mountain goat

My hands are raw and calloused, rough.  They say you can always tell a lady by her hands, but I've admitted to myself long ago that I am no lady.  That doesn't mean I'm slovenly white trash or anything, just that I've got a bit of an edge.  I may burp loudly after a big meal, I may have chipped nail polish, but by God, I never find myself up to my elbows in dirt without lipstick on my lips and mascara on my lashes.
 
Just because a girl has to shovel horse poo doesn't mean she needs to look like it herself.

Things here are simple and easy, and when I have any energy what so ever I will write it all down.  This pint of beer in front of me is half-full, as is my battery.  Today I went with Stephan, the youngest brother (there are three) up a mountain to another one of their apple orchards.  This one was situated on a series of terraces carved into the mountain side, each terrace with a 20ft drop between them, and only a teeny tiny set of stone steps WITH NO RAIL leading down to each one.  I had to crawl down on my butt, eyes closed, due to my acrophobia, but what made this really super fun was that I had to bring along a 75lb bag of fertilizer!  I moved myself one step down, breathed for a minuted, then reached behind and lugged the bag down after me.  I got about 5 steps down before Stephan told me not to worry about it and just launched the bag down onto the ground. 

The view was glorious, the air was fresh, and when we were thirsty we went to a ripply little stream tumbling down the mountain and drank icy, clear water out of our hands. 

Bed time, for now.