We bring in the August vacationers to a lovely thunderstorm and a max meter-age of our pluviometer.
Lots of blinking lightning. Lots of noise. Lots o’ rain. In August!
40mm, spot the happy grass farmer.
Chickens hate the rain. It is POURING!! Or as they say in the Commonwealth, “it’s pissing down!” Z is home sick and Brent is out working the cows in the biggest piss down I’ve seen in days. We are having a lot of rain here in the Gers. As grass farmers, this is great news, but today may have cranked our rain tolerance to eleven. Our pasture is doing well. Brent put the herd on the parts of the farm he will seed soon. So instead of using a tractor to prepare the fields, we’re using the cows to get things ready for spring seeding.
The dogs stayed by the fire, keeping warm and rested just in case they need to help out.
Whoops, my Nikon woke them up. Ssssh, now, back to sleep.
Brent is out in it all. At one point, there was hail. That means rain and cold. He is very, very wet in this photo, yet still has a smile. Hurry in now, lunch is ready and the fire is hot.
Rain, rain, rain.
Our drain was working well until it rained like Sydney. It’s calm now and the drain has a chance to catch up. Whew.
Instead of the original, I Glee-ed this song reference for two-hundred, Bob:
The chickens hang out undercover when the wet drippy bits fall down. They poop their too. Then they get bored and scratch around in search of yummy chicken vittles. Here we are in June. The solstice imminent and there’s a strange Seattle feeling in the air. Though, I’m not complaining. The cows are amazing. Brent’s management has been keeping our grass vs mud in order. There has been very little damage. There has been very much grass growth.
Kevin has agrandit his peep of babes. He has a new coop that was constructed by our friendly neighbors which is totally amazing and he has settled in quite nicely. My basil and persil and coriander can now stop quivering. My tomatoes can finally grow and supply the family with great salsa for future Meh-hee-cana yum to come.
The three black hens were moved in with thirty others and three chicks. The white lady is still running around the farm as she prefers to roost in the trees. Someday or never we’ll get her merged. Our rogue white chicken lays her one egg a day, carry’s on with her life, doesn’t miss her daily “visit” from Kevin … I think we’ll call her Stella. Kevin is also processing his dream come true. We ( okay, I ) often giggle at the anthropomorphic letter Kevin wrote to his cousin about the amazing day he had.“Dear Phil, you will never believe what happened. There I was, snuggled in for the night when I was gently grabbed, carried upside-down across the courtyard, fluffed and manicured only to be checked in to a henderland paradise hotel from heaven. Thirty available chicks, Phil. All clucky and well adjusted. They’re French. They worship me, Phil, worship. Longer letter later. Too busy. K.I.T.