My husband is coming home today. He stays gone just long enough for me to get into a chores rhythm, then he returns and things are done his way, again. Yes, sharing chores is the optimal method, but with sharing comes sacrifice of rhythm and efficiency. Oh yes, and they aren't necessarily done my way. Except for cleaning the glass from the two cases of canning jars the cats knocked from the top level of the shed, I was finished in record time. Obi had not yet honked his horn to wake us on his way to work.
The cats and dog were fed; the chickens were released and bribed to like me with a bit of corn; the nesting boxes were cleaned and re-hayed; I sloshed through mud and manure deep enough to seep into the tops of my orange boot shoes; Mr. S's calf was bottle fed, his water refreshed, and a scoop of this disgusting milk feed was thrown in his trough (against my better judgement, but he's not my calf so I have to mind); Dusty was given his ration of oats; the heifers, Crip, and the bull were given their morning ration though I thought of cutting them out of the circle since they broke into the hay storage and ruined a good bit of it. All of these things were accomplished with no wasted steps. I had plenty of time to clean the mess left by the canning jars before morning baking.
I'll have to tell this one short tidbit about my apparent country-ness to amuse mull-berry . Last night we heard sirens about 7:30. I and both my children ran to the front porch to see if we could tell what was happening. The fire truck was coming from one of the Neshoba County stations which are about 12 to 15 miles from us and going toward the town. This meant that the fire was substantial and help was called. I picked up the phone and called my parents and brother who live in town to see what was ablaze. Yes, all county people do it, if they don't actually get into their cars and follow the firetruck in case they can be of assistance. A few minutes later more trucks passed, this time turning down the dirt road that separates our farm from the next one. We know this because we all ran to the porch, again. Then trucks came from the town and turned down the road. Apparently, the first truck missed the turn. I called a friend who lives down that road to see if she could see anything. She said her dogs were going crazy. Then she said, "I guess I'll have to get dressed and go see what it is."
I know people in other places don't do this. When I lived in the city, there would have to be action right across the street for anyone to come to the window, much less walk outside. There are just too many sirens to keep up. I, after many years, found that I was becoming immune to the drawing effect of the sirens. Once I moved back here, I immediately returned to my habit. The important thing to remember is that, while a bit of nosiness is involved, when the firetrucks pass your house in the country they are most likely going to someone's house or business that you know. Wanting to know if your friend's house is burning is not nearly as embarrassing as just being a gawker.