May 15
Today is warm. The early afternoon sun brings the temp to seventy-five, and I find myself happy with the spring weather— temporary though it may be.
Today, everyone gets outside: the goats, seeking the early green sprouts, and the chickens, scratching in the mud for bugs and worms.
Laura, the oldest of our goats, was the first to visit the buck. She gave birth in late April, and her two kids are healthy, hungry, and playful. They're already tasting everything mom eats: hay, grain, and even the early sprouts on the greasewod and rabbitbrush. I love to watch them play, running laps around their elders and jumping and kicking up their heels. Oh, to have that much energy— and that much joy!
Hillary visited the buck second, and is now obviously pregnant, growing wider each week. The two yearlings are just beginning to show. In another six weeks, we'll be inundated with baby goats, playing and laughing and making the world more cheerful.
Taking advantage of the warm, spring afternoon, I don a t-shirt and a baseball cap, grab the splitting mall from where it hangs in the workshop, and gleefully attack the pile of unsplit firewood. It’s a task I enjoy, the satisfying thunk of the eight-pound blade, and the way the split pieces fly from the impact. I survived my teenage years splitting wood, devoting long afternoons to this safe and productive way to burn off angst. These days, I split wood for twenty minutes or so. I feel my heart rate rise and my breath gets short. It’s good exercise. Besides, I’m outside in the warm, spring-like air, a view of the snow-covered mountains in almost every direction. I live in paradise, and I’m still healthy enough to enjoy it. What more can a nearly-fifty-year-old man ask? When I finish, I lean on the maul until my head stops spinning. I drip with sweat. I don’t pick up the split pieces—I’ll do that later, after I cool down. Inside, Sarah fusses. “Drink something,” she says. “You worked hard. I don’t want you getting dehydrated.” “I’ll be fine,” I insist, waving her off.
"I'm not picking you up off the floor if you collapse," she warns me.
"I'm not in any danger of collapsing," I insist. The truth is, I like it when she fusses over me. After all these years, she still worries about me. I'm glad to know she doesn't take me for granted.
Today, everyone gets outside: the goats, seeking the early green sprouts, and the chickens, scratching in the mud for bugs and worms.
Laura, the oldest of our goats, was the first to visit the buck. She gave birth in late April, and her two kids are healthy, hungry, and playful. They're already tasting everything mom eats: hay, grain, and even the early sprouts on the greasewod and rabbitbrush. I love to watch them play, running laps around their elders and jumping and kicking up their heels. Oh, to have that much energy— and that much joy!
Hillary visited the buck second, and is now obviously pregnant, growing wider each week. The two yearlings are just beginning to show. In another six weeks, we'll be inundated with baby goats, playing and laughing and making the world more cheerful.
Taking advantage of the warm, spring afternoon, I don a t-shirt and a baseball cap, grab the splitting mall from where it hangs in the workshop, and gleefully attack the pile of unsplit firewood. It’s a task I enjoy, the satisfying thunk of the eight-pound blade, and the way the split pieces fly from the impact. I survived my teenage years splitting wood, devoting long afternoons to this safe and productive way to burn off angst. These days, I split wood for twenty minutes or so. I feel my heart rate rise and my breath gets short. It’s good exercise. Besides, I’m outside in the warm, spring-like air, a view of the snow-covered mountains in almost every direction. I live in paradise, and I’m still healthy enough to enjoy it. What more can a nearly-fifty-year-old man ask? When I finish, I lean on the maul until my head stops spinning. I drip with sweat. I don’t pick up the split pieces—I’ll do that later, after I cool down. Inside, Sarah fusses. “Drink something,” she says. “You worked hard. I don’t want you getting dehydrated.” “I’ll be fine,” I insist, waving her off.
"I'm not picking you up off the floor if you collapse," she warns me.
"I'm not in any danger of collapsing," I insist. The truth is, I like it when she fusses over me. After all these years, she still worries about me. I'm glad to know she doesn't take me for granted.
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