A moment of silence, if you will, for Great-Grandma’s 7 iron, which outlived her for a decade, but succumbed tonight during a vigorous round of clodhopper apple golf. Our loss was tempered by the delighted laughter of an 8-year-old member of the matrilineal line, who just loves it when we play this game with a purpose, delivering airborne applesauce to the chickens from about 30 yards out.
This is what happens when you forget to close the garage door overnight and there is road salt residue on the floor:
Actually, I kinda envy his way of dealing with trouble. Hide your face and act prickly.
When I was little we had a similar situation. My dad tossed his cap on the porky’s back and got some quills for us.* So I did the same with an old dishrag, and both girls had something for show and tell.
*Late-arriving fact-check email from my mom: Hey, loved the picture, but got your facts a little off. You guys were walking with me … and a juvie [young porcupine] was walking west. We followed it for a while, then I took one of your caps and touched it to the little fellow and got some spines. Dad did the same for me on our honeymoon or I probably would have been too afraid to try it since the old lore was that they could throw their quills, not just let them loose.
I usually don’t post pictures of my daughters (writing about them is enough invasion of their privacy) but enough time has passed on this one that I think it’s OK. She liked to lead the chickens around the yard, and they complied. This daughter and some of these chickens were also featured on the cover of Coop, the paperback version (see image below).
Also, the running gear beneath that coop is the same set I described in Visiting Tom. In the same book I wrote how my elder daughter and I camped out in the coop the night before we turned it over to the chickens.