That does not stop me. I drew up the plans for the pergola. The only reason it collapsed was that I did not consider the relativity of snow load vs. tall leggy structure. We moved it forward by at least three and a half feet and anchored it to the deck railing. At least I can get my snow rake on the roof now and it has a fighting chance of staying erect this year.
My next project was born of too little sleep and a long string of extremely early mornings. While I sit, covered in furry bodies - so much fun in the summer - waiting for my first iced coffee to hit my blood stream, I should, really, not be allowed to surf Instagram. I was mesmerized by photographs of blue quail eggs and the amazing farmers that developed them. And their superior photography skills. Then there is the convenient lack of recall. You know, of how I was downsizing and how I tried quail and was totally done in by their piercing pre-dawn (24 hour) noise. Yes, that little bit of memory totally eluded me in the wee hours of the morning, as I cackled and ordered a dozen hatching eggs. Sheesh. Instead of harkening back to the teeth-gritting racket outside of my bedroom window, I was leaping ahead to figure out when would be the best time to receive them, given fall, incubation and brooding time, etc. I never look back. It will be my downfall. I figure that, even if the gilding comes off the lily, so to speak, I will be able to recoup any outlay fairly quickly. The eggs will be sold via the farmers market. Extra quail can be sold as breeding pairs or egg-layers.
After the early, heady days of imagining my own stash of brown speckled, blue eggs, faded into the bright light of reality (see? I have been reading books!) I realized I would need somewhere to keep them. Somewhere that did not involve close proximity to my bedroom window. Voila! I do have a barn structure! It is in the opposite direction of my bedroom and is enclosed. It will protect the quail over the winter and insulate my shell-like ears from their strident calls. The sheep may be cursing me, but I am used to that. As the weather warms, they can be moved outside to the far side (as in far away from me) of the barn, under the pine tree.
I called upon my usual handyman and provided him with direction (Ed, you can close your eyes now.):
We communicate through texting and by my dropping envelopes and instructions on the passenger seat in his truck. I figured I would give him plenty of notice and make it so that he could build it at home. I'm sure his wife will be happy about that, although the upside of having him work on the LLF is that his wife, Sam, and his son, Hank, come to see him. I am rather taken with Hank - he is one, is a complete towhead, and, when prompted, knows what cows, pigs, tractors, Santa, dogs, cats, and chickens say. He will also tell you he is one. Plus, the Butter Pat is much happier when held in the arms of his beloved Billy.