The sign of the chicken

Years ago Ben’s parents had this metal sign made for us.  At the time we were living in a small San Antonio neighborhood and I couldn’t fathom any reason why I would or should have a sign with our name and a chicken in my house.

Little did any of us know what foreboding the chicken sign would have on my life now.

For years I lugged that thing around.  Hiding it in closets, underbeds, the back of the utility room.  I was all for the country, distressed look but a chicken?! Really?!

Then  we moved to the woods.  And not just any woods.  Two acres of overgrown, barely cleared for the house, snaky woods.

Soon came the goats.

      “But why?!” I asked
      To clear the pens and chicken coup.
      “But why?!”
      So we can have chickens.

Of course.

And there I was. Finally in a situation where the chicken sign could come home to roost.  And I wouldn’t change it for a thing.  Well I would add more land for more goats and chickens and a barn and more gardens and OH a tractor and for me to be able to stay home and take care of all this stuff.  But all of that is yet to come.

But someday.
I had a sign.

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