Sometimes I write my post in my head while awake at 3 o’clock in the morning. Such is the case today, and our discussion will be about prunes. There seems to be a notion abroad that prunes are to plums as raisins are to grapes. (Sounds like an SAT question.) “Prunes,” it is true, is the name given to the wrinkled, chewy treat, dried from ripe fruit, bagged, on the grocery shelf, best known and loved by the elderly in pursuit of, well, regularity. Ask someone and they will assert that sure, prunes are just dried plums. Go to Google and you will read that while both plums and prunes are from the same genus,(Prunus)they are not the same plant. Huh? Then why aren’t plums a type of prune? If the genus is “Prunus?” Confusion abounds. Of late I see prunes labeled as “Italian Prune plums.” Strikes me as a bit of cover-your-ass reverse engineering by the plum lobby. Not buying it.

Anyway, while no one will stroll about picking a basket of raisins from a vine, one can, and should, pick a handful of lovely ripe prunes fresh from the tree. They are lush, purple, lobed, swathed in powdery bloom, and inside, are a juicy gold color. But what should I do with mine, I asked last week. Decided to freeze them, and now, here they are. A permanent dark purple stain around my fingernails from handling them gives me a kind of neo-Goth look. Interesting.

Yes, it is all about chickens! Our coop comes with a solar-powered door to let the birds out in the morning and tuck them safely in at night. Instructions, YouTube videos, a phone call to the builder, easy, right? Took Larry all morning, hands and knees, power tools, an assist from me, posted inside the little structure, and friends and family, you are right. This is when we remember how old we are. But it’s done and miraculously, the thing works. We waited anxiously for nightfall to see if it really would close by itself, and after only two flashlight-powered trips outside, we learned that it indeed does. (Slightly reminiscent of the days when, at midnight, I’d wait to see our teen-ager’s car pull into the driveway.)

With Larry’s new-found expertise based on “Living with Chickens,” we ventured forth into Craig’s List. Lots of choices! Time to head over to Wilco. Where it seems to be chick season again, lots of babies chirping away in their heat-lamp warmed cages. We needed feed and watering systems, bedding material and, we thought, some sort of carrier to transport our chickens, when and wherever we found them. And were lucky in being assigned to Amanda, who has strong opinions and much experience. Best news, there’s a Poultry Faire (cute spelling) in Corvallis on the 29th.

On the way to Wilco, Larry and I debated our strategy. We would take the truck to the Faire, and bring the birds home in our to-be purchased carriers. Just put them in the back and away we go. Me: But we can’t just drive around with them getting blown about in the wind. Like What’s His Name Romney from Utah who strapped his golden retriever to the top of his SUV. Larry, sighing: We’re not going to be driving that fast, and I don’t want chicken poop inside the truck. And so on. We agreed to disagree and, as these things often turn out, the question was moot. “Chicken carriers?” harrumphed Amanda. “Alls you need is cardboard boxes.” Oh.

Back while Larry was struggling with the chicken’s power door, I decided to bring some discipline to the tangle of tomatoes growing up and through the orchard fence. These plants, unlike those in the actual garden, have shown vigor, coupled with absolutely no restraint, and whoa. We got tomatoes. Cherry tomatoes by the bucket, and, something the nursery tag calls “Amana Oranges.” Fun! Heritage! But I didn’t read the small print, which describes “one-pound beefsteaks.” Well. One of these would feed a large family, each member of which just loves tomatoes.

Next day: Thursday, to be exact. Ooh, this was a hard one. We split the wood that has been lying under the oak since the dinosaur (see earlier post) was removed and left to lie in pieces among the blackberry and hemlock. Larry rented the splitter and drove it up to the site — a brilliant idea. Oak is heavy! And the chunks to be split, huge. But now the tree stands in splendor, the truck is loaded with split wood, and all that remains is a burn pile.

Today, Friday: Allan and another Guy came to work on the path through the copse. It is so cool! Switchbacks down to the lower meadow. I would show you a photo, but at the moment, my computer is refusing to allow this move. I will say that the walk down through the woods is now a lovely stroll. You will remember how treacherous it was earlier, and now, with the trees Sam has removed and the graded path, it’s just so much fun. Of course, going back up the hill is still an uphill climb. Come on over and I’ll show you in person!

Back in Portland, which is probably why my computer is being difficult. Or not. Annoying! See you next week!