I’ve been trying to think of a name for our house. It’s not fair that only fancy English people get to have cool names for their homes like Waddesdon Manor and Buckhurst Park. On Pinterest I call our home The Harmony House for obvious reasons. (Not to be confused with our previous “Not-a-Home” on Home Ave for the .2 seconds we lived in the city and hated every second of it). I’ve been thinking of Chateau Harmony, or The Harmony Stronghold, but the former is too refined for a home full of dirty dishes, legos and little boys and the latter implies we’ve got sturdier walls and a battlement tucked away somewhere. ...I’m going to have to keep thinking about it.
Some people do their best thinking and meditating while they run. I am not one of those people. Running is not in my genetics, I always look like I’m either about to turn into a tomato, or have a heart attack regardless of how long or short the run is or what the temperature is. Jim and I started running together since he’s been working at home, and during our first run together he kept asking if I was ok and telling me that I was doing great. I wanted to murder him, but my lungs couldn’t prioritize any extra movement, so I settled for glaring at him instead. It’s a miracle he wanted to keep me as a running partner. My run is his fast walk, so we’ve worked out a better system where we start out together and finish together but he does an extra mile in between. It’s still galling, but at least I can wheeze and groan in peace. Covid-19 almost took a sinister turn during my run yesterday in my effort to successfully “social distance” from a mask wearing couple. I ran off the sidewalk onto the local elementary school lawn which apparently has canceled their custodians as well as class because I found myself ankle deep in clover. A half dozen bees immediately made their angst known and I remembered belatedly that I’d forgotten to wear my epi-pen. I can never remember if you’re supposed to stand still with bees, or run. Can they smell fear? Whatever the case, it was my fastest mile ever. Maybe this is a potential new training program.
The baby chicks are growing like...well babies. They pretty much eat, poop and sleep (and grow before our eyes). My internet reading said to clean out their brooder and replace the shavings once a week, but I was cleaning it out every other day and my house still smelled like the inside of a barn. Plus, they were starting to outgrow the giant terrarium, so I decided it was time for new measures. They are now ensconced in the garage in their new quarters I built out of leftover Council beer boxes. So they now have a one-of-a-kind, craft industry, art deco beer garden, or: Le Chic Biergarten. They seem less than impressed.
But hey, maybe that’s what we can name the house?