Over the Christmas Holiday...

It's been a while. We've been busy. I think. The weeks before Christmas, Chris did a lot of work down in Alabama, spending several nights out of town and racking up some overtime. I was busy trying to wrap my ebay sales up for a few weeks and manage the household at the same time. Then the kids were out of school, Chris was off work, and the fun began.

 

The 22nd, we had our annual Christmas party at Chris's grandmother's.

 

Christmas eve, I made gingerbread cookies for us to decorate.

 Next year, I hope to plan ahead a little better and do a gingerbread house. Or maybe a house for the kids and one for me.

We've been pretty straight forward with the kids about Santa. They know he's not real, but we've also talked about the fact that it is fun to pretend. Of course, some like to pretend more than others. Finley likes to pretend. And Joe likes to remind her that Santa isn't real. Regardless, Finley insisted on leaving cookies and a note for Santa. After the kids were in bed, I found another note... from Santa! (Boy, he needs to work on his spelling.)

 We never got around to taking and sending out our family photo before Christmas, but finally got everyone together for a shot at it on Christmas day.

A few days after Christmas, Finley and I ventured out to the mall to get her ears pierced. I don't think she even flinched.

Chris and I have been getting a little work done on the house (finally). He has been working on getting the tub set in the main bathroom while I've been putting up fan, light, and electrical boxes and running some temporary lights. It's nice to be able to SEE in there on these dreary winter days.

 Chris has been under the house most of today working on the soil pipes. I've been helping a little, and my knees aren't too appreciative. Am I getting older or something?

And the kids got to go outside and play in the snow today. (If you look closely, it is kind of snowing.) They were excited. I think I need to plan a trip up north next year so they can experience some real snow and sledding.

A Story by Zivah About Herself

A Note From Joe to Z

Both sweet and mean at the same time...

I asked Joe why he wrote what he wrote, and he said, "Because she doesn't ask me before she plays with my toys."

I love how he draws Z's curly hair.

How Sweet...

Zivah 'bought' this bunny with points she earned at the AWANA program at church and has been showing it to every one, asking "Isn't is cute? Isn't it so soft?"

What did she name this cute, so-soft, little bunny?

Bullet-Shooter.

A Morning Rant

These are the kind of days that push me toward libertarianism.

A couple weeks ago, I had to go to a truancy hearing. Joe had been absent from school so many days, and my notes explaining that he had been sick apparently weren't good enough.

I am trying desperately not to go into a tirade... about how Americans in general are too reliant on doctors, about how the schools insistence on a doctor's note perpetuates the problem and puts a strain on certain families, about how ridiculous it is to threaten a parent with jail time due to someone else's definition of excessive, unexcused absences - never mind that the kid is doing well in school...

I explained to the ladies at the hearing that Joe gets sick a lot, that most of the time, I can tell that it is a virus that tends to settle in his chest and taking him to the doc would be a waste of time and resources.

What was their solution? Send the sick kid to school and let the nurse send him home. Can anyone else recognize how asinine that is? [Maybe this is why school districts are shutting down due to widespread flu outbreaks.] Regardless of my thoughts, I figured I could work with this. Although my mothering instinct would rather let a sick kid stay in bed, I have to take Finley to school [I am not comfortable leaving a 6 year old alone for the 20 minutes it takes, and besides, I could get charged for neglect leaving a kid under the age of twelve alone if found out],  and can just pop into the nurse's office to prove he's sick.

So Joe got sick over the weekend. I took him into the office this morning, and guess what I forgot? The elementary school shares the nurse with the high school, and she isn't there in the mornings. I could take him over to the high school or bring him back later...

I get what the truancy laws are trying to do, really. But all too often we pass laws and regulations with good intent, overlooking the fact that one size does not fit all.

A note from Joe.

"We have to take care of this kitty. Do not punch it, okay?"
-Z to me while holding the old, stuffed cat of my youth.

This Surely Is a Funny Farm 2

I get laughed at almost every time I walk outside.

 

I don't know what's so funny, so it's a good thing I don't take myself too seriously and can laugh with them.

This Surely Is a Funny Farm

I found this on the step this morning:

I wonder what the cat equivalent to "Oh, $#!*" is, because I'm sure that's what passed through our cat's mind when he inadvertently stepped in this chicken dropping.

The Piano

I've been thinking a lot lately about art and creativity... It was through the act of creation that we had our first interaction with God. We were made in God's image, and He created. I've been thinking about art and the creation of things -words, pictures, music- and through these things we are able to communicate, associate, identify with and understand each other (and ourselves). It is through the creative that we find that we are not alone in what we are going through. It is largely through creation and the creative arts that we are drawn to God.

There are a lot of aspects of the creative that we bury under busyness and the excuse of "I'm just not very good." Well, rubbish! I've been realizing how important it is to pursue the creative. If we let it go too long, we start to lose a part of ourselves. If we neglect the creative, we are missing out on a key part of who God made us to be.

I can't say that Chris and I are extremely talented in the fine arts department, but both of us have some ability. Chris was in a band or two in his younger years, most notably Excruciating Pain. You know, it was one of those bands with the heavy drums and guitars and guttural vocals that no one would understand without a lyric sheet. I took piano lessons for years, and managed to learn the basics on the guitar. But as we forged ahead into real adult life, we set aside the music in pursuit of 'more important' things.

Even though we aren't particularly gifted, we had a vague hope that maybe one of our kids might be, and so we ferreted away into storage Chris's drum set and bass guitar and my banjo... just in case. Some days I would think with a tinge of jealousy about those uber-talented families who sit around on a winter evening, playing and singing together.

Growing up, we had a monstrosity of a piano in our basement. It was old and had real ivory veneer on most of the keys. My parents had a duet book that they would play from some times. When I was old enough, I remember sitting down with a worn copy of John Thompson's Teaching Little Fingers To Play, and after Mom showed me the basics, I worked my way through the book on my own. Not long after, she found a piano teacher for me. I don't know the reason, but at some point, my grandmother sent money for a new piano for me, and I took to recording songs for her on a cassette tape.

When I moved to Tennessee, I left the piano behind. After Chris and I got married, a piano Chris had ended up in our basement, but every time I sat down to play, a small child would be right there to disrupt my playing. Besides, it needing tuning in a bad way, so I couldn't stand to play it for more than a few seconds. Chris did have a small keyboard he bought for Reanna, but the Moonlight Sonata is impossible on the thing. As a result, for years, I have not played.

Lately, my mother, and I were discussing the piano, and she told me if any of the kids ever expressed interest in the piano, I could have it back. But how will my kids ever develop a real interest if there is no one around playing?

And so slowly, I have been waking up. I am repenting of the closeted instruments. Regardless of the magnitude of our talents, I don't think we should ferret them away.  How else can we inspire and encourage each other? How else can we honor the God that gave us all we have? (And I am reminded of the parable of the talents.)

So when a friend offered me the gift an old electric piano, I was glad to accept it. Saturday, Chris picked it up, and we made space in the living room. Then I sat down to see if I could tease out of memory a Sonata I played years ago. Some of the keys squeaked and others clunked a little, but the kids were crowding around, begging for a chance to play. I am so grateful for this gift.

A Minor Trial of Being a Short Person

Today, I spent a good while making a seat cushion for the truck:

It was ridiculous. I could barely see over the steering wheel. I suppose it wasn't really necessary, since I don't drive the truck that much, but I hate straining to see. That, coupled with the strange fear that a cop might mistake me for an underage driver and pull me over made the cushion more of a necessity.

I am about the same size as my grandmother was. Really, though, as her back stooped with old age, I was taller than she was. She drove an Oldsmobile Delta 88. I don't know how. I remember driving it once. I literally had to look through the steering wheel of that old boat. My dad says that car was the smallest one they could find when she bought it.

Really, though, I'm not complaining, and I'm not angry at the industrial world for making vehicles suitable to the average person. I can always make myself taller (I've been wanting a pair of those stilts drywallers use for the longest time.), and I can fit places you taller people can't.

If there is a TV show the epitomizes Chris's dream life, it is probably Sanford & Son. Everyone is funny, and the characters make their livings selling junk.

Chris has always been a bit of a pack rat, holding onto or bringing home things that he thinks are neat or have even a minor chance of being useful. Okay, so I do, too. But within reason. He knows that I have a tendency to bristle whenever something "new" makes its way here. One thing I can't quite object to him bringing home are things that we can sell to make money. So, even though I was already freaking out about the amount of stuff we have crowded in our house, trailer, and shop, when he brought home a work-van full of things from the office that he wanted me to ebay, there was nothing I could do about it. So, here we are, living a little bit of his dream to be a modern-day Sanford & Son, making our Christmas money by selling junk  things on ebay.

Back to my side of the dream (I don't know how people can be ebay sellers full time. I would shrivel up and die.), we made another rookie mistake, and left some of the new trees that we planted this year unprotected. I had intended to put wire cages around the fruit trees this winter to protect them from foraging deer, but I didn't even think about destruction during mating season. At least three of our trees got rubbed by a buck.

This was a nice little pine tree, but now several branches are broken, and the bark has been rubbed off the mid section of the truck. I really hope this tree lives. it was a nice one.

In other news, Finley has her own room, now. I finally decided it might be time for Finley to have some privacy and a place to retreat from the sometimes-irritating antics of her younger brother. (Why is it that boys think it's fun to be a pest?) I did explain to her that this was a privilege and that unkindness could lead to her losing her door or even being forced to move back in with her younger siblings. We'll see how it goes. The first thing Finley did was to write out a list of rules for her room (including keeping it clean, hallelujah) and so far, she has done well, even making her bed every morning.

Morning Surprises

We woke up this morning to find notes from the kids on our bed and night stands. Chris got a not from Joe that said, "I love Dad." My note from Joe said, "to Mom. Mom I luve you fary much and we our a family!" (I'm trying not to rub it in.)

Finley left us this illustrated poem:

It's Hunting Season

Technically, it is squirrel, grouse, dove, crow, and turkey season. You can hunt deer with a bow now, but have to wait until mid-November if you want to use anything but a bow or muzzleloader.

Groundhogs are fair game year round. The building inspector said they are good to eat.

Hank tells me the best way to cook deer meat is in the crock pot.

The pond that sits in the 14 acres is a perfect draw for deer. I frequently spot them through the trees in the mornings. I have scanned the treeline that separates the pastures, and there are several trunks begging for a tree stand.

It seems like it would be as easy as taking candy from a baby, and I keep daydreaming about it. I would set my alarm for a pre-dawn hour, brew some coffee and don my newly acquired insulated bibs. (On clearance for $20 at the Co-op. Couldn't pass them up.) Just before the sun would rise, I would climb up into the stand and sit patiently, sipping coffee as my breath stirs the steam warming my nose. Then, just after the sun peeks over the edge of the earth, two or three deer would walk hesitantly out of the woods toward the pond for a drink. I am realistic enough not to imagine anything more than a 6 point.

I imagine taking aim, shooting... and then the daydream goes awry. Having never actually shot a crossbow (how hard could it be, though) or a deer, I miss the mark and the arrow lands high, and off he runs into the woods, maimed.

Anyway, first things first, though. I need a deer stand. And something to shoot with.

No, I'm not excited about these bibs, I swear.

...

All year, Finley had been telling me she wanted to go hunting with our neighbor, Terry. Last week, she saw his Gator out by his back pasture, and she was desperate to know if he was hunting. She pestered me enough that I finally sent his wife a text, and sure enough he was. Her eyes were glued to the window, and at dusk, when the Gator pulled away, I had to send another text asking if he had bagged anything. He had seen five, but didn't shoot any.

A few days later, Terry pulled up in his gator and told Finley she could go hunting with him that afternoon if it was okay with us. "I have a camouflage dress I can wear!" she said, bursting with excitement. He explained that wouldn't be necessary, but to dress warm, then headed back to set up a blind on the ground as he didn't want her falling out of any trees. So a couple hours later, armed with books and a bottle of water, I sent her off on her first hunting trip.

An hour and a half or two later, out they came: no deer, but satisfied with a deer and squirrel sitings, and a fistful of turkey feathers, just as I expected.

Anxiously Anticipating a New Nephew

It's been a long while coming, but my brother and his wife are in Uganda about to meet a little boy they are hoping to bring home with them soon. You can read about it here.

Tractor Joy

I don't know if it was just that I fell for the marketing hype, or the influence of certain relatives, but I used to fancy myself a John Deere man. I mean woman. Then something changed.

 

It might have been the faded red of our little International that started to interfere with my opinion, or the fact that the first 'real' (read 'over 40 horsepower') tractor that I was allowed to drive was our neighbors' red Massey-Ferguson, but when I started thinking about having a 'real' tractor for the farm, it was getting harder to envision anything but red.

 

Anyway, for a while now, my mom had been kicking around the idea of buying a tractor for family use. Off and on we would go look at tractors or scan online ads for something. Mom's cousin came earlier in the summer and took her tractor shopping, but nothing seemed quite right. And then I saw one on craigslist: a Massey-Ferguson 253 with a front-end loader and canopy.

 

We consulted our neighbor, and he didn't seem so sure, so I put it out of my mind for a while, but when it was still there a few weeks later, I asked mom what she thought. She told me to have Chris call. He didn't get an answer, and no one ever called him back, but I couldn't let it go. He tried again a week later, and finally we got a chance to go see it. We took our neighbor along, and with his stamp of approval, my mom bought it and named it "The Nicholas Dandy" after her grandfather.

 

If you know me well, you can image that I was (and still am) pretty excited. For a few nights, it was hard for me to sleep, daydreaming about all the wonderful things we could do with Dandy. But Mom got first dibs and spent a couple of day bush-hogging the family's 14 acres.

Next, we used Dandy to put some dirt around the foundation of the new house.

This week, Dandy rested in the stable, allowing some hens to lay some eggs in his bucket the day they got locked out of the coop. And tomorrow, he and I will finally get to spend some time together cutting the front pasture.

It's a Slippery Slope

When my brother announced that he was moving to Nashville, I am sure my nose wrinkled in disgust. All I knew was that Nashville and country music were inseparable, and I did not like country music. I was an opinionated teenager who liked alternative music. I did not realize at the time that you could live in Nashville and keep a life separate from country music, but you can, and I did.

A few years after my brother's move to the Music City, I discovered the banjo. Grant Lee Buffalo was an alternative band, and a song called "The Last Days of Tecumseh" featured the odd and beautiful sound of the banjo. I was hooked. It might be possible to live in Nashville and keep a life separate from country music, but I don't think it is possible to live in Nashville, love the banjo, and keep from falling for bluegrass. And so I opened my heart wider to receive the wonder of bluegrass, and told myself that at least this wasn't country.

Perhaps you can see where this is going. The banjo and a love for music were gateway drugs, and they led me to try things I never thought I would.

One problem was that the CD player in the van broke just a month after moving to the farm. Another problem is that as you travel south of Nashville toward our place, the alternative station acquires static just as you get to our exit off the interstate. It is like a weird sign that says, "You are leaving civilization as you know it and entering the country." The country. There is only so much NPR the kids can take, and Finley started requesting "country music, please" in the van. I had inadvertently exposed Finley to country music one day and she liked it, and as I did not want to expose them to the angst and vulgarity of hard rock, I acquiesced. And so I began to discover that it is not so easy to live in the country and keep a life separate from country music. They are inseparable.

And so I have become someone I do not recognize. A mom who plays the kids' current favorite song in the mornings to cheer them up and is trying not to cry when Rascal Flatts' "My Wish" comes on the radio. And when we pile in the van, and Chris turns the key, only to hear country music blaring from the speakers, all I can do is shrug. We live in the country, after all.


a note in my defense: Joe's kindergarten teacher sent them home with a DVD at the end of the year - a slide show of pictures of the kids with "My Wish" playing in the background. Just try to watch it and not tear up. I dare you.

Duct Tape Day

I got a little excited when I heard about Duct Tape Day at the kids' school. But just a little.

 

The night before last, Finley told me some of her ideas, which included a hair bow and neck tie. Not to be the type to step in on a kid's ambition, I asked her if she wanted my help. She did. And then I went crazy. After making the hair bow, I made the neck tie, then had the idea of wrapping an old pair of my socks in duct tape (while on my feet) to create shoes. That wrapped up the evening, and yesterday, I may or may not have spent the entire day on the rest of the kids' outfits. I was a little bummed that Joe's hat turned out a little small, but I've learned my lesson for next time.

 

Not aparent in the photos is the fact the vests actually button. If you can't tell, I'm a little proud of my work, but more importantly, it was just fun to put everything on hold for a day and create.

It's Spirit Week in Chapel Hill

And today is blue and white day.

FYI, this hair paint causes silicone hair bands to disintegrate, so I ended up tying Fin's hair with blue string.

 Of course, Zivah refuses to be left out of the hair paint fun, so she got red ponytails and polka dots.

Tomorrow is duct-tape day, so come back tomorrow for more fun!

This is all that's left of Big Papi:

I opted for canning instead of freezing, since they say older chickens aren't too good roasted and I didn't really have the right baggage to freeze them. It was a lot of work, but I learned a few things, so I'm telling myself it was worth it.

Our First Butchering

Well, we did it.

 

Big Papi was the first to go. Below is a picture of Big Papi, beheaded, scalded, and encountering the plucker. He looked much less formidable with his feathers off, although he was not nearly as scrawny as some of the other birds we did in. The plucker did an okay job, though it started slipping toward the end.

 Chris did most of the killing and plucking, while my mom and I took care of the rest. I was glad no one was there to watch, as my chicken-butchering skills are lacking. It didn't help that our knives weren't very sharp. I guess the little sharpeners you buy at the store don't do the best job.

In the next day or two, I'm going to stew and can the meat. For next time, I plan on having raised some actual meat birds, the barrel plucker built, and a set of really good knives.

Watch Out, Field Mice!

Barbara is on the loose!

The Mouse-Pee Stove

My mother is a saint. I called to ask her if we could come over for dinner since I didn't think we'd have a working stove by evening. After calling about replacement parts for the broken stove and discovering that it would take no less than $160 to fix it, I had gone out to try to clean out the mouse-pee stove. When I opened the top up, revealing the pee and poop littered insulation, the smell hit, and I started gagging. When she heard about by gagging troubles, Mom offered to come out and give it a go herself.

I was eating a snack when she showed up, so I just watched and let her dive in. As she was yanking out the insulation, I saw something. "Baby mouse," I said. She jumped back like an alligator was snapping at her arm. "Is it alive?" (The horror in her voice doesn't translate in type.) "No," I said laughing (I know... It's not very nice to laugh at a saint.) and took a closer look. The three pinkies were clearly shriveled, and I plucked them out and dropped them into the trash can.

Having finished my snack, I grabbed the shop-vac to help speed up the process. Mom stepped back, and I started sucking up poo-pellets and insulation. After a moment, I caught a glimpse of something else, and startled, I yelled and jumped back like an alligator was after my arm. Three more pinkies nestled in the insulation had been exposed, and these looked fresh. (No, I did not squeal like a school girl. At least I have that to soothe my pride.) We had another good laugh, shook the willies off, then I sucked them up with the shop-vac as fast as I could.

After Mom had gone back home, I tore apart the other stove, cut out some clean insulation, and installed it into the mouse-pee stove. Our neighbor had left his furniture dolly for us to use while we tried to resolve our stove fiasco, so feeling empowered, I decided to see if I could move it back into the trailer. Thankfully, Reanna was there to help steady and lift, and we managed to get it up the porch stairs and into the kitchen. We are women. Hear us roar.

Today, my back is a little sore, but we have a working, non-stinking stove. And I shall forever call it the mouse-pee stove. Which is gross, but I can't help myself.

Of Mice and Ethics

I have been thinking again lately, and I've decided to give it up. The thinking, that is. At least I'm going to give up my expectations for thinking logically and completely through something. I'm not sure it is possible at this stage in life, with this swirling life. I have ideas in my head to blog about, and if I ever manage to address the idea in a post, it gets mixed up with thoughts of eggs and construction and kid drama. I have more to say about this current inability to expand on a thought, but there are other pressing things to write about. Like the stoves.

Friday, Joe, Finley, and Reanna set out to bake some chocolate chip cookies. They got the dough all mixed up and the first pan in the oven, and a few minutes later, the smoke alarm went off. The cookies were charred. Our first thought was that the timer got messed up. In went the next pan, timer set, and soon, more smoke was pouring out of the stove's vent. After a head scratch, we discovered that the oven's heating element was not turning off. A thermometer showed temps had reached over 600 degrees. We turned the breaker off, and the stove was switched out with one we happened to have in the shop. I was so thankful to have a back-up.

Next morning, I set about baking some apple crisp. The oven preheated, and as I moved closer to put the pan in the oven, the smell hit me like a freight train: mouse pee. Dry-heaving, I opened the windows and turned on the fans, and, as Chris was gone for the day, called our neighbor to please come over when he got home to help me move this stove out of the trailer.

As we sat out in the shop with the stinking and broken stoves later, we joked about selling the mouse pee stove on craigslist. "Works perfectly fine," the ad would say. "Have another, so don't need this one." But then we might end up on an episode of People's Court. There were other options. We could take the broken one back into the house, plug it back in and leave for the day. Then maybe the trailer would burn down, and we could use the insurance money to finish the house. However, it might look suspicious if the insurance adjuster noticed that our valuables were safely out at the time. Oh, well.

In other news, the nights have been cooler, and the mice are trying to make their way in. I heard the telltale scritching sound in the wall yesterday morning, so set up the traps, and -SNAP- caught one in the pantry about midnight. Good-ol' Victor traps. I just wish they were quieter.

Randomness

Turns out the pullets have been laying. Finley came running into the house a little while ago, insisting I had to come immediately. As we hurried out the door, she explained she found where the chickens had been laying in the stable, and Zivah said (I swear I heard her correctly), "Oh, this is bad on so many levels!" Finley then gathered all the eggs, washed and dried them, set them in some cartons, and put them in the fridge. Guess I'll have to give her a cut of the next sale of eggs.

 Yep, Z is something else. This morning, she came into my room as I was trying to pry my eyes open, and proudly told me she had gone potty and had gotten dressed all by herself: Cars underwear, camo shorts, and Titan's t-shirt. She later asked me to put her hair in 3 ponytails, but those didn't last long as apparently they interfered with the tiger costume.

 And Joe lost his first tooth this week. Principal Delk pulled it for him. I was taken a bit by surprise, as I didn't think the tooth was that loose.

Death and New Life in the City

As we have been under the weather for longer than I care to think, not much has been happening at The Funny Farm. We haven't been working on the house, we haven't butchered any chickens, and nothing extraordinary has happened that I would care to report.

There was, however, a tragedy last Monday at Farm Team35 (as my brother and sister-in-law's little venture in the city is called). A neighborhood dog broke into the chicken tractor and killed all four chickens. When a neighbor saw what was happening and tried to stop the massacre, the dog busted right though the chicken wire in another spot and ran off.

I might have been more upset than my brother was when I heard the news. I had read that chicken wire wasn't much of a match for raccoons, but I had no idea that a dog could do this kind of damage so easily. Setbacks are bound to happen, ("It's always something" is heard around here all the time.) and life would be a downer if we let them stop us from pursuing our dreams. So my brother buried his chickens, then set about fixing up the tractor with some sturdier wire mesh.

Yesterday, he drove out to Poultry Hollow to pick up some new birds. When I saw the pictures, I had to fight off a little chicken envy. He picked out a black and gold Polish (bottom right) that he named Arlene, and I'm going to have to get one of my own some day.

May these new ladies have many years of happiness and productivity in their new home.

It took almost two weeks of sick kiddos to bring me down, and I have the feeling the smallest one did me in with her in-your-face coughing. So I will do my best to ignore that huge pile of dishes in the kitchen, and if the kids come to blows, so be it. I will not subject my sore throat to the strain of raising my voice to get any one's attention.

And all those roosters will live another day or two.

Thursday, when Chris got home, I told him I hadn't been feeling well, and Big Papi had been without water all day. Big Papi has this bad habit of knocking over his watering bowl, then kicking it to the back side of his pen where I am reluctant to retrieve it. So Chris went out to take care of it. A few minutes later, he came storming in and said, "Big Papi's going to die tonight!" Apparently, Big Papi had attacked Chris. "So, you weren't ready to kill him when you found out he attacked me," I said. "I see  how it is."

For the past few weeks, we have been anxiously awaiting the birth of Sandy's baby. Sandy is the neighbors' donkey. Every day on the way to and from school, we would scan the pasture or barnyard for Sandy to see if she had a little one by her side. Finally, on Friday morning, we got a call from the neighbor.

With all we've been dealing with lately, my garden has been completely neglected. Everything, except for the grass, has died out. It is getting a little late for any attempt at a fall planting, so I guess I'll just forget about it for now, and hope next year will be better.

Raspberry Harvest

When I got home from shopping Saturday, Finley had a surprise waiting for me in the fridge: our first raspberry harvest! It might not be much, but I am impressed considereing the twigs I planted only this spring. They were quite tasty mixed into a dollop of vanilla yogurt.

A Chicken Plucker At Last!

Big Papi's days are numbered.

This morning, I finished building a chicken plucker.

This is not the barrel-style chicken plucker I started months ago. After discovering that the barrel we had was too brittle, I've kept my eye out for a newer barrel to buy, but life with kids makes things complicated, so I haven't had the chance to get one. It became obvious, though, that these chickens need to go. Soon. Not only is Big Papi mean, he has taken to waking at 4 a.m. and crowing like a desperate Paul Revere. To boot, the other young roosters destined for the knife have also started crowing. At least they are kept far enough away that I can't really hear them in the mornings. And on top of all this is the fact that I have to feed them. So. Desperate times call for desperate measures.

Sunday, I gathered together the motor, pulleys, and belt off an old concrete mixer, a section of 3" PVC pipe, and some lumber and began building a table-top plucker:

 After my first test run, I realized the fingers were spinning the wrong way, so I had to swap the configuration around. Then after applying some paint to make cleaning a little easier, I slapped it all together, and walla!

Admittedly, the design could be refined quite a bit, but this is the best I could do with what we had. And I'm guessing it will be a heck of a lot better than plucking by hand and having to singe off hairs.

Thought for Food

I turned on the TV at 3 a.m. last night during a bout of insomnia. Not having a book I am currently reading, I am thankful that our local PBS station usually has some interesting programming on in the wee hours of the morning. This time, it was a show about Herbert Hoover. As usual, the show was filled with photos from the time, and one in particular caught my eye. Someone was holding a poster printed with these words:

Food 1. Buy it with thought 2. Cook it with care

 

Curious, I did a search on the internet and found an image of the poster at this site.

These were printed up by a department of the U.S. Government during WWI. Crazy, huh? I don't think the big agricultural businesses would look kindly upon the government doing something like that these days.

Thrown for a Loop

There's nothing like getting your day waylaid by unexpected events.

 

 

Last week, we lost two chickens to some predator. One was a laying hen, and the other was my favorite young rooster. He was pretty: golden brown and grey with a beard. He wasn't shy, always clambering in my way when I was trying to feed the chickens, which could be a little annoying, but I could easily pick him up and he wouldn't struggle to free himself from my hold. It's nice to have a nice rooster around.

 

A week before this tragedy, one of Chris's friends had offered us a rooster. He liked the roo, but having a crowing bird in a neighborhood wasn't working out for him. I wasn't too sure about the deal, since we had plenty of roosters of our own. But when my roo got killed, Finley was pretty torn up about it, so I thought this rooster might work out after all.

 

We went to pick him up last Friday, and when I saw him, I was in shock. This boy was a beast. I mean, he was BIG. I was hoping for a roo that Finley could handle, but if he was nice enough, I supposed it would be alright. His name was Big Papi, named after David Ortiz, the baseball player. The kids were excited about having a new rooster around.



 

Big Papi settled right in. He established himself above the other roosters, though I got the feeling the hens didn't like him much. Most nights, he refused to roost in the big coop with all the other chickens, and Chris had to moved him off the tractor to a perch in the stable. (We don't take kindly to animals pooping on our tractor.)

All was fine until today. I was out hanging up the laundry, when Z came outside. She made it halfway to me and the clothesline, when all of a sudden, Big Papi up and pecked her leg. Now, sometimes, a chicken will peck at your clothes or toes if it looks like there might be something to eat, but Z was wearing nothing that looked like chicken food, and there was nothing stuck to her legs that might even suggest food. Maybe this chicken was just dumb, I thought. I made sure Z wasn't too traumatized, then went out to finish hanging up the laundry.

A few minutes later, Big Papi came wandering over. He sidled right up to my feet and took a peck at my shoe. Nothing to eat there, buddy, I thought at him. Then he pecked it again. And again. I slid to the side; he pecked at my shoe laces. I was starting to get annoyed, when all of a sudden, he backed up, fluffed up, and charged my leg. I shoved him off, and with his next charge, as I was trying to kick him away, I fell backward onto the ground. Cuss words flew from my mouth (the ground is not where I wanted to be at this point), and I scrambled to my feet, then managed to get one solid kick on him when he charged again. He finally backed off, and I went inside, shaking with the adrenaline rush.

It's a good thing I don't know there the shotgun and buckshot are (if we have any). He might be dead.

So now I have wasted a good hour trying to catch the (insert nasty word here) to lock him up so we don't have to be afraid to go outside.

It sucks to be bullied. Even if it is by a chicken.

Storage, Organization, Yada Yada

Little things make a lot of difference.

Back in Nashville in the stairwell off the kitchen, I had installed a wooden strip on the wall with clips and nails that held the broom, mop, duster, etc. There were also shelves just the right height and depth for cleaning supplies and stacks of rags. All this was hidden behind a bi-fold door I could close to keep them out of sight. It was perfect. I wish I had a picture of it.

For two years now, in this trailer, the broom has been shoved in the corner of the kitchen along with the mop, duster, Swiffer, play mop, and play broom. Always tangled and falling over amid weeks worth of dust-bunnies, it was a, well... The word that came to mind to describe the situation is not appropriate for this blog.

Yesterday, I finally did something about it.

It may not be hidden, but (hallelujah!) this makes me so much happier.

As much as it drives me crazy, living in this lousy trailer is kind of a good thing. It is making me aware of little things that I can plan for in the new house. For example, there will be a drawer for the girls' hair supplies in the bathroom. Can you believe there are no drawers in the bathrooms of the trailer? It's maddening. But you can be sure that the vanities we install will not be drawerless.

Aside from the promise of one day moving into a house with better closets, there is another thing that gives me hope and encouragement on those days when I am really struggling with the clutter of the trailer: Sheri's blog. Sheri is an amazing woman who has a business helping people organize their lives. Not only can she tell you what to do to help get control of things, she can show you how we think about stuff that affects the way we deal with it. And when she writes posts like this one (click to read), it makes me want to stand up, shout 'YES!' then go conquer some clutter.

Upstairs Build-out

Chris and I have been having fun this weekend working on the framing for the kids area upstairs. It's pretty exciting, and I wish I could give you (whoever you are) a good idea of what it's all like, but this is probably the best I can do without you coming for a visit...

Zivah is sitting directly above the stairs in what we are calling "The Reading Cubby." I am standing in front of the doorway to Finley's future room, and Joe's will be right next to it on the right. Across from Zivah and the open space in front of the reading cubby is the bathroom. I can't tell you where the secret passageway is. That would be giving away the secret.

Everyone Needs a Little Crazy

The story goes, if I remember correctly, that Susie and Harry found Petey on the side of the road, dirty and naked and needing a home. So they picked him up, gave him a bath and some clothes, and adopted him into the family. Susie and Harry's kids were grown by this time, so thank goodness they found Richie to keep Petey company. Petey and Richie went everywhere with Susie and Harry... on errands, camping...

I remember having mixed feelings about all this. Petey was a Cabbage Patch Kid, and for all intents and purposes, Susie and Harry (full grown adults, may I remind you) were committed to pretending that Petey and Richie were real. On one hand, this was really entertaining. On the other, this felt crazy. Really crazy.

Fast forward twenty years, and here I am, sending a text to my brother, letting him know that one of my chickens had gone missing: "I figure she might have gone looking for her abducted sisters [the chickens I gave to him]. If she shows up at your house, let me know."

What is wrong with me?

Is life really so tiresome that sometimes we need to make it more entertaining? Yes. So forgive me if once in a while I slip into The Land of Make-Believe. Just don't let me stay there for too long.

What Do We Have Here?

Sometimes it take a while for a city slicker like me to catch on.

I went to roll up the hose just now, and found an egg on the ground by the ducks' water pan near the spiggot. Now why in the world is a chicken laying an egg in the wide open?

 Furthermore, it's shaped a little funny and looks really dirty for a chicken egg.

I'm sure some of you are smarter than I am and already had this one figured out. The ducks have started laying. I stepped on an egg that was buried in the hay in the chicken coop saeveral days ago, then found another on the floor a few days later. I was wondering while it wasn't layed in the corner in a neat little bowl of hay as chickens normally do. Well, duh.

A Chicken Tractor...

for my urban farmer brother.

A month or so ago, when I was really sick of the chickens getting into my garden and pecking my tomatoes and overwhelmed by the herd of hens that pestered me whenever I went outside, I had an epiphany. I could give some to my brother, Mark! In the past few years, he has started gardening and beekeeping in earnest, and thought he might be interested in chickens. I knew he was pretty busy, but if I could get a chicken tractor for him, maybe he'd be up for it, and I could get rid of a few chickens!

So I weaseled my mom into paying for the materials, and weaseled my wood-working brother, Mike, into helping me build the thing, hopefully in time for Mark's birthday. I hope they don't hate me, because, of course, it probably took more time and money that we had anticipated. But then it always does, doesn't it? But we got it finished, and Mark is as giddy as a school girl. Saturday, we deliver the chickens to their new home.

(Note: Chicken logo designed by graphic designer extraordinaire, Nate Perry, who has a line of sportswear and other things available here.)