And that is seriously the worst thing about engaging in farm-like stuff.
Early this year I got tired of the wind destroying the latch on the cheap crap chicken house door. So in April while Big Brother and I were in the big town about fifty miles away buying bedroom trim we stopped in a Tractor Supply and bought a big chunky latch and a couple of carriage bolts – and it’s a good thing he was there because the wind was trying so hard to blow the door open that I would never have gotten the holes drilled for the bolts if he hadn’t been inside holding it closed. Haven’t had any trouble with the door since then.
But this afternoon I was sitting around reading and the wind was blowing so ferociously that I really started worrying about that door. And the very last thing on earth I wanted to do was suit up and go out in the winter storm – which has unambiguously arrived, make no mistake – and drive all the way over to Landlady’s place to reassure myself that the chickens hadn’t blown away. I wanted to put on a movie or something and just sort of wish it away, right? Because that’s what a one-legged old fart from Detroit should do with a stormy Sunday afternoon.
But that’s not what a chicken farmer would do. He, stalwart salt of the earth that he is, would shrug into his Carhartt coat and go check the #%€£¥ chicken house door. That’s why chicken farmers get the big bucks, or something.
Let it be said that I shrugged into my Carhartt coat and drove all the frickin’ way to Landlady’s place to check the frickin’ chicken house door.
Which was fine.
And now Torso Boy, Henry McKenna and I are gonna spend a little quality time watching a movie together.