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ok well so. it’s time to tell a long semi-pointless meandery story so buckle up. <3

mostly my job at the farm is to assist in the making of sausage, which happens two or three weeks every month, and when it happens it takes the whole week, y'dig, what with setup and cleanup and all that shit. but this is not a sausage week. this is the week between sausage and the next. and as it happens next week is the first chicken processing of the season, so like, a big deal. I’ve spent weeks slowly cleaning up the winter’s mess in the slaughterhouse– which is several rooms at the end of the barn, each of them cluttered with different types of detritus. I’ve spent hours washing things, putting things away, finding homes for things, tidying things, cleaning things, and my BIL has spent hours fixing broken things and helping me move heavy things that really need to not be where they are. It’s looking pretty good in there.

But this week, now that the heavy lifting is mostly done, and most of the heavy cleaning is done, I’ve been mostly subsumed into bizarre odd jobs. Yesterday I learned how to use a woodchipper. I also did some light fence work, a stark contrast to the kind of fencing I learned in college. (Sabre and epee, then; now it’s wire mesh and staples.)

And eggs; endless egg management. Mostly washing, and packing, and putting away, but some stock rotation too now and then.

This morning I was called away from my egg washing and prevailed upon to take a journey of about 40 minutes’ drive each way, on a quest to obtain a new throttle cable for the New Holland tractor that VegMan needed for a task that had to be done as soon as possible and could not wait.

So the nearest New Holland dealership that stocks the part we needed is in Greenwich, NY. I haven’t been there super often but it is exactly two towns over from where I grew up, so it’s not exactly terra incognita. BIL gave me rough directions, and I immediately knew just what he meant. I put the address in my phone anyway, because I wouldn’t know precisely where it was, but the bulk of the drive, I absolutely knew where everything was. So I left the directions in my phone and hit the road, and after about half an hour I’d passed through Schaghticoke and was headed north on 40 and was like “ok time to get Maps loaded” and tabbed over to the app and said take it away, my friend!

and it was like “make a right out of the farm driveway onto the main road” and like buddy i did that half an hour ago, please show me the current driving direction??? it would not do that. well, i don’t need it to give me the turn by turn just show me where to go i guess, I thought, and then I looked and it was telling me to turn off Rte 40 and make a right, head east on the very next road.

The very next road was an unpaved road I happen to know meanders for a long distance before it ever connects with anything else. Doubt.jpg, I did not take the turn. I might mention, I grew up here, and I know fine fucking well where Greenwich is, and I had the utmost confidence that haring off into some unpaved Easton hinterland was not going to get me to the tractor dealership any faster than simply continuing on this very nice state highway. But it kept updating itself to show me turning right. Which I knew I did not need to do.

So I finally pulled over and tucked myself up in the DO NOT BLOCK DOORS DO NOT PARK HERE parking lot of the Easton volunteer fire department, and tried to restart Maps, which wasn’t having any of it. I eventually had to hard-restart my whole phone.

And then it wouldn’t come back up. It was just on the little loading thingy for ages, probably a minute and a half, but it was a long minute and a half, as those tend to be; with no other distractions, I stared bleakly at my seemingly-dead phone and had some contemplative thoughts.

I’m from here, is the thing. Like, if my phone won’t come back up, I’ve come too far to turn back in defeat. I can’t go home without the throttle cable. I can only go on. But I don’t know how to get there. I don’t think there’s anywhere I can easily run in and ask someone for directions. (If there was a Stewarts I absolutely would but I knew there wasn’t.)

But like. I cannot be lost this close to my fucking hometown. Route 40 is the street I learned how to shift into fifth gear on. Route 40 is the way I drove to school. I cannot get lost on Route 40.

Finally my phone came back on and I was like ok thank fucking god where the hell is capital tractor and it was like yo dummy you just drive up rte 40 for seven more miles and then make a right why are you being so weird about this

thanks bud. anyway, i clipped it back in its holder and got myself back on the highway

and about 20 feet later i almost hit a bald eagle that was swooping low over the road with something in its talons

so like i don’t do augury so idk what that meant but i did make it and i did get that throttle cable and then i did make it back safely to the farm so who even knows

anyway your reward for reading is this photo I took of some lilacs at my mother’s house:

[image description: some blooming lilacs, pale purple] (Your picture was not posted)

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finally i made it to my mother’s house, because it was really truly genuinely saturday. (I cleaned my kitchen before I left, because it is suddenly Ant Season and if I leave them nothing to entice them perhaps the place won’t be overrun when I get back.)

It was late enough that we just went straight to Mom’s, even though we’ll be staying in the guestroom at the farm. At Mom’s, I began my collection of hugs. My older sister was there, with her older son and daughter, and after a while I realized the middle son and the dogs and the husband were not present. The husband had begged to be allowed to join a day later, to take care of some errands; he’d bring the dogs, which would simplify logistics. And then right before leaving, the middle boy had begged to be allowed to come with his dad, so that he’d have a day off from his siblings, and his mother couldn’t deny him that. They’ve done mostly well in this pandemic, but there’s been not a great deal of respite from one another.

And we do acknowledge that we are collectively kind of a lot. We joke about her husband needing to run away from us, but it’s… not an unreasonable thing to want.

It came up in conversation that Middle-Little, who’d had a blowup with Mom and Farmsister over moving furniture and had turned down their help as “too judgy” had then said that I was the “most acceptable” family member to help her, so I decided that was my running joke of the day, and have told everyone who’ll listen that I’m going to get it printed on a t-shirt. It’s not really a funny situation, Mom had to clean out her hoarder brother’s house after he died and is genuinely terrified M-L’s situation is going to degenerate to that point and is not just being judgy she’s genuinely traumatized over all this, but. If I can joke then that’s the thing we talk about, instead of being angry and bitter about the underlying situation.

M-L showed up after that, and then Farmsister and her husband and Farmkid, and we went for a walk and did briefly explore in the barn– part of what we’re doing this week is meant to be more cleaning and sorting of possessions of Dad’s. Farmsister leapt into the barn loft and did some barnshopping– she needs another twin bed frame to house an employee, and a bedframe that happens to have been mine as a small child was available, so we collectively carried that down out of there.

We also went and stood on the bit of the barn roof where the turkey vultures fuck. It was at that moment unoccupied. (There’s a taller and shorter bit of the barn.)

So, anyway– I’ve now made my collection of hugs from all my immediate family, and feel better about life in general.

Also BIL is now committed to the tiny house project– he’s riding high I think on having successfully put an addition onto the apprentice cabin in a very short time frame on a tight budget, so. I have concrete plans to go look at the models from a tiny house company that sells kits, and as he was looking at them he was like “we don’t have to buy the kit though, it wouldn’t save that much time and is really expensive, if we just buy the plans and materials list we could do this cheaper” which is what I’d been planning to do with Dad but hadn’t wanted to ask of him. So, we’ll see.

The farm is fully staffed for this year. The labor market is, uh. People want jobs, it’s easy to find people. “We’re gonna be broke,” BIL pointed out, because they don’t do unpaid internships, but– having more help makes it all work a lot better, and there’s an enormous amount of demand for local-raised food, so hopefully if last season’s precedent kind of continues they’ll be okay with the higher labor expenditure. And, crucially, be able to build me a tiny house.

(No none of these tiny houses include a hot tub, alas, but. maybe we can make something happen eventually. first step toward the bearselkie lifestyle is the cabin in the woods.) (Your picture was not posted)

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I didn’t reblog it but there’s the post going around of the guy who has written a one-minute song about the Clifford Movie and sounds ex-fucking-xactly like John Darnielle of the Mountain Goats (”but I don’t want to tell you how to feel”) and that song is in my fucking head now and i deserve it for listening to it thrice and I don’t care about the Clifford Movie but the song is so funny. “They used this curséd hull to make the Clifford Movie, but I don’t want to tell you how to feel.”

Anyway.

[cut for length; rambling about my day and ongoing work schedule]

[edit: works better if you put in the cut tag, ya dingus]

My gambit yesterday worked out– came in at 7am, worked for four solid hours to get a huge transfer order done, went upstairs as it was exporting and managed to get a bunch of completed orders shipped before my coworker came in (he sits in the room with the shipping scale and label printer, so when he’s there it’s awkward to try to ship things what with distancing and all)– and he arrived before I was done but me being there meant he worked on repacking this in-store order we need to ship that had been sitting awkwardly in the hallway since the previous day, when otherwise I know he would have procrastinated on it.

So we both got a bunch of stuff done before noon, and then I ate breakfast finally, and then I ran downstairs to actually burn the disk of the thing I’d left exporting, and then holy fuck it was super crowded downstairs so I ran back upstairs and packed up the order to wait for its DVD, and I’d meant to go work a little more downstairs but between all the employees and all the customers I was like nope. No way.

So I worked a little more on organizing a few things, but then I left before 3, and so I’d done my 7.5 hours or so of work, and I was done, and I chatted with my coworker a bit before I left and got a few more tasks I could do in the future, and then I went home.

Dude was on his way out to run an errand (walking to his absent mother’s house to water her plants), so I went in the basement and did my workout routine I’m trying to get into (riding the exercise bike for the duration of an episode of the Untamed, maybe I’ll actually get through the whole thing?) and then I came up and took a shower and then I made dinner– a mac and cheese casserole, roughly, but also with vegetables and the leftover chicken from the milk chicken https://www.thekitchn.com/jamie-oliver-chicken-in-milk-best-chicken-recipe-all-time-80388 I made this weekend.

(Check out that recipe if you haven’t it is the fucking bomb.)

Dude had to go grocery shopping after dinner. I know! We worked so hard! I got us all stocked up before we left Rensselaer Co with its comparatively idyllic infection rate of 3% testing positive, but his mom had asked if he could do her grocery shopping before she gets home from her risky plane ride, so she can quarantine in perfect isolation. She did the same thing after she’d been trapped in California when the whole pandemic started, so it’s a good routine, it’s just. You know. It meant he had to go out to Wegman’s, here where our infection rate is more like 9% testing positive.

But Wegmans was deserted and he cruised through, and while he was going, I’d come up with a bunch of things we could pick up that would stock us up. (Including toilet paper; we haven’t bought any in almost a year, which is how I like to shop, because it takes us like a year to get through the big pack, and we bought one in like November of last year, so…)

NOT QUITE BONE! NOT QUITE FLESH! CANINE SARCOPHAGUS OF PLASTIC MESH! Fuck it’s really in my head, I apologize.

While he was out, I practiced banjo and worked on my spinning, and I made good progress on both. For some reason, I don’t like to do either while he’s in the room? I don’t know, it’s not like he pays attention to me. I just don’t! It’s weird.

It felt good to be busy. But the problem is that it was a lot. And then I got anxious about the dishes, so I had to go and wash dishes. He got home in the midst of this, and dropped off our groceries enroute to his mom’s house, so I dug out the eggs I’d brought from the farm for her so he could take them too, and then I put the groceries away, and then I mostly finished up the dishes and cleaned the kitchen but then it was 8pm and I hadn’t yet sat on the couch and I was just. So tired.

I was in bed by 9. And that was fine, I fell asleep, I slept well, the cat happily purred on my face, and in the morning I woke gently with her kneading my arm and we snuggled some more and I finally got out of bed and got dressed and was out by 7am.

But I’m so tired, and yesterday I flew through a 25-reel order by 11 am and today I’m struggling through this little 10-reel order like IDK how I’m going to finish it in time, and I’m worried about Unresponsive Coworker– Dude’s theory is that he hasn’t told any of us his COVID test results because he didn’t actually go get tested and is just waiting for us to forget or something, but fuck he’s the one who actually overlapped with the kid with the positive result, he is the fucking lynchpin of this whole endeavor and it’s really crucial that we know he doesn’t have it. Argh.

So that’s stressful. (Also I am worried about him; he is a cantankerous old fuck and he has been working here since 1987 I am not exaggerating that, and he literally did not understand about the shutdown and thought he was being fired and has been so bitter and confused about it all and he is not a bad dude and i don’t like him but that doesn’t mean I can’t sympathize, he was so upset when his sister died last year but wouldn’t take time off work because he has lived here so long and he wouldn’t let us take care of him and he’s just a fucking weirdo and I am also not exaggerating [it takes a particular variety of extremely deep eccentricity to work at the camera store equivalent of an indie record store for literally 33 years] but like, he’s not a bad person and I don’t want him to have coronavirus and I don’t want him to give us all coronavirus Jesus Christ Almighty.)

Whew. Anyway, if I finish these ten three-inch reels this morning, then the two seven-inch reels tomorrow, then the other two seven-inch reels upstairs pending a Paypal invoice for the balance the day after, that’s the rest of the week and all the outstanding 8mm orders, and we’ll likely have more on Monday. It looks like me working 7-2 or so works out for most people; I overlap a bit with my supervisor, I don’t overlap much with the girl working the VCR that shares a desk with the 8mm machine, whether we lock down or not probably doesn’t affect that much, and then I can do my workouts in the afternoon and, well, I’ll probably wind up cooking every meal and doing all the dishes forevermore henceforth, alas.

I just have to get used to it and probably once I do they’ll lock us down and I’ll have to switch it all around.

Oh, the other good thing is that Dude finally finished cleaning out the guest room (which I did the bulk of the work for in a single day about a month ago, but he’s been sorting papers one at a time since then) enough that he can use the desk in there and is now comfortably set up, and the best part is that the guest bed is the cat’s, and she’s delighted to be able to parade back and forth across his desk and then settle down next to it on Her Bed. It’s really ideal, for her, and she’s been yelling about how great it is, which sounds just like the yelling she does when she doesn’t like something, but, you know, whatever. She’s demonstrably happy.

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So tomorrow we’re processing the turkeys to sell for Thanksgiving. Preorders were uneven this year but in the end we’ve sold just about all of them (the key is to not oversell! very very difficult to count live turkeys).

So the turkeys, like all the animals here, are raised out on pasture– being outdoors instead of in confinement is generally considered to be better for the animal’s wellbeing and health overall, and in some animals is linked to a better nutritional profile in the meat, and such. For the purposes of this farm, the extra reason is that the animals on pasture add fertility to the soil by, well, you know, shitting eveywhere, since that’s what animals are good at. Like, there’s a whole thing about integrating pastured livestock into farms and such, so you can go read more about that if you want.

Anyway. The chickens, we load into coops to bring down to the slaughterhouse. The pigs are loaded onto trailers, live or dead, to be taken away for processing. But the turkeys? They’re quite large, don’t fit into coops, and there isn’t a trailer on the farm that would easily accomodate them. So the way they’re transported down the hill to the slaughterhouse is that they’re run in a particular pattern (we move the fences every few days to give them fresh pasturage) so that their last pasturage is just up the hill from the barn, not very far at all. And then on the day before processing, we set up all the extra fencing we have because all the meat chickens are done, and we park everyone’s cars strategically, and the tractor on the other side of the barn, and we prop up fencing and poles and things, and then we take down the fence of their pasture and get them to walk, or sometimes run, down the hill to the barn, where their last night’s pasturage is waiting, tucked up next to the barn.

We call it the Turkey Parade, and it’s a fantastic time to observe turkeys, which are very different critters than chickens. They have some individual personality, but mostly the flock as a collective has a kind of overarching nature. And so every year the Turkey Parade is a little different.

Universally, they are always astonished by the gravel driveway. They all have to stop and peck at it, in great detail, and it’s always a challenge to keep them going.

But this year we had enough people and got them moving well enough that they made their way down (following my sister, the traditional Pied Piper, with the feed bucket, about whose contents they cared not at all in the face of So Much New Stuff To Peck). This year also was the first year Farmkid was really big enough to help.

Before the parade started, she stood atop the big round haybales stockpiled there for winter use in the barn just across the way, and harangued them. (Sister said she was addressing them, my mom pointed out that she’d been pretending to conduct an auction and had sold the turkeys the entire farm.)

Sister posted a video of it on her Instagram https://www.instagram.com/p/CH0-8ihp8-f/ and I must say, it is really entertaining.

I just did an instagram post of it which may or may not crosspost here.

Turkeys, tame ones like this, are not bright. They’re curious and nosey, but they really have no wits at all. But you can see the echoes of how smart wild turkeys were, and sometimes the sort of haunting scary remainders of how terrifying their dinosaur ancestors were.

I’m not super looking forward to tomorrow, as it’s going to be hard work, but– the state inspector came by while I was cleaning the slaughterhouse, and i had just sprayed down the whole room including the ceiling, and the entire room was full of soap suds, so at least he could tell I was really cleaning the place, LOL.

I’m as ready as I can be. It was a long day today, and tomorrow will be longer, and Sunday is packaging and pickup day which will likely be pretty exhausting, and then Monday i get to clean the slaughterhouse again and then we repeat the whole process on Tuesday except we get to do the packaging right away then too. And then Wednesday we have to tear it all down for the winter and put everything away.

but on Thursday I get to see family, which is something a whole lot of people aren’t getting this year. That’s my silver lining. I’m here for work, but my mom’s here too, and my pop, and that’s nice.

And I get to eat a turkey I helped raise and helped process, and know 130 other families are being fed by that same labor, so. I mean, someone’s gotta do it.

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geese, misc

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Y’all have been hilarious and I haven’t been able to easily keep up, so this is a big misc dump, sorry!

in re: asks going missing, laurelnose https://laurelnose.tumblr.com/ said: actually if you scroll through your drafts you might find it again? tumblr backdates drafted asks to when the ask was sent which if you have a lot of drafts makes it SEEM like they vanished into thin air

Ha, thank you. Yes, I did discover that while I was rewriting it, and it turns out my fresh reply was better than my original one, so I rolled with it, but that is a Top Tip for all y’all out there trying to function on this hellsite, and also possibly I’m telling on myself that I keep things I like and want to find again in my drafts folder which is why it’s currently sitting pretty at over 1600 entries. Whoops.

Oh in re: the sewing bird from ages ago, I remembered where I know Lacis https://lacis.com/catalog/ from– they’re the only manufacturer I’ve currently found of tambour needles, so I have a tambour needle set by them I got on Amazon or somesuch. So I ordered another set from their website because I bent the finest needle of the set which of course is the one I use, and you can’t buy replacements anywhere else but their website, and I also ordered myself a sewing bird, so I will have photos of that soon, it arrived while i was at the farm and I have only just opened it and am delighted but haven’t tried it out yet. (A modern one with two clamps would be faster and easier to use, possibly more versatile for travel, but this one is darling.)

[personal profile] mikkeneko https://tmblr.co/mQinCuAEZN8fzW1FQO_b2Vg​ ‘s family punchline was just that they had to flee the Puritans to come to the New World, which is hilarious because my folk had to flee the Stuarts to come to the New World so like. I mean, it’s not so much give me your tired and poor as all your political refugees. That must’ve been fun to be neighbors about.

Weird trivia fun fact: my sister’s farm’s first occupant was a German who moved upstate to work a Rensselaer tenant farm and then fought in the Rev War on the WRONG SIDE and somehow managed to keep his farm, which is evidence that he was either a fast talker or actually the locals weren’t that fired up about it, hard to say. (He and a small collection of his fellows from the local German-speaking Lutheran church went up to the Battle of Bennington https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Battle_of_Bennington and joined the Hessians under Baum, fighting against Stark and his folks. That was, as far as we can tell, the extent of ol’ Heinrich’s involvement in the war.)

oh yeah I wanted to reply to this one too

[profile] dalekpoetryreading https://tmblr.co/mZeB_2FF8_fCZOMwpdp2i4w​ reblogged your post “wtf geese” and added “They don’t, that’s why they are screaming” which made me laugh really really really hard.

Also over on the DW crosspost DW-user light-of-summer replied with this which is so interesting I’m cross-platform posting it:

I googled “why do geese fly at night?” and found a moderately interesting article about Canada Geese, specifically, at https://www.google.com/amp/s/www.forbes.com/sites/quora/2018/03/01/why-do-canadian-geese-fly-at-night/amp/

TL;DR: reduced air turbulence, reduced risk of overheating, and reduced risk of predation.

That article didn’t mention their eyesight, but I found another site that says Canada geese don’t see in the dark as well as cats do, but they do it twelve times better than humans!: https://www.google.com/amp/s/www.mercurynews.com/2013/11/05/morris-nighttime-geese-flights/amp/

So, now we both know! 😊

so, we are answered in both hilarious shitposting and actual knowledge-knowing. I don’t know how I feel about the fact that geese can see in the dark, part of why I can handle poultry is that I know i can just wait until night for my pathetic-but-still-usable night vision to render me the advantage. Sleepy turkeys are much less terrifying than their daytime velociraptor impression.

I’m forgetting stuff but anyway. I’m back in Buffalo for four days, let’s see how much of my mind I can recover. This has been a long fucking season. I have been writing but nothing is quite ready to post, it’s really incredible, argh. Maybe I’ll do a snippet post of what I’ve been working on later though.

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So I went back and tagged all of my Witcher 3 recaps with “wee precious flower prince geralt” since that seems to be an ongoing theme, and I wanted to be able to find them all again too. 

DF had an office day yesterday so he was home early and spent some time in the afternoon Warframing, so he fired up Witcher 3 while MM was still putting the kids to bed. He figured he had a bunch of boring quest-grinding to do and she wouldn’t miss anything.

But that meant that as we were talking to a man about a cart full of plague victims, the 7-year-old came down to ask for medicine for his stuffy nose. I noticed him first, as the screen had just gone to a cutscene; Geralt standing there looking disapprovingly at a man standing next to a cart full of bodies, glowering skeptically at him, and the 7-year-old boy, standing in the passageway from the kitchen, watching it in entrancement, a faint line of confusion between his eyebrows. “Kid,” I said, “what do you need?”
“My nose is stuffy,” he said, still staring entranced at the brightly-colored video game screen.
“You gotta burn that cart,” Geralt growled at the carter. (Geralt knows about germ theory. HM)
“Then get a stuffie,” DF said, not having heard him amidst the sounds of getting out of his chair to physically interpose his own 6′1″ body between the child and the unskippable cut scene. But it’s a really large television, so this wasn’t super effective.
“No, my nose,” Boy said. “What are you watching? Who’s that?”
“Come on,” DF said, putting the controller down and leading Boy to the kitchen, to give him a completely placebo-level underdose of allergy medication, which, spoiler alert, completely sorted him for the evening. 
(Boy is, after all, the original Flower Prince; he’s very sensitive, and it’s sweet and lovely but occasionally you want to kind of grab him by the shoulders and intone furiously not all sensation is pain, child, it is okay to exist in a body but we do not do this very often because it isn’t particularly effective. But it’s true, child, it’s true.)

(behind the cut: hide and seek, and a reply to a reply about a bookverse allusion. this is kind of a long meandery one, i always mean to make these more concise but i’m just having too much fun. sorry.)Read more... )
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So we’d gone a little ways into the next level the night before last but then died without saving, so last night we settled in to look at  the whole game now that we’ve completed the prologue. We sort of hadn’t realized that was what was going on.

I’m gonna reply to replies under the cut too. I don’t have a ton of time for a recap but I did want to share a couple funny things that happened.
Read more... )
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Did you know that Amtrak trains have free wifi? 

I might have known that, I ought to have known that, but somehow I had forgotten, and so when the thing popped up and was like “sign into the free wifi!” i was like the what now. 

Anyway. Sometimes it doesn’t work, Mom points out, being a seasoned long-haul train traveler of late, but I know sometimes the power outlets next to the seat don’t work either, and in my current situation, both are working, so I’m delighted. It’s not fast enough to load any of Tumblr’s content but Dreamwidth works just fine thanks, so. 

I woke up at 4am, of course, preoccupied by worry that I’d somehow oversleep. The cat was happy enough to spend an hour sleeping on my face and purring, so I did that until a bit after five, when I got up and double-checked my packing list and sat quietly for a bit so as not to wake Dude. At six I decided he could wake up anytime now, so I went and did the dishes and cleaned the kitchen a bit, so that when I come home to a mess in almost two weeks at least I’ll know it wasn’t like that the whole time. Then I dashed around and prepared the things I need him to bring with him when he comes. I did manage to cram the point and shoot camera into my gear, and my nightshirt which hadn’t been dry yet when I packed (I don’t use the clothes dryer if I can avoid it, and I figured twelve hours on hangers would be enough, and it was for almost everything but not that), but I did not bring any shoes besides my huge snow boots so we’ll just have to hope they suit for the whole visit. I did have to leave behind my dress-up-for-Thanksgiving outfit, but Dude can bring that, surely.

As I was assembling my goods I was worried about how heavy and unwieldy everything is, and Dude graciously offered to swap banjos with me, because mine weighs like 30 pounds and his weighs 5. It hadn’t occurred to him that I might like to do that, even though I’d asked him if we could another time when I was traveling. It wasn’t as pointed then, I think, because I was going by car and really it didn’t matter that much, but. Anyhow, he offered, so I accepted. So that made it much easier for me to get myself onto the train. The real miscalculation was that as I was loading my backpack, I kept putting in just one more book, just one more book, and it’s now like fifty pounds and I’m dying. Also I wore a bulky sweater and my coat doesn’t fit over it properly– the coat is an old one, and much too large, except it’s got tiny biceps because it was clearly graded up poorly from straight sizes (for real, I have freakishly tiny shoulders given my overall girth, and smallish arms, I never ever need a full bicep adjustment, and yet), and it’s too tight for me to move my arms with this sweater on, so that made it really difficult to get all my shit onto the train. But I did it! So. here I am.

Mom texted this morning that she’s not feeling any better, and worse, Dad woke up sick to his stomach. On the one hand, I hope it’s not contagious, but on the other hand– Dad’s sole serious health problems in his entire life that have required hospitalization were 1) a freak infection in his thumb possibly caused by a sewing needle, and 2) diverticu… litis, I think? Something super bad in the digestive system. He spent a week in the hospital that time and missed an entire visit of the grandkids. It was just awful. He was in good spirits about it; he was in the hospital where his mother and mother-in-law both died, actually (several years apart, it’s not the hospital’s fault, and they were both well into their nineties), and there’s a beautiful view of the Hudson, and he said he did a lot of thinking. But. Still!!!

Anyhow, so I’m torn as to whether i hope this is another idiosyncratic Dad thing or something like norovirus. God, norovirus would be terrible, because if Mom gets it and she’s already laid up, she’ll just be so miserable. But also. Dad. and his 75-year-old intestines.

Man i have really had an easy run of this aging parents thing so far and I’d really like this easy run to continue a bit longer. Dad’s grandpa made it to 101 in good health but he was a miserable cuss, Dad might be too nice to have that kind of luck. At least he’s not stubborn or too stoic– he doesn’t complain about much but he’s pretty sensible. (The other thing that’s nice is that two of my sisters live so close and the third one will be staying with her later this week. My coworker’s an only child and I’m like holy shit that’s a lot of pressure and he’s like, well, I didn’t know there was any other way, but I’m like believe me it’s fantastic having competent siblings. But I am unreasonably fortunate, overall, and especially in my family.)

Well, I’m on the train now, anyway, and have a few hours to read and write and look out the window. I love riding the train. This is going to sound hokey, but listen, I’m from New York State and have lived here all my life except a year in the UK and a year in Jersey City, but I’ve lived all over the state and I really like all of it. There’s a ton of beautiful scenery you can’t see or appreciate from the highway, and the train route goes right through it. Just now it’s a birch forest; a moment ago it was an expanse of snowy cornfields with some barns, an occasional windmill, and an old farmhouse or two. There’s a lot of field corn still standing, dry and yellow, and the hedgerows have some clinging foliage still, orange and yellow, with all the sumac still bright red-tipped. The snow is old and fading, revealing still-green grass underneath in places. Out here the roads are straight, the terrain gently rolling at most but largely flat, but as we go east it’ll start to get more vertical motion.

The thing I really like about the train tracks is that they’re behind everything. Things face the roads, and the tracks look into the backyards. 

In a couple of hours, the train route picks up the Mohawk River, and runs along the bank for a long time, and the scenery there is just gorgeous. I’m trying to restrain myself from posting nonstop Instagram stories of how pretty it is, even dreary with early winter. I just saw a red-tailed hawk awkwardly flapping after a takeoff, and a massive squirrel nest in the fork of a bare tree. A little man-made pond for livestock, the back of a barnyard– and a sudden housing development of identical vinyl-sided condos. But now we’re back to a cornfield with deep muddy ruts where someone got that harvest in even in the terrible wet. 
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So I left work at 4:45 Friday night and just drove straight to the farm.

I listened to an entire season of Alice Isn’t Dead on the drive. It spat rain at me, fitfully, never hard but without ever quite letting up, for the majority of the drive. It’s a long time since I made that drive in the dark, it turns out, and it’s, well. It’s boring in the day, and at night it’s just mind-numbingly monotonous, with nothing to look at.

I stopped only to pee, and for dinner ate a granola bar and most of a bag of Chee-Tos, because I had them with me, because I didn’t want to stop for junk food; I could’ve picked up something on my way out but given my unexpected fortune to leave before the 5pm rush hour, I elected to just– get out of town. (Traffic’s not horrible at 5 but it’s annoying, and I know it is on that stretch of road because my old commute is also the way to get to the highway.)

I still haven’t found my ideal podcast, which is one that never features loud sounds or quiet mumbling, but AID is close; the main narrator speaks clearly enough most of the time, though the other occasional voices are never good. Irritatingly, it is universally true that every prerecorded advertisement-type segment is painfully louder than the main content, which is apparently true for literally every form of media ever anywhere? Ah well.
farm life, busy weekend, children's birthday party, political campaigning, etc )
Today, Sunday, I helped BIL with chores– a couple of things just need two people. It’s in the low forties and whipping windy rain, blustery, unpleasant, and I left my rain pants in Buffalo, so I got soaked through. Two of the chicken pens had blown out of position, but somehow no chickens had been killed by them, which is a mercy. We got everybody repositioned, and fed, and got back down and I went out to the yurt to change my pants and discovered that the roof had partly blown off in the two hours I’d been gone.

So I had to chase all that down and fix it, but I got it set back up, and am inside thawing. It’s not cold, at all, it’s just so damp, and gross, and I’m actually sort of sweaty, and of course I have Special Lady Cramps. 

But it’s nice to be busy, and needed. 

weak end

Oct. 21st, 2019 01:35 pm
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It’s always sort of notable for me to have a weekend that isn’t spent driving, so I was a bit glad of that. But I had a lot to get done this weekend.

The thing is, sometimes I can still kind of skate along on my sister’s household’s executive function when I’m not there. I hit a bump when I first got home and discovered the myriad… science experiments, where I had left a functional kitchen, but I was buoyed up later by discovering he’d cleaned out the fridge, and had done all kinds of other important things, like make his first dental appointment in this millennium (I might be exaggerating but not by much) (I am not in any better shape) and flush the new water heater, and get himself a physical, and all that. I wish he could help me do some of those things, but that’s kind of. It was hard enough for him to do it, so whatever. Also make the cat a vet appointment… for this morning at 8 am… boy oh boy. Oh well, it’s fine.

what i did this weekend, mostly so I recall:
a rambling summary of some things, including a new restaurant )
I’m not even screwing around at work as I write this, Windows Update is being a turd and I’m sitting here watching it. Yikes. 

anyway more rambling: an account of my Cooking Disasters )
Anyhow, I persevered, and now there’s a cold tourtiere in the fridge for tonight, and enough Pseudo Butter Chicken (Stovetop Version) in the fridge/freezer for leftovers for a million years. 

It was a lot. It was a stressful afternoon. But I overcame it. I guess Windows Update is done so I ought to go do my actual office job now. Christ, Win 10, you are a pile.
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theactualcluegirl:

theragnarokd:

vassraptor:

tanoraqui:

sex-obsessed-lesbian:

imp-furiosa:

heidibyeveryday:

imp-furiosa:

frustrateddemiurge:

Okay. There’s a social interaction concept that I’ve tried to convey multiple times in multiple conversations, so I’m going to just go ahead and make a graph.

I’m calling this concept “Affordance Widths”.

Let’s say there’s some behavior {B} that people can do more of, or less of. And everyone agrees that if you don’t do enough of the behavior, bad thing {X} happens; but if you do too much of the behavior, bad thing {Y} happens.

Now, let’s say we have five different people: Adam, Bob, Charles, David, and Edgar. Each of them can do more or less {B}. And once they do too little, {X} happens. But once they do too much, {Y} happens. But where {X} and {Y} starts happening is a little fuzzy, and is different for each of them. Let’s say we can magically graph it, and we get something like this:

Now, let’s look at these five men’s experiences.

Adam doesn’t understand what the big deal about {B} is. He feels like this is a behavior that people can generally choose how much they do, and yeah if they don’t do the *bare minimum* shit goes all dumb, and if they do a *ridiculous* amount then shit goes dumb a different way, but otherwise do what you want, you know?

Bob understands that {B} can be an important behavior, and that there’s a minimum acceptable level of {B} that you need to do to not suffer {X}, and a maximum amount you can get away with before you suffer {Y}. And Bob feels like {X} is probably more important a deal than {Y} is. But generally, he and Adam are going to agree quite a bit about what’s an appropriate amount of {B}ing for people to do. (Bob’s heuristic about how much {B} to do is the thin cyan line.)

Charles isn’t so lucky, by comparison. He’s got a *very* narrow band between {X} and {Y}, and he has to constantly monitor his behavior to not fall into either of them. He probably has to deal with {X} and {Y} happening a lot. If he’s lucky, he does less {B} than average; if he’s not so lucky, then he tries to copy Bob’s strategy and winds up getting smacked with {Y} way more often than Bob does.

Poor David’s in a situation called a “double bind”. There is NO POSSIBLE AMOUNT of {B} he can do to prevent both {X} and {Y} from happening; he simply has to choose his poison. If he tries Bob’s strategy, he’ll get hit hard with {X} *AND* {Y}, simultaneously, and probably be pretty pissed about it. On the other hand, if he runs into Charles, and Charles has his shit figured out, then Charles might tell him to tack into a spot where David only has to deal with {X}. Bob and Adam are going to be utterly useless to David, and are going to give advice that keeps him right in the ugly overlap zone.

Then there’s Edgar. Edgar’s fucked. There is *NO AMOUNT* of behavior that Edgar can dial into, where he isn’t getting hit HARD by {X} *and* {Y}. There’s places way out on the extreme - places where most people are getting slammed hard by {X} or slammed hard by {Y} - where Edgar notices a slight decrease in the contra failure mode. So Edgar probably spends most of his time on the edges, either doing all-B or no-B, and people probably tell him to stop being so black-and-white about B and find a good middle spot like everyone else. Edgar probably wants to punch those people, starting with Adam.

In any real situation, the affordance width is probably determined by things independent of X, Y, and B. Telling Bob to do a little more {B} than Adam, and Charles to do a little less {B} than Adam or Bob, is great advice. But David and Edgar need different advice - they need advice one meta-level up, about how to widen their affordance width between {X} and {Y} so that *some* amount of {B} will be allowed at all.

In most of the situations where this is most salient to me, {B} is a social behavior, and {X} and {Y} are punishments that people mete out to people who do not conform to correct {B}-ness. A lot of the affordance width that Adam and Bob have would probably be identified as ‘halo effects’.

For example, let’s say {B} is assertiveness in a job interview. Let’s say {X} represents coming across as socially weak, while {Y} represents coming across as arrogant. Adam probably has a lot going for him - height, age, socioeconomic background, etc. - that make him just plain *likeable*, so he can be way more assertive than Charles and seem like a go-getter, *or* seem way less assertive than Charles and seem like a good team player. Whereas David was probably born the wrong skin color and god-knows-what-else, and Edgar probably has some kind of Autism-spectrum disorder that makes *any* amount of assertiveness seem dangerous, and *any* amount of non-assertiveness seem pathetic.

There’s plenty of other values for {B}, {X} and {Y} that I could have picked; filling them in is left as an exercise for the reader.

Does this make sense to people?

Everybody want to do me a personal solid? Yeah? Good.

Add on some example behaviors that fit this. They don’t have to be gendered or something like that. They can be very specific, they can be broad. Just things people can do an amount of and that bad things happen if they do too much or too little of them.

I’ll start with eating. You can eat too much food (short term sickness, long term obesity) or too little (starvation).

This applies nicely to gendered vs. cross-gendered behaviours with punishments of negative stereotyping on either end.

Adam, as an attractive heterosexual man can appear as butch or as femme as he wants within pretty large limits and people are just going to compliment him on it. 

Bob, a less-than attractive heterosexual man can act more masculine without too much fear of reprisal but can’t generally slip into more effeminate behaviours without negative comments about his presumed sexuality.Charles, as a gay man, needs to ensure that he confirms to gendered expectations as much as possible to avoid derisive stereotyping for effeminate behaviours.

David, as a trans man, is pretty much screwed if he acts the least bit feminine, but can occasionally avoid accusations of transitioning poorly if he loads up on balls out machismo.

Emily, being a trans woman, gets screwed over in that she can’t act effeminate without being accused of re-enforcing sexism and can’t act masculine without getting accused of not-being-trans-enough and pretty much gets assaulted with both negative outcomes simultaneously anyway.

Emily feels sick when she sees Adam dance around in lingerie she fears even buying, David considers punching Bob in the face for always being on his case about going to the gym too much.

Thanks for the addition! This is a really insightful take on this. I’m glad to see people contributing as I think the original post was missing at least one good example. It’s also enlightening to see just how well this can apply to such a wide array of social behaviors and expectations.

HOT SHIT THIS IS A GREAT MODEL FOR A THING THAT I HADN’T THOUGHT MUCH ABOUT BUT IS REAL AND IMPORTANT.

Also… The OP made a graph. Bless you, OP. 😍

I’ve thought about exercise like this for a long time. X is when you aren’t really doing anything, like, heart rate isn’t up, muscles aren’t trying that hard - it’s not bad, but it’s not actually helpful in any way. Y is when you do too much, end up aching and exhausted in a bad way, maybe feel like barfing or just lying down and not moving for a week. Or worse. The goal zone is where it feels good - the pleasant burn, the breath lost but catchable, the actual building of muscle and slimming of fat and etc. Endorphins.

Most people are in the Adam or Beth group. I, with a muscle tissue disorder and one partially collapsed lung, am a Charlie. I’m a fan of powerwalking and yoga. And I know people who are Denise or Elton, with chronic pain and no or very minimal win conditions.

Exercise was the first thing I thought of when reading this, too. Also, there’s Fritz and Gus.

Fritz’s graph changes from day to day, too fast for them to make plans that will help them stay between X and Y, plus other people are going to keep saying “why can’t you do that today? you managed it fine yesterday.”

And Gus’s measuring, graph-making, and/or graph-reading apparatus is broken, so they can’t monitor what’s happening with their body (or with their social reception, if this is about gender presentation not exercise) and have to rely on other people for input on how much of the thing they should be doing. Which is a problem if the person advising them is Adam, and Gus’s graph (if they had one) is more like Charles’.

also: I realized this causes something like a problem I have, which I thought of as the ally’s problem.

Suppose B is trying to be helpful to a marginalized group of which you’re not a member. Too little, you’re upholding current oppression; too much, you piss off some members of the groups of which you ARE a member AND some members of the group you’re attempting to help since you’re taking up too much space and/or Doing It Wrong because you haven’t lived through things and groups are not monoliths so anything you do relating to a group you don’t belong to is bound to piss off somebody.

I tend to veer a lot between being Bob and Dave, and trying hard to keep to a Charles level, as my energy levels to cautiously navigate social mores not my own and my standing in groups I supposedly belong to wavers.

I mean: if I go out and volunteer at a charity for refugee kids instead of working enough hours a week to support my family, people will be rightously pissed. Same if I get overloaded in a conversation about racism, lash out at someone who said the wrong thing, and end up shouting at the very people I’m trying to help. Or if I try to help a friend with mental issues, get overloaded, and get us both caught in a mutual triggering spiral. 

I have a LOT of friends whose mental illnesses put them at firmly Edgar levels when it comes to social justice - either we must be ALWAYS CORRECT ALL THE TIME or SCREW ALL THIS SJW SHIT rather than “This is important and your pain is real but I can’t help without hurting myself.”

This metric also applies to addict vs non-addict behavior patterns, and to chronic pain and mental illness survivors, and to social perceptions of safety for survivors of rape and domestic violence.  And if you’re feeling sprightly, it can apply to profanity patterns in atheists vs staunch believers too.

It really is a useful metric.
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As with any organization, the Resistance found it necessary to produce training holovids on a variety of topics, from basic demonstrations of the use of important equipment to more nuanced vids on cultural or personnel issues. They were a small force, but tended to be somewhat geographically scattered by necessity, and it saved a lot of time to have a small collection of introductory holovids to show new recruits to get them quickly up to speed.

The most entertaining holovid, however, was widely held to be this one. 

DEALING WITH YOUR INEVITABLE CRUSH ON POE DAMERON

The title music swells, epic and orchestral, over a black screen. Fade in: a photo, taken outdoors, head and shoulders, of Poe Dameron, squinting slightly into the sun, jaw set in determination. His hair is tousled and he is in a flight suit and leather jacket, ruggedly attractive.

Another flourish of music, and the title pops bright white text over a black screen:

DEALING WITH YOUR INEVITABLE CRUSH ON POE DAMERON

Fade to footage of Poe Dameron, in a sleeveless tight undershirt smudged with grease and worn-thin trousers that fit very flatteringly behind, bending over to demonstrate how to use a new system of tie-downs to secure equipment such as small spacecraft in inclement weather. His hair is a little too long and falls across his forehead; he habitually shakes his head a little to keep it away from his eyes, in a charming gesture, and he frequently looks to the camera for guidance, which gives him an appealing, almost supplicant aspect, especially since he frequently smiles at the cameraman.

Voiceover (male, smooth, cultured, the same one who narrates most of the rest of the instructional holovids the Resistance produces): “It’s not a question of if, but when. It’s a natural part of joining the Resistance. Everyone says, oh, it won’t happen to me, I’m immune to that sort of thing. But everyone in the Resistance eventually ends up with a crush on Poe Dameron.”

Cut to head-and-shoulders shot of a middle-aged mechanic, female, in work attire, clearly in a spacecraft hangar, holding a wrench in one hand. There’s a label at the bottom of the screen: Yana, Mechanic. Below that it says, He Remembers Her Name. “You may think you’re immune to his looks,” she says, “but then he remembers your name after only having met you once, and claps you on the shoulder, and calls you ‘buddy’ and smiles at you.” She sighed. “And it only gets worse from there.”

Quick cut to a shot, zoomed in from a distance, of Poe Dameron standing on the ladder to the cockpit of his X-Wing. It is a video; he is watching someone offscreen do something, the wind gently ruffling his tousled hair and his helmet under one arm. His mouth is slightly open; after a moment he licks his lower lip, then grins, like he’s about to speak.

Meanwhile, voiceover:

“Don’t be alarmed. These are natural feelings. Take comfort in the fact that you aren’t alone. And you can console yourself in the knowledge that he has this effect on everyone.”

Cut to head and shoulders shot of a young pilot, female, dark-haired; she is attractively dressed and made-up, but wearing her flight suit. The label at the bottom of the screen says Jessika Pava, Pilot, and is subtitled, He Has Saved Her Life About 100 Times. “It’s not his fault,” she says. “That’s the thing you have to keep in mind. He’s really like that. He’s really actually nice to people. He’s completely sincere.”

A still shot fills the screen: Poe Dameron, very young, aged perhaps sixteen or seventeen. He is standing on a table, possibly dancing, shirtless, wearing New Republic Academy uniform trousers and suspenders. The suspenders are slipping down his shoulders, and he has his head tipped back and is provocatively mock-fellating a bottle clearly labeled “Corellian Death Rum” while staring seductively into the camera. He is clearly intoxicated.

Meanwhile, voiceover:

“Methods of coping with this affliction vary by individual. Some people pretend they don’t feel it. Others give themselves over to it. A few daring individuals have tried to actually go for it. But it seems that despite a wild youth, Poe has settled into a reasonably responsible adulthood. It is not recommended that you pursue him aggressively.”

Cut, footage of a very attractive blonde woman in her early thirties, in a New Republican Starfleet uniform. She is labeled Garella Unaeron, and subtitled Shared Single, Memorable Wild Night Of Passion. “I just broke into his quarters and got naked and lay in his bed until he showed up,” she says, looking smug. “It went well for me, but I mean, we were also like eighteen. So. I don’t imagine that’d go as well now he’s defected to the Resistance.” She tosses her hair, clearly taking a moment to remember. “But I mean, if you go for it,” she went on, “much as I loathe his politics, I gotta say, he’s really great in the sack. I don’t imagine he’s lost the knack, it’s not the kind of thing you get worse at with practice.” Suddenly her expression changes, twisting into suspicion. “Wait, who did you say you were again?” The camera jerks and the footage ends abruptly.

The next shot is a craggily-handsome man in his late thirties, with a scar down one cheekbone that speaks of a life of action. He is labeled Naeher Adamant, and subtitled Had Actual Grown-Up Sexual Relationship. “A gentleman never kisses and tells,” he says, unsmiling, but he looks pleased nonetheless, or perhaps fond. “I can tell you, though, that Dameron is never other than entirely genuine. There’s no need to play games.”

Another cut, another interview subject, head and shoulders of a shiny-polished droid. Titled CR-31T, Mechanic, and subtitled He Is Really That Nice All The Time. “I’ve never worked with any other human who went so out of his way to make sure I understood that he considered me a person, on par with a biological organism,” the droid said, a little shyly. “It’s not— I don’t mind, you know, I know what I am, but he’s just— he’s so nice.”

Cut to footage of Poe Dameron, dressed in his flight suit, clearly training footage of some kind as he is watching someone offscreen and gesturing a little hesitantly to parts of his gear, as if in demonstration. He is apparently a little bored with making training videos, however, and is making amusing faces at the offscreen person, exaggerated expressions of wide-eyed wonder and grimacing trepidation.

Meanwhile, voiceover:

“So when you find yourself suffused with inappropriate feelings for this particular individual, just remember, you’re not alone. Speak to your counselor about what coping method is best for you. And above all, don’t make it weird: we’re relying on him, and his possibly-unholy combination of dashing charm and uncanny good luck. Try to use your misplaced erotic energy wisely.”

The music swells again, and the scene cuts to another video of Poe, zoomed in on him from quite a distance; he is outdoors, watching something at a distance with a vacant half-smile. The wind, again, ruffles his hair slightly, attractively, and he laughs silently, eyes crinkling up fetchingly. The title rolls up the screen again:

DEALING WITH YOUR INEVITABLE CRUSH ON POE DAMERON

As the scene fades to black, the title is the last thing visible, then winks out as well.
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My dude and I intermittently subscribe to Blue Apron, which is a we-mail-you-food-and-you-cook-it kinda dealie. In our relationship, Dude and I have always traded off cooking– I grew up cooking, and he taught himself, and we’re both decent at it. I used to do a lot of our meal planning, but over the years various mental illnesses and scheduling hassles made that pretty wretched, and Dude was just never as comfortable making food decisions for the household. So last year or the year before he just signed us up for this, and it’s okay, the food is great, but I cannot follow the recipes. I just– photos, and then blocks of text, and sometimes they’re way too detailed, and sometimes they’re not detailed enough, and I get lost and confused and can’t follow them. 

Anyway. This week they sent us a Cornish game hen. And I thought, you know, I have of late become somewhat experienced in the poultry-as-food market, why don’t I know anything about them? Wait, I do know something, the chickens my sister raises that I help process are Cornish Cross chickens, which means they are hybridized with Cornish game hens, and if those are very small birds how the heck are these meat chickens so big?

So I Googled it. And my friends. Oh. My friends. I found out. 

Cornish game hens are not game or hens, they’re just chickens. They’re very large chickens. But wait, you say. I’ve had a Cornish game hen. It’s tiny. 

Yes. They’re slaughtered at 3.5-4 weeks of age. 

Which is the age my sister’s chickens are when they are first allowed to go outside instead of staying in the brooder. They have just gotten their feathers and are able to reliably keep their body temperature steady. 

“Cornish game hens” are meat-chicken chicks. 

My sister’s Cornish Cross chickens, when they meet their destiny, are usually around four months old. They are not quite sexually mature. I really pissed-off my tries-not-to-be-soft-hearted brother-in-law one time when I pointed out that in distress, they don’t cackle like full-grown chickens, but often still peep like chicks. As the man who has to administer the killing blow, he does not like to contemplate the fact that they’re basically still babies.

They are four times the age of Cornish “game hens”. 

I mean, they’re all just meat blobs. Is it better to prolong their lives and let them see the sky? They’re really stupid, they’ve got very little capacity to appreciate much besides grass and feed. But I just, wow.

The best part of this was inspecting the actual package, which proclaimed “Free range” on it. This animal would not have been old enough to survive outdoors. To earn that label, how many days of an animal’s life must be spent outdoors? My sister answered: generally, commercial “free-range” animals are kept in a football-field-sized room with one chicken-sized door to the outdoors, which is never shown to them. If even one of them notices the door, let alone goes through it, that’s an unusual occurrence. She does not let her Cornish cross chickens free-range because they are too stupid to dodge hawks; instead they are raised on pasture, which means they’re put into a bottomless cage with a half-mesh, half-solid top (so they can escape rain), which is then moved daily to fresh grass. Free range, she says, these chickens will sit down, eat all the grass they can reach, and then starve. So they have to be prodded onto fresh grass daily. 

(I also inspected the carcass and was not impressed with the finish plucking job. I could do better. It makes me feel quite good about my efforts.)

As a more uplifting side note, some of Ann’s egg chickens have promoted themselves to free-range. (They are also raised “on pasture” but they don’t need a roofed pen because they’re smart enough to hide from hawks, so they have a coop to sleep in and shelter under, and a fence.) They can fly, briefly, and so some of the more agile and ambitious ones routinely escape over the electric fence– which is more a deterrent to predators than the birds– and while this goes on all year, during the winter the hens are kept down near the barn, so instead of roaming the woods and fields, they roam the driveway and barn and porch. During turkey slaughter, one of these hens let herself out and came in to check out the barn, and had to be driven out. (We were like dude, you don’t want to see this. Their pen, which is a greenhouse, overlooks the whole turkey processing area; during setup, they were all plastered against the mesh watching us work. On the actual day, Ann left the night cover down so they couldn’t watch the turkeys die. Some of them wriggled free and did anyway. Who knows what they understood of it. None of them seemed upset.) The egg chickens are a different breed, and are so gregarious, so curious, so funny, they’re really a joy to be around. (She mostly has a commercial egg breed, the Red Isa / Red Sex-Link, and it breaks my heart to think of these creatures de-beaked and stuck in cages because they’re so nosy, just so so so nosy, they want to see everything and be everywhere and even though she doesn’t hand-raise them so they aren’t tame, they want to look over your shoulder at everything you do, they just won’t let you touch them.)

I pulled up in my car and opened the door and a hen poked her head in to see what was up. When I came back out to get something out of my trunk, she tried to jump in.

In early spring I think I am going to set up a chick brooder on my back porch, and get a batch of a couple of dozen heritage egg breeds with pretty feathers, and hand-raise them. Hand-raised egg chickens will come when called, will sit on your lap, will let you catch and pet them. I think the light and the peeping would benefit me in the dark late winter, and I think the pretty chicken feathers would benefit the flower arrangements Ann wants to do, and I think having tame chickens like when we were kids would be pretty great. 

It doesn’t matter what the local ordinance is out here on chickens, because I’m not going to keep them once they’re old enough to be out of the brooder. Though I’m not sure how I’m going to transport them across the state at an age where they have feathers… We’ll find out when I get that far.

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dragonlady7

January 2024

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