Today was largely eaten up by concerns about the weather. It was below zero last night for a chunk of the country, and I was worried about my chickens. I bought them a water heater weeks ago, but it is plugged in in the lower part of their coop and they had no inclination to leave their dormitory, so I kept bringing fresh water and food
upstairs through out the day. I was nervous about them even with the heat lamp on and at midnight I decided to trump the assurances of my friends and bring the littlest Silkie Bantams indoors. They weigh less than a skein of wool and I did not want to wake up to see them in popsicle form.
John had three sets of pipes to deal with: ours, our tenant's and the house our daughter is watching while the family is in sunny California. He boiled and dumped water down drains
and probably prevented them from bursting, brave man.
I have been anxious, but there is this juicy piece of news on my phone. The temperature is only going down to twenty three tonight, and will zoom up to the forties by Monday. I kissed the screen. I did my best to explain this to my chickens who looked at me askance when I let them out to romp in the snow.
"Really?" When a Polish hen cocks her comb at you you should have a response
ready.
"Coconut, I know today was rough, really rough but it is getting better. One more frosty night and then we sail above freezing. We can do this. Here, have some corn. All you want."
She was dubious, but she ate the offering.
Marriages go through cold snaps. Emanuel Swedenborg had a fancy name for it. He called them colds. But he promised that they pass, like precipitation. Unfortunately many of us have
not downloaded the App that predicts the future, so we are no more trusting than a Black Maran.
