Revenge of the laying hens.

My mother grew up on a farm in New Jersey. You're probably thinking, "New Jersey?? They have farms in New Jersey? I thought it was just a giant suburb of New York City!" But yes, they have farms still. Years ago, New Jersey was mostly farmland. Heck, even their license plates are the color of straw.

Her dad, my granddaddy, had dairy cows and chickens. Mom tells stories of riding atop one of the cows when they were moving them between pastures, poking other cows with a stick to make them go faster. When Mom grew up and was being courted by my dad, he would come visit occasionally, and my grandfather would put him to work.

One day, he gave my dad the task of collecting eggs in the henhouse. Daddy didn't like that job much, because when you reached under a hen to get her eggs, she would peck your hand. On this particular day, I guess Daddy wasn't in the mood for any chicken guff, and when the first hen pecked at him, he slapped her in the head. He reached in again, and she retaliated with another painful peck. This time, he grabbed her by the neck and flung her out of the box. She repaid him by laying an egg in midair.

When I was a little girl, my grandmother suggested once that I take the basket and go collect the eggs. She assured me all the chickens would be outside and wouldn't bother me. As I walked across the barnyard, I saw a group of hens pecking away at the dirt, so when I got to the henhouse, I walked right in. There I was met by an ancestor of the chicken my daddy had flung from her roost many years before. Apparently, the legend had been handed down for generations, and the hens were out for revenge. She came charging at me, squawking and flapping and scarring my psyche for life. Someone else collected the eggs that day.

Then just a few years ago, our neighbors in Tennessee asked us to care for their chickens while they were away for a few days. They told us we could have the eggs while we were caring for them. I remembered with some apprehension the aggression shown by that hen those many years ago, but agreed to the task.

The first day I went down to take care of them, I realized I could give them water and feed before I opened the coop, and therefore wouldn't have to be so close to them. I did that, then flung open the coop door and ran. Everything went according to plan and I was satisfied with myself. I was hosing off the back patio (where the chickens liked to leave, uh, deposits), when one curious hen came toward me. I told her to back off, even waved my arms and yelled a little. When she kept coming toward me with that look in her eye, I turned the hose on her full force. She was blown over, rolling like a tumbleweed across the yard. I'm sure the chickens are still telling that story around the roost of an evening.

But don't get me wrong. I love chickens. In a roasting pan.

Be thankful ~

Karen

Lisa Thompson lives somewhere.

When the phone rang the other morning, I answered it. (I know that's profound—bear with me. I really do have a point.)

It was a woman from Dr. Umptysquat's office, calling to remind Mrs. Thompson of her appointment the next day.

Now I know you're thinking, "Big deal. It was a wrong number." Right?

But it IS a big deal. You see, Mrs. Thompson (Lisa, wife of John) has been using our phone number for five years, since the day we moved here and got this number. For a long time, we thought these people had probably had our number before we did (the phone company recycles numbers), but then more recently we began to notice a pattern.

The calls were almost always from either a doctor's office, a hospital, an insurance company, or a collection agency. There were never any personal calls for them.

It occurred to me for the very first time the other day that Mr. and Mrs. Thompson may be involved in insurance fraud. They sure have a lot of doctor's appointments.

So the next time we get a call for one of them, I'm going to get as much information as I can. (I feel like Sherlock Holmes!) An address, description, anything I can get to help me track these people down. I used to get sick of all the calls. Now I can't wait for the next one. Wouldn't it be fun to catch a criminal in the act?

Or maybe I need to get a life.

Either way, I'm going to play sleuth.

Be thankful ~

Karen

Look! A meme!

I found this meme at Lid's blog. And I have no idea why the text in this first part is underlined, but I can't get rid of it. Blogspot may be temporarily possessed. Or I may be technically illiterate. You decide.




1. What is something that you have changed your mind about either recently or over a number of years?

Brussels sprouts, steamed and then sauteed in olive oil with a little prosciutto, salt and pepper, and some toasted pignoli, are incredible.

2. Choose either subject, but does your a) church b) job feel more like a dental chair experience or an easy chair (recliner) experience?

It depends on what I'm editing, but there are days when my job is definitely like a dental-chair experience, complete with the sound of the drill and the smell of grinding tooth decay. On the other hand, some days it's a piece of cake. All in all, I'm not complaining.

3. Kisses or hugs? I actually typed "huts," which might have been a more interesting question.

Hugs, definitely. I am needy in the endorphin department.

4. What do you think is the biggest threat to families today?

School. How can you grow together when you spend most of your time apart?

5. A day after you grocery shop, you open a perishable item that is horribly spoiled. Do you take your receipt back to the store to be reimbursed or just throw it away and forget about it?

If I got it locally, I definitely take it back. If it came from the commissary (30 miles away), not a chance.

6. What personality trait (feel free to address good or bad or both) do you notice yourself adopting from your parents?

I've learned to enjoy the history behind little things. I have a crock that was made in Strasburg, Virginia, and I've been reading the history behind the all the stoneware that was made there. I have a rug beater that belonged to my great aunt. I have a sugar bowl that belonged to my grandmother, and a huge bread bowl that was my other grandmother's. Those things are becoming more important to me.

7. How many slices of bread do you leave in the bottom of the bag when you throw it away? Two? Three? Just the heel? None? (I really want to know if you eat the heel.)

The heel. I eat the first one, but by the time you get to the last one, it's dry and nasty.

8. What mispronunciation or usage error really irritates you?

I could write a book. 10 items or less, should of, and just today at Walmart, I saw a sign that said, "Watermelons: was $4.98, now $4." Really? Watermelons WAS? Somebody had to type that sign. Don't get me started.

9. In honor of the uniqueness of today's date, what does the numeral 9 mean to you? (Any special life moments attached to the 9th? Are you the 9th kid in your family? Can you count by 9s really fast? etc.)

The ninth of May was the day my youngest son was born. He was due on April 17th. Yes, that's three weeks and one day late. Be horrified.

10. Does the general color palette in your closet match the colors you chose to decorate your home with?

I don't choose home colors. The only time I did, we had a pukey-peachy colored bathroom. It was awful. I'm smart enough to know when to quit.

11. When you're hanging out with friends in the kitchen, do you automatically ask to help, or do you sit there and chat until the host asks if you'd like to help? I'm not implying that the 2nd choice stems from rudeness or laziness, just not a first-response like it is for some people.

I ask. I grew up in a kitchen full of women working together. Those were some of the most fun and memorable times of my life.

12. Let's end on a pleasant note: What do you enjoy about September the most?

Getting to sleep with the windows open.

So go visit Linda at 2nd Cup of Coffee.

Be thankful ~

Karen

A medical marvel I can relate to.

It is 10 a.m. on a school day. Elijah has been up for an hour and a half. He has taken care of the dog, checked email and facebook, helped me look for an important piece of paper, and made a pot of coffee. He is now in his room. I thought he was probably starting his schoolwork, but I heard the radio, so I wanted to check.

I knocked, and when he answered, I inquired as to the status of his work for the day. This was his answer:

I'm cleaning my room, and after I have some blood in my coffeestream, I'll start my schoolwork.



My kinda guy.

Be thankful ~

Karen

And daddies love to be heros.

The phone rings.

Elijah answers it.

It is invariably a sister (he has three) who says, "Can I talk to Mom?"

It happens ALL the time, and everybody has a limit, right?

So just a few minutes ago, I was folding laundry on my bed and Elijah was sitting at my desk talking to me. The phone rang. Elijah answered it. It was Lovely, who said, "Can I talk to Mom?"

And he went darkside.

I heard this side of the conversation:

"Oh my goodness. Nobody ever wants to talk to me! You call, you want to talk to Mom. Abbie calls, she wants to talk to Mom. Deb . . ."

Suddenly, his face became serious and I knew.

He handed me the phone and the first words she said were, "Hi, Mom. I've been in an accident and I'm fine. It wasn't my fault and the car is driveable."

Well, then. Nothing like getting the data dump in 1.2 seconds flat.

By this time, Ben was standing next to me holding his hand out for the phone. She told him that the guy changed lanes without looking and hit the front left side of the car. It's driveable, the headlight isn't broken (she's pedantic about driving with her headlights on), she's fine, the other guy has insurance, and the police have been called.

Then Ben asked if she needed him to come there, (Keep in mind it is Friday afternoon in a DC suburb. It may take him an hour to drive that 12 miles.) and she told him, "Very honestly, it would make me feel better."

Girls always need their daddies. Just the thought that they can call at any time and Daddy will jump in the car and come to their rescue—how comforting! Just like God.

"I will never leave thee, nor forsake thee." (Hebrews 13:5)

Be thankful~

Karen

The latest installment of Sticky Bean.

Wouldn't you love to wake up to this in the morning?

Or play with this in the afternoon?

How can they be so precious and not even know it?

Be thankful ~

Karen

Cesar, I want my money back.

I like to walk for exercise. Well, I don't exactly like it, but that would be my preferred exercise, if I had to choose one. And I do. At 48, it becomes a medical necessity.

So after dinner last night, Ben said he would clean up so I could go for my walk. I took Stupid (aka Pete) and went on my merry way. Now, way back when we first got Pete (an American bulldog mix) and I realized he was going to be bigger and stronger than my 11-pound Yorkie, I decided I'd better teach him to walk nicely on a leash without all the pulling and yanking and frothing at the mouth you see some dogs do. So I got what's called a pinch collar. It's a metal choke thing that has spikes turned in toward the dog's neck, so that when you yank on the leash, it feels like the mommy dog is biting the puppy (that's really how mommy dogs teach their puppies not to do certain things--they bite them), and the puppy stops whatever he's doing when he's been "bitten." At least that's the theory. I also read all of Cesar Milan's books and watched every episode of The Dog Whisperer I could find. So naturally, I'm a dog expert now. The leader of my pack. Just ask Pete.

Now that Pete is three years old (and 70 pounds of lean, mean muscle, except for the wad of fat that jiggles under his neck and the empty space between his ears), he's a good walker. He still wears the pinch collar, I hold the leash with about a foot of slack, and he walks very nicely right there at my left side. My neighbors all remark at what an obedient dog he is.

That's his superego. Then there's his id. Somehow, his id is unaware of the choke collar. So last night we're having this lovely walk in the cool, fall weather when we come upon a family out for an evening stroll with the dog and children. The first thing that happens is the fur on Pete's neck (actually, all the way down to his tail) stands up straight and he sticks his chest out past the fat under his neck. Then there's a bit of tension on the leash. I can sense that he is nervous, so I heed Cesar's advice and keep moving forward, speeding my pace a bit to force Pete to follow. Every time Pete looks at the dog, I give a little yank on the chain, "biting" his neck to redirect his attention.

Then the other dog lunges.

At this point, I should tell you that Pete is a chicken. He gets his hackles up and barks, but he is scared to death. He once avoided our back yard for days because there was a log out there he didn't recognize (I'm not kidding).

Does Pete lunge back? Yes! But not in the right direction. He jumps three feet sideways, throwing himself into the side of my left leg, knocking me off balance and then rushes toward the other dog barking and yelping as far as his one foot of slack will let him go. Except that I'm off balance now, what with the 70-pounds of quivering nervousness acting like a pinball in the middle of our quiet, suburban street. Somehow I keep Pete from dragging me over to the other dog, and we manage to keep moving forward, whining and barking and pulling back and forth all the way. Where are Cesar and his dumb theories now?

The family watches all this in amazement, and seems to be unaware that their 10-year-old boy is making a bee-line to pet the "nice doggie" and I am in fear for the child. Pete is now foaming, yelping, and gasping for air. Suddenly the father sees his son 6 feet from my crazed animal and screams, "Russell!!" and that sends Pete into further maniacal contortions. I start running just to get us out of there, wondering if I'll be able to drag my dog away from the scene. I shouldn't have worried. Pete realizes I'm moving quickly now and, glad to be getting away, he takes off like he's been shot out of a cannon. That one foot of slack is not nearly enough. He yanks me almost off my feet and I struggle to keep up with him until we get around the corner where he instantly morphs into the docile, well-trained dog he was just three minutes previous.

There's no cure for stupid.

Be thankful ~

Karen