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Well, boys and girls, it's time for us to explore another
chapter in the ongoing saga of the Farmgirl of Blueberry Hill. When will this
saga ever end? Well, it almost did today . . .
I had a quite productive day today. It began very early
this morning with the routines of the day. In the morning the chores begin with
the broiler chicks in the garage and end with Mr. Knightly and Emma's coop. The
broilers are becoming very naughty as they have discovered that their little
wings will actually propel them somewhere -- usually over the side of the
broiler tank and onto the garage floor. When I got out to take care of them
this morning, there were quite a number of them out. Anyway, that's another
story and I spent quite a bit of time today trying to figure out what I was
going to do with them. I think I have it worked out in my mind now. After the
routine chores were finished, I began working on the cleanup of this farm, as
the rains and general muck of the winter have done both a number on its
cleanliness and my morale.
I tore down and pulled up a defunked chicken lot that the
chickens had destroyed beside the big coop; I took a load of trash to the dump;
I picked up lumber scraps from a shed we had built; I cleaned out the tack room
down at the llama barn and removed protective covering from around the stall. I
hauled feed up to the little blue coop and cleaned up around there. While at
the little blue coop I had to fend off, yet another attack, of Dandy the Rooster
from Hell who insists on attacking and flogging me. I hate that rooster. One
day he's going to flog me when I'm in just the right frame of mind, and I'm
going to shoot his worthless hide. I've tried to explain to him that "farmer"
trumps "rooster" but he refuses to follow my line of reasoning. I am the "head
honcho" around here because I am the only one with thumbs and therefore the only
one who can remove the lid from the scratch tub. The hens love me best, for
when they are given the choice of scratch or being courted by a rooster, they
will opt for scratch every time. The roosters are quite jealous of the hens'
loyalty toward me. It is just a striking example that a hen can live without a
rooster but she cannot live without a farmer. I digress.
Anyway, around 3:30 this afternoon I was going to load up
the old chicken lot I had pulled up with the intent of loading it onto the dump
cart and hauling it off to the landfill when it happened.
I had decided that, since there was a strong ammonia odor
coming out of the big coop, mostly due to the last big rain that flooded that
coop, I would put the last bale of shavings I had in there to help with that
problem. Some idiot had left the top door of the horse trailer open. I was
deep in conversation with me and myself, carrying the shavings from around the
back of the A-frame coop and not really looking where I was going. All of a
sudden WHAM!! I walked right into the corner of that opened trailer door. I hit
it with such force that I was knocked backwards and onto the ground. The door
corner had come in contact with my forehead up near my hair line and I was in
such excruciating pain that I could only utter incomprehensible groans that have
no definitions. I don't know how long I lay on the ground but I was pretty sure
I was dying. I could not move, I could only groan. Just as I was sure I was
about dead, it occurred to me that I was not surrounded by a band of angels
coming after me, but a flock of chickens standing over me. One of the hens had
a hold of my pants leg and was pulling it frantically saying "Farm girl, get up!
Get up!" but I could not. After laying there for what seemed like a very long
time, I was able to roll over onto my belly and then after a few more minutes
was able to push up onto my knees. The bale of shavings was right there and I
slumped over it. I couldn't open my right eye and my head was throbbing. I was
debating whether or not to call 9-1-1. Finally I was able to stand up. This is
dragging out to long. You get the picture. I was very pitiful and I felt very
pitiful. My biggest concern was that I was going to keel over and I hadn't made
out a list of what to do in the event that happened. Dying becomes very
complicated when the starving masses are relying on you. I staggered up to the
house, got a bag of ice, and called Ernest, my retired doctor Brother-in-law.
Anyway, drug out story shortened . . . I am still alive, although I have a dozy
of a goose egg on my forehead. My head is very sore and I have a feeling that's
not going to be better by morning. I may have to call in sick
tomorrow.
So, Farmgirl, what have we learned from this experience?
Close the *!!$@**&% trailer door!
The End.
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Posted by Carmen
@ 04:54 PM EDT
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