By LYNNE IRONS

I am a hopeless pack rat. I bet I still have every piece of macaroni my children fashioned into artwork at nursery school. The plastic pots from my various plant purchases are my worst offense. In fact, I have an area in the garden known as Potland. When I am overwhelmed in some area of my life, I resort to organizing these pots.

By LYNNE IRONS

I seem to have developed a method for column writing. I carry a piece of paper on the truck dashboard during the week and when I see something of interest, I jot down a word or two. Then, on Saturday morning, I somehow throw it together. Finally, I haul out the trusty typewriter and a vat of white correction fluid.

By LYNNE IRONS

I like rain and don’t even mind the cold, but this hardened snow/ice/treacherous footing is totally irritating. Never being one to stay indoors, I still attempt to do outside activities. I have been using a pitchfork to keep myself upright while tending to my chores. I trudged to my pigs carrying a five-gallon bucket of hot water to melt the ice in their water trough. They took one sip and promptly spilled it. I resorted to name-calling.

By LYNNE IRONS

Due to the subject matter, reader discretion is advised. This column is written solely for non-vegetarians.

I have not eaten a store-bought chicken in over thirty years. In 1975, my friend Sharlee had a one-eyed, rather deformed rooster. We were just beginning to grow our own food in earnest — that is, for more than just the summer. We had begun canning tomatoes, making pickles, and searching the neighborhood for old fruit trees.

By LYNNE IRONS

I was happy to read Abigail Higgins’s column in the Martha’s Vineyard Times last week. She wrote about the National Animal Identification System. I wrote about it in my September column from information I gleaned from the Hightower Lowdown.

Apparently, the plot has thickened. Several Islanders have received letters from the Massachusetts Department of Agricultural Resources informing them that they are already enrolled in the program unless they “opt out” by mail on Dec. 14.

By LYNNE IRONS

Last Saturday’s cold snap lit a fire under me. There were so many last (for me, first) minute winter preparations.

I stapled a bunch of grain bags over the hardware cloth windows of my hen house. The girls were mighty chilly last Friday night. When I closed their door that evening, their feathers were blowing around on them. I always feel sorry for birds in winter with their bare legs and feet.