Life on the Farm

I was headed for the chicken coop, part of my daily routine at the old farm I more or less inherited from my parents. (My older brother had first choice, but he didn't want it.) It was a perfect summer morning – the kind of day that makes one happy to be alive. Up at 4:30, a large bowl of oatmeal, a fresh bottle of milk, a few drips of honey from our neighbor's bees, and a handful of blueberries the kids picked yesterday.

But what starts out roses can also have (if you'll excuse a bit of banality) a few thorns. I almost made it to the chicken coop unscathed, but apparently a small flock of pigeons on the barn roof saw my presence as an intrusion, and they flapped away with avian indignation. Which with pigeons usually means a guano grenade or three. Right on my shoe. Like it had been aimed there.

One benefit of a daily routine is that a person learns what can go wrong. That wasn't the first shoe bomb I'd received. And I knew that trying to wipe it off by twisting my foot upside down and dragging the splattered spot on the ground usually just smeared my gift over a wider surface area of the shoe. So just inside the barn door hangs a paper towel dispenser next to a spray bottle full of water.

For the longest time I tried to dream up various methods of revenge on the offending doodoo droppers, but eventually I realized that there were more productive ways to use my brain. So, other than wearing a wide-brimmed hat (very wide-brimmed), my daily routine hasn't changed much. It's a lot of work, but I love the farm life. And I know what city life would mean. Pigeons.