November Begins

The leaves have mostly fallen, and the sky is dreary again today. I am sending pleas up into the heavens for a few more warm, sunny days. I have some bush-hogging I would like to finish up before cold, soggy, dead grass becomes a constant. The few nice days we've had recently have been taken up by other pressing chores and business matters.

Joe went out the first of the month with his BB gun to shoot at birds. He had done this on several occasions in the past, and though I don't like the idea of anyone killing random, innocent birds, it didn't worry me too much. I figured the chances of him hitting a bird with a tiny, 1/8" ball were slim to none. Apparently, it's a kid's job to prove their parents wrong. He hit one. And although, the BB didn't appear to penetrate the skin, the impact most have done damage, because it died. It was a cute, little gray and white bird. I will spare you the photos. Joe promised me he wouldn't shoot any more.

Last Thursday, I had gone to pick Z up from school and had dropped her off at my mom's for her piano lesson while Joe and Fin were still at school for Melody Maker practice. I was pulling into the driveway when I got this text from Chris:

Bad news. Isadora is not doing too well. She's lying down in the chicken coop. You better go see her before she dies.

Isadora is our oldest chicken that I named after my grandmother. She is the only one left from the first batch of chicks we raised. She had seemed fine the day or two before, but here she was, tucked into a nesting box in the middle of the day. She wouldn't eat and she wouldn't drink and she could barely hold her head up. When I picked the kids up an hour later (after I had a good cry), I gave them the news. The kids debated what we should do. Z suggested we cover her with a blanket. Finley wanted to put her out of her misery if she wasn't better in a couple days. Joe thought we should keep her alive so that we could have more memories of her.

The next day, she was worse. I could only tell she was alive by the slight movement of her body as she breathed in and out.

Saturday morning, I went out to check on her, expecting to find her dead. I opened the door to the coop to find the nesting box empty. Great, I thought. Some critter got in and snatched her. Or maybe she wandered off to die beneath the trees. But there she was in the chicken run, a little shaky on her feet, but looking for food. I made her some scrambled eggs and a mash of yogurt and bread crumbs.

Later that evening, I related my shock at her recovery to the family at the dinner table. "Never give up hope," they admonished. And so she is getting stronger day by day, looking just a little worse for the wear.

Sunday. I wandered by the old water trough I am using as a planter, and noticed an odd little shape in the dirt. Looking closer, I discovered it was a baby box turtle. Turns out, one of the turtles we held in there over the summer must have laid an egg or two (we found the shell in the dirt), and this little one actually hatched! She's hardly bigger than a quarter, and we are all enamored with her.

 I'm so thankful for things like this that infuse life with joy and wonder when the rest of it seems harder than normal.

And in the spirit of a never-dying hope, I bought some 2 gallon pots of blueberries and grapes that were on deep discount at Tractor Supply today. Time will expand and give me the chance to plant them somewhere before it freezes.