Here we are, ready, willing and able to doll out good, sound advice and what?
No one can be bothered to ask.
Not a one.
You know what that means, don't you? Now I get to ramble.
Iiiiiiii'm a ramblin'. Ramble, amble, amble, amble, abmlin'.
Ok, so after my sister's post yesterday I bet you thought I'd never come back to the internet. Well, here I am. Because, well, I don't know ... I guess because I just don't learn.
Guess what happened to me today! Well, they say a picture is worth a thousand words so I'll just go ahead and babble for a little bit...
That's my eye.
Or ... what could have been what's left of my eye.
Yes, another tragic farming accident. Farming is ranked in the top 10 for Most Dangerous Jobs, don'cha know. And well deserved is that place.
You know, just this morning, I was getting ready to go out and start feeding the animals and I happened to glance down at my leg while I was putting my pants on. Black and blue. Everywhere. I had no less than 8 black an blue marks on one half of one leg. Eight! Where do they come from? Darned if I know. It would seem that I am always battering myself about.
A little while ago, hubby suggested in a very concerned voice that I might want to get all this black and bluedness checked out by a doctor. I think he was worried about what people might think when, say, I am walking about in a short sleeved top and look like I was just beaten in a back alley. So, when I had my regular tune up with the doctor, I had him check into it. As it turns out, I have Chronic Clumsy. I just happen to be one of those people that ... bruise. Like a fine, ripe apple I am.
So anyway, I was feeding the animals this morning and I had to lean way in under the roof part of the one feeder to put the grain in for this certain pack of evil goats. I leaned down and started to pour the grain into the trough and they all started swarming like they usually do.
Let me tell you, piranhas have nothing on goats when it comes to feeding frenzies.
Well, the long and short of it is that one of the goats stuck me in the eyeball with the tip of her horn.
In my eye.
A goat horn.
In my eye.
"OW!" said I. Because it hurt like a mother.
So now I am going to be forced to get some crazy make up to match my other eye to this one and spike my hair for work tomorrow because I am the warrior. Shootin' at the walls of heartache.
I can't believe I got gored in the eye.
You know, with getting my eye almost taken out, slogging around doing farmwork, freezing my patootie off every winter, one might ask "Crazy Woman, why do you do this?"
Because, really, some days it is just a big ol' pain in the butt. As well as a pain in many other places.
Like today it happens to be a pain in the eye.
But, whatever the case, I could most indeedily lead a much easier life than this. So why, then, don't I?
I am going to blame Robert Frost.
Robert Frost is probably my most favorite poet. (Ok, him and Billy Collins.) I would guess that among some literary circles, saying Robert Frost is your favorite poet would be akin to saying McDonald's is your favorite restaurant. I mean, he's the guy that shows up in the fourth grade reader, introducing the masses to Poetry. He is like the grilled cheese sandwich of poetry - unassuming, comforting and familiar. Everyone knows Robert Frost.
But I love Robert Frost.
I love his talk of apples and stone walls and snow and bowed birches and cords of maple and yellow woods. I love all the beautiful, sad and nostalgic things they are.
And I have since the fourth grade. Since "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening".
And this is why I lug bales of hay ...
... and carry water buckets ...
... and shovel poop ...
... and wear three layers of clothes inside ...
... and shear goats ...
... and put up miles and miles of fence ...
... and black and blue myself ...
... and all the other stuff that seems so hard some days.
So I can go outside on a day like today and stop by my snowy woods.
For all the difficulty, challenge, sacrifices and everything else ... in the end it's worth it.
So, a day that started out with my eyeball almost getting run through on a goat horn turned out not so bad after all.
Dust of Snow
by: Robert Frost
The way a crow
Shook down on me
The dust of snow
From a hemlock tree
Has given my heart
A change of mood
And saved some part
Of a day I had rued.
This post was brought you by NaBloPoMo and Perrier.