BENT MOUNTAIN TACKY TRACTOR CHRISTMAS PARADE

The research for this post is making me a little sad.  You see, even when searching through our pictures to find a shot for this article, I'm mourning the past.  The photo above was taken two years ago this weekend.  If you were able to look further down the windy road, you would see two great friends of ours who are no longer parading with us along Bottom Creek.  But I imagine this year Archie Horton and Philip Hillery have met up somewhere far north of here, and are parading down streets of gold.  I'm not one of those people who thinks that heaven will be a boring place where we will be itching to get off our clouds and hear something other than harp music; in fact, I think we will be enjoying each other's company and having a Christmas party EVERY day.  But it's hard to imagine anything more fun than the annual Bent Mountain Tacky Tractor Christmas Parade this side of glory.  

Warning, the whole shenanigans can be a bit irreverent.  My daughter wrote about the parade and her let's just say....eccentric neighbors.... in essay form and was admitted into a very competitive northern college. I think they just wanted to have a look at her to see if she was sporting all of her teeth.  Just kidding, she's a smart kid.  You all know that.  But the parade and said participants makes for very colorful essay fodder, if I do say so myself.

We started parading about 18 years ago.  Emma was not yet one and Cameron about two and a half.  It was a zillion degrees below zero.  Emma insisted on removing her snow boots because that's what one- year- olds do to freak out their mothers.  The parade originated when the Hortons and the Florins threw  ratty tinsel and yard sale reject Christmas decorations (mostly blue of course) up on some old tractors with rickety old wagons hitched behind and took off down the road.  The party soon grew to tractors and pickup trucks and Harleys and llamas.  Yep.  You heard me.  We were written up in the Roanoke Times back in the day.  They wanted to know the "parade route".  HA.  My eloquent husband replied "well, it all depends on whether you turn left or right after you leave the driveway."  We've even had parade onlookers.  That makes it more fun because we get to do the parade wave and jingle the bells.    Most years we have had room for whatever parade spectators ventured up from the big city to become parade participants as we just threw them up on one of the "floats".  We usually stop along the way and picnic and libate.   Apparently I just made up that word but hmmm.....it seems fitting.   Making merry and all.

This, it seems, is an open invitation.  Bundle up, throw some tinsel on your ride and head up Bent Mountain (or across the mountain if you are coming from Floyd) on December 10th at 1PM.  We will be meeting in our  field on Bottom Creek Lane.  You'll see us, believe me.

We parade this year in ridiculously fun memory of old friends.

BENT MOUNTAIN WOMAN GIVES UP URBAN COFFEE SCENE FOR CHICKEN $$%#

Those of you who know me well, know that I am somewhat of a poser.  I've spent the last 53 years of my life pretty much avoiding manual labor...especially the kind that involves yucky disgusting stuff.  I am way more at home in the coffee shop or the wine bar than the stable.

But I may be branching out.  Today my Bottom Creek walking partner blew me off.  I suppose that I could have gone it alone, but 8:00AM's 34 blustery degrees sent me back into my warm, cozy, wood-stovy house.  Absolutely content to put in a load of laundry, grab a cup of fresh ground Kona and fire up my Kindle.  Only problem was that I finished up The Paris Wife just last night.   That could be a story in itself.  This poser farm woman is a Hemingway freak and Francophile, throw in the mention of A Moveable Feast and I'm a goner.  So...sob...my book is done.  Hate those mornings.

Larry was waiting on Ed the Poor Mountain bartering guy to help him clean the chicken coop.  One of the reasons I was hesitant to take on chicken farming was, of course, the poop factor.  The other argument was that I grow way too attached to little creatures and didn't think I could handle 17 feathered pulls on my heartstrings.  I do, however, love farm eggs.  They are not only amazingly tastier than the store bought variety, they are also incredibly beautiful.  Just this morning I gathered up a light robins egg blue, a dark speckled brown and a couple of cafe au lait tinted beauties.  Of course, I have just the right basket that makes the whole thing much more romantic.

Well, Ed called and said he could be here at 2PM  to help with the coop clean-up.  Ed wanted the poop and shavings (our luck!) to winter fertilize his delicious and prolific vegetable garden.  But, if you know my husband, you will also realize that once he has something (especially manual labor) on his mind, he's doing it THAT MOMENT.  So guess whom he enlisted.  Hmmmm.......not even the excuse of The Paris Wife waiting was going to help me.   

I like to make him think I'm not really capable of effective farm management, a little too dainty to haul bails of shavings and muck out coops.  I do have all the right accessories and outfits for egg collection, and since I like to cook I'm always trying to find a new tarte in which to showcase Alice and Company's offerings.  Well, today none of my lame excuses were working, so I was quickly signed on as farm hand.

Got my exercise a different way this morning.  Not quite as fun as Zumba, but pretty rewarding nonetheless.  Only problem is that once he's seen me do something, all my "I don't know how" excuses seem to quickly stop working.

So for today, anyway,  I'm a genuine Floyd County farm girl.  And I'm pretty sure Ernest would approve.