Hope Springs Eternal

I was already having a bad day when I went out to check on the chickens. I had forgotten to go out the evening before to see if all six bird were roosting in the coop. And that also meant that I hadn't closed the door to lock them safely in.

As far as I knew, Rockstar hadn't even left the chicken run since I had lured her out there nearly a week earlier. But I wasn't sure if the three hens that were foraging were sleeping back in the coop or had reverted to sleeping in the stable again.

As soon as I flung open the coop door, I saw the half-eaten carcass of one chicken and a thick layer of feathers over the floor that could only have been Rockstar's.

Guilt, regret, anger, grief...

What business do I have keeping animals if I can't keep them safe? If only I hadn't locked Rockstar up in the coop... If only I had at least remember to check on them that night. Why hadn't anyone reminded me, anyway? ...

And then today, the McMurray catalog came in the mail, filled with drawings of dozens of breeds of birds and pictures of cute little, fuzz balls.

So I started plotting and daydreaming.

This year, I'll build a nice, wooden brooder instead of using the metal watering trough. That didn't seem to work too well last year in the chilly weather. And I'll need to put chicken wire up on the field fencing and look into aviary netting for added protection. And maybe build a second coop if the kids are going to be doing 4H.......

Around the Farm

A full week into January, and those promises for an above-normal snowfall this winter appear to be empty. The forecast for the rest of the month only dips below freezing during the night hours.

The Christmas Eve storms shook some dead limbs out of the big, rotting hackberry tree on the fence line to the west of the house. Since the farm truck has been confiscated for business purposes, I fired up the tractor today to haul the refuse back to the brush pile we have stashed back in some woods. The soft rumble of the diesel engine stoked some of the joy that had been dwindling in me; it felt good to be outside and moving with purpose. The business requires that I sit and stare at this computer screen, and once here, roots seem to grow out of my butt and into the cushion of the office chair. I am learning to stand up and walk away before they get too deep.

After dumping the hackberry wood, I parked the tractor and went to get my pruning tools. The young trees I had planted in past years needed some attention, and I had been waiting for the weather to cool some before I started amputating unwanted branches. One of the trees that needed shaping was our Japanese maple. It had started looking a little furry this summer with numerous wisps sprouting from the trunk and its beautiful structure was hidden in a fog of little leaves. The leaves had also been hiding a nest I didn't realize was there until fall stripped the tree bare. I will have to pay more attention this year to see if any birds come back to nest there again.

We are down to six chickens. Isadora is gone. I found some of her feathers strewn about in Queenie's pasture last month, so it was obvious something had snatched her. That same day, I found another dead chicken in the coop.  We're not sure what killed it, but all its guts had been eaten out leaving the legs, back, and wings. We set up traps and caught a couple of possums, but I'm not sure they were the real culprits. The remaining hens must have been traumatized by the event and started roosting in the stable near the house. A couple days ago, I lured them back out to the coop with food. Even Rockstar, who normally stays close to the house, followed me out. I closed up all the entrances to the coop and run, and am going to leave them penned up for a few more days in hopes that they will return to the coop once I let them wander again. It would be nice to clean the chicken poop out of the stable.

With so few hens remaining, I have been daydreaming about raising a variety of chicks again, but both Finley and Joe are involved in 4H this year and want to participate in the chick chain. The only options for their project are Black Sex Links and Rhode Island Reds, and they have to order a minimum of 10 chicks each. The thought of having nearly three dozen birds roaming the farm is unsavory. We need to get that aviary built around the coop that Chris keeps hounding me about. Maybe the mild winter will let us get something like that done.

Counting the Days

Don't get me wrong. I love my family.

But there still four and a half days left before the kids go back to school, Chris has a job scheduled, and I might actually get some desperately-needed solitude.

I could tell on Christmas Eve-Eve that I had reached my limit. We purchased tickets that day to the new Star Wars movie the next morning, and the thought of a few hours to myself sounded blissful. I threw out the idea to Chris that maybe I should stay home. "You really ought to come," he said. And against my better judgement, I let him talk me into it. That night, we had the kids downstairs with us late into the night due to tornado warnings, and I woke up the next morning tired and with a headache.

We piled into the van to head to the movie theater, and a mile away from the house, Chris started talking. "Please," I told him. "I really don't want to have to talk or listen to anyone for a while." And then I put Beck's Morning Phase on and stared out the window.

I am understanding more and more what I need to keep my introverted self mentally stable and happy. Having a minimum of three people in constant need of communication and attention in the sixteen-plus hours of the waking day for two and a half weeks straight is not what I need.

Four and a half days.

Oh, Henrietta!

I came up this concept way back when Joe was a baby, and I think the idea sat in my head for a year before I started putting it down on paper. Fast forward eight years or so, and this thing haunts me. A bizarre mash-up of art, comic strip, and/or children's book for adults, there's no real place for this. Going through the hassle and cost of printing it up seemed a bit much, but I wanted to be able to share it. So here it is in all it's glory:

Oh, Henrietta!

(When you click on the link, be prepared to hit the pause button. That will allow you to page through the slideshow at your own pace.)

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.