WARM SIDE OF THE WINDOW

The rainy mist is cold upon my skin today as I feed the animals. The water beads on my duster and Stetson in little BB sized drops until gravity persuades them to the ground. My breath steams as I load the containers with recently purchased feed. The fifty pound sacks make my muscles work, and the heat from the exertion feels good.

The ground is soggy beneath my boots. The recent days of rain have left the ground  a damp multicolored carpet of brown, yellow, and red  leaves. The high winds from a recent storm stripped nearly every bit of foliage from the trees, and has left their winter skeletons bare before the gloomy gray sky. A huge late autumn storm passed by us before it unleashed the many tornadoes that left horrible devastation in their wake. I will not complain about the wet and cold; my shelter from both is still thankfully intact. I have a warm fire and a hot cup of java to comfort me. Some folks now have neither, and my heart goes out to them.

I move to the lean-to shed and grab a bale of straw. The dog house, for that chicken herding pet of ours, needs a little bedding. A fresh floor of straw will provide a warm and dry haven for this chocolate covered "mans best friend". Hershey sniffs the golden bale, then runs off to the chicken pen to harass the chickens as they feed. He runs by and gives one half-hearted woof. The hens look annoyed but don't respond. They have a meal to finish, and no dog, safely on the other side of the fence, will be allowed to disturb that.

I gather the eggs from the many nest boxes. Eggs are few in number today. We don't provide artificial light to our hen house to encourage more laying. We allow the hens to rest in the short lit days of winter. Our hens lay for up to eight years, partly, I believe, because we let the girls lay when they feel like it. Spring, summer, and fall production is plenty to provide us with 40 or 50 dozen eggs in the garage fridge at all times. We sell some, barter some, give some to family, and use the rest for good ole Chicken Ranch cooking. There is no comparison to store-bought eggs. Dark rich yellow yolks are much preferred here over the anemic Super Market type, which are six months old and hardly "farm fresh" when you buy them.

The wind picks up a little and ruffles the feathers on the hens. A couple of stubborn leaves are finally urged from their hold on the limbs, and they make their final descent to the wet ground. The wet olive drab and brown prairie grasses are bent low in one direction, looking like a bad comb-over on the bald soil. Here and there, dark puddles are garnished with colored leaves floating  like little sailboats in them. I look around and realize that much has  been altered in the last few weeks.  It is only the pines that stand resolute and unchanged by the seasons touch.

I stop by the woodshed to gather an armload for the fire. The pile is lean, time to call the woodman or head out to my daughters land and cut some more. Hmmm, think I'll call the woodman to get me by for awhile. I head up to the house and balance the wood in one arm as I open the door to the mud room. I give my boots a kick and walk sock footed to the rack by the fireplace. I unload my arms with a clunk clunk on the hearth.I arrange the longs so that small wood is available to start the fires, and larger logs are left to carry through the night. I notice that I need a little kindling, so I put on my boots again, and walk out the kindling pile.

As I make my way to the back porch, kindling in hand, the rain picks up again, and the wind blows a chilly wetness down my upturned collar.  It helps me hasten my steps a bit. There is a quiet moan in the pines as I walk by, and I recognize the sound. It is the whisper of Old Man Winter, warning that he's on his way. I smile to myself as I think of the warmth of the crackling fires in the shop stove and living room fireplace. And the hot coffee waiting in the pot. The hen house and Hershey's abode are freshly strawed and prepared for icy cold nights. My sheeps' wool lined Indian moccasins are waiting by the door. " I hear you old man", I think to myself, "we've been expecting you."

I step in to the mud room,  and set the kindling on the step to the kitchen. I put the door between me and the wet chill blowing across the back porch. I hang up my drippin' duster and cowboy hat. As I slip the warm moc's on my feet and gather up the kindling again, I take in the slight smoky smell of the fire that is mingled with the roasted aroma of the coffee in the pot. With the fireplace squared away, I walk over to the west window and look at the rain falling from the cold gray sky. It is a pleasant thing to be on this side of the glass on this cold and wet late autumns day.

Yep, Old Man Winter, we know that it's time. It's been a year since we've seen you. Come when you will, I think we're ready for you now.