“F” is for Feeders
Rough cut barn siding knocked together with nails and screws in a v-shaped trough, galvanized one-ton hog feeders and twelve inch metal chick trays, assorted rubber bowls, Indian River plastic juice jugs cut in half, creep feeders built to exclude sheep while the lambs feed, hay nets and metal feeders tied and bolted on the wall of a shed, a bowl of Polish pottery from the kitchen lost in the muck of a stall later excavated with the wonder of old Schliemann finding Troy’s debris; feeders, either store bought, improvised or homemade multiply on a farm. Peer in a shed, behind an outbuilding, open a cabinet door and stacks of feeders functional or past their prime greet your gaze. Or consider the repurposed life of a twelve-foot plastic cattle trough on an aluminum skid, destroyed by Bellow the bull ten years past, later served as toboggan on a snowy day with a too fast trip down the hill.
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Reading this weekend: Epicurean Simplicity by Stephanie Mills and The Holy Earth by Liberty Hyde Bailey
