Peace Check-In

We are almost two months into the year and I thought I’d assess my status on becoming more peaceful.  In a word, slow.  In more than a few words, personally I still come out with sarcastic remarks but quickly excuse it with “just kidding” so I can say that I am more conscious of what I am saying.  It’s a very slow process to change poor habits.

On a deeper level, I am trying to balance my sense of outrage with the escalating crisis in our world.  The continued atrocities perpetrated by the terrorists around the world is truly incomprehensible to anyone with a modicum of sanity left in their soul.  I cannot fathom how there can be people like this in the world.  I try to analyse what motivates them because surely no one can have this much rage against anyone merely in the name of religion?  I cannot understand how people who have been raised in a civilized, Western country can be recruited into becoming a terrorist.  I do not understand how anyone can be so barbaric as to behead innocent people.

Coincidentally I am reading an amazing book called “Every Man Dies Alone” by Hans Fallada which was written in 1947 about regular folks living in Berlin during the war.  The author was German and lived and experienced some of these incidents.  For those who may have read “A Fine Balance” and who became so engaged with the characters in that book you will appreciate how incredible this book is when you find yourself first being outraged by the negative characters’ crimes and then as they cross paths with the Gestapo or other Nazis your sympathy becomes active for these poor wretches. 

So why do I bring this book up as I am talking about terrorists?  It’s because I am trying to understand the other side of the question but with little success.  I simply cannot understand how violence is supposed to solve any question.  It’s like quarrelling with a sibling when you are 7 years old, you may come to cuffs with her but nothing is solved until you are talking to each other again. 

Peace 101 – you don’t get it with violence.

A Tale of Cabbage

I went to our local hardware store recently and ended up in discussion with a fellow chicken farmer.  We came to discuss winter habits of hens especially how they could get “coop sour” when shut into the coop for too long during a stretch of cold weather.  Eventually hens will discover that they can peck away at their own eggs and then the fun and games will begin.  I had noticed that Janerella had begun the habit one morning and even though I had plenty of oyster shell lying about the coop she was going at the egg like a regular jack hammer. 

The farmer’s eyes lit up and he said with great enthusiasm “Cabbage”.

“Cabbage?”  I repeated.

“Cabbage.  Get yourself a bolt and a hook screw and string the cabbage up.  They will love it.”

I now had a mission but a one liner recommendation is not that easy in a small town.  The local grocery store only had sour cabbage at a hefty price and while I love my little Henriettas I was not going to pay $7.00 for a cabbage.  Eventually I made my way to another grocery store and then laid out the bolts and string for John to hook the contraption up.

Curious as always the hens squawked and ranged around the doorway and even into the coop as we hauled a bench into the space so John could screw in the bolt and tie up the cabbage.  Then we pulled out, along with the bench.  We walked towards the back of the chicken run and observed the hens who swarmed again up to the step and HALTED. 

“What?” they squawked.  They looked, appalled at something round and green swinging back and forth near the doorway.

“Are you going in?”

“Nope, I’m not going in.  You go in.”

“Not me, not until that thing stops swinging.”

The girls were upset, they stood on the step, all 26 of them, for more than an hour, finally they moved back into the grass.  They were not going to attempt a plunge into the room.  At bedtime I had to shoo them in but nope, they were not going over the doorstep.  It was just like when they got the curtain across their little chute.  I quickly solved the problem by inserting the swinging cabbage into their feeder.  Out of sight, out of mind.  In they went.

The following morning I went to water the chicks at 9:00, I noticed that one of the hens had obviously discovered the cabbage was edible as there was a leaf on the floor.  The others were watching her but had not decided if they would take a nibble or not.   Good, I thought, they will get the hang of it.  There had been snow the night before so I was happy they would have a toy to play with while they were cooped up.

Two hours later I went to check up on the darlings.  Hanging from the ceiling was a bolt.  The cabbage was gone, eaten to the very core.

So much for amusing the chicks over a cold spell!  What can I come up with next?

 

A Cautionary Tale

One word, Danger.  Two words, Slippery Slope.  Three words, Beware of Brother.

The trouble with wanting a little space for a craft area is that when you ask for one thing you end up with a whole lot more.  One shelf leads to 5 and one table leads to three.  A little light here and the next thing you know is you have track lighting, white paint and windows everywhere.  A roof repair leads to a new roof, a little cement sidewalk leads to a driveway.  A little wishing well turns into a fish pond with a waterfall as big as Niagara Falls.

I should have been warned as I watch “This Old House” and “Sarah’s House”, nothing is ever “just that easy” as my brother is willing to remind me several times a day as he curses while struggling with tight corners and I scream at a hammered thumb.  Both of us have wobbly knees and twisted backs but we labour on as we envision Downton Abbey in miniature form.  Alright, maybe not Downton Abbey but my own little castle.  Okay, okay, my little log cabin on the prairie (but somehow that doesn’t sound nearly so romantic).

Some things can make a very strong impression on a person.  Reading “Little House in the Big Woods” led to bigger and better “Gone with the Wind” but the common theme was “land is the only thing in the world that amounts to anything . . . for tis the only thing in this world that lasts”.  My parents were always very house proud and enjoyed decorating their homes.  My father was never a handy man but with my mother’s help they would hang wallpaper and paint walls and later on Dad even put up panelling.  I remember he had a real love of walnut and almost every one of our homes had walnut wood somewhere.  At least one wall of the house also had grass wall paper and it’s something I respond to whenever I see it (which doesn’t happen very often now as wallpaper of any kind is very passé).

At the end of a renovating phase all I can sigh is “Home Sweet Home”.