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!

Frederick the mouse

It is that time of year again.  I feel compelled to emotionally gird my loins.  Or something like that.

(I'll get to Lucy & Ethel, the new girls, in the next post. Promise.)

I have a strange relationship to Fall.  I've decided to embrace this rather than feeling guilt or regret about it.  It is undeniably gorgeous outside, and I love the richness of the world, in color and tone, in heavy seedheads and reckless jumble of garden, in the luxurious, golden, and somehow mellowed quality of the sunlight.  I recently drove up to visit my parents, which is a two-hour trip by highway and is one of the most boring stretches of Indiana imaginable (!)--but this time, we zipped through a blurred tapestry of magnificent texture and brilliant, brilliant colors. Everything everywhere was ripe and full, and for that length of time I could forget my beef with Fall and just steep in the beauty.

However, if a mostly pagan person has a Good Friday, it is this season.  Or at least it is for this person (who really prefers not to identify with any one dogma, thank you.)

I'm not certain which precisely to blame--the degree to which I adore the green, growing months, or the amount I dread when everything outside is faded into an endlessly bleak gray and dull brown, when you step outside the door and shiver into yourself rather than stretching forward happily into the beauty of the day.  Either way,  I usually waffle back and forth for most of autumn without feeling able to truly enjoy it.  I have just enough sense left to know that I am missing out on the essence of this season because I dread the next.


Well, here's the deal.  Lately I've been dabbling in facing up to my honest emotions, trying to honor them and feel them and hopefully proceed on, and let them pass by with me the richer for the experience.  This admittedly has something to do with a chicken, which is...humbling.  But it also has much to do with a series of friends who are navigating truly rough times, and with going through my own growth and transformation in a year of no job and only a little bit of faith.

Which brings me to the title of this post:  Frederick the mouse.  A book from my childhood...I really should own a copy, and so should you.  I think of Frederick every fall when the weather is beautiful and I know that I only have a few more moments of this bliss before the cold comes to stay. 

While the other field mice frantically, perpetually, scurry to gather and store as much of the summer's bounty as possible, Frederick is a dreamer who doesn't appear to be doing much other than lingering by the flowers, soaking up the sunshine, and listening to the warm voices of the breeze.

In the depths of the following winter, however, Frederick's gifts are revealed:  when the food runs low, and the cold & dark are most oppressive, Frederick begins to speak of the memories he stored up throughout the summer and fall--all of the colors, scents, and textures in all that beauty--and while he describes these wonderful things that are so far away, they become real for the other cold, listless mice.  While Frederick tells his tales, his friends and family are sustained by what they were too busy to enjoy, and for a magical moment, everyone is warmed and content.

[Sorry, but I find this suddenly quite amusing:  is it any wonder that I am not a driven businessperson?  Ha!  That's right, I blame my parents for their hippie children's books! Oh, that is fantastic.]

So.  Ahem.  My point is that this year, I am determined to be Frederick.  Rather than shying away from these extravagant days of limpid sunshine and drenched color, I am wallowing in them.  The winter is still going to be cold, and the day will come in February (and then again every other hour in March) when I am going to lose my mind if I can't step outside and enjoy it rather than shivering away in search of another sweater--I know this.  It can't be helped.  It is how I am.  It is part of the cycle.

But this day is a gift.  I am appreciating the bejeezus out of it.

Clean livin' and the lord

Guess what?

Soap's ready to use!  

It's been curing for a month in the spare bedroom.  I've visited it often.

And use it we have been--now that those long four weeks are finally over!  It is really nice stuff...very gentle and more slippery than lathery, which is what we are used to anyway since we've been using health-food-store soaps for the last few years.  It cleans well and hasn't disintegrated in our shower (but isn't kept in the trajectory of the showerhead, either, let's be honest.)  It is mild, and I like using it for my face;  I hope that it will prove helpful for Jason's eczema with continued use.

OK, here's the deal:  do you know how satisfying it is to have made something entirely new--to have the chemical reaction work correctly the first time?  I think household alchemy is pretty dang fun, personally.  I will be making soap again...soon.  I keep giving it away, and that month-long waiting period is a bummer.

I am sad to say that the essential-oil fragrance has apparently been sacrificed to the curing period in the open air.  I would like to test the pH of the bars next time to see how long it actually takes them to cure, rather than just going with the average time, which might help.  I would also like to try again with essential oils, but use strong scents like rosemary and mint.  Oh, or clove and cinnamon.  Mmm.  


I was thinking the other day that if there is one area of this homesteading experiment that I feel I have truly explored, it is the home- and human-cleaning product realms.  For most of the last year I have made, rather than bought, the following:

• shampoo
• conditioner 
• hair gel
• body lotion
• herbal salve for wounds
• face lotion
• bathroom spray cleaner
• soft scrub
• toilet cleaner
• kitchen spray/general cleaner
• floor cleaner    

More recently, I've been trying my hand at making
-soap
-laundry detergent
-bug spray
-and bay rum.  

This is such a fun genre to dabble in, and I wish that I could be privately funded to focus on and play with herbs and potion-making all the day long.  I have books on herbs that I bought while in high school, so this is no passing fancy.  [Oh, and I would go to herbalist school in a heartbeat.  I love the rich history that women have with herbs and healing--just as I love the anarchy inherent to the fact that some of the most useful herbs are what we now call weeds.]  

Ultimately, the colors and scents and gathering out in the fresh air and sunshine are a blissful way to spend your day.  I have the most wonderful mason jar full of sun-dried calendula flowers that represents hours of picking, preparing, and drying beautiful flower-heads on sunny days throughout the summer.  How can they be anything but a force for health and happiness?


I also should point out that our house and persons are as clean as they were when we were buying all of the commercial cleaning stuff.   (Notice how cleverly I worded that.  Ha!  Some of you uber-housekeepers would faint, but I think we do OK.)  If anything, I feel like my hair and skin have benefited from this simplistic routine.  I absolutely love not having a label to bother reading--and if you are concerned about the chemical soup we live in like I am, then you are probably inclined to squint at label gobble-de-gook as well.  It is very freeing to have made what you are using and know the ingredients and their quality inherently.  It is a bit of a challenge to try to recreate for myself all that we would otherwise buy, and I am sure that I will eventually need to start weighing what is worth the time-invested and what would better to buy ready-made.  For right now, though, I am having fun.


If you are interested in trying some or any of these cleanliness-creations yourself, there are  many great resources out there with recipes, tips, and suggestions.  My favorites include:

• Rosemary Gladstar's Recipes for Vibrant Health:  175 Teas, Tonics, Oils, Salves, Tinctures, and Other Natural Remedies for the Entire Family
• Better Basics for the Home:  Simple Solutions for Less Toxic Living, by Annie Berthold-Bond
• The Wild and Weedy Apothecary:  an A to Z Book of Herbal Concoctions, Recipes, Remedies, Practical Know-How & Food for the Soul, by Doreen Shababy
• The Naturally Clean Home:  150 Super-Easy Herbal Formulas for Green Cleaning, by Karyn Siegel-Maier

  In general, let me say that I use a lot of the following, some of which is available at any grocery or drugstore  (but may be better sourced at a health food store):  

distilled white vinegar, organic apple cider vinegar, olive oil, extra-virgin olive oil, coconut oil, pure aloe vera, witch hazel, vegetable glycerin, beeswax, baking soda, washing soda, castile soap, borax, lye, fresh or dried herbs and essential oils. 

--and that just about wraps up my shopping list.  From hence, all cleanliness cometh.

Well, with the exception of dishwashing liquid, which continues to elude me.  Tricky liquid soap.   Ah, well. 

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.