Nesting

June 2009

The last few months have been full of end of the school year, beginning of summer happenings for everyone.  For me, Spring always conjures up my project juices.  So much so that the thought has even crossed my mind that my spring motivations often remind me of the nesting instinct so many expectant mothers feel, except instead of trying to beat the gestational clock, I am trying to beat the heat. 

This year’s spring project was a new chicken coop and not just any coop would do.  I am, and I am proud to be, a true Daddy’s girl.  I call myself that not just because I happen to have the best Dad in the world, but we also seem to share many of the same personality traits: focused, determined, independent and absolutely project driven.  There must be some gene we carry that drives us, even requires us to cross things off lists. It is just who we are.  Top that off with the fact that I have repeated many times, “My father can do anything” and you can see where this is heading.  Now prior to the much coveted title of “Papa” my father had other titles, CEO, President and successful entrepreneur and you would think that none of those would predispose him to being, well, handy, but there you would be wrong.

Dad and Christian get the walls up and David works on the roof.

When it became apparent that we would need a new coop, where else would I seek guidance?  Over the years, I have seen my father take apart, build and repair countless things and why should this be any different?  In addition to knowing that I would have the coop of all coops, just knowing that my father was the lead architect and builder was undoubtedly a big deal.  A couple of weeks later and we now have a coop that was built by three generations.  My dad and I, with the help of David and the boys finally completed the project and I must say it looks great.  We have already decided on a name but I will announce that in the next couple of weeks after we get it painted and post the final pictures.

Though Christian helped a bit less than David and Davis, he has been my go to guy when it comes to wrangling chickens and moving day was just the time to call him into duty.

David and Davis were returning from a mission trip to Guatemala the next day and I had had about all the chickens I could handle on the sun porch.  I will spare you the details, but suffice it to say that I am a women living with three men.  I can handle just about any odor, but this was way past Pine Sol.

For those of you who remember the post where I was plucking chickens from trees on a 10ft ladder, in my pj’s at 10 o’clock at night, let me point out that even that situation came with its life lessons.  Chickens roost at night.  When they roost, I mean they are almost catatonic.  Since they are also creatures of habit, I knew that no coaxing, bribing or engraved invitation was going to convince them that they should change their habits and take up residents in the new coop, but they had met their match in Christian the chicken wrangler.  We waited until dusk when all were snug in the old coop and one by one we scooped them up and transferred them to their nice new home. 

I couldn’t help but giggle when I thought about how they might react the next morning.  In fact it sort of reminded me of how someone would describe an alien abduction.  “I don’t know what happened.  One minute I was asleep, then I woke up in this strange new place!”  In fact one of them must have been really startled, because she laid a shell-less egg. They seem to be getting used to it now and in the next week or so we will be moving the last batch of babies (formerly residents of the sun porch, now in the old coop) in with the others and if you ask me it will be none to soon.

Here a Chick, There a Chick, 

Everywhere a Chick Chick

April 2009

I am over it. Refusing to be encumbered by the anger that you likely sensed in my last post (The Crazy Chicken Lady), warming temperatures seem to have brought a sunnier outlook. 

Since the neighbor’s dog made a snack of our last two hens (I think I am over it), we have come to the realization that our two remaining hens, hard working as they are, cannot sustain the breakfast habits of this family. 

Last year David only requested one type of chick from our order: a black Jersey Giant. Unfortunately, that was the pitiful little bird that had to meet the sharp end of the garden loppers.  We never got to see just how big a 13 pound chicken could be, so a few weeks ago we placed a new order through myppetchicken.com for not one, but three Jersey Giants and three other chicks to keep them company during shipping.  For those of you doing the math that would be 39 pounds of big black birds.  Eat that you mangy mutt – I am tryingto get over it!

Since Davis’ little Dixie chick was a victim as well, we took the boys to the feed store with the intentions of allowing Davis to pick out a new chick.  It seems that chicks are much like potato chips and “you can get just one”.  After negotiating, we compromised with four and we once again have chickens in our living room soon to be joined by the special order batch.

As I write this I can hear them chirping and scratching in their storage tub home.  Unless you have had the pleasure of experiencing chickens in your living room first hand, I doubt you can really appreciate it. For just a moment, allow your self to lay aside the comedic possibilities and picture this.

Since the horses are using the big water trough we used last year, we made due with an extra storage container from the attic.  At the time I did not consider my housing selection was anything other than conveni

ence, but in this clear container, I find myself appreciating the chicks much as you would an aquarium of fish. Of course, you will need to substitute the gentle bubbles for chirps, and the blue glow of aquarium lighting for the orange hue from a heat lamp and you might be able to appreciate the scene.    

With the addition of 10 new chicks, larger more permanent housing is required.  Much as I enjoy a week or two a year with chickens in the house, once they no longer fit in your hand it is time to move on. Our small outdoor chicken hutch has been great, but it must give way to progress. Fortunately my father has experience dabbling in this area by building a playhouse for grandchildren so he has promised his expertise for no more fee than the promise of fresh eggs in about 6 months.

In other areas of farm life, David is still lobbying for a cow, however I think I may have staved him off, at least for a time. Much of his argument has been in the vein of feeding two rapidly growing boys.  My personal rule around here is that we don’t eat anything we name.  Any animal that enters our gates will get a name so I have dug my heels in on the cow.  I don’t, however, have any trouble eating what someone else has named.  I just don’t want to know that name unless it is something along the lines of “Prime” or “Grade A”.

One day while researching information for our new garden, I stumbled on a website that promoted eating “local”, a concept that we support. There I found a local family that raises pasture fed, hormone and antibiotic free cattle. So just today I ordered ¼ of one of those cows ensuring his execution and our family’s full belly.  So, some time in the next few weeks we expect over 100pds of various cuts of beef.  Some time in the next few months we will have a very large cook-out. No neighbors dogs invited.

David grew up spending many summers at his grandparent’s house in Alabama.  His memories seem to be filled with time spent with his grandfather tending his garden and watching martins patrol the sky. Grandpaw passed away over ten years ago, but David has always wanted to follow in that tradition. 

He struggled to start a garden the last few years, but he really wanted to give it a go. Finally, we made a compromise that if I could make a few “suggestions” I would get involved.  God often seems to put together people who have complementary personalities and gifts.  Where David’s gifts of vision and muscle lack organization, my planning skills fit right in. Between the two of us, I must say we have made a really good start and we hope our enthusiasm with continue and reward us with at least a few veggies to show for it by the end of the summer.

As for the martins, they say the scouts who migrate early looking for nests have already been spotted in our area.  We have yet to see any here, but we have a really nice house vacant and ready.  If you see any, send them our way.  The rent is free and all we ask in return is that they eat the mosquitoes and dive bomb any canine intruders.  Okay, maybe I am NOT over it, but I am working on it!

The Crazy Chicken Lady

 February 28, 2009

Last Saturday the boys and I planned to spend the unusually warm February afternoon doing odd jobs around the farm, fishing and generally enjoying the day.  After arriving home from Christian’s last basketball game of the season, I quickly jumped into my comfy work clothes and headed outside. 

As soon as I stepped out the door, I knew something was wrong as one of our hens, Nugget, screeched and squawked across the yard.  As recently as one year ago, I would have brushed off the suggestion that one could know something was amiss by observing the demeanor of a chicken.  Mothers can tell if her child is feverish or has had a bad day at school with just a quick glance, and I knew something was amiss with one glance at this bird. 

I quickly scanned the property noticing the dogs in a dither, then I saw it:  a large, black lab standing over a small, grey lump.

“Davis, get out here! That black lab is back,” I yelled to the house while screaming, waving arms in the air, running in the direction of the dog.

Davis came running out of the house, hopping and bending to put his boots on at a full jog.

“Let’s try to catch him," I said.  "Be nice.”

Likely concerned by my crazed impersonation of a rabid housewife, the dog would not come within 50 yards of us and ran away. This was not the first time I had seen this particular dog on our property, and he was not interested in being captured.

We gave up on the capture, and I made my way to the scene of the crime: too late.  I have always had an aversion to touching anything dead, but blame it on the adrenaline, or an unusual sentimentality toward for poultry, I stooped to pick up our last remaining Barred Rock hen, Mary Kate.  Still warm, I carried her back to the house to assess the damage to Nugget and search for other survivors. 

In the meantime and unbeknownst to me, Davis had called his Dad.  David was at a coaching clinic and could not answer the phone but began texting Davis.

David: “Whats up?”

Davis: “down to 1 chkn blk lab”

David: “get the 22 - shot it”

Davis: “ok”

About this time I walk toward the barn to find Davis where, having found Kate unharmed, he enlisted Christian to stand guard over the hen house as he set off  to get the .22. 

There are three things alarming about this: first and most importantly, a 13 ½ year old with a gun, regardless of how well trained and mature (which he is) is disturbing; second my 13 ½ year old with a gun setting out to shoot a dog is unthinkable and I still maintain he could NEVER do such a thing.  Finally, and yes there was discussion later, the fact that David told him to get the gun!  What is this? The wild-west? 

“No!” I said.  “You are coming with me,” and we set off to find the owner of the dog.

As we reached the barn where I heard the hammering,  I politely called, “Excuse me!  Excuse me!”

Just as he took one step outside the barn I began to ask if he had seen a black lab when out the perpetrator walked without a care in the world.

“Is that your dog?”

“Yeah,” he said in a barely perceptible, but obviously defensive tone.

“Well he has been over there killing my chickens!”  I said while my hands quickly found their place firmly on my hips unconsciously bracing myself for what I knew was about to come.

“This dog?!”

“Yes.”

“He was only gone a minute.  How do you know it was my dog?” he said in a tone that was both sarcastic and confrontational.

“Because I SAW him!” I said.

“Do you have dogs?” he asked incredulously.

“Yes,” I said not knowing where he was going with this line of questioning.

“Well how do you know it wasn’t one of YOUR dogs?”

“Because I SAW him standing over the still warm, dead body of my chicken!” I said.  I immediately recognized that my selection of words and quiver in my voice would likely place me in a category similar to a “cat lady” or “bird man”, but too late.  At this point I was committed to my mission and frankly his response was far more concerning to me than being labeled "that crazy chicken lady".

“I have a 10 year old over there,” I said pointing in the direction of our property, “having a meltdown and we STILL can’t find two more chickens!”  I was beginning to loose my cool (read: choke up and cry).

Sometime during this discourse, another man had appeared who kindly apologized and offered to pay for them, but it was difficult to focus on his kind demeanor so all I could manage to say was, “Thank you, but they were only a couple of dollars each.  They are our pets, we hand raised them,” I said hoping to convey that their value was far more than monetary.

“Well I guess I will have to lock him up,” interrupted the dog owner with a huff as he turned and walked back into the barn calling for the dog to follow.

“That would be a good idea.”  I said, swallowed hard and turned toward home.

We returned home to find Christian still diligently standing guard over Kate.  We gathered a still shaken Nugget and set off to find Dr. Pepper.  Wandering through the woods, I finally spotted a white clump of feathers and not far from them a bald backed, injured, but still alive Dr. Pepper.  We locked all three in the hen house to recuperate for the night. 

Sadly the next day Dr. Pepper, apparently still in shock, wandered off and did not return that night.  The next morning I found her dead next to her hiding place where she must have tried to recuperate and sometime in the night another animal took advantage of her weakened state.

Davis get the .22!

Davis and Christian work on the garden then one week later......

SNOW!

My walk to the barn on a snowy morning

Chicken coop...the "girls" slept-in this morning

Christian relaxes after a full morning of 4-wheeler sledding.

 ________________________________________________

Catching Up

1-1-09

Finding the Bright Side:

In addition to the usual hustle and bustle the abysmal economy has made many of us  take a very different look at how they spend money this Christmas.  At first this kind of adjustment is uncomfortable, but I think it can also have its blessings. When we moved here to Anathoth, we intended to tear down the original 1500 square foot house to build our dream home.  The original plan was to begin within six months, and here we sit three years later in the same house.  Though I would love for our boys to have their own rooms and a bit more space, I must admit that even the cramped quarters comes with it’s own blessings.  For better or worse we spend all of our time at home in very close quarters.  With two boys at 10 and 13, it is becoming more and more apparent that our years together, in one home, are growing short.  In the coming years I know I will long for the days that I had them “underfoot”.

So I have purposed to try to follow each passing thought that includes a complaint about what I don’t have and take the opportunity to thank God for the blessings he has heaped upon me and my family.  We may brush against each other in the hall or have to take turns in the bathroom, but we are all here together.  Given where we have been, what better gift could I be given this Christmas?  I am blessed!

Another one Bites the Dust:

As for happenings around the farm, sadly we are down to four chickens. One morning a few weeks ago I got up, started breakfast for the boys and walked out to the barnyard to gather eggs and let the chickens out for the day.  By now you likely know my head counting routine: one, two, three, four…..four…..uh oh!  One of our barred rocks was missing.  Where is Lazrus? 

It is funny how we so quickly become desensitized. I can’t remember if it was raining, cold or I was in a hurry, but I did not go running across the back pasture on a search and rescue mission.  I was fairly certain that we could not expect another “resurrection”, I went back to the house wondering how to break the bad news. 

The first chicken we lost, “Dumplin”, was a tragedy.  Tears were shed and a memorial if a note, a stone and an arrow was erected.  The second chicken, Dixie, brought about a search and rescue crew consisting of me and our loyal Labrador and evoked distress not to mention a little anger at the beast who had claimed her.  Now as I strode into the kitchen to ready the boys for school I solemnly told them that Lazrus was gone.  I told them that I feared that she must have been captured by the same predator that got Dixie. 

“Oh,” Davis said.

“Hum,”  said Christian. 

Expecting a profound comment in memorial or a promise to eradicate the vermin I stood there mentally formulating the perfect words of condolence and calculating if I had enough time to fein a rescue attempt before heading out to carpool.

“Is there any more bacon?”

“No honey, but do you want some more eggs?”  Irony.

Men in Trees:

Davis has recently caught the deer hunting bug that has been fueled by the monster bucks that we have seen in our front pasture.  A few weeks ago I happened to have my camera handy and was able to catch a shot of one from the window.  My husband, David, has never deer hunted, except with a pair of binoculars from the house so we thought we would share our photos with some of the guys we know that spend lots of time in the trees hunting these ferocious beasts. 

The first e-mail below is the one I sent along with the photo.  You will also see a couple of the e-mails we got in return offering to "help".

A few of the responses:

 We have such wonderfully helpful friends!

I hope you all had a blessed Christmas and all the best in the New Year!

Much Ado About Nothing

September 28, 2008

Macho, days after arriving at Anathoth

Ever since I began riding as a child, I always dreamed of raising a young horse to train myself.  Last summer I took the first step to fulfilling that dream and today I made another giant leap.

 I had searched for months to find just the right colt.  I wanted a TWH with a great disposition and honestly I just wanted something “different”.  I stumbled on a website that listed what I thought was the most beautiful stallion I had ever seen. “Splashed with Champagne” was a gorgeous, spotted, amber champagne stud at Swift Walkin’ Farm that was described as a “people lover”. The website never listed any of his colts for sale, so I continued my search, without knowing that circumstance would intervene.

 Our son, Davis, and I had taken a road trip to Nashville to purchase another horse I had been looking at (my sweet Ranger). We stopped by one of my favorite tack shops to look around and there in the parking lot was a large horse trailer with “Swift Walkin’ Farm” plastered across the side, and I saw a man get out of the truck and walk into the store.  I quickly swung my 16ft horse trailer into the parking lot and set off in almost a full run after him.  After spotting him in the store, I kept my eye on him for a few minutes to giving me a chance to get my pulse and accelerated breathing under control.  Finally, in a performance that probably could have earned me an academy award nomination, I strolled up and asked, “Are you from “Swift Walkin’ Farm?” After explaining that I had seen his trailer and that I had admired his stud (a line of conversation that would only be appropriate in a tack shop), I asked if he happened to have any similar stock.  When he answered that he had several, I nearly descided to follow him home, but made arrangements to go the next weekend.

 Since the boys were out of school, we loaded up with trailer in tow and headed to the TN/KY border where Swift Walkin’ Farm is located.  We arrived and soon after we loaded up in a multi-passenger ATV and headed to the stud colt pasture.  This area is close to “Land Between the Lakes” and his full of rolling hills and streams.  As we climbed to the top of a one of those hills we saw running toward us from a distance, a herd of bucking, romping youngsters.  As the herd got closer it seemed to part and there in the middle was the cutest little carbon copy of “Splashed”. My heart skipped a beat and I knew this was to be my “Macho”. 

 As excited as I was, I must admit that in the next hour I came to question my sanity.  You see, these stud colts had been born in the pasture and once weaned had spent the next several months eating and growing with very little human contact aside from those who dumped their hay or feed in the pasture.  The boys and I watched as Macho was herded into smaller and smaller areas each time being cut off from his herd mates until finally he was left alone in a small enclosure.  He was then squeezed into one horse trailer, which was eventually backed up to my horse trailer where he was secured for the four and a half hour ride home.

 Obviously scared and with a scratch on his face we began our drive home. “What an introduction,” I thought to myself and I wondered how this little horse, who would not even let anyone touch him would ever learn to trust me. 

 The drive gave me an opportunity to regain my courage and recharge my excitement, and we rolled into the driveway just as David was arriving home from work.  I had formulated a plan of how I was going to get a horse that wouldn’t let me touch him, out of a trailer and into a stall, but it was going to require the help of my non-horsey husband. 

 David was walking up to the truck and just as I opened the door Macho began kicking the steel walls of the trailer and squealing like he was being attacked.  In what I would consider another academy award winning performance I struggled to appeared to be unfazed, but the look on David’s face clearly said “What have you done?!”

 After herding Macho into a stall using some farm gates he was finally home and my work was to begin.

 In recent years the Horse Whisperer has become almost legend, but in my opinion it is really simple.  It is all about respect and that is where Macho and I began. 

 At first I was just there.  There to feed him, there to watch him, but not to ask anything of him. I decided that I would let our relationship progress as he was comfortable and it did not take him long to become comfortable.  A horse is, by nature, a herd animal and herd animals are most secure with the herd.  The very reason I am very adamant that they should never, never be kept alone.  Because I could not have him with my other horses until he had been quarantined for a while, I became his herd.  It took me less than twenty four hours to begin touching him and within two days I had a halter on him and could lead him in and out of the paddock where he spent the day.  By that time, every time I went out into the paddock he followed my like a puppy.  A puppy – that has become the way I describe him most often.  He would rather be with me than anywhere else.  He loves to be scratched and rubbed and in what I would describe as one of his “faults” he can be a bit pushy about it.  Macho is also not afraid of anything.  I like to think it is because he has never been mishandled, but he doesn’t flinch at most things, that would send many other horses high-tailing it to the next county.  No one has ever hurt him so he has never learned to fear humans.

 Macho is now nearly 2 ½ and the time has come to begin his training under saddle. From, day one, I have been working with him on the ground and he as passed each test with flying colors.  With our barn renovations nearly complete, I was finally able to clear the riding ring of the equipment we had temporarily stored there. The wait was over and the time had come to saddle up and ride him for the first time. 

 Part of me would like to tell you that it was a rodeo, but the fact is it was less than dramatic. Having done all the work up to this point I was not surprised that Macho took it all in stride. We rode around the ring a couple of times in each direction and I got on and off a few times from each side and we called it a day.  No bucks, no broken bones, no big deal.  I may not be able to put our first ride on my rodeo resume, but we have both lived to ride again!

Our first ride.  Davis is helping to keep him moving.