The Freeze


This morning I woke up to sub zero temperatures, 34 hungry mouths to feed and three sick man children. While I usually find my outdoor chores to be relaxing and even meditative when the mercury dips below a certain point the experience is anything but enjoyable. Firstly, just dressing oneself becomes a chore on it’s own and when I finally emerge from the warmth of my home most would hardly recognize me. I’m a woman. It’s important to me that I look at least nominally acceptable but today I greeted the herd looking somewhat like a Siberian convict, banished to the outer reaches of hell.
For starters let me remind you that water has this terrible habit of turning hard and unyielding at the slightest mention of cold weather. When this happens I begin the search for the ice pick my husband takes great care to hide from me although not for the reason you’re thinking. We have several galvanized steel water troughs and let me tell you they don’t come cheap! Last year as I diligently picked away at one of the frozen troughs I accidentally put about 200 odd holes in the bottom. I know you’re wondering how I could not notice 200 holes and I can come up with absolutely nothing to answer your question. As soon as I finally realized my mistake a sort of nauseous, feverish feeling enveloped me and I knew I was in deep trouble. Standing there, ice pick in hand, I could easily imagine what sort of conversation my husband and I were about to have and it really wasn’t sitting well with me. So, I did the only logical thing anyone would do when faced with such a thing. I mentally (and fine, I’ll admit it, physically) went through the motions of the entire song “There’s a Hole in My Bucket.” By the time I had gotten to the end I’d surmised that whoever wrote that song is a complete and total imbecile and so I proceeded to do the next logical thing. I hid the damn thing in the hay and decided that I’d face the music another time.
This was not, however the only ice pick catastrophe to occur at the Carey on Farm. Far from it in fact. You see, the problem is that I just want to be helpful. I will begin a laboriously difficult task with the best of intentions only to wind up in the equivalent of an interrogation room, and while my husband is usually patient and methodical when asking for my explanations I usually can’t come up with any answers, which is why things like ice picks are hidden from me in the first place.
As I was writing this I noticed one of my pictures was askew. Hmmm, I wonder where Paul hid the hammer this time?

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