According to the doctor, I stand 5’3″ tall. For those of you who know me, stop laughing, I’m serious. My medical chart says 5’3″. OK, so maybe the nurse was being generous, but I will hold onto the extra inch with all of my being.

Every day I am reminded that it is not easy being vertically-challenged on a farm. There’s a lot of back breaking work that goes into the daily chore list and my back is only half as long as Hubs. I’m also the only girl in a mostly male household. You know what that means?

No whining allowed.

The only concession I get is bathroom visits to the house instead of tree.

We’re still clearing at the Funny Farm. There is a definite rhythm to clearing land. Hubs cuts the trees while I rush into the work site and throw out the cut firewood to Oldest who is waiting near the tractor bucket to load the wood which is then driven to the wood pile. But sometimes Oldest is called away to help Hubs fell a tree, and the log is too heavy to lift, that’s when the short must get creative:

  • Step one: roll the log toward the tractor
  • Step two: untangle legs from the thorny vines seeking revenge.
  • Step three: invent a new curse word and wipe the blood from forearms which are now tangled in the blasted vines. 
  • Step four: roll the log toward the tractor
  • Steps five and six: repeat steps two and three
  • Steps seven: Once at the tractor, examine the log and assume the position of a large Scottish man preparing a caber toss at the Highland Games.
  • Step eight: Hoist the log as if your toes depend on it (’cause they do) and make lots of grunting noises (’cause it helps).

Weekends one, two and three. Ah, sweet naivety.
Weekend four and weekend five. This old gal still has some fight in her.
Weekend six. Technically a wood-pile. We’re done here.