Blueberry Hill Farm

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.