The eggs are the first sign of spring creeping around the corner. The second and less pleasant sign of creeping spring…the mud.
There's mud everywhere. It freezes, it snows, it thaws, and my driveway and yard get deeper and deeper. The driveway is now impassable to all but the most determined souls with four-wheel-drive. I've been ferrying visitors through the muddy ruts while leaving their wholly inadequate cars parked safely at the bottom of the driveway.
It honestly didn't bother me a bit, until I realized I can't get deliveries. While I was ordering copies of my book from my publisher to sell at events, he offered to have the package sent to my house for my convenience. It was then that I realized there is no way a delivery man is going to make it to my door. I had to ask my publisher to accept my order at the office and let me pick it up there. The books should arrive just in time for my official release date.
The rest of it is just a series of little annoyances. I have to carry my shoes, or arrive everywhere is my muck boots. Stylish with dress clothes I assure you. When I feed the chickens, I watch them churn all their feed under the mud. We'll get a bumper crop of everything they are planting out there this winter. Not to mention, the stubborn refusal of my dogs to wipe their feet at the door.
It may sound like I'm complaining, but really I'm not. My driveway has character, and a current built-in-guarantee that guests need to call ahead. It's just a part of the charm of country life. I would take my muddy ruts over a paved driveway in town any day.
Before I start my post… DO NOT USE THIS FOR BABIES UNDER 1 YEAR OF AGE!
This is how my children suffer. Okay suffering may be too strong a word, but not if you ask them. I have one child who currently has a rasping cough. I did the concerned mom thing, I took her to the doctor. This visit, to my great surprise, my doctor recommended that I give my child a honey-based cough syrup. The doctor then proceeded to give me absolutely no suggestions about where to find such a thing, but this isn't a problem for me.
Honey and Onion syrup to the rescue! Or as it's been nicknamed in my house: Hunion Syrup.
I first discovered this gem in a book called, "The Wild and Weedy Apothecary" by Doreen Shababy; but I've encountered it many times after that as part of folk medicine practices. I know folk medicine is just old wives tales, blah, blah. I hear you. But I'm going to say: just because it's an old wives tale doesn't necessarily mean it doesn't work. I've personally used this remedy for my own family, and extended family, for years. It's a go-to for me because I pretty much always have an onion and we keep bees. It's so simple to make, that my kids have done it. It's ridiculously easy.
Cut up as much white, or yellow, onion as you think you are going to use. I normally use about half a large onion. Next I pour in raw local honey (not from the supermarket that stuff is mostly corn syrup.) Cover the onion completely.
Then wait a few hours until the hygroscopic honey leaches the juice out of the onion, and into itself. It will be obvious by the onion's now wilted appearance and the liquid nature of the honey.
All that's left to do is strain the onion out of the honey, and administer. For adults 1-2 tablespoons. For children over the age of one year (don't get hung up on dosing, it's just food) I force mine to swallow about a tablespoon.
FOR BABIES UNDER ONE YEAR DO NOT USE THIS!!!! Raw honey has been linked to BOTULISM DEATHS in babies due to their underdeveloped digestive system. AND LOUDER FOR THE PEOPLE IN THE BACK! BABIES CAN DIE FROM THE CONSUMPTION OF HONEY!
If you've stuck with me this far I can explain why this works for coughs, and congestion:
Raw, local honey is a wonder of the natural world. It is antibacterial, with a mild antihistamine action. Local honey ingested over time is believed to help build a resistance to local allergens and hayfever. It also gives a quick energy boost.
Onions, especially raw, are a good source of vitamin C, anti-inflammatory, and great for removing phlegm.
So how bout them apples…er…onions.
Life on a small hobby farm can be rewarding and so full of little milestones. I just got one of the little hints that spring is lurking somewhere under the ice that is currently melting to mud. Even before the fuzzy quality of buds on trees, and bees taking to the air, comes one of my favorites; the eggs.
How are eggs a big deal? For anyone who doesn’t live on a farm you may not be aware that chickens lay eggs based on the available daylight hours. Yes chickens are solar powered. They can be tricked into laying during the winter by electric lights but I don’t like to do that. Some breeds produce right through the winter. Mine don’t.
Normally December and January I have no fresh eggs. I keep my eggs fresh enough to cook with during this time by purposely not washing them when I bring them in. I wash them just before I use them. Anything smeared with any unsavory barnyard waste is not saved for longer-term storage.
This year was unusual in the fact that my chickens stopped laying earlier than they ever had before: the beginning of November. They didn’t grace me with the first egg till this week. Normally I see one on, or around, Groundhog’s day. So this led me to do something I haven’t done in almost ten years. I bought eggs, from the store. That was eye-opening. I’d nearly forgotten the ghostly pale yellow yolks of my youth as compared to the robust yellow/orange yokes of free-range chickens.
The one on the left is from one of my birds, the one on the right is from a cage-free carton from the supermarket. The color of the yokes from my birds will darken in the spring when there is more for them to forage. There’s just no contest which I like better. I’m glad to have them back.
Gather round boys and girls and I'll tell you an origin story. No, I'm not a superhero. No cape, and my tights bunch up, or pull so I'd rather not think about them too much. This origin story isn't mine, not really.
Before we begin I'll note that the crucial piece of information that would allow you to verify this tale is sadly missing. So, take it as fact, or assume it's fiction. I know the truth, and really that's what matters.
This story starts years ago with my mother: the collector of junk, and occasional finder of treasure. She walked into my house carrying a zippered case that was starting to come apart. She informed me that it contained a gift. Inside was an old Olivetti Underwood Lettera 33 typewriter in beautiful condition.
I love typewriters. I grew up typing school reports on a typewriter. Admittedly, I grew up in the era of the electric word processor, but my household didn’t own one. We did however have a Commodor 64 computer, and one of those printers that required the paper with the tear-away guide holes. Really, it was a thing, look it up. I couldn’t use it because it was the wrong format for the school, seeing as the paper was nearly as wide as a desk. Instead, I used an old manual typewriter.
To me, the clacking of the keys of a typewriter sounds like nostalgia, like inspiration, and also a whole lot of work.
So on my table in front of me sat a light, beautiful, traveling typewriter. When I asked my mom why she bought it for me, she told me the gift wasn’t from her. My mother had spotted it sitting on a table at a yard sale. It was out of her price range but she thought I might like it so she decided to see if the woman would take less for it.
This woman of retirement age asked my mom if she wanted the typewriter to use herself, or for resale. My mom told her about me: a writer who had an idea for a book and dreams of one day being an author. It was going to be a gift to encourage me to write that book.
The woman was amazed and told my mom to take it as a gift of encouragement from her to me.
Why would she do this? This typewriter had belonged to her late husband: a newspaper reporter. It had been carried with him for most of his career. When he eventually retired he decided it was time to write his book. He unfortunately passed away before he could accomplish the dream of writing his first novel on this typewriter. It was her hope that the typewriter would be used to write my first novel instead.
So a great deal of my first draft for, “As It Ends” was written on this typewriter. Additionally the text for the front cover was typed on this typewriter and scanned in to be used as a nod to the gift that I received.
What was the crucial piece of missing information you ask. I do not know the name of the woman who gifted me the typewriter. When I asked my mom she stared at me and said that she didn’t actually know it.
So to the woman who made the anonymous gift of this beautiful typewriter, I thank you from the bottom of my heart. It was used to write a first novel.
I have an ongoing interest in dystopian fiction, both reading and writing it. I’m a fan of simple living and draw inspiration for my writing from my love of old-fashioned skills and my small hobby farm.
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My first book is available on Amazon