“Here, take a picture.”
“Okay. You want me to put it on the blog this week?”
Friends come to the family farm to pet the goats and chickens. We try to keep all members of the animal kingdom out of the pool area except for humans, cats, and dogs, but … there’s the occasional random frog … Chickie-poo, may she rest in peace in the big chicken coop in the sky, free of coyotes, hawks, and hungry pigs … Rufus the Pool Goat … and then sometimes children come walking up from the barn, each one carrying a chicken.
|You get a chicken … and you get a chicken … everyone gets a chicken!|
I really need to get on with writing a series of children’s books. Chickie-poo’s tale needs a fictional ending, as the reality of her demise is too violent for a G rating.
Things don’t always go the way we would like. Some would even say rarely. As a general rule in life I hate surprises, but I do like putting my music on shuffle. You end up with gems like this …
I think the official title is “Belgian Frenzy”? I’m grateful to the artist, who burned a copy of an out of print CD for my sister, complete with bonus material, to replace her aging cassette tape. Eighties Christian rap. It’s stellar.
The surprising thing lately I suppose is that there haven’t really been any surprises. I told a friend the other day I’m profoundly bored. There are stories behind that statement not for public consumption, but the phrase accurately describes my current mood.
Or, as the college girls are apparently saying these days …
“I’m profoundly bored.”
And no, I don’t want to join your network marketing company. I’m happy with the one I’m with.
I don’t particularly need anyone to fix me by knowing what I need or what I need to be doing either. I’m good.
I’m pretty sure God can handle me saying I’m profoundly bored. I mean, in this season he’s provided a big stack of books for me to read, family to look after, and interesting skies to stare at.
Also culinary skills..
And a little girl at the farm – just the other day, at a surprise party of all things – enthralled by my stories of playing in the pasture as a child.
“The electric fence was higher then, so we would scoot under it and go play. We’d pick daisies and Queen Anne’s lace for our moms. And we’d collect hickory nuts that fell off a tree up that direction. And when a tornado blew a huge tree over by the creek – and it still lived for a couple years – we’d play in there like we were in the middle of a forest. When you’re in the pasture, though, you have to watch out for the bull and you have to watch out for cow patties. Do you know what a cow patty is?”
“It’s cow poop.”
There are few things better than children’s laughter.
That book series probably needs to have a volume about the cow pasture.
For now I have more skies to stare at …
|Keep looking up|
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