Antiques and Adventures: A Moment in Time

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Whew! Another week has flown by! Yet time is like that, isn’t it? Especially when you get older and you’re moving “downhill”, shall we say. My current update is the same as last weeks: pallets are still on the driveway, coop still needs cleaning, and we have one out of two porch rocking chairs stained. The status of these projects hasn’t changed much in seven days. We did get a few things in the barn and tidied up before the snow flies, but the leaves are still falling. It’s actually quite sunny out today and I’m not really thinking about snow at all yet. It will be here soon enough, though.

Let’s get back to fall, though, shall we? I had a beautiful fall drive the other day through the countryside to pick up our little grand baby. He’s getting so big now… will be a year in a couple months. There’s time flying again. Really flying when you think of all the milestones a little one goes through in a year. From helpless newborn to walking, talking toddler, to helpless teenager again. Did I say that out loud? Ooops. Nevermind. I suppose we can say that time certainly doesn’t stop for anyone on this journey through our earth exsistance.

Anyway… back to my fall drive. The colours were fabulous. Golden hues mixed with brown undertones, a clear, blue sky and a winding road through little rural towns decorated with orange pumpkins and the odd farm stand of weathered wood and hand drawn signs. Post card perfect. Even for the end of the season. Once car seats were switched and snacks were handed out, I headed off home again. Grand baby and I stopped at an antique shop on the way, just to break up the journey. I was a little nervous taking a baby through a narrow aisled shoppe filled with old glass jars and pottery, especially one in an old dairy barn with a cracked (and slanted) floor. He’s a little angel though, and happily ate his cheese bagel in the stroller as I dodged in and out of the booths checking price tags.

Antiques are a funny thing. I don’t claim to be an “antique-r” but I love to look. Why do we pay so much for something so old? I’m a sucker for mason jars, and have a large collection. Still, I stop and look at the price of every jar filled with marbles. I have no idea why. I also wander through such places and think, “if I put that old window frame up on my wall, it is certainly gonnna look weird and not at all like that one in the magazine”. I even have the old century farmhouse now where such things are expected… but my decorating skills are not anywhere near the magazine people. And so I wander through antique barns checking price tags like I know what I am doing.

At the very last booth, however, I did discover two little ceramic birds. I have been craving these for some time now. They aren’t even antiques, likely. I’ve seen similar in those potpourri gift shoppe places. The price tag always deters me. These birdies, however, had a price tag on the bottom of $5.00! So, I hummed and hawed for a second, do I need them? They are a good price, so I wandered off with them to the counter.

My new little “vintage” birdies

I chit chatted with the guy about the weather, these little birds, and how I had been looking for a pair, and how cute grand baby was with cheese bagel stuffed face. He tells me they were $5.56 total. I originally thought they were $5 EACH. So, I am very sorry, nice antique guy, but I didn’t say a single thing, nor question your final price, except that we still had a bit left over for coffee … and I bubbled inside that I now had a great deal (It was mixed with a little guilt I didn’t question him, I’ll admit it! But that’s on the store owner right? The price tags were clearly labelled…)

I suppose at this point, I should muse about being honest. Perhaps speaking truth. Perhaps how our glorious Creator gives us the fall season to rejoice in. Okay, I’ve mentioned all of those things. Yet my thinking originally lead me to “time” for this post. An antique store certainly makes you question time. You literally look at pieces of history from a time past: glass mason jars for canning or marble collections. Movie posters and antique record albums. Rusty farm tools. Real wood furniture, pottery crocks, milk crates and bottles. Baskets, fur coats and license plates. Pieces in time.

My little birds are perhaps “vintage” but likely not real antique. I don’t think they serve any purpose besides sitting on a shelf to make me smile. Still, they will remind me of when a bagel eating grand baby was with me, and how he’s growing so fast. How warm the sun was on that day, and how I need to get going on those porch chairs. How God gives us limited time. Yet, for every waking minute and second of that time, He watches over us, as He does the tiny sparrow. And only He knows when our time is up. When His plan for us is complete and time will move forward with others stepping up to the plate.

Do you love an antique shop, my friend? Or do you love a modern coffee shop and bagel? Either way, it’s an outing with a friend. Or a grand baby. Or a spouse. Or a parent. This week, I’m reminded that time is special. Preserve and cherish it. For not unlike the price tags of antiques, the cost is usually high, but if you get a deal, don’t say too much: Just enjoy it.

Unpacking the Laundry: Silly Sock Insights from Everyday Life

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Welcome back to another musing about seemingly ordinary things that lead to the extra ordinary thought of the week. The weather has certainly been getting cooler. I can’t believe that soon the snow will fly and I’ll be writing about getting stuck in snow drifts again. We closed up the pool for another season… I say “we”, but the hubby did most of the work. We just pulled and secured the tarp. It took less time this year than last, so we must be improving our technique. My pallets are still sitting on the driveway. I did finish staining the porch pew and a chair (one to go!) this week, though. I say, do you have to rake leaves if you live in the country and nobody really cares about your lawn? Sigh. So many mundane things to do.

One of those is the never ending laundry pile. Why? Why do we have so much laundry? There are four adult people living in this house. The dog rarely makes any extra laundry. Why are there so many towels? Who is using pool towels when the pool hasn’t been used for weeks? Nevertheless, the goal this weekend was to get through the piles (and piles) of laundry. I didn’t count how many loads we did, but the machines were running non-stop. We finally fluffed, folded and put away the laundry! Gold star!

Who is still using the beach towels?!

How come we don’t give out gold stars on chore charts for adult households? Perhaps we should implement that as acceptable once again. Bonus points for matching the sock bag. I have a “sock bag” where all the lost socks get dumped. This weekend I purged the sock bag once again in an attempt to get those bonus laundry points. Am I alone in this? Why do we keep mis-matched socks until they die? Most are perfectly good socks. Some in that bag are not good at all, and they are likely in that bag because I have tossed the holey partner long ago. I am sure there is a sock in that bag from when my youngest was about five years old… it certainly is cute but won’t fit anyone. For some unknown reason, I put it back in the bag.

Now, I am all for reuse and recycle, and believe you me, I have searched lots of ideas for single socks… but who wants a sock puppet to take to school when you are eighteen and the sock is a nylon dress sock with pink flamingos flocking it? The eldest of our kids has a sock obsession. She has a sock with every character, food group and funky colour. She no longer lives at home and the flamingo socks do not belong to her. I rest my case.

Still, I promised supernatural from the mundane… which leads to this week’s musing. As I sat on the living room floor surrounded by my mismatched sock collection, I thought about God up in heaven sorting out all His people. Have you ever thought about God’s collection of people? Some are “holier” than others. Some colourful. Some fuzzy, some knee high long, some short ankle sock with sports logos. Some are practical and keep you warm. Others are nylon with pink flamingos that are all fad. Like socks, we often get separated in the wash. We loose touch with those who are like us. We start out as a great pair, or a complete package of ten pair, fresh and new from Christmas morning, ready to last all year.

The Lost Sock Bag

Then. We get grass stained, dripped on, sweaty and overworked. Stretched out to the point where our elastics fail and we slide down inside the winter boots of life – defeated. Or tossed aside in the lost sock bag. For some of us, that’s the end. We’ve done our job to its fullest and God says, it’s okay, it’s your time to go now, let a fresh pair take over that stinky job. Or like that five year old’s pink sock, you get put back in the bag because although your job may be done, you are celebrated for the memories and make a mom smile at what was once. It’s a funny feeling when you find a bunch of matches in that pile, though. The adrenaline rush of the housewife who finds a full cotton pair of sports sock with not only similar stripes but the same stripes and logo on heel and toe! Those socks get put in the keep pile with big plans for a full day of toe tapping work ahead!

I know, it’s a silly muse. Socks. Faith journeys. Everyday life. Yet, it’s real. It’s a thing we can all relate to, and I hope that you’ll take a second look at who you’ve been perfectly matched with, and know that that person was hand picked out of the pile for you. And if you are still waiting in the bag, your time will come. Or if your time has come, know that you will be remembered for your crazy flamingo memories and your cozy winter morning snuggles. Happy laundry day, everyone.

Emotional Lessons on Faith from Chicken Keeping

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Another beautiful Tuesday here in sunny Ontario, Canada, and another thought for you from my little piece of the Internet. We’ve just celebrated Canadian Thanksgiving, and all the fall activities and sights and sounds are upon us. They say the colours are a bit muted this year, so I don’t know how to feel about that. I’m not so sure. Around here, the golden fields are rich in the sunlight, and I am reminded to be thankful. There’s lots of fall thanksgiving, gratitude, and blessings posts here at mittonmusings.com, so if you’re looking for one of those, do a simple search and I am sure it’ll pop up for you. This week, however, was not one of those gratitude musings… well at least not in the beginning. I had a bit of an emotional roller coaster of a night the other night, so I’ll share:

As you all know, the chickens here are the main attraction. They are the reason I dragged my family to the sticks to make a living. You’ll also know that we’ve lost a few to predators. I think the risk is worth it, so I continue to free range my girlies. It’s fun to watch them chase the bugs (and frogs and mice…). It brings me joy. However, the last time we were away we lost three to (what we suspect is) a coyote. Three is pretty devastating when you have a small flock, so a few weeks back we went about replacing those hens. Now, I am new to this chicken tending thing and have only ever raised day old chicks. Only this close to winter, chicks are harder to find and keep. The big companies don’t sell them and they will go outside too close to colder temperatures, so “teenager” chickens were the ticket. “Pullets” in the chicken keeping world. So, several weeks ago we brought home three new girls (hopefully girls!).

Travelling home with three new teenagers who are all wet because they dumped their water!

Then came the process of quarantining, integrating with the existing flock (the pecking order is a real thing!) and getting them to trust me and bond and all that good stuff. The bonding is a little harder with pullets because they are already fully feathered and didn’t spend any time with me in the house. They were able to go straight outside. Which means they don’t know my voice yet. They haven’t fully learned all the routines yet. They don’t trust me yet. Which is where my story begins.

A few nights ago I went out to put everyone to bed. The older girls were safely tucked up on the roosts already. The nights are getting darker earlier and I missed “dusk”. It was already dark… and the new girls were no where to be found. The hubby and I checked every bush and brush. I called and climbed. The new girls have been wandering a bit farther and farther from their coop as they gain confidence … but they did not recognize my voice.

I second guessed my whereabouts. I was home all night. Did I hear anything? I didn’t see anything. Did the dog bark unusually during the evening? I should have gone out before dark. I should have spent more time with them before letting them free range. I don’t deserve pets. I’m not worthy of animals, I’m no farmer. I dragged the whole family here for nothing… And the emotional spiral down begins. Then the tears. The hubby says “They are just stupid chickens” — not worth crying over. Yet, us girls go there in the middle of the night when we are upset. They don’t know me yet, and it was my fault!

My emotional breakdown was real, but unnecessary, and totally unwarranted, not only because it isn’t totally true, but because the next morning when I went out, three fluffy, buff coloured heads poked out from behind the bushes and looked at me. We had looked there. Twice. Even that morning they didn’t come running to greet me. I only noticed them after I heard the bushes rustle. Then, of course, I called and offered treats and goo goo voiced at them as prayers of thankfulness flowed and the begging of forgiveness for taking my lack of pullet training for granted. I’m such a basket case some days.

Safe and sound and learning to come when called!

In John 10, there is a strikingly similar story that Jesus tells about sheep. It was such a vivid parallel to me! It tells us that the sheep only recognize the voice of the good shepherd. They don’t recognize the voice of the thief that comes in the night. The one who comes from the back door only to prey on them with doubt. Only the voice that they trust (and recognize) to keep them safe will lead them to the rich green pastures. Or in my case, the warm and shielded chicken coop. Needless to say, I am working on my pullet bonding these days.

Are you there, my friend? Do you recognize the voice of the good shepherd? It takes time. It takes work. It requires trust to be built. You must learn the routines. Go back and read the story. It’s a good one. I’ll be back again next week with more thoughts on this faith journey and how God is showing me through crazy chicken keeping how our faith gets lived out on the daily. We’ll catch up soon.