A gray day is OK

By Christine Tailer
HCP columnist

From the moment I first opened my eyes Sunday morning, until the evening darkness crept in from the east, the sky was a white-washed gray. 

I knew that I would have to wear my farm cap whenever I ventured outside. The bill would keep the lightly spitting rain from blurring my glasses. I pulled my gray ponytail through the back of the cap and headed out to do the animal chores.
 
As the chickens flowed down the ramp from their coop, I noticed how the two gray Plymouth Rock hens seemed particularly suited to the grayness of the day. They led the flock as they dashed up the hill to wait by the feed shed for their morning treat of scattered cracked corn. 

It occurred to me that this appeared to be a gray hen kind of day.
 
I made my way down the line of rabbits, gathering up their bottles to fill with clean water. 

The black lops and white Californians sat, as usual, along the back side of their hutches.  Their noses twitched as I pulled the bottles from the wire hangers and piled them into my black bucket. Not so, their gray cross offspring. 
 
All four of the gray does sat by the fronts of their cages, putting their furry rabbit paws on the wire as if to say "Hurry back, now. I am really ready for some fresh water this gray morning." 

I paid the does heed, and hurried off across the wet yard. I could feel the squish from the heels of my rubber boots as they stayed slightly stuck in the damp earth. I made my way down to the water spigot, slowly shaking my head. Here I was minding my gray rabbits! 

Perhaps this was a gray rabbit day as well.
 
Chores done, Greg and I headed back across the yard to the cabin. I had just packed the wood stove tight with logs before we headed outside. Gray smoke wafted up from the cabin's chimney and headed north to the edge of the woods before it dissipated into gray of the day. I knew that the gray smoke signaled the warmth of the cabin inside.
 
But I was not in any rush. I decided to sit down on the front porch swing before I headed back to my chair by the stove. 

It occurred to me that the whole gray day lay stretching out ahead of me, and that I could afford the time to leisurely pull off my rubber boots from a seated position on the swing. 

No need to dance about the porch in my usual rushed, standing boot removal maneuver. 
 

It really felt quite luxurious to sit on the swing and slowly pull off my boots. I let them flop over on the porch floor by my feet. Then, on a whim, I planted my feet firmly on the porch and pushed the swing back as far as it would go. I picked up my feet and swooshed forward, feeling the chill air percolate through my socks and tickle my pointed toes. I felt damp wisps of my gray hair tickle my cheeks as I swung back and forth. 
 
I kicked back on the swing again, as hard and as far as I could, deciding to hold perfectly still until the swing finally stopped swinging, all of its own accord. Only then would I head inside for a second cup of morning coffee. 

As the swing slowed, and as I passed back and forth through the chill gray air, it occurred to me that perhaps this was not only a day for gray skies, gray hens, gray rabbits, and warm gray smoke fires. 

Perhaps this was also a good day to be a gray-haired lady. No doubt about it. Gray is certainly "OK" with me.
 
Christine Tailer is a columnist for The Highland County Press.