rancherwriterpoet

Poetry, musings, reflections, life

Archive for the tag “rancher”

Patience is a Virtue

I copied this from Wikipedia. Certainly sounds exactly like me.

        “Patience is the state of endurance under difficult circumstances, persevering in the face of provocation without acting on negative annoyance or anger. It is also used to refer to the character trait of being steadfast”.

I also copied this from Wikipedia. Not being repetitious, it  sounds exactly like me. 

        “Virtue is moral excellence. Personal virtues are characteristics valued as promoting collective and individual greatness.”

They, whoever “they” are, say that patience is a virtue. I accept that. However, it can also be a challenge. Take, for example” the “Rancherette” and the tail (pun intended) of the “hitchhiker”. I am approaching the ripe old age of, well; let’s just say the ripe old age. Until now, I was unaware that a fourteen week old puppy could unlock the front door of my pickup, jump into the front passenger seat, make herself comfortable, and upon arriving at my home, have the audacity to exclaim, “she brought me here against my will, I was dog-napped.”.  I know Airedales are very smart, but that is ridiculous. I have difficulty opening the door to my pickup.

However, I can almost hear the conversation that went on with the “hitchhiker” sitting in my passenger seat in my pickup truck.

The “Rancherette”— “what am I going to tell the “Rancher”?
Alfie— “You’ll think of something. Tell him I hitchhiked a ride.”
The “Rancherette”—“I’m not so sure he will believe that.”
Alfie–-“If he is as gullible you are, he will.”
The “Rancherette”-— “OK, I’ll give it a try,”
Alfie–– I’m pretty sure he’ll love me once he gets to know me”
The “Rancherette” —“But what if he don’t?”
Alfie— “I think it will be fine; I can handle the “Rancher”. He will be a pushover for my endearing eyes. All I have to do is Just blink twice, he’ll be hooked”. it worked on you didn’t it. Besides, I’ll be eating out of his pocket before you know it.”

Pocket 2

As you can see, this is me, practicing patience, the part where it says persevering in the face of provocation without acting on negative annoyance or anger. And this is me, practicing more patience.

.resized Alfie and Houseshoe

Alfie practicing virtue.

Alfie practicing Virtue

These enduring eyes started the whole “Patience is a Virtue” thing.Enduring Eyes

It is going to be a challenge for me to practice “Patience is a Virtue” but it is a challenge I accept. Now if I can just get the eight Standard Poodles, the two Cairn Terriers and the one Italian Greyhound to also accept the challenge. That may well try my patience and destroy my virtue.

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Uses for a Pickup Truck

So there I was, resting in my recliner on a nice Saturday afternoon. Apollo was content beside me. I was watching my favorite golfer, Jordan Spieth, as he birdied to take the lead in the Houston Shell Open. It was a nice peaceful afternoon. At least, until I heard the horn honk. It was the “Rancherette” returning from her day at Canton First Monday Trade Days.

If you have never heard of Canton First Monday, I suggest you Google it. And, if you live close enough, you should visit the place at least once in your lifetime. Put that on your bucket list. It is the “world’s largest” flea market. They sell everything and I do mean everything. New, used, from antiques to pure junk, tools, you name it, from birds to farm animals to elephants, (well I never have seen an elephant at First Monday. Should you want to bring one, it will probably sell.) However, this story is not about First Monday, but, without First Monday, it would have not been possible.

The first thing, for which one should take note, is the “Rancherette” was in my truck. It is never a good sign when the “Rancherette” wants to take my pickup anywhere. She doesn’t even like to ride in it. There are numerous places where we usually take my truck. For instance, I always have some sort of project going on around here where I need certain materials. Thus, I make a trip to the big box DIY store.

I take my truck when we need to pull the boat. I take my truck to pick up animal supplies. I take my truck, occasionally, when we need to go to the market and the roads are wet. I take my truck when I need to haul something that will not fit inside the SUV. The truck is a work truck, not generally meant for leisure. So, you can see my consternation when the “Rancherette” wants to take my truck to First Monday Trade Days. It probably means she will buy something that will need to be hauled and will not fit in the SUV. It stands to reason; I will probably have to put it together. Nothing comes put together nowadays. But that’s another story.

In addition to raising her purebred Silkie Chickens, the “Rancherette”, in a former life was also a Show Dog Fancier. Having raised Standard Poodles and showing them in competition for a number of years, she is an expert.  As I said, in a previous life.  Today, the eight Standard Poodles are living out their retirement in a favorable atmosphere, here in the country, secure in their kennels. And, of course, the Silkie chickens have their space as well. They also are very content in their luxurious Chicken Condo on the plain and the “Mansion on the Hill, living the life of Foghorn Leghorn, while the hens are laying a few eggs a day. All is well, or so I thought.

Until Saturday afternoon. Until the horn honks. My truck horn. Until Apollo barks.

Apollo is the Standard Poodle who lives inside the home. When the horn honked, he stood at attention. He barked. He usually barks when a vehicle pulls into the driveway. Usually, when the horn honks, it is an indication that the “Rancherette” needs help unloading something. Like a good neighbor, or in the case a good “Rancher” I am eager to help.

I bound out the door, enthusiastically, to provide my services. I always am enthusiastic when the “Rancherette” comes home.

Her words, “I have a ‘rider’”. My words, “did you pick up a hitchhiker?” “Yes, sort of”.

I was very excited that I did not see anything in the pickup bed that needed put together, so I’m guessing it cannot be too bad. I’m thinking she found a chicken she just could not live without. And then, I see “it”. It ain’t no Silkie. It ain’t no chicken at all.

We are now the proud possession of the newest addition to our zoological garden or should I say “circus”. Do you remember the television show, “ALF”, about the alien creature from outer space? Well she landed in our yard. Her name is now “Alfie”. This new Airedale puppy will be just fine as soon as the Poodle makeover is complete. Apollo has already begun the training.

In training

Me, too. Training Alfie to pick pockets, that is.

Pocket 3

I also have an idea about not loaning out the pickup to the “Rancherette” when she wants to go to First Monday Trade Days next month.

Evil Twins

I try my best to help the “Rancherette” with chores around our home. I believe it is the right thing to do. At my age, I don’t always get it right, but I still know how to do the right thing. So, I try.

Sometimes, I help with the dusting of furniture. Sometimes, I miss a spot. Sometimes, I help with the vacuuming. Sometimes, I miss a spot. Sometimes, I wash the dishes. Sometimes, I miss a spot. Sometimes, I make the bed; sometimes I miss a spot, uh corner. Every once in a blue moon, I will cook something, however, that is generally left to the best person for that chore. Did I mention the “Rancherette” is also a “Bakerette?” Which is very good, except for my waistline.

I realize that there are chores around the home that usually fall to one gender or the other. But, it does not have to be that way. For example, I usually tend to the yard work. However, the “Rancherette” did not get her name by sticking to housework, only. She draws plans for a chicken coop on a napkin, I build it; she paints it. That is what we call sharing. I consider it a privilege to help around the house.

However, there is one area I tend to stay clear. The Laundry! It so happens, in our little farm house, the laundry room is also in my bathroom. I see the laundry appliances every day, morning, noon and night. They are evil. They stare at me. I undress for my shower, they are watching. I shave, they are watching. I brush my teeth, they are watching. Anything else I do in my own bathroom, well, I’m telling you, they are up to no good. Consequently, I almost never do the laundry.

It seems, every time I do put something in the washing machine, it loses it. Not all of it, only part of it. That very nice pair of socks, the washing machine ate one, only one. What am I supposed to do with only one argyle sock? I can’t replace it; they only sold one pair at Walmart, and then discontinued that style. But that is another story.

That wicked machine will turn my tee shirts wrong side out, and then, since the “Rancherette” does the folding she has to take the time to turn them back the right way. I’m sorry about that, but it is that revolting machine. If she accidently folds the tee shirts that way, then I wind up putting them on wrong side out. How on earth does that machine do that?  I’m telling you that machine is up to no good. It even turned my “whitey-tighties into a pale pink. How stupid do you think that looks at the gym?

Occasionally, it will throw a temper tantrum. Have you ever seen a washing machine throw a temper tantrum? Well, it bounces up and down, crawls all over the place, rolls over and spits up bubbles on the floor. No, I’m not talking about a two year old. I am speaking about the horrible, obnoxious washing machine. It cannot control its bladder, either. Sometimes, it will have an “accident”. Wicked, I’m telling you.

It also has an evil twin brother (or sister, I’m not sure of the genders) Its name is “dryer”. Washer and Dryer, two peas in a pod, as they say down here in North Texas.

I once placed a nice beige sweater in the “dryer”, another fashionable piece of clothing I purchased at Walmart. The “dryer” ruined it. It shrank so badly, that even Luka, the rescue Italian Greyhound could not wear it.

I cannot even begin to tell you how wrinkled the “dryer” left my pants the last time I tried to use it. The creases in the folds were destroyed and the shirts lost all their buttons. Do you know what it is like to put on a shirt with no buttons? I can understand losing my marbles, but buttons? And you know the one sock that the “washer” did not eat? The “dryer” did. As it turns out, this was a blessing in disguise; I was able to purchase a complete new pair.

Since its evil twin washed the peppermint inside my pants, the “dryer”   went ahead and melted it to the fabric. Conspiracy for sure. Now I have a sticky spot in my pocket. I told you they were evil.

Machines like these are supposed to make your life a little more efficient and I suppose they do, to some extent, however, I am going to stick to my dusting, making the bed and washing dishes, even if I do miss a spot.

If I hear the “twins” calling my name, I’m running outside to mow the grass, or burn leaves or shovel snow, or build something. I think that may be the right thing to do. Thank you, “Rancherette” for your expertise and willingness to fight off those evil twins in my bathroom. They frighten me.

Catching up with Technology

Finally, the day arrived. The “Rancherette” and the “Rancherwriterpoet” both made an important trip to Dr. G., the dermatologist. There was much trepidation in the eyes of one of the participants. That participant shall remain nameless for fear of retribution if her name is revealed.

In researching for this article, I find that those who eventually will become more, shall we say advanced in age, usually are the ones who will make this journey to their own personal Doctor G., the dermatologist. That age falls somewhere between puberty and senility, and not to be confused with virility.

So off we went. We live in a rural area, so it is about an hour’s drive to his location. We usually make a day of it and visit the local shops and restaurants that are not available to us where we live.

Since the “Rancherette” has been having difficulty with her cell phone not charging properly, she decided to check in at the phone store. On a side note, remember when they were actually called mobile phones and rested in a bag and had a cord? For that matter, remember when there were no portable phones at all? And what ever happened to the “tele” part of the word? Television is now TV, telegraph is now IM, (I looked that up, Instant Messaging.) and telemarketer, well, that is still used, however at one time they were called aluminum salesmen. No offense to any retired aluminum salesmen. But you get my drift.

Anyway, as we entered the “phone” store, there were several sales associates standing at the door. Very courteously, they opened the doors for us. Our time was limited because of our appointment with Dr. G., the dermatologist, so when we entered I remarked to the “Rancherette”, choose a sales person who looks “geeky”.

“Why?” she asked.  “They will know much more about what you want” I replied. I mean no disrespect for “geeks” are very intelligent when it comes to electronics, computers and all that nerdy stuff.

A very nice young man, probably in his early twenties, very early twenties, volunteered to help us. The “Rancherette” immediately began her requests. She asked questions that I did not know and he gave answers that I did not know. It was very clear they were speaking in a language of which I was unfamiliar. I learned later it is called “geek” language.

At this point, let me inform you that I have an old “flip” TELEphone. It rings with an actual TELEphone ring. It does not have a QWERTY keyboard, in fact, no keyboard at all. I have a computer for that. I am not profoundly literate about that either. I learned to type on a Royall typewriter, before electricity. My flip TELEphone does not IM or TEXT or take pictures. I have a Kodak
camera for taking pictures. It does not play music. I have a transistor radio for that. It does not have the capability of playing videos. I finally broke down and bought a used VCR for that. That set me back 20 bucks. I understand there is now a device that plays something called DVD’s.  I’ll discuss those inventions at a later date.

The “Rancherette” and the “Geek”, (sounds like a movie or country music song) must have hit it off. I remember she called him a geek and he took it as a compliment.

Once she made her choice, he whipped out his trusty tablet, (I do not mean the Big Chief tablets I used when I was much younger)

Big Chief

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

and begun touching symbols and icons and lo and behold, her TELEphone information was staring us in the face on his tablet. After much discussion, they made the deal, and he began moving her data from her old TELEphone to her new TELEphone. Most people use only the …phone portion of the word. AND he saved her three bucks in the process. I knew this kid was good. I liked him.

So, I have a new respect for “geeks’. They have such knowledge. For example, they can form a series of binary digits on a physical storage medium in order to manipulate the data in any central processing unit even though the executable programs are stored in separate location, especially in the clouds.                                         And I have no idea what I just said.

We finally left the store to make our way to Dr. G’s office, but stopped for lunch at a local “Cajun” restaurant. Delightful and spicy, just what we needed. The “Rancherette” was so excited about her new TELEphone, she was beside herself. Could not put it down. One would have thought she had just got a new Barbie doll for Christmas. I was never that excited on Christmas morning.

After arriving at  Dr. G’s office, and being seated in his special recliner, the participant who previously was distressed had an epiphany.  Dr. G. informed that person that there was absolutely nothing to worry about, for whatever was concerning that person, was of a benign nature. It is related to heredity and basically comes from the aging process. You know, somewhere between puberty and senility, not to be confused with virility.

Phone

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

All in all, it was a good day. It also helps if one gets a new …phone.

Makes Scents to Me

When a person has the aches and pains as we do around here, it hints at an advancement of age. Now, far be it from me to suggest such a thing, however, in my heart I think I am more than qualified to speak about that subject.

The aging of our population arrives in such a manner that we often fail to realize it. One moment you are a freshman in high school and then all of a sudden you are attending your 55th high school class reunion. I mean, this thing did not just creep up on me; it knocked me over like a bowling ball whacks the pins in a bowling alley. It came with a bang. It clearly was a strike.

In the days before my existence, there were traders and traveling salesmen who went from town to town, hawking their wares, anything from cabinets to fabrics to suspenders, even underwear. They sold their products from the back of a wagon, sometimes sell and run. Also high on the list was cure-all medicines. Horse liniment was a top seller, because it was “good” for the skin and worked miracles on aches and pains for both humans and animals.

Of course, the travelling salesman also used his rather easy-going lifestyle and his manly abilities to ply his wares to unsuspecting farmers, to take advantage of their beautiful daughters; however, that’s another story.

For aches and pains, one can always call the doctor for an appointment to investigate aches and pains such as twinges, throbbing, hurts and tenderness; however, the primary care provider will first ask you to come into his/her office. The days are long gone when a doctor would call in a prescription, or heaven forbid, make a house call.

After waiting two weeks, the appointment finally arrives. First, an assortment of tests will be administered, blood will be drawn and he/she will probe in the general vicinity of the discomfort. It will not accomplish much other than a bit more excruciating pain. He/she will then wait for the test results to come back from the laboratory and upon such results two weeks later; (if they remember to call) he/she will then refer you to a specialist. You will make an appointment for three weeks later and upon working you in to see the specialist, he/she will then proceed to administer the same tests and lab work as the primary care health provider did the previous visit to that office. This is in addition to the co-pays at both offices. In the meantime, you are directed to take two aspirin/ Ibuprofen/acetaminophen, (whatever you are not allergic to) every four hours and rest. If you do not feel any better, call them back.

 

OR

 

You can visit the local pharmacy and walk the aisles looking for something that will alleviate your symptoms. As you make your way through the store, you may pass the perfume department. In this section, one can purchase fragrances for men or women. They have a large variety of such scents meant to attract the opposite sex. In fact, they have more varieties of fragrances than Walmart has wine choices. I am not suggesting that wine will cure any of the aches and pains but both do stimulate the senses.

So, the other night as the “Rancher” and “Rancherette” prepared for bed, the subject came up about our aches and pains. (I realize I am one of her pains for which I know of no cure) I recently, gave the “Rancherette” a rather distinctive bottle of perfume for Christmas. That did help resolve a portion of her pain and put a feather in my cap at the same time.

However, there was another scent emanating from the room. I could not discern this particular smell.

I immediately wondered if it was “Lancome La Vie Est Belle Eau de Parfum”, perhaps “Dolce&Gabbana Eau de Toilette”, or maybe even “Eau de Cologne”. However, I was mistaken. The “Rancherette” informed me that the name of this particular product was “Eau de IcyHot”.  There was much laughter in the bed.

Me, I think I prefer, “Eau de Ben Guay”.

Have an ache-free day.

Christmas Morning

It is Christmas Morning. The agonizing wait is over. The house has a different air about it. Yesterday, there was so much anticipation and this morning that anticipation has been replaced with an attitude of joy. Smiling faces with tussled hair and sleepy eyes that are just now starting to focus, grip the morning with varying squeals of delight.

The first thing I noticed this morning was a white residue in the milk glass beside the empty cookie plate. Something or someone removed those contents during the night. Then I saw the stockings full to the brim, bulging with stuff inside. There were candy canes sticking out over the edge of each. And the Christmas Tree was loaded with wrapped gifts that were not there yesterday. Santa has come and gone. He really knows how to impress a person.

So breakfast will have to wait. There are gifts to be opened and those stockings so full to the brim, well, they must be pulled off the shelf and emptied on the floor. That is the best way to see what is in there. But I must be careful, Santa has been known to put breakable stuff in those stockings. Fortunately, this morning, that was not the case.

I peered into my stocking to see a variety of male toiletries, which I might add, I love, then a wonderful box of chocolate covered Cherries, really my favorite, and a Christmas tradition in my house for many years. I also got a couple of toothpaste Squeeze-It devices. These are designed to get every bit of the toothpaste from the tube before you throw it away. That is ingenious. Wish I had thought of that. Sure beats pushing and squeezing the tube in the middle. I bet the inventor of that device celebrates Christmas in a big way.

I opened a wrapped gift next. The tag said it was from Santa. I think this Santa looks a lot like my wife. I don’t know how Santa knew I needed a new pair of pajamas. I will wear them tonight. Maybe that will impress “someone”. Santa outdid himself this year.

I must admit, it is fun to open gifts. But my enjoyment really comes from watching the “Rancherette” open her stocking and gifts. Of course, in her case, Santa knows what she likes and is happy to contribute to her desires.

I am undecided as to which gift she likes the most. I can tell you, she adores her Silkie chicken calendar. And then, Santa filled her stocking with traditional stuff.  She opened the stocking to discover an apple, an orange, candy canes, nuts, (assorted, of course), and chocolate candy, Ghirardelli’s chocolate candy! Another gift she received was a sweet-smelling bottle of Burberry perfume. I helped Santa think of that.

However, sometimes, a gift goes awry. Such is the case with the Silkie Chicken Clock. It does not work and must be returned. I don’t think Santa takes return gifts even if he did not get it right. It probably is the problem of one of his suppliers. I will locate the business address of that firm and do the return for him. I will inform Santa of that particular supplier so that he doesn’t use them next year.

I noticed after I took a shower this morning that Santa forgot one of the items on my wish list. This is the umpteenth time he has forgotten. Every year, I ask for a new birthday suit and every year he forgets. I’m telling you, the birthday suit I have now is wrinkled and really beginning to wear out. Oh, well, I tend to be somewhat of a pack rat and keep everything much longer than it was designed to be kept. At least, this one still works for me, but, I’ll keep putting that wish on my Christmas list.

But I don’t despair, it is still a wonderful Christmas, the “rancher” and the “rancherette” sharing with each other. We share gifts with each other during the course of the year, but it seems that Christmas brings out the true meaning of giving, at least for me. I realize that others do not share the same Christmas celebrations that we as Christians do. For those who do not, I sincerely hope you find something (or someone) in your life to celebrate and when you do, make it special to the one you love. If it happens at this particular time of year, then, that’s just icing on the cake.

Well, it is time to begin the overindulging. I helped the “rancherette” in the kitchen by chopping onions and celery. That will pay off in the form of dressing later today. I love dressing, too. The “rancherette” is an expert at discussing with Santa what gifts to bring me, but she is also an expert at cooking and baking.. But in the meantime, I think I will start with the chocolate covered cherries. That is a tradition each year as well

I hope each of you have a very Merry Christmas.

Mother Hen

On a cold and windy day here in North Texas, I find myself dreaming about warmer weather. Oh, well, I can look forward to the middle of April when it begins again.

In the meantime, I spend my time working with the “Rancherette” as she prepares for the new chicks that will be arriving into this world on or about the 18th of this month. We know this because she has placed the fertile eggs in an incubator. We know fertile eggs are in the incubator because she has candled them. That’s like an ultrasound for chicken eggs. You see, you run a little gel on the stomach, then rub, no, wait, you don’t really do that.

Anyway, I built a Candler for the “Rancherette” to use. It is a simple little device. I took a  large commercial size green bean can, cut a hole in the bottom of the can smaller than an egg, turned it upside down over a keyless light fixture, placed a 60 watt bulb in the light fixture and voila, you have a Candler. You cannot tell if it is a boy or girl like human ultrasounds but I’m working on that.

Candling is where you place the egg over the hole in the can. The light shines through the egg and you can tell if there is a mass inside. If there is a mass, then the egg is fertile. The rooster did his job. The way he struts around in the pen, he already knew that. He’s as proud as a peacock. The hens, however, look like they just went through a windstorm. Talk about a bad hair day.

There is a lot of work to do to prepare for the new additions. We set up the brooder in the garage, with the infrared lamps, new pine shavings, and all the paraphernalia that goes with baby chicks. You should see the “Rancherette” acting just like a mother hen. Change this, fix that, turn this, move the box here, test the humidity, the temps too low, are the lamps working… etc. Just like a mother hen.  I’m thinking that the real mother hen could do this job without all our interference. When she sets on the eggs, she doesn’t know or even care if they are fertile or not, she just likes to set on the eggs. In fact, if she is broody, she may even set on golf balls.

I wonder if when the feathered mother hen does this on her own, does she discuss this with the father of the chicks before hand? I’m thinking that if he had to go through this kind of hubbub he would elect to disregard her flirty eyes and keep things to himself. Just saying…

Well, we are just playing the waiting game now. “The bags are packed the car is gassed up, and we are ready to go”. The expectant “Mother Hen is nervous but not nearly as nervous as the expectant “Surrogate Father” is. Please keep that under your incubator.

Stay tuned. For your information, in the back room, there are other incubators. On the top of each is a schedule. In the second incubator, a hatch is scheduled on or about the 26th of this month and another hatch on or about December 2nd. The good times just keeping a coming. Bach, Bach, Bach. Cock a doodle do!!!

I think we should plan the next mating season for a delivery in warmer weather. The rooster may not want to cooperate, but we can “fix” that. I got to go now, must go to the store and get some cigars or should I get donuts? Maybe some of both.  I have to be ready.

Mail Delivery

It is another damp, dreary day here in North Texas. Yesterday, it rained all day, then all last night and is continuing today. But I am not complaining, at least not about the moisture. Although, I could stand for it to be a bit warmer than 52 degrees. I realize that temperature is warm to some of you folks outside the state of Texas.

We have been in a drought situation for the last three years in our area. Our pond dried up months ago, except for a few inches in the bottom. Even those precious inches are covered by algae. But I am not complaining about the moisture. On days like today, it is almost impossible to find any projects I can do that are not rained out. However, the “Rancherette” can find plenty to do.

Just this morning we get a call from the Post Office. They notified the “Rancherette” that there was a package waiting to be picked up. So, she braves the cold and wet rain to go to the post office and pick up her package of eggs. (She knew eggs were in the package but the post office did not know, otherwise they could have been scrambled).

I know, most people get their eggs from the grocery store. There is a variety of eggs available at the grocery store. Organic, (whatever that means) low cholesterol eggs, large eggs, medium eggs small eggs, brown eggs, white eggs, egg whites only, artificial eggs, just about any kind of chicken egg you want. But, my “Rancherette’ marches to the beat of a different drummer. She buys eggs and has them delivered by the U.S.P.S.

I suppose I should tell you these are Silkie Chicken eggs. I know you cannot buy these eggs in the grocery store. These eggs are specifically purchased for the sole reason of incubating them. You know, that process where as the chicken, when hatched, does not know his/her mother, since they will hatch from a machine. I can just see it now, when grown and feeling abandoned, the chicken will search the internet to see if he/she can discover his/her birth parents.

Now, if you have a broody hen, she could become an adoptive mother. Just not quite the same as a birth parent, however, And your hen may not be broody, depends on the hormones (doesn’t everything?) but still the chick would not know the father.

Well, the “Rancherette” brings home the package of eggs. The shipper has bubble wrapped each egg and placed them into a box filled with shredded newspaper.The grocery store doesn’t go that far. Their shipper puts them into a foam container. You know how at the store you open the foam carton and inspect each egg to see if it is broken? Well, that happened with this package of eggs, too. I must say, they are packaged very well. So well, in fact, that each egg is hidden in the shredded paper and she had to look carefully through the package, hunting for the eggs. One would have thought she was on an Easter egg hunt. I should have got her an Easter basket.

The shipper had marked each egg as to which family tree it belongs. B stand for Buff, L stands for Lavender, PT stands for Paint and so forth. Those are colors of different varieties of Silkies. However, these are still eggs and have yet to be hatched. We also have to hope the rooster knew what he was doing.

In about 21 days or so, the “Rancherette” will become a surrogate mother to a flock of Silkie chicks. We won’t be able to determine how many boy chicks or how many girl chicks will hatch until a couple of months down the road. They keep those things well hidden. However, when they eventually hatch, you will be the first to know. Since I am a non-smoker, I will not be passing out cigars.  I may be a surrogate father and as such, maybe I will pass out some Chicklets gum.

I’m thinking that maybe I would like a slab of bacon to go along with my eggs. But I can’t mention that or the “Rancherette” might want to start raising pigs. I can just hear her now, “Oh, they are soooo cute! That would lead to me building luxury pigpens, with special pig feeders and all the other luxurious items that pigs enjoy, like mud. There is plenty of that today.

Me, I just want the bacon. I can get it delivered by mail.

Have a wonderful day.

Officially, A Rancher

In order for this to be explored in context, I must repeat a portion of my first blog, “Puttering around East Texas”, published in May 2011. You may check the archives if you wish to read the entire blog.

In that blog, I said this:

“I have one of those quite placid names. It evokes no imagination, no illusions, nothing that would conjure up an interest in reading the words before you.  Thus, it became rather difficult to name my blog. I certainly want others to read what I have to say, (as if I really had something to say).

However, in order to do that, the name must immediately grab the reader’s attention. Therefore, it must be “unique”. I settled on rancher, writer, poet.

First, I am not a rancher; I just thought it sounded good. I am however, a writer and a poet. You, the reader, will have to decide if I can use the adjective, “good”.

 

I have these images of a cowboy roping and riding with a six-gun at his side. He wears a cowboy hat, a plaid shirt and denims. He sits tall in the saddle and talks funny. He hustles his cattle across the wide-open range, disperses rustlers and evil land grabbers, and is always trying to protect the fair maidens from harm. He has sons named Adam, Hoss, and Little Joe.  To me, that is a rancher.

Well, now it is official. I am, at last a rancher, at least by marriage. My wife and I were married in May 2009; however, until recently I did not realize I had married a “rancherette”. I knew that she was a dog breeder and an animal lover when I married her. I am fine with that. With eight Standard Poodles, and a couple of rescue dogs, we were in the “business”; however, I do not think this qualifies me as a “rancher”.

Thus, I was unprepared for what “the rancherette” did next. Did you know, one could order twenty-five chickens online? They mail them to you.  They arrive at the post office. They come in a little box with holes in the side. United States Priority Mail. To the post office. Two-day delivery. The postmaster called this morning and said the birds had arrived, could we come pick them up because they were cheeping and wanting to come home.

I thought perhaps they could have given them flight plans and flown, but they don’t yet know how to read or fly.

These baby chicks, mailed only a day after they are hatched must be taught how to eat and drink. Dip their little beaks in water so they know what water is and poke their little beaks in food. One might wonder why their momma did not teach them. Well, it is because they were taken away from their momma even before they were born, uh, hatched. You see, they have these little trays called incubators and the eggs go into those little crates as soon as they are laid. There, thanks to technology, the little trays automatically turn the eggs every so often until the eggs are hatched.

So, they don’t ever get to know their momma. But, not to worry, us humans can substitute for their momma.

So, in the tub, they went. The “rancherette”, took each little critter, one at a time, poked his/her head in the water. Funny thing about that gender stuff. We don’t know which is which. Won’t know until they get big or start crowing, whichever comes first. Anyway, they took one little drink and was hooked on the stuff. I don’t think they had ever had a drink before. Then she gently stroked each one and poked his/her head to the food. Guess what? They were hungry. You would be too, if you had never tasted any food before.  Luckily, for me I married a “rancherette”.

Hoo boy, now I am a “rancher”. There is such a thing as a chicken rancher, isn’t there? Osmosis, you know. You should see me in there herding those little critters. Git along, little dogie, git along. Them little rascals are sure hard to rope, but I’ll learn. I can’t wait ’til they get bigger.  The “rancherette” ordered twenty-five, but got twenty-seven. One died, so that left us with twenty-six. I looking online for baby names, now. Maybe, I’ll just use the alphabet. 

Maybe you might be interested in becoming a “rancher!” this is a picture of the “herd” They are called “Silkies”.  I gotta go build a coop now. Cluck, Cluck!  Help me out here, Little Joe.

baby chicks first day

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