Chicken Notes

Lester is PU: Pending Pick Up. I had one claimant on Freecycle that said she'd take him. I didn't mention his full name (Lester the Molester). He's quite aggressively, ah, making sure his gene pool gets passed on. The hens are getting edgy and have a crazy, glazed look in their eyes. The two older ones sometimes stay in the coop all day, hiding and have said they are too old for that uh, carrying-on.

If Lester leaves, that means I can move the three large young chickens into the coop with two old ones, quit climbing under the deck to retrieve eggs (as they will lay in the coop box), and the bantams with chicks can go in the triangular chicken tractor. Of course, I'll have to give up my reputation in the neighborhood as the crazy woman who has chickens in her house. Well, the bantams come in at night, having no coop of their own, and I put them in dog crates, which aren't 'coon proof.

Raven, the one that has been sitting FOREVER, even trying to steal her sister's eggs, finally hatched a very tiny yellow chick. Mother and chick are doing fine. Raven is now potty trained. Still sitting on two remaining eggs, she is carried outside once a day where she stands tall, gives the Rebel yell, flaps around the yard squawking, and then poops like a Clydsdale. She follows me about the yard, expecting me to protect her from the big hens that try to attack her. She dutifully returns to her eggs and cage after her walk and catching a few bugs. I suppose I'm the only person I know with a potty trained hen.

Clay, the rooster (photo right) hides under the deck all day if Lester escapes his fencing, like he did today. Somehow, Clay has injured one wing, which hangs down low. I've examined the bones and nothing is broken. Perhaps it is a ruse to keep Lester at bay. He will be happy to see Lester go. And when he does, I'll have everyone in a coop without having to build a new one before winter.

That's Embarrassing!

Don't get me wrong: cell phones are wonderful inventions. Sometimes, I wonder what we did without them. But just because you can talk from anyplace, doesn't mean you should.

Comments on your worst cell phone encounters?

At the Kentucky Railway Museum

My Town Monday - Flavor

Once upon a Main Street, there was a hardware store. Not just any hardware store, mind you, but a magic time machine hardware store. The door stood propped open in the summer months, as they had no air conditioning. Many feet over the years had worn an indentation in the wooden aisle way. As you walked past the gum ball machine to the back, you passed rows of disorganized gadgets of all sorts. Mid-store, a counter divided the shop in two, and behind the counter stood people who knew where every nail and screw was hoarded in shelving behind the counter.

Instead of buying 1000 nails in a box, you could stand at the counter and describe your task, and that you needed only 10 nails to complete it. Knowing exactly what you needed, the sales clerk would disappear and return with 10 nails which were dumped into a paper sack. People stood around chatting. A bulletin board was littered with the business cards of local tradesmen.It was small town USA.

During my tenure here in this town, the owners, aged and ready to retire, sold the shop reluctantly, and promised to try to sell to new owners that would keep the shop open like it was. The new owners tried, combining the hardware business with their real love, computer services. With competition from StuffMart and large you-do-it stores that opened within a fifteen minute drive, the hardware store couldn't survive. They expanded the computer and laser services business, closed the hardware business, and a little bit of history died.

I know I'm not the only one who mourns this bit of history that has passed. Recently, dh and I went to dinner with new neighbors who asked why we settled in "My Town". Dh began, "Well, there used to be this hardware store on Main Street..."

You Really Know You're a Hayseed When....

Friday, my girls and I ventured to the city to listen to a presentation specifically geared to homeschoolers by a university . Except for the lack of coffee which I thought would show better hospitality, we were well treated and enjoyed the informative presentation in a very nice auditorium. As I sat listening, the air conditioning kicked on and the air circulated a bit. Sniff, sniff. Someone had a problem. I did the little look around to see if anyone was squirming in their seat or looking embarrassed. No, no reaction. Maybe it was nothing.

A little while later, I was again greeted with a less than pleasant aroma. Man! I took a breath mint from my purse. Maybe it would mask the odor. Then, I noticed that the aroma occurred when I uncrossed one leg and crossed the other. I switched again. Yes, it was me! OH, NO, I had horse manure on my shoes! Here I was all in my new clothes thinking I was so spiffy and non-homeschooling-mom looking and I smelled like a just laid green horse turd. (For those of you who are not cognoscenti, green horse manure is much smellier than the blacker apples.)

I knew how this happened to my good Lands' End shoes. I'd gotten ready to go play "welcome wagon" to our new neighbors, putting on my good shoes, when we noticed that the miniature horses had ventured in with the big horses. Though they sometimes get along, we decided to put them in a stall before leaving in the event they might start running or messing with the neighbor's horses. In doing so, I stepped in it, literally. That day, I quickly changed shoes, and the event went out of my mind until that afternoon in the auditorium.

I quietly slinked out to the women's bathroom, took off my shoe and sniffed. And, about fainted. I began cleaning the shoe in the sink, praying that another homeschool mom didn't hear nature's call and come in and see me smelling the bottom of my shoe. I got it cleaned but then noticed that my shoes were suede and now had clear water marks on one shoe, not the other. So, I quickly put water on the other shoe. Thankfully, it was raining that day. No one would notice.

I slipped back into my seat, crossed my legs, and breathed a sign of relief. No one knew I was a yahoo. Then - the air kicked on and I smelled it again. And again. It wasn't my shoe. I don't know what it was, but at the very least, I knew my shoes were now clean.

A New Diet

It only occurred to me for a second. But, you know the saying, "He eats like he has a tapeworm"? That must mean that people with tapeworms can't keep on the weight, right? So, earlier this week, the cat rubbed all over me, leaving a tiny tape worm segment on my arm. At first, I thought it just a cat booger, but cat boogers can't expand and contract independently now, can they? And so, just for a second, only a second mind you, I wondered if I had tapeworms, would I lose weight? Could I start a new diet fad where you could eat all you want? I'd only have to swallow...Then, I threw up a little in my mouth thinking about it. I did not try to save the worm like Robin, rushing it to the vet's office. I did, however, send Lauren to the vet's to retrieve worm killer. And banished the cat to the outside for a couple of days.

Read Pitawoman's blog for another new diet fad.

Backyard Science Friday: I have photos...

...but I won't share them. Last night, Lauren came in just at nightfall. She had been "freaked out" down at the creek. There was a dead, hairless, green alien thing in the creek. Drawn there by our dog Daisy's barking, she spotted it in the dark with her flashlight. The smell was overpowering. Then, Daisy rolled it it. What is it with dogs and terrible smells and wanting to wear them like eau de cologne? It was reported that it resembled a pig in the fading light. I wondered which neighbor had taken up a new hobby? Daisy got a late night bath.

This morning, William and Lauren put on dust masks to go do a little forensic anthropology with me. It was an opposum that had apparently lost it's hair in the um, process. I took photos, but since many of you read this blog in the morning or over lunch (I am told), I'll spare you.

Do you have something to share in your backyard? Leave me a comment and I'll link to you.

Turtle Man

My dh said, "Please tell me he's not from Kentucky." He is, and we're probably related.



Thanks to my friend, Becky (who won the county husband calling contest at the county fair) for the link.

If William Was an Interior Designer

When It Hits the Fan

I'm all for edgy art. I don't want to look at it, but I think it has it's place, just not anywhere that I can see it. I can't imagine how museum curators pitched paying for an "art" exhibit that was meant to represent "a giant pile of dog faeces". And since when are inflatables "art"?

I can just imagine it. "Come on kids, we're going to the art museum!"
"What's there, Mom?"
"A really neat inflatable of a giant pile of dog sh#t!"
"Oh, boy, can we jump on it?"

God chimed in with his opinion of this piece of crappy artwork when a sudden windstorm blew the sh#t away. It landed in the yard of a children's home. They'll be in therapy now for years.

Click here (at your own risk) for photos.

Good Enough for Me

In a moment of weakness, I bought a pumpkin pie the size of a small flying saucer at Costco. I have been trying to watch what I eat lately, as the pounds seem a little harder to lose these days. After dinner, I offered the pie to the family, stating I'd have a small sliver. Dh took a big slice with a shrug, "It's a vegetable!"

After eating most of his pie, he declared it okay, but not as good as my recipe from a can. From scratch, I clarified? Well, if you call making it from a can, "scratch". I do - you have to add eggs and evaporated milk - more than two steps which qualifies it as homemade.

I remembered him to the time that I really made it from scratch, spending much time cooking a cooking pumpkin (not the same as those you carve) until it was the consistency of canned pumpkin. But - it was not. It was very grainy; Dh said the consistency of spaghetti squash, though I remember it to be not as good, not quite that bad. After slaving over the hot crock pot for what seemed years, I decided that canned pumpkin was good enough. And, Costco's gianormous pie is good enough, too. They're eating it, after all.

News and Notes
The Tractor Supply has opened in town. Yee haw! I don't have to travel 40 minutes to look at horse supplies.

The woman who bought Maggie and Easy, miniature horses and parents to mine own Roxie and Chiron, called the other day. Maggie is again expecting, and her "husband" has taken to polygamy. Seems she bought two miniature donkeys, female both. I asked her how she felt about miniature mules. Glad she lives more than an hour away.

Our farrier was by this week to trim horse hooves, and relayed a story about coyotes and wild dogs. Seems in the next town over, an owner of a cow witnessed wild dogs pulling at the ears of a cow, while the coyotes bit at the back legs. They got the cow down. I don't know the fate of the cow, but I hear coyotes go off at night, and it is an eerie sound.

My Blessings

He liked it when I told him that he looked like a President.

At this point in the election, I'm inclined to vote for him.

Kentucky State Lizard

I was amused by Brita Coleman's blog so much that I had to write ANOTHER whole blog today, when I should be painting or mopping floors or writing bad checks or something. I mean, how cool to have a lizard that eats biting ants and then shoots blood out it's eye when annoyed. I want to be that lizard. I can see it now, "William, don't make me shoot my eye at you!" Splat, all over his forehead. No, I'd not be able to control it. I'd be shooting blood at people at StuffMart, people blocking the grocery aisle. I don't have a temper, but I do have a low annoyance threshold.

So, she asks do we have a state lizard, as Texas does? (We actually don't even have a state, as Kentucky is a Commonwealth, but I digress.) We do not. I nominate the salamander. Not long after we moved to this house, dh and I, in a very rare moment, had the girls in bed and we settled in to easy chairs in the basement to watch TV. Next thing I knew, he was flying into the air with a loud exclamation that something had been under his sock! It was a very large black with yellow salamander that evidently thought his foot made a cozy hiding place. How it got in the house I'll never know, as we've not seen one in the house since. (Well, excepting the mummified one we found and put in our "Natural History Museum" in Lauren's bedroom.) So, I nominate the black with yellow salamander, whatever he's called. You look it up, I need to get painting.

For those of you wanting to check out your state symbols, go here.

My Town Monday - Identity Crisis

This flashing light is symbolic of the identity crisis my town is having. It has a vision of itself as historic, yet progressive, small town yet growing. It can't seem to make up it's mind.

This light hangs over a major intersection in town and directs hundreds of cars a day, maybe more. People start and stop, unsure who is next as eight lanes come to face each other. If a train comes at rush hour, cars wait in long lines for a chance at this dance. In an age of computers and sensors, you'd think they'd find a way to use a modern traffic light to allow traffic to clear. But, the town has had this flashing light hanging there since I've lived here and probably will long after I'm gone.

Once passing the historic district, where PITA will tell you that you must get a permit to fart, all bets are off. The main drag could be any small town USA and though large signs are not permitted, we have all the requisite fast food joints that have caused the expanding US waistline, gas stations, StuffMart and strip malls.

Grow? Stay the same? Grow seems to be the word over the past decade, where it has been said that a new school would need to be built every two years to keep up with incoming. And guess who gets to pay for it? This homeschooler that doesn't use the schools.

Drawings by God

William and friends made large chalk drawings on our driveway, and that night it rained. Where oak leaves lay on the ground, the chalk was protected. The next day, the wind blew the now dry leaves away, leaving a chalk image behind. At first, I wondered who had so perfectly drawn the oak leaf shape. Then, I knew.

U-Phonics

William and I were working on reading similar words. For example, if he could sound out and/or recognize at, he could then add a consonant in front to create similar words that rhyme: cat, bat, rat, and so on. The next day, I pointed out one of our reading words: duck. See the uck, I said. And we again began trying to find all the words we could make up with uck. Halfway through, I began worrying, and hoping that he'd forget one of the consonants. Ironically, we came up with over a dozen uck words without the dreaded word being mentioned.

Robin's and Camflock's comments reminded me of a story from my sister-in-law. She said when her son was little, they'd drive around town with the windows open. The son loved construction equipment. He could not, however, pronounce "tr" as in truck and all tr sounds came out as "f" sounds. Ending sounds also were sometimes dropped, as the "p" in dump. Construction workers sent daggers with their eyes as the little boy yelled out the window pointing to their general vicinity, "Dum(p) Truck!"

Backyard Science Friday - Hatching Eggs

Each day, William and I take the bantam hen from her crate and make her eat and drink. She seems content to hunker down on the eggs in a hunger strike, willing them to turn to chicks by pure determination. Two of the eggs are green, and we knew already they were "duds", as she has been sitting on them about six weeks, though it only takes three to hatch. Two, both brown, we tucked under her around three weeks ago, so are nearly at due date.

Yesterday, we noticed that when she got out to eat and stretch her legs, it took only ten minutes for the green dud eggs to turn cold, as there is no chick inside. By contrast, the brown eggs were still warm, as the chicks inside radiated heat to the shell. By softly laying your fingers on the egg, you can feel small movements of the chicks inside. Sometimes, when very close to hatching, you can hear them peep from inside the egg.

The hen, were you to reach underneath her, has by now lost all her feathers on her belly, providing skin to egg contact for better warming of the eggs. If you approach her, she swells and lifts her wings, giving a warning sound and lowering her head. As I approach, she now knows I'm likely bringing berries or a treat to eat, and she tries to peck at my gold wedding band.

Because she is a bantam, she is more like a pet and accepting of being held and touched more than a full-sized hen, most of whom have had all sense bred out of them. I should have photos of at least one chick by the next week.

Did you learn any backyard science this week? Email me and I'll link to your blog below.

Backyard Friday Participants
Show me something you are learning in your backyard.

This week's participants:
In the Good Shepherd's Care

Crash

You may wonder where I've been, all four of you (see my fan base to the right). Or, maybe not. Anyway, you're going to hear about it. About the time the stock market started to crash, so did my hard drive on my aging desktop. I found through much trial and error, and a week's worth of work, a way to get it to reboot, but I worried - it was an old computer and on it were precious photos and documents. I needed to back up.

Investing in a Maxtor external hard drive, I was encouraged that it said plug it in and "get ready to save your life". I was ready. My computer was not. Another week of here and there trying everything, searching the internet, checking things I didn't know existed, until one day, I came to a reference which suggested it was my USB. It seems that my external hard drive came prepared to work with a USB 2.0, not a 1.1. Which did I have? One geek forum said that if you had to ask, you had a 1.1. At this point, you should box up your computer and ship it to the archives of the Smithsonian Institute.

Being a glutton for punishment, I decided to confirm that it was a 1.1, not 2.0. To do this, you must look on the Device Manager. If you don't know where this is, I've lost you already. If you are still reading, a USB that says "enhanced" anywhere under the USB section means that it is 2.0. I am not enhanced. (Like I needed the computer to tell me that.)

Luckily, I have my handy-dandy-notebook (see Blue's Clues for reference) and I am copying the files onto CD and using the laptop to connect to the external hard drive. I should be finishing this project just in time to find that the technology has changed so drastically to render all the saved data irretrievable and useless.

Notes:
The cats have tapeworms. Ick factor.

Inventions

I've read that it isn't too far into the future that we'll have the ability to have wireless communication implanted into our brains. Finally, my dh will be able to read my mind like he's supposed to. There was no timetable for release of this invention, and I can only think it is well into the future.

In the meantime, I was discussing with some friends that I'd like to invent a wireless device that cuts into headphones and earbuds like a PA system. "Attention all teenagers in this house. This is your mother speaking. She would like to converse with you. Please remove all listening devices and come out of your rooms."

Obviously, one of the friends has raised teens and has had experience. She suggested just getting dog shock collars and requiring my teens to wear them. If I want them to listen or emerge from their room, I need only hit the "shock" button and they would be sure to respond immediately. It's an idea, just an idea.

I would also an improvement to my cell phone. I would like it to ring if called from my home phone even if it is turned off or the battery is dead . You can guess why.

Science Friday - Snakes

What boy doesn't like to climb on a rock formation? We were today at a state park, looking for a landscape for Anna to paint. William and I began climbing on the overlook, built after World War II. Anna took photos of the view. A possible painting?

My observant eldest, Lauren, found two surprises for us in crevices.


Here you see one. A juvenile rat snake warming himself in the sun.
It is not our first experience with rat snakes, but thankfully,
this one was not in our house.

Lauren bravely touched him, but you can see that William
preferred a hands off science lesson.
We decided not to rock climb after all.
We headed to the lake, which so far, is the leading
location for painting a landscape.

What's Wrong With This Picture?

Teach Your Child to Read in 100 Easy Lessons is a strange book, to say the least, but for some kids, it is a great way to teach reading. William seems to be progressing. Each lesson has a small story accompanied by a silly drawing. Several weeks ago, we came across this story: A man sat on a ram. That ram can not see. Here is the drawing that accompanied that story. What's wrong with this picture, and why does the ram have on a hat? Is it just me, or is this a bit weird?

Wordless Wednesday - Our Latest Addition

"This is fun!"

William (with supervision) cutting up scrap lumber to discard.

My Town Monday - Spring Water

You could say that my town came to exist because of water. Imagine putting everything you own on a flatboat or a keelboat. Everything. The settlers then floated down the Ohio River to locations where there were very few people and no StuffMarts. Most were headed to small settlements.

About five miles north of my town, a few would get off the boats on the banks of the Ohio to rest, and hear about a spring where they could water their horses or livestock if they were lucky enough to have any. They would have come to this spot, where the spring still exists near the center of town. Perhaps some liked the rolling hills and beautiful location, and decided to settle here, for my town existed and had real streets and property lines as early as 1824.

This spring is located on private property now, so I couldn't get a closer view. It is located in the section of town that in years past was known for being where black people live. Descendants of those black people still live there, but the black Methodist church has now merged with the white Methodists, and the building now houses a dance studio and the thrift shop where I volunteer.

It seems like such a peaceful spot just off the main road, where cars whiz by with people on their way to buy their groceries and supplies at superstores, unaware that they are passing a location where once, people quietly watered their animals and looked over the land for its possibilities.

For more My Town Monday posts, go visit Travis.

What Scares Me About Sarah Palin...

....is not the woman herself, but what I've been reading lately about some reactions to anyone that opposes her. This blog is not about what I think of Sarah Palin, for that is why we have secret ballots and why, if I want to, I can keep my opinion to myself. If I I did not support her candidacy and I wanted to, I should have a right to speak my mind freely without worrying about my safety or the safety of my family. I should not be threatened or be treated as if I did not have that right. Somebody wrote that down somewhere.

I understand excitement and hope for a candidate that appears to support one's own values. Palin has definitely caused a shake up, showing Washington that America is looking for someone different, someone new. What scares me is devotion that approaches idolatry, devotion without careful research and study. If after carefully considering, after studying what she has done and what she plans to do, you support Palin, that is all well and good. You can volunteer, you can campaign, perhaps distribute flyers, fund raise. Novel idea: vote for her!

But Palin has seemed to have attracted some people to her corner that think it is okay to email death threats, curse writers, and throw obscenities. Why the vehemence? Why would someone, claiming to support a pro-life candidate tell conservative Kathleen Parker to "off herself"? Why a viral email that has resulted in hateful emails to a housewife in Alaska?

I don't understand the hatred. If I read something with which I don't agree, I put it aside. I continue to read and think. I don't feel personally attacked nor the need to personally attack. I can only think that anyone who is so very full of anger and hate must not truly believe in Palin, but think that she is in such a weak position, that all opposition must be silenced. I am afraid for our country that so many people think it is okay to disagree with violent words. To be honest, I'm even a little afraid to post this blog - even without talking about Palin herself. What has happened to our First Amendment? Does this scare me? You betcha'!

What I Aspire To Be

Spread love everywhere you go: first of all in your own house…let no one ever come to you without leaving better and happier. Be the living expression of God’s kindness; kindness in your face, kindness in your eyes, kindness in your warm greeting.

Mother Teresa

Science Friday - Frogs....

...and learning life lessons.

We thought petsitting for PITA woman would be a short science lesson, a one week exploration into the life of frogs. She has a habit of adopting creatures and observing them. She asked if we could mind the wee beasties while she was away. We were delivered an aquarium with three tiny frogs, and instructions to feed them ants a couple of times a day. How hard could it be? Little did we know.

The first day went fine, and the second, though the frogs are so tiny, they are difficult to find in the aquarium. I often used a flashlight to locate them. We'd placed the aquarium atop William's dresser, out of direct light and in his room to avoid them being in the traffic of everyday life. While I left the room to find my flashlight (which has legs of its own), I heard a tremendous crash and a frantic, "Oh, no! I didn't mean it!"

The aquarium lay broken in a million pieces on the floor and seeing no blood on William and noting he wasn't screaming, I knew he was okay, but the frogs? What had he done? It seems that in an effort to view the frogs, William climbed his dresser drawers, tilting the dresser enough to dump the aquarium. Thanks to God, he wasn't hurt. After being the mom from hell and yelling at him, I asked him to leave as Lauren and I sifted through gravel and glass looking for the frogs.

Quickly, I found two, but the third lay unresponsive. I saw only one back leg, and declared him dead at 9-0-4 a.m. William despaired not that the aquarium was broken, but that he'd caused the death of the tiny frog. We put the two in a jar, and I set about cleaning up the mess. About to pick up the main piece, I noticed that the dead frog was indeed not dead, but very much alive. His leg must have been under him, unnoticed, and though still in a little shock, he was okay.

We spent the morning going to thrift shops and StuffMart to get supplies to replace what was broken. It came out of William's allowance. But I didn't mean it. While it was hard to be the bad guy, I explained that if Mommy wrecked the car into someone else's car, and didn't mean it, I still had to fix it, make them whole if I could. $16 later, he'll likely never climb his dresser drawers again.

The next day went fine, but we learned yet another lesson later in the week. Having caught a good number of ants in a plastic container, I just put the whole container in the aquarium, avoiding dumping the dirt in there and escaping ants. The next morning, I noticed that one of the smaller frogs had gotten into the container and was being attacked by ants! I don't know why he didn't just leave, but I had to swim him in the water to get the ants off and remove the remaining ants. Alone, they are eaten, but in an army, ants attack! The frog hid for awhile, and we weren't sure if he would make it. Surprisingly, he did.

We were relieved when PITA picked up the frogs, so worried we were that another disaster might befall them and we'd be responsible! The frogs are now safely home, and hopefully, safe.

Ever Wonder How Wars Start?

My friend, mother of three boys, had warned me, and I knew, but yet again have to be reminded of the power of group think, particularly males. Now, before you think I'm sexist, I will say that as a young girl, I might or might not have chipped away with a hammer at our fireplace mantel because it made shiny little rocks. I did not mean to be destructive. I was just focusing on the shiny rocks. So, I do have some insider information about how the mind of a child thinks, having remembered the brew-ha-ha my little destruction caused a the time, and how it didn't occur to me at all that what I was doing was wrong.

Still, boys have an even more powerful group think about destroying things than girls. Perhaps I am thinking of the time when certain boys used my hand-painted birdhouse gourd as a piñata? Nah. But they do have a tendency to do certain things they might not have alone.

I should have known right away, but I stood perplexed looking at the fence I use to contain the larger chickens. It is four foot high rabbit wire, which I had momentarily moved and wasn't using, but had every intention of using again. Perhaps a buck got stuck in it, and in his thrashing about, he bent all the poles and crushed the fence. Did someone drive the truck through the grass and smash it all to hell? What had happened? (See photo.) Really, I should have known.

I later learned that in my two hour absence, Lauren had come upon William and best-friend, "A" beating the fence to death with sticks. Why? I don't know. One of them hit it, and it was all out war from then on. Neither paused to ask why they were doing it, or if they might, just might ought not to be doing it. It just felt good to be beating the crap out of a fence.

And of course, upon questioning my son, it was not at all his idea or fault. Right. So, two little boys will help me straighten the fence one day. It would be today, but William had the foresight to develop a terrible cough and cold, keeping him indoors for the day and away from friends.

A day later, William and I passed a major construction site where they are removing a rock wall. The equipment is quite impressive. William said, "See, mom, that's why I want to be a 'struction worker. You get to destroy things." I guess I could look at the fence destruction as preliminary job training.

Chicken Notes:

Les and Bo, my two bantam sisters co-sitting on eggs, have to be made daily to eat and drink, or they won't. They'd die sitting on those eggs. Only one seems viable but it should've hatched by now.
I've been trying to integrate the three young chickens with Lester the Molester, pictured left, and his two old ladies. To do so, I've been free-ranging them to give them room to run. I'd love to catch Lester on video and will try to get it on the blog. Each morning when released, he runs as fast as his short little legs will carry him and he chases the young girls until with much squawking and carrying on, he "has his way" with her. It is a morning ritual. I feel sorry for the young girls, but it's just a fact of life for chickens and they might as well accept it: there'll be no roses and chocolates.

Now, the young rooster, for we have now heard him crow a feeble ur-ur-ur?, stands by and watches. We are hoping that he either has a stong sense of self-preservation (doesn't want to fight the experienced mean rooster over a bunch of girls) or he's still young, or both. He doesn't have spurs and well, you can see how he runs from the photo. We decided to call him "Clay".

Hey Airborne Man

Feeling a little stuffy over here! (Note to dh: Just kidding, honey!)

My Town Monday - A Place of Contrasts, Part 1

When our state implemented a phone system to notify residents when a sex offender moved into your zip code, I signed up. I'd like to know if someone that could be a threat to my children moved onto my street. Shortly thereafter, the phone began ringing off the hook. Our city was filthy with sex offenders. You see, my town is the site of a state medium security reformatory. Housing close to 2000 inmates, one or two are booked daily in my zip code which I share with the prison. Each booking precipitated a warning call that someone had moved into my neighborhood. I wanted to know if someone moved in next door, not into the prison where I hoped they would be staying under lock and key. Unfortunately, they hadn't designed that into the phone system and I got daily updates on the number of people entering prison each day for sex crimes. I asked to be removed from the list.

I would post my own photo of the prison, but at the present time, the corn is drying in the field in front of it, blocking my view. Sitting on 43 acres, the prison manages the land with crops and cattle.

It is one of the biggest employers, with over 600 staff. Each week, one of the guards comes into the thrift shop and makes small talk with Chuck, my co-volunteer. A big woman, her blue uniform is out of place as she purchases pink outfits for little girls. She works in the guard tower. I have heard that at one time, the prison made cabinets and worked on cars. Local residents regularly used their services. Though I don't think this occurs any longer, it is a common site to see men in orange jumpsuits doing all sorts of odd jobs about the city.

You may wonder if we residents fear living so close. Prison breaks occur rarely, but they are a bit scary. One day, we went to the recycle center (it is now run by prisoners, but not at that time), and were told we should be careful. Two men had escaped. We suddenly became aware of the number of police about town and were startled to see sentries posted at the end of our street, one mile from home! By the next day, the police had solved the mystery. The two men had hidden in a dumpster where they were dumped into a garbage truck. They were crushed to death when the garbage truck ran the compactor before leaving prison grounds.

At night, the sky glows red to the southwest of my house. When I first moved here, I thought it was the lights of the big city twenty miles away. No, it was the glow of the prison. The other interesting thing about the prison is that a county park and fairgrounds are adjacent to the prison grounds. I have always thought it strange to have children playing and swimming, the county fair being held, fireworks and picnics, right next to the prison. I wonder if the men inside can see the fireworks.

The reformatory is actually one of four prisons in my town, two smaller state prisons and a county prison. In this bedroom community, it is a stark contrast between those inside and those not.

Want to write about your town? Go register at Travis Erwin's blog.

Feather Has Two Mommies *

Before you put me on your banned blog library list, let me explain. Most hen breeds aren't broody, with the exception of Bantams. Heavy breeds lay 'em and leave 'em. They are career women with no interest in raising children. Bantams on the other hand will sit on a rock, hoping for a miracle to become mothers.

One of our half-Bantams became broody, but had only her own eggs to sit on, which were not fertilized, as far as I can tell given that our rooster is either too young or gay. Still, she climbed under the deck to her hiding spot daily to hatch her imaginary chicks. So, William asked if we could put a few of the big breed eggs under her. We put her in a cage and set her up with two probably fertilized big eggs and one probably not fertilized Bantam egg.

About the time that she began sitting, her sister also became broody, yet had no eggs. However, the two old large breed hens (the only ones I have now), stopped laying, so I could give her no egg to sit on. Each day, I'd take the cage outside, open the door, and Sister #1, previously sitting on eggs, would run out, eat, take a dirt bath and luxuriate in stretching her legs and running around. Understandable. Only, Sister #2 decided that if Sister #1 wasn't going to sit on the eggs, she would, and moved herself into the cage.

I feel for both, wanting to be mommies, yet not enough eggs to go around. So last night, I wondered what would happen if I gave each an egg and put them both into the cage. As you can see, they are both quite content and have decided to share the "nest".

I have seen Bantams cooperate in mothering before. Once, we had a Bantam in a cage that hatched an egg. Another Bantam sat outside the cage as close as she could get. The chick would squeeze between the bars of the cage and get under the foster mom. I thought it rather disloyal of the chick, until I realized her real mommy was sick. She later died. The chick must have sensed this was coming for she grew up happy with her adopted mom.

If the chicks do hatch, it will be in the next few days.

*It has come to my attention that some people may not get the play on words of my title of this blog. It refers to the children's book, Heather Has Two Mommies, a book about two lesbians that have a child named Heather. It has been banned in some libraries. Most recently, it has come to media attention because supposedly, Sarah Palin asked for it to be removed from the library of the town where she was elected mayor. I've not read the book, nor am I offering an opinion. Nor are my chickens lesbian. I think.

Learning to Listen

About a month ago, I was at the county pool with our homeschool group. William's best friend was in attendance and I stood, while chatting with other moms, watching the two of them dive into the pool over and over.In the way only moms (and a few dads) can do, I watched while my mind was in a parallel universe.

The boy, "A", came up to me. "Did I make a big splash?" he asked when he could get a word in edge-wise.

"Oh, yes," I assured him. "You made a tremendous splash."

By the third time he asked me this after diving, I realized that he let out a large sigh as he headed back to the diving board. He was trying not to make a large splash, just like the good Olympic divers he had just watched on TV. Not really listening, I was not giving him the message he was hoping to hear. I was prepared for the next one, and praised the dive for having almost no splash at all. He was satisfied, and the boys moved on to going down the slide.

One of these days, I'll learn to listen.

This House Will Self-Destruct

It just fell off all by itself. Really, he was just walking up the stairs with his hands lightly resting on the banister when it just dropped to the floor. He was really sorry, but could not understand how it could have happened, given that he had hardly touched it at all.

Given the age of our house, perhaps that would fly had I not, the next night, witnessed him using the remaining bannister, around the corner from this one, like a tow rope on the bunny hill at a ski resort. Leaning back with all his weight, he pulled himself up the stairs, barely able to make the six steps so tired he was from his exhausting day.

By now, I am less reactive to such things. I remember raging at the girls who would turn our van's rear view mirror to look at their own visage, and seeing it come off into their hands. Now, things like that don't faze me at all. I learned to replace hinges on kitchen cabinets which weren't meant to bear their weight as they stood and contemplated the choices of food within. I learned to shop at Valueless City, buying disposable furniture that I plan to replace with my real furniture when I am all grown up. I learned to repair ol' Eugene and be satisfied with the old van, for a new one would mean that I'd have to worry about what might happen to the interior. Someday, I'll worry about home decor. For now, I'll blame this latest destruction on my invisible Chinese adopted son, Not Mee.

They Say It's My Birthday

Dh asked me what I wanted for my birthday. I replied I'd like him to make me 29 years old again. He wiggled his eyebrows at me and said he could make me feel like I'm twenty nine again. I guess it is a sign of how really old I am that I wondered if I'd regret it in the morning.

Seriously, it was a real wake up call to find myself one day discussing knee and join pain with my sister-in-laws. I've always been one of those "I'm going to be strong, I'm not going to let age get to me" kind of people. And there I was discussing joint replacement surgery. I'm not a vain type of person. All I ask is that I'm mobile and reach to cut my own toenails. Is that too much to ask?

Anyway, Happy Birthday to Me. And many blessing to the woman who did all the hard work and experienced the pain that resulted in me.

Follow Up on You'll Get Yours:
After revealing the contents of yesterday's blog, one daughter responded that she would just call me when there was a cleanup in Aisle 3. Oh, no, I replied. No way, no how, no vomit. On second thought, she continued, she'd marry a man who could clean it up. I forget how very young and naive she can still be.

You'll Get Yours

Dearest Daughters,

I smiled when you ran upstairs, screaming "Ewwwww!". You thought to escape, didn't you? I wiped your brother's vomit from the floor and my shoes. I cleaned the floor. I held his head when he again gagged and threw up again. I took the trash out so that you'd not have to smell it. Your brother has inherited (that means it is genetic!) a hair-trigger gag reflex, and like my nephew, if they say "I feel like I'm going to throw up", you believe them. It is such a wonderful trait to have. But, I smiled. Your day is coming, my dears. In fact, it is just around the corner. Remember this day. Someday, you'll be me. Ha ha haaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!

Your loving mother

My Town Monday

The historic part of my town could be anywhere in the Midwest with old brick storefronts that recall a slower lifestyle and with a town center. One distinguishing feature of this town, however, are the railway tracks that run straight down Main Street. How quaint, you may be thinking. But of course, you don't live here north of the tracks.


One only has to be five minutes late to an appointment to conjure a train. In fact, an otherwise Christian neighbor boasts his supernatural powers to cause a train to appear on his commute to work. "Oh, no!" is a common refrain as I spot the flashing red lights and hear the dinging bell that stand between me and the highway. I'll be late again! There is one way around the tracks, down a country two lane highway that sports school zones, dump trucks, tractors driving a load of hay, and white haired grandmas going twenty miles an hour in a fifty-five mile per hour zone. It's a toss up - wait for the train or chance going around. Going home, there is no choice; you have to wait.

Still think it is quaint? Have I mentioned that thirty trains, long, long, trains, go through town a day? Minimum? It tends to disconcert visitors. Once, a tourist had turned onto the street and was taking his time finding a parallel parking spot. After pulling onto the street, there isn't a way to tell a train is coming until you hear the whistle blow. The visitor had no time to move, and the train rolled by, inches from his side mirror. We stood watching. After the train had gone, he parked and accosted us. "Do you live here?" he said angrily. Sheepishly, we admitted we did. He then proceed to tell us that he'd had no warning about the train and he was NEVER coming back. Promise?

Once, years ago, the railroad company offered to move the track, avoiding town. In their infinite wisdom, our forefathers declined, declaring the tracks integral to the town identity and going so far as to pen a motto, "We are on track". Changing railroad regulations have caused a major difficulty in town. In the coming years, changes in traffic flow and parking will have to be made. But, there are no plans to move the tracks.

It is not unusual to see residents look up from their meal at the Irish pub to watch the train, only yards away, lumber slowly past or to see them lounging on a bench after exiting a shop, waiting for the slow train to clear so that they can get to their car. I suppose it does remind us of a slower era, a more relaxed pace.

There have been several collisions with cars, and I wonder about what would happen should the train derail. I live only two miles from the tracks where dangerous chemicals roll by thirty times a day. I try not to think about it as I hear the whistle from my home, where it reminds me of the sleepy railroad town where I grew up and often miss. It is a comforting sound.

Want to write about your town? Post a link on Travis' blog.

On Being Powerless

For five days, we were off the grid. I always wanted to try that, but I'd hoped for a little more preparation. Indeed, we had no idea what was in store for us last Sunday. The wind picked up a bit. Then, suddenly, it slammed us. Ike had arrived and he was not happy.

I went outside to put the chickens up. Finding most of them in their coops cowering already, one red one seemed to be missing. As large oak trees thrashed above me, I decided that she must have blown away, but I was not going to risk being killed by a falling limb for a blown away chicken. The wind gusted and then quieted. The lights flickered and finally, went out.

We peered out windows and watched shingles fly from our rooftop. After a bit, the windstorm blew by and we went outside to aprise the damage. We'll likely have to replace all our shingles. Still, we thought that a few hours in the dark and we'd be back to normal. Little did we know.

Five days later, we finally got our electricity back. We lost most of our food. Still, we found a togetherness in the "adventure". I enjoyed the quiet, I enjoyed having no TV. One night, we sat by the fire with dh listening to the ballgame. Isn't this nice, I said? With electricity he'd not have been there. Mumbling words inserted about oh yes he would. Oh, well, if this game is on TV, you wouldn't be in there watching it? Welllll, maybe.

I missed blogging, my quick way of interacting with people I'd likely not keep up with if I didn't have email, hearing from family daily. I missed hot showers. I think that is the one thing that if going back into time I would miss. That and other people wearing deodorant.

Farm Notes:
Both bantam chickens are broody. One has been caged with three eggs as William is hoping for some chicks to hold. I bring the dog crate in at night, not sure that it will withstand a raccoon assault. One night, the girls were watching a movie, and Whitney, our eight pound dog, sat across Lauren's lap. The most horrific odor, green in color, permeated the air and after a loud disgusted exclamation, Whitney was blamed and brushed to the floor. Poor dog. Have you ever smelled a caged, broody chicken? Phew. Everyone is always blaming it on the dog.

Tell me, it was a man, wasn't it, that came up with the "and on the seventh day HE rested". It doesn't say anything about SHE rested anywhere does it? No. On the seventh day, one must get up early to do chickens, dress the boy (lest he wear his red T-rex shirt with his green shorts), go to teach Sunday school (before you think I am pious, I am just an aide and only because William won't let me leave the room), go to Church, come home make lunch, get the washer going while one makes lunch, help the husband build fences, drain the hot tub for cleaning....Day of rest. What a novel idea.

When I am Old

When I am old, I am going to go watch the t-ball kids play. I'll bring my fold up chair, a blanket for my knees and a big mug of coffee. Then, I'll laugh and cheer and enjoy watching them play. There is such joy in the adults watching kids this age. They still laugh at mistakes the kids make, and cheer every little effort no matter how misplaced. Above, this small boy fell running to second base. As you can see, the opposing players are quite concerned (cough). The boy did not rise for some time, not hurt mind you, just thought he might as well take a little rest.

This boy amuses me as well. Tiny, it seems he can hardly carry the batting helmet around. Yet, he is quite a hitter despite looking like a bobble-head doll.

This little girl made it to second base, where she discovered interesting pebbles in the dirt. The dirt was much more fascinating than running to third.

You'll notice both these players wear batting helmets. That is because they both are runners on base, yet number six there does not want to advance, so decided just to hang there on second and mope.

Yes, I think I'll hang out at the baseball park. With my red hat.

Little Fingers

As most kids eventually do, William asked what it meant to hold up one's middle finger. Without going into detail, I explained that it was a curse on someone that we should never use, that it was very bad. He thought a minute and held up his pinkie finger. And what does it mean, he asked, if you hold up this finger? Well, I don't think it means anything, I told him. He then informed me that SpongeBob says it means you are being "fancy".
Now I know.

Encore!

I can cross "laugh until you cry" off of my "Bucket List". Unfortunately, this occurred during a piano recital Tuesday night. Not exactly a good setting for having the giggles and for having tears streaming down your face, unless you were moved to tears by emotion, which we were not.

The mistake I made was in sitting next to Anna, who accompanied Lauren and I because lacking electricity at home, she thought it might give her something to do. By intermission, she had decided that sitting in the dark wasn't such a bad thing.

The first snort came when the pianist, a emeritus professor of the school of music, ended a piece with what appeared to be a sudden seizure. His hands flew up in the air, his rear left his bench and he shook his head violently. I glanced at Anna and our eyes met. I had to think dire thoughts as my laughter began shaking the entire row of seats. I avoided looking at her until intermission.

He began playing Shostakovitch after intermission, twenty-four preludes. I began counting them off on my fingers like I was saying the rosary. Hail Mary! He was finished. We joined the audience in giving him a rousing standing ovation, reluctantly. I whispered to Anna that if they continued clapping, he would play again. And indeed, he returned to the Steinway on stage. Anna rolled her eyes and sighed heavily, dropping into her seat. Again, I had to fill my head with dark thoughts to stop the laughter that started to bubble up in me. At least, he now played Chopin and it didn't sound as if a cat was wandering across the keyboard.

It was getting later, but the audience again begged for more as Anna begged to leave. The pianist nearly ran the to the piano, showing eagerness to continue to play rather than a humble reluctance to continue to bask in the audience's admiration. After playing the second encore, he again returned to the piano and I gave in. We sneaked to the door, and entering the hallway, let our our breath, laughing that we'd escaped captivity.

Lauren, our pianist and reason for being there, gave us her opinion that he was technically very good, but like us, she did not find that she enjoyed the musicality of the performance. His continued violent body movements were distracting and disturbing to us, who were trained differently. I was vindicated in my opinion. Still, I will take care to sit next to Lauren from now on.

Wordless Wednesday - Olé

Thar She Blows

The wind came up rather suddenly Sunday. I decided to check on the chickens, who were cowering in the their coops like, well, chickens. One red hen appeared to be missing, perhaps blown away in the great gusts of wind that were sent by my Texan friends, gales leftover from Ike. But looking up at the towering oak trees which normally shaded the coops, I worried that I might be impaled by one of the several dead limbs. (Later, I found that she was in the coop after all, hiding under her brother.) That was the beginning.

Now, I write to you from a neighbor's house, where they still have power. Though only a half mile from here, my house sits quietly, disconnected from the electrified world. The first night, it was rather peaceful. No electric humming, just candlelight and once in awhile, our radio as we checked hopefully for news that our power would return. I enjoyed going to bed in the quiet. It was rather like going back in time.

We have tried to make the best of this, looking at the positives. With no TV, we've made a campfire, roasted marshmallows, cooked on the grill, read by candlelight, listened to the radio. We have been fortunate to have plenty of water and a neighbor with power for Internet and hot showers, and a generous, hospitable nature. Okay now, I WANT MY ELECTRICITY! THE FUN IS OVER! Seriously.

Nearby neighbors have begun firing up generators, and I believe about four run nightly. It sounds like a #$%*&^ airplane is hovering over our roof (which is a total loss, thanks to the winds), disturbing my fantasy that I am either Amish or have gone back into time. It is a low throbbing sound, very annoying. Can they not live for a few days without it?

We have reminded ourselves daily of our blessings. No one was hurt. My husband can still go to work. We have water and a working septic tank. We have food to eat. StuffMart is nearby. We have friends who help. Our town is being raided for gasoline by nearby city folk, but I still have a bit to get around.

Last night, we went to a concert at a nearby University which still has power. With the exception of not being able to share my poor mind drippings on my blog, the Amish really may have something, you know? They accept only improvements and conveniences that bring a family closer, shunning those things that do not bring the family closer. In some ways, this has been an experience that brings us closer. That said, did anyone tape Bones or House?

My Town Monday

Kentucky is becoming something of a haven for filmmakers and celebrities escaping Hollywood. It is rumored that country singer Kenny Rogers has a recording studio in our town. His large coach bus blocked our main street one day during some street event, and police asked the driver to move on. It had stopped to pick up crew members that were dining at our local Irish pub. Though I've seen the bus, I don't know where he has hidden the recording studio.

The above picture is from the back driveway of a celebrity of the 80s. (The front has a berm that obstructs the view.) I'll preserve her privacy, only saying that she was a cast member of both a sitcom and TV mini-series when I was a teen. I met her about a year ago when she stopped to meet "Roxie", our miniature horse who'd just been born.

She described horse life in Hollywood, even saying that she'd thought about selling her California home and relocating permanently to Kentucky. In the end, she kept her California home because she'd never be able to buy into the type of property she had there again, given rising housing prices. There, she said, horse owners had to carefully manage small properties, keeping several horses on as little as an acre. Here, you can see, pasture management will be less of an issue. She stated that she was going to refinish the farm house (to the right) but the most visible change is the barn which has been improved dramatically. She plans to breed Thoroughbreds.

Interestingly, the farm is one of the oldest properties in the area and I was told by our farrier who has many stories of our town, that the farm was once the country retreat of the Reynolds family of Reynolds Aluminum, who once owned much of our street.

Worth Noting

My girls are simultaneously taking two dual credit (high school and college) classes online. I enjoy that they talk to each other, discuss what they are learning and apply it to real life experiences. Occasionally, there is a bit of competition, which became evident yesterday at dinner.

Lauren might have mentioned that she scored two points higher on a test than Anna did. Sensitive of Anna's feelings, I admonished her not to "crow" for having beaten Anna's score.

"That's okay," Anna replied without missing a beat. "It happens so rarely it's worth noting."

Character Traits

One thing I'm pleased to have passed on to my daughters is the willingness to look perhaps a little foolish to have a bit of fun, to not be afraid to laugh at oneself.

William (in red) and Lauren as passengers on the cow train.

Anna going down the slide, followed by me!

Science Friday - Butterflies and Moths

It seems to be butterfly and moth season, and this purple sedum is attracting all kinds of insects. The above creature appears to be a Peck's Skipper.

We also have a "butterfly tree". The tree must be oozing sap and insects from velvet ants, horseflies, bees to the most beautiful butterflies are collecting there. I've seen, but yet to photograph, several colorful swallowtails. I believe this guy below to be an Admiral butterfly. We are collecting photos for our science folder.

Docent

When I graduate from being a homeschooling mom, I think I'm going to become a chicken docent. You know, those old people that stand around at the zoo, just waiting to talk someone's ear off about their animal? (Bless their hearts.) But seriously, I continue to learn more and more about these animals and am amazed at what I didn't know before I owned some they came to own me.

For example, Lester the Molester was up to his old tricks again yesterday, escaping from his fenced yard and the two old geezer hens to which he is assigned conjugal duties. He wanted fresh meat. He grabbed one of the bantam hens by the back of the neck, neatly taking off all her neck feathers and slicing her skin to the bone, proceeded to have his way with her. Chickens can be brutal. I always thought of them as being, well, chicken. Think instead velociraptor.

She will likely survive, because the other thing I didn't know before my chicken phase (I once had a hamster phase, but let's not go there now) was that chickens can survive the most gruesome injuries. With a little anti-bacterial cream, she's running around today like she's not bald and with gaping head wounds.

William claims that of all animals, he loves chickens best. Now how many boys do you know say that? I know why though. Chickens take dirt baths. Yes, I know that's an oxymoron, but they love loose dirt which acts to keep down bugs and it just feels good. I'm sure William would prefer this to a real bath.

Below is a video of an uninjured bantam, taking a dust bath. The location of this dust bath is most unfortunate. You might remember that a month ago, a chicken died. Wm and I buried her and covered her grave with a garden stone he'd made. Each morning, we'd find the stone rolled back (no angels though), and the grave dug up, but the chicken was still there - since I could see the white plastic bag that served as her shroud. So, we'd cover it up and yet again, she'd be dug up the next morning. Well, with the dry weather and all the digging, the dirt has become quite fine - perfect for a chicken bath. So, here you see a chicken literally rolling in a grave, though not her own. The white is the edge of plastic bag with the still buried chicken.

Three Cups of Tea

"The real enemy is ignorance and ignorance breeds hatred," he [Greg Mortenson] said.

I'm not good at book reviews, nor at grandstanding. I will only say that if enough Americans would read this book and open their minds to the possibilities, it could change the world. From now on, should I receive one of the many emails about the war on terror, about Muslims or Obama's middle name, about Iraq or Afghanistan and our country's approach there, I will simply ask, "Have you read this book?" If you have not, then read it and get back to me. For the children of the world.

Warning

The last assignment completing Anna's art class asked her to to illustrate a poem about aging or death. Such a depressing topic! I prefer the sentiments in Jenny Joseph's poem, Warning - When I am an Old Woman I Shall Wear Purple. I am working on my spitting.

Here is Anna's illustration, though the scan didn't do it justice. (Please respect her copyright on the illustration. Violators will be spat upon and forced to eat three pounds of sausage.)

Resistance is Futile

The man walking through the airport was obviously mentally ill. He nodded frequently and talked aloud to himself. It took a few glances to realize he had an earbud and mike set, and was talking on his cell phone nestled in his shirt pocket. It was years ago, of course, for now, talking on hands-free cell phones is quite common. It was the first time I had seen such a thing, and it made an impression.

Since then of course, technology has exploded in ways we'd never thought possible years ago, and talking to someone a world away while walking through an airport is commonplace. Still, I wonder how much technology a mind can take?

In Discover Magazine this month, there is an article called "Rise of the Cyborgs", describing the most recent research work to merge humans and machines. While I applaud the efforts to help the disabled and "locked-in" humans, I wonder at the impact on unimpaired humans,
"provid[ing] the brain with speedy access to unlimited memory, unlimited calculation ability, and instant wireless communication ability, we will produce a human with unsurpassable intelligence."

You know, already I can't go to the bathroom without someone banging on the door. "What'r'ya doing in there???" Guess, genius. Now I picture I'll be in the shower when suddenly, my head starts ringing. There will be no escape. You can't say your phone battery was dead, or you forgot it - it's implanted in your brain. You can't say you were busy, for of course all you have to do is say "answer" to activate it. You will be accessible 24/7 to anyone with a cell. You can't throw the phone down in frustration without causing brain damage. It just doesn't sound good to me.

Obviously, the devices are being designed by men. Read this:

"We have created a profound new paradigm for the brain...to enact its will without the limitations of the biological machinery that we call a body. 'My children probably will see the day when they can sit physically on a beautiful beach in Brazil but at the same time control a rover on Mars, experience Mars...Their bodies will be here, but their brains will be free.'"

Okay, my first (okay, second) thought is that if anyone is lucky enough to make it to a Brazilian beach, why ever would she want to tune it out to pretend she's on Mars? Obviously, she is not a hard working Kentucky homeschool mom. Obviously. Secondly (okay, it was my first thought) is that it is difficult enough to give a monologue to hold a conversation with your husband without his free mind going someplace else or imagining you are someone you are not. You catch my drift?

So while I'm all for advancing technology, I have to wonder if all of it is for the good. The automobile had it's detractors, and perhaps I'm just as skeptical and misinformed as they were. Perhaps it is my age showing, for it is getting more and more difficult to keep up with the blazing change of everything known. Of course, once I get my implants (for my memory, silly, I really don't need any other kind), I'll not have to worry about my aging mind. I will have "unsurpassable intelligence".

That makes me wonder yet again. Can we take Kentuckian beer drinking Bubbas and give them unsurpassable intelligence? And what ever would they do with it? That's a scary thought. If you started out pretty smart, would you then be smarter with implants than Bubba with implants? Would those that could afford implants take over the world and dominate those who can't?

What do you think? Will cyborgs improve the human race or be the end of it?

A Facelift

As a child of a family that didn't like conflict, politics and political issues make me uncomfortable. Lately, however, I find that I am enjoying watching the back and forth, particularly as they keep referring to Palin and Obama as too young to be vice-president and/or president. As someone who may be about their ages, give or take a year, and as someone who sometimes thinks of herself as getting older by the day, I like hearing daily about how very young these candidates are.

On another note, d'ya ever joke to someone that you'd sell them (or give, if it was a particularly bad day) your kid because of their behavior at the moment? Alternately, has anyone said to you while smiling, "how much would you take for that beautiful boy (or girl)"? Don't do that anymore. What's this world coming to? And seriously, what mother would take the old boy literally? I mean, it would take at least two fatted hogs.

Wordless Wednesday - Where Life is a Costume Party

Building Fences

My Town Monday

Teaching Little Leaguers "Good Game".

Amish Wanna Be

All he needs is a cotton shirt without buttons.