Saturday, January 10, 2015
Ms. Fix-It Strikes Again
Aside: my middle son's name is Peter, named for a great-uncle long gone before my son came on the scene. I've often wondered what he thought as he grew up. Did he feel bad about continually being robbed? Did he feel special when everything was for him alone (for Pete's sake!). One of these days, I'll have to ask him. But I digress.
Searching the barn walls and doors, I found a screw that was the right diameter, if not length. It did not seem to be critical to the stability of that wall, and so I stole it and put it in the rake. It sticks out like a sore thumb, but the rake works and I was able to stand up and do that which needed to be done.
Flush with success, back at the house I found my stash of light bulbs and changed the two dead-o's in the kitchen. Ta da! Or not. I flipped the switch and not only did the new bulbs not light, the one that had been working did not light. Crum. All fixtures in the kitchen are recessed in the ceiling, so it's not such an easy job to switch bulbs. I'm not as agile as I once was, and I was climbing on the step stool here, there, and everywhere as I tried to figure this out. Out here in the boonies, one buys ahead of need and evidently I'd either gotten a bad batch of bulbs or they'd died of neglect or old age in the closet. Wiggling and jiggling five sockets, I did get contact with those necessary fixtures and, "Let there be light!"
The goats get a dish of grain every morning. Poppy does not. She can play me like a violin, though. Poppy knows my routine better than I and, when she's feeling needy, shows up at the gate just after I've filled the bucket for the next day. In my mind, I hear Cab Calloway singing "Minnie the Moocher" as Poppy waits hopefully for a handout. How could I refuse that face? She can count: she counts on getting a treat and can count to three, the number of handfuls she gets and no more. After the third, she wanders off. Sheila waits until Poppy is gone and then scarfs up the grain Poppy dropped.