I’ve been mucking out with a friend today building a shelter for his egg laying birds. I thought I’d hate the muck, but I soon forgot about it, and the only thing that reminded me I was due elsewhere was a raving hunger. A bumped head, but still a fun three hours wading in mud.
As a child and a young person, weather was fascinating to me and I enjoyed being out in it, regardless of temperature, force, or destruction.
I have distinct memories of scampering around the woodlands of our farm in the “dead of winter”, as they say. I don’t recall being particularly bothered by the temperature, the wind, or the snow. Snow fascinated me … its consistency, its pliability, its taste … I could not get enough of the white stuff.
I remember being terribly disappointed when I was forced by time or parental directive to go back inside, even when my clothes were wet from sloshing through some half-frozen stream or “skating” on one of our stock ponds.
Rain was something to absorb, and not something to avoid. Standing on a small hill as a roaring thunderstorm…
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