This morning finds me sitting at my desk looking at out a steady rainfall.
Rain?
Rain.
In a winter where just two days ago it dipped *well* below zero, now we have cold, damp rain. There is simply nothing for me to do but sigh.
I don’t do well in the winter. It has not as much to do with my Lyme disease as much as it has to do with that car accident of my youth and the following surgeries that helped put me back together. This weekend, I discovered that if I covered myself in a wool blanket (I found at Savers for $4.99), had a heating pad on my lap and wore a scarf and knitted wrist warmers, that I could be warm enough to write at my computer. Seriously, there is no way that these walls can hold back low temps like that.
Such is the price one pays for living in an old house in New Hampshire.
We periodically go out to check on the chickens. I’m not seeing them socializing out in the pen anymore, instead, I find them huddled together inside the coop. Chatting away, commiserating and preferring to stay indoors instead of braving the unreliable weather.
Such is the price one pays for being a chicken in New Hampshire.
Photo credit: Marc Nozell
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Wendy Thomas writes about the lessons learned while raising children and chickens in New Hampshire. Contact her at [email protected]
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