As a homesteader, you’re going to be at the mercy of the weather more so than your city counterparts. There will be things that must be done, regardless or rain or snow or wind or extreme temperatures, and it could be the difference between life and death—at some point, if not immediately—instead of just an annoyance.
Today, for example, it’s a little windy, a little chilly, and a lot rainy. Fortunately for me, I have plenty to do inside the house—or barn—but if I had animals at this point, there would still be feeding and care and for that I’d have to brave the weather.
But a lot can be said for planning ahead.
Normally, I do laundry on Monday. Today is Monday. It’s pouring rain, and I use a clothesline. If I wasn’t paying attention to weather, I might be going commando today, but I washed clothes yesterday when it was sunny and 70 degrees.
I also got the strawberry plants in the ground, and a small tree, and trimmed and mowed the orchard—because when the weatherman says, “Ninety percent chance of rain,” I tend to believe that we’ll get some precipitation. Probably.
Better safe than sorry!
The worrisome forecast is coming up, though: high chance of rain for the next ten days or longer. Not thrilled about that—it’s not good to work the soil when it’s super muddy and at this rate, my weeds will be bigger than my potato plants. And they’re looking really good!
Something else we have to consider around here is burning. I’m a fanatic about fire safety, or so my husband says, but I won’t allow burning if the wind is higher than 10 mph. Period. We still have some of that old house to burn down before we bury the rest, but yesterday the conditions were ideal: no wind, and rain in the forecast.
That fire is completely out now, good and proper, thanks to the downpour.
Trash burning, too, should be done in low-wind conditions. As I have to say around here, repeatedly, it does NOT MATTER if there’s a grate on top of the burn barrel to keep large pieces from flying around.
“It only takes a spark,” and all that . . .
The Little Things
I brought the laundry in yesterday and put it away, shaking out each piece to get rid of any lingering dust or whatnot. Last night, as I put on my robe, I noticed something green on the sleeve.
A tiny worm.
I flicked him off and let him take his chances with the cat. Or the dog. Whichever got to him first.
I kinda feel bad. Kinda.
I’m certainly NOT going to “set him free” outside. Good grief. I’m sure there are plenty more where he came from . . .
But it got me thinking—my daughter is coming down on Friday. She’s never been here. She’s not what you would call outdoorsy or anything, unless that means lounging by the pool on a layover; she’s a flight attendant.
She is not a fan of bugs. Not. A. Fan.
When she was six, she saw a spider on the living room floor. I told her to step on it. She refused. I bet we spent at least 15 minutes arguing over that thing. I finally squished it and told her to take a Kleenex and pick it up and throw it away.
She refused again.
Another 15 minutes later, Spidey was in the trash and my daughter was in tears. So was I, come to think of it.
I mean, sheesh, a dead spider. Never did get the fear of spiders thing—and I was bitten by a brown recluse when I was 16.
Oh, and she will dispose of them now—twenty-five years later. But not without, I suspect, lots of shaking and shuddering and squealing.
I’m just wondering how she’s going to manage down here . . .especially if a worm gets on her sleeve!