“Life, Moistly Speaking”

Greetings from the Moistness!

I know a lot of people don’t like the word moist, but why is that? Personally, I love it. I like to say it over and over: Moist. Moist. Moist. Moist.

You can’t do it without smiling, and if you can, that’s scientific proof you need more sunshine in your life.

It rains at least once a day here, but not constantly, so we can still take our daily walks in the forest. There’s a local tale that says if you see three turtles in one day, it’s going to rain.

We rarely see more than one on our walks, but I still think there’s something to it. Maybe turtles just like to travel when it’s damp because they appreciate the... moistness.

Quail Chronicles

We managed to hatch 14 of the 30 quail eggs we bought. The little store-bought incubator doesn’t give the best hatch rate, so Dennis made his own out of chunks of Styrofoam and a few gadgets.

We won’t know how well it works for a while since we don’t have a rooster for the chickens yet, and the quail are still doing whatever it is quail do.

We’ve had our adult quail for over a month, and they’ve only laid four eggs. When I go to clean their cage, the rooster flops down, kicks one leg, and spins around like a feathered breakdancer. Then, just as quickly, he hops up and struts off like he totally meant to do it.

After some Googling, I found out it’s called thanatosis—basically the quail version of playing dead. It’s similar to what fainting goats do: when they get scared, they freeze and fall over. It’s a defense mechanism they can’t control.

In quail, though, it’s a bit more sacrificial. A predator will go for the bird that looks injured, giving the others a better chance to escape. Not all quail do it, and it’s not just a rooster thing—hens can do it too.

So I guess we’re lucky that only one of our six adults does it, because it’s not exactly fun to watch. I try to sing a song or give a little warning when I check on them, but it doesn’t seem to help. It doesn’t take much to set off Seizure Steve.

A Midnight Visitor

A couple of nights ago, we had a visitor climb the fence into our yard—one of those 400-pound toddlers otherwise known as a black bear.

He pushed the quail pen over, which I’m sure sent Steve into hysterics. Luckily, our furry friend wasn’t hungry enough to try any harder, and our cameras caught him toddling off into the forest to wherever it is bears gather at midnight.

We have four dogs and six cats, and not a single one made a peep while our guest was visiting. But about two hours later, Moose let out a fart that sounded like a train whistle, and suddenly everyone was up—lights on, checking for casualties.

Dennis had just finished building the new quailary... quaildom... place to keep the quail last weekend.

We thought maybe they weren’t happy in the Pepto-Bismol-pink palace and that’s why they weren’t laying eggs. So Dennis watched some videos, and presto chango—we now have a multilevel bird condo that’s easier to clean and sits on our porch, safe from members of the forest mafia.

This time of year, we keep the windows and doors open a lot. The weather is beautiful, and it helps lower our electric bill.

Now that the quail live on the porch, I can hear their little sounds throughout the day. Seizure Steve also has a dance for the ladies. It involves some serious foot stomping, and the girls puff up their chests as if to say, “You wanna piece of me?”

I’m pretty sure Steve takes them up on it, because I hear more flopping around. I assume that means Steve is scoring and not seizing under pressure.

I try to sneak a peek, but they always stop what they’re doing when I do. Then I feel like a voyeuristic bird pedo.

So that’s the update on the quail—they just keep getting weirder.

The Three-Finger Discount

We’ll have to figure out the sexes of the 14 babies eventually. I’ve read that you do this by looking at their vents, which is a nice word for “tiny bird booty hole.”

And that reminds me of a story…

When I was in sixth grade, we lived in Lyman, Wyoming, on the Blacks Fork River. We had a bunch of chickens but weren’t getting many eggs, so the next time Mamaw and Pappaw (Dad’s parents) came to visit, it was decided that the chickens that weren’t laying would be butchered.

And boy, did we make a day of it.

They called it “the three-finger discount,” and the adults giggled over it, but I couldn’t get over the fact that my dad and grandpa were grabbing chickens and sticking three fingers in their vents.

There’s a folktale that says if three fingers fit easily, the hen is laying; if not, she isn’t. This theory had to come from a man.

Those deemed to be laying were released into the yard, but the ones with the “narrow hoo-has” were swiftly swung around by the neck to break it quickly—usually sending eggs flying in all directions.

The action often severed the head completely, and the body would take off flapping through the yard while blood spurted from the neck. Sometimes, they would have to chop it off and it was my job to hold the head while a "responsible adult" wielded the axe. It always amazed me how long chickens could move without their heads attached.

It didn’t take long for the adults to realize there was a flaw in their plan, but they weren’t about to admit defeat. They continued the three-finger discount ritual until they were certain all freeloading poultry had been eliminated.

The story seems comical to me now, but at the time I was mortified and felt awful for the chickens who were “murdered,” even though they proved they were laying on their way out.

Mamaw was always good about talking me through things like that. She pointed out that Dad and Papaw probably felt worse since they were the ones who were wrong. If they ever did, I couldn’t tell.

We didn’t get any eggs for a long time after that, and for a while, I was afraid the chickens were signing their own death warrants. But we never killed chickens again, and everyone was grateful.

I wonder how many folklore tales are set in threes—three turtles, three fingers, three whistles at night. Have you heard that one?

Whistles in the Dark

I’ve been reading a lot of Appalachian folklore lately and basically scaring the hell out of myself at night.

I also listen to a couple of podcasts full of people’s encounters with skinwalkers, ghosts, and other creepy things that happen in the dark woods I call home.

It started one night when I went to lock up the chickens after dark. Usually, I do it at dusk, but I got distracted. I had a flashlight and Moose with me since the other dogs were too lazy to come along.

As I walked to the coop, I heard a whistle—a daytime bird whistle.

What kind of bird? No clue. Not a crow, woodpecker, blue jay, cardinal, or whippoorwill. I can usually tell those apart. This was a three-tone whistle, slow enough that I could imitate it pretty accurately.

I pursed my lips and whistled the three tones twice, only to be interrupted by the bird making the same sound—louder and closer.

I thought maybe it was echoing off the shed, but the hair stood up on my neck.

I locked up the chickens and swung the light around, looking for the pug. He’s not hard to find since he breathes like a clogged air conditioner, but he wasn’t where he should’ve been.

He was staring into the forest, growling in that low, adorable way that scares absolutely no one.

I urged him along as the three-tone whistle repeated again and again getting louder and louder. I shone the light toward the sound but didn’t see anything—just shadows and spiderwebs glinting in the beam.

According to folklore, people who need help signal with three yells, three gunshots, or three whistles. A skinwalker knows this and will answer the call.

Some can even mimic voices or sound like your loved ones. I never whistled a third time. Part of me wanted to, but part of me likes my skin—even if it does take a lot more lotion than it used to.

Max Patch is a popular hiking destination nearby that offers easy trails and camping under the stars. But it’s advised not to sleep at the top of the bald because that’s where most skinwalker sightings happen.

Who wants to go camping with me? I’ll bring Maggie and snacks!

Books, Movies, and Other Mysteries

Besides creepy stories, I’ve been reading The Law of Moses by Amy Harmon. It’s a love story-slash-mystery—easy to read and has horses in it.

The Thursday Murder Club by Richard Osman was recommended to me, but it wasn’t my jam. I guess it was made into a movie, so maybe that’s better, but I could barely get through the book.

Dennis and I went to see Leonardo DiCaprio’s new movie One Battle After Another. What in the actual hell? Have you seen it?

If anyone watched it and liked it, please message me and explain what it was about and why. Message me if you didn't like it too! We can try to figure it out together.

We left after about an hour because neither of us could figure out the plot. There were only five people in the whole theater, and one guy sat right next to me. Hundreds of empty seats, and this dude plops his happy self down beside us.

Besides breathing heavily and producing an egg salad sandwich from his pocket, he was fine—but weird.

Later, we found out the movie was three hours long. I can’t imagine sitting through that for three damn hours.

Until Next Time

Thanks to those of you who have sent me messages. I’m getting them; I just haven’t figured out how to reply yet.

I also want to upload videos to my blog, but I haven’t figured that out either. I wish I were more tech-savvy sometimes.

What have you been up to? Ready for fall and pumpkin-flavored everything? How’s the weather where you are?

Sending moistness your way.

Until next time,
Try to be nice to those you want to punch and do the damn yoga.✌️