I go from drama to drama. My own farm story is one dramatic episode to another, interspersed with calmness, beauty, serenity and, always, the struggle to keep my farm alive. I don't take a single pill with my morning OJ, or with my evening chamomile tea, or anytime in between. Sure I have aches and pains that I walk off in the morning, and old broken bones and ski injuries give me messages throughout the day, but nothing I can't handle. My school job always has something going on that would qualify for a TV sitcom, but, I confess, sometimes I like it that way. It's the human element gone wild. The characters are larger than life - truth is stranger than fiction, and all that. I come home to my critters, my shelter dogs - free to good home dogs or dogs stranded by some imagination-defying situation...but I know they are the dogs that give even more love for having been denied it. I hide away from the world in my little apartment in my big old funky barn, with old electric, clogged drains and poop two feet high...but I'm in a better place than a whole lot of women I know who "have it all," so to speak. I'll make coffee and get some dinner going, spin wool for a few minutes, cut out a bag or two with the lovely black chenille I got in the mail, then head out to the barn to check on my animals. Winter is bearing down on us and I hope my ten year old minivan is roadworthy, but I'll make it there somehow. I have to find hay somewhere pretty soon. I noticed a ewe yesterday who looks very pregnant. Lambs might come sooner than I thought. Better get my silk underwear and Pritchard's teats ready...
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