Welcome to the Neighborhood - Clothing Optional

You never really know a place until you’ve met the people. Sometimes it’s a handshake, sometimes it’s a wave from across the fence. . . and sometimes it’s something you could never have prepared for, no matter how many small towns you’ve lived in. When we moved to our northern hideaway I thought I’d seen every kind of neighborly welcome. I was wrong. Very, very wrong.

I grew up in a small town in southern New Hampshire, back before the interstate was open. That’s right—before GPS, before computers and smartphones, when TV stations went off the air at midnight, and when people still knew the names of the cows in the neighbor’s pasture. Our little town had the essentials: a small store with worn wooden floors and gas pumps out front, old men on the porch “whittling” while they gossiped, a part-time post office, a part-time library, a Chevy dealership, and a seasonal hamburger stand that served up greasy magic in a paper box. If you didn’t know everyone’s business you were either new or unconscious.

These days, suburbia’s swallowed the place. The general store’s now just another gas station. The cows are gone, everyone has matching lawn furniture, and people give you side-eye for saying hello. The charm’s gone, along with the days you could borrow sugar and a lawnmower in the same breath.

So in 2001, with retirement on the horizon and traffic jams stretching longer than an Easter sermon, my husband and I headed north. Not “just outside town” north. Not “up by the lake” north. No, we went full-tilt, as-far-north-as-you-can-go-without-learning-French kind of north. The kind where GPS gets confused, cell service is just a suggestion, and if you see moose tracks in the yard, well, that's just Tuesday.

We landed in a tiny town where more dogs are registered than voters, roads are barely paved, and distance is measured in time, not miles. The nearest “big town” has 2,000 people, no traffic light, and a volunteer fire department.

People here are a particular kind of wonderful. They’re simple, hard working folk who might be loggers, mill workers, carpenters or mechanics. Many work at the nearby Ethan Allen plant or are health care workers at the local 16 bed hospital. Many are locals who grew up here, and some are retired folks who moved here to disappear into the woods. Their hands are calloused, their trucks are muddy, and they’d give you the shirt off their back—though sometimes you’ll wish they hadn’t. These are folks who'll pull you out of a ditch with their tractor and never mention it again.

Which brings me to meeting my across-the-road neighbor.

We’d just moved in—boxes still stacked in the mudroom. I’d made a supply run to the “big city,” which is “close by” only if you think an hour and a half qualifies. It has a Home Depot, a Walmart, and a Burger King that gets your order wrong in the exact same way every single time. It was a late Saturday afternoon. I was tired, cranky, and just wanted to get home and unpack the slow cooker I swore I’d actually use this time.

That’s when I saw him.

Standing in the middle of the road. Stark. Raving. Buck. Naked. And drunk—couldn’t-pass-a-sobriety-test-if-it-were-multiple-choice drunk.

Not “lost track of my shirt” drunk. No, this man had been communing with the liquor cabinet in a biblical sense. He swayed like a pine tree in a nor’easter. Whatever he’d been drinking hit like three fingers of moonshine and a hug from Dolly Parton.

As I slowed my car (because who wouldn’t slow down for a man whose only accessory was a farmer’s tan?), he shouted, “Howdy, neighbor! I’m the guy across the road! Welcome to the neighborhood!”

Now, there are many ways to meet a new neighbor:

• A wave from across the fence.

• A plate of cookies.

• A dog wandering into your yard followed by an apology and an introduction.

This was not on the list.

He pointed to his house, just in case I thought he was some feral mountain man fresh from the woods. “That’s my place—right across from you!”

Yes, sir. That sure cleared it up.

I’d love to say I had a clever response—something neighborly like, “Nice to meet you. I’ll bring over a casserole. . . with a lid.” I didn’t. I did what any respectable New Englander would: nodded politely, like meeting someone’s uncle at a funeral, and kept driving. What do you say to a man standing in his birthday suit like he’s auditioning for a Calvin Klein ad on a budget?

Here’s the kicker: once he sobered up and found his pants, he turned out to be a fantastic neighbor. The kind who digs your car out of a snowbank, snow-blows your mailbox after the plow buries it for the fourth time that day, and shows up with jumper cables in January. And never mentions the time he greeted you wearing nothing but a hangover and a smile.

That’s what I love about this place—it’s unpredictable, real, raw. One day you’re chatting at the feed store, wondering if farmer Joe will get his hay in on time. The next you’re waving back at a man who clearly skipped a step in getting dressed that morning.

Moral of the story:

• Don’t let first impressions be your last impression.

• Don’t judge a man by his clothes—or noticeable lack thereof.

    Because sometimes, the guy who greets you in the nude turns out to be the one who’d give you the shirt off his back. If, you know. . . he remembered to wear one.

Out here, life between the fenceposts isn’t always tidy, predictable, or fully clothed—but it’s never boring.

Please leave a comment below. I love hearing from you.

Apparently, My Chickens Live in Poverty

I’m just a country gal. Nothing fancy. If something works, I leave it alone. If it’s held together with baler twine and sheer stubbornness, I consider it a success. My style is practical, functional, and not likely to show up in any glossy magazine—unless there’s a Rustic Chaos special edition, which, honestly, should exist.

So you can imagine my reaction when I stumbled upon an article about a horse barn done up like a luxury hotel lobby. Brick walkway, laid in a herringbone pattern (naturally), crisp white walls, ebony-stained trim, and chandeliers. A whole row of chandeliers, twinkling above the stalls like the horses were hosting a gala. Because apparently, these days, your horses need mood lighting while they kick holes in the walls and smear poop everywhere.

But it didn’t stop there. Oh no. I’ve seen chicken coops—chicken coops—with vinyl flooring, matching curtains, wallpaper, and yes, more chandeliers. Apparently, if your coop doesn’t look like the cover of Poultry Palace Monthly, you’re just not trying hard enough. Meanwhile, back at my place, Hennifer Lopez and her feathered entourage are finally laying eggs in the nest box and defending it like it’s prime real estate. They don’t seem too concerned about the lack of interior design.

And just when I thought barnyard luxury had peaked, I saw it. A goat barn. Two stories tall, with a second-floor balcony. A proper balcony, mind you, complete with rocking chairs, a braided rug, and—you guessed it—a chandelier hanging gracefully above the whole setup. Because clearly, if you’re going to sip your sun tea while watching goats act like caffeinated toddlers on a playground, you deserve proper ambiance.

Oh, and the goats? They weren’t left to just stand around—no sir. They had their own full-blown playground. Jungle gyms. Seesaws. Climbing ramps. A proper goat amusement park. I half expected to see a ticket booth and a sign that said, “Next show: 2 PM.” Because nothing says “responsible livestock management” like building an outdoor adventure course for animals who will still, without fail, choose to stand on your car if given the chance.

I don’t even have goats anymore, but I’ll admit that balcony looked pretty inviting. I wouldn’t mind sitting up there, rocking gently, watching someone else’s goats bounce off the walls. But still—a chandelier. On a barn balcony. For goat-watching.

Back at my farm, the barn floor is plain wood, sealed with Blackjack 57, and topped with pine shavings. My lighting? Bare bulbs, exposed fixtures, no frills. They come on when I flip the switch, and that’s good enough for me. No one’s throwing a cocktail party out there. My sheep think tipping over their water bucket is the height of entertainment. If I hung flowers in their pen, I'd come back to bare stems and zero apologies.

I admire folks who style their barns like magazine spreads. I truly do. They’re creative. Dedicated. Probably exhausted. Me? I’m just trying to keep the barn swept, the grass mowed before I lose a chicken in it, and the animals fed before they stage a revolt.

Maybe one day I’ll hang a chandelier in the barn—strictly as a perch for the chickens. Functional and decorative. That’s my kind of style. Until then, I’ll stick with pine shavings, and bare bulbs. Because let’s be honest: the animals don’t care. And neither do I.

As for that balcony? I’m not saying no. I’m saying not yet.

In the meantime, I’ll be on my imaginary balcony, rocking away, watching the chaos I call a farm—and loving every minute of it.

Please leave a comment below. I love hearing from you.

Hennifer Lopez: Diva of the Coop

Let me introduce you to Hennifer Lopez. No, not Jennifer the singer—although this one does have a set of pipes on her. Hennifer is one of my hens, but calling her just a “chicken” feels like an insult to her enormous sense of self-importance. She’s the kind of bird who thinks rules are for other chickens.

For reasons known only to Hennifer—and possibly the chicken underworld—she has declared war on the nest boxes. You know, those cozy, private, purpose-built little spaces where every other hen happily deposits her egg. Not Hennifer. No, she prefers the corner of the coop, jammed in behind whatever obstacle I foolishly thought would deter her.

At first, it was simple. She picked a corner to lay her egg and refused to budge. I thought I could outsmart her (spoiler alert: I couldn’t). I blocked off her chosen corner with a big box, stuffed full of odds and ends to make it heavy enough that she couldn’t move it. That lasted about an hour.

When I came back to check on her, I found that Hennifer had worked that box like a professional furniture mover. She’d pushed, scratched, and wiggled it inch by inch until she managed to wedge her feathery body behind it. There she sat, smug as can be, proudly laying her egg like she’d just won the gold medal at an Olympic event.

Round two: I got serious. I took a tall, heavy piece of wood and screwed it diagonally across the corner—too high to jump, too solid to move. Ha! Take that, I thought. Corner closed.

But Hennifer? She simply shrugged metaphorically and moved to another corner. Problem solved. . . for her.

Meanwhile, I stood there, staring at the actual nest box. It’s not like I cheaped out. There was plenty of straw—cozy, private, shaded—with just enough room for a chicken to settle in and lay in peace. Honestly, if I were a chicken, I’d pick it myself. But apparently, I don’t have the discerning taste of Miss Lopez.

Then came this morning. I heard the unmistakable sound of Hennifer’s egg song. If you’ve never heard a hen announce her egg-laying plans to the entire world, think of it as a cross between a foghorn and a donkey with laryngitis. She strutted over to her new chosen corner and started scratching, determined to redecorate yet another area of my coop.

Not today, Hennifer.

I scooped her up—feathers fluffed, protests shrieked—and deposited her in the nest box. To make sure she couldn’t pull her usual Houdini routine, I secured a board across the entrance. Essentially, chicken jail. Temporary confinement for egg-laying purposes. She could look out, but not get out.

What followed can only be described as a temper tantrum of epic proportions.

She spun circles like a wind-up toy, screaming her outrage at the top of her lungs. She shoved at the board like she thought she could shoulder it aside, battering at it like a SWAT team in full riot gear. Honestly, if tiny tactical vests existed for chickens, she’d have strapped one on and grabbed a miniature battering ram. I half-expected her to yell, “BREACH! BREACH!” as she slammed into the barrier, convinced that sheer willpower and poultry rage would break her out. And when I reached in to check on her progress, she lunged and bit me. Not pecked—bit. If chickens had fingers, I know exactly which one she would have shown me.

But eventually, nature did what nature does. After all that noise and fury, she finally laid her egg. When I removed the board, I expected her to bolt out in a huff and resume her diva strut. She didn’t. She just fluffed her feathers and looked at me like, “Nope. I live here now.”

Suddenly, as if she hadn’t just staged a full-blown protest, she decided the nest box was. . . comfortable. Too comfortable, in fact. Yes, she refused to leave. She just sat there, cozy as can be. Seriously? I had to lift her out and set her down in the middle of the coop.

And then the biggest twist of all: the hen who’s never been particularly friendly, the one who made it clear humans were simply an unfortunate inconvenience in her world, started following me. She perched near me, soft-clucking, actually asking to be picked up. After weeks of treating me like hired help, she suddenly acted like we were best friends. I had to carry her around like a spoiled lapdog.

When I last checked on her, what was Hennifer Lopez doing? Hopping in and out of the very nest box she had previously treated like a medieval torture device—scratching around, clucking happily, acting like a teenager who’d just discovered Instagram.

Chickens make no sense. Hennifer Lopez makes even less sense. So here I am—outsmarted once again by a chicken with a brain roughly the size of a walnut. And not even a good walnut. . . one of those shriveled-up ones you only find when you’re desperate enough to finish the bag.

Please leave a comment below. I love hearing from you.

The Guinea Fowl Debacle: A Cautionary Tale

I’m in several Facebook groups dedicated to chickens, sheep, and various other forms of controlled barnyard chaos. These groups are equal parts helpful, terrifying, and wildly entertaining—kind of like watching a soap opera, only with feathers, hooves, and the occasional goat climbing a kitchen counter. They’re the kind of virtual hangouts where people post photos of poop and ask, “Is this normal?” They swap advice on everything from worming schedules to whether their rooster might be emotionally unstable.

This morning, in one of the chicken groups, the topic took a lively detour into the world of guinea fowl—those screechy, helmet-headed, weirdo guard dogs of the poultry world. One person raved about how they’re great watchdogs (watchbirds?), alerting you to anything even slightly unusual: predators, falling leaves, suspicious clouds, possibly ghosts. Another chimed in about their excellent reputation for drastically reducing the tick population. And then one brave soul asked the real question:

“Do they ever shut up?”

Cue the collective sigh from everyone who’s ever tried to own guineas and live a peaceful life.

I was instantly transported back to my guinea fowl misadventures. Yes, plural. You’d think I’d have learned the first time. I’ve tried them—really, I have—but I’ve never successfully managed to keep them around or stay sane.

Try #1: The Great Guinea Getaway

It all began with 15 adorable, chirping keets (that’s baby guineas, for those blissfully unaware). I was feeling optimistic, full of hope, maybe a little cocky. (Pun intended.) I raised them like royalty—fed them well, kept them warm, gave them love. I was the Mary Poppins of poultry.

The moment they got their flight feathers? Whoosh! They peaced-out like a group of teenagers who just found out the Wi-Fi password at someone else’s house.

No goodbye. No farewell peep. Gone. Vanished. No note. No text. Just a puff of dust and the faint sound of flapping wings. Straight into the woods and gone forever. Probably joined a gang. I’m still bitter.

Try #2: Guinea Math and Desperate Neighbors

The second time, I didn’t mean to get guineas. Fast-forward a year or two—I went to pick up a sheep. Just one sheep. But the farmer was drowning in guineas and looked desperate.

"Please take some," he begged.

You’ve heard of chicken math? You know, that phenomenon where you go for one and end up with 20? This was guinea math—only a darker, louder force of nature.

We drove home with one sheep and four guineas, two mated pairs. I tried to do things right this time, keeping them in a large wire dog crate for a week so they could get the lay of the land, fall in love with the coop, maybe write a few songs about it, and learn where home was.

Apparently, “home” was not to their liking.

As soon as I let them out, they strutted around the farm like they were on a real estate tour, then decided the neighbor’s yard had better amenities. Every day, they’d eat breakfast at my place like freeloaders, then head off to the neighbor’s to scream at squirrels, admire their own voices, and park themselves right in front of his sliding glass doors like tiny, feathered salesmen who refused to leave.

My neighbor called.

"Uh… Sandy? Did you. . . by any chance. . . happen to get some guineas?"

"Yes," I said cautiously.

"Well, they’ve adopted my porch. They’re watching us like feathered surveillance drones. They stare at us for hours. And they. . . Never. Stop. Yelling. Can’t you do something to keep them home?" he asked, sounding like a desperate man planning an emergency trip to the hardware store for chicken wire, porch netting, and possibly a priest.

I told him they were edible—kind of like pheasant but less gamey—and he was welcome to have them for dinner. He didn’t appreciate that suggestion. Something about his kids being traumatized if dinner came with a name and a staring problem.

Enter the Mirror of Doom

Desperate, I turned to the internet and discovered a fun guinea fact: they are ridiculously vain. Like, full-on feathered narcissists. Apparently, they love staring at their own reflections in a mirror.

Cue Operation Narcissus.

I found a large, old mirror in the barn and propped it up along their morning commute to the feed trough. I placed a large dog crate nearby and waited.

Right on schedule, the guineas strutted up, saw their reflections, and froze. It was like watching a poultry version of a high school prom photo shoot.

I imagine the conversation went something like this:

Martha: “Fred, do you see her? She looks just like me—stunning!”

Fred: “Indeed, Martha. And look at that dashing male beside her—quite the specimen. Honestly, a model.”

Sally: “Hold on, everyone. This one over here? Feathers like spun silk. I must know what shampoo she uses.”

Roger: “I don’t want to brag, but the guy in front of me? A real stud muffin. A true Adonis of the guinea world! Probably works out.”

While they fawned over themselves like barnyard Kardashians, I tiptoed up and gently nudged the crate closer. . . closer. . . BAM! They marched right in like it was a VIP lounge. Caught by their own vanity. I didn’t know whether to be proud or deeply concerned about what I’d just witnessed.

Almost Freezer Camp… Almost

I couldn’t just let them go again, so I stuck them in an empty chicken tractor—a bottomless mobile pen you can move around the yard for fresh grass. They weren’t happy about it, but I reminded them that this was Plan B. Plan A was to stay in my barnyard, but that ship had already sailed.

Jim had plans to send them to “freezer camp” that weekend. But before we could sharpen the knives, Mother Nature got involved.

One blustery afternoon, I looked out the window just in time to see the chicken tractor take flight across the field like a low-budget barnyard production of The Wizard of Oz. It flipped upside down on the far side of the fence, and the guineas shot out like feathered cannonballs. They headed for the woods at top speed, squawking a final, offended farewell.

Gone again. Of course.

A Mystery for the Ages

The next summer, I overheard some folks chatting at the feed store:

"Have you heard about that wild flock of guineas over by Ridge Road?"

"Yeah! Weird, right? Wonder where they came from."

I just nodded politely and said, “Huh. That is strange.” Then I walked away. Slowly. Casually. Like a woman with nothing to confess and no regrets. . . except for the part where I ever brought home guineas in the first place.

Let’s just say I’ve retired from guinea fowl ownership. If anyone asks, I’m strictly chickens and sheep these days. Chickens might be mini velociraptors, and sheep might think a strong breeze is a valid reason to panic, but at least they don’t spend their afternoons admiring themselves in mirrors or heckling the neighbors. Usually.

If you’re thinking of getting guineas, here’s my advice: Don’t. Unless your neighbors really need more excitement in their lives. Or you have an extra mirror lying around and a lot of patience. Or you just really enjoy poultry that screams all the time.

-------------------------------------------------

Want to swap livestock war stories? Or maybe just confess how many chickens you really have?  Share it in the comments! Misery loves company—and so do livestock owners.

Please leave a comment below. I love hearing from you.

Meet My Grandma... Kind Of

I just finished making a traditional Canadian pork pie—Tourtière—for a ladies’ meeting tomorrow. The theme is “Meet My Grandma.” We’ve been encouraged to bring food, photos, and stories that remind us of our grandmothers—things they passed down, things we carry forward.

The truth is, I never actually met my grandmother. She was gone before I was born. I don’t know the sound of her laugh or how she wore her hair, except from a few old photographs. But in my French Canadian family, Tourtière was as essential as breathing. It graced holiday tables, warmed winter kitchens, and quietly stitched itself into the very fabric of our family.

I haven’t made one in 15 years. I figured it would be like riding a bike—except with ground pork and pie crust. Muscle memory and all that. Turns out, my muscles remembered. . . they just didn’t want to cooperate. I had to sit down twice just to catch my breath. At one point, I was negotiating with the pie crust like it was a hostage situation. “Just roll out nice and nobody gets hurt.” Maybe that’s age talking, or maybe it’s because when you’re younger, you don’t notice how much work goes into the things you take for granted—the chopping, the stirring, the seasoning, the slow patience of it all. Tradition, it turns out, is not fast food.

Still, something happened as I leaned over the stove. As much as I sweated over it, it felt good. Familiar. Like reaching back through time and grabbing hold of something solid. The smell—cinnamon, cloves, allspice, a hint of nutmeg—pulled me somewhere else. Into memories I didn’t know I had.

No, I never met my grandmother. I don’t know the sound of her voice or the stories she told. But I know the scent of her kitchen—or at least the one passed down through the hands and aprons of my family.

Suddenly, I was standing back in my aunt’s (her daughter’s) kitchen. Not the glossy, granite-counter kind, but the well-worn, no-nonsense kind that smelled like onions, boiling potatoes, and something always baking. The countertops were cluttered, the linoleum curled slightly at the edges, and the big wooden spoon had a permanent curve from decades of stirring. It made a soft, hollow thok-thok-thok against the pot, like a heartbeat in something warm and full, with the occasional shhhhrrp across the bottom that said, “Almost done.”

There was a low hum of conversation in French and English, dishes clinking, and the occasional burst of laughter. The radio played softly—AM talk shows or old familiar tunes.

There was always a pot simmering, something being peeled, and a cat that wasn’t allowed on the counter but didn’t care. The table had a vinyl tablecloth that stuck to your forearms if it was hot out, and you were expected to sit and stay awhile whether you wanted to or not.

I could almost see the older women in my family—quietly competent, sleeves rolled up, eyes kind but focused. Women I barely knew and yet somehow miss deeply. In all that chaos and warmth, there was peace. That kitchen worked. It fed people—not just food, but comfort, heritage, and a love that didn’t always get spoken out loud.

Tomorrow I’ll bring my Tourtière, a couple of old black-and-white photos, and a pie dish full of memories that aren’t exactly mine but somehow still belong to me. I may not have stories from my own lips, but I’ll have this—warm, flaky, a little lopsided, made with love. A dish that speaks where words fall short.

Bon appétit, Mémère. I hope I did you proud.

Please leave a comment below. I love hearing from you.