Everywhere a chick-chick

It's been Chicken Central around here, folks.

Aside from the fact that I've been running around like a you-know-what, the girls are laying eggs like crazy as the amount of daylight increases--even as I disrupt their lives with frequent traveling duties as educational chickens for workshops and presentations.  As usual, I managed to put Fern through the ordeal recently of being stuck in a dog crate for a presentation while desperately in need of the nest box and some privacy.  By the end, she was complaining at the top of her lungs and racing back-and-forth in the crate frantically. 

Once we got home and opened the crate, she was out of there like shot and headed directly for the coop. Five minutes later, I had this in my hands:

Now, that is a big honking egg!  No wonder she was trumpeting her discomfort all over the Expo Hall! 

Poor Fern.  We need to figure out a better system.

Ethel has been a cause for concern lately, thanks to some nasty swelling in the scales on her feet.  In order to see what was going on, we brought her inside a few weeks ago to stand in a few inches of warm water in the bathtub.  The intent was to drown the mites that we think are the problem, and to clean her feet to make everything easier to examine.

Yes, a chicken in the bathtub.  Until the day that I have a wonderful, awesome, glorious utility sink in the garage (are you listening, Universe?), this is the only chicken-bathing option available, so you are just going to have to get past the chicken/tub oddity!  And if you think it might be difficult to get clear pictures of your gals normally, consider a photo shoot in the bathroom!  This is as good as it gets:





...and blurry or not, it still cracks me up. 

Let me tell you about a chicken in a bathtub:  Not. One. Peep. 

Apparently when you are a biddy with sore feet, entirely out of your comfort zone and standing in wet stuff up to your tummy, it behooves you to shut your trap and just keep a close eye out for possible escape routes.  Poor little Ethel stood there in her Epsom-salted water (after immediately pooping when her legs hit the water--I mean, we all know that warm water is awfully, er, relaxing....) silently looking at me a bit forlornly. 

Guess what is way more endearing than a loud, struggling chicken:  a silent, pitiful one!  After letting her soak for about ten (anxious) minutes, I got out a soft toothbrush, some gentle, homemade soap, and a rag.  Kneeling by the tub, with the shower curtain pulled shut around me, I tried to scrub softly all over her feet and legs, being especially careful around and under the swollen areas.  Some of her scales have fallen off, while others are sticking almost straight out.  I am a bad chicken mama for letting this go so long.

Once done with some initial cleaning, I wrapped her in a towel, turned her onto her back, and laid her in my lap with her feet closest to me.  One at a time, I soaped her feet and legs up again, this time trying to get the soap under the lifted scales, in an effort to get at any mites or eggs that might still be underneath.  I rinsed each foot in the sink, dried them, and then excessively slathered my herbal healing salve all over them.  The oil should smother any remaining critters, and I hoped the herbs would help soothe and heal the area.

As a final insult, I got out the hair dryer and fluffed the wettest areas on her tummy and derriere.  Jason was giggling, and so was I.

To her credit, Ethel handled all of this with calm resignation.  Only once did she really struggle, and so I picked her up from my lap and held her to my chest, intending to merely restrain her and keep her from flapping out of the towel.  To my surprise, she snuggled in and extended her neck, so that her little head was resting on my shoulder and her face was cuddled into my neck.  Having been pretty fiercly focused on the strange task at hand, I was startled for a second--and then immediately had to acknowledge a tug on the ol' heartstrings.  Poor traumatized thing.  I soothed and petted her for a few minutes, soaking up this brief bonding moment with one of my more aloof girls.  Then I got back to business, and she was calm and quiet the rest of the time.

If that weren't enough chicken news for you...I was also a foster-mama for a few days for eight little day-old fluffs last week.  With great restraint, I managed to keep from falling completely in love with my charges, but it was getting awfully risky by the end.  There is just very little in this world as sweet as a tiny chick taking an impromptu nap in the palm of your hand.  Then you multiply that sweetness times eight, factor in all sorts of different colors of fluff...and you end up with a load of temptation in a rubbermaid tub in the spare bedroom!

Happily, these little ladies were a birthday present for  my young friend Teagan, and so they quickly made their final move to her house after all children were tucked into bed the night before the Big Day.  Now they are twice as big and already requiring a larger brooder....

SO, things are going well at the little homestead in the city.  My work is also going well, and my stress-level is improving for the most part.  Since we've had the warmest March ever, I've been making a priority out of carving a little time away from my desk and meetings in order to spend a while in the yard each day, if only to sit in the sun, inhale the fragrant air, and glory in the springtime beauty all around us.  I hope you are able to do the same!

Happy Spring!!

On Second Thought: a Thanksgiving Post

Dear Lord.  How is it more than a month since my last post?  Argh.  Way waaaaay more.

OK.  So, it's not that I haven't started posts. 

There was one draft that I began back in early November, and all that I will say about it is that

"Time management."

was the first sentence (fragment).

I am not qualified to expound upon that subject...obviously.  Off to the virtual trash can it goes.

The second (circa a predictable 11/24) started off with this:

"Gratitude is pretty in these days.  So is talking about being 'blessed.'  Both of those words tend to make me feel a bit twitchy to be honest, but that is a symptom of their popularity and overuse rather than a deep-seated aversion to being genuinely thankful.  This is the second year, actually, that I've tried to write a Thanksgiving post, and my failing has nothing to do with how much gratitude I feel for the gifts I have in this life."

[...but it does signify the beginning of a long tradition in aborted gratitude posts, apparently.       *sigh*] 

*   *   *

So it is not that I've been lacking stories to tell, but rather that I am suddenly a much busier, employed person.  Then you add holiday prep/panic time and a catastrophic computer failure...and we end up...here.  With a sadly neglected blog and a few more gray hairs.  Would you like a quick update on the rest of my life?  Did I mention the sprained ankle?  The contractor who quit in the middle of a project for my new job, one that had already been delayed by three weeks--?        

--Wait.  That's not the stuff I want to share; that's just stress getting in the way again.  I want to talk about the good stuff, like my most recent bout of harvesting--yes, harvesting in the last few weeks of December.  I was on the prowl for plantain, if I could still find it growing in the yard, and also out to snip the last of the comfrey that had escaped frost damage.  Both, along with some of the calendula flowers I harvested and dried all summer, were for a healing salve that I planned to make for our home medicine chest as well as for gifts.  Jason was outside with me, and as I paced along, bent over and staring intently at the ground, I started to giggle. 

Plantain is a weed.  A prevalent and much-combatted one--in fact, my guess is that it is second only to dandelions as the weed most people could easily identify, due to their constant struggle to eradicate it from the lawn or flower beds.  And here I am, in the freezing cold with a scarf over my head like a peasant woman, combing the yard for this hated plant.  To use in a potion.  For healing.  Oh, poor Jason.  I laughed again.  How did I get to this place?  How did Jason get yoked into sharing his life with a crazy person harvesting weeds in December for Christmas gifts?

Jason was over by the chicken yard, talking to the girls, and he finally noticed me snorting to myself as I shivered and snipped comfrey leaves and asked what was so funny.  I joined him, explained, and we both laughed as we stood side by side, watching the girls beg for treats.  This is a good life.  A funny life, certainly, but a rich and satisfying one where we love each other dearly despite our glaring mental health issues, and where we can stand outside in the cold together, surveying our yard, chickens, garden, weeds with pride and contentment.  Where food and beauty and even medicine can be found just beyond the kitchen door, even in December when summer's gone and the living ain't easy for man nor beast nor fat, spoiled hen.  We have so much--so much of what counts.  I may not be capable of finishing a Thanksgiving post, but I am oh, so thankful.

When I started this blog, one reason was to write it as a project for school--to record my experiments in urban sustainability, and to keep a descriptive commentary going that others could use for their own purposes (hopefully as a guide for their own adventures and not just to laugh at my ridiculous musings!)   Well, the time has come to summarize this blogging experience in a paper, and I am already feeling nostalgic. 

The simple days of working on house-projects, caring for the girls and the garden, teaching four-year-olds about seeds, soil, and Nature, the long winter evenings snuggled on the couch with knitting needles whipping around industriously--now I have to find time for these luxuries on an increasingly crowded calendar.  Herein lies the basic dilemma of the two-income home:  who makes the home while both people are at work?  I don't know what the future of this blog is, or how frequently I will be able to write posts.  Now, more than ever, I realize the hard, cold value of time and labor; no matter how much I may want to reduce our consumption by making things ourselves, the truth is that there are only so many hours in a day.  How and where will I draw these lines? 

While I don't have these answers, I do have one:  I will still be posting here.  I have grown to love this strange blog world, an odd hybrid between a diary and pulpit where I am required to ponder life and Nature and lessons-learned and then offer up my ponderings under the bloggish-assumption that these thoughts are worth recording and sharing with you. 

Of course, the bottom line is that the girls have a responsibility to their public, and I am the only one who can type!

 

Happy New Year to all of you!  Thanks for reading!

It's the Lucy show

No more avian suspense, folks.  I know that you've been waiting to hear the particulars...about the NEW GIRLS. 

Right.  Well, may I first point out that, understandably, it is an entirely different process to adopt two teenaged girls than it is to acquire four newly hatched infants.  Good grief!  When you add in that Fern and Betty are both molting and hideous, (and know it) and are deeply annoyed by pretty young things with intact feathers--well, my happy, peaceful little flock of biddies is a thing of the past.  The in-fighting and grumbling is hilarious, the eternal chasing and pecking of our littlest gal, Lucy, is not so entertaining.  Jason the--forgive me, Honey--sensitive rooster is having difficulty keeping the peace and has grown protective of Baby Girl, as he calls Miss Lucy.

Lucy is too busy running to pose for the camera often!

Lucy is the Welsummer, our very own little Dutch girl who will soon be laying us eggs with chocolate-brown shells.  While she isn't very flashy from a distance, her feathers are actually beautiful lacy variations on browns, orangey-tans, creams, and rusts which run around her body in bands of color.  The roosters of this breed are the archetypal rooster on the cornflakes box, with the truly snazzy iridescent plumage.

Lucy is younger than Ethel, and very decidedly at the bottom of the pecking order, due primarily to being physically smaller.  She is speedy and can corner on a dime, which probably infuriates the hefty bullies puffing along behind her.  She spends a lot of time alone, because that is easier than being chased, although that seems to be slowly changing the longer she is here.  She is also a talker.  You may recall that I have a soft spot for chickens who will talk to me.  [Oh, christ.  You may also recall that I really do try to remember that other people will be reading this, and therefore watch the crazy-chicken-lady talk.  Sheesh.]

Anyway, Lucy does not allow me to pick her up without a chase and/or panicky uproar during the day...but once I catch her (or at night when everyone is sleepy) she is very calm and curious and quietly has a lot to say.  I am accustomed to big heavy ladies, and she is still small and sleek.  Tucked under my arm, she tilts her head to look me in the eye and gives me soft little comments about what it is like to be Lucy.  Since she is picked on so thoroughly, we all have a bit of a soft spot for her.

Ethel is beautiful.  And plump.  Her breed is one of the classics in American backyards, the Barred Plymouth Rock or simply Barred Rock, with characteristic black and white horizontal pinstriping.  Her colors are striking, and she is wonderfully rounded and chubby--however, she also cracks me up because her red, regal comb flops over, strongly reminiscent of a beret, and gives her a very dashing, devil-may-care look that I don't think is terribly representative of her personality.  She did, however, manage to muscle her way onto the roost after only a few days of living here.  She is a different color variation on Fern's breed, and Fern--if you recall--is one big biddy.

Ethel and Roxie

I apologize about the blurry photos...but then again, with her thin stripes, even curvy Ethel is difficult to capture without enough of a blur to make you feel a seizure coming on:

 Sorry.  :)


Within a few days of joining the flock, Ethel started laying her big, pinkish-brown eggs, which are, not surprisingly, very similar to Fern's.  Ethel was also quick to start hanging out with the older ladies, since the brunt of the pecking-order-fallout seemed to be geared toward Lucy.  In hope of treats, Ethel will allow me to get much closer to her than Lucy does and can even be convinced to eat out of my hand.

The best time, with either of the new girls, is at bedtime.  Lucy really, really thinks that she should be allowed to sleep in the nest box, since the roost is a terrifying gauntlet of potential peckers.  I, however, am not convinced--the best way to keep a nest box clean (and therefore the eggs that follow) is to keep the gals from sleeping there.  Lots of...er...digestion happens while the girls are sleeping, if you catch my drift.  And so, when we lock up the flock, either Jason or I get the pleasure of snuggling little Lucy for a moment as we transfer her to the roost for the night.

Not only is the snuggling part fun, but the grousing and bitching from the roost after we smoosh Lucy in the middle of all the complaining feathers is completely hilarious.  We immediately rush over to turn out the light (which eliminates pecking, since they can't see) and usually stand there for a second to listen to everyone grumble and stamp around while they readjust on the roost, with an occasional rasping squawk for punctuation and emphasis.  Roxie, of course, is the loudest, but everyone is completely annoyed and sounds like they've been smoking for fifty years. 

Better than TV, folks, better than TV.

While I had read, prior to adopting older girls, that a young chicken who has been raised by a hen rather than a human will never be quite as trusting, it is far clearer when you witness it every day.  Lucy and Ethel and I are very aware of each other, careful around each other, and not lacking a degree of curiosity and intrigue regarding each other--but there is an insurmountable cautiousness to our interactions that is noticeably absent with the older girls.  While Betty may have no intention of letting me pick her up, this is based on her personal preference and will, not because she is fundamentally scared of me.  While there is definite fear evident in Lucy and Ethel, it is also interesting to me how quickly and completely they settle down in my arms.  My original gals will tolerate being held at length with far less grace, perhaps because they aren't living in fear of humanity.  Who truly understands the poultry psyche, I ask you?

Another factor in our changing flock is the reality that I have had significantly less time to just hang out with the gals since Lucy and Ethel have joined us. 

*sigh* 

This is both a symptom of cooler weather and working to juggle my new job while still teaching at the preschool garden and writing (ta da!) a book on backyard chickens.   Oh, and I still have those three short papers to turn in for school.  And Christmas to figure out, in Year Two of DIY.  Sorry, sorry.  Back to the point:  maybe the new girls and I just need a little more time to get to know each other.  [After all, the general gregariousness of the flock has declined without our chicken-human ambassador, Ramona--it must be said.  Sobered up, we have.]

In any case, we are all here together and ready for winter.  I've ordered a base heater for their galvanized waterer, although I imagine I will supplement just a little with the heat lamp still, on the worst of the bitter nights to come.  The coop has undergone its biannual clean-and-disinfect extravaganza, using a shovel, shop vac, and vinegar/hot water-wipe-down. 

The accumulated bedding, half composted already, is used as mulch for the garden beds next in rotation, and in the spring can be turned under the soil prior to planting if needed.  A 4-5" layer of clean straw is fluffed into place, and the cozy coop is ready.  I'll continue fluffing it, to sift the solid material to the bottom to start composting, and occasionally adding another layer of clean straw all winter, until it is close to 12" deep and a nicely insulating floor for the gals.  The deep litter method of bedding the ladies is a great way to manage your manure and fertilize your garden.

Another fun addition to our chicken routine has been the partnership we've struck up with one of my student's home brewing operations.  They needed a place for their boiled grains, after extracting what they need for superior beer...and my ladies are mighty partial to any sort of carbohydrate, if you recall.  Bliss ensues.  Recycling at its finest!

Ode to Moe

A question that seems to come up fairly quickly among people who have kept chickens is:  "How many have you lost?"  Chickens are, inescapably, succulent potential dinners running around in pretty feathers and fancy headgear, a fact I have worried about continually in my wildlife-rich neighborhood.  We try to find a good balance between giving the girls freedom and still keeping them safe.  [Whoa.  Just sounded exactly like my father.  Good lord.]   We have a six-foot privacy fence around the yard, lots of hiding places, and we are scrupulous about locking the girls in their coop when it is bedtime and the majority of the predators appear--we worry, but we go ahead and live our lives.   I have gotten surprised responses from several people when I answer "Haven't lost any yet!" and I am grateful, every time, to be able to give the same answer.


Sadly, that easy answer is no longer true.

We've lost our dear Ramona.

The girls are noticeably upset and subdued.  So are we.

*     *     *

Now, there have been a couple of other times in this blog that I've been tempted to expound philosophically about the Greater Truths of Life which may be discovered by contemplating your backyard flock. I have heroically managed to keep myself in hand on those occasions--I would, after all, prefer that you think of me as a relatively practical, down-to-earth person, and not someone off with the fairies.

Well, these last days have required Practical Down-to-Earth Maggie to be present with a vengeance (it is not acceptable for a 34-year-old woman to have a massive breakdown over a dead chicken, FYI)...and yet, all the while, in the background, my mind and heart have been simmering with poignant Great Truths.  About Ramona.  About keeping animals.  About loving other creatures, of any kind.  About life, death, and what in the world to do with the last two dark-brown, pointed eggs in my carton?

Never fear:  I will not burden you with all of these thoughts.  In fact, my inner-dialogue voice tends to snort derisively when my heart tries to talk about these things.  The last thing I ever wanted to become, when I placed the order for my little flock, was the chicken equivalent of those women who carry miniature, yipping dogs in their designer handbags.  While I will admit freely that these animals are pets far more than they are livestock, I do not want to be overly sentimental or impractical.  We couldn't justify enormous vet bills or superhuman efforts if one of the girls were ill, for example.  I have long wrestled with what we will ultimately do with the girls as they age and lay fewer and fewer eggs.  I have semi-serious dreams of raising a meat flock some summer...damn it, I am not just a silly, impractical urbanite!

And yet...my sweet Mo-mo-chicken.  My sweet girl. 

It is hard to believe we won't have anymore of our mutual chats...the soft warmth of her sitting quietly against my chest, cocking her head to make eye contact, and conversationally chirping and cooing.

It occurs to me that this grief is partially her fault:  she made a lifelong habit out of charming us and whatever other humanity she had the opportunity to sidle up to.  It was Ramona who napped in our cupped palms as a brand-new chick, and who perched proudly on my shoulder when she was first getting her feathers.  If you have been to my place to meet the girls, you have either held, petted, or fed her, I'm sure.  I can't count the number of times I have turned around to see a young child awkwardly grasping Mo-mo to their chest--with Moe looking at me calmly as if to say:  It's OK.  People this size always have food....

I referred to her as our lap chicken. What can I say?  It is futile to try to categorize her as simply another cog in the wheel of our little homestead; she was, more than the other girls (dare I say that?), an entity in her own right.

[TOP SECRET:  In fact, the concept of wishing--if it had to happen at all--that Ramona would have survived in exchange for one of the other girls has actually been expressed by most of the humans closest to this little flock.  We feel really awful about saying it...and yet--behold the power of Ramona.]

And, with that, I am done with the sentimental stuff.  Promise.

Now, I am sure that many of you are wondering what happened.  With as little gore as possible, let me say this:  probably a raccoon.  Possibly an owl out hunting a bit early.  Either way, it was a violent death that we hope was very quick.

Actually, the whole thing was rather harrowing--Jason was gone for a long weekend, white-water rafting with his dad in West Virginia, and so it was Maggie vs the Crisis.  Awesome.  I came home from dropping him off a few hours away at his parents' place, and found the backyard in chaos.  The remaining girls had witnessed the violence and were panicked--Roxie was somehow over the back fence in the neighbor's yard and couldn't figure out how to get home.  In trying to puzzle that out, I happened upon poor Ramona--near the fence, and near a large gap that I hadn't known was in the fence (it is partially hidden by the brush pile.) 

In any case, finding her body, while hard, was also helpful in the sense that one immediately knows that the sweet, sassy spark that was "Ramona" is gone, and what is left is, truly, just a carcass.  This was nothing like most open-casket funeral home ordeals where the departed looks like a creepy wax figure with a few inches of stage make-up slathered on--this death wasn't sanitized, which was a first for me.  In truth, I am grateful.  One look was enough to know two things with certainty:  that is Ramona, and she isn't coming back.  It is almost as though the moment I found her little body, Ramona-in-this-world disappeared and a bright light was lit in my mind, a warm little glow of funny & precious memories.  If she, herself, can't be here, then I am glad that her personality remains larger than life.

And it is, let me tell you!  Do you have any idea how many people knew Ramona?  I've received sympathy cards.  No joke.  Most of the condolences I've received have been accompanied by a story about her--the first chicken I've ever held!...she came running when you called...I couldn't believe she let me hold her and pet her...etc.  We feel a little less silly now, so thank you for the stories.  We weren't the only ones who loved her. 

It has been close to two weeks, now.  The girls are coping, but slowly.  They are quite depressingly discombobulated--to go from four to three is a enormous change for ladies of such predictable habits! We've moved the outdoor pen back beside the garage for the winter, and they are content to stay confined (that should tell you all you need to know!), with access to the coop in the garage and the pen outside. While they will have free range time again (if I'm able to convince the Red Rooster that this is a worthwhile risk), for now we are only letting them run around while we are outside with them--and even so, they stick close to us or hide under cover most of the time.  Gone are the days where we all felt invincible--the girls and the humans around here are like newly-driving teenagers who've been through their first scary car accident.  No more carefree joy-riding!  We know, painfully, that "it" can happen to us.

SO.  Anyway, that is the story of the demise of Ramona!  We buried her under the hackberry tree in the backyard, and covered the spot with stones.  It feels good to have her still be a part of our place.  After thinking it all over for a while, we are probably going to add another chicken to the flock before winter, to ensure that we have enough eggs over the slow season, and to bring in the newbie before the original three get used to their new flock dynamics. 

With that, here are a few more of our favorite pictures. 

The life and times of our Moe:

This was probably the last time we were rational about this chicken

Coffee talk

Big-girl feathers

A teenager with a pin-up rooster

Educational chickens

Beautiful iridescent feathers...freshly groomed.

The Tour de Coops

Before I swear not to talk chicken anymore (OK.  We all know that's a lie.  How about "not talk chicken for a few weeks?"), I have to say:

The TOUR de COOPS was an AMAZING event.  Thank you to all of the folks involved!  Believe it or not, over 500 people registered at Broad Ripple Park for this tour!  Jason & I can't wait to do this again next year.

I guess that I didn't have a firmly-fashioned vision of how the Tour would unfold, but I never dreamed we would be as busy as we were.  We didn't keep count, but my guess is that we saw a few hundred tourists that afternoon.  Especially since Rocky Ripple is a bit farther west than most of the other stops on the tour, I had no idea that we would have such a crowd.  In fact, since we were #9 on the suggested route everyone received upon registering, we figured that we would have to wait a while for our first tourists to show up.

Um, nope.  At precisely 2:01PM, while I was dashing to print signs to help direct the traffic flow in and out of the backyard, the first car pulled up.  I had thought that I would still change clothes/make sure my hair wasn't a completely crazed mess, etc., and at the very least I had intended to set up some water and cups for thirsty bikers.

Instead, I jumped right in to talking about all-things-chicken, while walking people around the backyard, the outdoor run, the coop inside the garage...and I didn't stop until 6PM.  I saw Jason out of the corner of my eye doing the same--he was almost hoarse by the end of the afternoon. It doesn't help, of course that both of us are talkers, yet honestly every time I finished and said goodbye to one person or group, I would turn and run directly into someone new.

I know that a few of the people who were hosting other stops along the way had to field all of the tourists on their own--in this I was extremely fortunate to have not only the Red Rooster himself--my darlin' Jason, but also my younger sister Christiana, her boyfriend Josh, and my older sisters Marti and Julie here as witnesses, tour guides, and general helpers. 

The best part of the whole day, though, were all of the great people that we met, most of whom had very thoughtful questions and were obviously having a fantastic afternoon.  We heard, several times, someone say something along the lines of, "This is great--we have so many good ideas now.  We can do this ourselves!"  And, really, isn't that the point of the whole thing?  We are so proud and happy to be a part of spreading the word:  backyard chickens are something that anyone can do!

Here are a few more of our favorite pictures:

Chicken Mania

Well, folks, it is almost time.  Hard to believe that September 18th is looming large on my horizon--and yet here we are, just about ready to put the 14th to bed.  (Ack!)

Time for what, you ask?  Why the Tour de Coops, of course!  Over 200 hundred people, largely on bicycles, coming to meet my chickens and see how we've set up our flock accommodations.  For those of you who already get it, that last sentence won't sound strange...for the rest of you--well, you really need to hug a chicken.  Then it should all become clear.  [Ramona says that you can hug her, if you'd like; just make sure to bring treats.]

This is going to be a short post, I'm afraid.  If I had everything cleaned, weeded, organized, painted, washed (quit digging in the compost, ladies), sorted, pruned, and arranged, then I would post pictures all over here to show off. 

As it is, I have only one bit of business in a show-off state--the picnic table that Jason & I built this week.  We are very pleased with this massive structure, and are currently having fun imagining all of the meals we will share with friends, outside under our beautiful hackberry, in the years to come.

All told, this probably cost us around $40 to build--and most of that was spent on the shellac we used to seal the wood.  The lumber was free, the plans were free, and we had the necessary tools already.  If only I could build for myself all of the items that I covet at the garden and hardware stores!

So, at least when the hordes of chicken fans come clamoring through the gate this weekend...we will have a snazzy table for them to sit at.  :)

There is one interesting bit of business--aside from the table (and the messy garage)--in the following picture:

Those white panels in the back, on the left, are the future (i.e., before the 18th) roof of the girls' outdoor pen.  I had primed the plywood panels and left them to dry in this picture.  Now, however, they are being decoratively painted by my dear little preschoolers at Meridian Street Preschool Cooperative.  I love the way that all of these different aspects of my life are coming together.  Modern art by four-year-old gardeners, famous chickens...tomato, tomahto.  The urban homesteader takes it all in her stride!

Once the roof art is complete, then all I have left to do is:

-seal and assemble said roof
-clean and organize the garage (again)
-clean and paint the coop
-weed the mulch around the yard, so that the mulch is visibly brown, rather than green
-do *something* about the flower bed that I supposedly protected from the chickens with my quaint little stick fence (where the hussies continue to dust bathe and crush all of the flowers.)
-do something with the woodpile/truck camper-top/stacks of windows-waiting-to-become-a-greenhouse arranged around the garage with a distinctly "hillybilly" feel
-did I mention weeding?

Oh good grief.  Time for a medicinal glass of wine on the couch.  Wish me luck.

A Year with the Girls

We've hit a few milestones around here in the last few days.  

I missed the anniversary of my first-ever blog post; that was back in July somewhere while I was feverishly thesis-writing.  But nevertheless, faithful readers, you've been following the life-n-times of the Rocky Ripple homestead for a year now.

...Which also means that I have been unemployed for a year as well.  The last time I could say that was over half my lifetime ago when I had never actually been employed.  Wow....


But the main thing, the big event, the special guests, the reason for the season (if you will) is:

The girls are one year old!  Big biddies. The four chickens of the apocalypse.  (However you like to refer to them.)

A year ago, I was waiting on pins and needles for the postman to call...they hatched on August 2nd, and they arrived in the wee sma's on the 4th.  I've been looking back at the pictures we took in those first few weeks--I spent my first week of unemployment in a 95 degree room, sweating, and hanging over the edge of their brooder in delight.


Of course, the girls (with--as usual--one exception) are not phased by this at all.  What is a year of life, Ramona asks, when it looks like you might have a treat in your pocket?

One of the ladies, however, seems to be taking her advanced age to heart.  Yes, of course I am talking about Roxie the Drama Queen.  Who else gives me continual trouble??  Roxie, it turns out, is an educational chicken.  As in, the chicken destined to give me real-life experience from every last damn chapter of my "how to raise chickens" books.  Just when I get rather comfortable in my role as Top Chicken, Roxie dreams up another fowl crisis. (snicker.)

Today's drama:  she wants to be a mother.  I have a broody chicken on my hands.

Ramifications for the humans in her world:  no more eggs from Roxie until she gets it through her head that sitting on imaginary eggs is futile.

Now, I am the first to admit that I probably need to get a grip and not take this personally.  In fact, when I stop being annoyed by my problem chicken and the loss of her pretty blue eggs, her behavior is rather poignant.

She sits, in the sweltering heat of the coop, for most of the day, a selfless and dedicated Madonna of the Straw.  She has been plucking soft downy feathers from her chest and tummy to make a more luxurious nest.  Vocal as always, she talks now in entirely new tones, soft chirps or swift, staccato sentences warning you away from the important duties she is trying to perform.  And when you approach her on the nest, she puffs up majestically, her tail feathers splayed like a turkey--a ferocious Mama Rox who will defend her eggs against all challengers.

Of course, there are no eggs.  As a rule, I whisk them away as soon as I see them, and once her broody hormones kicked in, she stopped laying anyway and has been hogging that nest ever since so that no one else dares to plop one down.

We talk about this, Roxie and I.  I've been removing her from her post several times a day since this broody behavior started, encouraging her to snap out of it and go back to her normal swinging-single self.  As much as she puffs up, as much as she complains, she has never pecked at me.  Her friendly temperament is still there, underneath all of the mama-hormones.  So I stroke down those enormously puffed feathers and coo to her that she is a good girl.  I pick her up as she grumbles under her breath, and as I walk her outside I continue to soothe and stroke her.  Roxie, darlin, I say, honey, you can't get babies without roosters, sweetheart, and we don't want one of those around the place. 

She is NOT convinced.

And, being Roxie, she tells me all about it in these new weird chirps.  There is no mistaking the emotion behind these noises.  She is bitching at me--there is no other word for it.  I am messing things up; I don't listen.  She is trying to hatch some precious BABIES here, and everyone keeps foiling her plans.

Roxie, sister, look--here are all your girls, wondering what is wrong with you.  There is your food, your water, a nice shady dust bath--and a BREEZE.  Why don't I put you down to hang out here for a while and give the nest a rest.
 
I put her down.  She walks away, still puffed up, with a disgruntled air.  She noses around with the other girls for a bit. Within ten minutes, she has disappeared back into the coop.

Fine.  Have your imaginary pregnancy in that oven of a garage.

Later, I am out hanging laundry on the line, near the pophole in the side of the garage where the girls climb the ladder to enter and exit the coop.  I walk over to hang some pillowcases close to the pophole.  Unseen, Roxie starts her warning chirps at me.  I lean over to snap right back at her through the pophole:  listen, you silly chicken!

I stop.  I am getting into a fight with a chicken.  I think I need to get a job or some outside interests or something.  Jeez. I walk away and ignore the ominous grumbling from the coop while I finish the laundry.

************

So.  The rest of the girls are doing well--fat, happy ladies reveling in the freedom of their backyard kingdom (queendom?) and the treats from the kitchen.  Betty is probably the best gal all-around, my beautiful Silver-Laced Wyandotte.  She is a neat, small, precise little package of a chicken, with no incessant squawking or otherwise questionable behavior.  She seems very self-possessed.  She is also a reliable layer, with her pretty, round light-brown eggs coming every day or every other day.  While she doesn't particularly like to be held, once I have her securely in my arm, she relaxes and responds to my pats and sweet-nothings with a little low-pitched coo now and then. Here she is now:

and just for fun, here is baby Betty a year ago, a little dollop of black and silver fuzz :

And then there is Fern, the Partridge Plymouth Rock.  She is a force to be reckoned with.  Not to be insensitive, but when she comes charging across the yard at you (certain that you are bringing something to eat that she must get to first), you expect the earth to tremble with each thundering stride:  BOOM-BA-BA, BOOM-BA-BA BOOM, BOOM, BOOM!  It is even worse now that it is hot, because she lifts her shoulders up and out a little at the sides for better ventilation and looks for all the world as though she has on football pads.  All this from the teeniest chick of the lot, the one that I worried wouldn't make it for the first few days.  Funny, how these things turn out.

Fern is a good girl.  She lays big round pinkish-brown eggs, and she has the funniest little running commentary that sounds like a squeaky box-springs:  er-Er, er-ER, er-Er, er-ER.  She has no sense of self-preservation when there is food involved--I have actually punted her a few feet on accident because she is so intent on getting to the treat that I am taking to the compost heap that she runs in and out between my legs.  Here she is today:

And here she is on Day 1, having fallen asleep on her feet:

Oh, Fern.  Lil punkin.

And then there is Ramona, the Australorp.  If you know me, you know that I lost my heart to Ramona a long time ago, conniving little wench that she is.  Even after I figured out that all of her sweetness was geared toward getting the best of the treats out of me, it was too late.  She already had me wrapped around her soft downy feathers.

This is a chicken who converses with you.  She will let anyone hold her, and when I do, and talk to her, she never fails to talk back in the sweetest baby-chickie sounds imaginable.  Weaving her spell, no doubt, but endearing nonetheless.  She will stop by to visit and sit on Jason's knee for a few minutes.  Her eggs are a darker brown, occasionally freckled and a bit pointed on one end. 

She and Fern are in constant competition to see who can get there faster when someone comes from the kitchen with food.  When she runs, she holds her head upright--she looks like a bell swinging back and forth.  The girl has hips.  (Fern, on the other hand, lowers her head and charges.)  It is quite hilarious--not long ago Ramona actually had to backpedal to avoid crashing right into Jason as he came around a corner one way, and she came barreling up in pursuit of Fern from the other direction.  He said she looked like a cartoon character digging in her heels to come to a screeching halt.

Anyway, here is my pretty lady now:

And here's the little puddin, snuggling with Roxie.  The yellow tip of her beak is her egg tooth. 

Which leaves me with the soap opera star, Roxanne.  She has the pretty cheek feathers, elongated body and blue eggs of her breed, but she is not a pure-bred Araucana.  That's OK.  We love our overly-dramatic Easter Egger.

And, back when she had the eyeliner and less angst:

SO, there you are.  We have made it through a year of chicken tending.  The girls are healthy and happy and free to fully explore their little chicken destinies.  While they are certainly not the most intelligent or graceful creatures, they have a charm that goes far beyond the beauty of their soft shiny feathers and their daily offerings of rich fresh eggs.  Having an opportunity like this to watch a chicken be a chicken makes it all the harder to imagine the short, brutal lives of the wretches at Tyson or Perdue--what an arrogant crime to take a life and make it nothing more than a commodity, stripped of health and dignity, even the occasional breath of fresh air or wriggling worm. 

Well, anyway.  When you can, buy your chicken and eggs from somewhere that lets chickens be chickens, will you?  The girls would appreciate it.  :)