Weekend at Trauma Farm

For a while there, I’d thought a gathering of seven women would dispel any aura of trauma at the farm where our friends live. But darn it, the name caught up to us after all.

First it was the bodum imploding for no apparent cause. One minute it was resting on the counter while the flavours seeped through the water; next thing, it was weeping coffee everywhere from a sudden long crack in the glass.

The bigger trauma was the discovery of two dead chickens – hens, at that, cutting into the supply of those golden-yolked eggs. One of the worst parts was the fact that the hens hadn’t even been eaten by their killer. Only their heads were gone.

As the weekend went on, the traumas continued. Another hen lost her head to our uninvited guest, apparently a mink. Believe me, if we’d have caught him, I’d have been wanting to make a couple of swish coats for Barbie.

And, oh yes, a purse disappeared. The purse at least held nothing of much value – a bit of cash and a lipstick, no documents or credit cards.


Still, I’m glad that our home has a much milder name – no trauma or even drama to live up to.