Blue Yonder

Bye Bye Birdies

It was a long time coming. 

Still, I never actually thought the day would arrive that we would say good bye to our beloved old gals... our little clutch of hens. 

They weren't farm animals or anything resembling "poultry" to us. They were pets, friends even. My boys toted them around the yard, sang to them, whispered to them, loved them. 

But slowly, we began coming to an unwelcome conclusion... our home may not have been the best choice for them. 

Much as we loved them, they were never really meant to live here. When we bought them it was with the idea that we would raise them for three months or so and then they would free range on my brother's acres. The three months came and for a number of reasons my brother's place wasn't going to work out for them. 

Add to that the fact that we had fallen head over heels for our fluffy gals, and we decided, perhaps unwisely, to keep them. 

We've been through so much together though...

Watching them grow

A rooster.

And then another. 

The possum incident. 

The coming of age.

The death of the most beloved chicken to ever grow feathers. 

Our girls have been swung on swing sets and sent flapping down slides. They have been invited to picnics, granted honorary membership into the club.

They have graciously recycled our leftovers into eggs and they have helped keep the fire ants at bay. They have taught us so much about who we are and who we hope to be. 

But now, we're quite literally empty nesters. 

It was a handful of things that we tried long and hard to ignore... our yard is not exactly what anyone would deem secure. We had a terrible incident a while back in which a neighborhood dog loped into our yard and took one of our girls right in front of my kids. It was so awful.

And so we kept them in their pen... which stays rather damp and icky in our shady yard. They didn't care for this and made a LOT of noise about it. Our neighbors never complained, but it strikes you that you aren't making too many friends when your pets are heralding the rising of the sun each morning.... and then they keep at it for much of the day. I couldn't say I blamed them though. I wouldn't want to be cooped up in a dark and smelly place either. 

As I said, we ignored all this long and hard though because we didn't want to let them go. Every time I would so much as THINK about finding a new home for the chickens my boys would burst into tears and so I would quickly let go of that thought. 

And then one afternoon we visited a nursery very near to our house. We'd never been there before and were struck at once by how homey and lovely it is, how kind its owners AND.... how ingenious their pest control measures... a handful of hens, a few baby chicks and a couple of roosters patrol the grounds, pecking at bugs and clucking at patrons. 

We huddled up, fought back some tears, and decided to ask if the nursery owners would ever consider adding to their population. They were more than willing and  it was so clear that this would make the perfect home for our girls... space to run, friends, the potential for babies, and close by so that we could visit any time. We decided to go home and give ourselves a couple of days to think it over. 

In that time the girls taught us one last lesson, a hard one, but one that will be invaluable to my men wherever the road takes them... love is selfless. You can't hold onto your girl, no matter how much love her, if it's just not meant to be. If you love someone, you have to be willing to do what's best for them, even if it means letting go. 

My men came to this conclusion on their own, and I could not be more proud of them for making such a hard decision. 

We took some last photos with our ladies, cried a few tears and loaded them into a laundry hamper to deliver them to their new home. 

When we arrived the whole staff stopped what they were doing and came to coo over our girls. The owner, a big tough caballero with Marlboro Reds in his pocket, took down their names and breeds in a notebook and then whispered to them in spanish as though they were the prettiest ladies at the ball. 

He sent my men home with a plant each and promises that they could come any time, everyday if they like, and that he will take good care of their babies. 

We have been back several times now and are happy to report that our girls do seem so very happy. We're proud of them, proud of us, and much as I feel like such a failure.. one of "THOSE" parents who gets their kids easter chicks and then has to find a new home when she can't take proper care of them... I'm not sorry that we had this experience. Tender as we are feeling, heartbroken as we are, we have such great memories and learned so very much from those silly feathered friends of ours. 

I guess in some ways we feel like our big girls have gone off to college... they've grown up and flown the coop. They're making new friends, living a new life. They might even find love, settle down and have babies of their own. And that's just as it should be. 

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Learn about the (not so) lowly seaweed with us at the Magnifying Glass today and listen in as we get to know the amazing and talented Kopp family over at the Ranch. 

Never Was a Chicken So Loved As Sadie

Well it's taken me a while to work up the nerve to write about it. 

We lost a friend, just before New Year's Day. 

We had noticed that our Sadie chicken was acting a little odd. She wasn't roosting with the other gals at night, but rather hanging out on top of the nest box, all alone. 

She didn't come running when we opened the back door anymore. 

She wasn't dishing out the chicken gossip anymore either... none of her funny expressive talking noises greeted us when we ventured out. 

But, it was smack in the middle of the holidays, and cold, and frankly by the time that it really hit us that something was awry, it was probably too late. 

When it finally DID occur to me that Sadie was not being Sadie, our bossy, friendly, busy body, loyal, old gal, I began to watch her closely. I noticed that she was making a funny gurgly noise when she breathed. She was stretching out her neck too, like she was trying to clear her throat. 

So we brought her in. 

We wrapped her in a towel that we had warmed in the dryer. 

We tried to entice her with warm oatmeal, but our girl who always LOVES her food, would have none of it. 

We dripped water into her mouth with an eye dropper, and we gave her some oil too, thinking that she had something stuck in her throat. 

It was sad. 

It was SO very sad to watch my little farmer, my oldest, Luke, hug her and rock her and promise her that "Papa will help you, honey. Papa's going to make it all better."

And she did get better. 

She seemed like it anyhow. 

She was poking her head out of the box and acting like she'd like to get out. 

So, we took her out to the deck, where we'd stuck our Christmas tree until we could figure out what to do with the thing. 

My loving little man took his girl, ever so gently, out of the box, and then it happened. 

Sadie gave a horrible hollar, ran under the Christmas tree, and flopped over on her back and died. 

It was awful to watch, awful, but not nearly so awful as what it did to my poor guy. 

He was a wreck for days. He cried and cried. 

He felt bad that he'd told her he'd make it better, and he couldn't. 

He felt sure it was a sign that he wouldn't make a good farmer. 

He wondered if she went to heaven, and would he see her again?

He wondered if the other chickens would miss her. 

He wondered did she know that he tried? Did she know that she was loved? 

It was heartbreaking, all of it. But quietly reassuring too. His heart is big, and if he so chooses, he will be the very best kind of farmer. I think that he'll be the very best kind of Papa too. Of that I'm certain. 

It stinks though, to see someone you love so much hurting SO much. 

We talked a lot about what we could do to remember and honor his friend. 

And then he set to work, doing what he felt should be done. 

In the mean time, I contacted Lorilee of MamaKoppShop. I told her the story and asked for her help. I needed to give my man something to hold onto. Something to help him grieve his friend. 

I cannot tell you how much I appreciate her soul and talent.  I just sat right down and cried when i saw what she came up with. 

So did Luke, when I showed him. It was exactly what I hoped for... his chance to hold Sadie, and think about her and the good times they shared, anytime he wants. 

She stays right by the candle holders that we all had a hand in making out of the Christmas tree.  

There are three tall candles for the boys she left behind, and four small candles for the chicken friends that no doubt miss her. 

The rest of the tree is being turned into blocks, because we thought Sadie would like her tree to be made into something that her boys would like to play with. 

I know. I know. We're talking about a chicken. 

But to us, she was a very dear friend. 

So we light the candles, when we need to, and we talk about all Sadie's funny chicken ways, and it helps.

It really does. 

Dawn's Early LIght

Two nights ago (mornings?) it was a sad, "mom, my throat hurts real bad," that woke me in the wee hours. Then, there were molasses minutes, draining from a long night, feeling a feverish forehead, doling out the medicine, making a pallet for the two of us to lie together, rubbing his back and waiting for his breathing to slow. 

I tried, oh how I tried, but I could not go back to sleep. 

All the next day he grew sicker and sicker, and I held him and tried to keep the others separated and occupied. And all the while I yawned and wished for sleep. 

That night, he tossed and turned, made mad dashes for the bathroom and moaned. 

And of course, I wouldn't have been anywhere but by his side, though I did have lots of waking dreams about how nice it would be to be floating in the land of Nod. 

My guy got a lot better yesterday, as I steadily grew more and more irritable. All I could think was, "I'm. just. so. tired."

So, when night came, and I thought I'd finally get some rest, it broke my heart to find that I could not go to sleep. 

Toss. turn. toss. turn. 

At last blissful sleep came, near about four whole hours of it. 

You know that you are really tired when big noises don't even wake you. You just fold them right into your dreams. 

For me, it was just dinosaurs, flocks of pteranodons squealing through the trees, that were making all that noise. Nothing to worry about, no reason to rise. 

That is until I heard "MAMA!!!!! MAMA PLEASE!!!!! THE CHICKENS!!!!" and I was jarred awake by the horrible panicked cries of my oldest boy (the same who'd been so sick) and his beloved chickens. 

4 AM. 

I ran to the yard, barefoot, in nothing but my t-shirt and my drawers, to see a possum chasing our chickens around their coop, and our poor girls scared out of their little feathered heads. 

I opened the door, and they scattered. I threw rocks at the possum and he did too, and then I went in to quiet and calm my little man, and wish, with all my might that I had my husband's God given talent for sleeping through anything and everything. 

About 20 minutes crept by before that horrible nasty critter returned. This time I had my big hiking stick and chased him, whacking like the crazed woman that I'd become (but missing by a mile), less out of concern for the blasted chickens and more because I just want some bloody stinking sleep before I DIE!

No deal. 

The creature didn't return before daylight, but neither did sleep. 

My boy rejoiced with the coming of the dawn that all his ladies were safe, if missing a feather or two. 

He wondered if this is how the Ingalls felt when the morning light broke after their long night listening to war cries. 

He has a flair for the dramatic. 

I don't know where he gets that. 

So I guess, today, I'm likely to be trying my best to possum proof a chicken coop, and tracking down a trap, or a bazooka, one. 

You do realize there'll be no sleep tonight either right?

It's such a good thing that they're cute. 

It's what keeps me going. 

That, and a whopping load of caffeine.  

Why Don't You Just Marry Her?

I knew it would come, the day that my men would find their true loves - the day that the desire of their hearts would be nothing more than to lay in the grass with their beloved, hold her, and whisper to her the words that are meant only for her ears. 

And now that day has arrived. Time sure does fly, huh? 

My gallant men are no small potatoes on the dancefloor either. 

The boys AND the girls can dip just as well as any of those turkeys on Dancing With the Stars. 

This one's a little coy though. 

Some girls are like that... they want to be chased. 

My guys insisted on having a picnic with their ladies. 

I insisted on handwashing, which they thought was "totally lame" (when did they start saying that?). 

Yes, well, salmonella is lame too. 

And on that appetizing note, I'd like to direct your attention to the upper left corner of the page. 

You'll see there a new addition, "From Our Home to Yours." In that space, I hope to give a little back to all the generous, encouraging, talented, inspiring folks who frequent these parts. 

So far, there's a quick-link reference to our recipes, because the boys and the girls all agree that every party is better with food. 

On the days to come, I hope to add similar pages for family projects and whatever else I can dream up, so keep your eye on that corner :-)

Happy New Week to you, one and all!

 

It's Bringing Out the Comanche In Us

It is downright chilly here!

We've gotten a much anticipated and thoroughly enjoyed little cool front. 

It's meant nippy mornings that beg for baking and drinking cider. 

If you are a small boy who has, somewhere deep down, a little Comanche blood running through your veins, it means it is time to bring out the tipi poles. 

My men have fond memories of chilly mornings spent eating muffins and sipping cocoa in last year's tipi, and so a new tradition is born...

The first cool front must be heralded by erecting a Comanche camp. 

They've hauled out their stick horses, their Scheich animals, various library books about cowboys and indians and half the blankets in the house. 

They run in and out asking for more "supplies," which can mean anything from dried cranberries and Clementines, to string and scissors for making "tools." 

 

On occasion they come in asking for a visit from the storyteller (me), to read them a chapter (or three) of "A Tree in the Trail." 

They pay me in acorns and shells if they deem my tales acceptable. 

They've even taken to trading with a neighboring tribe. 

Grain for feathers.

Isn't fall just the best?

I'll be adding some of our favorite Native American tales to the sidebar. If you notice any essentials missing, please let us know!