I think they read my blog at Barnstable Feed & Supply. They were nice to me today.
In fact, I'm starting to think that lots of people I run into out there in the world are reading it because suddenly everyone has a story to tell. I feel like I've been mistaken for the NPR story corps.
Today I learned that in the cemetery next to PJ's in Wellfleet there is a stone marking the grave site of a husband and wife. They died within an hour of each other in the 1700's.
I learned that in the glory days of Jacks Out Back there was Spaghetti Night. You had to wait for an hour or more to get in. The owners would arrive with everything in baskets - candelabras, tablecloths, bottles of wine. I only went there for breakfast and now feel completely cheated.
At the feed store they got a stool so Studley could climb up and see the new baby chicks. She starts chatting with me, eager to verify my identity.
Feed & Supply Lady: How many chickens do you have?
fsl: Did you name them? (this is a trick question)
me: Yes. We have Cacophony, Calliope, Clandestine, Philistine and Endive (I make up names that are fun to say because usually I just get to type them. Yes, I pronounce it ahn-deev).
This only confirms her suspicions.
She tells me about her first chickens. Her mother is in the store and she keeps chiming in, for verity. As a child she got a job at a local circus. "There was no pay," says mum, "but the first day she came home with a big box of chickens." As it turned out they were all roosters. What a rip off. Apparently they had pretty much every animal imaginable growing up. I suddenly feel that I'm in good hands.
They tell me that there is no sales tax on items bought for chickens. Surely there is also a chicken credit we can claim next April?
This may really work out for us.
But not as well as having a neighbor whose daughter can fish. She brought over a big piece of freshly caught bass tonight. Our friends who generally show up when there's something delicious on the menu showed up. She brought this baked apple thing she found in her grandmother's recipe stash. Okay, she didn't find the actual apple thing, just the recipe.
Sometimes even now I can hear Mrs. Olson correcting my writing. With my luck she, too, has found my blog and is preparing to haul me back to that Junior High English class.