Thistlefluff

My mother zips around the states giving seminars on something that seems rather important to the folks who understand it, my brother became a doctor, I even have a cousin who wrote a book.  Actually there are all manner of brains, professionals, engineers, librarians, nurses, physician’s assistants, and the like in my family. Me? I talk to chickens.  It’s a skill.  My grandmother, ever the encourager, the beautiful lady who taught me to read, has always told me, “Write what you know!”  Hand me a post-it. In short, there’s not much I know.  I’m not a writer, I’m a terrible decision maker, and some of my best conversations  go down in a chicken coop . You can’t win them all, Grandma.  Instead of writing what I know, I’ll have to just settle for just writing a bit for me, a bit for Grandma, and a good bit because the chickens need an occasional break from my prattling.   The Weekly Fluff: This week was my husband’s birthday. In traditional...