Blue Yonder

It Couldn't Be Helped

Well I had intended to entertain you today with an account of the deep thoughts one has (okay, I have) while lying prostrate for three straight days, but that's gonna have to wait, for there is BIG news 'round Blue Yonder. 

In fact, it was last night, as I sat and prepared to write a post, dear friends, that I read through my emails, and came face to feather with fate. 

Or at least that's how I saw it, when I read that there were a few good hens in our homeschooling community that were in need of a loving home. 

Now, you will recall that we set out to have a flock of six hens. We thought that would provide for each of us to have one egg a day, plus one to grow on, as they say. 

Well less than 24 hours after we brought our babies home, one of our chicks up and died. There went the one to grow on. 

Then, of course, there was the whole rooster episode. Bluh. 

So, we were left with three girls - one for each boy - two Ameraucanas and one that we think is a Leghorn. I felt, well, more or less content with that. 

But there I was, staring at the computer screen and reading that these poor little ladies needed a home, and something just came over me. 

I saw it as our duty, our responsibility even, to make right the wrongs of the chicken universe. 

My husband saw it as one of the many reasons that I give him, on any given day, to shake his head, roll his eyes, and throw up his hands. 

And so while our two roosters will always have a place in our hearts, we've found replacements for their place on the roost. We are pleased to introduce Sadie Star, a lovely Barred Rock,  

and Persimmon Puff, a sweet and docile Buff Orpington. 

My boys wanted to give our new girls names, but felt it was only right to keep their previous monikers as middle names too, hence the two names. 

They are a year older than our existing gals, so they are already laying. You would think they were laying golden eggs for all the excitement this has wrought. 

My oldest came tearing in the house squealing, "Mama, she's gone in! Persimmon's in the nesting box!!!" I went out and watched as Luke paced the ground near the box. 

"Is she all right in there?" 

"She's fine." 

"Is she hurting?" 

"No, honey, she's been doing this everyday for months now." 

"Is she really going to lay?" 

"I don't know. I guess we'll find out." 

"Should I get her a drink? Maybe she's hot in there." 

"No, I think she just needs some time and space." 

"Maybe I should go and pet her and whisper to her." 

"Baby, just give her some room. It's going to be okay."

"You're sure?"

Lordy. 

When the old gal finally squawked and ran out the door, my guy scurried in, fished around in the box, then held up an egg as though it was his first born. "It's an egg! It's a real egg! She did it!" 

He handed the egg to me, with the admonition to, "be very very careful with it, Mama." 

Then, he scooped up Persimmon and cooed, "You did it girl. You're such a good girl. It's a beautiful egg. You really did it!" 

He's going to make such a good husband and papa some day. I just know it. 

And what do Hazel, Tiger and Maybelle think of their new big sisters? Well that is another story entirely...

We've Come for the Roosters

 

There is much debate at my house, as to the reasoning behind this new chicken behavior.

 My oldest, Luke, the official keeper of the chickens, lets them out of their coop in the morning to roam about the backyard. 

They punch their little chicken time cards and go about their solemn duties, ridding the yard of fire ants, weeding the garden and polishing off the toast crusts tossed out the door by management. It's a grind. 

Here lately though, we've begun to wonder if they aren't organizing - maybe there is some kind of chicken union forming out there? 

They peer in the window at least a few times a day and speak in hushed bawks. They're up to something. 

What though? That is the question. 

Some of us think that these near 100 degree days have them planning an infiltration of our air conditioned quarters. 

Others of us believe that they are merely wondering what it's like on the other side. You know how some folks drive around the wealthier neighborhoods and sigh, wondering what it would be like to live in one of those big gated estates with the tree-lined drives? Well, maybe the chickens are gazing in, and imagining themselves with indoor plumbing and refrigerated scratch? I don't know.

Still others in this house think that the girls are playing lookout. A couple of them peer in the window while the other wayward fowl is doing who knows what off in the bushes. Maybe she's rolling her own St. Augustine smoke, or maybe she's booking airfare for three to Jamaica. Who can say? 

Heck, by the look of that window, maybe they are just wondering if the inhabitants of this house have ever heard of Windex. 

As for me, I think that these teenage girls of mine are after one thing, and one thing only. 

If you've hung out in a mall lately, you know what I'm talking about. I've seen it in the human variety of teenage chicks too - standing in front of Hollister, smacking their gum and squealing, "Oh. MY GAWD! He didn't!"

My young ladies are preening. They are strutting about. They are trying out their newfound feminine wiles. They are looking in that window, and they are wondering "Can Rosemartine and Pearleone come out to play?"

Sorry gals. This is no longer a co-ed farm. 

and the Blue Yonder Boys

Another One Bites the Dust

It would be funny, if it wasn't so very NOT funny. 

You know, after that whole Rosemary thing, we had a few bits of good news to hang our hats upon... we were about to go on vacation, Rosie had a good home, we would get to visit him/her and all of our other chickens were girls. 

The only remaining chickens we had were from the feed store bin marked as "all female," save for Hazel who has "girl" written all over her. 

So, off we went to the beach, content chicken farmers. 

But then... We came home, ran right out back, first thing out of the car, to check on our babies, and we were greeted with our Pearl, up on the roost, head thrown back, making the most gosh awful, strangled turkey vocalizations you can imagine. 

"She's just overcome with joy to see us," I told myself, "She'll never do that again. Never. You hear me Pearl? NEVER!"

Then we let them out to run around the yard and saw that she had grown this "sticky uppy" feather! Nah, that's not a rooster feather. Maybe she just bent it or slept on it funny or something. That's it, she's just got bed feathers. Riiiiiiight. 

I checked her feet for spurs. Hmmmmm no, those little bumpy nodules are not spurs in the making. Must be mosquito bites - exact mirror image mosquito bites, exactly where spurs would appear, were she a rooster, which she is NOT. 

Next morning, same hideous strangled noises. Morning after that... slightly less hideous, still rather strangled, almost crows. 

At this point, I was telling myself that the reason the crowing sounds so bad is because it is a GIRL chicken trying and failing to sound like a BOY chicken. 

We've had chickens before, years ago, and I know first hand that hens can make a good bit of noise too, so surely that's it. Just a loud hen.

 On Monday morning, there was no longer any room for denials. Our lovely, dainty little baby Pearl,  

has grown to be a beautiful, glorious, crowing young man. 

We changed his name to Pearleone (we thought it sounded rather Spanish Explorer-ish) and took him to live with Rosemary. (Incidentally, Ryder still refuses to call him/her anything but Rosemary - not Rosco, not Rosamond, not even Rosemartine. It's Rosemary!)

We felt pretty good about it, really... at least they'd have each other. In fact, there was no crying this time, just the resigned knowledge that this is what we have to do with roosters. 

Now here is where it gets utterly and completely ridiculous.

 Off to the farm we go with Pearl. We watch, grinning, his reunion with Rosemary. We're feeling all warm and fuzzy until we hear that the owners have yet to hear Rosie crow. Not a peep! In fact they have their doubts that it's a rooster. They agree fully that Pearl is, but Rose... well, maybe. 

What??? 

I know, I KNOW that I not only heard, but SAW that chicken cockadoodledoo. Not a squawk, not a bawk, a real, red white and blue COCKADOODLE DOO! 

They just looked at me and smiled and said, "Well, maybe..." in exactly the way I say, "okay honey, let me check the closet. You're right, there just MIGHT be a monster in there." 

Now I ask you, what is going on here? Were my chickens putting on a performance of Cyrano de Bergerac in the backyard or WHAT? 

I don't even know what to say. 

They offered to let us take Rosie home and see if we heard anything more, but we opted to let him/her stay on, at least for now, to keep Pearl company. It's easier to be the new chicken on the block if you've got another newbie wing man(woman). They said if Rosie began asking for a cell phone and to be dropped off at the mall, or wearing bows and lipstick, they'd let us know. 

And so we wait. And I don't even know what to hope... that it's a girl and we get to bring home our beloved Rosemary? That it's a boy, so I don't look like a complete idiot? 

I will tell you this - I came right home from the farm, marched right out to the coop and gave our remaining three ladies a stern talking to. There will be no more of this. There will be no more growing of rooster feathers, no more attempts at crowing, no more maleness. I told them that I now have three boys, and three girls and if only I had Alice, I'd be reasonably happy playing Brady Bunch, so DON'T get any funny ideas! 

You know, I feel a lot like I did when I had my first baby - sure that I was making all kinds of mistakes, and wondering who on earth thought it was a good idea that *I* be in charge of this little life. 

Just who entrusted me with these chickens anyhow? I clearly don't have the first clue what I'm doing. 

This Isn't Goodbye

It's been a very tough day. Very. 

It started yesterday, when I was at my sewing table and heard this very strange noise from the backyard. I walked out there and waited, staring at the chicken coop, and sure enough, saw and heard Rosemary crow. There was no mistaking it. This was not a hen noise. It was an honest to goodness, sing up the sun, wake the dead, cockadoodledoo. 

For a split second I was elated. My little boy! Growing up! It was this gorgeous, throaty, wonderful green grass and blue sky sound. Fantastic. 

And then, my heart sank because I knew the implications. Rosemary is a boy, a rooster, and that means he has to go. Why did it have to be my favorite? Why did it have to be the funniest, friendliest, most personable of the bunch? Why Rosemary?

 I sent out notices to all our homeschooling email groups, and checked Craigslist, thinking that it might take me some time to find a new home for our guy. 

It didn't. Within a couple of hours we found the best solution we could possibly hope for. A nice family that runs an art studio on acreage, not too far from us, was willing to take him. They have a white turkey, guineas, peafowl, and lots of chickens. They also have children and don't mind if we visit. 

And so, through many tears, we began our goodbyes. We talked a lot about all the reasons we love Rosemary. We considered changing his name, but Ryder would have none of it. We talked about how roosters need room to roam and space to crow in, and how many new friends and how much fun he will have. We tried to look on the bright side - he will be well cared for, and we will be able to visit. 

We held him and snuggled him, A LOT. 

I could see that it was going to be really important to help my grieving men work through saying goodbye, so we made it Rosemary Day - a celebration of our love for him, and for his new life. We gave him some special treats (toast and strawberry tops), and saved some of his feathers in bottles. We took lots of pictures of him and had some printed. Then, we painted and decorated special frames for each of their rooms. (In this first one, Ryder is putting a kiss on Rosemary's beak.)

We even took a cast of his foot. When it finally came time to take him to his new abode, my boys were excited for their fella. 

They were sad, sure, but a happy for him too, and I guess that's the best you can hope for in a goodbye.

 When we got home, my oldest went out to check on the remaining girls. I peeked out there and heard him praying, "Please God, look out for Rosemary. Keep him safe and help him make new friends." It was all I could do to hold it together. 

And now, now that they are all tucked in and sleeping, I'm going to go and sit down with a glass of wine and have myself a good cry. 

Ridiculous, I know. Silly, sure. 

I'm sure all the real farmers out there will have a good laugh over this sappy city girl and her foolish attachment to a chicken. But there it is. I miss my beautiful, sweet, lovable Rosemary. 

Holding Our Breath

Okay, be honest... Does this look like a rooster to you? Here's the evidence: Waddles and comb that appeared way earlier than anyone else. A tail that is arched, not stubby and straight like all the other girls. Feet that are far bigger than every one else's feet. For that matter, all of Rosemary is bigger than the other girls. But she (a hopeful pronoun if ever there was one) is our favorite! She's funny and silly and more outgoing and friendly than the others. We love her! 

We know that we can't keep a rooster in the 'burbs, but none of us likes the thought of parting with our Rosemary. 

Twice now though, something has happened... Once, about a week or so ago, in the wee hours, when I was still half asleep, I would have sworn that I heard some kind of creaky potential crowing noises. I perked up, but never heard it again.

 Today, Luke said he heard "something loud and weird" from the coop. Later though, he wasn't sure it was from the coop and he couldn't really describe the sound. So now we're waiting, watching, and hoping that we don't have to find a new home for our Rosemary. Keep all your crossable parts crossed for us, will you?

It's Only Natural

I knew the minute that we saw them that James would have to have them for his birthday. And OH they are so loved! My guy is already talking about saving his pennies so that he can order a couple more sets. You know, for "really BIG castles!" 

Boys aren't the only little critters that enjoying natural wood playthings. Our girls got a new cedar roost yesterday. We found it on a walk in the woods yesterday and lugged it all the way home. It was most assuredly worth it, as they are clearly and undeniably a little giddy with joy over it. They hop on, hop off, hop on, hop off. If chickens could giggle, I know they would. I know it. 

It was Ellie who let us know that they would prefer a rough and natural branch to the smooth skinny dowels that we had been using. She was so right! So, for the others of you who are experimenting in poultry, grab yourself a branch! 

In other natural news, the garden at the Ranch is coming along. That, plus squash from grandmother's garden meant a really yummy dinner! 

If you find yourself with some summer squash too, try this: Cut it into thinnish, short pieces and toss it with pasta sauce, a little chopped onion, some mozzarella and some cooked italian sausage (we used three links, with the casings taken off). Pop it in a 350 degree the oven for 25 minutes or so, then top it with more cheese and bake until the cheese is melted and the squash is soft. My guys (who are pretty picky about veggies) LOVED it. They swore that it tasted like a pasta dish. 

We hope your weekend is delicious too!

Serenade

You know, some folks swear that a little chit chat goes a long way with a plant. They will testify that ongoing discourse with say, a Scabiosa (an actual plant, not an ingredient in a Hogwarts herbology course), will actually cause the plant to grow faster.

Well I don't know about all that, but I do know this: these chickens are growing awfully fast, freakishly fast, and I'm thinking that it COULD, potentially, I mean just maybe, have something to do with their exposure to fiddle music.

He's so pleased with himself, having mastered Mary Had a Little Lamb and moved on to the real live fiddle classic, Boil 'Em Cabbage Down, that he felt the pull to serenade his girls.

They were duly impressed.

You know, according to the findings of some other young chicken lovers, rock music causes chickens to lay at an increased rate, but stresses them out. Classical music is optimal, increasing production but relaxing the birds at the same time. Apparently Reggae music causes a drop in production.

All I have to say to that is, "Well, duh!" We all know what reggae music leads to! I just want to know if there was an increase in feed consumption when they listened to Bob Marley. Do you think chickens get the munchies? I'm just sayin'....

A Tough Old Bird In Training

Our dogs passed away a few months back. I didn't talk much about it. I didn't really know what to say.
We had them before we even had kids. Two black labs, Harley and Ellie. They were very old, and we knew their time was drawing near. First poor Harley, and then, without her mate, Ellie went steadily and quickly downhill too.

This is our first spring without them, and let me just tell you that it is clear to us all now that they were not just barking their fool heads off for no reason at all, they were fending off legions of critters!

First there was Matilda. I haven't seen hide nor hair of her since that first day, but I see evidence of her all the time. Biggo snout shaped holes along our garden path let me know that she's doing her part to help with the fire ant problem.

Then of course, there are the wretched squirrels that have become epidemic in the absence of dogs.

And now this. I give you Polly:

Oh yes, that's a baby opossum. And it's wee little brother was a few feet away.

It's cute right?

We thought so too. In fact, we even cut up bananas for her. and watched her for a good long time, giggling and talking about just how fabulous it is that all these wild critters see fit to hang out in our yard.

We got SO excited that we got online to find out all we could about opossums. Nocturnal. Marsupial. Give birth to LARGE litters... and wait, what's that say.... "a particular pest to poultry farmers!... has been known to continually raid nest boxes and even kill full grown chickens."

Wonderful.

Oh but wait, there's more... This sweet little fella has been visiting our garden.

We think it was born under our deck and thereby knows no other way of life. It's not one bit frightened of boys running around in the yard or even chunking unfinished pancakes at it.

Oh yes that's correct, we're feeding the garden devil too! It's actually quite tame, and will come within a couple of feet of my fellas to chomp away on the spinach.

So, you know, whatever idealistic visions I had of gardening and chicken farming are quickly being colored by irrigation issues, increasingly complex coop plans (and the costs involved), stinky pen cleaning jobs, and now varmints.

But, as always, I have my Momo to look to for homespun wisdom. When I was a little girl, I once opened the cabinet under her sink and found a big old country rat, dead in a trap. I screamed my hair right out and brought my Momo running from the other side of the house. When she saw what I was screaming about she laughed, picked it up by it's tail and said, "What? This old thing? It ain't nuthin' but a rat!"

Picked it up by it's TAIL!!!

A RAT!

She was a tough old bird, and I'm hoping some of it rubbed off on me. I think I'm going to need more than visions of bucolic harmony to see this spring through. I'm going to need good old fashioned farm girl grit.

Lord love a duck! What have I gotten myself into?

State of the Coop Address

I just wish like all get out that I could invite you all over to the backyard.

I'm telling you, no matter what the day brings, no matter how close the tax deadline looms, even though the sink is backing up and the price of gasoline is going to be more than the cost of a gallon of milk soon, despite the utter lack of confidence I have in any and all of the politicians vying for my vote, I'm telling you there is nothing like a boy and his chickens to set the world right!

Our girls are getting SO BIG!

Here's our benchmark shot of little Pearl, taken on the day we brought her home:

And here she is now:

Can you stand it?

I will tell you that I'm growing happier by the day that I'm not a mother hen. As fast as little boys grow, chicks grow even faster!

Everyday, about dusk, our girls get to squawking to be tucked in for the night. They are ready to settle down, and want us to put them in their little box and lock them up tight and cozy for the night.

So, I thought maybe, what with the instincts clearly kicking in, it was time to put some poles in their cage, for roosting.

Well they acted like I had just introduced a crocodile into the flock. They ran around hollaring and flapping their disapproval, until my oldest little Daddy climbed in there and put one of them on the pole, so as to demonstrate the purpose of this new oddity.

(and yes, that is wee little Hazel ! Only her head is blue now.)

It was the funniest thing I think I have ever seen.

All the chickens stretched their necks up, big and tall, cocked them to one side, and stared in wonder. Here was Hazel, on the mysterious pole. Holy heavens!

It took not four seconds for the rest of them to flutter up there, cackling delight over their new heights.

All but poor Rosemary.

Try as she might, she cannot make it up there. She runs around pecking all her sister's toes and peeping herself silly over it.

Her patient Daddy coos and lifts her up there.

She's always pleased as punch to be up, but invariably, she hops off after a bug or something, and can't get up again. Sometimes, she even tries to get a running start, but alas, the girl is just not very athletic. And, considering the fair amount of stares and squawks from the other girls, I'm pretty certain that they are making fun of her, in their own chicken way.

So Luke, good daddy that he is, goes out and puts her up there several times a day. He thinks that the more she's up there, the harder she'll try to make it up, of her own accord.

He even holds tasty greenery over her head and makes her hop for it. He says he's helping to build up her leg muscles, so that she can gather the strength to roost on her own.

He talks sweetly to her, encourages her, tells her "don't give up girl, I know you can do it!"

I will tell you that I near about cried when I heard him say of the chickens already on the roost, who were looking pitifully on as Rosemary tried and failed, "Don't pay any attention to them, girl. You just keep at it. You'll get it!"

I just wonder if this chicken has any idea just how lucky she is to have such a magnificent papa.

Don't Blink!

Remember this little ball of fluff?

Well look at her now:

My Luke keeps asking, "Can you believe how fast they are growing up?"

I tell him that I feel the same way about him.

Our chicks are getting their big girl feathers and beginning to act like real chickens, pecking around, flapping their big wings and fussing at each other.

My poor little chicken Papas are getting a quick course on the joys and pains of parenthood. They are so excited to see their girls getting big, but they are also a little sad and a lot scared to LET them be big!

Their babies used to snuggle in when they held them, now, like all big kids, they squirm and fuss if you hold on too long. They have things to do, place to go, bugs to catch! They've got no time for snuggling! So, my fellas have had to learn to sit still in the pen, to not chase the chicks, but wait for them to come over on their own terms for a snuggle. And they do, but it is hard to wait. Very very hard.

I understand this feeling.

Also, like all good daddies, my guys just ached with worry the first time their little ones ventured into the world on their own.

The chickens were outgrowing their indoor box, so we put up a pen in the backyard, and moved their box into it.

We close up the box at night, but in the day time, they can run around the pen, scratching in the grass and spreading their new wings. My guys spent a good part of the first day in there with the chickens! I drew the line at delivering my children's dinner to them in their cage.

So the first day was a lot of fun, that first night though, it took my guys FOREVER to go to sleep with their babies all alone in the backyard. The boys were so worried that a cat or a snake, or a crocodile or a rogue hippo would come and devour their girls.

I told them I understood this too. I felt just that same way when I left them in the nursery at church for the first time.

Parenthood is rough.

Remember that thing in high school, where they give you an egg and see if you can keep it safe? It's supposed to simulate parenthood, but I think they would have come closer to the bittersweet truth of raising little ones if they had passed out fluffy little chicks!

By the way, they made it through the night just fine, which called for celebratory sugar cereal on the deck, of course :-)