The Sheepish Scribe

"Load the .22 and come out here." Hardly the normal greeting I expect when answering the phone. But then, my husband rarely calls me from the barn. Being a dutiful wife, I moved the frying pan off the stove, loaded the .22 and headed out to the barn.

Silhouetted in the barn door, Michael stood keeping our dogs away from a very large possum. The scraggly creature was weaving around in the drive leading to the barn. One look and I knew why he'd called me and kept the dogs away. That possum wasn't healthy. I didn't want to get very close to it myself. I'm a pretty good shot but it was dark except for the light shining out of the barn door and I missed with the first bullet. Chagrined, I moved closer and put the possum down.

Michael disposed of the body while I returned to the house and finished dinner. We sat together, enjoying salmon burgers and salad when it occurred to me that other people might find this rather odd. I asked my husband, "Do you think it's callus that we can put down a possum and fifteen minutes later be sitting here and calmly eating dinner?" His response was, "It's not like we're eating the possum." I married a very wise man.

It's been a snowing, blowing kind of northern Michigan day. Nothing out of the ordinary, just February being February, you understand. The wind shifted at some point from east-northeast to north-northwest. When that happens, we get a substantial amount of drifting in the barnyard. I suppose the logical progression of events should be removing the drifts before starting chores under these circumstances. But one really can't look into the soulful eyes of a hungry horse and tell him to wait, now can one?

In foul weather we carry the horse hay out into their shelter. Tonight there were two large drifts between the main barn and the gate to our horse paddock. With a scant half bale of alfalfa hay, weighing roughly 25 pounds, balanced securely on my left shoulder, I cleared the first drift easily. I stepped over the second drift that reached well above my knees and my right foot came down on the other side. The other side which consisted of a thin layer of snow covering a firm base of ice.

Watching my right knee twist sideways and my right foot lodge under the wooden fence, I deliberately pitched forward to prevent alfalfa chaff from getting into my eyes as the hay came crashing down on top of me. It took me only a moment to get my foot retrieved and climb gingerly back to my feet. It appeared everything was still in working order, so I gathered up the hay and finished chores.

Back in the house, I stripped out of my chaff-laden clothing and headed for the shower to get rid of the rest of the hay, including that which had taken up residence in my ear. Now here I sit, leg elevated, knee iced and rethinking the whole issue of a hungry horse with soulful eyes. You know... I think he could have waited after all.

I need some butt glue. What?! Did she really type that? What is she talking about? Do I really want to know? Just to put you at ease, dear reader, it has nothing to do with any natural crack in that region of my anatomy.

I need to glue my butt to my writing chair. You see, writing comes very easy to me. I sit down, start typing and pretty soon pages and pages are full. The problem is... I can't type until I SIT DOWN in my chair.

Some part of me always needs to be in motion. My hands, my mouth, my feet... or all three which is even better! Michael teases me for pacing when I talk on the phone. Not just a little moseying around, I cover the house from stem to stern. Walking, talking and gesturing with my hands... I'm a happy camper. Sitting down and facing my computer isn't something I look forward to even though I enjoy writing.

It's a little like Sunday mornings before church. You know what I mean. You've been there. It's a gorgeous morning, or a rainy one, or it snowed last night and the roads are slick. The reasons not to go are numerous. But once you walk through the doors of the church, you can't imagine not being there.

For me getting started, putting my butt in the chair and keeping it there, is the hardest part of writing. Maybe if I talked Michael into installing a seat belt on my La-z-boy..., "Honey!"

Thank you to everyone who had such nice, heart warming comments about Sarge's Story. I've pulled the posts telling his story because I am re-working them. My hope is to edit them into a story for publication in a magazine.

I haven't submitted anything for magazine publication in years. And by years - I m mean - YEARS. How many, you ask? Well, let me put it this way, I haven't submitted anything since I had to do it the old fashioned snail-mail route. There was no e-mail back then. Yikes! I'm dating myself!

I have another piece ready that I'm submitting this week. It's a humorous piece about raising sheep. Imagine that. ;)