Using a chainsaw is tiring but rewarding work. I fired mine up yesterday and took care of a lot of the leaning trees and winter deadfall in the woods before the poison ivy has a chance to come into its glory. A good feeling, cleaning things up and getting a jump on next season’s wood pile.
The chicks look like junior high boys trying to grow beards. The Isa Brown feathers that will eventually cover everything are popping out randomly, making them look like bag ladies. I installed their big girl feeder (which of course was no problem for them to figure out) and the heated nipple waterer I made. I spied on them through the the window for a while and at least one enterprising girl has figured out what the red things are for.
And finally, I moved another of the compost bins to its new spot down the front row of the garden. The only remaining bin is full of black gold from last year. One year old composted horse manure, black and sweet and full of home-cooked goodness. Bake at 140 degrees for three weeks and let it settle for 11 months. A decent supply that will be the source of contention between myself and my wife. “We got this from my friend’s horses,” the wife will say indignantly. “Why do you get so much and I only get a little freakin bucket?” “Wait, I was the one who lifted and hauled and checked temperatures and turned while while you girls were eating bonbons and painting toe nails”
Or something like that. Should go over fantastically. I know what women like to hear.
I’m pretty proud that I was able to hold back this much composted manure for that long. It’s really tempting to raid the till whenever some is handy, but then come Spring ya got nuttin. I love being able to add a scoop or a shovelful of compost as seedlings go into the garden, and planning ahead with restraint is remarkable for me.