Tag: chickens

so very en vogue these days. These creatures are delightful to have around, yet be warned; free range em on your property and you’ll lose your flowers and step in poop when you least expect to…

First Loss

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Elihu and I went out tonight, and although my mother dutifully helped us by closing the mature chickens in their coop and securing the chicks as best she could, when we got home we found three of our most precocious young chicks dead inside the new enclosure. (I say ‘precocious’ because they were the only ones in the flock smart enough to go in after dark, something all mature chickens do naturally, plus they’d been making mock nests inside the coop for a week by now, another display of advancing sexual maturity.) My coop enclosure was sound, however the critter that got in was able to open the wire gate (!) in the outside run and enter the coop through the small chicken door. And we hadn’t even considered that to be a viable entrance for predators. We’d thought our run was secure. HA! Well, as Elihu noted, that while we two were out eating chicken for supper (tandoori, that is) apparently some crafty creature was enjoying a delicious chicken dinner as well.

I was surprised at how sad I felt at first.  Although I’d told Elihu not to look, and that I’d take care of it, he was adamant about seeing what had happened. We picked up the dead chicks very matter-of-factly, noting how warm one was, and from that guessing that she’d only just been done in (two of three were eaten, she was left behind – perhaps we interrupted the intruder?). We walked down the driveway a bit with the remainders of the dead birds and then unceremoniously tossed them into the woods. Not much one can do but to accept it, but it’s still kinda sad. But then again, we just ate a friggin chicken who had a crappy life and died a frightening and painful death. Is that really any better a fate than that of our chicks? (I think not.)

In the end, we’ve learned that we must ramp up our security and our vigilance. While it makes going out at night a little more challenging, I’m determined to figure something out. I’m getting kinda tired of living at the mercy of my chickens. The next major homestead purchase may well be an automatic coop door opener/closer. !

Day of Progress

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Whew. This has been a day. After a shaky start for both of us (see Sick-Abed, Sigh) we arose shortly after noon and began our day. It was a windy, mild spring day with rainshowers in the middle of sunshine and fresh air all around. It was a day of unplanned visits with neighbors, bubble blowing, keyboard moving, coop building, planting, cooking of dinner, whipping of cream, bed making and more. I am plumb exhausted. But what a lovely day we had.

After a short drive through the countryside to call on some friends we settled in to our homesteading. Elihu corralled his chickens in a densely packed flock and spoke to them softly as I began to construct the new room for our chicks. As they cannot be mixed in with the adults yet we need to build a separate, outdoor living space for them. I divided the run with a wall of fence and netting last week, and today set out to build the small room within the garage where they will live for the next few months. Hoping that perhaps the extra labor might not be truly necessary, and that  the hens would accept the youngsters (their own children), we brought the chicks out last week and put one hen in with them. Within minutes she had attacked several rather violently, requiring our intervention. It was confirmed; I had another project yet before me.

Thanks to craigslist and some very kind people in my area I have collected some nice, free pieces of lumber. Assembling these pieces to make a makeshift coop became a bit more challenging than I would have thought. No two pieces are quite the same, some are warped, some have screws or nails still in them. They’ve all been used before. Plus, due to a mid-winter meltdown of our coop heat lamp all the outlets in the garage no longer work (no, it’s not a fuse) and so I must run a super long extension cord from the house to the garage in order to do any work. Not un-doable, it just required a bit more resolve from me to get the silly project underway. It took three long extension cords and a few minutes of setup, but not only did I get underway, but I finished the task. Thanks to some beautiful sheets of 4×8 plywood I was able to create walls in fairly short order. And thanks to the pheasant re-population program in Ithaca, New York I am stocked with a good amount of nylon netting (a kind man there gave me a bag of extra netting when I told him my plans on our visit last summer) which made a fine roof for the small room. I have no idea what Elihu said to his chickens for the hour and a half it took me to construct the room, but he was content to wait it out with their gentle company.

Tonight we test it out. I caught raccoons red-handed in the garage last night, raiding the feed bins as I went to close the coop up for the night. A close call. If it weren’t for the food available to them I’m not sure if my chickens would have all been there waiting. A bin of grain is an easier meal than a feisty hen. (And I have seen bloody evidence of the good fight my hens can put up when challenged!) So tonight, I’ve closed the garage as best I can, and I’ve left the lid to the feed bin loose, so that if a raccoon should be snooping about, the lid will be moved when I go out in the morning. We’ll see. I’m feeling pretty good about my security, yet not good enough to be entirely smug. One can never be smug out here. There’s always a new story to be made at the expense of one’s naivete. So I am confident, yet cautious.

Now it’s bath time and I must drag my son away from his beloved birds.  Elihu has been doing nothing but talking to his chicks all the time that I’ve been here writing. I can hear him in the basement, the one sided conversation mixed with tweets and chirping sounds. Tiny, fuzzy things just four weeks ago, they are now gangly teenagers. They’re not exactly cute, nor do they look entirely like true chickens. They’re in an awkward, in-between sort of stage. They are, however, not chicks anymore. They are young chickens, and they are fast becoming very stinky. It’s amazing how much food they consume. Tomorrow, if we pass our raccoon test, those teenagers are getting their own apartment. I can’t wait.

To bath, to bed. To be continued…

Eggs of Hope

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It seems I’ve not mentioned an endeavor which has become rather the foundation of our homestead here in Greenfield. Months ago, when Elihu and I and realized how little money our eggs sales actually generated after we’d met our expenses, we pondered what to do with that money to maximize it’s usefulness. We came upon a book entitled “One Hen” by Katie Smith Milway in which we learned that a little can do a lot. And so Eggs of Hope was born. With our small profits we’ve begun to ‘purchase’ starter chicken flocks through Heifer International.

While the accompanying video and newspaper article at the bottom may be over a month old – very old news indeed – the business is just beginning. Today we registered our domain name and will unveil a new site soon – if dear old mom can manage one more task on her plate.

Lest you think the talk of home-grown eggs being better is all hype – as I was apt to believe once upon a time – I can tell you that the eggs of home-raised chickens are much, much better than those of their poor factory cousins. I might not have been such a believer had I not used a carton of store-bought eggs recently, as our personal use eggs had been earmarked for the incubator. Yup, our eggs’ yolks are a superb orange color, are much plumper, and lastly, they taste very much like an egg should. (Recently we learned that guinea fowl eggs have the very best egg flavor of all, but a sad footnote to this story is that Clara, our only resident guinea hen and sole producer of these delicious, miniature eggs, was recently lost to a wild animal. We miss her. See our you tube channel ‘elihusmom’ for a little cameo of Clara in the video of our chickens on the first warm day.) But life on a farm is like that. It’s sad to lose a member of our flock, but we find peace in knowing the ones we’ve lost had lived happy, healthy lives and furthermore, died that other animals, equally deserving of a meal, should eat well. We just hope they went quickly. !

Chickens are the most miraculous recyclers. Once, in the beginning of our egg pursuits, I found the idea of eating our chickens’ eggs rather gross (and that was even before they began eating bugs!). I can admit this here, because I know many others have felt the same. Before, I’d thought it was just me. Intuitively it makes no sense that the eggs one buys at the store are somehow more edible, safer, cleaner – more whatever – than the ones that just popped out of your hens today. One knows that these eggs have got to be better. Right? Yet for me, eating that first egg was not exactly easy. That was then, this is now. Now I watch with great joy in my heart as our flock happily scratches away in the grass and leaves, gleaning little insects here and there all day long. I watch their progress as they cover the wide expanse of our property, in the woods, in the field, and sometimes, to my chagrin, in my garden. I am always astounded at how much less feed I buy each month – 50 pounds less – when they are allowed to roam free and forage. I am grateful to be an integral part of this process, grateful to know that in some way I am linked to them, and through them, to the land. Hopefully, with our growing little business, we’ll be able to extend that connectedness out into our great big world. Eggs are made to hatch…

A frustrating post-script:
After spending a good 15 minutes trying different methods of inserting the link to the Saratogian article into this post, I am giving up, and asking readers to simply search for “Elihu Conant-Haque” and you will easily find the link for yourself. Sigh.

Easter Morn

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Hallelujah! The Lord has risen, and so has the temperature! Fully expecting to see a figure beginning with 3 or 4 on my kitchen door thermometer, imagine my surprise and joy just now in seeing 60! Really? Wow – gotta let those chickens out, surprised I haven’t hear them crowing yet. (Two days ago I awoke to see snow covering everything, and rather thickly, for a spring snow. I’d thought briefly to post a picture on Facebook, but snow in April hardly warrants surprise for northerners.) It’s a lovely, sunny, warm and still Easter morning here in upstate New York. I look around and imagine all those farmer types who might be just a little miffed that they’ve got to dress up and go to church on such a good day for getting some outside work done. Then I think, well, at least it’s great weather for getting the kids dressed up and loaded in the minivan… That’s better. Should really start this day with a more uplifting sentiment.

Coffee cup in hand, I stand on my front steps and begin to think over all the things I’ve learned so far in my two years here, and then I begin to consider all the lessons yet ahead. I begin a quick inventory of the things that have begun to come into my field of awareness. First off, I’m really glad to have serendipitously come across the author Michael Perry through his latest book “Coop”, which I found directly in my path as I did a final once-over of the local Borders on its last day. Got it for a buck (sorry, Mike). Therein is a nice chunk of not only remembrances that parallel mine in many ways (growing up farming, a late sixties, early seventies childhood, going it alone with a capricious ‘try it and see what’s the worst that could happen’ attitude and more) but a lesson in the end which I would do well to learn from. He comes to the conclusion (bless that man, oh how I wish my ex had felt the same) that it is his wife who really holds down the whole operation as he spends a good deal of time on the road. He credits her for feeding the animals and tending the garden while raising the young children. Then he begins to realize that farming is in itself a job, and that he really cannot both farm and write professionally – at least to the degree he’d thought possible at the outset. My mother expressed her concern recently that this garden/chicken thing is a huge endeavor, and that I should be putting the bulk of my time into The Studio instead. Well, somehow, I’ve managed to juggle things before, and with nice results, so I’ve been thinking I can pull it off. But in the two days since she said this, the reality is beginning to sink in. A 20’x40′ garden. Forty chickens, a new coop and run (which I must build). An eight year old boy. A community arts center with summer camp programs (which I run). A concert hall dedication ceremony and Baroque concert with promo to be done, tickets to be sold. Sheesh. I haven’t even added in my new membership at the Y, my ambitious new ‘women on weights’ class or just general life. Caution rises up in me and a new, more responsible voice begins to emerge, telling me that it’s not about ego, that I have not failed if I can’t pull it all off, that I must remember that everything takes half again as much energy to manifest as one bargains for at the top.

Ok. Today at Easter dinner I will sound out mom and Martha – now the old women at the table – and I will see how crazy my plate looks to them. Just since I awoke about an hour ago I’ve already begun to research tillers and what that labor is about. Hmm. Front tine: cheap, but good for small gardens. Require more effort. Rear tine: expensive, good for big jobs, less grunting. My mom has a small Mantis I can use. That will have to do. I guess before my farmer neighbor came over the other day to offer a kindly consultation on my land, I’d had romantic, Foxfire-ish visions of swinging a hoe in the humid, hot July, laboring down the rows stopping to pluck a potato bug here and there, wiping my brow as I assessed my progress and happy to finally have a good reason to wear my floppy garden hat. Oh dear. I need to slow down and think this over.

I’m just so thrilled to be alive now, to have the tools for self-education right here in this little box. I have become a sponge these past two years. One can investigate virtually anything with google and you tube. That saves one a lot of time and mishap. While there is absolutely no substitute for jumping in and experiencing your own three stooges moments, it behooves one to do a little reconnaissance first. With these tools I add one more; getting out and visiting with those who have gone before. In my search for free lumber on Craigslist, and my forays into the countryside to pick up the stuff, I’ve enjoyed many very educational discussions with folks who’ve been at it for years. Building, fixing, raising, growing. So I’m asking a lot of questions. Man, the information just comes in. And so does the dawning realization that I just might not be able to pull it all off – at least not this year.

In the two decades I spent living with a classical guitarist, the most frustrating thing about it was quite literally, a fingernail. (This is the line that will get all partners of guitarists to smile, the guitarists themselves won’t, and I’ll get into that here.) Fareed was constantly swiping his right hand thumbnail with a teeny fragment of fabric-soft, ultra-fine sandpaper which he ALWAYS carried with him (or almost always – the occasional search for his missing sandpaper was as frantic as the search for the crying baby’s missing pacifier). The right hand thumbnail, to a classical guitarist, is the essence of who he or she is as a player. The very physical condition and shape of the nail combined with the technique (oh dear, to add flesh or not to add flesh? Segovia or Williams?) is what makes the ‘sound’. And by sound I do not simply mean it simply plucks the string; rather it creates the quality of the sound that defines the player. The endless filing of the nail was accompanied by daily and even hourly proclamations that his sound was getting closer. To what? I waited for years to arrive at that destination. My husband was always trying to improve his sound. Improve his thumbnail. Improve the angle at which it reached the string. He was in ceaseless pursuit of that elusive combination of a thousand micro-changes that were apparently ALL of great significance to the end result. He would announce hundreds of times with sincere elation that he’d made a discovery today! And I would try, so hard, and many, many, many times with genuine thrill, joy and love for him at his success, to share in that moment. But I’m sure you can imagine, that at the thousandth such proclamation it was hard to conjure real thrill. It was tiring. This day-to-day emotional roller coaster of the search for the perfect thumbnail shape. I began to get a grouchy about it sometimes. I found it very hard to believe that after years of fussing with it he hadn’t come upon the perfect shape. Or at least perfected some method of getting somewhere in the workable neighborhood.

But indeed, God is in the details. Many times in my new single life in the country I’ve smiled to myself at his unending process with a new light of understanding. I too, am realizing the umpteen million degrees to which one can take any endeavor. And all the different results that manifest from those nearly invisible changes. From growing seeds to monitoring the humidity in my incubator, I’ve seen the effects of subtle changes on the results. I guess I’m now a believer. I wonder how I might give him this gift; how can I tell him, with love, that I am sorry for my exasperation at his tiny triumphs? How can I convey, with humor intended (for it is kinda funny to me now) that I have a better understanding of how much more there is to anything than one can possibly understand at a casual, outsider’s glance? In my heart, I apologize to him many times for this, and I almost always laugh, because I am beginning to be humbled by how many choices go into life.

So on Easter morning, I am taking stock. I am renewed with hope, I am educated by my past. I am going to slow down today. Perhaps I’ll see if the trout lily is up in the woods. Heck, I don’t even know if it grows this far east. There’s so much I don’t know. It’s such an adventure, this life. A pain in the ass to be sure, but humor and gratitude oil the big machine. I’m off to git her started. Nice and slow, Elizabeth, you’ve got a lot ahead.

Chickens by Name

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The first family consisted of several absolutely adorable fuzzy chicks my son (and I) simply could not resist buying at our local Tractor Supply. I’m guessing there are leagues of families who began their foray into backyard chickening in this way. Suckers.

Mr. Roosevelt:
We thought he was a she in the beginning. I would muse aloud to the bird “Why Mrs. Roosevelt, you’re looking rather masculine today” as she grew larger and more impressive. Indeed, she was a he. A robust, handsome and large dark red rooster with a lovely iridescent blue-green tail, he was a rooster to be reckoned with. A living example of how testosterone supersedes good judgement. He mounted the hapless hens incessantly, and chased humans just as mercilessly. We came to hang spray bottles full of water all about the property, so one might have some defense against the aggressive and random attacks. Yet we loved him. Elihu would pick him up and hold him in his tiny arms, whisper to him, sing to him… Elihu’s manifestation of forgiveness was touching. Mr. Roosevelt would back the boy into a corner and attack with beak and claw – my poor son would often come away with some blood on his face and arms, and always tears and a pounding heart. I once took up an axe and swung its blunt side at the rooster’s head to defend my son. Horrified at what I’d done, as the poor beast was simply following his internal program and meant nothing personal, I rushed to him to see if he was ok. He waggled his head side to side for a moment – with an almost comic effect – and strutted away, unaffected.

One hot summer day I found Mr. Roosevelt, headless, in the field. How on earth was this possible? This was the beginning of a long line of lessons to follow on life in the country. Many voted it was an ambush from above, but I’ve come to think it was a raccoon. They killed several of our chickens since then. Whomever the assailant, it was a most unexpected death, and we mourned. For a little while. That night, Elihu bounced back with a jolly song about the rooster’s demise. I was rather surprised. He is a farm boy, no doubt. No extra sentiment for such an end. Everyone has to die, and at least Mr. Roosevelt left us with a good story. And some beautiful tail feathers, which now reside in Elihu’s bird collection.

Buddha:
A nice light red hen who lived her name. She is the bird of unending patience who sits on the railing and just listens as Elihu sings a two-minute version of “Fire Burning On The Dance Floor”. She was the only hen to approach humans unafraid. The only one to accept tidbits from your hand. She lived with us for a year, including a few stints inside the house, in the cellar, during the coldest days of the winter.

Her death is on my hands; one night I left the garage door open a mere four inches. I was tired and chose not to wrestle the door tight to the ground. Anyhow, what sort of predator could enter through such a small opening? (Answer: muskrats, mink, fishers…) I soon learned it was big enough to allow a raccoon to slip inside and kill the innocent and sleeping residents. Months later, I found a wing of hers as I was cleaning up. “Too bad they wasted this bit” Elihu mused. Very practical boy.