Progress, Not Perfection

I don’t know about you, but I’m one of those critters who can best be described as a procrastinating perfectionist. You may think those two things can’t possibly go together, but I assure you they do. It’s a character defect, and one that I am working on.

The procrastinating perfectionist lives in a constant state of chaos, with select areas of organization and completion that are almost militant. For example, all of the family pictures that line the hallway in my home are organized with nearly military precision, I know instantly if one has been brushed slightly out of line. Yet at present, you have to step around a gaming chair that has lost favor with my youngest, and a crate of outgrown toys he’s sorting to hand down to his nephew to navigate said hallway. They’ve been there for days.  And the carpet needs cleaning.  20160318_071335.jpg

At any given time, I have 468 projects in progress, give or take. The procrastinating perfectionist (Moi) will wake in the morning and mentally go over Every.Single.One. in her head. As a mass, they are completely overwhelming. Instead of picking one to just start on, I will infallibly spend a ridiculous amount of time dissecting every one and finding all the reasons (I lack the time to complete, proper materials, tools, what have you) why I can’t do the task correctly, completely, perfectly, and therefore I should not begin that one. This process will be repeated 467 more times over my first two cups of coffee.

So I’m working really hard on changing this, because it drives me bat crap crazy. The past six years around here have been a struggle. I’ve known what I wanted to accomplish, but I’ve tended to concentrate more on the hurdles than the finish line. I’m trying to take the time every day to concentrate on gratitude, and progress, and small victories and recognize that those things lead to big victories and completion. It’s tough to do when you have trained yourself to think differently without even realizing it. So I’m trying to pick a project a day, and complete what I can of it in the time I have with the tools I have. Progress, not perfection.

Today’s project to start on is the front flowerbeds. They’ve been a war zone the past couple of years. They were neglected long before me…but they were once beautiful, I’m sure. There are plants and shrubs in there that were once expensive to both obtain and maintain. Both were done by a landscaping company my other half had dealings with through his business years ago.  When the business was sold, the maintenance stopped, they declined and most are now beyond repair. I detest looking at all that glorious space occupied by the skeletonized remains of shrubbery and the weeds that now occupy it. 20160318_080336.jpg

He has been steadfastly refusing to let me just yank it all out, and start over. This is what the procrastinating perfectionist in me has determined is required. He looks at it and sees the bills from ten years ago that he paid, not what it is today. “My God, woman! Do you have any idea how much putting those bushes in cost me?” He did relent last year and pull out two shrubs that would not have come back to life, EVER,  with anything short of the hand of someone with magical powers. 20160318_080303.jpg

This spring, he has finally decided that I may take it back to the ground and start again. I’m excited to get started on it, and I plan to post before and after photos when it’s complete.  I want to put in both some edibles and flowers, and the right side around the corner got its start at being herb-ville last year when everything else in it was dead and he let me till up that precious 5 x 7 spot.

Now, to figure out how to keep Sophie the free-range Houdini goat out of it.

Five Things I Wish I Had Known Before I Had Chickens

Five things I wish I had known before I had chickens. Well, there could be about a thousand…but here are my top five. Which may or may not be useful to you if you’re embarking on a chicken rearing adventure. Lots of people have lots to say about the right and wrong way to raise or keep chickens. In my opinion, well, a lot of them are just as full of fertilizer as the chickens themselves.

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  1. Chickens will eat anything. Including chicken.  Yes, chickens are omnivores. Meaning they will eat whatever is opportune. Including, but not limited to, chicken feed, any other feed known to man, (except rabbit pellets, oddly enough), any kitchen scraps, grass, bugs, worms, eggs, fruit, veggies, weeds, seeds, nuts, berries, other birds, each other, your shoelaces, and should you fall down in the coop and not move for an extended period, even you. I used to feel like I was promoting cannibalism or turning my flock into little Dahmer chickens by giving them leftover nuggets. Not anymore. Last year, I caught my sweet birdies rather effectively dispatching a sparrow that had inadvertently flown into the coop and couldn’t find his way out. After they fought over bits of him for a while, I figured my fears were probably unfounded. There is no such thing as mad chicken disease. Unless you live in the UK, in which case you guys have a weird law that says you can’t give your own kitchen scraps to your own chickens. However, I do stick with chick starter for my wee ones. They’re too cute to turn into cannibals yet.

300x300px-LS-8703a9e3_B004ODP3I8-310U2-JEU-L2. You DO NOT NEED TEN NEST BOXES.  Unless you have literally, dozens of hens. We have one coop that has twenty hens and a bank of ten nest boxes. They will fight each other dizzy over the same one or two, maximum, every single day. Not always the same ones, but each day there is one or two primary targets for egg dropping. Never mind that there are eight with fresh shavings and not a hen in sight, they want the one that is currently full of someone’s feathered butt, and no other will do. Apparently it is the first hen to decide she’s ready to commence clucking out an egg that makes the decision on exactly which box will be fought over today. And there is no word on what, exactly qualifies that first box, but suddenly it is to all the other hens what  Louis Vuitton is to ladies shoes. So when the nice feed store guy tells you you need a full bank of ten nest boxes for your dozen hens, he’s lying, because it’s his job to sell you bigger, more expensive crap than you really need. As a matter of fact, one of our coops has an old tire for a nest box, and one has a dog kennel cab that lost its door. The one we’re building has repurposed cut down 5 gal. buckets for nest boxes. Anything you can put bedding in, that has a lip to insure the eggs don’t roll out…POOF! It’s a nest box.

 

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3. Your rooster is, at some point, going to act like a rooster.   I know, I know… you have raised him from hatch, he rides on your shoulder and gives kisses and understands 47 human words and phrases by your count. I’ve been there. Give your precious boy some time…and some hens. At some point, he will commence crowing. No matter how friendly he is, at some point he will feel the need to assert himself, especially in the presence of other chickens. Do not be as surprised as I was when your precious hatchling suddenly fires all 12 pounds of his substantial feathered mass directly at your face when all you’re trying to do is fill the waterer. The good news is, no one in history has ever been killed by a chicken under normal circumstances. One idiot in 2011 apparently bled out after having an artery severed by his fighting rooster, who had a blade attached to his leg for the purposes of the illegal cockfight, but that’s pure Darwinism if you ask me.

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4.Yes, you DO need a rooster. If you can have one. This only applies to folks like me, who do not reside in suburbia or in a neighborhood that has kindly agreed to allow you to keep 6 hens, no roosters, etc. Now a hen will lay eggs in exactly the same manner without one, they just won’t be fertile. If you live in a rural or “country” area…I highly recommend a rooster or several. Unless your coop is the chicken equivalent of Fort Knox, you will, at some point, have a predator try and scope it out for a free meal. Now, while a rooster may not discourage something larger and more determined, like a coyote or fox (or your neighbor’s beagle) I have seen them run off things that will make an easy meal of eggs, young birds or even full grown hens. (Opossum, Raccoon, even RATS, feral cats, snakes, etc. ) This isn’t a guarantee, your rooster may turn out to be a total bag of apathy or just decide to save his own skin…but it sure helps.

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5.Roosters only crow in the morning. Erm…no. False. Lies. They will crow at dawn, midnight, noon, 3 AM, 8 PM, or, in short, whenever they flipping feel like it. Sometimes they crow just to hear themselves do it. Additionally, for you folks with the anti-rooster HOA or community laws or regulations here’s a cool factoid. Some hens crow, too. Yep, transgender chickens. Sometimes, due to either a hormonal imbalance or in a flock lacking a rooster, a hen will sometimes take on the role of a rooster. She will crow, keep watch, assume the role of protector, and may even go as far as to occasionally try to mate with her fellow hens.

All in all, there’s only so much research a person can do. Chickens are fun. They make eggs, and when they stop making eggs they make pot pies and soup if you’re not anti-meat. They’re entertaining and they can all have individual personalities. You’re probably overthinking the whole chicken raising thing, because in all honesty, if you open the door to the coop right now, they will walk right out and survive quite well of their own volition until they drop dead of natural causes or are eaten by something higher up the food chain, whichever comes first.

The chickens are probably taking themselves far less seriously than we are.

~Lisa

 

Versatile Blogger Award

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So, with our farm blog in its infancy, I was very surprised and pleased to have been very kindly nominated for the Versatile Blogger Award by The Utopia Universe, which is a great place to go for your daily dose of positivity! If you don’t already follow, please hop on over and do so!

So, upon acceptance of this award, it’s requested that you compose a post outlining seven things readers or followers may not know about you. Mine follows below. ~

 

  1. I’m  a Mom to four phenomenal children, who are 26, 24, 17, and 8 years old, respectively. One girl and three boys in order of birth. They have also blessed me with, to date, six grandchildren, 5 of whom are girls, and 4 (all girls 6 and under) of whom belong to the man who stole married away my only daughter. (This karmically pleases me.) P.S. I have grown to adore and respect my son-in-law…but this was not always the way of things.
  2. In answer to the next question that age range usually brings…(an 18 year age range, My God, how does that happen?) The answers are – Catholic (recovering) , slightly crazy, and at one time overly fond of my tequila (also recovering).
  3. I confess to you now, I think I may have some hoarding tendencies and my home very often looks like a crime scene where several serious struggles have taken place.
  4. Although we grow livestock on our farm for meat purposes, I have never and will likely never participate in the “processing” of said critters, because I am a big wuss and can’t bring myself to do so.
  5. As anyone who knows me well can testify, I never, EVER, check my voicemail. Like, ever. Yes, really.
  6. I have an irrational fear of deer. Yes, like Bambi, yes, I’m serious. Yes, deer do kill people. Not often, but it happens, I promise. Look it up.
  7. I spend over half my life in pajamas. (No, I do not wear them in public, that’s gross. But as I work from home mostly…I consider it a perk.) There are times when I do not leave the farm for days and I can be found in pajamas 24 /7. (No, not the same ones, that’s gross too.)

So, now for the fun part. I get to spread the love across our blogosphere and nominate ten blogs and authors for this award. If you’ve been nominated, you’re under no obligation to accept or participate, but if you choose to, please do as I have above. Compose a post with seven items readers may not know about you. Then nominate ten blogs or authors you follow and enjoy for this award. Congratulations to, in no particular order:

Susan, Our French Oasis

Dana, Murphy’s Law Blog

Owlcatraz Farm

Lisa, Robinson Homestead

Raili SoulGifts

Teresa Eden Hills

K.M. Hillenmeyer Hillenmeyer Hill

Melody Donkey Whisperer Farm

Julie Dysfunctional Family Stories

Julie Little Red Brick Farm

There’s my list of just a few of my favorites! Please go check them out, if you don’t already follow! My thanks again to The Utopia Universe for the nomination. Hope everyone has a wonderful day, and happy blogging!

Lisa

 

 

Zealotry and Zen

I find zealotry in all its forms completely distasteful. There is no faster way to completely dissuade me from a point of view than to try and ram it down my throat. This is on my mind this morning because I’m having a bit of a dilemma.  I respect a person having courage of conviction, and I pride myself on being a somewhat informed and educated person. I welcome new learning experiences of all sorts, and dissenting viewpoints. However, at the end of the day, it’s my right to decide whether I agree or disagree, and once I’ve done that, continued argument isn’t likely to do anything but push me farther from your school of thought.

Having said that, it’s important to qualify that we’re not “churchy” people…but we are “faith” people.  I had so much church foisted on me by two warring factions as a child, I vowed solemnly not to do that to my own children.  I have a wonderful relationship with the God of my own understanding. He may or may not be similar to yours, and frankly, I don’t care. I talk to him, he answers me in his own time and way, and my attendance in a house of worship of any denomination isn’t a requirement for that relationship. And that is all I have to say about that. Because I believe it should be a personal matter, and advertising your affiliation with or status within any religion, house of religion, or organization doesn’t make you any better at being a decent human than anyone else, myself included.  SO back to my dilemma.

My eight year old is a Cub Scout. He enjoys it, it’s a positive thing in his life, we enjoy the family based activities. As long as that continues to be the case, we’ll continue to be a part of the Scouts program.

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This week, Ryan is the “Star Student” in his classroom. This affords the classroom monarch a few privileges, one of which is to share something with his class that he enjoys. A toy, book, photographs, etc. With zero direction from either us or the Scouts, Ryan went to his teacher and asked if he could wear his scout uniform instead of his school uniform today, and share about some of the cool things he’s done in Scouts. She’s consented.

So I’m currently finishing up laundering said uniform, but I’m doing so with more than a few misgivings. You see, enrollment in Scouts programs is down. A lot. Some because of unfortunate events in the news in past years, but a good portion of it can be attributed to the fact that the Scouts aren’t allowed in most schools anymore. While there used to be a Scouts signup table at every school open house, winter carnival, etc…they’re now conspicuously absent.

You see, the Scouts, even though it’s a non-denominational organization, has some God going on. God’s in the book, the Scout Oath, and “Scout Sunday” involves attending your sponsoring or local church one Sunday per calendar year. (Completely optional)  It’s not a church program, it’s a community program. Boys and their families are welcome to take part in the program with any or no religious affiliation.

So, of course…there’s someone, somewhere, everywhere… who has decided to make noise about that.  One parental meltdown is all it takes for Scouting to be unwelcome at a school. One parent who feels that the mere mention or presence of a program that even makes mention of God is an effort to “indoctrinate” their child, separation of church and state, blah, blah, blah.

It’s absurdly funny to me that the most adamant of these objectors are most often the people who are so gung-ho about tolerance for and about protecting everyone’s right to their own feelings and beliefs. They tend to be more intolerant than anyone I’ve ever seen. The right to one’s own feelings and beliefs only applies for them when it doesn’t conflict with their own agenda. Am I the only one who sees this as complete hypocrisy?

I take serious issue with that. One of the most beautiful principles this country was founded on was Freedom. Freedom to think, speak, believe, worship, not worship, vote, object or abstain AS WE PLEASE in all matters. Blessed autonomy. So why do we now suddenly expect schools, workplaces, public places to police and insulate us completely from the beliefs or ideas of others? What happened to the right to and common sense to just be secure enough in your own convictions to respectfully tolerate those of others? To just BE, and let everyone else BE…

This is how I’ve tried to raise my kids. To know that…Not everyone is like you. And that’s ok. It’s their right to be different just as much as it’s yours. It’s for you to decide what you believe in and how you want to carry yourself as a person. 10710712_953048228055375_7582096015899745441_n.jpg

So, I’m sending my kid to school today in his Scouts uniform. With the dread that I’ll get a phone call later. That my little boy will be confused and hurt and not understand what is possibly threatening or objectionable about a program that he has fun in, that teaches him to be a good person, a responsible citizen, and a good steward of the environment. That he will come home feeling there’s something bad or wrong about being a Scout. That my son’s teacher will be called away from her class for a stern talking to, and that I’ll get a phone call citing the School dress code and uniform policy and have to take my child a proper plain polo shirt. I’m steeling myself for that, because I’m not quite sure how gracefully I’ll handle it. Tact and vocal filtering really aren’t my strong suit. Especially where my wee ones are involved.

I miss America. I don’t know when we became a land so hyper focused on insulating everyone else’s little baby feelings that we became afraid to have our own. There’s something that feels inherently wrong with that. I really miss America.

 

 

 

 

 

Springing Forward

All the hoopla surrounding the Daylight Savings Time nonsense mystifies me. All over my news feed there are complainers and whiners about losing a precious hour and having to change the clocks…really? Does anyone still own that many manual clocks that it’s a life-altering, I must complain about it via my social network this instant, time-sucking event?

I mean, COME ON!

I don’t know about you, but here are a few things I considered before deciding whether I wanted to jump on the bandwagon and complain too. All the cool kids are doing it.

It probably took longer to compose that status than the combined time to change any and all clocks that needed it.

YOU DID NOT LOSE AN HOUR! It’s the self-same hour that you celebrated gaining last fall. You simply borrowed it, and now you’re giving it back.

Nearly all of the time-telling devices in this house are digital and connected to a network of some sort, so they had already changed themselves by the time I shuffled myself out of the rack this morning in search of coffee. And we don’t even own anything fancy or new. The average age of electronics in this house is 9 years. The digital clock on the coffeemaker was an hour behind, it took me exactly two button presses to change it. It took me longer to remove the lid from my sugar canister. Same with the microwave (3 buttons) when I realized that the coffee had been made by someone who left in the dark to go fish for a while before going to borrow us a working chainsaw, so it’s shut itself off and is only warm – ish.

There are only two other clocks in this house that need manually changing, one is my Mother’s anniversary clock, which I touch only once a year. It never “fell back”, so “springing forward” now makes it correct again. Winning! Same goes for the one over the kitchen sink, which no one has looked at one time in six years, because everyone relies so heavily on phones and tablets and the like. I looked at it this morning. It sports some rather impressive cobwebs because “spring cleaning” hasn’t happened here since at least last summer. (Possibly the one before, but who’s counting?) It also has stopped. The battery must be dead. Which might have been yesterday, or three years ago. How would I know? I never look at the darn thing.

Gunfight at the P-town Corral

You know, my kids make fun of me sometimes when I say the world’s gone nuts. Or that I’m going to buy a mountain, put a big fence around it, and take my entire family to live behind that fence.

I have one grown child whose family lives in the city. Not Chicago or NYC, but one of those areas that’s a wannabe metropolis. Seven of them. The entire area is referred to as “the Seven Cities”. My only daughter and her husband, and four of my granddaughters still live there. In the hood. And when I say it’s the hood, I mean I have personally sat on their porch on a summer evening and listened to popping noises and said “Who’s setting off fireworks?” Only it wasn’t fireworks, it was gunfire. Police sirens and ambulances round out the nightly symphony.

My son-in-law is a huge hulking fella. Rather imposing, so I worry a little less about their safety than my own Mother probably did about mine when I had to take my children and go try on city life and bought a home in East Baltimore. (Ok, I worry a lot less, because she went out and bought us all burial plots at that turn of events, God rest her soul.)

I don’t care how big you are, or how smart…and they’re pretty sharp, the pair of them (and fantastic parents)… you cannot stop a bullet. You can’t stop violence from touching your kids, and planting yourself in the middle of an urban area likely to be a war zone for a bunch of little turf hungry hood rats that fancy themselves “gangstas”  doesn’t do much for your odds or your sense of peace. Or your mother’s.

Last night, right at the edge of dark, my daughter was forced to run upstairs with the girls. There was shooting in their neighborhood. Close. Too close. The young men who were being shot at jumped over their backyard fence and the next door neighbor’s. My son in law spent the next hour helping the police department round up the bullet casings. In their own front yard. Bullet casings. Where my grandbabies run barefoot all summer. Where they are lucky they were not hanging out, as they often do, on such a beautiful evening.

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I wish my tendency for hyperbole was at work here. It’s not.

Bullets. Whizzing within literal inches of where six of the things most precious to me in this world lay their heads and eat dinner. Thankfully, no rounds hit the house. Or anything with a heartbeat, including the fence jumping young men, who, of course claimed they had no idea who was shooting at them. Or why…after the police rounded them up from behind my daughter’s home where they took cover.

The kids were already flirting with the notion a move up this way. Closer to family, not in the city. The hardest thing about being a parent of a grown child is remembering you’re not in charge anymore. On the phone with mine last night, it was all I could do not to demand they pack their stuff, this instant, and come the hell home. To hell with your family autonomy, do what I say and right freaking now, because I don’t want to bury any of you.  Get your collective rear ends back to where if you hear gunfire, it’s someone putting meat in the freezer, not someone’s child in a box. I want to put my foot down. This is enough. No job, no city paycheck is worth this.

But I can’t. They’re adults. I have to respect their decisions as a family, and right now that means living where they are.

I didn’t sleep much last night. I doubt they did either. Your children may grow up…but they never stop being your babies.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Teats or Tires

I vividly remember as a child, the old adage being bandied about by parents and grandparents. “If it has teats or tires, it’s going to give you problems.” This was usually followed by knowing looks, wry smiles of agreement and understanding, usually on the faces of men. I recall being instantly filled with righteous indignation at the thought that such a chauvinistic statement would be so widely accepted. Or tolerated. My female family members in particular, were made up of some of the strongest stuff I’ve ever known to this day. What in blazes did they mean by that? And why wasn’t Mom Mom telling Pop Pop all about himself?

Over my years of adulting, I’d have to say I now understand that’s because there was more truth to the matter than I cared to admit, especially on the tires end. It’s no coincidence that men tend to name vehicles and boats and equipment in the feminine. They have a love/hate relationship with these objects, they don’t understand the internal workings until they’ve seen it fall apart and put it back together, they require maintenance and care to in turn, take care of you. Oh, dear God…they just might be be women. Maybe it’s not an insult after all.

I have seen mechanical marvels put childlike smiles on the faces of the most stoic of men, and I have seen those same men reduced to near tears of frustration and fits of cursing and rage totally out of character by motors and transmissions. Or even a stuck lug nut. I nearly saw it yesterday on the face of a complete stranger. In fact, everyone in our world knows, you do not, I repeat DO NOT go near my Tony when he’s working on a vehicle. He hates it with a blinding fiery passion from the word go, so you just give him a wide berth when he’s forced to turn a wrench. 20160306_162956.jpg

The Fergbeast has long been the bane of my existence. She has not run for more than 20 consecutive minutes during my 6 year tenure here, she has sat visibly mocking me as I have paid and bartered with neighbors to come till our vegetable plot, and tried to till an acre and sweated off twenty pounds and my sanity with a walk behind tiller. She has caused countless tense moments and discord and my respect for the grand old lady she likely once was has withered into a seething resentment.

On Friday, T had talked to a tractor dealer about a two hour hike away. They had a trade in that they were selling at a budget friendly number. They’d give us a trade allowance on old Fergie here for parts. It seemed a solution to our tractor problem was imminent. There was much excitement. Yesterday morning, a phone call was made. The intended purchase had been sold.

I cried. I ugly cried. Snot, sniffling, sobbing. Then did what I do best. Sucked it up and looked for another solution. Craigslist, auctions, online forums. Tony started making calls to other dealers.

I found one suspect, nearby, in an online ad. About a thousand dollars more than we were looking to spend. The suspect part came in where the ad had been up for a couple of weeks, at a price well below market worth. It’s spring and these things usually go fast. So a couple of calls were made. One to the owner, and one to T’s boss to make sure he had access to the extra funds if necessary.

However, we weren’t holding out much hope. So being as Fergie was already on the borrowed trailer, off we went to our tinkering neighbor for a tractor triage and see whether she could be forced to cough out another year’s work or we simply needed to have a junkyard funeral.

He seems to think he can fix her. Maybe. Even if the timing can be straightened out, she long before had a problem with the steering box being completely sheared off. It was driveable, but only if you wanted to feel as if you’d gone ten rounds with the champ afterward.

He did, however, point us in the direction of a man who fixes his when he can’t and peddles a few that have been fixed up. So, off we went with Fergie still on the trailer. This next gentleman, bless his heart, was painfully honest. When asked if he had anything suitable for our needs, he said he had one, but it blew through oil like Grant took Richmond, wasn’t likely to be a reliable solution, and we’d be better off trying to fix the Fergbeast.

We told him what we were going to go look at and the price. He advised us, sight unseen, what to look for in it, and that if those conditions were met, to snap it up at that price, anything else would be fixable on a budget. Unload the Fergie in the front yard, he’ll see what he can do with her, and should we end up with another tractor, he could sell her for more than trade allowance. We bid the beast a hasty goodbye and made tracks before he could change his mind.

So, we’re off again and arrangements are made to meet the man with the ad. We found him valiantly trying to get her started where he left her after bush hogging a huge field in late fall behind his friend’s auction house. She’s not getting any fuel and the men doing men things like head scratching and getting fuel all over themselves quickly figured out that there was silt in the fuel filter bowl from sitting. 20160307_152742.jpg

Some wrenches were turned, the offending smut was drained and suddenly a part roughly the size of a small paperclip would not go back where it came from. The threaded portion had broken, I guess protesting being pulled off, as old things are prone to do.  This little paperclip sized doohickey is apparently not something that can be replaced on the spot, but was something that could be temporarily fixed by a mancritter plugging its hole with a fingertip long enough to start her up and verify that she does indeed start, run like a champ, and lifts that monstrous bush hog without any sign of strain (twice the size of our current one which is actually a finish mower).

These were the important things. Additionally, she can take a bucket on the front and pull our monstrous disc, which was too big for Ferg, (unless riding on two wheels is your thing) and will accept virtually any attachment we could conceive of throwing at her. (Think hay baler, Oh. My. Gosh.)

T wants her. I want her. This guy wants her gone. But without this tiny little piece, we can’t verify that she does everything that she’s supposed to do. He doesn’t even want to sell her to us until it’s fixed and we can do that. He wants her right. Which makes me feel infinitely better.

So we left, tractorless once again, after a 14 hour ride on an emotional rollercoaster of epic proportions.  But hopefully just for the moment. The doohickey paperclip piece is being ordered today, he’s planning to fix and even deliver her and we’ve settled on a price which was less than what he was asking.

I’m still holding my breath. Crossing my fingers… I may or may not be currently pricing buckets and haying attachments, and planting more starts… a girl can hope and pray.