My son, Elihu, is colorblind. It’s not merely a case of confusing red for green. He sees no color at all. However he is keenly interested in color; as a prolific artist he seeks to use color as accurately as possible. He knows the colors, shades and nuances of every bird without being able to see them for himself. His love of birds is a great motivator. He has simply memorized them all.
When it came time to choose a color to stain our new chicken coop, I’d thought I’d like a lovely dark gray, a color I’d hoped would create the likeness of cedar weathered by the seasons. And I had to include my child in the decision, even if he didn’t see color for himself. So I told him my plan, my objective. It was met with fevered and immediate disapproval. “It’s a barn! It needs to be red!” I offered that he couldn’t see the difference, so really, what did it matter? “What good is having a barn if it isn’t red?” he continued, near tears. “A red barn is a cozy barn! Everyone knows that!” Ok. I was the one who would have to adjust. So I did. I bought a gallon of semi-transparent stain in barn red.
But the bucket of paint sat unopened for several months as I continued to postpone what appeared to be a bigger project than I’d first thought. Thankfully, in the very nick of time a solution presented itself. Yesterday, a classmate of Elihu’s came over for a play date. His father is a painter. Before his father left, I asked if he might be able to help me with the project, as the mild temperatures seemed to be fleeting and the coop needed to be sealed before the snow came. In fact, he could – the next couple of days would work fine. And his brother might be available too. We went online a made a quick check of the weather. Mid to high 40s through the week. Just in time.
When I went to purchase more stain today (I was advised we’d need more), the man at the counter strongly advised against it, as it was now too cold for staining outside. To make things a bit dicier, the paint department was out of the stain I’d wanted. All they had left was the top of the line stuff. I assured him I knew what I was doing and gave him the go ahead to mix up the fancy stuff. I could only afford one gallon. If it wasn’t enough, the rest of the project would have to keep until spring.
By the time I pulled into my driveway this morning with the extra gallon of stain, the men were here, ready to work. Inside of two hours the coop was finished. Two gallons had turned out to be just enough. Standing back and taking it in I was thoroughly pleased. Barn red was perfect! And now I think that gray might well have looked tired, cold – a bit uninviting.
Elihu, hat’s off to you, my little colorblind son. I agree; a red barn is a cozy barn.
My arms and shoulders are tired, in fact my whole body is tired, but I’m feelin good. It’s Elihu’s first day away – first of five – and I’ve knocked the garage and the coop off my list. After discovering some ‘loose poop’ recently and learning it might mean worms, I’d intended to clean the coop and all the food and water containers of the potentially infected stuff on my first free day. I also had a bunch of other outdoor jobs to do while the kid was gone and the weather was good. It took a while to get my butt going this morning – I found all manner of tiny jobs around the house to stall – but after an hour I was taking it on full steam.
Among my many, mini projects today I finally ‘wired’ the coop for heat lamps. That just means I untangled the mess of outdoor extension cords and finally got them properly tucked out of harm’s way and arranged so that I can plug in the heat lamps with ease. I’ll need a couple of 3 way extension cords too, as I’ll need to plug in the crock pot (keeps the drinking water from freezing) and may have to give Max, our goose, his own heat lamp, as he sleeps on the ground by himself.
I spent some time cutting various pieces of lumber and adding them onto my homemade nesting boxes. The gals really do like privacy when laying, and if you don’t give it to em they’ll just take their business outside. I once found a good 30+ eggs in a huge mound inside the mower’s leaf receptacle. I’ve found a stash of eggs behind the wood pile and even dozens laid under the coop itself. The gals won’t do this if you give them the proper feeling of security in which to lay. In that production has been way, way down of late, I thought it time I set out to fix the place up proper. (I would like to add that I’ve kept them penned in to remedy this, but they got me back. They just boycotted and stopped laying altogether. So today, since it’s nice out, I had pity and let them roam, praying they’ll reward me with eggs laid where they’re ‘supposed’ to be laid.) I peered inside the little rooms, checking for breaches where the light got in. I patched them all up and even inserted some pieces of black card stock left over from Elihu’s Anchiornis costume just to add more privacy. Cozy. Then I replaced the old bedding with a fresh layer of wood chips adding new hay on top. Super cozy. Within minutes of having finished my work in the coop the gals were returning to check on my work. Four eggs in short order. Success!
Now to the garage. I still don’t understand how a building in which one does not live can become such a mess. What further confounds me is that I’ve undertaken several intense clean-outs of the garage in the three years I’ve lived here – yet the place still needs tending. The first time was really cleaning up after the many tenants before me, yet the subsequent few projects were all about my crap. Seriously, where does it all come from? I consider myself a rather simple woman. Yet there’s just all this stuff. So once again, I begin to wrestle it all under control again, telling myself that this time it’ll be easy to maintain. This is the last time I’ll have to do this…
Thankfully I’m supported by a constant companion throughout my day: our goose Max. He stays ever near, turning his head to the side and fixing me in the gaze of one eye when I lean down to say hello. He watches me as I work, occasionally nibbling at my boots when he needs a moment of attention. I crouch down, put my arms around him and simply relish the love of a goose. He tucks his head under my arm. We sit like this, unmoving, for several minutes. Then, when we are ready, we separate and go back to our activities. I am humbled; I never imagined I would be invited into the trust of a bird like this. Despite the tedium of my chores, Max keeps me working with a soft kind of happiness in my heart.
In the past, before we had our new swanky coop, the chickens would take any opportunity to sneak into the garage. If I had my back turned and the garage door was open, they would escape from the run and fly into the rafters of the garage, thereby ensuring a night of luxury accommodations. The morning after my tools and work space would be covered in droppings. Although they didn’t do this too often, and I did try to keep up with the mess, the amount of dried crap just kinda piled up. This summer, while I managed to establish a pretty good system for putting things away, I never seemed to have the time or energy to face the project of de-pooping my work space head on. Today I did. I turned my ancient boom box to the local NPR station and got to work.
I soon remembered why this project had been so easy to avoid. Several glass jars of nails and screws had been accidentally knocked to the floor and broken by the errant chickens and the floor had become a nasty mess. I’d swept it to the side many times, but today I would get down to it. It took a while, but finally I got it all sorted out, down to the last and tiniest screw. I liberated tools from twine, pulleys from bungie cords – I got everything wrested from its neighbor, identified and returned to its proper place. I gathered every last scrap of wood together in a box. I put the good lumber in one place, all the rakes and shovels were leaned against the wall in a row, the tomato cages were hung back on the walls. I stepped back after several hours’ work and was very, very pleased.
I’ve since had a shower and a chance to enjoy some down time. A little blog posting, a little crap TV and I’m feeling pretty good. I look out, checking on the sky. It sure does get dark out fast now. Gotta go close everyone in before the predators beat me to it. Wow. It seems getting out of my chair will take some doin. I just realized how pooped I am. I don’t always sleep too well these days – but I bet I will tonight. Cuz I am tired.
Elihu and his Red Golden Pheasant, TimothyAnchiornis smooches a Rabbit.Anchiornis rides a PonyProud Mommy's Newest Creation: The Roosting BarsAh, Max.Maximus naps on Elihu's lapMaximus love peas.Hal shows Elihu his African drumElihu and friend Carter in the snowJessie Bruchac and ElihuElihu at Ndakinna Nature CenterTrick or Treating in Saratoga SpringsAaah!Enjoying the Bounty
The sounds begin around now. Just after Elihu has fallen asleep and the house is quiet. A tickering sort of sound begins from behind the wall. It’s a slightly muffled, rapid-fire, repetitive knocking sound. Are they chewing? Hammering? Creating a nest? Procreating in a nest??
At first it was cute. We didn’t see them much in the beginning. A couple of years ago we might see a couple of tiny poops laying about in the pantry one morning, perhaps a pile of chewed cardboard, but nothing much more. A year later they began to interrupt me as I read aloud to Elihu in bed. Our nightly routine involved banging on the wall as if to silence a noisy neighbor. It worked for a few minutes. Then, as we finish the chapter, turn out the light and get comfy…. there it is. Bih bih bih bih bih bih bih bih bih bih….
I have learned to use earplugs in a country home with absolutely no street noise. Aside from Bald Mountain, our resident rooster who begins to announce the morning around 5:30 am, there is no other sound inside this house. It’s not really even old enough to creak. On a rainy night the sump pumps in the cellar will kick on and off, and the furnace grumbles along intermittently throughout the night, but for the most part there’s no sound to interrupt one’s sleep. Kind of. Tonight one particularly industrious mouse is obviously knocking something off his to-do list.
I have found shoes stored in the basement filled with macaroni. I have found rice in my jewelry drawer. I have found a dead, desiccated mouse entrapped in the white hair of a Halloween mask, surrounded by the stores of his cache. I find several dead mice floating in the downstairs toilet bowl each week. One day I broke the crown on a tooth and set the two pieces on the window sill. The next morning one half was missing. I may yet find it in my underwear drawer. Strangely, these creatures have not destroyed anything of value (aside from food) except my very favorite, go-to slip on summer dress shoes. Why, oh why, of all the crappy ass, Salvation Army finds and assorted hand-me-down shoes did they choose the ONE pair I actually love and wear? That was a turning point. In fact there have been several turning points and tonight, once again, I am at another intersection.
I see these little guys daily. Sometimes I have half a dozen sightings in a day. And I do believe they’re getting brave – I swear they slow down now as they cross in front of the stove – I swear they even stop to make eye contact. They know I can’t catch em, and besides, perhaps they’re growing fond of me; I feed them, house them and provide them with so many interesting diversions! What a fun place this is to live! I must do something, right? But just what?
I have tried it all. The humane trap was a bomb. They got in and out no matter how well I set it. The 5 gallon bucket thing has never worked as they don’t cross the bridge to even investigate… the snap traps are good, however they can still take a little time to die (oh dear, horrible to watch) and my now arthritic fingers are just no good at setting them. I can’t do the glue traps for that same reason of an unsure death, in fact they’re much worse as it takes them much longer to die.
I got mad once, broke down and bought the poison. It works, but there is fallout… Smells begin to emanate from the house – bad smells with no definitive source. Also, I have come upon mice that were dragging themselves spasmodically along the floor, obviously having ingested the chemicals. I could not tolerate that – and ended up running over a few of them in the car in order to bring their misery to a swifter end.
My mother keeps talking about calling their exterminator. But won’t they just use poison? And won’t my house just end up stinking like a big, redolent, decaying mess? This alone give me pause. Then I begin to think. I’m not sure why I want them gone. I know that the stove top is covered in their anise seed-shaped droppings every morning, that just today they gnawed the strap off of my camera in the space of a half hour (as I sat in the very room!) and that they certainly must be multiplying. But aside from my favorite mid-heel Aerosoles slip-on sandals, what have they taken from my life? In what way do they seriously diminish the quality of our lives? Why should I worry? I can imagine some folks might cite disease as a concern. Ich. I don’t know. We wash and clean ourselves and our work spaces pretty thoroughly as we have chickens and we’re used to it. Ok, I steel myself. I can do this, I’ll just call the pros. Yes. I’ll do it tomorrow.
Then I remember Winkle. And his friends.
One morning I actually caught one of these lil guys in the bathroom. He must have been a little groggy – I know I was, and I’m surprised how easily I entrapped him under a cup and transferred him to Elihu’s terrarium. Once in his new home he popped up vertically several times to test his environment for an out (that’s the only real disconcerting thing about them in my eyes – ya catch one and they’ll pop up in your face! Ack!). When Elihu first saw him, he said oh so naturally, and without missing a beat, ‘his name is Winkle’. Indeed! Yes, what a perfect, story-book name for a mouse! Yes, he is a Winkle, isn’t he? We kept Winkle for a couple of weeks until one night when I made a surprising discovery.
I had heard noise coming from the living room for several nights. I’d tried to ignore it, but one night it was simply too much. Somehow this sounded different than the other routine mouse sounds of the house. I had to investigate. In the dark of the room I shone a flashlight onto the glass tank and saw Winkle on the inside, his tiny paws stretched above him on the inside wall, and several of his mates on the outside making sounds and moving excitedly; they appeared to be rallying their imprisoned comrade to discover an escape. So this is what had been happening for those many nights! Oh how this stirred my heart, my humanity! Winkle had a family, he had friends, he had others who cared about him! First thing the next morning I took Winkle and let him go in the field across the creek. I had to give him his freedom if nothing else.
As I ponder what exactly it is that I plan on doing about this, one of Winkle’s extended family appears from under my bed and looks up. He sees me and thinks better of his planned excursion, turning around to return from whence he came. Hmm. Would this house seem lonely if all the mice were gone? What is a country house if not shared by at least one mouse? But then again, you can’t have just one mouse, can you? I think of Winkle, and his friends. No, you cannot.
Ok. I’ll say a heartfelt prayer for my dear little housemates, then tomorrow I’ll pick up the phone and make a call to the exterminator. I think…
We live on a hill. The tops of the trees descend down its steep banks revealing a view of the lands beyond and to the southeast. There are two main layers to the many subtle strata of horizons; the darker ridge in the foreground are the low-lying hills just to the east of the Hudson river, the paler profile behind are the much larger Green Mountains of southern Vermont. I love to look out over the vast scape and contemplate the land on the ‘other side’. I picture the countryside’s bucolic scenes, the tiny farms and undulating topography. I don’t often have reason to drive there, for it’s a haul just to reach the foothills – a commitment of 50 miles there and back – so when I have a quest east of the Hudson, my heart quickens at the thought.
Yesterday, Elihu and I had a reason to cross the wide river valley and explore the hills beyond. I should have been excited, but I was not. It was raining and I’d forgotten my hat, I’d not slept more than three hours the night before and I discovered my driver’s license was not in my pocket but probably still at home in my purse (farmer business does not include a purse; important items are transferred to the interior ‘man’ pocket of my farm jacket). After having a little talk with myself, pointing out how there was no benefit to remaining angry, I managed to coax myself out of the pissy mood that had been incubating for the first ten miles of our wet commute. This was our Big Day, and I’d do us both right by just dropping it and welcoming the adventure that awaited us on the other side of the Hudson. We were going to the Fall tailgate poultry sale at the Schaghticoke (say SCA tih coke) fair grounds to find hens for our red golden pheasant, Timothy, whom we’d just purchased the week before. As she does quite often for us, the angel of serendipity came to our assistance that night as we stared in disbelief at our new avian acquisition by placing one Jim De Graff, former zoo owner and breeder of exotic pheasants, in our path. He’d told us about the bird sale this weekend. We were lucky; this event happened just twice a year. He was nearly 100% sure we’d find just what we were looking for. That he could be so sure that we’d find these hens was an indication to me that we were in for some serious, bird-intense sub-culture. We’d waited anxiously all week this very morning. This very rainy morning. Oh well, this was going to be fun no matter what I’d forgotten to bring, no matter what the weather. As Elihu sat in the back seat enthusiastically playing air drums to the radio, his face radiating joy, I began to lighten up too.
Driving south on State Route 40 from Greenwich to Schaghticoke is like driving through a model train set layout. The farms are tidy, complete with outbuildings and vintage tractors, hooved animals and ponds. There is a new scene to be admired around every curve, at the crest and valley of every hill, plus each scene has an expansive view to the west of the great Hudson river valley lands beyond. The forested hills rise to our left as we continue south towards the mysterious convocation of bird lovers. The road winds and winds. Elihu, not usually a child who asks ‘when will we be there?’ (as he thrives on the times when he’s left to live in imagination, something his near-sighted eyes promote on long car trips) finally does. Thankfully, I spy the town’s water tower ahead, and I can tell him we’re almost there.
When we pull in to the fair grounds, we see a makeshift village of tents and awnings. I’d hoped the event might be indoors, and later I discover some of it is, but the bird sales are out in the open. Hmm. Just how wet will we be getting? I wonder. Looking around the car, I find a broken dollar store umbrella and so no longer lament my missing hat. Elihu throws his hood up, we park in the first space of grass we see, and we’re out the door.
Each vendor has backed his vehicle to the gravel drive, rows of cages and boxes spread out on the grass. The breeds are identified by hand-written labels now folding in on themselves in the rain. Some birds are sheltered by newspapers on top of their cages, some are not. Ducks crowd into the corners of their wire cages sopping up the new puddles with a rapid-fire quivering of their bills. The most elegant breeds of chickens are sodden and sorry looking. Thankfully, the customers here can see past the cosmetic handicaps that the day has cast on these birds; every last person here knows his birds, dry or wet. Just like us, everyone here has come looking for a bird, most folks for one specific breed in particular. The very first tent we come upon has game birds of some sort. Two round women in their later years sit on old fashioned lawn chairs while their cigarette smoking husbands in red and black checkered flannel shirt jackets stand in front, greeting passersby. I wonder if it could possibly be this easy. It’s not a huge place, but there have to be at least thirty vendors. As we get closer, I can see these birds are in the right neighborhood – the shape is close, their movements are quick and timid… Could these be young pheasants? I tell the smoking man what we’re looking for. “Red Golden Pheasant hens, two of ’em.” He didn’t miss a beat, nor did he seem overly satisfied with himself that he just so happened to have two Red Golden hens right here in this box. “What?” I asked. “Red Goldens“, I repeated. “That’s what we’re looking for. And hens.” Yeah, he’d heard me. And they were, as he said, right here in this box. I peered in, and saw four brown somethings. Game birds, for sure. Females probably. “I got a Cinnamon too” he offered, holding the flaps open so I could get a better look. Wow. This was the place. Seriously, it was this easy? I asked the price, he told me $15 apiece. I remembered being advised not to pay more than $10 a head. I surveyed the grounds and wondered if there might not be dozens more red golden hens out there. But this was so perfect, and I was just talking about $10 here… I told the man I was interested, but had to look around for a bit. So Elihu and I went off to learn what this thing was all about.
We soon figured out the deal. While there was just about every type of outdoor domestic bird available for sale there, we noticed that there were not quite as many of some, and rather a glut of others. Some vendors had even sold their whole lot by this time and were packing up and heading out. I didn’t want to blow the whole reason for our trip, plus if we just got the hens bought and safely stowed in the car, then we were free to explore. Before we got too far into the flooded grounds, I turned back for the car. I told Elihu to wait at the pheasant man’s tent, I’d be back. I pulled up, paid for the gals and presented the farmer with our luxurious dog-sized kennel in the back. He wrestled the hens from the box, and placed them inside. They were a lot smaller than I realized, their bodies about ten inches long. There were so many questions I’d wanted to ask, but the rain had started up again and I just felt rushed. “They look young, our guy is mature already. Will that be ok?” I shouted over the noise. He nodded and assured me they’d be fine mates. Not much more I could do but continue with the adventure as it swept me along. There was more to see, more to learn, and as I’ve been saying to my dear son since he can remember “you never know until you go”. What we didn’t know about breeding pheasants we would learn as we went along.
I parked the car again and we were free to enjoy the rest of the morning. It seemed the breeds of the day were the Banties. Many vendors had them and lots of folks wandered through the grounds with the sweet-looking chickens in the crooks of their elbows. I guess the appeal of these miniature breeds is that they’re portable, easy-going and make nice pets. Elihu was able to smooch a few of these as they passed by. He was in heaven. In his element. Finally surrounded by people who felt just like him about birds. As a mother, you can imagine how pleased and thankful my heart was as I followed behind my son, watching him stop at each new cage as if it were the only reason we’d come. He was fit to burst and after a while I could not keep up with his wanderings. I’d stop to chat with folks, my quest for information on birds turning more into short interviews: Did these sales actually net them money? (No, not really.) Is this your business? (The layers pay for the rest of em.) Do you do this for a living? (Oh no – I’ve got a real job.) Is this a hobby? (Yes! No one here’s makin any money. This is a hobby. And it takes money!) Well then. I learned something important, that this was a hobby, not a rent-payer. Kinda discouraging (I’d begun to count my exotic pheasant chicks before they were hatched. Think of the money we could make selling them! Piece of cake!) and yet the bit about the layers was good to hear. Our layers had once made us money – until we began to lose them. Layers, wait… We need layers! I was shaken out of my bird-daze and came to my senses. We needed layers, and where better to find em then here? Screw the auction house! This was the fountainhead! I told Elihu our new agenda and we set off on our new quest.
After scouring the entire grounds we found but one vendor who had suitable laying hens. She had two fine looking Aracaunas, one single Barred Rock and a bunch of dark colored Leghorns. Five apiece for the Leghorns? Wow. Seemed we’d found a really good deal. As I learned from the woman selling a pair of Mute Swans, birds you buy at the auction house are likely to be questionable; sick perhaps, behaviorally challenged or some such deficit, usually the very reason they’re being sold to begin with. Here, these were all breeders, folks who sold healthy and well-loved birds. It made sense to buy our layers here if we could. It seemed we’d found our girls. The booth was just across from the food stand, and I thought it might be good if we had some lunch before we wrapped things up. If I hadn’t known it before, I learned it then. Not a good move. Shoulda paid for those birds to secure them before I walked off. After a quick lunch (I ate, he didn’t’) we returned to find the Leghorns gone. Elihu started to sniffle. While it is true that this is a breed he’s long talked about wanting, I still didn’t see the need for tears. Besides, if nothing else, this event had taught me a lesson, which made it worth the loss. Pay for something as soon as you know you want it. Got it. Next time. But for now we weren’t entirely let down; there were four fine hens remaining, two of which were the lovely looking Aracaunas. We paid for them and Elihu begged to move them himself – from the cage to our back seat bin. Elizabeth, the woman at the vegetable/hen stand easily agreed, and when she saw how handily Elihu removed the hens, restrained them, and transported them to his box she complimented him warmly. I watched, proud of my boy. If you’ve ever tried to handle and move a bird, you’ll get it. If you haven’t, all I can say is it’s a gift. Natural to some, unthinkable to others. Definitely takes a knack.
After placing our new hens in the car, I’d tried to back up and retrace our route, but a line of cars behind me changed that plan. Instead, I drove forward along the perimeter of the grounds, and we passed some more stands we’d not seen yet. Finding space on the lawn, I parked again so that we could make one last walkabout before taking our hens home. A long-haired woman stood beside a handful of cages in which a couple of ducks, a fuzzy miniature chicken and one very cramped goose stood in the rain, waiting to go home. I love a duck, I really do, so I just had to spend some time cooing to these guys. Elihu too loves a duck and in fact had talked for several weeks about having a Muscovy duck instead of a dog. We’d long felt an undefinable absence in our home (not filled by a parrot – we tried that – and for Elihu’s allergies unable to be satisfied by a cat) and had thought perhaps – especially since Elihu was eight – this was the right time for us to get a dog. While the idea seemed pleasing, it just didn’t sit right with me – or him. So, he’d somehow settled on the idea of Muscovy duck. We searched the internet for “Muscovy duck as pet” and found a story of a particularly endearing pet Muscovy duck named Archimedes which seemed to confirm for us that this was a definite possibility. So I had to visit the ducks. There was even a Runner duck – the strangest looking duck you ever did see. Long and thin necks, almost vertical as they stand, they just don’t look possible. While I love all creatures and find Runners interesting, I’m not a huge fan. And they certainly don’t look, well, pet-like. Smoochable. Whatever it is that makes a pet a companion and not just another animal. Then I catch eyes with someone. A large head cocks to the side and a marble-blue, orange-rimmed eye looks up at me. “A goose?” I ask, knowing it’s a goose, but waiting for the story that comes with it. “He’s the only American Lavender Ice you’ll find anywhere around here” she offers, beginning to fill me in.
My experience with geese is that they are not very nice. Definitely not smoochable. Not an animal you want to get your fingers anywhere near. However, this guy’s been bred to be friendly. See? She inserts a finger into the cage and wiggles it into his back. He seems to like it. ? This is a first. “He won’t bite me??” I ask, still very hesitant to test her on it. She assures me, laughing. I tentatively move a finger toward his bill. Not much happens. He ignores it, in fact. Really? Another first. I let her talk a bit about him, his breed, what makes him so unique. While that’s all good to know, what I want to know is is he really friendly, I mean really friendly? As in ‘companion-to-an-eight-year-old-boy’ friendly? She assures me. She goes on to tell me that her best friend growing up was a goose named ‘Lucy’. I say, yeah, fine, but a boy? A gander? Males play rough, right? She goes on to tell me that years later she was to learn that Lucy was actually a gander! (They re-named him ‘Lucipher’ because he didn’t like a certain guy in the neighborhood… I kinda let that one pass; it didn’t add to her pitch, and frankly, by now I wanted to be sold on this creature). His eyes, oh his eyes. The same sort of look as a duck, only more substance promised to live behind them. Or so I hoped. Geese lived long, right? Twenty years, some. They get along with chickens? Sure do. They used em as sentries in WWI, would they do the same for me? Yup, they guard the flock, ward off foxes, raccoons. Are you sure he doesn’t bite? Sure. I stood there just looking at him. Elihu danced around, telling me why he had to have the other ducks, beginning to create his campaign for bringing home a final, unplanned member of the flock. Little did he know I was way ahead of him.
“Ok.” I said. “I’ll take him.” Two other birders looked on and nodded approvingly as they stroked the Banties they held in their arms, telling me they’d do it too if they only could. (I could, right? Again, quick mental list – I’d told her about our accommodations and she’d thought they were fine) really, could we? Really? Wow. Who was piloting this ship?? Had I been overtaken by an irrational alter-ego?? Ok, I’d bought an exotic pheasant last week, his mates this week, a car full of hens, yeah ok, but a GOOSE?
“Oh ho! Oh boy!” Elihu leaped into the air and ran to the goose’s cage. “Max!!” he shouted, “you’re coming home with us!”. Max? Sure, why not? Everyone laughed. Kim, the woman who’d sold us the goose, had kindly offered to throw the tiny Silkie rooster in with the deal. She didn’t want to go back home with a rooster (yeah, I hear ya sister). She insisted that Elihu could show this lil guy in his 4H group at the fair – he could easily take the $100 blue ribbon prize. While that wasn’t necessarily a selling point for me (but still mildly compelling), the idea of a tiny bird that Elihu could easily take around with him – perhaps in the crook of his arm at the next fair in spring – was just icing on the cake. Why not? The little fluffy white chicken was docile, sweet and accommodating. Kinda like the bird version of a toy poodle. Perfect. Throw him in the car with the rest of em. Oh heck, he can ride on your lap, why not. After locating a box and shifting the cargo around some (again, praise for Elihu’s deft maneuvering of animals) we were ready to go.
Somewhere inside, I had a feeling our lives had changed forever. I went to Kim and hugged her – in light of the way she’d contributed to the new direction of our lives it felt absolutely natural. Whether the result of her effortless sales pitch or the next step of our destiny encouraged by subtle forces, our lives were now different, our family now larger.
Duck? No. Duck? No. Goose? Why not….
Elihu and Maximus
Post Script: While animal’s names are usually something we like to sit with for awhile and often don’t choose until after an animal has lived with us for a bit , ‘Max’ just seemed perfect from the first moment Elihu said it. His full name is Maximus, and it fits as he is the largest member of our flock.
I was too flabbergasted to edit my potty mouth before I’d shouted across the makeshift auditorium. I had just raised my hand, almost without thinking – it was more like a reaction, fired by the urgency of the moment and the pleading of my young son. We’d seen all the birds that were up for sale that night, and hadn’t seen anything much out of the ordinary. Elihu had been moping all night that he ‘wished we could have something more exotic’ than just chickens and guinea fowl. I’d been willing to go there, but aside from a cage of bedraggled-looking fantail pigeons, there just wasn’t anything else worth considering. But then out of nowhere, a rich, golden yellow emerged on the stage, and we both stared in disbelief. “Ten, now ten now ten now ten now ten” Oh-oh. A pheasant – crap, a friggin golden pheasant – like the kind we’d seen at the state fairs! Elihu can’t see things so well at a distance, and he doesn’t have the benefit of color to help him assess the scene; he thought he was seeing an alligator – at least he could tell it was something that had a very long tail. “Honey, that’s a golden pheasant. Go up and look”. He ran up to the stage to see for himself.
I began to do a lightening-quick assessment. Owning one wasn’t unheard of. We had a separate pen. We could. I guess. Yes, I guess we could. Geez, really? Elihu ran back and begged me to bid. “Twenty now twenty now twenty now twenty” the caller went on. ‘I can justify that’, I thought. ‘Twenty dollars, ok. We don’t eat out, I color my own hair…’ I raised my number. But then the price started going up fast. In seconds it was up to thirty dollars. I wasn’t so sure. I hesitated, card in my lap. Elihu was sitting beside me, dancing in his seat and getting frantic. He cried “Mommy, you gotta raise your hand high – like this” and he had raised his own small arm in the air, which in turn caught the attention of the dingy-looking men who stood in front of the auctioneer’s platform, scouring the crowd for bids. The auctioneer Moake himself, his hands-free headset digging into the soft, white flesh of his bald head pointed to me with a question on his face. Was I in? In that moment I grew even fonder of this place; if indeed I chose to pass on the creature up for bidding, I could, even if I had been the highest bidder. If I got cold feet, thankfully, here in this rural auction house I could simply shake my head ‘no’ and the next lowest bidder would walk with the prize. But when he pointed to me and ceased his auctioneer’s call, I nodded yes and held up the piece of yellow cardboard with my number on it. Moake recapped the sale across the p.a. system, “Item number 657 to 2764 for $32.50.” And that was that.
It’s been a while since Elihu and I have been to the Town and Country Auctions, in fact we hadn’t been yet this year, as I didn’t have a number on file in the system for 2011. (Once again, I have a current number on file. The folded piece of cardboard in my glovebox gives me the feeling that I’m not a poser and that I actually do belong here, buying livestock.) I can’t quite remember how I first learned of the place – maybe a bus driver at Elihu’s school, maybe someone at Tractor Supply offering an alternative source for live poultry. Anyway, discovering this micro-culture of domestic animal sales has propelled my son and me into our relatively new world of bird ownership.
Somehow, owning an animal, exotic or not-so exotic, just seems so much more doable when you’re at Moake’s auction house. Dozens of animals, from iguanas to miniature horses are lined up, side-by-side in cages, all of them there for the potential buyers to look over, to begin dreaming what it might be like to have such an animal in one’s own family… I’m never sure if folks there know what they’re doing, or if they’re on the quest for just the right critter to round out their menagerie. Will they be good, caring and responsible pet owners? Who the hell can tell? While it’s not always easy to spot folks’ motives, it does seem everyone there shares a certain outlook on life; all is possible, it’s not a big deal, and why not? I’ve seen folks carry off goats, shoving them into the holds of their CRVs… And I can’t help but wonder, do they really know what they’re getting into? Or does it matter? The beauty of this sort of animal purchase is that if you find it just ain’t working out, you can simply bring the creature back next Saturday and put it up for auction again.
And so, in this spirit of ‘Why not, what’s the worst that can happen?’, Elihu and I have embarked on a few bird-owning adventures. We learned about homing pigeons through our purchase of a robust flock, including personal favorites Lily and King Louis, members of our household for over a year, until a raccoon dined on Lily. Shortly after that, one fine October day as I called Louis to join us overhead for a brisk walk in the field, he was intercepted by a hawk and carried off through the forest to his death. Oh well. It was a good run, and we learned a lot. Enough to embolden us to then buy Magpie pigeons, and have Elihu join the National Pigeon Association and become the nation’s youngest member.
And the chickens. We learned about breeds. About Banties – short for Bantams – which are just genetically engineered, smaller versions of the standard size breeds. We’ve had the chance to see all manner of farmyard fowl up close; geese, turkeys, peafowl, guinea fowl, quail, ducks, chickens of all shapes and sizes. It’s a great place to learn, that’s for sure. And it gives the commoner an opportunity to dabble. That’s how we started, as tentative dabblers, gleaning whatever bits of knowledge we could from the folks who seemed to know what they were doing. The folks who could grab a 35-pound turkey and fight back the thundering wings to manhandle it into submission, and into a box. Those are the folks we ask questions of. The wisdom we’ve acquired! It’s always an adventure.
And so the adventure continues in the form of Timothy, our new Red Golden Pheasant. I’m glad to have had a teensy bit of experience with these birds. (Last summer we visited the NY State Pheasant re-population program in Ithaca, a stunningly huge operation where thousands of pheasants live under 6 acres of netting. We were allowed to roam through these vast, tented flocks – and I still have a scar from a scratch given to me by a powerful male.), Thanks to our visit with those animals, I wasn’t altogether surprised when I had my first taste of this guy’s power. They are muscley birds. They pack a punch. They’re fast, flighty and strong. Birds on the whole are stronger than you’d think – something you learn straight away when you have occasion to hold them as they struggle. Since his explosion from crate to pen we haven’t had occasion to touch Timothy again. And we will not touch him unless we have to. Now, the task ahead is to gain his trust. I have my doubts about this actually coming to fruition, as all game birds just seem so much flightier; they’re wilder than their barnyard cousins. However, our requisite Google mini-course has assured us that this breed ‘tames easily’ and can be gentle and docile. I’ll believe it when I see it.
Elihu has before him a personal quest, a mission that will test his self-discipline. He cannot rush in with this new bird if he is to reach a point one day where he can actually hold this bird on his arm, or pat its gorgeous feathers. He kinda blew it with a parrot we once had, moving too fast, too soon, eliciting bites and other bad behavior from the now-nervous bird. He wasn’t able to give our keets – baby guinea fowl – the slow, steady trust-building time needed to approach them without them fleeing. On the story goes. So now he is eight, and he is getting things, you know? He is beside himself with the new member of our family, and I pray this time the magic holds and that he can find it motivation enough to move gentle and slow. Just this morning – a school day – he was up extra early, dressed and on his way outside to the pen to spend some quiet time with Timothy. (Btw – one of the first names on the list was Buckingham, something his regal plumage supports quite well. I’m still not quite on board with Timothy. But Elihu feels it’s a gentle name, and he is a bird of gentle heart. We shall see…) To his credit, Elihu has already logged several hours in the pen with this fabulous bird in which he’s done nothing but sit and convey his feelings to the bird in song, low, soothing tones of conversation and hopeful transmissions of gentle and meditative thought. A good start.
A quick call to my mother from the auction brought me to my senses; we’d originally come for more laying hens, as our layers have been plucked off one by one over the past few months by the local wildlife, leaving Eggs of Hope unable to deliver on standing orders (let alone supply Elihu his daily ration). I saw a nice trio of laying hens – hardy and handsome Rhode Island reds – and easily bought them for another ten bucks. Money well spent. We put them in the coop when we returned home around midnight on Saturday, leaving our better inspection of them for the daylight hours. Daylight and a closer look at them showed one of our ‘layers’ to be an adolescent male. Argh. And he’s handsome, too. Oh man, I don’t need another over-sexed rooster! I need eggs! Crap. Now Elihu has named him (Einstein…?!) and soon he’ll be a member of our family too and we won’t be able to part with him. We’d have him butchered, but at $4 for the service and a 40-mile drive there and back it just doesn’t make sense. And we’d leave him out overnight for the fox that lives here, but something just won’t let us.
There is the option of selling him back again. That, and another option that serendipitously dropped in our path: it just so happens that there are only two big bird swaps in this area a year – one in March and one in October – and the next one is next Sunday! We’re advised to get there early – by 8 – if we’re to find a lady for our Red Golden Pheasant. And don’t overpay – like we did at the auction – we should only pay about $10 a head for a hen and not much more. And maybe get him two gals – that’s about right for his breed. How lucky are we? So next Sunday, I think Einstein might be coming with us to the big bird tailgate party and finding himself a new home, and hopefully we’ll be bringing home some hens for Timothy.
On it goes. New birds, new situations, new challenges. Soon comes winter, and by then I must have my new coop insulated, and must outfit Timothy’s pen with a heat lamp. Deep down I’m kinda excited, even mildly thrilled, for who knew that Elihu and I would be the owners of an exotic game bird? I consider briefly the life we might be living had we stayed in Illinois. No matter where we lived, above our Cafe in Dekalb, in an apartment in Rogers Park or Evanston, we could never, ever have had the wonderful experiences that we’ve had here if we’d lived in those places. And in those moments when I wonder at what we left behind, and what might have been (and in the moments when I miss the lake so) I just remind myself how lucky we are to have had all of these wonderful, unpredictable experiences.
I am grateful to the newest member of our family, Timothy, our beautiful Red Golden Pheasant, for ushering in a new chapter of the ongoing adventure….
“Even if the raccoon does get in, at least it’s not a death capsule.” Elihu considered the tiny 4″ wide gaps between the roof and the walls of our new and spacious coop. Yes, it seemed they’d still have room to evade a raccoon, even if it did manage to get in. Yet really, four inches?? Was that enough space for that fat raccoon to get in? I’d thought about cutting a bunch of 2x4s and wedging them in the slender gaps myself, but with so much going on it just wasn’t possible. So last night the flock slept without incident in the new coop. (They also slept in; I opened their tiny door at 7 a.m., but none moved off their roosts to come out for a few more hours. Our chickens keep a teenager’s sleep schedule.!)
Four inches of space is indeed enough room for a fat raccoon to enter the coop. Crap. About three ish this morning I heard a couple of squawks from the coop. Through my sleep I was up in an instant, ear cocked for more information. No time to guess. Lights on, shoes on, flashlight in hand and to the coop. I open the door (an easy thing to do what with actual human-scale doors on it, a real luxury after the last sad box of a coop!) and there is that damned animal, clambering up the wall – a straight vertical climb mind you – for her escape through that narrow slit under the eaves. Really? Seriously? You can friggin do that? How is that possible? Kinda like a bumble bee flying – doesn’t work out on paper, but it does in real life. Geez.
I do a quick assessment, and everyone’s accounted for and ok. No blood, just a couple extra guinea feathers lying about. The only solution is to move the flock, one at a time, into the garage. Dear Molly, our eldest hen runs out and towards the house. Good girl, she’s not stupid. In times of danger she high-tails it to the railing by the kitchen door. I pick up each and every one of our flock and move them to the garage before going after Molly. I have a quiet talk with her. She seems to get it; she makes no attempt to flee my arms, and soon she’s safely with the rest.
All is well, and Elihu didn’t even wake. He’s deep in sleep. I however, am not. I am exhausted, but even after a half hour of lying quietly, I’m no closer to drifting off. The Blue Skirt Waltz plays incessantly over and over in my head. Argh. What a silly song. Dammit. It plays as a looped backdrop to my mind, which is now picking up speed. The to-do lists start. It’s a couple over-the-counter sleeping pills for me I guess. A blog post perhaps? Why not. Give the pills some time to kick in. Check my email. Try to map out this incredibly packed week before me. Move harpsichord, tune harpsichord, proof ads, make many calls yet, rent champagne flutes, buy champagne, oh, then there’s a dentist appointment and some entertaining of kids to do with scheduled playdates, house sit for vacationing friends, teach lessons, figure out my trip to Chicago next week, negotiate my father’s final Baroque Festival while managing to stay present enough to enjoy myself and take away lovely memories.
And now I gotta fix this silly coop before I leave town! Man. I’d thought it was safely off my list, but no. So much to do. Ahh, but then it’s Bi Bim Bop at Mr. Lee’s Evanston Grill for breakfast. Heaven. Just gotta get to sleep first…
Ceres Zabel, the hero behind the art classes at the Studio helps a student with her perspective.
Birds and art. Elihu is in heaven.
The whole class
Whitey, the only peaceful rooster we’d ever had. The day after he posed so quietly for the kids’ drawing class he disappeared. Went out in the morning with the flock never to return again. We’re glad he was immortalized on paper. And I’ll bet the kids won’t ever forget their drawing class that day.
Much is going on these days. Too much, in fact, to write. Some may have noticed a long pause between posts…
We are having a coop professionally built for us. This is perhaps the single biggest quality of life upgrade we’ve experienced here in New York. The lumber arrived today and awaits the crew who will arrive first thing tomorrow morning. We can thank my father for making this amazing project possible.
Art classes are underway, a drawing class with ten students is going on as I write. In a few minutes Elihu and I are bringing our grand, white rooster to the Studio that he may pose as a model for the class. How fun is that?
Later today I’m meeting with a fellow from the Mohawk-Hudson Dowsers for a peek at the facility. We’ll be hosting their meeting in late August. The members will dowse for a suitable source of water to supply the new well being drilled soon. We already know the location that will work; we’re marking several dummy spots as potential candidates in addition to the proposed well drill spot, then letting the group learn the real one from the fake by dowsing for it themselves. How fun is that?
Ok. I have an eight year old boy standing in front of me with a rooster in his arms. Gotta run…
Elihu came home from his visit to his father’s. He had only been gone a week, yet time away from him had done what it always did; it showed me just how much he was growing. The reunions that follow a time apart are the only windows in which I can objectively see this in progress. Seems I was picking up a twelve year old. Instantly our moods were happy and the chatter completely skipped the experience of his flight and turned straight away to his chickens and garden. (He’s now flown alone so many times it seems no different to him than a long bus ride and it hardly warrants discussion.)
It was getting dark, but I judged we still had just enough time to get home and put the chickens in. I got a little lax though, and mentioned some lilies I’d seen on sale at the grocery store, knowing full well he’d beg to stop – and then I could get my secretly desired avocado. I knew I was pushing it, that we really should go straight home, but since it was indeed right on our way, we pulled in for a ten minute detour.
When Elihu saw the lilies he flipped. It was a happy surprise. The high-contrast markings on the petals really stood out to him. I’d hoped so. After our light-hearted romp through the store we packed our lilies safely in the back and headed for Greenfield.
When we pulled in the sky was still glowing, and although night had for all intents and purposes fallen, it was still a little early for predators. At least in my experience so far. I pulled in to illuminate the coop and run with my headlights to discover half the flock up on the netting above the run. Madeline was in the flower box on the coop. Some were safe inside, but there was a strange feeling in the air. I scanned for trouble and saw a mass of light feathers – from one of our three mottled hens – in the corner. Further investigation showed one hen missing. Crap. Our mature flock had been doing so well. Now it’s getting to the point where it might be a monetary loss for Eggs of Hope, not to mention just plain sad.
Elihu and I gently picked up the few hens that were on the ground, still panting from a skirmish. We spoke softly to them and placed them gently on their high perches in the coop. I had to cut the netting (must remember to sew it back up today) to get some of the birds free. Thankfully the dark makes them a little slower to respond, less feisty in their protests, and so I was able to grab them and pull them in fairly easily. We counted them again, and yes, we’d lost a hen. I thought a red, Elihu thought a mixtie (that’s what we call our mottled hens who are an organgie-red with white details – daughters of Buddah, the patient hen in the you tube video who sits and listens as Elihu sings 911 on the Dance Floor to her). Whichever, it didn’t matter. We had to make due, and make sure the remaining ones were safe. I shut them in, made extra careful to pull the netting over the door crack tight, also laid a folded baby gate over the front to prevent raccoons from digging underneath and getting in below the door. Looked good. Couldn’t see how a creature could possible get in. Felt unsettled, but had done all I knew to do. Or at least all I knew to do in that moment.
Another two hours of our evening passed making and eating dinner, watching vintage Pink Panther clips (the cartoon) while a bath ran, getting into bed, reading. We fell asleep together, yet after he was out I returned to my bed and began my night’s sleep in earnest. Deep in a dream, a cluster of screeches and squawks reached my ears and I was up – I had been so deeply asleep I felt drugged – but I stumbled for the switch to the outside lights (which the woman who built this house in 1970, also named Elizabeth, had had installed in the bedroom for her peace of mind) and began yelling at the top of my lungs to let the intruder know mama was mad and on her way.
I ran out, flipped on all the lights and saw a closed coop – which normally signals a sigh of relief, but this was as weird as a dream – with no visible signs of possible entry points, there was something in the coop and the hens were going nuts. I feared the worst and kept shouting in hopes of getting the predator to at least leave them alone and start panicking herself. It took so much damned time to undo everything I’d done up so tightly, but finally, door wide open, I saw nothing. Just the chickens on their perches, all buck-gawking loudly, some dazed on the floor, panting, but all mostly in their place. I grabbed the flashlight I have hanging there, scanned the box and found a raccoon – not even a big one, probably the very one who raids our bird feeders – and she was trying to claw at the wood walls in hopes of digging her way out. Concerned that an adrenaline-filled raccoon might conceivably fling herself at me, I picked up a milk crate and waved it at her. “Go! You gotta get OUT of here!” I yelled as I swung the crate at her. She walked behind the row of hens to the end of the perch and jumped down, running away through the garage. How the hell did she get in here? This event was much darker than all my previous attacks. Maybe it’s because the injured were left behind. In the past, they’ve simply been gone. And we assumed, eaten. This time was frighteningly different.
The hens left on the ground were behaving as if they were broken. They were puffed out, some unable to move at all, some tottered out into the run, wobbling, uttering a constant high whining sound. ‘Oh man. They must be hurting so much’ I thought. I was close to tears, but these days in my life it takes a lot to get me there. And crying wasn’t going to help the girls at all. Like a movie when the hero stands pausing to assess his circumstances, I said ‘just think, Elizabeth, think’ over and over. Maybe more to calm myself down than to think.
I could not leave them in a faulty coop. I thought of options.. “I’ll just bring you into the house” I declared, thinking of the pioneers, their hens cozy inside those one room cabins. I remembered past winters when I’d brought them all in, one by one, into our warm basement on the coldest nights of all. But the poops were everywhere by morning, and there had been fewer birds then. I had thirteen in total, and it was too big a production to contemplate. I just had to so something.
Elihu called from his window. It haunted me with that old familiar feeling in my gut. The ‘oh no, it’s my kid, he needs me and I gotta drop what I’m doing and fix something’ feeling. My son seems to have needed me more than other kids might need their moms, I don’t know, but it sure feels like it. Can’t even go a whole night without calling to me to make sure I’m nearby. Remembering the grown-up child I’d spent the evening with, I experienced a shift inside, and I yelled back to him. “I’m right here, honey. There’s been an attack in the coop and I need to make sure everything’s alright. I’ll be in the house soon. You’re ok. You’re eight, you’re not six. You don’t need me right now. I’ll be in soon”. Must have made sense to him, for he was quiet. That was a relief. Now to assess the hens.
A couple mixties were on the ground panting. One red hen was stumbling about, making a constant cooing sound. These poor girls. I set about to making little boxes for each of the four most hurt, lining them with fresh wood chips and making sure the boxes were off the ground, but not by more than a few inches in case they couldn’t use their wings at all, something I feared. Once I made the spots ready, I gingerly picked each hen up, feeling for any obvious injuries, then set them in their new beds. I examined my hands in the light for blood. No blood. Good, I guess. I made sure they had a bowl of water inside the coop, then I set to work securing the coop.
The electricity was back on in the garage, and I had my chop saw. I would fix it. Now, what needed fortifying? Where and how did that raccoon get in? Amazingly, she’d dug far enough under the front door and worked it long enough that she’d managed to finagle a small hole under the door by which to enter, only not big enough to escape through. Hookay. Gotta cover that gap. I went to a pile of 2x4s I’d honed from my searches for free lumber on Craigslist and pulled out a board. I looked around for a measuring tape. Nope. They were all inside, being used by a young birder to measure wingspans. Ok. I set the board under the saw, found what looked about the width of the door, and chopped it. When I took the board to the coop, I found that the cut must have been guided by angels, for the board not only fit nice and snug, but with a slight tap from my sledgehammer it was in for good, nice and strong, covering up the breach just perfectly. For good measure I decided I’d cut a second and stack it on top. I used twine to learn the length of this perfect board, but even after three chops it wasn’t magic. Finally I installed it and used a paint stirrer stick as a shim. Pounded it in and the new board tightened up. Ok. All I can do for now.
I closed the door once again. I took a bean pole from the garage and wedged it against the door to tighten the gap. Now understanding how little space a raccoon actually needed to pass through, I didn’t want to leave the small breach at the top of the door unaddressed. I wedged it good and tight. Then I head back to the house, leaving all the lights on.
Elihu was up. So was I. How do you get back to sleep after something like that? It had me thinking of things folks went through three hundred years ago when their flock meant their nourishment, their survival. Talk about adrenaline. I felt sick knowing that some of our gals were probably in great pain at the moment, but Elihu and I reminded ourselves that we’d done all we could. And so we said a prayer for them, sent them our love and healing energy, and then tried to sleep. It took awhile.
I’ve been up for a few hours now and should get my son up soon, as his schedule is getting more out of whack the later I let him sleep. I used the solo morning to tend to the injured birds. God bless the internet. And my intuition. Did what I could. The really maimed birds are two of our three mixties, who are now quarantined in what used to be the chick’s pen. Each has an eye puffed up and closed, and each is hardly moving. Yet I managed to get a few eyedropperfulls of home-made juice in them (pediatlyte, baby aspirin, antibiotic) and they each ate a little fortified mash. They’re in the shade just hanging on.
I better get going. I have a piano lesson to teach in a few minutes. That raccoon sure gave me a lesson last night. Hope I learned something.
The Hillhouse 