Prepper

Chapter Eight

Heath comes out to the garage every five minutes to interrupt my flow and declare, yet again, that his TV shows don't work. On the fourth visit, I lose what little patience I have, yell loud enough to send him scurrying back inside with a face full of tears. It takes about five seconds for the guilt to sink in, so I sit down and call the service provider. I get an auto-attendant and the usual prompts, but I cannot break through to any human agents. I vow to try again later and head inside to talk things out with Heath. I get him to agree to come outside where I set him up with some tools of his own so he can "build" something.

I get the coop built and setup in the back yard, I've only smashed my fingers with the hammer half a dozen times, which is actually quite good. Heath is pretty excited about the chickens and about visiting his grand parents, visits to the farm are always an adventure.

We pack up and jump in the truck. We take a slow, leisurely (economical) drive out to the farm, taking mostly back roads. I don't pass a single other vehicle on the way. At the farm I barely get Heath unbuckled from his seat and he's off like a shot, pausing only long enough to give his grandma a very brief hug. Then he's off again, harrying the chickens and guinea hens and searching behind every bush, under every shrub and all throughout the barn for the cats that have all run and hidden to avoid his overly affectionate and much unwanted advances.

"Kate tells me you are going to give the chickens a try." Kate's mom, Vivian, says as I approach.

"Yeah, I can't turn down free eggs any longer."

"Earl is just around back in the garden, he'll get you all set up. I'll go box up some food for you and Kate. You like peach marmalade?"

"Love it." I lie.

I find Earl in his garden, which is bigger again by half than my entire back yard. He has spent his entire life on the farm and could likely grow crops in the desert. The garden is row upon row of lush, food-producing plants, less the varieties that have already run their course and been harvested. I catch up to him between rows of cabbage.

"Bumper crop Earl." I say.

"Hi Connor, grab a hoe." He says. He does this almost every time I visit; I immediately get thrown into some kind of farm labour. Takes me back to my teen years, where summer jobs almost always involved the local agriculture. I do as requested and move a couple rows over and start weeding. "You have a place for the chickens?" He asks.

"Yes, just built it."

"Is it vermin-proof?"

"I don't know about 'proof', but it's surrounded with chicken-wire."

"Are the nest-boxes raised?"

"The what?"

"Where the hens are going to nest and lay the eggs."

"Oh, didn't think about that. Should be easy enough to modify." He glances my way, it's the look I get from time to time that says, 'why did my daughter have to marry such a city slicker?'. Which is a little unfair, I grew up outside the city, just not on a farm.

"Make sure you can secure the hen house at night, you will lose a lot of chickens in short order if something gets in there."

"Good to know. I'll lock it down."

I finish my row, getting three blisters in the process. Earl doesn't believe in gloves so none were offered and I sure as hell wasn't going to ask for any. He already likes to retell the story about the time I came across a Fox snake in his garden. It was a bit of a sissy moment, I will admit. Kate made it worse by walking over, picking it up and moving it to another location. Snakes, ugh. Still makes me shiver.