Letting go

I made scrambled eggs for breakfast this morning. A mundane, everyday occurrence. Except when it’s not. You see, I (finally) gave up all my chickens a couple of weeks ago, at the direction of my doctor. After dragging my feet on it for six months, I placed an ad on Craigslist and they were gone in less than 24 hours. It was a good time to do it, just as we head into the winter months. They weren’t laying much (I was getting 1 egg a day from 18 hens) and the winter months are hard on them – they don’t enjoy the 6 months of rain any more than I do. Caring for any livestock during the winter months is more work (thawing frozen waterers when it freezes, replenishing straw regularly to help combat the ever-present mud, etc.), so getting rid of them now was a little easier, in theory.

I got an incredible response to the “Free Chickens” ad–over a dozen people, with half of them in the first three hours after I posted, and more coming in until I pulled the ad about 10 hours later. I had no idea old hens would be such a hot item. I replied to the first person that responded and said he wanted them all. He was close, only one town away, and was able to come after church on Sunday.

After “surgery” and a little shocky yet.

I went out mid-morning to shoo the girls into the coop, where they would be easier to catch. I donned my respirator mask, tucked my hair under my cap, and got to work. I moved them to the old chicken tractor I bought when I first moved here and needed a place for the hens I’d moved in with. It went quickly and easier than I expected. Then the tears came. I stuffed them back – I didn’t want to be a mess when the guy got here. But I had to go inside for a while.

Loaded up and waiting.  Trying not to cry.

The fellow got here and got out of his van with three young boys, stair-step in height from age 6-ish to age 12-ish, each armed with a fishing net. We didn’t need the nets, but it was cute that they were ready for chicken catching. We loaded the hens up–there were 15 of them going—into the assortment of boxes the fellow brought and before I knew it, it was done.  I sent them off with 14 free hens,* plus my 25# feeder, the rest of a bag of feed I had, and three waterers. And it was over. After 34 years—most of my life—with anywhere from 6 to 26 chickens in my backyard, I was now chicken-less.

So quiet and sad.

So now it’s just the adjustment to life without chickens. I know it sounds ridiculous in many ways, but it’s a huge change for me. They weren’t pets per se, but I loved having them in my life. Their simple pleasures in a good sunbath, a juicy worm, scratching in the garden, and dusting in the dry duff under the cedar trees were my pleasures, too. They are entertaining to watch, and their busy little lives were always an enjoyable way to wind down after a hectic day at work and a lousy commute. Plus, eggs. Delicious, free-range eggs on organic feed. These purchased eggs have a funny taste in comparison, and even though they’re pastured, organic eggs (at $6 a dozen) they’re not as rich or egg-licious as mine were. I wake up in the morning and look out the bathroom window to the empty coop and run, so silent in the morning gloom, when it should be filled with the waking flock, clucking and pecking and preening. I come home expecting to see them come running to the fence, eager to be let out (I kept them penned when I wasn’t home, to keep them safe from predators). While raking leaves I am struck by the silence of not being surrounded by a happy flock scratching around in the leaf litter and filling up on all the goodies they find. A favorite activity was to dismantle a pile of leaves I’d raked up; they were quick and industrious, and could take down a pile in short order (like, while I briefly went to get a bin for the leaves). I feed the sheep after work and think about checking on the hens for a half beat before I remember they’re no longer out there. The coop is deathly quiet now.  It’s even noticeable at night, when they’d normally be quiet anyway, roosting for the night; my coop full of contented hens is no longer there and it’s almost ghostly.

It’s ridiculous how many tears I’ve cried, not realizing until they were gone how they infiltrated my life so completely. I knew I would miss them, but I didn’t know that virtually everything I did outside would be permeated with their loss, even as it was filled with their presences before. I don’t know why I didn’t expect this; perhaps because I never imagined this scenario. Even now, looking out my office window as I type, the vacant run is still and the emptiness is wrenching. I used to look out at them as I worked here, a moment’s respite from my labors at the computer, reflecting or looking for a word, thought, or sentence in my mind as I watched them being all chickeny, happy in their little chicken lives, providing me with entertainment and solace, de-stressing me with their calming, bucolic presence. Plus, eggs.

I’ve tried to rationalize it every which way, knowing that I had to do this for my health, that it’s for the best, that it will save me money at the feed store, that it be easier to have fewer animals to care for (whatever), but nothing is breaking the desolate void of not having them. Except my heart.

*I’d withheld three hens for a woman on a local FB group I belong to, who’d expressed interest in them; they went to their new home on Tuesday morning, plus one who’d escaped on Sunday.

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Autumn excitement

I can’t believe it’s almost the end of October already. The falling leaves and bare branches, cold temperatures and fall rains all seem premature somehow. Every year I am virtually dragged into fall kicking and screaming, not ready to give up summer. But alas, it is here.  The autumn months are beautiful, no question, with the leaves turning and all the fall harvests and ripenings, but after just a few weeks of rain I’m already dreading the three or four months of rain yet to come. I need to make peace with this.

I entered some fleeces in a local fiber show and N-Kerry’s fleece got 3rd place in a very large class of Shetlands.

The judging. It’s always educational to watch and listen.

Earlier this month we had a visitor to the farm. I’d run out on Saturday to do my usual weekend errands. I came back home and pulled up the driveway to the gate. I saw one of the sheep run across my field of vision as I got out of the car to open the gate. They normally get excited when I come home and run up to the upper pasture gate as I drive up the hill. But intuition told me something was up and I immediately worried about loose dogs (not my own, which were inside the house). 

I opened the gate and walked over toward the pasture quickly. The sheep were all bunched together, moving, except for that black one up by the…  OMG. That’s not a sheep! A black bear had come to visit! I clapped my hands loudly and walked toward the bear (in the pasture with the sheep, but not really after the sheep, as far as I could tell). “Go on, bear!” I hollered at it. He moved down the hill away from me, toward the NE corner of the pasture, then sat down to chew on his foot (maybe he stepped on a thistle?). He knew I was there, but wasn’t nearly as concerned about my presence as I would have liked.  He went over the pasture fence and headed up the hill toward the chicken coop – and the beehive. I got in the car and drove up the hill quickly. The car driving up scared him a little, and he moved to the edge of the yard to where the grass meets the woods. I got out and walked towards him, clapping my hands again, and telling him to go on (the dogs heard me from inside the house and started barking). He looked at me for a long moment then moved off into the woods, loping to the fence and off the property. Then I went inside and let the dogs out to reinforce the message.

Sorry for the blurry exposure – I was a wee bit excited.  The sheep in the foreground (Minnie, I think) is looking at me to fix this situation.

It was pretty exciting to see a bear like that. I’ve had them come through before (though it’s been a few years) and generally at this same time of year August/September, but in those other instances I just heard them (moving through the brush) or, my first year here, seeing the aftermath (tipped over the empty garbage bin, got into my bird feeder, got into my chicken feed – I no longer feed the birds and keep the chicken feed locked in the garage). This was the real deal, and in broad daylight on a Saturday afternoon. Wow!

A few feathers is all that was left of a good sized rooster.  A stealthy bobcat strike. 

The next day I was out working in the yard and the chickens were out. When I went to check on their feed and water later in the afternoon I saw we were down by one. The rooster obviously got got – a few feathers and a little blood and evidently the work of a bobcat. I found a feather or two by the back fence line, but it was clean and quiet, just like a cat. Dang.

On Monday night I was sitting in my living room, up late and working on an editing job, and heard the chickens squawking. I heard a thump and went to look out the window at the coop. I didn’t see anything in the porch light, but figured maybe it was the bobcat again so I let the dogs out. The barking excitement told me they were doing their job. After a bit Farley and Daisy came in at my call. Pal didn’t. He sometimes will stay out running around for 30 minutes, but considering the activity recently, I started to worry. I called him and got nothing. So I got a flashlight and went out, Daisy and Farley happy to come out for more 2 a.m. fun. I saw a white streak run by in the dark but when I called him he didn’t come, which is unusual for Pal, as he has a pretty good recall. At least he was okay.  The chickens seemed to be fine – a little shaken up and a couple off the roosts, and I shut the coop door and propped it with the fence post (it doesn’t close all the way).  Meanwhile Daisy had taken up barking maniacally at the foot of a maple tree near coop, like a coonhound with a treed coon. I went over and shined the flashlight up the trunk, but I already knew what I’d find, judging by the noise. The bear was back. He looked down on us from a rather flimsy looking branch about 30 feet up, clacking his teeth and bawling every once in a while (the best way to describe the noise – not a growl and not a roar, more like a moaned complaint). I had to physically haul Daisy off to the house. Farley came with us, and Pal now, too. I watched/listened from the bathroom window and after about 20 minutes I could hear branches cracking as the bear lowered himself to the ground and ran off over the fence. I felt bad for the bruin, as he was obviously scared, but hoped that the hazing by the dogs would convince him to move on and that human dwellings weren’t good places to hang out.

There were a couple of hens loose in the morning, so I herded them back into the coop. A quick head count told me we were down one.  I don’t think it was the bear, but more likely the bobcat, come to take advantage of the birds being loose. I left for work. And that afternoon I pulled up the driveway see this.

He was back. He was about 15 yards away and stood watching me. I got out of the car and took few steps in his direction, clapping my hands loudly. (Cue chorus of barking from inside the house.) He thought about it for a few seconds, then turned and left. I kept clapping and yelling. Then, when I was sure he was over the fence, I let the hounds out.  Wee!  So much fun!

Muddy paw marks on top of the gate.  Smelly fly trap to the upper right, and a tipped over water trough just on the other side of the fence. 

Then I went around the property to see what he’d been up to. I’d left the sheep in their pen that day, and from what I can tell, he was maybe IN the pen with them. Or maybe just climbing the gate (I could see muddy paws had been up on the top of the 5 foot gate) and also the other side of the pen. As near as I could tell he was after the smelly fly trap still hanging out there (smells like a dead thing rotting) from the summer. He’d bitten at it but didn’t take it all the way down. The sheep seemed fine – weren’t even breathing hard by the time I got home. And of course there’s this.

Nice.  But there was no honey in this hive, and no stinging bees either. 

It’s the dead hive, with the live hive full of (angry) bees…and honey, right next to it, still intact. I wondered if I maybe interrupted him when I pulled up. Other than that it was just the fence that was taking a beating with all these visits.

You can’t really see how badly this is mashed. I pulled it back up for now, but will need to get it repaired (stretched) in the spring.

Pal is on alert.

Over in the SE corner.

The fence he went over in the video link. Not too bad.

One of the 6 or 8 areas he crunched entering or exiting.

The back fence is pretty loose, and crunched by the bear’s exit. Daisy gets SO excited when I clap my hands.

I decided to stay home the next day to keep an eye on the place. I was able to work remotely from home, and keep watch while I did so. The bear came back around noon, from what I could tell by the chickens and sheep behavior, but I don’t think he came on the property then. (I let the dogs out to reinforce things.) Then, about 2:30 he was back.  I saw the chickens go quiet and bunch up again. I got up to look out the front window to see the sheep in the pasture all looking intently towards the north/east property line. I went out (without the dogs at first) and clapped my hands.  I heard him move off, and went to let the dogs out again.  So. Much. Excitement. And I fixed the crunched fence sections for the fourth time.

Again, I hoped this hazing (especially the two tries without any reward) would make him decide to move on. He didn’t seem to want apples. And thankfully he didn’t seem to want the chickens or sheep. I think he was young and inexperienced at being on his own, but hopefully heading towards the foothills and a safe place to den for the winter. We haven’t seen him since that day, three weeks ago now, and I hope he’s safe.

Gratuitous cuteness: Pal on his 7th birthday last Friday.  He was worried that this unusual attention (me trying to get a nice photo of him on his birthday) might mean something like a nail trim or a bath. Love this little guy!  (Excuse the fugly tape on the chair – it’s a lost cause, but I try to deter the cats from shredding it more by putting double-sided tape on it.)

 

 

Hypersensitivity pneumonitis – lung thing part 3

Some mornings it’s just hard to leave for work.  Looking at the NE corner of the property.

So a quick (I promise) recap.  This all started in November 2014 and has been a roller coaster ride of symptoms and medical care ever since.  After my initial diagnosis (now revised) and treatment, I was feeling good by September of 2015.  In late November 2015 some of the symptoms returned (shortness of breath, primarily).  I managed this until late February of 2016 with ibuprofen, until I needed more help.  I saw the specialist in March and began a regimen of prednisone.  A lot of it to start, then tapered down after 10 days, then tapered again after 30 days.  But still a high dose.  I’ve been on this dose since April and have been feeling good, with breathing back to normal and heart rate also returning to normal (since my lungs are working, my heart doesn’t have to hit overdrive to pump more blood in an effort to oxygenize).

Groot the kiwi vine trying to swallow the front porch.

Allergy testing last year showed I have no allergies – no surprise there – but the specialist, in drilling in on the hypersensitivity pneumonitis rediagnosis, performed antigen testing (IgG vs. IgE), which showed I was reacting to bird feces and proteins, as well as a couple of molds, so my particular brand of hypersensitivity pneumonitis (HP) points to Bird Fanciers Lung (there are dozens of versions).  I was told I needed to remove chickens from my environment, as well as my two parakeets (cage birds), and clean the house thoroughly.  The molds are likely ones I’ve run into with the hay I feed the sheep.  Antigen reactions are essentially allergies, but manifest differently (in my case there was absolutely no coughing, runny nose or sneezing typical of allergies).

The days are getting decidedly shorter.  After getting home from work in the evenings I barely have time to do the evening chores before darkness falls.  So sad. 😦

I saw the doctor again in late May, when I repeated my tests and did well (breath tests as well as a walking test to see how well oxygenated my blood stayed with exercise).  The doctor was pleased with my progress, and very happy to hear I had rehomed the parakeets, but because I still had the chickens, and she was concerned I needed more time on the medication, we stayed at the same dose of prednisone.  I told her I would hire help to get the chicken coop thoroughly cleaned out and let the flock “attrition out” – the birds are aging and not worth anything, so not easy to rehome (there are 21 of them right now).  I lost one over the summer, but of course they seem to be feeling spry, even if they’re not laying much on the expensive organic feed I give them.

Hops!

The entire harvest of hops for 2016. Next year will be different!

My next appointment with her was September 1st.  In that 5 month period (April to September) I have gained weight.  A lot of weight.  This, of course, is a common side effect of the prednisone – one of many – and this time around it seems to be the main one for me.  I have an appetite like a lumberjack.  I’m not hungry all the time, but when I get hungry it’s hungry-bear hungry, and it takes a lot to be sated.  Like, half a large pizza. Or an embarrassingly large portion of a whole roast chicken.  I tell myself I’m going to moderate my eating, but when I get hungry and the food is in front of me, well, I don’t have much restraint.  I don’t quite check out mentally, but the thought of moderation is dismissed entirely.  Leftovers are a thing of the past.  I’ve been bursting out of all my clothes, and have had to buy new things—in a size I’ve never worn in my life—so I have something to wear that isn’t embarrassingly tight, not to mention uncomfortable.  I’ve resigned myself to this weight gain for now, knowing the prednisone is necessary for my lungs, but there are moments of shame and self-consciousness at how I look.  Now any breathing problems I have are from inactivity, and trying to increase my exercise has been difficult: I’m assuming it’s because of the extra weight, but my ankle (old injury) has been giving me trouble for the past couple of months, so even a walk with the dogs has been off the docket.  I can’t tell you how frustrating this is, because even with all my whinging I am still grateful for my mostly good health. And on the positive side, we have reduced my prednisone by half in the past two weeks.  Yes!  With the appetite becoming more manageable it’s time for a weight loss diet!  Wee!

I took down a small maple over the weekend.  The sheep love the leaves and tender bark.

I’ve been slowly coming around to the idea of giving up the chickens.  I haven’t hired anyone to help with cleaning yet, mostly due to financial reasons (keeping up with medical bills, frankly).  So the dry, dusty summer, with the hens happily fluffing their feathers in numerous dusty bowls they create under the cedar trees, then the dogs walking through that, or lying in it, then coming to curl up in bed with me…well, I’ve got my head in the sand on the whole issue.  I let the hens free roam, but probably shouldn’t. In thinking about giving them up, I think about why I keep them; indeed, why I’ve been keeping them for most of my life (since 1982). I want to produce as much of my own food as possible, and have a little more control over this aspect of my life.  But I also know part of the reason I keep them is for the bucolic calm they exude, and coming home after a stressful day at work to watch my little farm at work is soothing to me. And although chicken TV has slowly been supplanted by sheep TV and honeybee TV, I still like having them, and the eggs they give me. With the sheep and the bees it’s a little easier to lie in the grass next to them (the chicken run is too grubby-gross to lie in or even next to).  They are enormously entertaining though, and, as with all my animals, knowing they are happy and enjoying a good chicken life is deeply satisfying, even fulfilling, to me.

After the visit with the pulmonary specialist earlier this month, and discussing the situation in more detail with her, I realize I have to do this.  I’m still very reluctant, and if I think about it too much I get a little teary.  I am simultaneously frustrated by the whole situation.  I have kept chickens for 35 years now, and had the parakeets for the past 15 years.  Why all of a sudden am I having problems?  There is no answer to this, of course, and it’s not unheard of or even uncommon, as a situation.  I guess what goes hand-in-hand with this is frustration is the worry: what if I get rid of the chickens and still have problems? What then? I don’t want this to be a slow elimination of everything I love most in life. I can’t get any traction with my vaccine theory, but I do think this is a factor in the initiation of this whole issue.  While I’m not “anti-vax” I am anti over-vaccination, and the bundling of vaccines.  A tetanus shot I received in early November 2014 came bundled with two unnecessary (to me at the time) vaccines: pertussis and diphtheria.  Within 3 weeks the symptoms of HP began – probably sooner, I just didn’t realize it – and by the end of November I was one very sick puppy.

The leaves are turning color and beginning to fall.  It seems too soon. I’m not ready.

I still think this is a “perfect storm” situation. And I know it’s done, and there’s no going back (“that ship has sailed, Mo”), but part of me wants to know.  Because maybe, eventually, and maybe it will take moving off this farm to a new location, I will be able to not worry about this anymore.  I believe the combination of the moldy hay I was running into at the time (purchased a ton of hay that year – the guy who delivered it said it came out of Oregon; it was some of the dirtiest/dustiest hay I’ve ever encountered) and the hit to my immune system from these unnecessary vaccines (the tetanus wasn’t really needed either – for the situation nor was I due, but with the animals/farm I know it’s a good one to keep up to date so I consented when I should have refused), added to a little normal life stress and a strenuous (and thoroughly enjoyed) day hike 8 days later, well, it all added up to a baseball bat to my immune system that I’m still recovering from.  I will never, ever (ever!) again allow myself to be vaccinated with three immunizations in one injection.  I will continue to refuse the annual flu vaccine (never had it, never will) even though my pulmonologist recommended it at my recent visit.  No, that’s not one I’ll do, I told her, emphasizing “I am NEVER sick.”  She looked at me with just enough of a pause that I burst out laughing.  She laughed a bit too.  And said she would nevertheless continue to recommend it to me, given my diagnosis.  But really, I don’t get colds – my last cold was in 2012 – and aside from this issue, I’m healthy and strong.  And once I get this thing figured out, I intend to sty that way.Gratuitous cuteness: Eloise, a.k.a. El, ‘weesa, or Pudge.  The only one of the three cats that will regularly brave sleeping in bed with me and the three dogs.  Heart her to bits.

Fall chores

Autumn has been typical this year and not too extreme with any of the weather:  not too cold, not too warm, not too wet – it’s really been a textbook fall in all regards.  The leaves have yellowed and turned brown, and have mostly fallen.  There have been a few frosts, one hard frost (hose was frozen,  sheep’s water bucket had a cap of ice) and we switched from daylight “savings” time to standard time.  And the fall chores are keeping me as busy as the summer – maybe busier.

I’m slowly deconstructing the garden.  Most everything has been harvested and/or composted.  As I pull out the spent plants (beans, squash, potatoes) I back fill with used sheep bedding, and will be layering with the acres of fallen leaves (that I need to rake up!).  The only things left to still harvest are the kale and the chard, some collards, and three or four football sized rutabagas (American football, and I’m not kidding – they’re that huge), and a few carrots.  I harvested all the beets over the weekend, when I found that mice or voles were dining regularly on them.  Several were completely ruined, and the rest were all salvageable.  I miss my Jasper even more now – he was a superb mouser and would have kept my garden pest free.  I’m also having an issue with what I’m assuming are meadow voles, or maybe rats.  They tunnel under my chard and radicchio and chew off the root.  The plant flops over and if I get it in time I can “harvest” but if I don’t see it, the plant just wilts and dies where it fell.  I’m not sure how to combat this one since they’re underground – Google and YouTube to the rescue. They’re not bothering the kale plants, or the collards or rutabagas, so will probably move on once the chard is all gone.  It seems like the kale is indestructible.  I had plenty of pests sharing the crop with me, especially later in the summer.  Cabbage worms and cutworms and slugs were eating a lot of it.  Now, though, it’s having the last laugh.  The hard frost over the weekend just made it laugh.  It’s like the Chuck Norris of garden plants, I swear!  I’m getting a little sick of eating it, but am starting to see where I might run out and I know I’ll be sad when that happens, and long for spring so I can plant some more.  Maybe fewer plants next time.

The bees have been quiet, naturally.  It’s been cold, but when we get a moderate day and the sun shines on their hive, a few of the girls come out for a flight and a drink.  I’ll see them on the grass around the hive (lots of damp dew to drink) or in the garden, on the chard or kale, drinking the drops of water.  I see some of the girls coming back with bright yellow pollen sacks full, so there must be a little foraging going on too.  The front stoop of the hive is littered with dead bees after a day like this; it’s not excessive, but I  still don’t like to see it.

The chickens are grooving in their new, expanded run, with their young rooster.  A friend and coworker insisted she would come over and help me with building out the run, a project that’s been on my to do list for the past year.  She came out with her was-band (her ex husband, a friend) one Saturday afternoon and we set the posts.  The next day they came back out and we put up the wire.  A few weeks later they were back, installing the door to the run that they built for me.  In exchange for the help,  I took the rooster who needed a home.  Of course about the same time I realized one of my young pullets is probably a rooster – so now I have two roosters!  My former pullet is a little younger and smaller so it’s not an issue now, but if it becomes one (like, they don’t get along, or get too noisy, or are too much disruption for the hens), I’ll be having a roast chicken dinner in the spring with one of them as the main dish.

The search…continued

Okay, so to back up for a moment, let’s consider the “what” since the what to a large degree will determine the where.  (Who’s on first.)  No, really.  What I want is the primary part of the search, for me.  And first and foremost, I want acreage.  At least three acres and preferably five or more.  After living in town for nearly eight months now, this has become even more apparent to me.

After selling my house in Sammamish I moved to a rental home on acreage in Carnation.  Five blissful acres, bordered on two sides by a wildlife preserve, and two mostly quiet neighbors (both also on five or more acres) on the other two sides.  THIS is what I wanted when I left my one acre in Sammamish.  Elbow room and quiet, without feeling like your every move can be monitored by a nosy neighbor.  Room for the dogs to wander, for Farley to do his bird dog thing, and for all of us to settle in the quietude we needed after four stressful months of real estate frenzy.  Then, after eight months, real estate intervened again.  My landlord needed to put the home on the market and we moved into town.

At first living downtown in a small town was a fun novelty.  I hadn’t lived in a real neighborhood for over 25 years.  I could (and do) walk to the library, to the post office (this is a necessity, since they don’t deliver mail to this address — it seems the house is too close to the post office to warrant that service), to local shopping and restaurants, and to the large county park along the river.  This is hugely convenient, and during the December snowstorms, a great benefit.  But with the closeness and convenience comes, well, the closeness.  It’s a small town, so it’s not like there’s tons of traffic, but there is constant activity.  Foot traffic and vehicle traffic (especially motorcycles, big trucks and bicycles) make the dogs a little crazy.  Well, Farley anyway.  He’s easily stimulated, and can be an absolute idiot when outside and there’s activity on three sides of the house. 

The house here is on a large lot in the middle of the block, and completely fenced (chain link), with cross-fencing to keep the front and back yards separate.  That being said, we’re surrounded.  There are houses on each side and no privacy whatsoever.  No matter where you are on the property, you can be sure you’re in full view of someone, should they care to look.  This is true to a large extent for the inside of the house too, and I dress/undress furtively unless in one of the small bathrooms.  The neighbors are all nice people, and have put up with and/or been charmed by my chickens and the dogs.  But this closeness has just underlined my desire for more room, and the two homes in the past 16 months have provided great contrast and, in general terms, clarity.  My interests and desires lean toward animals and farming, and living  close enough to the hear telephone conversations of my neighbors on a warm day pretty much precludes both.

So, I know I need room in the form of multiple acres–literally, emotionally, spiritually, etcetera.  And I need a house on that acreage, preferably stick built, and certainly move in ready.  I’ve looked at a lot of parcels in the past 18 months, many very nice ones, some not so nice, some with nice bits, some where the preview pictures were totally deceiving. There was more than one that looked positively bucolic, only to arrive on site and find the Ma and Pa Kettle neighbors breathing down your neck, with pallet barns and blue tarps fluttering in the breeze in full view of your front window.  I’m sure they’re very nice people.  I’m still looking.