Some Non-Holiday Cheer

Let's admit it: my record with chickens this year hasn't been the greatest. Some time in the gray, depressing days of last winter, I ordered a slew of chicks. It was a ridiculous amount, considering the number of chickens we already had, but I needed something to look forward to. A new batch of Polish, Ameraucanas, Whiting True Blues, and some other odds and ends was exactly what was called for.

The first few Ameraucanas I had several years ago were champs at pushing out blue and green eggs. But fate took those beautiful birds away, and in coming years, any Ameraucanas (or Americanas) I acquired seemed to have lost the genes to produce such colorful eggs. Finally, I discovered the relatively new True Blue breed and was determined to add some color back into my egg production.

Spring and summer were hard on my poor chicks. As Zivah was already raising her 4H chicks in the stable, I was forced to put my young babies out into the aviary with the rest of my flock. Predators got in and wiped out all my new Polish birds and many of the others. On top of that, they didn't get the access to grower feed they should have, as older birds tend to be bullies to youth that aren't their own. My new birds grew at a pathetic rate, and I lost hope of seeing any eggs by them this year.

Today has been a dreary day. I was contemplating life in this world and not feeling too cheerful when I figured I should brave the chilly damp and feed my chickens. After throwing out some feed and getting wrapped up in cleaning a feeder, I almost forgot to check for eggs. There haven't been many lately. Most days I only get two or three. The only consistent hen has been a weird, little silkie cross that puts out a small, creamed-coffee-colored egg. But today...

A Mid-August Post, 2018

The kids are back in school, and I am trying to regain my brain-hold on the world outside of the one that is occupied three young voices.

First Day of School photo. They hate this ritual.
I enjoy seeing their evasive antics each year.

I had big plans for their return to institutionalized education. Most of those plans have been waylaid as plans tend to get. At least there is predictability in that things hardly ever work out as planned. I guess I can find comfort in that these days.

Today, however, things are going as planned. Thanks to my less-than-disciplined gardening practices, I ended up with a large pile of volunteer winter squash. It would have been nice if it had sprouted a little later in the season, but I will take them as a gift of grace at this point in life. The reality is that since the squash ripened mid-summer, most of them won't keep through the winter, so I determined to can some as soup for quick, easy meals in the future.

Huuuuge. (See foot for reference.)

I actually remembered to buy carrots and celery from the store this morning. That in itself was a small miracle. I usually only remember one thing at a time while I'm out, and I remembered to drop the kids off, get the oil changed in the van, AND stop at the store. Out in my jungle of a garden, I dug up some onions. This was another small miracle as the stalks had long ago died out and I it took a keen eye to spot where to dig. 

Back inside, I whipped out the food processor to make the slicing of veggies quicker. I can't say the appliance sliced much. Most of the carrots and celery were just mangled into little bits. But that's fine; the soup gets pureed in the end. Next they were cooked for a bit in the pan while the squash finished roasting in the oven.

Since Finley is a vegetarian, I decided to can some of the batch in smaller jars using veggie broth. I prefer the soup made with chicken broth, so I used full quart-sized jars for us omnivores.

As I had never canned soup before, I consulted the internets and read somewhere to leave the pureeing until you use the soup later. So now, I sit typing as eight jars of future goodness spend their allotted time in the pressure canner.

Speaking of the internets, I got to thinking. There are so many resources available online. Any time I have a question, I can consult that world wide web and find an answer or two. Most of the skills in life we might ever want to hone, we can learn about through YouTube. I got to thinking about how my kids despise the idea of eating any animal they knew in person and how it would take desperation for them to gladly eat home-raised meat. At least, in the event of a zombie-apocalypse (and inevitable failure of the nets) our family might survive a little better than most. We will have soup that might last a week.

A Thursday in June

We got back from our trip to Montana on Saturday.
Montana.
Big Sky country (also known as God's country).
The place you can order iced tea without the UN-sweetened descriptor.
The home of (some of) my ancestors.
The land my family would travel to every summer of my childhood- where memories are thick.

I had talked about Montana enough that, last spring, my youngest asked if we could go there. When I told her it was too expensive to go and that we would have to wait awhile until we had saved some money, she cried. I didn't know then that a year later we would all be there again- this time to bury my dad's ashes. Bittersweet provision.

There's too much to tell about the trip, except to say that it was wonderful. Time was spent with extended family; the kids were exposed to new and beautiful places and got along with each other far better than I expected. I am debating if magical is too strong a word.

Back home in the heat and humidity, I found my tomatoes and chicks were three times the size as  when I left and the weeds ten times larger. I am exaggerating. But only a little. I've spent the last several days making my way through laundry and weeds, trying to reclaim some order.

This morning, I weeded some of the front flower bed, trying to finish up what I suckered the kids into starting for me. Finally, the sun pushed away too much shade, so I wandered out to check on the chickens. I had forgotten to close the gate last night, so hoped I wouldn't find any carnage. [That is unless it was the ugly, white, little rooster I've been needing to dispose of.] The little ones I knew would be alright, as I had locked them in the coop to give them a chance to eat their crumble without harassment from the older birds.

There were no clumps of feather in the chicken run, so I opened up the coop to check on the little ones. Next to the small, chicken door, a Cuckoo Maran appeared to be sleeping, eyes closed and breathing regularly. I clapped my hands to startle it awake, but it didn't flinch. "Great," I thought. "Something is wrong with it." I had three fourths of a mind to walk away and started to do so, but apparently, my new thing is trying to save small animals in distress. I scooped it up and headed to the house.

Cuckoo Marans (and Barred Rocks) have lovely feathers. I cradled the bird in my hand, marveling at its softness. the poor bird's head bobbed and drooped as I walked. I had almost made it to the stable to grabbed the bag of Quik Chik electrolytes when, down the front of my shirt and shorts, the bird released its bowels- and in that same moment, its life.

And so it goes.

Hamster Drama

We had crawled into bed a little later than normal. It was almost 9:30, and I had given up making sure the kids were tucked in. I figured they would find their way to slumberland eventually. No sooner had I pulled the blanket over my legs when I heard a knock on the bedroom door.

"Come in." This late at night, I try to make it sound as unwelcoming as possible, but that strategy never works.

The door opened, and there stood Joe in obvious distress. "I think Tiger Eye is dead."

Chris and I were immediately out of bed, following Joe upstairs.

There was Tiger Eye, half-sprawled across the floor of his critter tank, still as a rock. Chris leaned in a little closer. "He's not dead yet," he said and picked up the hamster. Tiger Eyes whiskers moved ever so slightly. Several pieces of poop clung to the hair around his butt. Chris put him back down.

Tears welled in Joe's eyes while we discussed the possible causes of Tiger Eye's pending demise. Had he been getting enough to eat? Joe had been feeding him. Finley had given him some apple last night. Maybe he was just old. Smokey, chugging water in his nearby critter tank, was older. Diabetes? Some other random hamster illness?

I glanced at the container that held Tiger Eye's food. Only a pinch of millet seeds were left. Looking down into the tank, my eyes searched the shavings. Normally, a well-fed hamster will have a stash of food somewhere, but I saw nothing. My stomach turned at the thought that Joe may have inadvertently been starving Tiger Eye to death. Finley just cleaned the cage a few days ago, maybe that was why there wasn't any food...

Joe picked Tiger Eye up and stroked his fur. TE's eye were mere slits and his ears laid back. He wore a pathetically tired expression. So cute and sad.

I can't just let him die, I thought to myself. He needs easy food. Something to perk him up. Electrolytes.

"Joe, go to the shop and grab a bottle of Gatorade."

While Joe ran to the shop, I searched the medicine cabinet for a syringe.

Back upstairs, I sucked some Gatorade into the syringe, and while Joe held TE up, I ever-so-carefully squeezed a drop into the hamster's mouth. He swallowed. Another drop, and he swallowed again. A third drop pooled in TE's mouth, then slid down his chin, threatening to drop to the floor. My heart sank a little.

Maybe the smell of some food will perk him up.

I ran down to the fridge and yanked off two small pieces of broccoli. Back upstairs, I shoved it in front of TE's nose, but it was obvious TE was too weak to do anything about it. We tried some more Gatorade, and I couldn't tell if he swallowed any or not. Joe set TE down on his leg, and we watched as TE's nose twitched a bit. I needed to find something easy for him to eat. Yogurt? I wasn't sure how good that would be for a dying hamster. I went through the cupboards in my mind, and landed on the perfect thing: peanut butter.

Downstairs again, I grabbed the peanut butter and a toothpick, then ran back up. With TE back in Joe's hand, I waved a tiny glob in front of TE, then tried to push it into his mouth. Half of the glob caught in the hair around his mouth while TE seemed uninterested in opening his mouth. I wasn't about to give up. Gently, I shoved the peanut butter between his lips, and waited. Finally, Tiger Eye seemed to come to and work the peanut butter down his throat. More Gatorade, then a little more peanut butter.

Ever so slowly and slightly, Tiger Eye seemed to perk up. The next time I offered the Gatorade, he reached out and grabbed the nozzle with his paw, eyes still mostly closed. We set him down with a glob of peanut butter in front of his nose, but he was too wobbly to hold himself up. Joe held him again while I spooned a tiny bit more to his mouth. TE nibbled it off the toothpick. After another drop of Gatorade, we took a break to observe the poor little hamster. He was doing a tiny bit better.

Back at the fridge, I found the container of spaghetti noodles Finley had cooked the night before. That would be a nice, easy thing for a sick hamster to eat. Upstairs, I put a few bits in front of Tiger Eye, which he managed to either eat or stuff in his cheek- I wasn't sure which. Then we offered him some of Finley's hamster food, which he stuffed in his cheeks.

It was getting late. We piled more spaghetti, the broccoli, and some shelled sunflower seeds in TE's tank, then after a quick little prayer, Joe set him gently inside. Tiger eye sniffed at the food, then tried to stand up on his four paws. Wobbling and shaking, he turned away from the food, and carefully scooted some shavings aside and curled up into a ball.

The rest of us retreated to our rooms, Joe with red eyes.

When I woke up the next morning, the first thing I wondered was if Tiger Eye was dead or alive. I dreaded going upstairs to see. Chris had already been up and informed me TE was still alive. In what state, he wasn't sure. I woke Joe up and we went to check on him together.

Sure enough, he was alive, and with most- if not all- of his strength back.

One hamster: saved from the brink of death.

Spring and Bees on the Funny Farm

Mother Nature and I have a few things in common, primarily that we both can be wishy-washy and not sure of what it is we want.

Mother N had me shivering in my skivvies yesterday at Joe's trap practice. The night before, temps had dropped below freezing, and we had woken up to frost on the ground. I expected all the apple blossoms and baby leaves to wilt in defeat, but they look like they aren't playing Mother N's games this time around and will carry on as if this is a normal spring.

Last Wednesday, I picked up a new package of bees. Having made it a full year without killing off my first hive, I figured it wouldn't be completely irresponsible to add more bees to the farm. Not even bothering to don a bee veil, I dumped those bees in the new hive as if I had done it a million times. This time, though, I strapped the box with the queen bee in it directly to a frame with a rubber band and squished the two frames as closely together as I could in hopes that the worker bees wouldn't draw out any burr comb this time around. I had hoped to check on the new hive Saturday, but Mother N wasn't cooperating. It finally warmed back up enough today to let me check on my hives. I'm learning that bees will do as they please, regardless of your bright ideas.

Thankfully, the queen decided she didn't want to lay any eggs in the burr comb and had wandered off to a different frame to do her business. (She's marked with a blue dot.)

Convinced that the new bees were doing well enough, I opened up my first hive. I love these bees. While the new bees were buzzing around like mad (though not aggressively), my old hive didn't even seem to notice that I was there. Third frame in, and I found some capped brood. 

I hope I'm doing this correctly... Since I am only using medium, 8-frame boxes, I figure the bees will want 3 boxes for the brood chamber. Then I added a queen excluder and a new honey super on top of that. Pretty soon, if the bees are happy enough to make some honey, I'll need a ladder to get in.