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Welcome home ducklings

After 8 months our little piece of land has its namesakes. Our anniversary present to ourselves arrived by mail yesterday morning, and after a quick trip to the post office we have our ducks.


We ordered twelve and they sent thirteen; as we understand it, there can be up to 20% mortality in the first few weeks, thus the hatchery hedges their bets.
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Surprise, it’s Thursday!

frog on rock

I’ve always pretty much kept to a “live and let live” philosophy when it comes to nature’s creatures and critters with a few exceptions, mainly along the lines of: food sources (yay bacon!), outside things that come inside without an invitation, and surprise visits.  I simply cannot be held responsible for my actions when things just SHOW UP IN MY HAIR OR CRAWL ACROSS MY LEG OR FLY INTO THE BEDROOM LIKE A BAT OUT OF HELL IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT.  I still feel a smidgen of guilt about shop vacuuming the bats but seriously, it was like two in the morning, and my decision-making skills decline sometime after midnight.  And before two, evidently.

But when I’m outside things can pretty much creep and scamper along the perimeter of my personal space and it never really bothers me.


Today I added one more exception to my list.  Copperhead snakes.  Beautiful and venomous, she slithered out from nearby where I was clearing some brush for a future garden site.  She didn’t go far, pretty much just out of range of my hand saw, and then just sorta sat there, terrorizing me.  I took a quick phone pic and then googled copperhead images just to be sure what I was dealing with… then I texted my daddy for advice.  He replied by telling me to be careful and and when prodded for a method of removal he suggested a golf club.

I stood there contemplating my options when the copper head turned my way and stuck her tongue out at me.  Then, I must confess, I completely freaked, said a quick prayer (OHMYGODDEARJESUS) and did the most ladylike thing that sprang to my mind… I ran it over with the tractor.  Twice.  And then turned on the mower just to be safe.


Thursday kept on keeping on: I found our well (with the brush clearer attachment on the weedeater.  Need to replace blades tomorrow), the kitchen faucet line attempted to secede from the Union and spray water into the cabinet instead, and then the blender caught fire.  Seriously, smoke poured out the back for three minutes after I unplugged the wretched thing.

Luckily the man of the house showed up soon thereafter with a “calming” bubble bath, and which might have worked had I not spent the tub time looking up ways to deal with copperheads (internet advises not dealing with them directly) and reading other peoples’ tales of snake infestations in and around their homes.  Then I looked at bite pictures.  Save yourself the stress and don’t ever google those.  EVER.

Now it’s Friday so we’re safe.  Boots, gloves, and heavy jeans today, and I’ll probably be watching more closely where I put my hands and feet for awhile.

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big girls dont cry

A few months ago, after two years of searching for a home that would shelter us through the next chapters in our life, we found a spot on earth that was nothing like our sweet suburbian cottage or the sleek city condo where we have rested our heads.  It was also nothing like the old white romantic farmhouse on a hill overlooking manicures lawns and gardens that I had been dreaming about, and that never seemed to show up anywhere near our price range on my app that I religiously checked every night before bed.  In fact, I’d never even considered a log cabin as a possible housing option.  And if there’s any decor style that I’ve abhorred has never resonated with me, it’s the rustic/lodge look.  And yet, ninety days ago we put our little yellow cottage on the market; two days later we accepted a full-price offer; six weeks later I tearfully pulled out of the driveway for the last time and began the hour-and-a-half long drive to the country.