Woke to the sound of rain this morning. Been a long time since that's happened. Our torn-apart porch is just a painted skeleton in pieces, waiting for a carpenter/paleontologist to put it together somehow with parts missing and all. Poor old Dakota is having trouble getting back in the house after we let her out. Her hips twinge when she tries to duck under the framework and it's a scrabble to make it up the slanted cement steps that collapsed into rat tunnels ages ago. Those steps are actually pretty neat-o, but I bet the insurance company wouldn't like it if we just used them and gave up on the whole porch project thingy. So something has to happen.
I vote for magical things happening in the middle of the night and we wake up to it all done perfectly with red and white intermingled roses growing all over a trellis on it.
The chickens are doing really well. The Wyandottes will go on sale soon, hopefully to go to good homes though I wouldn't be offended if someone just wanted a really nice (though work-intensive) holiday dinner. They're neat birds, but we've got two roosters too many and they're starting to stress each other out.
So, not much going on, and yet lots going on. It's been a full week, and I'm looking for a day off so that I can make some headway on the home front. And writing? All I can say is, thank goodness for one hour lunches.
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