vituperation

For the last couple of months, each time I drove out to Smallville I noticed something interesting in the fields: they were green. Really green. As time passed, I decided farmers were most likely growing alfalfa for hay, thanks to our mild winters.

The fact that I don’t know what alfalfa looks like in no way hindered me from coming to this conclusion.

The grass grew taller, and taller still. Over the last couple of weeks, the alfalfa started looking very appealing to me. Each time I passed it, I struggled with the urge to stop and go prancing across the field, like so:

Probably if I knew any midgets dwarves little people I would have.

Finally, I thought to ask the resident farmboy at work if he knew what it was.

It’s not alfalfa.

It’s winter wheat.

Wheat. In Alabama. All over the place.

LIKE THE STUFF THEY MAKE BREAD AND SHIT OUT OF! RIGHT HERE IN THE COTTON STATE.

(Side note: I heard over the weekend that Alabama’s biggest agricultural product is now chicken, not cotton)

Sure enough, once I started looking I could see that the wheat was forming heads. Over the weekend, the heads started turning the golden color wheat’s known for, so yesterday morning on the way to Smallville I pulled over and plucked a handful to show to Robyn.

Does the fact that I fretted for about 15 minutes over stealing about 8 stalks of wheat mean I’m super-honest or super-spazzy?

Alabama wheat

It was a big hit with the kitties, who sniffed it wildly…

…and then tried to eat it. Especially Sugarbutt, the resident carbaholic.

On the way to Smallville yesterday I stopped at Publix for a couple of things I’d forgotten to get on Saturday. I made small talk with the cashier while she rang things up. Blah blah too much rain, blah blah we needed it, yadda yadda yadda.

Just as I was leaving the store with my purchases, a thought occurred and turned back. I spent several minutes on the cereal aisle, reading labels and checking various items. Finally I decided on one and returned to the checkout.

“Forgot one, huh?” the checker asked as she scanned the box of Aunt Jemima instant grits.

“No, I thought my chickens might like a treat,” I said.

In any situation, I can always be counted on to say the one thing that makes me look most like a social retard. That was yesterday’s.

It seems like it was only five weeks ago I was standing at the Smallville post office, dancing nervously in place while the postmaster fetched me a loudly cheeping box.

But like all young’uns, the girls have grown up and it’s time to kick them out of the nest.

Friday afternoon, they moved from my bedroom to their fancy new digs:

They still get the lamp, because winter hasn’t realized its season has passed.
Flappy McGee shows her place in the pecking order by going right to the top.

Of course, since I moved the chickens outside on Friday and was worried about them, Mother Nature took it upon herself to end the semi-drought we’ve been having and dumped two or three inches of rain on Saturday. The girls stayed in the coop all day, under their nice warm lamp. This was probably actually a good thing, because it imprints on them where their sleep place is.

Good news: the coop doesn’t have any leaks.

I built them a ramp yesterday morning, because they didn’t seem to
care for the steps I originally had there

It sprinkled most of the morning yesterday, but the girls still came out from time to time.

Finally, the sun came out…and so did the girls.

Frick eyeballs a buff, who is running toward the camera because they’ve
learned that Fred usually has treats when he lowers his hand to the ground.

What are we supposed to do on this thing again?

My cock gets better looking every day.

Home sweet home: two layers of fencing, and netting over the top to
keep the hawks out.

And on a final note, here’s a better taste of one of the most underrated bands of the 80’s. If you only know Safety Dance, you don’t know the Men at all.

Jenny Wore Black

Heaven