Have you missed me?

Just haven't found the motivation to post anything for a while but I'll be damned if I let an entire month pass without a single post to show for it.

Grandma Guthrie has been extra depressed since her husband died. Her memory is also slipping further away and she knows it which makes her even more depressed. It's getting more and more like babysitting a toddler - except the toddler talks about death a lot.

By all accounts, she was the hardest-workingest woman that ever was. Even at 89, she can't sit still for very long. She's up and down all day, shuffling from room to room. She's not allowed to cook anymore except for the microwave. She's too likely to start frying something and then shuffle off to another room, completely forgetting anything is on the stove.

She tries to do the dishes but does such an awful job, mainly due to her poor eyesight, that I rewash them when she's not looking. If she catches me rewashing dishes, she either gets mad ("I already washed those! They don't need to be washed twice!") or she gets sad ("I just can't do anything anymore.").

About the only thing she can do without risking bodily harm is laundry. And she does a metric fuckton of laundry. It makes her feel useful and I don't have to pay the electric bill so who am I to stop her? Aside from the one day she put too much soap in the washer and produced an almost sitcom level of soap bubbles, it's a harmless pursuit.

She washes dirty clothes, clean clothes and even unworn clothes with the tags still on them. She washes them, dries them, folds them and puts them in piles in her bedroom or crams them in the overstuffed closet. Sometimes she has me iron clothes - which I hate to do. I am from the school of unwrinkling clothes by tossing them in the dryer for a few minutes.

I usually do a half-assed job of ironing for her. She'll never know anyway. The freshly pressed clothes will just get crammed in the closet and washed a week later anyway regardless of whether they're dirty or not.


Anyhoos...If I'm going to get this post in before midnight CST, I'd better wrap this up. Here's a photo I took of a praying mantis eating a big moth on my livingroom window.

Praying mantis + dirty window + flash = MANTIS IN SPAAAAAAACE!

Yeah, yeah...I'm still here

I've been slackin' again. Sorry 'bout that. That's just my nature.

So, like some sort of cosmic joke or hackneyed O'Henry story, my digital camera died shortly after my new-to-me laptop arrived. At least I had the good sense to transfer the hundreds of photos that had accumulated on the camera's memory card during the time I was without a computer manufactured in this century.

A while back, I promised you that the new-to-me laptop meant more photos on the blog. Since, I don't want to be a big fat liar, I will post some of those photos taken over the last six months. It surely is no surprise that a number of these are of chickens.

Watermelon Party!

Ah...the halycon days of summer when watermelons were plentiful and the roosters were peacefully coexisting. Standing tall and proud in the back is Sanchez, the alpha male of Frankencoop. In front of him is Pasha, the young rooster who decided to move in under my porch when he discovered there were hens living there without the benefit of male company. The black and white rooster in front of him is Tweak - he has since gone off to that big chicken coop in the sky.

Tweak was the first chicken I ever killed in front of another person. David & Priscilla came for a weekend visit earlier this month and wanted to see the complete transformation from fluffy bird running around in the yard to plate of sweet-n-sour on the table.

On the right is Buddie, a hen who used to think she was a rooster (complete with crowing) but now she thinks she's a hen again. The black bird with her ass to the camera is Betty. Her and Buddie, along with Biddie and Cheepacabra, are the only remaining birds from the eggs I hatched in the kitchen almost three years ago. These four original chickens comprise the core of the alpha male's harem, regardless of which cock is filling that role. They comfortably sit at the top of Frankencoop's pecking order.

The number two rooster, currently being played by Babyman (left), has a bevy of factory farm refugee beauties to keep him company. But that doesn't stop Babyman from occasionally jumping out of the bushes to ravish Sanchez's women.

The Watermelon Party is over

On another note: Does anyone know what kind of bug this is? It's the only one of its kind that I've seen. My Google-fu has failed me. Click the photos to enlarge (unless, of course, you think bugs are icky).

*UPDATE: I should've had more faith in my Google-fu. The above bug is an anisomorpha buprestoide a.k.a. a two-striped walking stick. And it's a girl. It certainly doesn't look like the walking sticks I'm used to seeing around here but it must be true because the internets don't lie.

Post #23 - I wanted rain and I got rain.

It’s been raining on and off for four days now. Supposed to be the same at least through the weekend. The humidity is now so high that it's difficult to keep my hand-rolled cigarettes lit.

A multitude of mushrooms are springing up all over the place. There are even some growing on the back steps just outside the door. A few have sprouted on the small coop the chickens under the porch sleep in. Wish I knew more about mushrooms. Surely one or two varieties must be edible. But I have no idea which ones they would be so I just treat them all as if they're poisonous. But I am tempted to peer over the fence into my neighbor's cow pasture and see if I can spot any of those extra special red mushrooms. Yeah...you know what I'm talking about.

Soon the flies will be here. They always come out after a rain. Lots of bugs come out after rain, but nothing as thick as the flies. Ugh.

The growth in the kudzu is noticeably visible. The grass and weeds have grown too. What’s left of the gardens has perked up a bit but it was too late for a lot of the veggies. Half the kale is dead. The broccoli is still alive but was hit pretty hard by bugs a few weeks back. Keeping my fingers crossed for the two remaining watermelon plants. At least the tomatoes and basil are looking good (assuming you can find them amongst the weeds). I'll be putting a lot of work and faith into my fall crops.

Too bad I didn't plant more sunflowers. Those have done best of all - growing up to eight feet tall with dozens of flowers on each plant. They will make the chickens very happy (if the ants and wild birds don't steal all the seeds first).

Speaking of chickens (aren't I always?): More baby chicks hatched today. Last I checked, three had broken out of their shells with three or four eggs still unhatched. If the chicks can make it through the night without their mother accidentally stomping on them, they'll be okay - at least until they have to face the dangers of the outside world. There should be one more batch of babies before the season is over - Mama Graybie is expecting more chicks in mid-August.


On another happy note, I'm having my house professionally sprayed for ants on Monday. One of the select few people in Alabama that I've told about this blog owns a pest control company and offered to spray for me. He wants to try out a new pesticide and I will be his guinea pig. This is good news indeed!

Post #19 - How dry I am

It’s not looking like I’m going to make that goal of 41 posts by my birthday on August 7^th. Oh well, it won’t be the first time I didn’t reach a goal I set for myself. But at least I got this blog jump-started again and that was the original intent.

An old friend who’s been spending the year wandering aimlessly around the Lower 48 unexpectedly found himself in Alabama yesterday and is hanging out here at Spenardo del Sur for a little while.

Watched storms pass by all day and not one of them rained on me. I don’t even want the rain for my gardens anymore. Fuck, most everything died anyway after two months with hardly any rain. At this point I just want enough rain so I can safely have a fire to burn my garbage.

I don’t have garbage pickup so I have to burn, compost, recycle as much as I can. But it's been too dry to burn it and it's starting to pile up. Being summer, I can’t just leave it laying around. I’m not worried about it stinking because it’s mostly just paper & plastic, but it only takes the tiniest crumb of food in there to attract those damned ants. So I have to store the trash in the big freezer until I can burn it.

Did I mention the ants that have been invading my kitchen during this hot, dry summer are not regular ants? No, they are the evil sons of bitches known as fire ants. They will sting you. They are evil and they are everywhere. Sometimes I think this big hill I live on top of is nothing but one giant fire ant mound.

I’ve been pretty diligent about keeping the kitchen clean but they will still manage to march straight to the one tiny speck of food left in the sink. The wall behind the stove is dotted with little strips of black electrical tape. Every time the ants find a new way in, I cover it with tape. I even had to cover up one of the electrical outlets.

I’ve poisoned and killed all the ant mounds on that side of the house but it has done nothing to stem the flow of marauders. I suspect they have built a mound underneath the trailer and I will have to poke my head into the dark & spidery crawlspace to take a look for it.

Gimme some rain, dammit!

Hopefully the laptop power cord I ordered shows up tomorrow. Then I can start posting pictures again (and stop using this slowpoke computer from the late 1900s).

Post #10 - As if there wasn't enough already on my plate

I have a hundred projects going on right now.

It seems like I've been painting the bathroom forever. It's mostly done but I still have a bunch of trim and hard-to-reach areas to finish.

I'd pulled a couple boxes of my grandmother's old papers out of the closet and started sorting through them. The livingroom is littered with piles of bank statements, phone bills, letters, greeting cards, receipts and other 20th century ephemera. Everything I choose not to keep goes in the shredder and then onto the floor of the chicken coop. (All those colorful greeting cards and envelopes have given Frankencoop a very festive feel.)

The gardens are in disarray. Non-stop rains in May kept me from planting as much as much as I wanted. Non-stop sun and 100-degree days in June killed about half of what I had managed to planted. Blueberries dried up on the vine. Peaches shriveled and dropped from the trees. Even the wild blackberries have turned to dust. Locals are saying the deer are eating more than usual from their gardens. One neighbor lost an entire 1/4-mile row of peas the night before they were to be picked. So far the deer have left me alone. They probably can't see my veggies because of all the weeds.

Mowing kudzu is an ongoing chore. The kudzu is the only thing that doesn't seem to be affected by the drought. The goat shed is in dire need of repairs. Frankencoop needs a lot of work too.

The dry weather has also made the ants organize search parties into the kitchen. No matter how clean I keep it, they keep patrolling until they find some crumb on the counter or a dirty fork in the sink I didn't wash right away. Somedays, I mop the floor twice. I follow their parades to locate the tiny hole they're coming from so I can plug it up. But they just find another tiny hole. Last night, they started coming through a wall socket. They're like an unstoppable zombie horde. I'm worried my kitchen will be completely covered in electrical tape before the summer is over.

I'm having to store my garbage in the freezer. It's been too dry to burn it but, if I leave it out, the ants will get into it. Fortunately, it rained today so I can burn the garbage tomorrow. Hopefully the rain will also get the ants to let up a little.

Anyway, all this crap (and more) is going on. Everything is a mess but that's okay because I'm basically a hermit so nobody has to see it. Or so I thought...

My parents called last night to tell me they're coming for the weekend - THIS weekend. My father has decided to go to his high school reunion on Saturday - the first one he's ever attended. They will arrive Friday.

So now I have to drop everything and whip this place back into parent-friendly shape. They are going to flip when they find out they can't watch TV. I lost all the network channels in the DTV switch. I only get half a dozen PBS stations and couple Jesus channels now.

Has it been a month already?

It's been a month since my last post. Sigh... It's been a busy month. This court shit is busting my ass. In addition to my community service (11 days down, 19 to go), this month I've had to attend re-education camp in Roanoke every Saturday. That's 25 miles one way. That's 8 rides I have to search for (sessions are about 5 hours long) because I don't get my license back until the middle of May.

Fortunately (for me anyway), Bark Boomhauer has to go to the same re-education camp as me. He got a DUI over a year ago across the state line and had finally finished all that the court required of him. He applied for license reinstatement and was basically told "Well, you may be squared up with Georgia but Alabama still has a few hoops for you to jump through." So now he's paying $265 for re-education camp and I'm bumming along with his rides. Re-education camp also required us to attend four AA meetings this month (another 5 miles each way).

I also have a once-a-week trip to Wedowee for community service. That's another 15 miles each way - 10 more rides this month. And the once-a-month trip back to Roanoke to pee in a cup. And the once-a-month trip to Wedowee for "court review." That's when everybody on community service shows up to court and has to face the judge.

You sit around waiting for your name to be called. Luckily for me, it's alphabetical so I get out of there pretty quick - less than an hour. God forbid your name is Williams. You go in front of the judge, a hard ass straight out of central casting, who asks if you've been coming to community service every week and if your fines are up-to-date (even though the court already has paperwork on this shit). If the answer to those questions is "no," you will go to jail. If you do not show up to court review, a warrant will be issued for your arrest. The cops will show up at your house.

Many people I've worked with on community service have lost their jobs because of these demands on their time. Those who were already out of work can't even look for a job because who's gonna hire you when you're guaranteed to miss at least one day a week?

In another stroke of good fortune (for me anyway), I met someone at community service who lives very close to me and I now hitch rides with her. She was one of 148 people arrested at a weekly cockfight a mile down the road from me. She got 40 hours of community service and fines totalling almost $4000 - a much harsher penalty than drunk driving. Hell, she probably would've gotten a lighter sentence had she been selling drugs in the school parking lot. Not to condone cockfighting but this seems silly to me. In all honesty, those birds probably didn't have it any worse than the millions of factory farm chickens being raised and slaughtered for meat in this country.


Speaking of factory farm chickens: I got four new refugee hens a couple weeks ago. Like all my new refugees, they are sad and pitiful looking. They are missing lots of feathers and scared of everything. They are still confused by the "real" food the other birds greedily devour, preferring the feed they grew up on (of which the factory farm kindly donated about 150 pounds). They spend all day inside the coop even though that have access to the whole outdoors. Only one of the new hens has started venturing outside and has discovered that earthworms are magically delicious.




Speaking of creepy-crawlies: I recently uncovered this humoungous grub while transforming the old barn floor into my newest garden plot:


It's the larvae of a scary-looking yet harmless stag beetle. It's probably three or four years old. It's been underneath the old barn this whole time, feeding on rotting wood. Decades of decomposing pine planks and oak rafters has left this little plot with six inches of some of the best, rich, black soil on the property. And, since it's all encased in a concrete foundation, it's a raised bed garden!

Since the wondergrub will do no harm beyond scaring small children, I snapped a few pictures and put it back where I'd found it.

Not everyone was in agreement about reburying the grub. Buddie was eyeing that thing like it was a juicy jumbo prawn. A bug that size could choke a chicken!



Speaking of choking the chicken: I finally had to dispatch my overly-aggressive rooster, Caleb. At the time of his death, he weighed a whopping 18-pounds. Not only was he constantly attacking me, he had grown so large that he could no longer safely mate with the hens.

He had previously injured Murray who spent a month being mostly confined to the porch while she recuperated. She had finally healed enough that I was able to let her run loose with the rest of the flock, though she still had to wear a saddle to protect her from Caleb's amorous advances. I fashioned it from a 50-year-old flour sack I'd found in the old barn.



When his sharp spurs ripped holes through the skin of a second hen, I knew it was time for him to go to that big chicken coop in the sky.

The question was how to send him there?

His neck was so large I couldn't even get my hand all the way around it. There was no way I could get a hatchet through it with one swift blow. His feathers were so thick they would've blunted any blow I could deliver. When I had killed Cornelieus, who weighed almost 15 pounds, it took more than a few swings to do the job - a situation that was horrible for both of us.

I came up with the bright idea of shooting Caleb in the head - kneel down next him, level the barrel to his temple and pull the trigger. Have you ever tried to shoot a chicken in the head with a .22? Even at extremely close range, it is not an easy task. A chicken's head is in constant motion. They're like bobbleheads.

I put the gun away then chased Caleb around the yard until I caught him. I held the struggling rooster tight and weighed my remaining options.

I thought about wringing his neck. I've never been comfortable with this method even though it is widely recommended. I tried it once with Joshua, the first chicken I ever killed, and it didn't go so well. I hadn't tried it since, opting for the chopping block. I wasn't sure I wanted to give it another shot, at least not with Chickenzilla.

I was reconsidering the inadequate hatchet when he almost broke free of my grasp. I knew if he got away, I wouldn't be able to get near him all day. If that happened, I'd end up having to shoot him in full view all the chickens. I hate killing chickens in front of other chickens. Besides, I'm such a lousy shot that the prospect of all that could go wrong made this prospect unpalatable.

Instinctively, my right hand reached for his neck and squeezed. Yes, I literally choked the chicken. And he fought me every inch of the way. Can't blame him. Hell, I don't even blame him for the things he did that made me have to kill him. He was just doing what roosters do. But he was large and under the misconception he was in charge - a dangerous combination. There was no way I could have this angry, horny cock running loose in the yard all spring. In the end, I was just doing what farmers do. Well, I don't think this was the way a real farmer would've done it.

I fought Caleb mano a mano. While he got in a few good hits, I finally pinned him to the ground with one knee, one hand wrapped around around his feet to keep his sharp spurs from digging into my skin and my other hand wrapped around his neck. I didn't dare let go now - I'd never get near him again. I held on for dear life until I knew for certain he was dead - a fact made evident by the evacuation of his bowels. In other words: With his dying breath, Caleb shit on me. I reached for my nearby knife, slit his jugular vein and bled him out.

After butchering him, I had ten pounds of meat in the fridge and freezer. His drumsticks and thighs alone weighed four and half pounds. That's about how much each of my other two roosters weigh. The breast meat came to three pounds.

a single chicken breast - one and a half pounds

Speaking of something completely not related to anything above: Angela recently posted photos to her blog of a bruise she got from wiping out on her bike.

After being roommates for almost a decade, Angela and I are like this (you can't see it, but I'm crossing my fingers to show we're super tight). We can read eachother's minds, we can finish eachother's sentences, we can leap to the same conclusions in a single bound. Even our periods were synched up.

What I'm trying to say here is that a mere 5,000 miles cannot break the bond that we share. So it was no surprise to learn that Angela got a big bike-related ass bruise within days of me getting a big bike-related ass bruise.

A neighbor-cousin lent me an old-school one-speed bicycle while I'm without a driver's license. I use it for traveling to and from various odd jobs. It sucks not being able to change gears while traveling this hilly terrain but it still beats walking. It's not so bad going to jobs because I live on one of the highest points around and can coast downhill much of the way. Coming home is a different story, taking at least twice as long because I spend a lot of time pushing the bike uphill.

The furthest commute takes place on Fridays when I ride five miles each way to earn twenty-five bucks cleaning a house (though, if someone is home, they'll give me and the bike a ride home). I had just pulled into their driveway when their dog ran up and bit me on the ass.

This is no ordinary dog. It's a full-grown male Great Pyrenees, weighing well over 100 pounds. He's big enough that he can keep all four feet on the ground and still reach my ass on a bike seat. He didn't bite me nearly as hard as he could have, yet it still hurt like hell and left a bruise that looks like somebody punched me in the ass with pointy brass knuckles.

Sadly, no one was home that day so me and my sore ass had to pedal/push the bike home.

So, Angela, this ass shot is for you:



There are still absurd tales from community service and re-education camp I want to share but those will have to wait for another day. I hate to see March pass without a single post and I'll never get this done if I try to tell those stories right now.

Ick - a tick!

Just took off my boots and found a tick had hitched a ride on my leg at some point today. I don't understand how these little arachnids can burrow their head beneath your skin and you just don't feel a damned thing. Not sure how long it had been there - less than eight hours for sure.

At least this one had the decency to attach itself somewhere I could easily reach. The last tick I got managed to attach itself to the center of my back - directly beneath my bra clasp.

You can't just brush a tick off. You need to pull the fucker out with tweezers. This is impossible to do when it's in the dead center of your back. I drove down the hill to a neighbor-cousin's house and had him remove it for me. It's a little embarrassing to show up unannounced at someone's house and ask them to get pull a bug out of your skin. But I've known this neighbor-cousin since we were little kids and he has far more embarrassing tales he could tell about me.

The other extra-creepy thing about ticks is that they are extremely hard to kill. Can't just squeeze 'em. My method of choice is to drop them in a shot glass full of rubbing alcohol. Even then, it still takes about ten minutes for them to die.


Another neighbor-cousin, Bocephus Boomhauer (my second cousin once removed that I met last fall after his release from prison), killed another rattlesnake on his property this morning. I was driving to one of my odd jobs when he flagged me down to show me the dead snake - all four feet of it, stretched out on the tailgate of his pickup.

He's always warning me about rattlers. I'm pretty sure half of our conversations have been about rattlers. I know they're around and I'm always cautious of that, but the only two I've ever seen were both dead - killed by Bocephus. Today, he also warned me again about a large rattlesnake that's been seen crossing between his brother's property and the back edge of my woods. "Big around as my leg!" he tells me. "Big around as a stovepipe!"