Well, we've lived here on the haunted farm for a whole year. I don't remember the exact date we moved in, but I measure our time here by Easter. That was when we got our first bunch of baby chicks and officially became a working farm.
As a young girl I used to get so excited for the arrival of Easter. It always meant a new dress and a pretty bonnet for church. (And of course, a basket of candy from the “giant bunny”.) And when my kids were growing up, I was torn between that same nostalgic excitement, and something akin to horror as roamed the apocalyptic scene at the local Walmart on the night before Easter, fighting old ladies in wheelchairs for the last few chocolate bunnies and peanut butter eggs in the entire store. This because I’d either completely forgotten about Easter until then, or already eaten the previously purchased candy. And the scene was a cross between a Mad Max movie and the original Willie Wonka and the chocolate factory.
Mad Max and the chocolate apocalypse.
Of all the things I miss…that wasn’t one of them. So as sad as I was to realize last year would be the first year I failed to do Easter baskets for the kids (most of which are actually adults who don’t really care if I buy them candy) I was secretly delighted I would be spared a trip to Walmart on the Saturday before Easter.
Imagine my horror as I somehow managed to find myself exactly there…Walmart! At ten o’clock at night. On the night before Easter. With all the other zombies trolling for chocolate bunnies and peanut butter eggs.
But I wasn’t shopping for candy. I was shopping for a light bulb.
Let’s rewind. Mike and I rolled out of bed (reluctantly) at seven am on the day before Easter. We were having a garage sale (which also means the weather was much better last year than this year...it's far too cold for garage sales) and we were thrilled to be getting rid of our junk…I mean stuff…for some extra cash. It was a good morning…we sold a lot. We even met the neighbors.
This is how I know were really and truly living in the country.
I actually witnessed…as in heard with my own ears…a grown man say the word do-dong. You might remember I wrote about a dongle a few years back, and as funny as the word dongle sounded, it wasn’t what I thought it was. Well, this time it was exactly what I thought it was. The context is somewhat important. My husband was pulling a vine from under the porch when the neighbor (a man in his late fifties to early sixties) said (and I’ll write this out phonetically because it’s way funnier that way) “That thar is posen (not poison…posen) ahvy. You don’t want none a' that. And ya best not touch yer do-dong before you wash yer hands.”
Yep, you heard (err…read) that right. “Ya best not touch yer do-dong…” Well, I agreed wholeheartedly. You do not want posen ahvy (or poison ivy for that matter) on your do-dong. I don’t have a do-dong myself, but if I did, I’m certain I wouldn’t want poison ivy on it.
Funny accents aside, he’s a sweet man, my neighbor. And oh so
thoughtful, thinking about my husband’s do-dong like that. Not many men are
secure enough in their manhood to mention such things out loud. And here, a year later the man feeds my chickens when they wander to his yard to visit. And hey, thanks to him, the do dongs around this house have been posen free for a whole year.
So, I guess you’re wondering what
drove me to Walmart (and a twenty minute drive to reach said Walmart, by the
way) for a light bulb, on the night before Easter? Well…with our garage sale
proceeds, we went to the local feed store and bought eight baby chickens. We
needed a light bulb to keep them warm at night. And they seem to be toasty
Until the next time…I’ll be listening to this year's not-so-baby chickens peeping in the back room.