The Blessing of the Trucks

 Late afternoon found us at the Elkhart County Fairgrounds.  A quick look past the Montana motor home convention, and we were nearly the first in a lineup of trucks. Supper was enjoyed with a few others - those in charge of the event, and early birds like ourselves.

Late evening found us closing up the truck and gathering what we needed for the night - he with his duffle bag and briefcase and she with her backpack, for the half mile trot to our Airbnb accommodations.  A ride was offered, and we were there in minutes.

Our hosts were gone for the weekend, but had left us the passcode to enter their lovely and very clean home.  Up the stairs to our rooms - a second floor bedroom with a delightfully soft bed and pillows, a sitting room with comfy chairs, a coffee/tea station, and TV.  A bathroom completed our suite.  All beautifully decorated in a travel theme.  Maps on the wall were tagged with the invitation to pin our home location.  Folks from all over the world have rested here.

_____

Saturday morning early the Trucker was up and gone.  His Passenger, who had spent an uncomfortable night due in part to bruises at all the wrong places, opted to forgo the fun of watching trucks roll into the fairgrounds, and instead relax a bit longer.

She set out for a brisk walk just before noon, arriving in time for a chicken and pork BBQ lunch and the afternoon service.  The afternoon was quite warm, and she wished she'd come in the morning and gone back to the house for the afternoon.  After the prayer time over each individual truck and driver, the Trucker opened the bunk doors to create a breeze while she caught a nap.

This weekend for the Passenger was one to sit on the sidelines and rest, emotionally as well as physically.  So she let the socializing to the Trucker.

A supper of pizza and leftovers, and conversation with one of the prayer leader couples followed.  Cleanup was accomplished with all hands on deck, then folks drifted outside.  The children ran off more steam, as a lightbulb is brightest just before it burns out.  One by one the trucks were fired up, grumbling quietly under their breath, their lights glowing amber in the dusk.  The Trucker snapped his last photos, and they pulled away to the front lot.

Then it was a quiet hike in the dark to their quiet and cozy rooms for the night.

__________

Sunday morning, 5:30am found them both awake, so why not?  A quick pack job and the Trucker and his Passenger were off, he with his his duffle bag and briefcase, she with her backpack, computer bag and stitchery bag.  Now the street lights lit their way, and a cool night breeze ruffled their hair. 

Morning would break in an hour.  For now, the predawn darkness, the empty road, was theirs.

Delivering Chicken House Ventilation Equipment with the Trucker

 

September 10, 2021

Hudsonville, Michigan, near Grand Rapids

Well, this morning began with a thud.

We set out from home mid-morning yesterday. The Passenger was slightly amazed at how quickly old routines settled into place. She added her backpack, sewing bag and computer bag to the trucker’s duffle bag and they were off. Previously the Trucker had cleaned, inside and out, and added bedding on the upper and lower bunks.

As the miles rolled by, she dispatched all the bits and pieces of her to-do list still swirling through her head. Recent, long overdue repairs to the truck made it possible to cross stitch without drawing blood from jolts to the needle. Sporadic conversation planned an upcoming event, and they even attempted to solve a few of the world’s problems.

The Trucker and his Passenger arrived at 10pm last night, having done the whole run from home to delivery point. A bit over an hour prior, the he had passed over a lovely, empty rest area, wanting to park a bit closer to the delivery point, and knowing a truckstop was a few miles out.

But, said truckstop had literally no room at the inn. They could have rearranged a few trucks to fit ourselves in, especially that pickup truck who had planted himself in a big truck’s parking space...but not for them to do.

So, on to the chicken location. The Trucker rolled through the lot, selecting a parking space he judged most likely out of the way for incoming morning traffic. Quiet and calm it was, a lovely place to sleep. The sky was clear and freckled with bright stars. No facilities, but we hoped for an option in the morning.

In the morning… the Passenger awoke at her accustomed time somewhere around dark-fifteen o’clock, and was feeling every bit of a night on a thin hard mattress in the upper bunk. The Trucker’s accommodation was much cushier, but not wide enough for two. Since he does the work, she decided not to disturb him by relocating into his space.

Long about 6:30am, lights began coming on in the warehouse, and the need for facilities was reaching a point of no return. The Trucker moved to the driver’s seat to pull on his boots. With him out of the way, the Passenger, who was delighted to discover the night before that she still had what it took to vault up to the top bunk, began her dismount.

This too, was a routine easily fallen back into. Unfortunately, literally. Learn forward, grab the ledge under the window. Lean down, grab the seat back with the other hand. Slide down to place a foot onto the lower bunk’s edge, and drop. Well, she missed. And forgot socks are a bad idea when traction is important. A free fall and a twist landed her posterior hard onto the floor between the seats, slapping the gearshift forward as the rest of her arrived. Thankfully that twist prevented a face plant on the floor. It all happened so fast...as they say.

Sound effects must have accompanied her flight, as the startled Trucker whipped around, but his grab was too late and too restricted in the small space. Visions of an ER visit must have danced in his head by his facial expression. But no injuries to report, except to her pride. And a bit around the edges, where the seat belt buckles on the sides of the seats attempted a grab of their own.

Ah me, those “edges” will feel every jolt of the ride, me thinks. This is embarrassing!

Recovery accomplished, the Trucker and his Passenger met a friendly farm employee in the parking lot, who commended the Trucker for his out-of-the-way parking choice. A “farm restroom” was offered “as-is” and gratefully accepted. Apparently the farm manager relied heavily on black permanent marker on a frequent basis, for it was employed to write instructions on the wall for use of the facility, on the back of the door for when it was to be left open or closed according to the weather, and on the lid of the throne for what should and should not be done there. But, any port in a storm!

A second manager arrived and led them across the road, down a field lane, to a row of layer chicken houses. The company also raises their own pullets; those were housed down the road at yet another facility. Sunrise Egg Farms is a sprawling place! All the buildings were surrounded by cornfields; the corn was barely five feet tall, and already quite dry.

Where the lane turned into the barns, the truck splashed gently through a gully running with an antiseptic solution designed to sterilize tires.  No stray, out-of-town germs were welcome in this biosecure area.  No provision was made apparently, for the human feet which hopped out of the struck and strolled about the facility.  Oh well.  On this crisp, jacket-worthy morning with a stiff breeze playing over miles of flat in every direction, was it really an issue?

A SkyTrak on puffy tires followed us. This was a glorified forklift, which reached into the trailer to slide adjustable tines under each skid of supplies and roll them from the trailer to the bottom floor of a chicken house under construction. Tedious work, this, requiring a man on the trailer, and the Trucker on the ground in addition to the driver. The SkyTrak could raise, lower, and twist every part of itself into every conceivable angle. The Passenger did wonder whether engineers who designed this creature consulted the insect world created by God for ideas!

Conversation between skids revealed that this particular farm is home to approximately 2.4 million laying hens, with an equally sizable amount of replacement pullets. It seems Michigan of the progressive governor, recently passed a law requiring hens to now be uncaged, for a more humane life. The farms are under deadline to rip out all their cages and instead house the birds on open floors. Which is a great expense, and much more risk, to the birds, to egg collecting, and to the farmers’ bottom line. The government, however, did not supply any funds to offset the farmers’ expenses to comply with the new law. They did, in response to the farmers’ lobby, include a provision that Michigan egg buyers may not purchase cheaper eggs out of state from farms whose prices do not reflect excessive regulations. But will out of state buyers purchase the higher priced Michigan eggs? Or will this begin the slow death of Michigan egg farms and cause greater unemployment? This, they are waiting to see.

The ventilation equipment transported by the Trucker has only been expected for the last whole month, delayed by lack of workers to produce the parts needed for the ventilation system. Which delayed all other aspects of the job, while the deadline for compliance with the new laws grows ever closer.

The house under construction will have three stories of birds, in long, high cages similar to dog runs. Within will be numerous smaller cages set at a higher level where the birds will hopefully learn fly into, lay their eggs, and roost at night. Lighting will be meticulously adjusted to control the birds’ habits.

All for now. Time to swipe the Trucker’s phone for a hotspot to send this epistle, as the laptop doesn’t recognize the Passenger’s phone hotspot.

_______

Later in the day, a stop was made for their meal.  At 76th Street Cafe, near Grand Rapids, Michigan.  Good food, way too plentiful.  A pleasant and very attentive waitress.  The special of the day?  Pig Pile, for $10.49 each.  Ah, nope.  Not when the Passenger's imagination eats before she does.  Probably quite a delectable dish, but not under that description!

Setting the Hens

A year ago, Daddy purchased a flock of teenage hens, and one egotistical rooster.  Feeding the chickens became our daily date, each afternoon.  Eventually, the first egg appeared in the vintage nest box hung on the interior barn wall.  In short order more, and then up to 18 eggs every day.

Later that summer, one young hen began vocalizing the distinctive "clookclook" language, indicating she was feeling broody.  Ready to "set," as Grandma always called it.  Daddy waved away the idea.  "Too much work," he said.  But Hen-rietta was persistent.  Every day for three months, either Daddy or I hauled her off her nest and retrieved the eggs she preferred to remain planted upon.  She was not impressed or appreciative and the sound effects were deafening. 

When Hen-rietta finally admitted defeat and rejoined fowl society, it was not welcoming.  She had begun to molt, and her bare skin offered no protection from her sharp-beaked neighbors.  She retreated to the nest box again, her place of safety.  The only time she ventured out to attend to her own needs was when the flock was let out to scratch and peck in the meadow.

Out of sympathy for her plight, I walled off a section of the pen with wire found in the upper barn.  Hen-rietta now had her own apartment, but a clear view of her neighbors and they of her.  Terrified at first, she, gradually regained both feathers and confidence, which put her neighbors on notice. Hen-rietta grew out a new set of fluffy underwear topped by lovely rust feathers with a unique design above her tail section.  All was well again, mostly.

Spring arrived, and a few of the hens busied themselves with cleaning out their closets, so to speak, and dropping old feathers along the way.  One was Harriet, though her timing was a bit off.  She began "clookclooking" around the barn, then parked herself in a nest box with an "I shall not be moved" air.  Here we go again.

Two weeks in, an echoing "clookclook" was heard.  Oh no, not again.  Hen-rietta?!  We've just been through this!  Daily, I uprooted both stubborn hens, who were quite willing to make their point with a sharp beak employed at lightning speed.

Tuesday evening was mild.  I let the hens and their crowing companion onto the newly mown meadow for scratch-and-peck time.  Hen-rietta and Harriet maintained their determined vigil in empty nest boxes.

I gave up.  From the upper barn, a wire cage was found, modified by Daddy in the past to have two small apartments, with a doorway in the center wall.  The wire had a tight enough mesh to contain peeps.  It was placed in the chicken barn. Further exploration into Daddy's stash produced two water dishes, and a long feeder suitable for peeps that fitted in the doorway between the apartments.  Their mothers could use it in the interim.  But what about nests?  Plenty of wood shavings and straw, but the eggs would roll about.

A second rummage through the upper barn's bin uncovered two discards from Mama's long ago kitchen.  An 8 x 8 square cake pan, and a handle-less round skillet of similar size to the cake pan.  One was placed in each apartment, softened with wood shavings, and they became home to 5 eggs each.

Then each wanna-be hen mama was introduced to her new abode.  They did not take it kindly, escaping quickly back to their nest boxes, completely oblivious to the fact that the boxes were empty but their new kitchen cast-offs were not.  I replaced them quickly, shut the door and let them be.

Next day, a visit showed instinct had regained the upper hand.  Each hen had claimed her nest, one in the skillet, one in the cake pan.  Upon describing the scene to my sister, I received this response:

"Umm, isn't it customary to remove the hen BEFORE putting eggs in the skillet?"

Well, yes, and we generally add flour and sugar and such like rather than a chicken, when eggs go in a cake pan.

But any port in a storm, and this storm seems to be over.  Except when I turn up to feed, or a fowl friend pauses by the wire for innocent conversation.  Then the sound effects are quite inhospitable.

One week in.  Two weeks to go, before the next housing crisis hits.  Oh me, what have I done??

In the Grocery Store

In the grocery store this morning, I witnessed a lady verbally assaulting a young man because he was mask-less. He stood quietly under the barrage of accusations ("Obviously you do not care about anyone but yourself, etc.") and when she stalked off, muttering, he calmly resumed shopping. Later, we met in the bulk aisle. I expressed my appreciation to him for standing by his convictions, yet not arguing, which would have escalated her intensity.

He responded, "Something rose up in me that wanted to defend myself, or at least try to explain. But I knew it would be wrong, so I didn't. And I knew that she didn't want to hear what I had to say. To her, only her opinion counted." Most insightful.

He added, "I trust God for my health and safety and refuse to live in fear. God created my body to handle germs."

His calm assurance encouraged me. This is not about who is right or wrong. Not about the issues at all. But it IS about the freedom we still (hopefully) have to think independently and live according to our convictions.

Somehow in the last year, arms that used to reach out to embrace and include, now stretch out to push away. What matters now is "me", not "you". Our verbal swords are sharpened and ready to slash wounds in those who do not share our opinions but prefer to develop their own.

Somehow I cannot think that the One who moved freely among the sick and the diseased and the dying, would now don a mask and social distance. He put others before Himself, and was crucified for His efforts. That sets the bar rather high for us, don't you think?

Peter, George, John, Anna, and the Ephrata Cloister

First, we meet Peter Miller.

Born in the Palatinate in either 1709 or 1710, he came to America as a Reformed German preacher in 1730.  After serving in various pastorates in Ephrata and surrounding areas, he joined the 7th Day Adventists, and took up residence in the Ephrata Cloister.

Peter was highly educated, and likely the most skilled linguist in the American colonies.  It was he who translated the Martyr's Mirror from its original Dutch to German, at the request of the German Mennonites in Pennsylvania.

He also, at Thomas Jefferson's request, translated the Declaration of Independence into seven other languages, thus helping to explain across the world what the United States America was about.

Peter Miller was widely known, having many friends and acquaintances.  A notable one was his personal friendship with General George Washington.  Quite interesting given the lifestyles of both men, and important later in this story.

https://www.lancasterlyrics.com/b_peter_miller_the_ephrata_cloister/

https://www.lancasterhistory.org/images/stories/JournalArticles/vol6nos3&4pp46_49_118632.pdf

https://www.findagrave.com/memorial/37093553/peter-miller

Now, the time frame.

The Revolutionary War was raging.  By all indications, the colonial army had no chance.  The largest battle of the war was fought along the Brandywine Creek on September 11, 1777.  According to the 1996 Encylopedia Britannica, the Americans suffered 900 killed or wounded, and 400 taken prisoner.

Because of his personal friendship with Peter Miller, General Washington sent his wounded by the wagon load to the Ephrata Cloister for care, an excruciating 40 mile journey.  Reportedly, up to 500 soldiers were bought to the Cloister, most with inadequate clothing and no care or supplies of any kind.  Makeshift hospitals were set up in the barns.  Specifically mentioned were the building names Zion and Kedar.  Did they also give up their personal rooms?  The tiny airless cells with wooden slabs for a bed and blocks for pillows, would not have been conducive to healing.

https://edwardhandmedicalmuseum.org/wp-content/uploads/2018/10/The-Good-Samaritan

The need.

Obviously, the brothers and sisters at the Cloister, highly skilled in their work and in living independently, were unprepared.  Immediately the small and somewhat aging population of thirty-six  Cloister residents was overwhelmed  But they served without reservation with what they had.  After all, having devoted their lives wholly to God, why would they step away from this desperate need?

Enter the Baers.

On the outskirts of Ephrata, toward what is now Denver, Pennsylvania, lived the Preacher John and Anna (Eshelman) Baer family.  Sturdy German Mennonites, they had a prosperous farm and a mill.  They worked hard, and wished only to live out their traditions and beliefs in peace.

Surely they heard of the Battle of Brandywine, and the suffering and death that followed.  They were no strangers to death themselves, having already buried three of their eleven children. In 1777, they had a five year old daughter, two teenagers, and the rest of their children were adults.  How many were still living at home and supporting the family farm is not known.

We do know that one son, Abraham, was charged as a Tory along with other Mennonite men of the area, for feeding starving British soldiers.  Although his accuser was later hanged as a spy, Abraham lived many years with a price on his head.  When his father's estate was settled in 1780, the state confiscated Abraham's share, because of the charges against him.

Word spread across the countryside; wounded and dying men at the Cloister needed care.  Food, supplies, and medicine (such as was available) were needed.  Preacher John and his wife Anna heard and answered the need.

How did they arrive at this decision?  Surely they had more than enough to do at home.  Their family needed them.  Could they not send a wagon load of supplies and consider their duty done?

Did they answer immediately, or wait and pray?  This was the fall of the year, harvest time.  Life was relatively peaceful for them; the fighting was a distance away and wouldn't have a direct effect on their lives and property, would it?

According to the 1996 Encylopedia Britannica, in 1775 a group of Mennonites had sent a statement to the Pennsylvania Assembly that read in part:

It is our principle to feed the hungry and give the thirsty drink;

we have dedicated ourselves to serve all men in everything that

can be helpful to the preservation of men's lives, but we find no

freedom in giving, or doing, or assisting in anything by which men's 

lives are destroyed or hurt."

Did Preacher John Baer add his name to this document?  Surely he would have been aware of it.  In any case, he and his family lived out that commitment.

The sacrifice.

John and Anna left their home, family, and livelihood to nurse the wounded, ill, and dying at the Cloister.  Not a pleasant task.  One can only imagine the sights, sounds, and smells that agonizing wounds, infection, and overcrowding would produce, all in an area completely lacking in sanitation.  This was before anesthesia, before antibiotics, before indoor plumbing.

Almost immediately the dreaded camp fever, spread person to person by a bacteria carried by lice, attacked without mercy.  Typhus and scarlet fever thrived as well.  How long did John and Anna serve?  What were their responsibilities?  Most of the soldiers here heartrendingly young, helpless, and alone.  Did they move among the rows of agony with prayer and scripture as well as food and medical assistance?

Preacher Ira D. Landis writes:

"It is estimated that one hundred fifty soldiers died at the Cloister.  They were given military burials at first, but as the death rate increased they were simply interred in trenches and ceremony was forgotten.  There was no time or energy to do otherwise.  Ten of the aging Cloister residents lost their lives in the epidemic.  Others who came to help, like the neighboring Mennonite John Baer and his wife, Anna, succumbed also."

https://www.findagrave.com/memorial/117709615/john-baer

Did John and Anna return home at all that awful winter?  The British were comfortably ensconced in Philadelphia.  General Washington's army was starving at Valley Forge.  Disease and death were raging in Ephrata.  And records show that Anna Baer died March 20, 1778 of illness contracted at the Cloister.  Their five year old daughter, Elizabeth, died four days later, which makes one wonder if they returned home to die.  John followed his wife and daughter to heaven on April 15, followed shortly thereafter by their thirty year old son Heinrich.

The lessons learned.

When they left to serve the wounded, John and Anna had to know their lives were at risk, theirs and those of their family.  But they went.  How many young soldiers will be in heaven as a result of their love, borne out in word and deed?  

 How does the godly example of John and Anna Baer and their children apply to us today?  Once again an epidemic rages.  How much is political and how much medical?  Certainly there were politics in 1777, too.

Surely there was a climate of fear then, as there is now.  For those of us who have our future settled in heaven, how much fear in the here and now is warranted?  The prevailing attitude today is protect one's self, and supposedly by extension those around us, loading guilt on the ones who resist the status quo.  

"There is no fear in love, but perfect love casteth out fear, because fear hath torment.  He that feareth is not made perfect in love."  I John 4:18

How do we balance, in today's culture,  God's call to love and to serve, regardless of one's own safety?

"He that loves his life shall lose it; he that hates his life in this world shall keep it to life eternal."  John 12:25

Muffled Thud VS Casting All My Cares

It was a day of ins and outs.  Now evening had come.  Time to stay in and wind up the loose ends.

I had just concocted a casserole for the next day's meal, and washed all accumulated dishes and utensils, when a call came from DS#2.  In the midst of moving from a third floor abode to a house, he'd been on the move, so to speak.  Now finding himself situated in the house, with all his food remaining at the apartment, would I have anything to offer?

Always.  With the Trucker California bound, and motivation lacking, not much variety.  The casserole was popped into the oven, and freshly picked strawberries were washed for the occasion.  Time was, when a dash to the garden and a reach into the fridge would have provided a full meal, but not anymore.

He feasted on the food, I on the conversation.

During a quiet spot in our time together, a muffled thud sounded from nether regions of the refrigerator.  Upon investigation, an item that had waited a few months past the expected date of use was found to have blown its top.

Perfect timing.  An accessory to the meal was now in place, as the oven was still hot.

Guess it's time to stop minding everyone else's business and mind my own for a while.  Or,

I'm still going through cooking-for-a-crowd withdrawal.  Or, 

It's time to clean out the fridge.  Or,

The Trucker's diet is proving successful.  Or,

All of the above.

But any way you look at it, here is a visual of what happens when pressure is not released in a timely and appropriate manner.  In this case the situation was remedied deliciously.

But the rant inflicted upon a loved one a few days back, not so much.  That was a thud, and not a delicious one.

I find myself convicted of holding onto cares rather than casting them upon the One who cares for me.  And who is far better equipped to carry them.  Releasing the pressure in a timely way - so hard to do, but so much better.

Biscuits and gravy coming up next time the Trucker's in town!

Dust (Err...Feathers) In the Wind

It was a day with plenty of time, but small motivation.  Both the Trucker and his erstwhile Passenger were in low gear.

The DS#2 called.  Classes were finished for the day, his home bound students left with their assignments.  Might we have a project or three he could do, rather than sit alone at home?

We did.

First on the list, carry two blanket chests from the dim and cramped attic to an empty bedroom.  Much better space and lighting to sort, and hopefully downsize.

That evening, after the Honey Do list was complete and the Trucker stretched out on the sofa engrossed in online communication with fellow truckers, a trip downstairs to explore the chests. 

Baby clothing and blankets, little girl dresses, and more.  Most dating to the 1960's, lovingly sewn by the Passenger's mother.  Used for two generations of daughters.  Smoothed, folded neatly, and packed away again in the cedar depths, along with their attending memories.

The Trucker turned up, or down, as the case may be, in time to assist in the exploration of the second chest.  Here were a few wedding gifts, as yet unused.  Not because of any lack in quality or appreciation, but the colors were definitely 1980's.  And not the green, brown and golds favored in the Passenger's kitchen.

And then, rugs, woven by Great Grandmother.  Below those, two feather pillows.  Given by Grandma, when we were setting up housekeeping in 1992.  Made by her mother, she said.  The same Great Grandmother who had woven the rugs.  From her own blanket chest.  She had seldom used them, she said. 

We both loved history, and at least one of us had a sentimental tendency.  Those pillows were encased in new eyelet coverings, and provided comfort for several years.  Quite heavy they were, as pillows go, and I loved burying my nose in them.  No description comes to mind for the scent, maybe it just simply tapped into long ago memories.

About the time our DS#1 was beginning to crawl, those feathers began to escape the heavy sacking in which they were stuffed.  And baby found them.  The pillows were retired to the blanket chest.  By now, quite likely the same chest they originally came from.

Tonight the decision was made.  I didn't even want to think about the interior condition of those pillows, or the potential for asthmatic consequences.

As dusk crept over lawn and garden, those pillows went to the back porch, and with a seam ripper, I began to loosen the hand stitched edges.  A few feathers drifted free, and then...

There was a second pillow inside the first!  Even heavier fabric, hand stitched with thicker thread.

Down to the garden we went, those pillows and I.  Upended and shaken, the outer pillows gave birth to a cloud of small downy feathers, and each produced their inner pillow.

Back up to the well lit porch, and the seam ripper was employed again.  In my clumsiness, the now fragile-with-the-years fabric acquired a few small rips.

Upended and shaken again, the inner pillows released clouds of feathers.  Brown, black, white, and every shade imaginable of those colors.  Tiny feathers, silky.  I wondered how many fowl sacrificed their fluffy underwear to the cause?  Amazing how much weight they had, all together.  Coughing and sneezing and grateful for the evening breeze, I flapped those four pieces of fabric repeatedly, as clouds of feathery dust puffed out of them.  Sentiment gave way to sanitary as I watched history blow away.

Dust of the ages.  This stretches my mind.  If Great Grandmother stitched these pillows, it would only be logical that they would have been emptied and re-feathered on occasion.

But...the inner pillows?  Who made them?  HER mother?  Grandma was born in 1910.  Great Grandmother in 1889.  Great, Great Grandmother, in 1845.  How vintage WERE those feathers?  Grandma had seldom used the pillows.  But someone did!

God is the only one who knows.  If He counts every hair on our heads, surely he tallies every feather on a fowl.  And now I wonder, how many local nests will be lined this spring with vintage softness of indeterminate age?  

What a gift I've been given.  One of the very many.  Longing to chat with Grandma again, and ask her about the pillows' history, I dropped all four cases into the washer, gentle cycle, warm water.  Likely the first of several washings.

Now, I need a shower.  Dust of the ages, dust in the wind, dust in my throat, dust on me.  And feathers.  What an interesting twist this day has taken!

______________________________

In the early morning light, I once again stepped onto the back porch.  Little birds in great number were hopping daintily round the garden corner, gathering beaks full of dewy feathers.  Robins, sparrows of every description.  Meadowlarks.  On the perimeter waited timid bluebirds.

A sparrow took wing toward her nest in the nearby tree, another fluttering round her, scolding and attempting to steal her collection.  Did she not know there were literally millions more available?  And did the fowl frenzy realize how historic their bedding really was?

Alas, a photo of the gathering proved impossible.  My intrusion provoked a mass exodus of twittering gatherers.

But they returned when I departed.  News spread, and the gathering continued.  Each feather scrutinized carefully from all angles before being selected.  How they can pick up a feather without losing the previous from their beaks is a mystery.  

Now to the laundry.  The pillow fabric needs a third washing.  The laundry floor must be swept.  Day has begun again.