Beauty Not in the Eye

Write about now I'm worried about a crazy one-eyed chicken.

Ginger, my favorite chicken, disappeared on Saturday. Just *poof!*, gone. Maybe a hawk grabbed her up. Maybe she finally decided she had had enough from the rooster and his Marvin Gaye ways and just ran away from home. Or maybe, just maybe, the German Shepherd all of a sudden had a hankering for some chicken. Whatever the cause, she's gone.

My chicken death record had been flawless up until Saturday. Since May I've had the same chickens and one studly rooster. Dad, on the other hand, seems to run a hospice house for chickens who have lost hope. Hawks view his property as a KFC buffet, minus the instant spuds and mushy green beans. Some of his birds must have a Japanese bloodline by the way they fly kamikaze-style into the beagles' lot. And others have met their demise by way of (gulp) hatchet.

So in comparison, my chicken setup looks like a bird sanctuary at the Ritz Carlton. They have it that good.

Saturday I call Dad to report that Ginger was AWOL / MIA. After my debriefing it was decided that more than likely the dog was the enemy.

I was more than thrilled when dear ol' Dad said I could have one of his chickens to replace Ginger. His description did not glamorize her.

Dad: "I've got a bird you can have. She's a little crazy though. She's wild."
Me: "Why is she wild?"
Dad: "She's good at laying eggs. She's big and fat, too."
Me: "Why is she wild?"
Dad: "Well, she's had the pops. [That would be 'pox' to those of you who don't understand backwoods country talk]
Me: "The pox made her wild?"
Dad: "Well no. Her eye swelled up when she had the pops so she can only see with one eye. Heck, you can sneak up on her right side and tap her on the head and scare her."
Me: "Well no wonder she's half crazy. I'll take her if you throw in another bird from the same flock. You know, so she'll have a friend."

So I bring Popeye and Babs home, along with two Cochin's (a rooster and hen) that I named Bonnie and Clyde. Henny and Penny, my two originals, are quite the biddies. Babs is trying to fit in. The Colonel has taken to her, ahem, if you know what I mean. But Popeye...not so much.

Bless'er. I know chickens don't have feelings but to quote Rodney King: "Can't we all just get along?!?" Can birds of a feather really flock together? I'm sure the hawk won't discriminate. And after seeing some of the carcasses the dog has brought into the yard, I know he could care less about looks.

Popeye may need private room and board at the Ritz. Sometimes getting away from the crowd and the biddies around us is good for the soul. When we feel ostracized and judged by the way we look maybe we need to find rest and peace. There will always be those who run the roost, who perch higher than the others so they look down at those beneath them, who have the say on who can join their group. Don't be a biddy.

Today it may be a crazy one-eyed chicken who is left out. Tomorrow it could very well be me or you.

Beautiful Dreamer

Write about now...my little girl is sleeping in my bed.

It's not often she snuggles up with me in my bed but I treasure those quiet moments with her. I often watch her and allow my thoughts to skim over precious highlights of her life. From her surprising birth when we just knew she was going to be a boy (we didn't find out via ultrasound) to just last week when she sang "Where Are You Christmas" and brought it!



 

She came into this world 7.3 lbs. She was so tiny her socks wouldn't stay on her feet. If I put a footed onesie on her she would curl up in it, leaving the leggings dangling. She was so squirrelly. So quiet. After 2 weeks she was sleeping through the night. It was almost as if she entered into this world with old wisdom. She never babbled or cried. Just watched. It was as if she had an old soul and she was taking in the going-ons of those around her as if she was making mental notes of conversations she was going to have once she found her voice. She reminded me of my grandma. Grandma would have a bone to pick with someone but would hold off on saying anything until she chewed on it for a while and then one day, out of the blue, she would bring it up. Heck, most of the stuff she called me out on (eventually) I would have already forgotten all the lies I told to cover up the issue. Entrapment!

As my sweet girl has grown into Daddy's Princess, she continues to be the light in the room. Her brother, who doesn't command attention, stands back and beams with pride when it comes to his sister. He took to her immediately when she was born. He knew we were going to bring home a baby but like his parents, he thought he was getting a brother. We had a name picked out for a son, Haydn Trent. When he first saw his baby "sheester" he couldn't understand why we left Haydn at the hospital and why we brought home a Madison instead. There are days, even now, when he'll wish for a brother. It's in those moments when we talk about getting another dog or chicken instead.

 Write about now...it's 3:00AM and I'm missing out on some great snuggles. The little lady in this picture...she occupies a huge chunk of my heart and most of my bed.

Line of Passion

Write about now...I'm praying for safe travels for my hubs.

My husband loves to ride his dirt bike. He's been riding ever since he was a small child. He has raced in Florida all the way to West Virginia. He's had Hondas, Yamahas, KTMs, and Suzukis, four-strokes and two-strokes, and enough riding gear to fill up a closet. He's also had broken ribs, knee problems, three broken collar bones (one he had surgery to repair only to break it again a few years later), and he's busted up his grill.

I asked him one time about his line in the sand. What was it going to take for him to give up? How many times was he willing to get hurt? When was he going to draw that line in the sand?

I've come to realize there is no line and the only sand in view is roosted from his back tire. For him to give up his bike, would be like me giving up my computer time.

It is hard for someone like me to understand how he can still enjoy a sport that is so rough on him. I would have given up bikes the first time I fell off. Well, I did. It only took one time of popping the clutch to quickly and riding a wheelie into a sticky bush. When I finally got the hang of riding in a very open field on an RT100, I had to give it up after the kids came along. Mommy duties are hard enough without a cast, traction, or a neck brace.

After enduring sickness this week, along with his job and jury duty, he's off with his guy friends to ride. All week he was afraid that he wouldn't be well enough to go and play, but this morning he felt 100% better. Maybe the sickness had to run its coarse. Maybe his will to get better prevailed. Or maybe it was the prayer of our 7 year old daughter on Wednesday night. "Lord, I hope all the dead people in heaven are okay. And I hope Daddy feels better by Friday morning. Amen."

Write about now..."Lord, watch over my best-friend. Protect him and his friends. Keep him safe and warm. Strengthen his tired body and whisper to his heart that even though his wonderful wife has spent all week dealing with every one's coughs, snots, sniffles, and body aches and has given meds, ran soothing baths, filled up vaporizers, and administered ginger ale and saltines to the weak, she will always take care of him."

My husband is my passion. And as with his bikes, there is and never will be a line in the sand.  

A Carved Image of Facebook

Write about now...I'm revisiting old blogs. This one still speaks to me.
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"Yes, we are still friends. No, I did not defriend you on Facebook," was what I was telling one of my friends over the phone when I had a sudden urge to update my status about the whole conversation and then I realized, I've deactivated my Facebook account. Funny things that cross my mind throughout the day, I cannot share now. Oh, why have I deactivated my #1 social outlet?

I now go to bed at night wondering what everyone cooked for dinner, who's already talking smack about the Steelers, and what did people do over the weekend. It's been over a week and I haven't LOL'ed at a funny status or even --^ "liked it".

I don't know if I'm still some one's BFFE, sista-friend, if someone was glad to see me at church, the grocery store, or at the PTA meeting (ha!). And how am I suppose to know if something is spoken from the heart without the reiterated "just sayin'"?

My phone has not notified me that I have a message, a friend request, a wall comment, or if someone has tagged a photo of me. The battery life on my phone very seldom goes in the red (twice a day) now. I can lay down my phone and walk away and not have to worry about a Facebook notification that I just have to know, right then or I'll just DIE!!

I've been liberated. And it's nice. Real nice.

Last week I started reading Sun Stand Still by Steven Furtick. (The Kindle is in highlight overdrive!!) One night I asked myself, "What would I be able to accomplish for His glory if my faith in Him was stronger? What could God accomplish through me if I had audacious faith like Joshua?" And after I finished talking to myself, I talked to God and I asked him, "Am I ready to be used?"

After I prayed I picked up my phone (out of habit) and realized, I'm not ready to be used.

I picked up my phone(!) after spending time with the Lord! It was sickening. Instead of giving my heart time to marinate in His presence, instead of thanking Him and worshiping Him in the quietness of my alone time, I picked up my phone for one last look at Facebook.

What would God write on my wall?
"Hey. Haven't heard from you in a while. Call me when you get a chance"

"It was good to see you at church today. See you next Sunday"

"Are you mad at me? I never hear from you anymore. Just sayin'"

God spoke to me at that moment LOUD and c l e a r. I'm no different than the Isrealites and their golden calf except my idol fits in my hand and has apps galore and quick and easy access to the world. My golden calf is my tv, my ipod, my friends, my thoughts, etc.

Ugh! I'm not feeling so good right about now.

I'm a work in progress, though. I haven't checked on my Facebook friends in a week. I really don't miss it. I've figured that if someone needs to find out about me then they can email or call or text or visit (just give me a heads up so I can clean up or else I won't answer the door).

My mental status update right now would read:

Amy is finishing up this blog and then making a fresh cup of coffee so she can watch the birds outside of her window and enjoy her quiet time with her BFFE!
(God likes this)

Just sayin.

For the Love of Hobby Lobby

Write about now...I'm blaming Pinterest for the dirty laundry and lack of dinner.

I've spent hours browsing and pinning and dreaming and making mental 'Honey-Do' projects for my husband. I've had him in Lowes so many times for projects I've pinned, that he will sigh a dreadful sigh when I utter the words, "Hey, check this out," and turn the computer screen towards him.

I can't help it. Nor do I want to.

Next week I am going to the Southeastern Christmas Show with my friend, Tina. This show is a cornucopia of anything Christmas; crafts, gift ideas, decorated trees out the wazoo, and plenty of estrogenized women walking around in red hats, tacky holiday sweaters, and let's not forget the antlered headbands. It's craftsmanship at it's finest. It's pure crowded madness. I *heart* it.

But the one thing I have to say about the crafts-and I often say it over and over-I can make most of the stuff their selling! Give me some pink and lime green paint, a fluffy boa, light bulbs, two-by-fours, Sharpies, and plenty of glitter and I can make you most of that stuff. I mean, it's easy! And yet they want me to buy their products.

Here's the thing...although I have good intentions and enough pinned ideas to keep me busy for a while, I'm slowly realizing that the picture in my mind and the "craft" I end up with are two totally different things. My kids are always impressed with my handiwork, but they think I'm a genius when I use my skills to make a simple paper snowflake. When I present my masterpiece to my husband, he overdoes it with the bobble head nodding. I'm so on to his camouflaged exuberance.

Pinterest and Hobby Lobby are slowly brainwashing me into thinking I'm all of a sudden Martha Stewart. Hey, it could happen (in my own little happy world).

So here's a toast! (as I raise my snowflake hand painted wineglass.Well, I think it's a snowflake)

May your ideas always inspire you to create and may your critics always bobble.

Chicken Chat

Write about now...I'm calming my feathered friends down.

Seems I'm not the only one who loves chickens. Not only do I have to keep a watchful eye on my German Shepherd, who gobbled up the neighbor's baby chicks like he was at a popcorn chicken buffet, but I also have a hawk who seems to be checking out his next meal.

Six months ago I wouldn't have imagined I'd be in the beginning stages of chicken-izing my life. At the time I was doing good to tend to a husband, two kids, 2 dogs, several withered house plants, and an insect-infested organic garden. Why, oh why, would I even want to add more chaos to my overflowing plate of responsibilities? I blame my Dad, the rising cost of eggs from factory chickens, and the small spark of desire to learn how to live off of the land and not Monsanto-infected food.

The latter two reasons are self-explanatory. I'll just jump on my soap box for a smidge of a moment to say that I'm so tired of MSG, high fructose corn syrup, and hormones in food. The reason why girls under 10 are hitting puberty early is the hormones in our food. It's in milk, meat, and eggs, just to name a few. A gallon of good quality milk is over $5!! Fresh eggs from chickens that aren't caged and are allowed to roam is over $4!! Why are we settling for our government to feed us genetically modified (GMO) food when we can teach ourselves the basics and live healthier lives?

OK, I'm stepping down....for now.

As for Dad, push him closer to the cusp of retirement and he gets itchy with boredom. He hunts, fishes, gardens, and manages to work 3-4 days a week. He's a busy-body. And since he has a daughter who "doesn't work" and has "nothing to do" he graciously includes me in his endeavors to find something to get into. And since I have stalls in my barn that are "perfect for chickens" I am now the proud owner of one rooster (Colonel Sanders) and three of his lady friends (Henny, Penny, and Ginger). Just recently I learned that the Colonel has needs that surpass the company of his three girls. He needs a diverse selection of feathered females. So I'm in the process of hunting down some girls to meet his Marvin Gaye/Barry White needs. Jerk!

Meanwhile I have winterized their Plaza Hotel abode. I have stapled plastic over drafty areas, thrown down the finest selection of pine wood chips, and installed a little ambient light for these nights of early sunsets. boom chicka bow wow (The light also helps them lay more eggs for their caretaker) I have it bad for these guys I mean girls and one guy.

Now about this hawk. I could put the chihuahua in the coop to protect them and hope the hawk doesn't snag the dog. Would I be willing to sacrifice the dog for the birds?

The jury may be out for a while on this decision.