Chickens

I mentioned the annual chicken "cleaning" in my last entry, so let's just get this one over with.

Let me set the scene for you....  It is a lovely, sunny, peaceful day in the Indiana countryside - at a farmhouse tucked away on a dead-end, gravel road, at the end of a quarter mile long lane.  The only sounds are the birds singing and chirping, and the breeze moving through the trees.  My mom and my Aunt Sis are making preparations for the ensuing carnage.

Back story:  Francis Weigle was my dad's sister.  Sis never married and lived across the road from our house.  Even through I had one grandmother that lived in town and I loved her very much, Sis was like having 4 grandparents rolled into one.  She. Was. Awesome.  I'll talk much more about her later.

For the purposes of this story, Sis had chickens.  She had well over a dozen hens in a coop behind her house and I got to help gather eggs once in a while.  Apparently, when the hens got to a certain age, they didn't produce as many eggs.  That's when Mom and Sis would take matters into their own hands.  The hens would be relegated from providing protein for our breakfasts to supper's main course.

Various stations were constructed on our peaceful patio.  Chairs were arranged, boiling pots of water were brought out, other pots and pans stood at the ready.

That's the point when my memory starts skipping scenes.  Its almost like I blacked out, came to, and blacked out again, over and over through the years. I do remember lots of feather plucking, piles of lifeless, naked poultry, body parts (lots of chicken feet), and the worst of all, the unlaid eggs.

Ugh.  I'm seriously getting an upset stomach just thinking about it, so I don't know why I'm subjecting you good people to it.  I can't believe I never became a vegetarian after witnessing that.  But Mom and Sis never seemed to have a problem with it.  Farm women. DO NOT MESS with farm women.

The upside is that this scenario always had a happy ending.  Soon after the Nightmare on the Patio, Sis would let me go with her to Indianapolis to buy a box of chicks.  The fluffy little yellow cuties came in a wide, flat box with holes in the side.  In the trunk of her '72 Nova, they cheeped all the way home.  For a couple weeks, Sis' one car garage was transformed into a nursery, and I got to go over and play with them every day.

But the chicks grew quickly, and would soon sprout little white feathers.  They became less fun to play with and were soon banished to the hen house.

Circle of life, down on the farm.

Toads

I grew up in the middle of nowhere, Indiana.  I don't want to give the impression that it was a bad thing.  Far from it.  As I grew into my twenties and moved away from the Middle of Nowhere, I was surprised to find people that did not cherish their childhoods the way I did.  But then again, Opie had nothing on me.  I had Pa, Aunt Bea, and a mom.  

Maybe it is a midlife crises. Maybe it is being dislodged and moving to a new state with my husband, and our children in college in two different states.  Maybe is it a need to get things out there before I forget them.  Maybe it's cheaper than therapy.

Regardless...  I feel the need to post some of my weirder childhood memories.  Buckle up.

I was fortunate enough to grow up with a bunch of non-girly girls for friends.  We weren't tom boys, but we didn't live and breathe pepto-bismol pink either. We camped - A LOT - on each other's properties.  We spent summers outdoors.  We did really stupid things, and by the grace of God, lived to tell about them.

And like most of my friends, I grew up on a farm. Sometime during my childhood, my father had a pond dug out along a creek path that ran just below a hill in front of our house.  He had it stocked with bass and sunfish.  It was great for fishing and ice skating.  Here is a view of the house from the pond.

I  remember this view well.  From that spot, I was a heroic olympic bob sledder in the winter and a combination of Nancy Drew and Marlin Perkins in the summer.  My mom grew watercress down there, so I considered myself a hunter/gatherer sort too.  I fished once or twice by myself, but being deathly afraid of actually touching a fish, my activities were mostly limited to gathering.

At some point, we acquired a "raft."  I use the term loosely, and apologize to the person (my brother?) responsible for its construction.  It was two empty barrels, loosely attached to the bottom of some wood slats nailed together.

One day, when we were old enough to know better, my friend Kathy and I grabbed a couple oars and took the raft out onto our rather large pond.  When we almost reached the far shore, one of us - probably me - dropped an oar.  This rendered our craft extremely difficult to maneuver.  We were trying to determine our next move, when we looked up and noticed the shore was moving.  Seriously.  Moving.  We looked closer, and were horrified to learn that the movement consisted of toads.

I'm not talking about ten or twenty toads.

I'm talking hundreds, maybe thousands of toads.

Having toad orgies.

I wish I were kidding, but the image of CLUMPS of toads, doing all sorts of dirty toady things, is burned into the photo album in my head forever.  EWWWW!!  They were so thick, we didn't trust finding a bare patch of shore to land on if we jumped.  And like every day between the end of one school year and the beginning of the next, we were both barefoot.  Ugh.  This was by far the grossest thing I had seen up to that point in my life.  Well, I take that back.  My mother and Aunt Sis "cleaning" chickens was like a Wes Craven movie unfolding before my eyes on our patio - but that's a story for another day.  

Since I sit here today, I assume we made it safely back to the near shore, physically but not mentally unscathed.  I can't remember telling my mother what happened when we finally reached the safety and security of the house, or her reaction.  But knowing my mom, I like to think she had trouble keeping a straight face.

New personal record

I quit.

After working all day Saturday - for 9 hours and 20 minutes, without a break and without even sitting down - I called the owner of the store today and quit.  Why muddy the waters with discussing part time with the holiday season right around the corner?  Part time during December = full time.  And full or part time in retail = working weekends.  I knew weekends would be an issue going in, but with full time, I thought he would at least give me some weekends off.  Uh, no.  And any time off is hashed out among co-workers.  Easy task?  I'm thinking... no.

I must have been blinded by hope that this would be a really fun thing to do.  I would get to talk to other "foodies" and possibly make a friend or two in the regulars.  People are always so friendly and happy in those stores!  Perhaps I'm misreading them and the smiles are really grimaces from the pain of being on their feet all day.

I'm sure working with no one but the owner all day didn't help.  I heard his "script" for customers over a hundred times.  He made the same little joke to every customer after he completed a sale.  It was great for the customers and it was good to see how passionate he is about his store - but it wore me down.

Late in the afternoon, we started talking about religion.  Even though we are both Christians, we didn't agree on much.  Maybe it was at that point that I knew this really wasn't going to work, because I got some insight into his value of women.  I'll save that topic for another time...

When I got home at almost 8:00, John had a martini and dinner waiting for me.  After I told him what I would make an hour and what my back and feet were going to endure on that hard, tile floor, he simply said, "You're done."  Have I told you lately that I love you, Honey?

So, my quest for a job continues.  Next job, I hope I make it to a full week.

The grass is always greener...

You would think a job at an olive and vinegar store would be the mecca for a "foodie" person.  I was sure it would be.  And I'm sure it can be.  But at the ridiculous pay and being on your feet for 8-9 a day, maybe not.

I spent 9 hours at the store today.  I was too enthusiastic, because I led the owner to believe that I really liked the job and and I wanted full time.  Now, I don't.  It looks SO cool from the customer side of things - and I'm sure it is for an owner who is vested in the store.  But saying the same "script" to every customer that walks in the door is not my idea of a good time.  I could learn to like it if they paid double what they offered.

So, I'm discouraged.  I thought this would be really, really fun - regardless of pay, but then again, I thought the pay would be in my ballpark.  I'll talk to the owner.  Maybe part time,  just to get the samples to take home and experiment with.

Too tired to think of anything more tonight.

Oil and Vinegar

SO GET THIS.

Hannah and Marina (our other daughter) came down for Labor Day weekend.  We went shopping on Sunday and HALLELUJAH, found an olive oil and vinegar store!  Finding this and the spice store down the street was like finding a treasure chest full of gold.

Or good food.

Whatever.

Anyway,  I love cooking, and Central Illinois has nothing like these places.

As we climbed the stairs to the store, we saw this written on a chalkboard outside the door:

Help wanted, full or part time
Insultingly low pay
Jerky boss
Inconvenient hours
Apply within!

Sarcasm right off the bat.  This sounds like my kind of place!!  Well, I'm assuming it's sarcasm.  Probably not about the pay.

Hannah declared that she is tired of listening to me gripe about my past jobs, marched me up to the counter and told them to hire me.  I chatted with the ladies behind the counter (who seemed lovely and spoke very highly of the owner) and they gave me an application.  They are looking for someone for Tuesdays and Wednesdays and if I am a "foody" I would love it.

To get this before getting a "real" job would be just off-the-charts fun.

So I interviewed today for the job.  The owner seems extremely nice and outgoing.  It seems like a beautiful fit for me.  The downside is that when he asked me if was interested in full time, I automatically said yes - without thinking of weekends.  During the interview, the owner had to tend to a customer.  I got drawn into their conversation and by the time she purchased her oil and vinegar, we had exchanged phone numbers because we where both central Illinois transplants, and promised to do coffee soon.  Weird interview, but it was really cool and the owner was impressed.

So I am supposed to go in Saturday and "work" the store to see if I really like it and if they really like me.  It's exciting, only because this could be really fun.

I'll keep you posted.

Fragile - handle with care

A very good friend of mine described her state of mind after they moved out of state.  Fragile.  I think that's a pretty perfect word for my state of mind these days.

During the last two weeks before the house closings, I focused on getting through the next day.  Seriously.  I took it one day at a time because if I didn't, it was all too overwhelming.  You've heard this all before...  Moving Hannah into a college dorm just down the street from our old house doesn't sound like much of a task, but that just means you don't have to plan very well and end up making 6 trips instead of one.  A couple days later, getting all of the stuff Jim took to school into a U-Haul van, driving 5 hours to school, unloading (with only me, Jim and Abbie getting the big screen TV, a couch, big chair, queen size bed and other little stuff into his new house) and driving 5 hours back just about did me in.  Two days after that, we rented a larger U-Haul and loaded the rest of our stuff.  We closed on the Normal house Thursday morning, I drove the U-Haul to St. Louis and John drove his car.  We closed on the St. Peters house Friday morning.  We unloaded everything from the van Friday, unloaded all the big stuff from the van that was stored at John's work Saturday morning, drove the U-Haul back to Normal, picked up my car and the Miata and the pugs.  We had everything relatively under one roof by Saturday night.

I only lost it once during this whole thing - on the phone with John late Tuesday afternoon.  I was supposed to have everything packed and ready to be loaded onto a van Wednesday.  John was coming home that afternoon and we would load the truck that night. Tuesday afternoon, I looked around at what still had to be done and freaked.  John must have heard the fear and panic in my voice, because he left work and came home that night instead of Wednesday night.  Thank goodness he did, because time and space where WAY too tight.  We literally could not fit one more thing on that van, and both of our cars were packed so tight we couldn't take all of our stuff.  We gave some stuff away, stored a couple things at friend's houses and kicked other stuff to the curb.  The last things were thrown in the cars and the house pronounced clean 15 minutes before our buyer's walk through.  Without good friends helping with the packing and moving some heavy stuff, we never would have made the deadline.

So now, I'm slowly getting the house together - and I do mean s-l-o-w-l-y.  It takes more time to figure out where everything is going to go than it did stuffing boxes.  The good thing - no hard deadline.

What stinks is that I wanted my last few days in Normal to be good ones, with time to relax and enjoy friends and family.  But I was always so pressed for time, I didn't have time to say goodbye the way I wanted.  Not like we won't see anyone from there again, but it's the principal of the thing.

So here we are.  We've met one neighbor and I've had lovely conversations with guys from 3 fence companies who came by today to give us quotes.  I Skyped with Hannah today - my first time.  I'm trying to get the master bath and closets together.  Our sweaty, smelly moving clothes are starting to take on a life of their own, so I'm looking forward to tomorrow's delivery of our new washer and dryer, and after a visit from the Dish Network guy, we'll be able to watch TV again.

I know things will be good here.  We'll make friends, welcome a lot of visitors and I will learn where things are beyond my current 1.5 mile radius.  In the mean time, I guess it's OK to be fragile.

Here we are

I was up at 5:00am this morning, and hit the ground running.  Deflated the air mattress, put the last load of laundry in the dryer, packed up all the miscellaneous stuff we had laying around, took a shower and Swiffered as we walked out of the house for the last time.  I admit it - I cried.  I won't necessarily miss that house, but I will dearly miss the location.

We closed at 10:00 and were on the road by 11:00.  We literally could not fit one more thing in the U-Haul and cars.  Packed to the nth degree, John drove his car and I drove the U-Haul.  There were some white knuckle moments, but I made it and had a nice discussion with God along the way.  New beginnings have a lot to offer and I need to be reminded of that.

So here we are.  We are officially homeless.  Our last night of taking advantage of the Mark and Shelly's hospitality.  The next couple days will be a flurry, and then I am going to unpack and take a bit of a breather.  Not even going to think about a new job yet.

And after this week, I don't want to see the inside of a rented moving van for a freaking long time.

But the calendar will soon be back up on the refrigerator and reservations are now being taken for Hotel Krajewski.  Hotel K-town?   The Krajew Inn?  It's all down hill from here.