - don't make a lick of sense to me.  I realize they're a gregarious bunch of feathered females but when they're trying to squeeze three of them into a laying box; isn't there a saying that "three's a crowd"?

          Some say that chickens are raptors and originated during the dinosaur era and I can believe it.  One thing about a chicken, they're certainly survivors and better equipped than any other creature I know of.  Can you think of anything else that can lay an egg a day and then dine on that egg - I expect, should the world remain on its present path and things start dying off rapidly, including the human race, why I wouldn't be the least bit surprised to see that chickens are at the head of the survival list and on that note - think I'll head on in to the house and have me a plate of scrambled eggs - nothin' better than farm-fresh eggs - cheers, eh!        

CHICKENS, DUNCAN AND FRIENDS

          We've been having a regular heat-wave the past few days - the rain of course making for hazardous driving and walking conditions - why hell, while maneuvering slowly down the icy walkway, my feet suddenly shot out from under me and I found myself flat on my back; thought for a moment that I may have sprained my wrist or broke it, I laid there for a moment or two, just to make sure that the remainder of my other extremities were still in working condition.  I see the chicken coop has finally thawed out and it's as slick as a gob of snot; almost toppled in there too when I was trying to sidestep the flock of cluckers - now that could have been more than just a nasty fall - ewwwwww.  Since the sun is shining and the temperature is still above zero, I'll be scoopin' out the chicken poop today; may even let the chickens out to make my job a little easier; too bad all there is in the barnyard is snow and ice to scratch around, so they might just huddle around.

          Duncan, our dog, doesn't seem to mind when the temperature drops so low, the hairs in your nose freeze and crinkle every time you suck in some air but when it rains, he prefers to lie about in my studio and watch the flames in the woodstove dance to the beat of the crackling fire; he's not too fond of the rain.  It's odd, but I've seen photos of dogs posted on Facebook that are curled up in the snow by the doorstep and I imagine some of them depict cruelty to pets, but I've often seen Duncan curled up in the snow and when I call him in to warm his bones by the woodstove, he just looks at me and stays where he's at; he is definitely an outdoor dog, well maybe until it's dark out and then I don't even have to coax him into the studio, he just runs in and curls up in his nice comfy bed.

          I'd like to mention that living out here in the boonies, so to speak, although the sea is not even a close distance away, our neighbours are much like the dock-people I knew, back when I was living on my sailboat.  Our friend Clayton Clarke, who lives about 1/2 mile away and is about 78 years old has come to our rescue on more than one occasion in the winter.  Last year, when the temperature dropped well below zero, he was down under our crawlspace, laying on his back, soldering the copper pipes back together where they had frozen and burst.  I'm talkin' about a man that's recently had a couple of heart attacks and suffers from emphysema; that man is always puffing on a cigarette.  And this winter, when our diesel truck has a tantrum because it's -30C with a windchill of about -50C and refused to budge an inch in the State of Maine on New Year's Day; as soon as the weather warms up and the rain is coming down like a rainforest deluge, he grabs his super battery booster and we head over there.  Apparently my wife and his wife watched us pull this heavy charger up an icy driveway that was slicker than a hooker's panties coming off, and were amazed that neither of us fell down, which of course at our age could have been disastrous.  The fall itself may not have been so bad but picture this, two old farts laying flat on their arses sliding down this slippery driveway so fast and still gathering speed, their cheeks are slappin' their faces so hard, damn near knocks them out, and a highway at the bottom with a logging truck carrying a full load of trees screamin' down the hill from Danforth; why hell, we would have been turned into freshly made pablum; just a red stain on the highway. 

          Well gotta go, the wife just informed me to come into the house and have a nice cup of hot coffee and listen to the Neil Young show, which is against the development of the Alberta oil sands.  It's people like him that hopefully more people will listen to and follow his example to halt this sort of procedure.  Have a good one - cheers, eh!          

OLD-MAN-RAMBLING

          It's been over a month since I sat my bony butt down and wrote a blog.  It's not that I don't have much to say, because what old man doesn't have a lot to say?  Man, you never want to be cornered somewhere by an old man, they'll just go on and on about the good old days when they did this and they did that; things were wonderful then, not like they are now.  At least with me, when I put some thoughts down here on the blog, it's not a big deal; just one click of the mouse and it's good-bye, adios, see you later - delete, delete, delete, if a person doesn't like what I've written.  And it's odd too, when writing a blog, because often when I write about serious stuff that should concern everyone, the readership dramatically drops.  Now I don't blame anyone for not reading the serious stuff, pollution, toxic waste, radiation leakage, etc., etc., etc. because I have to agree, it's down right depressive; it's enough to make my sphincter slam shut for a number of days and just turn me into a cranky old coot.   

          I was talking to my wife this morning, "Sarah", I said as I warmed my thick-stockinged feet by the hot wood stove and sipped on a hot cup of goldenrod tea I picked myself while the tiny yellow flowers were still in bloom, "I can't believe it.  What I'm lookin' at is the end of my life.  This is it for me, Fosterville, of all places.  It's highly unlikely that I will ever live in another place."  

        Now don't get me wrong, I live in a great place; it's just at this age and the present conditions; I'm most likely going to die right here on this property, perhaps sitting in the old rocking-chair by the wood stove or face down on the keyboard - sure as hell hope it's not face down in the chicken coop.  There was a time (now this is old-man-rambling) you may want to hit the delete button now, it's just dang hard to see a future for me, other than getting older and older and dying.  Cripes a'mighty, there was a time when I was able to leap a bar stool in a single bound and didn't give a crap where I laid my head down, and now, taking a nap in a comfortable place can actually be a highlight in this old man's day.  But what I mean about a future, most people are looking forward towards a raise, a better position or a great career move, marriage, kids, a home, yadda,-yadda-yadda; whatever.  I mean I've had a lot of that in my life and still do to a certain degree but those ambitions of years ago eventually just hitched their asses to an old man's bod, where the energy level is hitting minus degrees on the thermometer of life; if I didn't wear semi-tight jeans, my sagging ass would be bouncing off the calves of my legs with every step I took.  

          A lot of people in my generation made the mistake or planning for their retirement; to me, that's like planning for your death; what future is there in that?  That's like when an insurance agent, years ago, was trying to convince me to buy a large policy and said it was like an investment.  Now what is all this crap about an investment in dying - hell, I'll be dead forever when the time comes to cash in; don't think there will be any Walmarts, love-boat cruises, or just laying about sipping on pina coladas or at least, I sure as hell hope not.  I could never imagine working at the same job, for the same company, for the same boss, for just a pay-cheque, possible bonuses, vacation time, you know, all the little carrots they hang in front of a person's nose as the wrinkles start appearing, muscles start sagging, you know, when women's tits bounce off their knees and men's noses continually drip, mortgages keep getting larger, education keeps getting more expensive etc., etc., so the little carrot they keep dangling in front of your nose, is never really reachable.  Nah, that was never for me.  Of course, even though I think I could say, I retired around the age of 42 - now that's not to say, I stopped working totally; I mean I've never drawn welfare and only once did I collect EI for a year or was it 2 - that's the thing about being an old man, the memory isn't as sharp as it once was.  And now, at 72, I feel I've been working physically harder than I ever did during my younger years - mind you - could be because I ache a lot now, my joints are stiff and the majority of my strength has gathered on a mudslide heading towards a 6' hole in the ground.

          I know, I know, I'm ranting now, I'm sounding like the old man I am.  And if you've already hit the delete key, well that's no problem - I mostly just yammer away to hear myself talk; keeps me in touch with my being and makes me realize I'm not dead yet.  It wouldn't surprise me if the last words I hear are my own if I live long enough, "Will somebody please change this damnable diaper, I've just shit myself!" - cheers, eh!