Reach

Impulse Buy

I had a small gift card for Amazon.com (one of my most favorite websites!!), and at first I figured I would spend it like I usually do: Buying a new book. 

Then I saw something else and on an impulse, bought it right then and there.

It was this:

It's a dog tag, with the confederate flag etched on the front of it. I like dog tags, and I definitely like anything with the Rebel flag on it; so buying this little gem was a no-brainer!
There were two options, either a dog tag in color (the ol' red, white, blue coloring), or black and silver. I chose the classier looking black/silver for my first one, since I can wear it with absolutely anything and it looks awesome. ;) The colored one is next.

Yankee I am not. And this impulse buy seemed like a great way to show my Southern Pride.
Long live the South!!

Rain Poured.

Rain.

Not a gentle rain. Not a soft rain. Not a rain to merely cut the dust.

No. A rain that comes down in sheets. Falling heavily. Coming down so hard that it stings the bare skin. Soaks to the bone in minutes. This is the rain I have for weeks prayed would come.

And this evening it came. In all its fierce, harsh, torrential power it came down from the leaden skies.

I watched from a window in awe. It's been so long since we've had a true rain like this. I didn't last long at the window though; some feral part inside me wanted - or perhaps needed - to be a part of this and celebrate its arrival. I have waited for this day and could now wait no more. Staying inside left me pacing like a caged wild cat; the pent up energy was enough to rival that of an OCD Border Collie.

The urge was too strong to control. I ran and pulled out the long bow. Strung it with an ease that only comes with much practice. Reaching back into the closet, I slid a handful of arrows out of the quiver; for some reason I had no patience to use that little bag that clips neatly onto my jeans and holds the arrows for me. Nope, didn't want it today. I gathered my simple, silent tools; one bow that stands almost as tall as me, and four slender arrows. Harbingers of death. And with that, I dog trotted outside, beyond the confining walls that create a house. I could not withstand this cage right now... I needed a wild, fierce freedom.

The sudden hit of rain was almost a shock. Cold, wet, harsh; the rain's fury was untamed and unparalleled. I could only grin in anticipation at the thought of being a part of this wildness. It satisfied something deep within me to be able to not only withstand the elements, but fight back in my own small way.

Time was fleeting, and I was eager to set my arrows flying. Gates take too long to deal with, so I instead jumped over the fence in one swift move. I landed on the other side, and in the pasture; my playing field for the evening. Setting an arrow on the bowstring never fails to send a small thrill through me... It is calming, focusing, quieting, empowering, and wildly exciting all at the same time.

Rain poured. I loosed my first shot, not aiming at a target but merely wanting length of flight. To loosen up, get a feel for how to shoot through such driving rain. I set the second shaft and took in my surroundings. Inhaled smoothly as I drew my string back. Three fingers on the right hand create a claw, holding your your arrow, holding your string. Draw back to your cheek, your ear. Draw and hold. Elbow level, neither pointing up or down. Draw and hold. Sight your target. Release. The arrow flies off the string with such power that a ribbon of rain water follows behind it like a streamer. Rain water bounces off the bow string, ricocheting into a display similar to a firework.

Rain poured. Stung my exposed skin. My bare arms, bare head, bare feet. I wanted to be in the rain; I had no hat, no coat, no shoes. I did not want them. Wanted to feel the driving rain which has for so long been only a prayer.

More arrows were shot; all equal in length, steadiness, and target impact. I was blissfully happy to be out in this powerful torrent, doing one of my favorite things. Feel the bow string slam against your left wrist, left hand. See the welt and bruise forming. Feel the aching pain in your fingers from drawing the string over and over again. Feel the pain and own it. It means you're alive; alive enough to be standing outside in a storm that not even the hardy sheep want to brave.

Rain poured. I cannot physically become more wet than I am... Feel the rain run down my face, get in my eyes, drip off my chin. My shirt clings to my spine, my hair clings to my neck. Jumping in the creek that borders our property could not make me wetter than this. Puddles have formed in this short amount of time; I run to retrieve my arrows; run through puddles through sodden grass that squelches and yields to pressure with each step of my small bare feet. Dry dirt turns to mud and I do not avoid it. I love mud just like I love the rain. As long as I run and shoot arrows, I am warm. Warm and do not care that I am as wet and ugly as a drowned rat right in this moment. The huntress in me will not be satisfied until I can prove to the storm that I can stand up to it and hold my own. 

I shoot my arrows for an hour. Sixty minutes in the pouring rain. I am so in love with this moment, yet also wish there was someone next to me shooting their arrows too. The only thing better than shooting in the rain and mud is having company to laugh and yell with you through the whole thing. But for today, I do this alone. A solitary, lonely creature out in weather that no one else wants to endure. 

My fingers come close to beginning to bleed. My shots are beginning to become unsteady; I accidentally shoot an arrow that weaves itself through four holes in the livestock fencing. How I did that I will never know... My time is up; the storm has held out longer than me. I pick up my arrows for the last time down in the low part of the pasture. It's hard to look down to see them because then the rain water runs in my eyes. I retrieve all four of them; knowing full well that if I lose one then I have to replace it with two new ones. Such was the deal I made with my younger sister who owns these particular arrows. I do not run back up to the house, but walk slowly. Through the rain, I meander; thinking how I would like to buy hot pink camouflage arrows. Not because I like that color, but because it would make spotting them in the grass so much easier.

I climb back over the fence; careful not to hit the bow on the old, creaky wood that threatens to crack while my muddy, wet feet are still on it. Walk up to the house and realize a sense of satisfaction. Contentment. Quietness. I needed that hour with my arrows... Needed it more than I thought. I turned to go inside and then heard a noise that normally sends a chill of dread through me: Thunder. I looked at the angry sky that was still releasing rain with immense force. Listened to the rumble of thunder die away into ethereal nothingness. And for the first time in my life, I felt no fear. No dread. No anxiety at the thought of more thunder and lightning. All I felt was a contented tiredness after an hour of physical activity; let the storm come, I've already been out in it for sixty minutes.

And with that, I walked inside. Soaked to the bone, dripping wet, mud on my arrows... And I was happy. 

Count Those Eggs Before They Hatch

If you've ever tried hatching your own chicken eggs, then you probably know what an annoying thing it is to not know how many males are going to end up being in that batch when they hatch. And what's worse, is that you usually still don't know who's who until the chickens are mature enough (6-8 weeks on average; some folks can guess sooner, others later) that you can tell by looks as to who's a male and who's a female. A place only needs so many roosters, you know...

A couple days ago I learned two neat tricks to telling the difference betwixt male and female chicks not only when they're 2-week old youngsters, but possibly even when they're just an egg. I can't claim that these are fool proof since I have yet to try this (dying to, now though! My curiosity is killing me!), but so far I've heard a lot of positive results from other folks about these. And hey, it can't hurt right? If you're about to let a hen go broody, or if you want one last batch of eggs in that incubator, then it sure wouldn't hurt to pay a bit more attention to those eggs, right? 

So without further ado...

Below is a diagram of the difference between "pullet eggs" and "cockerel eggs". And should you care for the link to the original article on this (to prove that I'm not going nuts and making this up), you can find that by clicking HERE. It's a Mother Earth News article, so it may take a few moments to load (or it does for me anyway).

Aaaand the second trick: Sexing chicks by their wing feathers. Okay, I personally think this is the coolest thing. The bees knees, if you will. ;) This looks so simple that I'm practically foaming at the mouth to get my hands on some tiny chicks and see for myself that this holds true. I mean, seriously, do you know how handy that would be if I knew how many pullets vs. cockerels I was looking at, so early in the game!?!? Or what if I was buying 2-3 week old chicks from a breeder and wanted to get as many females as possible!? Yep, I'm pretty excited to learn this trick. So, the handy dandy link to this new knowledge can be found by clicking HERE! The link leads to a fun looking homesteading/homeschooling/homemaking/family oriented type blog.

Have any of y'all tried either of these tricks before? How'd they work??

The Next Generation

I never get tired of listening to Joel speak. :) And this little 6 minute clip about the next generation of farmers (hey, that's me!), was as enjoyable as all his other videos have been.

I'm A Fighter

"Fall down seven times, get up eight."

"If you want something bad enough, then you have to be willing to fight for it."

I'm a fighter. I don't mean that as in I pick fights among people and cause trouble. I mean it as in I'm a stubborn person who will  do what she sets out to do, and isn't afraid to defy odds.

I got to pondering over this subject today while randomly thinking about how much I like the fighting breeds in the animal world; primarily poultry and dogs. From Pumpkin Hulseys to Pit Bulls. Sweater stags to Staffordshire Bull terriers. I love, love, love these fierce breeds that so many people shy away from. When people learn of my rather odd fascination for fighting animals, they ask if I like them for the illegal sport of pitting animal against animal in a brutal contest to the death. No. I don't like that stuff. And I'm not for it.

I like these headstrong breeds for their character. I like their grit, determination, courage, and fierce loyalty. I like that. They've got a fighting spirit that I highly admire and try to maintain in my life. Fall down seven times, get up eight. That old proverb never mentions falling down that eighth time, but it implies a dogged spirit that will get up again no matter what. It is a warning to those who dare to mess with us. We cannot be stopped.

I struggle with fear. With feeling insecure, worthless, useless, and invisible. These are all lies I tell myself; I know that they are lies. But they are hard to shake nevertheless; they hang in the back of my mind like cobwebs just out of my reach. Silently taunting me day and night. They are my perpetual ghosts that I must either listen to, or fight off. I have a tendency to listen to them until I remember that old proverb... Get up eight times. So get up I do, and fight my battles. Fight not only my mental ones, but the ones that I meet with daily. The problems, struggles, and topsy turvy happenings. Things worth having often have to be fought for. They will require blood, sweat and tears. Do I - do we - have the tenacity and perseverance to keep up the good fight?  

Besides loving those fighting breeds of animals, I also love learning physical fighting methods. Self defense, skills with knives, archery, firepower... I enjoy it all, and would love to someday learn karate or kung fu. Some might think me brutal, but I like it because knowing these things helps replace my fear with confidence. I am prepared for the worst, am trained to be aware of my surroundings, and while I hope and pray that I never find myself in a bad situation, I do not fear the possibility as much as I used to. I sometimes wonder what sort of message I cast to random people on the streets with my body language... Do I give the impression of a fearful person or a confident one? Do I seem approachable, or would a person rather go to someone else with their question? I want to be confident, yet approachable. One person made an offhand comment to me the other day that between my body language and the pocket knife that is forever present on my self, I give the impression of being a confident person who is ready to conquer the world. I gave the person a quizzical look at that comment; I often feel like my fear must show through my mask... I do not feel like a person ready to conquer the world most of the time, but I am slowly learning to let that fear sink into oblivion where it belongs. I want to be a confident, strong character. A fighter.

More than just being able to fight for myself though, I want to be able to be able to defend those who I care for. And you know what? Defending my friends and family can require more than physical demands. It may mean standing up them when they are being treated unjustly. It normally doesn't bother me when someone tries to downgrade or belittle me; I can usually handle that fairly well. What riles me is when someone dares to insult, accuse, or otherwise hurt my family or friends. Hurt me. Make me your victim. Take me instead. But don't you dare hurt my family or friends. Otherwise you will unleash a fury neither you or I will be completely prepared for. My sense of justice rebels at the thought of an innocent person getting needlessly hurt. I don't have many good qualities to proclaim for myself, but loyalty is one that I will put on that very short list...

Sometimes you want something, but logic - and possibly people - says it's not possible for you. Do you take on the attitude of a defeatist and give up at that? Or do you rise to the challenge and prepare for a stout battle? Sometimes you gotta' fight for what you want. And I'm not saying fight against the people who say 'no'. I'm saying you're probably going to have to fight against the odds, against yourself. Get ready for the blood, the sweat, the tears. The pain, the wait, the anguish. Folks have said it's impossible because it's a hard road. So be prepared to fight. If you truly want something, you may have give it all you've got. Whether it's a farm, a college education, or what-have-you. Life it a perpetual test of our perseverance and determination. And just know that some folks will most likely try to trod on you, on your dream, on your goal. Listen to those people and see if their words hold any truth. If they do, then look into making changes. If not, then disregard. Get up that eight time.

 I love the fighting breeds of animals because they are a tangible example of what it means to keep going even when all seems lost. They will keep going, keep fighting, keep daring, even when the odds are grossly against them. They're a reminder to me to keep up that courage and grit. To keep trying, stay loyal, and stand up for yourself. Not a bad lesson to learn from a chicken and a dog...

One Tough Cookie

I've always liked Pumpkin Hulseys. They're just cool chickens. I'm not really a chicken person, to be honest... I find them rather annoying creatures. But, I do like the Hulseys... These birds are something different. They're tough, and they're smart.

I've managed to give away just about all my chickens now; but my Hulsey pullet remains thus far. Why? Do I like her too much to give her away? Is she too valuable to part with?

It's true that I do like her, and that she *is* a valuable bird (let's see... I just saw a pullet sell for $300 a few weeks ago?), but that's not why she's still here. I can't catch her. 90% of the time I can't even find her.

Three times now I've assumed she's dead. Assumed that a bobcat got her, or a hawk nabbed her, or a raccoon found her in the night. And then I see her flitting by for two seconds, only to disappear back into the brushy borderline of our property. She's gleaning her own food, getting her water from the creek, and roosting high up in surrounding trees come nightfall. I have yet to see a Barred Rock, or a Buff Orpington survive this long on their own.

I suppose I should eventually try and catch her before I leave for Missouri, but part of me is curious as to just how long she can take care of herself before she starts coming back to the barn. She's one tough cookie, that bird is... The Pumpkin Hulseys are a fighting breed, and this little pullet has proven herself strong. I may not like chickens, but I'm definitely a fan of these Hulseys... They're different.