In a break from tradition, and in protest against the cold November and wet December we've had, I have strategically relocated my manure pile from outside the shed to inside. It is, of course, still a tidy pile—anything less would be unmulish! It does, however, complicate things a bit for dear FarmWife.
You see, in months of yore FarmWife had an easy chore. Once a week, or perhaps twice, she would enter the paddock, wheel her old barrow up to my careful arrangement of leavings, and remove them to the compost bins. They waited for her in untouched beauty—each pile carefully placed atop the next, a tower of as-yet undecomposed compost awaiting her gardening endeavors. Her chore was easy, and infrequent.
Now, FarmWife has to schlep her soggy, sorry ass out in the torrential rain and thundering hail every single day. My shed is not large, and if there is a mountain of mule poo in the middle it tends not to be comfortable. One has to eat, you know, and sleep, and loiter, and shift, and do all the other things one does to pass a dreary day in one's sacrifice paddock. If one cannot do these things in one's shed because one's shed is full of leavings, then one ends up very wet indeed. It is a sad state of affairs.
FarmWife has no objections to daily stall cleaning, except that this particular stall is infested with troublesome and inquisitive goats. This is their method: Jasper blocks her way with his capacious bulk. B.G. attempts to dash out the gate as the wheelbarrow grinds to a halt, whilst Missy makes a good effort to ingest the handles of FWs implements.
I, on the otherhand, stand politely away from the entrance. SOME people have manners.
Here's a brief clip from a longer conversation that FarmWife and I had about the weather yesterday. Unfortunately, it looks like more of the same today.
May your stall be dry, fresh, and thickly bedded.
FB
You see, in months of yore FarmWife had an easy chore. Once a week, or perhaps twice, she would enter the paddock, wheel her old barrow up to my careful arrangement of leavings, and remove them to the compost bins. They waited for her in untouched beauty—each pile carefully placed atop the next, a tower of as-yet undecomposed compost awaiting her gardening endeavors. Her chore was easy, and infrequent.
Now, FarmWife has to schlep her soggy, sorry ass out in the torrential rain and thundering hail every single day. My shed is not large, and if there is a mountain of mule poo in the middle it tends not to be comfortable. One has to eat, you know, and sleep, and loiter, and shift, and do all the other things one does to pass a dreary day in one's sacrifice paddock. If one cannot do these things in one's shed because one's shed is full of leavings, then one ends up very wet indeed. It is a sad state of affairs.
FarmWife has no objections to daily stall cleaning, except that this particular stall is infested with troublesome and inquisitive goats. This is their method: Jasper blocks her way with his capacious bulk. B.G. attempts to dash out the gate as the wheelbarrow grinds to a halt, whilst Missy makes a good effort to ingest the handles of FWs implements.
I, on the otherhand, stand politely away from the entrance. SOME people have manners.
Here's a brief clip from a longer conversation that FarmWife and I had about the weather yesterday. Unfortunately, it looks like more of the same today.
May your stall be dry, fresh, and thickly bedded.
FB
Aw, Fenny. Don't cry.
ReplyDelete