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!!

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!

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:

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.  :)

Blog, what blog? It's spring outside!

Bare feet and violets...ah, Spring!

Well, hello there, faithful readers.  I have not been giving you the attention you deserve lately, and I'm sorry.  One of the many things I forget from one year to the next is how quickly it changes from mind-numbingly s-l-o-w-paced winter to "I'm panicking over my to-do list" spring!  Here's a quick update on what's going on at the homestead:

1.  SCHOOL SQUARED!  I leave this Thursday (ack, tomorrow) for St. Mary-of-the-Woods to present my final project for my master's program.  The project, as mentioned before, is a school garden and accompanying curriculum on urban sustainability.  I've been remembering how to use Power Point (ha!  thank you, ProStaff circa 1999) and preparing my presentation, as well as working through the obligatory organizational start-up period with the other folks on the school garden committee--you know, figuring out what supplies are needed, what fundraising we need to do, grants we should apply for, and also planning a garden kick-off party for Earth Day (4/22).

I really enjoy the connections I've found between the homesteading concepts that I've personally explored this year (and continue to explore) and the garden ecology concepts I want to include in lessons with the kids.  Here is what we will study:  Sun, Water, Soil, Plants,  and Birds & Bugs.  For each of these garden entities, I've been developing lessons and activities for the little ones that help to inspire good questions and ideas about how we live our human lives in relation to Nature.  What better way to talk about solar energy than by making a jug of sun tea from the lemon balm we are growing?  Or, even more magical, using a solar oven to make a snack of chips (kale chips, that is, with kale leaves from the garden, olive oil, salt & pepper?)  And what about putting on a play depicting what happens to the Good Bugs and the Bad Bugs when you spray a pesticide?  (If you are curious, read this about the Volterra Principle, one of those mathematical and ecological truths that Monsanto would prefer you ignore).

2.  Garden!  Girls!  Keeping ye old homestead a'runnin!  We've had to make some changes in the backyard, now that the wheel has turned:  the girls are grown and the garden is back to babyhood.  The chickens no longer get free access to the garden--at least until summer, when the plants are well established.  So, we have a temporary fence around the garden, and the girls are a bit miffed, primarily when I am working in the beds and they can't come "help."  Ramona, in particular, being the shameless beggar of the flock, has been sidling along the fencing, murmuring little coo's and peeps and giving me, as Jason would say, the stink-eye.  If she had visible eyelashes, she would bat them.  Good grief.

Safe, for now, from the hungry girls

The garden is already a fun, green place to be, thanks to the coldframe that I made last fall.  This is my first real attempt at extending the season, and it is very gratifying to have produce already flourishing!  We can now be gleaning from four collard plants, several clumps of spinach, some scallions, cilantro, and our favorite heirloom lettuce from last season, called "Forellenschuss."  I moved the coldframe down the row, and have planted some cold-friendly varieties in it, so that the frame can act as a safe, warm nursery for the next month while the seeds sprout and get established--broccoli, alpine strawberries, parsley, brussel sprouts, and two types of kale.

Forellenschuss, cabbage, spinach and scallions

The asparagus is also up and thriving...one more year and we will get to start harvesting from the plants, but for now we let them all grow and allow the roots to get nicely established so that the bed will be productive for decades.  It is hard, though, to resist....




In other fowl news, the chickens are slacking off in their duties!  Ever since we have switched to letting them roam the yard for most of the day, I have been getting fewer eggs.  I think there are several factors at work in the ladies' lives that are contributing to our dwindling egg supply, the first and biggest being that I acquired these little lives in the Fall, rather than the Spring, which is just not quite fair or in-step with the natural order of things.  I am hoping that their little hormonal systems even out a bit as light and warmth return.

Of course, the other potential factors here are that the girls are

A) now confused about where the nest box is, even though it has remained in the same spot

and B) they are probably hiding their eggs somewhere in the yard.  The other possibility (and my favorite, although it is a bit more crude) is that 

 C) they are simply being lazy.  I call them, fondly, Lazy Sluts.

Lazy ladies lounging in a sunny dust bath

 {Ahem.  While I am a huge proponent of choosing your words carefully, using inclusive language and making a practice of being as PC as possible in the larger world, I reserve the right to abandon my PC ways when I am nick-naming backyard poultry.}

SO.   Lazy Sluts or Fat Biddies.  These are my terms of endearment for the chickie-gals lately.  As we were all getting accustomed to having free-range of the backyard, I had been leaving the (human) garage door open as another potential escape route for the girls, in case of a hawk fly-by.  However, the girls decided this was their new awesome clubhouse and started oh-so-casually hanging out over in one corner, behind some bikes and the lawn mower.  You would walk in, and everyone would shut up and freeze.  I was reminded, forcibly, of teenaged girls sneaking cigarettes in the alley and gossiping about boy--except that these girls leave behind feathers and poop (and who knows, maybe hidden eggs), rather than ashes and butts. 

Not happening.  No more garage access.  So now, they just tear across the yard every time I go to that door, hoping--apparently--that I will forget to close it.

And did I mention that Roxie is molting?  Twelve months earlier than expected?  No pretty blue eggs from her until her little body can turn its attention from feather-making back to egg-producing.  And in the meantime she looks like a balding middle aged person going through a midlife crisis.  Not pretty.

(Hmmm.  Balding Lazy Slut.)

****

Hooo-kay.  Hmm.  I think the stress of school has finally damaged my brain.  I was going to continue on and share our dreams and plans for constructing a greenhouse later this spring, but at this rate, I'll be swearing and raving by the time I'm done.   Perhaps it is best to wait until next time.  :)  So let me send you off with a pic of my latest yarn splurge:  cotton, cotton, cotton.  It is time for my green/red/brown kitchen to get accessorized.... 

The Girls, age 5 months

OK.  A chicken post.  I can't help it.  Times, they are a changin'.  I officially have egg-producing adolescents now.  They are pretty girls....

Fern

Fern, the Partridge Plymouth Rock, has been very, very, loud lately, which is one sign that a young lady is getting ready to lay an egg.  My guess is that hers is the dark brown one above.  When I leave to go back to the house, especially, she indignantly stands at the side of the pen and bwawks with greater and greater volume as I get farther away, apparently cranky that the treat-distribution has come to an end.  It's a little embarrassing, in my quiet, snowy neighborhood.  But you have to love the fact that she has so much to say.



Roxie is a bit of a concern to me right now--she's not feeling too hot, and hasn't been for a while.  She, our usually sassy easter-egger, laid five eggs without a lot of rest between and then hasn't laid any all week.  (Unless she's hidden them somewhere, and believe me, I've checked.)  I am giving her some dairy to make sure that she's getting enough calcium (egg shells demand a lot,) while I wait for a supplement to come in. I'm also giving her a few droppers-full of echinacea infusion a couple of times a day, to boost her system.

Roxanne

She is up and down, sometimes frightening me by sitting up on her roost, face to the wall, puffed up, snoozing and obviously not feeling well.  Then the next time I check on her, she is up and eating, although not very competitive about getting to the kitchen scraps I bring, not very vocal (!), and strangely lethargic overall. I am keeping a close eye on my Foxy Rox at this point.

Ramona

Ramona, my Australorp, is a shameless beggar.  I don't mind, really, because she is also the easiest to handle and is entirely comfortable with me.  This is the one that hops on Jason's lap and gets a few pats before going on her way with the rest of the flock, remember.  She has us right where she wants us, and we all know it.  It is too bad that this picture doesn't show how iridescent her black feathers are--green and even purple in the sunlight.

Lined up for treats (spoiled chickens)

I know that these chickens are total pets, but I enjoy interacting with and learning another creature--one of a foreign temperament entirely from that of a dog or cat, hamster, iguana, snake or even parakeet.  Flock mentality is a fascinating world to live in, even vicariously from a lawn chair.  Can I tell you how much I appreciate the eggs that the girls are giving us?  How very fun it is to crack through the dense shell and plop a bright orange yolk--made from our back yard--into the skillet or mixing bowl?  I know that my enthusiasm is palpable.

Shy Betty

Lest I forget:  Betty is our shy girl.  She is also a runner, and I've spent way too many hours chasing her around the yard, particularly when she was smaller and we hadn't yet made a door in the side of the pen.  I am pretty sure that she is the layer of the light-brown eggs, although they could be Ramona's too.  She, who was fairly bold as a little chick, is possibly at the bottom of the pecking order, but no one seems to really get picked on in the coop so far--there is plenty of room (and scraps) for everyone.  As long as Roxie pulls through whatever illness or devastating life change it is that she is going through (I mean, five eggs laid, all stolen; nothing to show for it, etc.--who's to say?) then I think we are on our way to a happy little homestead here on Lester Street.  And just about every morning--an egg!

EGG!

If you recall the first week of August say, by re-reading my post The Ladies of Lester St, you will remember a certain precocious chicken named Roxanne.  Foxy Roxie, of the heavy black eyeliner and early-developing feathers.  The gal with the big mouth that is always forcefully commenting on something, particularly my lack of speed when it comes to distributing kitchen treats. 

Well, we have some exciting news:  we have our very first homegrown egg.  And, since it is greenish-blue, we know who to thank--our big, grown up "easter-egger" Roxanne.

Some of the books that I've read warn that the first few eggs in a girl's life of laying might be not quite right--maybe misshapen or lacking a yolk, or even some of the hard shell.  I was prepared for a few Frankenstein eggs to appear first.  But this little gift is perfect--smaller than future eggs will be, but otherwise perfectly formed.  I have to admit, it is hard to believe that such an amazing thing has actually happened--that this quirky character of a creature, who was herself an egg only a few months ago, dug a small bowl-shaped nest in the pine shavings and laid a little blue egg.  If I don't watch it, I'll start babbling about the deep mysteries in the circle of life and have you all rolling your eyes....

Serendipity must be in the air, because I found the egg last night, under the best possible circumstances:  my dear little friends, Teagan (almost five) and her brother Greyson (almost two) were along to help put the chickies to bed.  I spotted the egg in the dim, far corner of the coop and had to crawl in to get it.  I will never forget the joy of sharing what I held in my hand with Teagan--I think we both shrieked and jumped up and down a little.  Even though she is recovering from a week of the flu, and is still quite subdued, pale, and tired, our discovery put some roses back in her cheeks and a huge perk in her step.  After a short conversation to clarify how baby chicks only come from eggs when there is a rooster around (dangerous ground), and so these girls are going to give us eggs for eating, not hatching, we scooped up her brother and ran to the house to share our wonderful news!

So, I can't quite bear to crack open the Egg yet, even though I am dying to see if the yolk looks like the rich gorgeous orangey-yellow ones we are used to from farmer's market vendors who let their flocks range.  When I do, rest assured that pictures will be taken!