Thursday, July 31, 2014
Good morning to the mountain and 4-H fair chickens
Good morning from the mountain, it is a cold 68 degrees F here, and the earth is wrapped in a swaddling blanket of dense fog. It is not without wonder that the barnyard animals are confused, here on July 31, 2014 the high for today is but 74 degree F. Well it is just tops, absolutely the best for me, as I have enough garden work and canning that needs done as to jump for joy over the lower temp, but I cannot shake that monster under the bed which warns me of a dubiously cold winter as a possible event looming on the horizon. Mini ice age pending!
I know many of you are wondering how yesterday at the fair played out, so I will share the event with you as best I can. Yesterday upon bringing the children’s chickens to the state fair I observed the baseline of insanity the likes of which I never before seen. I chanced upon such an interesting group of insane people; all quit without their wits and good manners. They pushed and forced their hell bent will upon others, some with very high end sheep and goats, reliving a lost time though their children who were made unhappy guests of their parent’s desire for a silken ribbon to display how marvelous of parents they are. Myself I have no such need for attention and would have been just as happy to leave before I had ever arrived.
There is a great deal of painstaking work that goes into raising animals for the fair, and it is for my children alone that I am willing to subject myself to these torrid distractions, when I would do better to remain many miles away upon my mountain. If for no other reason that for the peace alone, but like all good 4-H parents on this day my fate has been set to the children needing my adult self to enter their chickens in the fair. What an unpleasant fate was thrown upon me as they bleed the chickens to test for diseases and much of their life’s blood is now a permit part of my shirt and the ground below us. A fitting reminder of how a good spirt is no salvation for the parents of 4-H kids. Never the less, I jumped with both feet planted upon the ground and then after the long wait and gruesome event went to check the birds in.
Upon checking in with the boy's chickens, both Elijah and I were greeted by a hag of a women, not at all a jolly barrel, but rather a forbidding rock which has logged itself into the center of one’s field and who very nature it’s self is quite stout and unmoving. Whose eyes never met mine and seemed to have a strong and quite abnormal distain for the volunteer job she was engaged in. To add to such matter she read the boys names off the cards, Elijah and Elisha, and my son looked at her when her gruff voice asked him who he was.
“I am Elijah”, he stated quit clearly, so that there be no doubt as to what had been spoken, no soft whispered works, but a declaration of one’s self.
Which was followed by the rock who said, “Have her put her chickens into cage number_____."
Really, as my eyes rolled up into my head, “he is a boy," I replied.
Upon which was continued with the girl, five times said, and five times corrected. Then upon trying to make a most quick retreat least my works flow forth like a raging river with no care for the rocks, animals and trees in its path, I was challenged yet once more but the cackle of the not the birds, but the women.
“Give me your paper.” She said gruffly.
What followed was the banter of fools, myself included as she preceded to tell me that my paper was hers, for mercy’s sake alone did I part with my copy knowing full good and well that she had one waiting below where the birds had been bleed, but deciding upon the higher of the roads I relented and made my self-determined to retrieve yet another copy from the place of blood and anguish. Once paper was in hand, I made quick work to warn all other comers of the desires of the hag. A gentle warning at best, at worst a salvation for some soul with less control than I had just had.
I who is the lover of all things paper, holding many piles simultaneously upon my desk, found no joy in these new papers that seemed to be all the rage this fair year. Papers should have a purpose other than to be taken for the sake of taken, they need sorted and filed, but their papers lay in a pile of crumped mass and form, making the sane and insane quit equal in desire to tidy up the slopen mess. I worry about the information cared for in such a manner, but alas it is too late for my thoughts to continue dwelling on such an impossible task.
Glad I am that I do not have to return to the fair today, I fear that the end of the week will be here before I know it, and I will be forced to endure another round of the fair. I am in no rush…
Well, off to pickle carrots and work in the gardens…
Be Blessed dear ones