Farm Life – Page 8 – The Hillhouse

Last Night

November 18, 2013November 19, 2013 Posted in An Ongoing Journal..., Elihu's Room, Farm Life, Mommy Mind1 Comment

I must remember that they’re just chickens. My ten year old boy has no room – or tolerance – for the sentiment I’m succumbing to now that the Amish farmer has finally found time for us in his schedule. The appointment came rather suddenly after months of setbacks, and perhaps just a teensy bit of stalling. Maybe I wasn’t exactly consciously stalling, but I suppose I may have dropped the ball a time or two when we might otherwise have gotten it done. But then again, we truly have been busy, and it takes more than a little planning to check this off the list. (Serendipity must be on one’s side as well.) But each time we get close, I do get a little wimpy about it all. I start taking photos of them, I make them endure enforced smooches, I look on at the marked gals in a mixture of love and nostalgia – for most of them have been here since the start of our adventure as chicken farmers (hence the current lack of egg production). We’ve been thru a lot together. The gals who are here today have survived half a dozen animal attacks. They’ve graduated from international shipping crate-as-coop to a legitimate, framed-in structure, and they’ve now seen some sixteen seasons. That’s a lotta happy living. Happy, happy birds they’ve always been. So for as much as I may anthropomorphize em and raise them to heights of character sophistication they’re probably far from ever achieving, and whatever the reality of their intelligence (or lack thereof), it can still be said that these particular girls have been with us for the whole ride. So saying goodbye, for me, at least, is just a little hard.

There won’t be much time for sentiment tomorrow. Mr. Shaw has no time for that. He’s a farmer. Got a dozen or more kids, half of whom work the line, and there’s a lot to do in one day. Calls me m’am, treats me kindly, and has my birds returned to me in tidy bags within a half an hour. Plus we’re doing another ‘chicken removal’ service for some friends and must arrive there super early to box up their girls too. I even wonder at the pure logistics of the operation; just how will we fit all these living birds into my car? Coming back they’re in bags, and they’ll fit in a cooler or two. But we must be able to fit these coolers as well as these boxes in the vehicle. Haven’t rehearsed it, so we have our fingers crossed. Ironically, I got a bunch of boxes from the grocery store today in which Thanksgiving turkeys had just arrived. Perfect. Each would carry four birds. Got some taller boxes at the wine store. Good for roosters. So we’re ready. Up at 5, a quick breakfast, then under early-morning dark it’s out to the coop where Elihu will pluck each bird off their roost, one by one, and check their vents to see if they’re currently in production or not. I tell ya, this kid’s a natural. No hesitation, plus pure confidence. And at this point, a good year’s experience sorting out the layers from the dead ends. Yeah, not sure I’d have the oomph to do all this without him. In this case he more than carries his own. Tomorrow he’s a true partner.

We both shut the birds in tonite. He indulged me. These days it’s not the event it was when he was younger. Some nights he’d be in the coop, smooching, petting, crooning and talking softly to his flock for a good hour before I could get him to come in. Now, what with homework and practicing and getting older and such, he runs out, does a quick head count, then shuts em up. I kinda miss the innocence of just a few months ago. ! But it’s all good. While I will miss the crazy, loud and goofy chicken population meandering all about the property, and the lovely little interjection of energy they provide here, I will also be greatly relieved to see my food bills cut by more than half, and to find far fewer fresh poops on my doorstep. And finally, the gals will get a break. Only one horny rooster around. And he’s getting old, too. You’re welcome, ladies.

So it’s goodnight, farewell and thank you to our first ever hatched, Jessie, our nods to twins Cora and Sophia, of course the new roos – including the bravest and most resilient rooster we’ve ever known, Julius Caesar (first-born of ’13) – and, last, but never least, my favorite: Shirley Nelson, our green egg-laying Araucana. She stopped laying months ago. She is still flighty, and has never let me pick her up without a fuss, but I just love her beard, and I just love her most curious habit of crawling underneath alpha rooster Bald Mountain as he stands in one place. She likes to sit underneath him, and he is most content to have her there. Never seen such a strange and cooperative arrangement before, and it is one more reason I’m just a bit sad about seeing her go. Never got it on film, but I hope my brief description here will inspire long-lasting mental images thru which she may be ‘immortalized’. Elihu, knowing her to be one of the tiniest birds, is looking forward to trying out a buffalo-style chicken wing recipe on her, so at least she’ll be remembered (can one be ‘immortalized’ by simply being a meal?) for that. And the door. The back door on the coop has a diamond pattern in the glass. Elihu said it looked like it belonged in a house of someone named ‘Shirley Nelson’. And actually, he’s kinda right. First came the bird, then the door. And we still refer to it as the Shirley Nelson door. So, let her time come. She leaves behind a legacy, and maybe even a good new recipe for the book.

I need to get to sleep. My little farmer has been out for almost an hour. Five am will be here sooner than I’d like, and I gotta be on when I get up. (Plus I have a full day of school immediately after that adventure, and so does the kid.)

Thanks so much you dear girls and guys. You had probably the best lives that chickens could ever hope to have. Freedom, food, fresh air and the love of a boy and his mom. We appreciate your gift to our stomachs and to our growing bodies. Enjoy those cozy roosts one last night, and we’ll see you one last time in the morning.

Post Script: Shortly past five and the winds outside sound like a passing freight train. I look out the window for a quick coop check and see that the light is out. Wow. That almost never happens. (Likely the power line was pulled down by the weather.) A real-life metaphor for what’s shortly to come. Here we go…

Cozy Home For Now

November 13, 2013 Posted in Farm Life, Mommy Mind2 Comments

Been a sweet evening here. Elihu, in spite of now talking like Daffy Duck with his newly-installed palate expander, has been giving freely of ‘I love you, Mommy’s and other lovely expressions of affection and warmth all afternoon and into the evening. As I had my hands busy with making our first loaf of true, unbleached whole wheat flour bread, I’d sent him out to collect the eggs and shut in the birds. There was one bird still staying close to Mama’s apron strings: Julius Caesar, while having been returned to the flock in good health after living in our kitchen for eight days (post an accidental eight day fast/prison term underneath an overturned milk crate), has discovered his ranking among roosters dropped from the top to the bottom of the very-real pecking order. A survivor, he stays acres apart from them all day so as to avoid further injury, and likely eats very little. I took him in today, as I heard him pecking at the door for some respite. He was smart enough to know which door offered the warmth and home-made food, and that was enough for me. I was ‘awwwing’ all over him like he was a lil baby. (Elihu wasn’t so sentimental or soft as I.) Made him a protein-laden supper, gave him time to get warm, then had Elihu personally take him out and place him on a safe spot on the roosting bars. Gotta keep him safe, relatively happy – and fattened up a tad more if we’re to do him in next week. !!

After Elihu came back inside, he was clapping his hands together and remarking how bitingly cold it had all of a sudden become. And after pausing to warm his hands over the electric heater, he turned to me and said, ” you know, I really love our home. Another pause. Some quiet. And then… ‘It really is home, isn’t it? A bit more pause… It’s just such a cozy cottage. And I love living here. ” Then he walked off and left me alone in the kitchen, kneading bread, smiling the smile of a mother content. A bath followed, a making of his bed with fresh sheets, (all of this progress interspersed with short references to Cole Porter’s “What A Nice Municipal Park”, a ‘B’ side if ever there were one) a call to grandma which was lighthearted and full of some promising news (yay! a nurse that mom approves of is coming by to do a little look-see!!! Soon dad will have a little TLC from an honest-to-goodness caregiver!!! Now we may all breathe out….) We recounted a story of our recent visit with a childhood classmate of mine and her family in town for a job interview, we told of our lovely day, and how the boys all enjoyed hanging with each other (in spite of a dramatic and comedic end to our visit), and caught grandma up on a variety of things. While she may not have thought he sounded drunk while talking thru his palate expander, his Grandpa Riaz asked if Scotch or Vodka was his poison….

I look forward to playing piano for a new eurythmist soon and will be slowly adding more music to the binder. Of course there’s the requisite Christmas music to re-acquaint myself with again. All good. No worries. Finally, two months in and I think I have the hang of my routine. Kinda. There’s a lot of coming and going in each day. Lots going on. Out of the driveway, in the driveway, each time with my eyes drinking in the lovely woods and fields around us. The views that will soon change. So when my kid tells me with joy that this is his home, and that it feels comforting to be here… he reminds me of how lucky we are… and I am right there with him. Yeah, we’re lucky.

And true, it won’t always be thus. Daily we’re steeling our hearts for those first, shocking events in the field just beyond. And then I suppose as a result, we’re clinging even more tightly to what it is that we love in our own, very modest home. We’ll soon have a bit less privacy, a bit less nature, a bit less peace, less true darkness at night. But we gotta keep reminding ourselves that we’re still lucky, no matter what. And since we can’t fight it, we may as well go forth in love and happy expectation. One never knows…. do one?

Here, Not Here

November 10, 2013November 10, 2013 Posted in An Ongoing Journal..., Farm Life, Mommy Mind2 Comments

There’s this nagging feeling I can’t get rid of in my stomach. I’m lying in bed, trying to sleep without help from a pill. It’s just not working. So I try to go into the dread just a bit to see what’s at the core of it. Maybe if I can name it I can quiet it down – at least for now – and finally get some sleep. What is it? I wonder… Is it dad? Yes, that’s part of it. Is it the neighbors we ran into tonight? Her girls were just the tiniest things when we moved here, now the eldest daughter talks with confidence about certain far away colleges, and a career in marine biology… Is it my own son, with his feet growing big and his legs getting hairier? Yes, it’s all of these. Each one stirs a familiar tugging inside, but I know that there is one that looms larger than the others tonight. And finally I can’t stand it. I forsake that perfect toasty nest I’d at last made in the covers, I rise up to my knees, and I look out of the window above my bed. I see a serene picture of our garage and chicken coop, lit gently from within by one red heating bulb. Beyond it, I see only blackness. The sort of scene that reminds one of a tomten fairy tale; a quiet, timeless farm carved out of the endless woods, a small homestead made cozy by its simplicity and isolation. On nights when the moon is full, it casts a deeper charm on the outbuildings, and they seem to glow in contrast to the forest beyond. But this nightscape is not to be much longer, I may not even see it like this for another full moon. Like my disappearing father, like my own tiny child who lives only in memory now, and like all the other inevitable changes of my private universe, a silent transition is already underway. Soon the darkness will be gone forever. Before long the lights of a house will pierce our dark and quiet corner of the world. Nothing, it appears, is sacred. Nor is anything forever. And I just can’t get used to it.

Once, at the home of a piano student, I happened on a simple children’s book that was laying out. In a few minutes I’d read the whole thing, and by the last line I found myself in tears. I’d thought this same thing many time, but had never dared to give expression to it. It was about all the ‘last times’ of childhood. How one never knows if this time will be the last. The last time a mother can ever pick up her child, the last time he’ll call her mommy, the last time she’ll read her child a bedtime story… there are a myriad of lasts, and yet one can never know for certain which moments they are. I think now of my father. Tonight mom told me that he hasn’t been downstairs since my visit a couple of days ago. We’d had a bit of a heated exchange on the phone the other night as I continued to lobby for some in-home nursing help. She’d hung up on me. Although she still believes that dad will manage to march downstairs again tomorrow for breakfast, business as usual, I myself don’t think so. Instead, the very real possibility occurs to me that we have finally experienced a last time here. The last time dad ever came downstairs. The last time. I arrive at that final, looming idea: this may well be where the true last time will happen. Right there, in the bedroom which looks out into the same woods as mine, in the bedroom with years of cat hair embedded in every upholstered surface, in the bedroom with photos of Andrew and me as babies still sit displayed on the bureau after five decades, there, on the right side of the bed – on my father’s side of the bed – that is where he will experience his own last time. That is, very likely, where my father will die.

I’m a sentimental person, and that sort of leaning will of course give this awareness of finality even more charge. I know that I’m probably dwelling more deeply on these passages than some folks would. (At the same time, I think any human can easily understand ambivalence around change.) But that’s the only way I can live through it all. I need to name it, to face it and to savor it before I can let it go. I need to bear active witness, I need to engrave that memory into my system, I need to take it with me as best I can. To preserve the essence of what this thing that I loved felt like. It’s a challenge for me to be simply pragmatic about it, and in fact, I really can’t. I can’t understand change without feeling a burning nostalgia. Sometimes in order to lend perspective and maybe take some of the sting out of it, I try to imagine a time just a couple of hundred years earlier, and I picture the change that’s taken place long before the world came to look as it does now. I imagine the Native Americans of Saratoga Lake, watching as their sacred sites were defiled and built-up by these white people from somewhere else… then I imagine the large parcels of unbuilt land throughout town, the disappointment of certain homeowners when the space around them appeared to shrink as investors continued to build upon the remaining vacant quadrants of land. I imagine all of the tiny disappointments, all of the hearts that had to acquiesce with deep regret the bittersweet changes around them.

I see the business people making these visible and profound changes in our physical environment. And I understand their detachment around such things too. They are merely dealing with a product and a service. (Be damned the wake left behind in its many forms, all of us must simply learn to live with resulting change!) “You can’t stop progress” people like to say. The implication is that progress is good. That progress is desired. Yeah, well, cancer is progress. Nuff said.

I feel a little better now, at least a little more sleepy. All I can do is be as zen as I can about the changes coming; I will savor these final nights of our deep, black forest, I will drink in all the tiny familiarities of my dad while they’re here, I’ll enjoy this magical time of a ten year old boy’s life, and I’ll be present and grateful for every last bit of it all. So that by the time today becomes yesterday, while it won’t be here to look upon anymore in my physical world, it will still exist somewhere. It will be here, cherished and alive, forever in my heart.

Found!

November 3, 2013 Posted in An Ongoing Journal..., Farm Life, Pics2 Comments

If we hadn’t seen it for ourselves, we never would have believed it. Our glorious white rooster, Julius Caesar (our first born chick this year whom we named Julie… until ‘she’ began to crow) was found. Alive. After missing for over a week! We have to thank our friend Rory, a fellow Waldorf kid and big sister of Elihu’s classmate Fiona, for finding him. Poor thing had become trapped underneath an overturned milk crate in the run and had somehow survived – since October 25th – on nothing but what he could eat and drink within his tiny confines. This miserable creature suffered torrential rains, our first frost and all-out starvation. That he lived through such prolonged hardship is beyond my understanding. But I will say that from chickhood he quickly rose to near-alpha male status and made his presence known in the flock. He was on the edge of annoying; leaving the poor girls no peace, crowing twice as frequently as any other roo, and actively challenging the other males to fights all day long. (Finding his male counterpart name was easy!) But for as bothersome as he was, it was precisely this fighting attitude which I believe carried him through his prison term. I do not think another chicken would have made it.

He weighs far less than he did – it seems he’s lost nearly half his weight this past week – but he ate ravenously when we fed him, and in just twenty-four hours he’s come a long way. He is recuperating in the bathtub on a cozy towel, with food and water near and the room made nice and toasty for him. He is still weak, and has fallen over a few times, plus he seems to have a head cold. But I’m ready for all of that – over the past couple of years I’ve assembled a tidy little first aid kit for ailing birds. Since he’s eating so well I’m relieved not to have to inject medicines down his gullet. Instead, I mix it all together in a high-protein mash. I know he’s getting what he needs, so now it’s just a matter of time before he’s out chasing the girls again.

I realize it might seem kinda strange to know that we’re essentially just restoring him to health and fattening him up in order to kill him. Cuz that is what’s gonna happen. But the more important thing here is that we offer him comfort. Our goal is to give the animals we eat happy, healthy lives – and a swift, humane dispatch. And it warms our hearts to know that he’s better, that he’s safe. Strange as it may seem, we’re not conflicted about it. We’ll treat Julius Caesar like the royalty he is until the very end. And for now, the end isn’t upon him quite yet.

Corner Turned

October 28, 2013October 30, 2013 Posted in An Ongoing Journal..., Farm Life, Low Vision Life, Mommy Mind, Pics6 Comments

Originally I’d wanted to write a post about our first experience butchering chickens in two parts: one before, and one after. I’d wanted to compare my thoughts and impressions from the idealistic, perhaps naive beforehand perspective, and the more grounded, realistic perspective that I expected to set in after the event. But to write about what a challenge it was that we faced, and how it was beyond our comfort range, even to express my thoughts on the merits of making one’s own food – all this seems so obvious, so clear – so unnecessary. I didn’t want to appear all greener-than-thou, and I certainly didn’t want this to seem like a bigger deal than it was. Plenty of my friends hunt. I know people who’ve killed many times. Clearly it wasn’t beyond my ability. And the principal of it should be pretty apparent. Yeah, we can pretty much all agree that it’s a good thing to take responsibility for your own food if you’re able, and to offer the creatures happy lives and quick ends. So in the end, especially now after having done it, the preamble I’d originally planned seemed kinda silly.

There is one thought that stays with me, however, an image I’ve had in my mind for years that’s related to the acquisition of ‘live’ food. As Westerners, we don’t exactly grow up seeing our food while it’s still alive. The only exception I can think of is lobsters. I might be way wrong here, but I’m kinda thinking that we’ve all felt that quiet, inner conflict when passing those tanks of tangled, doomed lobsters at the grocery store. And should we actually take one home, we manage to talk ourselves out of our remorse, cuz hey, this is gonna be one delicious meal after all. Maybe we offer the creature, or even Creator, some thanks, and so the guilt lessens even a bit more. But not all folks on this globe feel the same about their food. Years ago in New York City’s Chinatown I once witnessed an old woman shopping for dinner. I will never forget the scene – one I wasn’t expecting, one which I wasn’t even fully understanding until the moment was over. She first pointed to a huge barrel filled to the top with live bullfrogs, the clerk scooped out two, laid them out on the counter and before I knew what was happening, he bashed them over the head with a bat. It wasn’t a killing blow, and I watched in horror as they haggled over the price of the still-moving and clearly horribly injured frogs. They were paid for and bagged up, and the grandma took her bag in hand, along with all her other shopping bags and left the shop. She was obviously not bothered, as I was, at the spasmodic kicking that continued from inside the bag as she made her way down the sidewalk and into the crowd on her way home to make dinner.

That little scene blew my mind. And it changed how I thought about food. Sure, there was something right about the freshness, the immediacy, but there was something very wrong with the lack of humanity with which the dispatching went down. A couple things to be learned there. I always wondered after that – in a tiny, almost inaudible voice – if one day we might live on a planet where all our food would be gleaned in a responsible and humane way. If one day we might finally take the horror out of it. Whether factory farmed chickens who live in darkness and pain or miserable frogs piled dozens deep – might we hope to one day end such profoundly crappy, disrespectful treatment of fellow creatures? But back then it was just a fleeting philosophical question which hardly lasted a minute as I dashed off to the next gig, the next project, the next rehearsal. With no solutions in sight, why make myself miserable thinking about it? I had no idea that at some yet distant chapter of my future I’d actually find myself closer to an answer. That one day I wouldn’t be living in the city. That I’d be a country gal, a mom, a chicken farmer. Yeah, it’s closer at hand, but we’re still not there. A one afternoon how-to class doesn’t make us self-sustaining farmers. Still working on it; Elihu and I continue to run the numbers, discuss the nitty-gritty details, and visualize the goal. Ya never know. Everything has to start out small.

Idyllic Eastern New York state – the town of Cambridge. Rolling hills just East of the Hudson River soon meet the rolling hills of Vermont. It’s here that Jared and Shannon Woodcock run Taproot Farms, an all-around farming venture. They have a toddler and a tiny baby and big dreams for what this project and life could potentially be. By teaching their farming skills and sharing their knowledge they help broaden the community of like-minded, good folk that wish to do things as they should be done. It sound blessedly simple, and yet there’s so much to it. There’s always so much more to things that it appears…

Bringing the young chickens up to the barn.

Jared goes first, demonstrating the two swift cuts on either side of the neck. It’s so quick, I can tell you it’s a minor event for the bird. Super sharp knife, just two, three seconds. Done.

Jared helps Elihu get the bird in the cone.

At first it’s hard to see the blood. But soon you get in the groove and you see instead the task that you’re doing.

Our first bird. I was nervous about slicing my hands and needed Jared to hold my hand to assure a good cut. Better next time. Here the bird is bleeding out. Doesn’t take more than a minute. And their legs do kick, but it’s clearly a physical, nerve-related action. By then the dear soul has moved on.

Elihu did his own bird too. Jared helped, but the kid was involved in the entire process.

You gotta dip em in hot water to loosen the feathers before you pluck em. A couple of short dips and they come right off.

A beautiful, simple machine. A motor, a belt and a wheel with a bunch of rubbery fingers that rotate and just zip off those feathers. I’d be interested to see how much more time it takes to pluck a bird without this little gizmo.

We’re just cleaning up a few feathers left behind. But not many.

Elihu dunks his bird.

and inserts it into the magic wheel

First, Elihu learns how to cut off the feet; two easy cuts and they just kinda pop off.

Jared’s helping him loosen up the trachea and crop from the top end, so that it’ll all pull out more easily from the bottom end later on.

Ok, my turn…

all good…

things are gettin kinda slippery…

….and warm! Yeeks! And – wow – there’s a lot in here, too!

we’re almost done…

Elihu’s been wanting to eat chicken’s feet for I don’t know how long. Finally I can cook up some crunchy feet for my son!

Wrapping things up. Literally.

What a lovely little operation! Thanks Jared (and wife Shannon, plus tiny Calla and tinier baby boy) We love Tapoots Farm! (And Jarred’s also a ‘bird boy’ like Master Elihu – he actually studied orthinology. !! Really hope we see these folks again some time!)

The house smelled divine. And no kidding – in a blind taste-test Elihu totally knew the ‘home’ raised vs. factory chicken. If ever a kid was born with the potential to grow his own food, it is Elihu. And he certainly is fast-gaining the qualifications for the job….

Fall Photo Catch-Up

October 25, 2013October 25, 2013 Posted in An Ongoing Journal..., Birding, Farm Life, Low Vision Life, Mommy Mind, Pics, Retro Post2 Comments

As most of the leaves are now gone, and the weather has finally turned truly cold, these pictures, from only a week ago, seem to be from much longer ago than that… Here are some bits and pieces, some of which I’d written about, some not, but we thought they’d be fun to see anyway… All little peeks into our world here at the Hillhouse. (This has also been an incredibly tedious experiment in what it would be like to import photos using my ancient Mac. It has taken a loooooooong time, but I did it! And until Mr. Fix it comes next week to help w/our PC, it doesn’t look likely there’ll be too many more pics before then.)

First off, has this hit your school yet? I think the folks who own the silly bands factories probably just modified their setup a little bit and simply picked up where they left off…. such suckers we are. But as fads go, one that encourages kids – and boys too – to create things that require the use of merely their brains and fingers (and in some cases, their marketing skills) is a wholly healthy endeavor in my opinion. Just so long as the math homework gets done first. !

We enjoyed some long fall afternoons making the requisite leaf piles.

Life on the inside

Chickens like to play, too! (At least that’s what we like to believe)

The burning bush by the footbridge

And our beloved Beech

And our favorite ornamental apple tree with color on the hillside beyond

Until yesterday, our favorite new roo. Oh well. At least he has been immortalized in the ether of the internet.

Kinda thought I’d be the one to do him in. Just as well. Julius Caesar was growing on us…

the view from the porch

and the view from the garden looking back up at the porch. Note the lack of beans on the bean poles. Deer shaved off every last piece of green from the ground up. They missed a couple leaves and beans at the top. Lesson learned. Next year it’s fence time.

We won’t be needing to carve our jack-o-lanterns, as the chickens have beat us to it. !

This is our hike through the local woods to visit an abandoned graphite mine. There’s a dramatic falloff just to the right…

a tiny sign of humanity once here

A larger sign of humanity here before – but it’s fast losing its interest to a cranky ten year old boy.

This is the footprint of the mining factory’s wall, which goes down a good fifty feet to the river below.

the remains of a small gauge railroad bridge over the water

back home with Julius Caesar; one last good smooching before his mysterious disappearance.

Hmm. underarm orb or trick of the light? We creeped ourselves out with this replay. (He’s reaching for the moon)

Jumpin Mama

the dead female Yellow Rumped Warbler, such lovely wings

and the drawing he made of her

still didn’t top last year’s dead bird drawing (in ball point pen, no less)

Thanks for taking this one, sweetie. Doin’ away with the blonde highlights tomorrow. Tonin things down for winter and trying to get a bit closer to my natural color. Sans the grays, that is. No, I’m not a free woman. I color. !!

Lil Man gets Mama nearing bedtime after a very long and full day….

I’d better get to bed soon. This is a busy weekend comin up. Going to butcher my very first chicken, going to make a caterpillar costume for five boys, going to attend a couple parties and a ghost-story tellin… and most likely a few other, serendipitous events await us somewhere in the mix…. Halloween’s a comin…. much to do, much to do….

Bird Boy Back

October 23, 2013 Posted in An Ongoing Journal..., Birding, Farm Life, Low Vision Life, Mommy Mind4 Comments

“That’s not a Goldfinch.” Elihu knew what he was talking about, but yet I doubted him. Although the tiny bird was mostly an olive-ish brown, it had a yellow patch at the base of its back, and I, as a mere casual observer of birds, thought it to be a Goldfinch already changed into its drab coat for winter. But Elihu knew better.

I’d found the bird earlier that day, freshly dead, just beneath the laundry room window as I filled the chickens’ water buckets. Poor thing had crashed headlong into the glass and fallen, instantly dead, onto the ground just below. It was still slightly warm and still very supple. Couldn’t have been long ago, as it was morning and had likely happened since the sun had risen. This would be a good take for my kid – he loves to have a real bird to draw. So I brought it in, put it on a plate and left it on the table. Later when we got home from the airport, it was a treat to have this prize waiting for him. Immediately he began his inspection, wings out to admire the fan of feathers, a complete turning over to scrutinize the subject from every angle, a check with his mother to confirm its coloring. He then brought it straight to his desk to begin sketching it. “So if it’s not a Goldfinch, then just what is it?” I asked him, somewhat defiantly. I’m thinking, ‘yeah, kid, there aren’t a whole lotta other options. You just can’t see color – so you don’t understand.’ He didn’t miss a beat. “It’s a Yellow Rumped Warbler”. “What?” I asked, still unbelieving. After all, we’d complied a list of all the birds we’d ever seen or heard, dead or alive, here on our property. And this was not one I’d ever seen or heard before. “Look it up” he said, unphased by my lack of support. He continued to draw. So I grabbed a couple of field guides, a pair of dollar store reading glasses and laid down on his bed. I’ll be damned if the kid wasn’t absolutely right. “WHAT?!” I screamed when I saw the photo. “A Yellow Rumped Warbler?? I’ve never even heard of one, let alone seen one!” Elihu laughed. “How on earth would you know this?” I asked him, still not completely understanding how he could possibly have come to this conclusion. I know the kid was reading David Attenborough’s books and field guides cover-to-cover at six, I knew that he’d memorized every specimen in his two audio bird books, yeah, I knew all this. I realized that through his motivation to look up birds without my help he’d learned how to count, learned to look up three digit page numbers on his own at a very young age… but how was it that I, alongside him for so much of this process, had not learned about a fairly common backyard bird? Maybe this was more the issue here for me and my frail middle-aged ego; my kid had me beat. He knew exactly what he was talking about – and I didn’t.

He continued to laugh at me, and continued his drawing. “Remember the bird that got stuck in Martha’s music room?” I thought back – he was about seven then. I nodded. “That was a Yellow Rumped Warbler.” There was a pause. Elihu wanted to help me out a bit. “Remember the black on him?” And yes, I did kinda. It was very contrasty, very obvious. And I do remember that even back then it was a bird I professed not to know. “Mommy, that was a male Yellow Rumped Warbler.” I checked my field guide once more. Man, this kid was good. “Yeah, you’re right. You’re absolutely right. And I, my dear, am amazed at your skill.” He finished his drawing, complete with the beautiful detailed triangular patches of black on the top of the breast, something we’d not have known about had we not had the bird in hand. He had a huge smile on his face the rest of the evening as I continued to muse over my own inability to remember this bird and sulked ever so slightly. I wasn’t so pleased with myself, but my pride and joy at his success and happiness more than made up for it.

Last night, before we went to bed, Elihu offered to close the chickens in. He always does a head count. I’ve long given up on this task; I’m satisfied just to be done with my chores for the day and choose instead to tell em I love em all and close the latch. He came back, announcing that Julius Caesar was missing. This seemed highly improbable, as he was the young rooster emerging as the most royal pain in the ass of the whole flock. Mounting all the ladies and fighting the other cocks all day long, it didn’t seem like he’d be the first to succumb to wildlife. I grabbed a flashlight and went out to check for myself while Elihu got ready for bed. Sure enough, I counted only 29 chickens, and didn’t see the big white fella anywhere. I made a cursory check in the trees and around the coop, but saw not a thing. He would’ve stood out, his bright white body and huge, arching tail. I felt a slight sadness at his absence, and noted to myself that it was a selfish one: he was one delicious young bird we wouldn’t be enjoying on our table. Rats. I went inside and confirmed the news. “Darn” Elihu said. I began to comfort him when he stopped me – “I’m not sad, Mommy, it’s just that we didn’t get to enjoy him, someone else did!” We had a little laugh together, and were warmed at the thought of another creature sleeping full and happy this night, and so we let it go. After all, we still have another five roos that promise to be just as tender and delicious.

Birds in every form, enjoyed and appreciated in every way possible. And all thanks to one young boy who sure knows his birds.

Raking It In

October 14, 2013October 14, 2013 Posted in An Ongoing Journal..., Farm Life, Low Vision Life, Mommy MindLeave a comment

Ah, such bounty in our lives these recent days. Too much to recount each sweet detail. Suffice to say we’ve been visited by friends, we ourselves have trapsed through the woods and across fields to call on our neighbors, we’ve enjoyed time outdoors in the finest fall weather we could ever hope for, and we haven’t encountered a truly bad mood all week.

Today we spent the whole day outside in the warm air, under a brilliant blue and cloudless sky which was framed by intense yellows and reds. Our birds freely roamed the woods and fields as they usually do, adding to a certain picturesque quality to the property. Once or twice Elihu and I have had a conversation about doing away with the whole chicken thing altogether, but we simply could never do it. We both agree that our avian companions add more than just charm to the place; they give it a certain energy, and they bestow a certain gentleness upon our small farmstead and soften the hearts of all who visit. And then there are the eggs. It’s nice to be able to have our pick of ‘free’ eggs each morning. Of course when the male-to-female, layer-to-non-layer ratios are off, the chicken thing begins to become a bit more of a burden that I’m comfortable with – as we must continue to buy feed for them with nothing to show for the investment. If it weren’t for my suddenly very busy work schedule I’d take em to the Amish farmer and bring em back in a cooler. (Yes, for this year we’ve put our lofty goals of butchering them ourselves on hold – just too much going on right now for one woman to handle!) But I can’t get it scheduled in for another week yet, so til then I must continue to feed the whole loud gang of crowers. It’s ok. I might even miss the ruckus when they’re gone. Maybe. I do know this: the chicken stock will be off-the-hook good, and it will feel very good to eat nothing but happy birds for the next coupla months. No more turning our consciences the other way when we eat our grocery store-bought meat. Not a huge step, but a step nonetheless.

Today was a day of leaf piles. Thank goodness that at ten my son still finds great joy being buried in great mounds of em. It’s one of those eras of youth that goes by too quickly – yet the memories stay with you forever. And when you’re in the middle of an afternoon of leaf pile play, it’s just the sweetest time. Playing in the leaves has been a two-day activity here, and while my ultimate goal was to make a tiny dent in the fall cleanup, Elihu’s was to remain hidden in the largest pile on the property as long as he could possibly hold out. I can’t finish my cleanup til that last pile goes… And as of tonight, one final (and enormous) pile is still there. He was so joyful all afternoon. Every now and then he’d bring a chicken in with him to his cozy nest in the leaves. (His nest-building was very determined and ‘Bower bird-esque’ we decided. ) I took pictures and more pictures, some worth sharing now, some only worth sharing twenty-five years from now when his own children want to see what he did when he was little… In the end, it’s enough to remember the way we laughed and laughed, the bright blue sky above us….

In the late morning we decided to embark on a little local adventure and find our way up a small mountain to a long-abandoned graphite mine. It was opened in the first decade of the 1900s and closed only a few decades later as a cheaper source of graphite was discovered in India. Crazy, huh? We did a little sleuthing online and saw a picture of the men at this graphite mine posed around a train bridge over a river, saw some buildings around them and a few barrels here and there. A small operation, it had from 50 – 100 men employed there and who lived on location. Hardly a handful of decades have gone by since then, and yet through the natural degradation that’s taken place it’s hard to even imagine such an endeavor thrived there once. It really does blow the mind how fragile and temporary we are, both man and machine. When we came to the foundation that looked much like the place they might have lived, we found some enamel food bowls, and while no barrels, we did see pairs of barrel stays, trees now growing tall up and through them. Another sixty years and I’m not sure anything will be visible. It was most fascinating to see the right angles and footprints of the former buildings and their tall walls built down the many feet of the mountainside to the ravine below. The place was once big and rockin, with a small guage train running up and down the mountain to carry the haul and the supplies. Lots of industry took place here once, but in the quiet woods of fall, all of it now softly covered in leaves and lichen, it just seems like something from a dream. We took a shortcut back to the trail, and as I grabbed for a root to pull myself up by, I saw something shiny and black, picked it up and – whaddya know, it was graphite! Sweet! When we got home, Elihu drew a picture with it. It chips fairly easily, so we’ve decided to keep it in a small plastic bag. Nice to have a real, ‘working’ memento of our impromptu hike. Btw – the place is only four miles on the odometer from our house (woulda been less had we just trekked directly through the woods from our place), and the whole thing took less than an hour. We experienced some impressive elevation and some dramatic scenery as we walked the edge of a very steep ravine and had some lovely views to Vermont on the way back. A fine, easy hike. Just right for my current fitness level. !

We’d hoped for a ride through the local wooded trails in neighbors Zac and Stephanie’s ‘Doodlebug’, their old model T with wagon in tow for mom and kids, but the motor started smokin a bit too much as they headed out over the field and so sadly they had to turn back. A slight disappointment, but in that our garden needed to be cleaned up for winter and we were still of a mind to remain outdoors, we put the change in plans behind us and meandered down the hill. Seeing all the devastation from our local wildlife population again was disheartening, but it doubled our resolve to learn from our mostly failed year and make the necessary fixes next year. Live and learn. We removed the rocks and threw em back onto the stone wall, picked off seed pods to save, rolled up remay and pulled the already ripped landscape fabric up and exposed the garden once again. We clipped back the tenacious arms of the ubiquitous privet plants and gave the place a much tidier look. Ready for next spring’s tilling and grand start-over.

We got our birds in and collected eggs, and stopped for a moment at the hammock on the way in. We both lay back, me with eight eggs on my chest (see where this is going, right?) and wondered aloud to each other if this old hammock could still take two of us. I said I’d never known a hammock to break – and no sooner had I said that then WHOOMPH it broke, and with it, several eggs all over me. ! Thankfully we weren’t hurt, so were able to get quite a chuckle out it. It was dark before we realized, and so without the need for Elihu’s dark glasses now, we enjoyed another hour on the trampoline. After snapping dozens of frames of mid-jump poses we finally went in. Not yet done with our day, once inside I went to the piano and began to practice Schumann and Beethoven while Elihu took a refreshing dip into the world of his Nintendo DS. If ever my son has had me worried he might be a bit too nature-loving and earnest about things like practicing and doing his homework, thankfully I have the video games to even things out. Whew. ! Nice to have a kid who’s got it good either way. (Once a school chum came over to visit and saw that our living room had only a piano, a harpsichord and some hand drums. “Why don’t you guys have a tv?” the kid asked. “Are you poor?” ) Wasn’t that interesting that the first thing he noticed to be missing in our house was a tv. Hm. Just have to add that that particular boy – and every other kid who’s ever spend an afternoon here – has never, ever lacked for something to do. But all that good old-fashioned nature type stuff aside, I am actually happy that my son has a video game of his own to retreat into. Hey, I like a bit of brainless FB surfing every now and then. Keeps things in balance. Right?

We did learn one not-so-pleasant piece of news earlier this weekend… and while it hasn’t spoiled our time, it had gotten us thinking about our small paradise here with a renewed sense of gratitude… Elihu and I had intended to walk to grandma and grandpa’s through the woods, but stopped at our neighbor’s en route. Our other young neighbors were there too – a nice surprise, and of course the grown ups ended up sitting down for a chat while the kids played. We never made it to our original destination. I’d turned down my neighbor’s invitation for a glass of wine – but changed my mind and accepted when I heard the news. Someone’s bought the tiny spit of land – the field that our driveway runs through – and is going to build on it and flip it. Don’t even know who will end up living there. Likely, given the numbers we knew, it would be a crap house too. I suppose better than one of those inappropriately huge McMansions, but still. Likely they’ll take down the island of woods that buffers us from the road. Very likely. That sure threw a downer into our day. Into our life, really, as pretty soon things will be much different. Our dark and quiet corner of Greenfield will soon be brighter and louder. If this were the suburbs it might be easier to take. But it’s not, and so all our hearts begin to break. As the two of us walked home through the field Elihu cried when we passed the stand of trees. “But that’s where the oven bird nests!” he protested, asking if we couldn’t perhaps reason with them on this account. But he knew better, and so did I. At least Crow Field – the much bigger area to the East where the Woodcocks nest and where we fly our kites and witness butterfly migrations – at least that’s untouched for now. But we all know it’s just a matter of time.

Since I’ve heard the news I’ve spent a lot of time just looking down our driveway towards its idyllic end at a pair of ancient wooden gates, permanently opened with wear and age. The driveway then takes a sharp left at the stone wall, revealing a vast, golden field beyond. This is the spot where a new house will soon stand. And I can’t stop thinking about it. I just can’t. While I’ve always known during our five years here that it wouldn’t always be thus – it simply kills me inside to understand that the change is finally coming. But for now I manage to shake it off, and throw myself back into the present, because it is, after all, such a beautiful one. And for now we have everything we need. Including an abundance of leaves for the most amazing leaf piles ever.

Middle of Fall

October 6, 2013October 6, 2013 Posted in An Ongoing Journal..., Farm Life, Low Vision Life, Mommy Mind, Pics2 Comments

We’ve had some gorgeous weather lately. Only today has nature decided to even things out with a little rain. But it’s a good day for that; it’s a lazy Sunday, post-school fall festival, post-sleepover, post initial costume-making effort. Now that the dishes are done, the house vacuumed, some bass and piano have been practiced and some pies and bread have been baked, I find a little time to post some catch-up photos of the past week.

Here’s what things look like today from our kitchen window.

Our fine maple a couple of days ago. My mother just loves this tree. Believes it to be the single most beautiful tree in the great Northeast. Not as neon bright as in falls past, but lovely no less.

Now why on earth would chickens choose to hangout on a trampoline? Four of em are roosters – what a sight, all of them crowing one after the other. Silly, entertaining birds they are.

Just beyond the trampoline we can begin to see Saratoga Lake again with the leaves off the trees.

The colors beyond our garden.

The light from the East, early morning.

Since Elihu sees no color at all, I’m constantly asking him how he sees things – asking him which scenes pop out, which don’t register at all, and in this case which color mums appear interesting to him. In this case he likes the contrast between the petals and the centers. Makes sense.

More color back home on our burning bush by the foot bridge over the creek.

Cally came over after school one day. She’s a very gifted singer – got a great ear and a natural feel. She’s also very much a nature child like Elihu. She rides horses and her family breeds dogs too.

There they go – off to rustle up some chickens. Elihu’s costume is to the right – it’s in the very the first stage in its creation.

This is the character “Wild Vine” from the cartoon series “Ben 10”. It’s an animated vine that this ten year old boy (Ben) turns into when he puts a magic watch-like device on his arm. It goes without saying that his quest is to save the planet from threatening aliens. Wild Vine may look a little creepy (pun intended), but he’s a good guy.

Here’s the costume in it’s most recent incarnation. The frame was created by duct taping foam pipe insulation onto some football shoulder pads and snaking a frame of straightened-out wire coat hangers inside for structure. The skeleton was then covered in good old-fashioned paper mache. (The paper mache was made from the same flour we use for our pies and bread.) The eyeball and shoulder ‘pods’ are styrofoam balls carved and then spray painted white first, then blue on top in order to give the appearance of depth. A little hot glue here and there really helps out.

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On we go into the year… Fall is moving quickly along in spite of a long, uneventful Sunday. I’m grateful for the down time, cuz things will be back up and running full speed soon enough.

Connected

September 25, 2013 Posted in An Ongoing Journal..., Farm Life, Mommy Mind, Waldorf Life2 Comments

Elihu’d been asking me frequently over the past few days if I was unusually stressed. It was easy for me to think I lived in my own world, my thoughts entirely private and unnoticeable as I marched forward through my days… In the car, driving us here, there and all points in between, running out to tend to the chickens, standing at the counter making supper, and then not long after standing at the sink washing dishes, even later on in the evening sitting at the piano, concentrating on the page before me. True, we spent a lot of time together, but these days, I agreed with his observation that we’d gotten suddenly very busy – and we hadn’t been living together as much as we had been living side by side. My focus was seldom on him, but more on the task at hand. We were now at the end of our day and enjoying a quiet moment’s conversation before bedtime. We’d been so busy doing, doing, doing…. but yet we hadn’t checked in with each other in a while. We ‘needed to connect’, he’d said to me quietly. “Mommy, please tell me, are you stressed these days?” I stopped, turned to face him, looked straight into his eyes, and gave him my full attention as I answered his question.

Yes, I admitted to being stressed these days. There was a lot of new music to learn for the fall, there were other classes to prepare for and students too, plus the never-ending list of farm and home-related work. There was a new string bass to move around now, and lessons to pay for. Doctors appointments and house repairs. Grandparents that continued to age and change. While there’d never been an absence of things to think about and plan for here at the Hillhouse, this recent spell was indeed a bit heavier than many. So yes, I was stressed. He too admitted to being a bit pooped with our non-stop life. There was a moment of quiet. It was not quite 7 pm, and we were attempting an early bedtime in order to catch up. I’d already read to him from the current favorite book about a pair of wild Golden Eagles. But tonite it hadn’t done the trick. Elihu was still just as wide awake as moments before. And he felt needy as I put the book away and then moved in to kiss his cheek and leave. He pulled me back down with his still-small arms and asked me to stay for a bit. Oh well. Ok. Things – all those stupid things on my never-ending list – they can wait. They can. Elihu needed me, and I probably needed him too. So I stayed, and we talked by the hallway light that streamed in through his half-closed bedroom door.

Elihu asked me about the House Cafe, and for me to tell him what was going on with it now. He asked me why daddy doesn’t just sell it. I explained that he had too much invested to let it go. Kinda like us and our chickens. Kinda. I could tell that sleep wasn’t coming any time soon, and both of us had a head full of concerns and queries…. so I let him continue. “If you and daddy had never bought it, would I have been a city boy? Would I have been living in Evanston and playing video games and going to a regular school? I nodded. “Pretty good chance of that.” We sat in silence for a moment and took that in. I began to remind him – to remind us both, really – of all the things we’d have known nothing about had we not come here to this place…. “No homing pigeons. No geese. No garden. No chickens, eggs, butchering. No Jonah, no Phoenix, no Ms. Reid… no Waldorf. You wouldn’t be playing recorder, or knitting, or playing string bass… singing in rounds, bringing fresh baked bread in for lunch, playing your djembe on the street… everything would have been different. Maybe all of it would have been just fine, but certainly very different.” I looked into his face with a slight smile for emphasis. “So. Do you think you’re doin ok here?” I ask him gently. He smiles. He tells me yeah, he knows he is. I probably don’t need to go on, but I do. “I know it’s still not the same without having your daddy actually live with us, and you know I’m really sorry about that, but in the end, there’s just so much that factors into it. I dunno, it’s kinda like I just can’t even consider regretting it. Cuz it’s how it is.”

Without a second’s pause, he asks me “So are you happy?” He was sincere, and his face waited for my appraisal of things. He wanted to know. Heck, I wanted to know! Yeah, so, was I happy? I can’t deny I feel stress sometimes, but hmm… I did a little scan of my feelings. I was surprised to feel the confidence, the lack of hesitation in my answer. “Yes. Yes, I would definitely say that I am happy!”I answered him, smiling wide and true. But then I looked at my knobby fingers which are just this past month beginning to hurt in earnest. “But I’m also kinda bummed that just when I am feeling so good about things that these start popping up. And the sad thing is, they’ll probably never go back to the way they used to be even just a month ago”. Elihu takes my largest, most arthritic finger in his cool thin hands and gently kisses it. “Never say that, Mommy. Say ‘they will be better, and they are better now and I can feel how well they’re working…” he is not joking, not being ironic, sarcastic or clever. My son is coaching me to employ a little more loving and positive ‘self-talk’. Oh how I wish I could share his hope, but I fear that I must find a way to incorporate this new mild handicap into my life and hope that before long it just blends into the landscape. Least that’s what I tell myself for now. Ok, so it’s a stressor, to be sure. But it’s not the larger point here. What is rather remarkable, is that Elihu has had me realize something that I wasn’t quite sure I even believed myself! Don’t think I’d ever really committed to the feeling of being happy with my life. I was happy with my life. Forgetting the fingers for the moment, my quick internal assessment confirmed it once again. Yup. I loved our life. Wow. We both waited in the darkness for a minute, each of us recounting past adventures and feeling proud of all we’d learned. Yeah, there was no point to worry about what we might have been if we’d never come here. Obviously, that was not the future that served us best. This was.

I sometimes wonder how it is that I can accurately convey the nature and nuance of the relationship exists between Elihu and me. Adults caution parents – and especially single parents – not to treat their children as peers – as their buddies. But I’m not so sure I’m completely down with that approach. My son still knows I’m mom, and certain things are ok, certain things aren’t. There’s not a lot of protestation, because I feel I have a fairly intelligent, loving and well-reasoned kid. For the most part he accepts the few rules I lay down. To be truthful, a single child in a one parent household is going to have a different sort of relationship with the parent he or she lives with. It’s going to be unique. It’s going to be what it is. And in our case, our relationship, if I may borrow from the current vernacular of the fifth grade boys, is awesome. It’s all good. Even the bad. And thankfully, these days there’s not a whole lot of that. Thanks to my beautiful boy for checking in with me and reminding me of what’s important.

Staying connected like that helps remind us how good things are.

The Hillhouse

The Journey of a Mother and Son

Category: Farm Life