stuff of dreams

And now we are on such a roll of golden days that I think our winter thoughts are out for good. See you next November, oh worries of dark days and dull landscapes!

But here's the thing -- this waking with the dawn to open and clean the coop? That worked well in March when dawn came around at 6:30. Today, at that hour, the sun is up and running! 






And the chickens are anxious to get going. I'll try harder tomorrow to get to them at the crack of dawn. In the meantime, Ed joins me outdoors. He spreads some chips as I attend to the chicks.






I watch them as they begin their morning routines. Some scratching for worms, yes that, but for the most part, they are light breakfast girls. They care more about their beauty routines now. And, too, they're a little taken aback by the cool air. I leave them to the puffing and preening and try to get a few more minutes of sleep.






Later in the morning: a hurried breakfast...






...and now Ed is off for his Friday design meetings and I break with routine and give the farmhouse one enormous scrub down. Because my little girl and her fiancee are coming down for the weekend!
Three reasons for the trip -- she tells me. Your birthday, then, too, Easter and wedding preparations.

Good enough! Though my birthday is on Monday, we'll celebrate it tomorrow. Under the golden April skies!

A few hours later, the farmhouse is spotless.
What next? I decide to put in a call to the chicken girl's mom. To talk about Lexie.
Everything alright? -- she asks.
Yes, mostly yes. Except there's this issue with the mean girl herself...

She gets it right away. She knows Lexie. She tells me: Let me take charge of that girl. Can I interest you in a different hen? A brown one this time.

These people love their chickens. She truly believes she can teach the hyper pecking brat how to take on a more angelic  disposition. She tells me she''ll coach her through these rough times. In exchange, I'll be fostering gentle, docile Butterscotch.
Wait a minute! I have "Butterscotch!"
Oh. Well, I thought our brown hen was named Butterscotch. That of course makes sense. Why the white hen (whom I call Butter) would be dubbed Butterscotch was a bit of a puzzler, but with foster chicks, you take 'em as they come.

And indeed, the chicken girl's mama comes this very afternoon with the sweetest, loveliest hen ever and for a minute I feel guilty foisting feisty Lexie back on her. But the fact is, you cannot get anything done with that foul-beaked crazy girl. When I worked the raspberry patch early in the afternoon, Lexie demonstrated that she is both inept at catching her own worm and determined to push her way to the front for a handout. If there is no handout, she gets upset. When she is upset, she pecks. Ouch! Lexie! To which she'll gabble good and long and then come around again to see if you have that worm on a platter for her.

And so quite suddenly, Lexie is out of our care.

As for the new girl? Well, given that her real family is a bit confused as to the names of their chicks, let me call her Scotch, to distinguish her from Butter. (Just for now. Scotch isn't an easy calling name!) And she is a dream child. When I hold her, she closes her eyes in that sleepy way, as if nothing could be better than that long cuddle in a stranger's arms. Suddenly, life with chickens is very very easy. [I am so naive. Stay tuned.]






Ed comes home, I show him how adorable Scotch is. Things seems so ...uncomplicated.






Until all hell breaks loose.

Have you ever introduced a new chicken into an existing flock? My advice: don't do it. Or go ahead and do it, but be prepared to suffer the war that will ensue.

And so, after my loving session with Scotch, I familiarize her with the coop and then the chicks roam free. Ed is home, I run errands, and now it's evening and we pause to survey our brood.

What's this? Scotch is under attack. The rooster nabs her. The hens, my docile girls, go after her as well. She retreats and forages by herself. Anytime she comes closer to the pack, the dynamics repeat themselves, only with greater ferocity.

Only then do we read about the perils of throwing in a new chicken into an established order. Apparently, everything is in chaos for them. A new pecking hierarchy must emerge. Before it does, there is war and the sweetest, most docile chicken will be the one to suffer at the hands and beaks of her "superiors."





And so this is where we are: we handed over Lexie the meanie, took in Scotch the sweetie and as a result, we have full scale war. At last viewing, poor Scotch is huddling outside the pen while the established girls stand possessively at the entrance of the coop. How this could possibly end well is beyond me.


UPDATE:

It's dark. The two girls and Oreo are in the coop, settled for the night. Poor Scotch is just outside the pen, terrified about going in. Ed and I approach her, sweet talk her. After a few minutes, she allows  me to pick her up. I hold her tight, this sweet, sweet girl that's about to be thrown to the wolves. I tell her it's the way nature intended. That in the end, order will be established and everyone will again be at peace. (Or dead. I don't tell her that.) She relaxes. I feel her warmth, her gentleness.

Ed opens the coop and I slip her in where the girls are. We latch the door for the night. We listen. Quiet. Nothing amiss yet. We walk away hoping that tomorrow morning, we will find four undamaged chickens, alive and well and ready to forage in the bright April sunshine.

work, with the participation of chickens

This was a humdinger of a day. The weather was right for work: slightly cool, dry. Perfect for finishing up the strawberry beds at both sides of the sheep shed. And for continued work on the new chicken space (to go up next week).

So simple to write. So hard to execute.

After breakfast (made so much brighter by the porch glass roof)...






...we go out with our shovels and rakes. Dig, pull fabric, remove weeds, cover with chips. All with the assistance of our brood. First by the sheep shed...






...then by the old barn.







And just so you know, we aren't the only ones working the farmette land today. Farmer Lee's sister is back on the field to the north of the barn and she is planting onions. From morning 'til dusk.






When Ed pauses for a rest, the chickens continue their play: scratch, pull out worm, swallow it whole.






They're really quite entertaining. For the most part. Twice, they do cause me to shake my head in dismay. First, when I put out a pot of spring pansies. They've not shown a love of young plants up to now. But for whatever reason, they decide that pansies are their food of choice this afternoon. I quickly hide the pot from them. To be resolved at another time.






The second misdeed is really just a Lexie issue. When we sit down to plant the two dozen strawberry clumps, she gets right into her pecking mode. You cannot do much before she flies after your shovel, shoe, sleeve. It's as if she believes that we are fighting her for the worms in the ground. Or maybe it's that she is out of sorts this afternoon. (It was one of the rare days when she did not lay an egg.) Kicking her is pointless. Shouting at her? Nah -- she has the louder squawk. A calm tone? Ed can be counted on to supply that. With very mixed results.






There is much about a chicken I will never understand.

Still, it was a productive day and truly, working with a flock of chickens at your side is far more delightful than working alone.






Besides, how can you not feel grand on the day your first daffodil sends out a yellow bloom?






By evening, we are completely exhausted. Ed suggests I not cook tonight, but as always, I find fixing supper far easier than driving out in search of food. Especially now, when eggs are so abundant. Organic! Free range! Delicious.






You didn't get a sunrise photo today. It was mostly cloudy in those early minutes when I went out to clean the coop. But I'll hand you a sunset. As seen from our bedroom window.






The chickens, at least in the summer, keep to a schedule that tracks the arrival and the disappearance of the sun. A glance out the window tells me it's time to lock the coop for the night. And as soon as I publish this post, I'll be right there with the chickens and Ed -- retiring for the day. We're all pooped. Completely, thoroughly.

digging

You can assume that between April 15 and June 15, I'll be spending every good weather hour outdoors. This is the time when most of farmette work needs to surge forward. After that, it's just a question of maintenance.

If every day in these two months was to be fantastic and if Ed continues to be as helpful as he has always been, I may get much of it done this year. But, weather patterns are never reliable in spring and, too, indoor tasks never quite go away and so I'm sure to falter somewhat. And that's okay. My outdoor work is good work. It must never fall into the category of indifferent, unpleasant, or rushed. Outdoor work is as much for the soul as it is for physical endurance and visual pleasure.


When the day starts off both cloudy and windy, I hesitate. Still, the promised climb to the low 50s is a good sign. Even the chickens are sprightly this morning. They're out of the pen, the minute I open the coop and gate.






Over breakfast (in the sun room, because the clouds are starting to part)...





...we talk about which outdoor work has the highest priority. The vegetable beds are more or less ready. Not so the strawberry beds. We prepared three fours of them last fall. We need to finish the job now.

It's back breaking work. Probably one of the harder jobs that we have before us this season. We need to dig up a fabric that's buried under a foot of soil and weeds. And pull out small shrubs and unwanted box elder trees that took off in all the wrong places. And finally, layer it all with a foot of wood chips.

And here's the (funny, delightful or disconcerting -- you decide) part: the chickens follow us to the sheep shed, where we're starting work on the beds and they are thrilled with our digging! Oh, do they feast on worms today!






It is, unfortunately, difficult to work with chickens under foot and under shovel, but still, it is so satisfying to see them this happy. Lexie's excitement translates to hyper pecking, even as she tries to restrain herself. The others are calmer, but no less thrilled to have fresh dirt to claw through.
That's your egg -- Ed points to one of the hens who is at the moment swallowing a slimy worm. From that very worm, you'll have scrambled eggs for .
He can be so.. graphic.





Just as the box of strawberries arrives in the mail, we shovel in the last layer of wood chips. Tomorrow, if we're inspired, we may return to finishing the raspberries.


Again the hawk soars overhead and again Oreo lets out the alarm and they huddle under an old grape vine until the hawk gives up and moves elsewhere. This is the time to be grateful for the thicket of trees and shrubs at the farmette. They shield the chickens from overhead predators.


At the end of the day, I pour water into a dish and they huddle in the courtyard, thirsty and eager to drink. Sometimes, they seem like they are the most congenial birds on the planet. This surely is one of those moments.






Even Isis stares at them with less suspicion.






Day is done. Muscles ache. Chickens happy. Foster chick keepers happy as well.

spring snow

If you can just pretend it's a different season, you'll think this day to be totally beautiful. I mean, imagine waking up to a delicate snow, a ruby toned sunrise, a loud chirping of birds, a promise of blue skies:




















Heaven, right?

Not for the chickens.

I come to the coop just as the sun breaks the horizon. I open their door and get ready to clean their quarters. Except that no one wants to come out.

Try cleaning a small coop with chickens in it.

I lure them out with corn. But though they come out, they tread delicately on the fresh layer of snow. Unsure. I'm puzzled. They've lived through a winter already. Have they forgotten how to deal with the white stuff? Is 20F suddenly unthinkable? Lexie, the bravest of the set, flies to the roof of the coop. But rather than pecking at me, she stand on one foot and huddles inside her feathers.






Okay. I leave them alone. But it isn't until after our breakfast...






...that they come out to explore.






As the day warms (well, relatively speaking), Ed and I review projects that need our attention. There are so many!

We decide to work on expanding our vegetable plot out back. We need to rotate the tomatoes out and create a new space for them. And, weed the existing bed. And throw additional chips on the entire space.

And we've got company!






Still, this isn't the chiks' stomping ground. They check out our work...






... then return to their beloved farmette courtyard.  Home. Theirs, ours.

Inside the farmhouse, I'm lining up plants that will be going outside soon.






These are the weeks to exercise patience. Mustn't rush it. Revel in the fact that there is green grass under a a night layer of snow. Look forward to the weeks just before you.

I do. Three weeks (or so) to the planting season. Incredible.

an April day

Yes, it is possible to have snow here in the middle of April. And yes, showers are common at this time of the year. And, too, you can have some chilly days. Yes, not to exceed 35F.

But just because all this can happen, doesn't mean that you like it when it does.

I was expecting a cold Monday and I got it!

There is no sunrise photo for you. It was one of those gray ornings and the chickens weren't especially anxious to go out and forage when I released them from the coop and pen sometime around 7. Lexie was going nuts, dancing around me with the expectation of some kind of a treat -- like a kid whose parent went away to an exotic place, surely warranting a return with a gift, no?

Lexie is still likely to peck at you when she is worked up and I have to admit, cleaning the coop then can be a challenge. Ed locks the chicks out when he does it. I feel like they need to settle down with me going through their personal belongings, so I let them stay in the pen, but as a result, the whole process takes forever.

And did I mention it is cold?

And that there is snow on the ground?






Indeed. But snow is the least of our issues. It had rained so hard in the last two days that the wheel barrow is nearly filled to the top with water. The blanket shielding the coop from winds is one soppy mess. It isn't pretty outside.

Or is it?






In my absence, two things happened: the daffodils had a growth spurt. And so did Lexie! My scrawny girl is nearly as big as Butter! It's not easy to tell them apart these days (well, their personalities give them away...).






(Somewhere in these morning hours, there was breakfast.)






Later, as we return from Menards (cedar planting pots, on sale!),  I see them: hawks. Three, circling overhead. One of them is zeroing in on the courtyard of the farmette. Suddenly, I know it: the chickens are in danger. You know the expression slam on the brakes? I do the opposite:  slam on the gas pedal.What are you doing?? -- this from a horrified Ed.

I swerve into the driveway, run out and wave my arms wildly. The hawk is low, the chickens are frozen. Most are inside the pen, but Butter is outside, under a tree.
Ed - you look wild!
They say if you wave your arms enough, the hawk will eventually quit harassing the chickens.

It's sad to think of their inability to ward off all dangers. They wait, defenseless, hoping a hawk (or some other predator) will leave them alone. And maybe he will and maybe he wont. This one swoops down one last time and flies away.





We have another cold day ahead of us. After that? No promises. And yet, maybe this is the last of the wintry mix?

I cook up a pot of chicken soup for supper. Ed looks at me quizzically. I shrug my shoulders. There are Lexie, Oreo, Butter, Whitney. Then there is chicken from the grocery store. Funny how the mind works.






The wind howls, the temperature falls. Yep, it's April.

shower time

Because Minneapolis was once the home of a good friend, I've surely been to this city before. An Ocean reader can see the tag at the side: I've had many wonderful visits here.

And still, when your daughter moves to a place, that place takes on a new aura. The streets that were once interesting to me, the tourist, are now streets that she walks -- on her way to her office or to the store. And so it is with great excitement that I come to this city on a cloudy but still warm April day.





I'm in Minneapolis to see the apartment where she and her fiance now live. Yes, that. But there's more. My girl is lucky to have her fiance's family here (he's a Minneapolis boy!) and they, along with family friends are hosting a stock-the-bar shower for the soon-to-be-marrieds. And so we have my girl's family (her sister, dad and this Ocean blogger) and her fiance's family (brother, parents, grandpa, uncle) coming together for the first time and it is such a gala day that it may as well be the wedding itself -- we are all feeling quite celebratory!

I wont inundate you with family photos. But you must tolerate just a few! It is such a wonderful day and the Minnesotans welcome us so warmly that Ocean has to serve its other function: a place to commemorate family milestones. Beautiful ones at that.

So, walk through it with me! (I'll limit myself to photos of people you know by now.)

There was a quick breakfast, picked up at a local bakery (46 Patisserie), but eaten at the young couple's home:











There was a family brunch (at Salut Brasserie):






Then the shower itself:





















And a late get together at the young couple's place to make a final selection of wedding wines.





















I haven't partied so royally in a long, long time.

My days of travel end on this Sunday. I'm with my girls again...






...and I go to a morning brunch (at the Bachelor Farmer -- a "new Nordic" place; yum!) with the two of them and my daughter's soon to be husband...











...and then we take the long route along the Mississippi to the airport. As I look at the mighty river and study the homes that line this important waterway, I think how good it is to have my girls live in such warm places. Because, of course, warmth isn't just about the degrees outside. Ignore the chunks of ice on the river. Think, instead, how many, good hours I have with my girls, their partners, families, friends. Hot, I tell you. Positively hot.


I fly home over stormy skies and again come in right on schedule. At the farmette, the chickens are hiding under the truck from the heavy rains. Ed teaches me his modified routines with them. See? No chasing! I smile at his innovations. The garden? Not destroyed yet! I'll show you how it is looking these days tomorrow.