Pretending to Farm

Who Needs Toys?

When Hunky Husband and I were first married, with a few exceptions, he was a terrible gift buyer. He bought things for me that he would like me to have rather than things that I would have liked, exercise equipment, lots of exercise equipment, and cheese graters, lots of cheese graters. Apparently, I was to make him a lot of deliciously cheesy dishes and then work their fat off with all the latest exercise gadgets.

As an aside, have I mentioned that, with the exception of walking, I really hate to exercise? Granted, there have been times in my life when I have gotten in really good shape, worked my tail off literally and figuratively, but eventually tired, again literally and figuratively, of the experience and the time it drained from my day. And am I the only one who thinks it is totally unfair that when one pauses their exercise regimen that one’s body doesn’t pause as well? It should stay in the same shape from the time that last Stairmaster step was taken until the masochistic urge to exercise once again rears it’s ugly but healthy head and then continue to improve. I mean really! With all the ridiculously funded research projects out there, you’d think they could set aside the time and money to work on this conundrum. Solve this flabby issue and the world would be a much prettier place, at least from the rear.

But I digress…

At this point, you are probably wondering where I am going with all this and I’ll tell you. I (we) have imitated early-marriage gift-giving David with the birthday present we purchased for Pint. Hint… we bought it (them) at Western Ranchman, not exactly the #1 toddler gift destination location. I’d be lying if I said I felt no guilt over this.

Despite our selfishness, Anthony likes his present just fine. He pets them and loves them as we provide supervision to prevent any Lenny impressions (Remember Of Mice and Men? Thinking of it still makes my throat constrict and my eyes tear up.) Until the babies grow large enough to hold their own in the great but now llama-protected outdoors, the four chicks, two Araucanas and two Barred Rocks, live in a cage in his bedroom and peep happy welcomes to their favorite Pint-Sized Farmer each time he ventures their way. Frankly, I can’t think of a better birthday present for the best three year-old in this house.

Thank You

Before I return to the Tale of Taos, I would like to take today to thank everyone for all your kind thoughts, letters, comments, and support regarding the loss of our chickens. Sometimes I don’t know if anyone is reading my verbal dribble; I’ll pour my heart out writing and writing, receive perhaps two comments, and, insecure being that I can be, wonder if anyone cares. Well, yesterday you proved that indeed you do care and it means the world to me.

To put your minds at ease, we only lost chickens. Magic and the rest of the Pen of Misfit Fowl inhabitants are fine and healthy for now. After returning home from school and receiving the bad news, the boys rolled their grief into work, albeit tear-laden. We spent the entire afternoon reinforcing pens until they now resemble Attica, rolling barbed wire and all.

In total, we lost 22 chickens, every hen we incubated here, all the crested and feather-footed breeds with the happy exception of Medusa, a Golden Polish. We lost the Barred Rocks, the Black and Partridge Cochins, the Black Andalusians, and the gorgeous Buff Polish hens that young David wanted to show through 4H. Those who remain are from our original flock plus Medusa: 2 Buff Orpingtons, 1 Buff Minorca, 2 Blue Andalusians, 2 Silver Spangled Hamburgs, 2 White Wyandottes, 1 Rhode Island Red and 2 mutt roosters, Slick and Big Red, who saved themselves on high. Each remaining hen which hid in the hen house on top of the nesting boxes is quickly getting past laying stage. In fact, I gathered just two eggs yesterday compared to the dozen plus we typically get. I am NOT going back to store-bought eggs.

We can rebuild; we have the technology. What we need is time, patience, and a stiff upper lip.

Thank you again to everyone. You were the light in an otherwise very difficult day.

Breaking News

Last night, a pack of coyotes lept over our boundary fence, dug through fence and boulders under the chicken coop, and killed over 2/3rds of our flock. The carnage is heartbreaking, feathers and worse everywhere. We are devastated.

Once upon a time...

...there lived a Silver Spangled Hamburg named Wayneisha, named after a Hurricane Katrina victim. Her counterpart, Rolexis, with the same name origins, had been brutally mauled by Marshall the Bloodhound who thought she was a whatchugot and not a real, living chicken.

All her life, Wayneisha has wanted to be a mother, an active mother, going through the entire cycle of laying, setting, hatching, and raising chicks of her own. Alas, it never happened. A few Silver Spangled Hamburg eggs were incubated but, as they were stolen by the humans, she never knew if the chicks that returned to the coop were indeed hers or those of one of her counterparts. Plus, by the time the chicks were allowed to enter coop-world, they were old enough to care for themselves and didn’t need a momma to love, protect, and care for them the way Wayneisha wanted to do.

After years of failure and her biological clock ticking, Wayneisha was ready to adopt.

Enter Severus. Wayneisha was somewhat aware of Severus’ origins since she liked to hang out with the turkeys more often than she did with the chickens. They were quieter and mellower and enjoyed the occasional intellectual discussion. She knew that the wild turkey (the bird, not the booze) who would rather wander on her own instead of staying in the safety of the turkey pen had gotten eaten by wild dogs called coyotes and that the eggs that remained in her nest had been taken away by the humans.

A month later, the human who farms in pajamas (rather than the one who farms in boxers) brought a beautiful grey and blonde baby named Severus to the turkey known as Lynda and set him underneath her wing. Wayneisha was envious and set her plan to order. After all, she had seen the turkey leave her nest of poults before more often than she deemed prudent.

Offering friendship and poult-care relief, Wayneisha sidled into the nesting box with Lynda and drank in the smell of baby, a perfume better than new car, a smell unduplicated by anything or anyone. She longed for this child. Finally, she had her chance. Lynda, feeling hot and claustrophobic, left to stretch her wings and Wayneisha extended hers. She bonded with baby Severus, cooed sweet nothings in his ear, and offered him praises unheard from his duller in color and personality up-until-then caregiver. He was smitten.

When Lynda returned, she saw what had happened in her absence but, as she was already jaded by the loss of poults in the past and since she also knew what a self-sacrificing individual Wayneisha was, she put aside her feelings and allowed the hen to take over Severus’ care.

Today, Wayneisha and Severus are inseparable as they scratch, drink, eat, and sleep. At night, they jump as one into the nesting box and whisper their hopes and aspirations to each other until together they let their eyelids droop and fall into Dreamworld.

Let’s hope they live happily ever after.

Farming for Sanity

Ah, Sunday morning, time to read the newspaper and drink coffee on the back patio as the house fowl run in and around the pool. Then, it is off to make blackberry cobbler for our Bloody Mary morning at favorite neighbors Tom and Michelle’s around ten. I am really looking forward to this day. Jessica is home to baby-sit a Pint whilst we get rare adult time and conversation. Yet, just as I pull out the mixing bowls, Hunky Husband comes inside from farm chores to say he just saw “something” being born in the turkey pen. Something, hmm.

Sighing, I throw down my tea towel and march outside only to be greeted by the hisses of turkey hens protecting their nests. But aren’t they finished laying for the season? I haven’t gathered a turkey egg for quite some time and have been leaving the unsociable-since-becoming-mothers turkeys to their own devices. Mastering what little bravery I have, I lift Lauren the Turkey just a tad to look underneath her and, guess what, find a whole clutch of chicken eggs. Joy. Looking for an excuse to remain in her box eating bonbons and watching her soaps, Lauren apparently decided to adopt and was liberal-minded in her choices of adoptees. We had recently decided not to add any more fowl for the near future because literally and figuratively, we are spent.
Yet there in amongst the un-hatched and hopefully unfertilized eggs was this little guy, Fenrir Greyback, still wet from the newness of coming into this wacky world of ours.

David and I look pointedly at each other and sigh, our shoulders collectively dropping a good two inches in the acceptance. I guess there are more to come and a brooding box will need setting up if these guys have any chance for survival.

I want to be a farmer; I want to be a farmer; I want to be a farmer. (Just keep repeating this to yourself Lauren. You know it’s the truth; it’s just a tad overwhelming at times.)

The Sky is Crying

Jakers the rooster, incubated here at home and hatched on my birthday this year, has left this world and moved on to happier coops where the scratch is plentiful, the temperatures are mild, and the body is without ill. He died; we cried. Shortly afterward, the heavens opened once again and shed tears of joy as they welcomed the very good boy who shared my bed and warmed our hearts. He will be missed.

With the passing of Jakers, we are left with only two roosters, Big Red and Slick, Jakers’ father. I’m sure our cranky neighbor, Southern State Sounding like Female Genitalia, is pleased by this as their crows seem rare these days. Big Red got tired of Slick’s harassment and moved himself to the duck pen, despite being returned to the coop numerous times. The duck pen is now a land of misfit fowl, housing Rubius Hagrid, the picked-upon tom turkey, the four ducks, Daffy, Inge, Buffy, and Peeps, and two chickens, Mighty Isis, the also picked-upon White Polish, and now Big Red. Somehow they all get along, having brokered a feathery détente between them. All is weird, but well, in the duck pen.

Finally, on a lighter note, Michelle shared this quiz with me. Since it lightened recent events, I thought I’d share. I’m Grace Kelly; who are you (said the Caterpillar as he sat upon the mushroom)?

Ever wonder which movie star you are most like?

Number your paper from 1 to 10, then answer each question with the choice that most describes you at this point in your life , and then add up the points that correspond with your answers.

Now Don't look ahead or you will ruin the fun!

1. Which describes your perfect date?
a) Candlelight dinner for two
b) Amusement Park
c) Roller blading in the park
d) Rock Concert
e) Have dinner & see a movie
f) Dinner at home with a loved one

2. What is your favorite type of music?
a) Rock and Roll
b) Alternative
c) Soft Rock
d) Classical
e) Christian
f) Jazz

3. What is your favorite type of movie?
a) Comedy
b) Horror
c) Musical
d) Romance
e) Documentary
f) Mystery

4. Which of the following jobs would you choose if you were given only these choices?
a) Waiter/Waitress
b) Sports Player
c) Teacher
d) Policeman
e) Bartender
f) Business person

5. Which would you rather do if you had an hour to waste?
a) Work out
b) Make out
c) Watch TV
d) Listen to the radio
e) Sleep
f) Read

6. Of the following colors, which do you like best?
a) Yellow
b) White
c) Sky blue
d) Teal
e) Gold
f) Red

7. Which one of the following would you like to eat right now?
a) Ice cream
b) Pizza
c) Sushi
d) Pasta
e) Salad
f) Lobster Tail

8. Which is your favorite holiday?

a) Halloween

b) Christmas

c) New Year's

d) Valentine's Day

e) Thanksgiving

f) Fourth of July

9. If yo u could go to any of the following places, which would it be?
a) Reno
b) Spain
c) Las Vegas
d) Hawaii
e) Hollywood
f) British Columbia

10. Of the following, who would you rather spend time with?
a) Someone who is smart
b) Someone with good looks
c) Someone who is a party animal
d) Someone who has fun all the time
e) Someone who is very emotional
f) Someone who is fun to be with

Now total up your p oints on each question:
1. a-4 b-2 c-5 d-1 e-3 f-6
2. a-2 b-1 c-4 d-5 e-3 f-6
3. a-2 b-1 c-3 d-4 e-5 f-6
4. a-4 b-5 c-3 d-2 e-1 f-6
5. a-5 b-4 c-2 d-1 e-3 f-6
6. a-1 b-5 c-3 d-2 e-4 f-6
7 a-3 b-2 c-1 d-4 e-5 f-6
8. a-1 b-3 c-2 d-4 e-5 f-6
9. a-4 b-5 c-1 d-4 e-3 f-6
10. a-5 b-2 c-1 d-3 e-4 f-6
NOW take your total and find out which Movie Star you are:

(10-17 points) You are MADONNA:

You are wild and crazy and you know it. You know how to have fun, but you may take it to extremes. You know what you are doing though, and are much in control of your own life. People don't always see things your way, but that doesn't mean that you should do away with your beliefs. Try to remember that your wild spirit can lead to hurting yourself and others.

(18-26 points) You are DORIS DAY:

You are fun, friendly, and popular! You are a real crowd pleaser. You have probably been out on the town your share of times,yet you come home with the values that your mother taught you. Marriage and children are very important to you, but only after you have fun. Don't let the people you please influence you to stray.

(27-34 points) You are DEBBI E REYNOLDS:

You are cute, and everyone loves you. You are a best friend that no one takes the chance of losing. You never hurt feelings and seldom have your own feelings hurt. Life is a breeze. You are witty, and calm most of the time. Just keep clear of back stabbers, and you are worry-free.

(35-42 points) You are GRACE KELLY:

You are a lover. Romance, flowers, and wine are all you need to enjoy yourself. You are serious about all commitments and are a family person. You never forget a birthday. Don't let your passion for romance get confused with the real thing.

(43-50 points) You are KATHERINE HEPBURN:

You are smart, a real thinker. Every situation is a approached with a plan. You are very healthy in mind and body. You don't take crap from anyone. You have only a couple of individuals that you consider "real friends". You teach strong family values. Keep your feet planted in them, but don't overlook a bad situation when it does happen.

(51-60 points) You are ELIZABETH TAYLOR:

Everyone is in awe of you. You know what you want and how to get it. You have more friends than you know what to do with. Your word is your bond. Everyone knows when you say something it is money in the bank.You attract the opposite sex. Your intelligence overwhelms most. Your memory is the next thing to photographic. Everyone admires you because you are so considerate and lovable. You know how to enjoy life and treat people right.

Now comment and tell me who you are. I'll be booking my flight to Monaco to claim my throne. You think they'll let me bring my animals? Charlotte and Fiona think they're royalty as it is.

Hey Buddy, Can You Spare a Wheelchair for My Rooster?

Last night, I did something in bed that I have never before done.

Now that I have your attention, I have to admit it is neither kinky nor sexual at all. In truth, I slept with a rooster. Okay, I guess it does sound a little kinky but instead it was dirty, and not like Christina Aguilera.

Jakers, David the Teenager's favorite rooster (of course), has fallen prey to what we think is a scorpion sting or spider bite. Yesterday morning, we discovered him lying on the ground in the chicken coop, unable to stand or support himself in any way. His right foot was noticeably swollen; his head was lolling; and his comb was pale and worrisome. We brought him inside (another of course) and fed him a mash of sugar water and chicken feed and gradually his color improved but he still could not stand. When bedtime came, and with Zorro already inhabiting the house poultry cage, we did the only self-respecting thing we as bleeding heart farmers could do and let him sleep in bed between us. Unbelievably, I actually slept very well cuddled with his feathery warmth and, except for that whole lack-of-house-training thing, he made a good sleeping companion. Yes, my sheets went in the wash at daybreak after which I took a long, vigorous scrubbing-filled shower.

Today, Jakers seems better but still cannot use his feet and keeps trying to stand on his elbows without success. We feel for the poor boy and hope he will not lose his head over the whole thing. Isn't farming awesome?

The other big event yesterday was, of course, the wait for Harry. I had pictured UPS driving up at its usual lunchtime schedule but no. Darkness fell and still no Harry. Anticipation fell to anxiety and then to anger. WHERE WAS MY BOOK??? Finally, around 8:30, the boys made the ¼ mile trek to the mailbox again and it was there. I haven't seen young David since except for when I found him asleep this morning with half the book read.
He must have stayed up all night. Good thing because I want to read it sooner rather than later. Yes, I am encouraging my child's unhealthy habit of sleep deprivation for my own selfish reading greed. Hurry up child; I'm waiting. Don't make me buy my own copy and don't tell me what happens. I like finding out what happens on my own, thank you very much.

And now for something completely different, Cordelia thinks she is a person. Or perhaps a rooster.

Life is beautiful. Happy Sunday everyone.

Have You Had Your Big Red Today?

When we moved here a little over three years ago, the first farm animals we wanted to get were chickens. We had tasted farm fresh eggs; they were delicious; we wanted more. Not too long afterward, it was a fait accompli.

What we did not realize, however, was the amount of personality that would emanate from our feathery yard birds. Something in their eyes sizes us up and, like the very smart crows that put nuts in need of cracking on the roadway and wait for a car to roll its wheels over them, thus furnishing the crows with a simple drive-thru meal, these birds are not stupid. Bird brain, in its negative connotation, is a misnomer.

We have a few favorites among the flock and this large fellow is one of mine. Big Red, we call him. He is a third or fourth generation mixture of Rose Comb Brown Leghorn, Wyandotte, Rhode Island Red, Buff Minorca, and, who knows what else. His lovely, multicolor plumage shows a mixed smattering of his ancestry. His comb is a cross between a rose and more traditional spike, giving the odd impression that he is wearing a tri-corner hat.

Big Red likes to come inside and cool off from time to time and who can blame him? He gets to sit on a comfy lap in air conditioned comfort and receive kisses and caresses from yours truly.

Of course, David the Teenager is the true chicken wrangler. Mostly in charge of their care and love, he wanders outside off and on throughout the day just to visit with them and stock up on avian companionship. These visits never cease to bring a smile and lighten the mood of this typically serious and stern child. Like the ruminants' effect on me, for him, chickens are nature's antidepressants. Someday he would like to join 4H and show them, something we probably should have already done but it is one of those we’ll-get-to-it-eventually events. Hopefully, this year will be the charm.

For now, we’re keeping our chicken relationships casual and looking forward to their occasional ventures indoors. This suits me, and I think them, just fine.

In Eggcess

I feel a little better today, though I am not sure why. Was it the fact that I said eff it and abandoned any household duties other than trying to keep the kitchen from imploding and supervising Destructo Boy who uncharacteristically for recent history took a – wait for it – nap? That I spent the day knitting, snoozing, and trying not to talk (it hurts) and topped the day off with a partial family viewing of the first Harry Potter film? I say partial because we started out well but teenagers, you know, are even more sensitive than I am on a bad day. You ask them not to throw the afghan you have been working on for months, the one you have only recently almost completed, onto the floor and that is “so-like-offensive” and you lose one family member for the “fun family film.”

By the way, The Pint didn’t quite make it all the way through the movie.

Today, I am faced with tumbleweeds of dog hair rolling around the floor and hiding in the corners and masses of laundry staring at me with that “Wash me, I feel so dirrrrty” look to their folds. As I have felt internally attacked for a few days now, I was already behind. If I turn up missing, check the hampers for clues. You never know with textiles, the laboratory-created ones of course. Rayon, in particular, sounds like it could turn its wearers into Super Villains, stylish ones, but Super Villains nonetheless.

Soiled clothing and dirty home aside, the things I found taking over when I arose this morning are typically welcome but, with the advent of longer days and warmer temperatures are popping out like automatic tennis ball launchers gone wild. It’s all we can do to keep the chicken/turkey/duck eggs gathered. Even with all four dogs receiving one egg each in their breakfast every morning and the cats sharing one in between the two of them, and even with all six humans’ averaging consumption of at least one each a day, we cannot keep up. We give them to the neighbors; we push them onto co-workers. Heck, if they look the least bit unappealing, we toss them broken back into the coop. (Chickens love to eat eggs, complete with shell. It’s rather disgusting.)

I ventured out and had a talk with the yard birds. I told them, “Take a break. As much as we enjoy your yummy ovals of deliciousness, we think you deserve a vacation. I mean it can’t be comfortable pushing those things out every 1.5 days. Relax.”

Although meant well, our talk ruffled their feathers and, in response, they’re spitting out more than ever, at least two dozen a day.

Please, if anyone is in the area, come get some eggs. I’d like to put something else in my refrigerator. Right now, it’s basically eggs, milk, juice, and condiments (and not the fun kind).

I guarantee their eggcellence.

A Fowl Day

It’s a hard morning on the farm today, a day that even though I eat the fowl regularly without qualm one, I dread. It’s Rooster Eliminating Day. The pullets and cockerels from our latest incubation are growing and, although we haven’t identified which are which, the older roosters are, for one, pecking at them, and for two, crowing more frequently and loudly than ever. I suppose they are trying to show their dominance but it’s too much and they have to go. (As I write this, they are going.)

Me? I have no problem with the sound of roosters crowing. It inspires me, encourages my dreams of someday living on a real farm.

David the Husband, however, has a real problem with it because he is concerned about disturbing the neighbors, most of whom have assured us they like the sound for similar reasons that I do. Yet, a few grumps always stand out and want the roosters and their instinctual noise gone.

Well, I hope you’re happy you people who-move-to-the-country-and-complain-that-it-is-not-more-like-Scottsdale. My husband is covered in spattered cock blood and the flock is very quiet and wary of what is to come.

If we were into voodoo (which rest assured we are not), I suppose our sacrificial requirements are met for now. I don’t understand how chopping off a rooster’s head would help anything other than noise pollution levels; however, if it helps, please send some good mojo our way.

Also, send some good thoughts to poor David the Husband who doesn’t like administering the death blow any more than I like it being done. Hunny, thank you for not holding me to my promise of being the next to do the dirty deed. Just the thought of it being done is enough to make me hyperventilate.

So long Lemon; so long Spyro. Slick, you are still amongst the land of the strutting only because I helped bring you into this world and argued your case for a temporary reprieve. Please be quiet for both our sakes; your life depends on it.