the vulnerable

Heads up -- this is a tough post to write and probably more than one of you will find it ridiculously over-emotional, but Ocean is Ocean, Ed is Ed, I am who I am. In other words, hang in there, this too shall pass!

Let me not dance around the drama: last night, Ed went to close up the coop and as he put the two big girls inside, he checked to make sure the little ones were safe in there.

Both were dead, brutally attacked by a predator.

We spent the night hours burying them and alternately crying (well, that would be me) and telling each other that this is it: we have no stomach for nature's tough rules. We wont get new hens.

The two Brahmas -- they weren't here long, but they sure had an impact on us. Their little chirpy noises -- so sweet and gentle -- possibly gave them away that night. They never tired of talking to each other. Easy to find, easy to attack.

You'll say -- they're just chickens! Indeed. You would be right.  After all, we eat their eggs and have chicken meat not infrequently for supper. Too, we follow the news of the world. We're heartbroken over the hardships endured by so many!

And still, the little hens were part of our small slice of calm here, at the farmette. They came with chirps and trust and each morning they were the first to greet me and to follow me as I cleared a spot for them to munch on handfuls from the $4 (not the $3.50!) bag of scratch. We loved them for their sweet souls and their quiet mark on the landscape around us.

It was a very hard night for the both of us.


This morning, Scotch and Butter seem glad to leave the coop area. Well no wonder -- even though they themselves were outside the coop, they surely saw and heard last night's raid. The fact is, they may themselves be in danger. The predator has not gone away (we know that from nocturnal diggings). We will be locking them up on the early side and Ed will make sure all the coop latches are in good working condition. After that, we can hope that whatever instinct kept Scotch and Butter safe all these years will help them along now as well. (And no, we wont get a dog to guard the hens. Not even a rooster. It isn't clear one would have helped and most free range hens manage to get by on their own.)


Breakfast on the porch.






The two older hens hover near the farmhouse.












I work on laying down wood chips.






And then I have a day with the girl who is herself so young and so vulnerable. It's easy to slip in caring for the young. I tend to be one of those over protective types and so she is not likely to fall down stairs or go crashing into hard furniture. As I watch her, what stands out is how much trust a child has in the world of adults and how nonetheless imperfect we are in living up to that total confidence the little ones have in us.



(crawling over to grandma)


We play, talk, sing, eat -- the usual set of beautiful tasks and routines. I smile when she smiles and believe me, that's a lot of smiling in the course of the day!






She does a sweet imitation of a kissing sound, not yet understanding how potent that little gesture is -- how warmly reassuring.






(And of course, she does a lot of chewing!)






(... and crawling!)



(can I catch up to the cats?)


 And we go for a walk around the little lake on this bright, cloudless day. Yes we do! The weather is nearly perfect.






And the day goes by so quickly! Snowdrop makes sure of that.


In the evening, Ed rides his bike, I do some more wood chip work around the yard. All is quiet. All is calm. I hope it stays this way for a long, long time.

if it's Tuesday...

Well, this is the last of the "...if it's Tuesday" banners, as the schedule changes somewhat next week and Snowdrop switches to a Monday at the farmhouse. And even today is somewhat convoluted and strange, as we are cycling through some heavy storms and heavy schedules and all in all, it's one of those days where you're glad you have a roof over your head (the rains!) and sleep under your belt.

I am up ridiculously early for the cheepers and I rush to give them a few minutes of stretching and scratching before the rains return.









(sharing water)






(the lily that thinks it's still summer)



Of course, our girls are insanely lucky, as they have a whole huge barn to escape to at a time of storms -- rain, snow, and whatever else falls out of the sky -- but still, I'm of the European old school where you believe fresh air is as important to one's well being as anything else this planet has to offer (and that includes a chicken's well being) and so I'm glad they have at least a few minutes to cavort among the wet shrubs and grasses.


I'm about to settle in to a leisurely breakfast preparation (a routine that I quite adore), when we get the call that one of our wood chip sources -- a local tree service -- has a truckload of chips to deliver. We hadn't heard from any of the tree crunchers in months and we assumed it would be spring before we would return to yard work of this kind and yet, here we are, with a ditch and driveway filled with chips.

And so right after breakfast (which is on the early side because I do need to be at Snowdrop's home before 9)...






...Ed starts to load the cart with the chips...






... and that gets us exactly nowhere because the rains then come down and I mean really come down and so we abandon all pretense of outdoor work and hide inside.


And now it's 9 and I am at Snowdrop's home and the girl is waking and we begin our day together.

There are many, many themes to pick out from any day with her. A few ideas: "the daily rituals" -- which would include that early bath, which I give her even before she eats breakfast...






"The favorite games" --  a solid chunk of time on the jumparoo guarantees some giggly moments...



(a third tooth coming in on the bottom, of all things! the girl likes to do things her own way.)



... It would have to include a lot of crawling toward her favorite toys. Here, she is greeting her friend, the sloth.






Or how about this theme: "new challenges!" In this next photo, she is standing at her favorite post in her room -- by the rocking chair with the koala cover on it. She is not solid on her feet yet and still she loves this swaying, unsteady place and, to make things harder on herself, she loves to stand on tippy-toe!






But honestly, the theme that keeps pushing its way to the forefront for me is the very many ways in which Snowdrop expresses joy. Her smiles and giggles vary, of course and they're all beautiful.






And that's just our morning. Because on this day, if it's Tuesday,  we must spend some time at the farmhouse.

The rains have receded for a little while...






...and so I go over with Snowdrop to meet the new hens. Ed is delighted that the young girls do not, for the most part, shy away from being petted!






The egg isn't hers, it's Butter's, but still, this is a photo of a man who loves his friendly cheepers.


Snowdrop is equally photogenic at the farmhouse, but I'm concentrating on play over picture taking and so you get just this one, which tracks its own theme:






Late in the afternoon, I swing back to Snowdrop's home, where stroller walks are easier, especially when there's still the possibility of rain (there are many places to run and hide in the city). We head out.






She's different today. Perhaps because it's just me and she doesn't hear the voices she is so used to hearing from behind the stroller. She keeps straining her head to see if I am still there and then she smiles her radiant smile when she is reassured. We do this maybe two, three dozen times.






Back at her house, she is still chipper, still happy, though a tad more serious.






And then, I hear the garage door open and I know the parents are coming home and I tell her this and she is coy: she crawls to the sound of her mommy's voice, not sure, not sure... and then she sees her mommy and all's right with the world again.





And it is for me all right as well, because if there is one goal that I have in my hours with Snowdrop, it's not that she should learn X or Y, or that she should eat all her fruits and veggies (though the latter is surely important), but that she will remember the important things in life. She is a smart girl: she gets it. In that image, she lets me know that she gets it.


At the farmette, the rains have receded. It's late, but nonetheless, I plant 60 bulbs that we purchased last Saturday. I think about spring each time I push a bulb six inched into the earth -- wow, spring. A long time away.

And maybe that's a good thing.

Labor Day

It rained at night -- oh, did it rain! The kind of rain that makes you hope that there are no cracks in the roof and that you remembered to bring in every tool, bike and glove from the court yard (there aren't and we did).

We needed the rain and we're better for it now and by morning, though the clouds still hover and chances of storms linger, it nonetheless feels fresh outside and the earth has shaken off its dusty pallor. No watering of pots today, no needed! Time in your pocket right there.

As I walk out to open the coop, I wonder how the hens regard the rain. Ed had strengthened the roof on the hut so that there aren't leaks (there were big one last year), but you have to wonder if the pounding of a storm makes them uneasy.

They seem none the worse this morning -- all eager to be out as they wait for that morning treat of a handful of grain. We splurged and paid 50 cents more for the organic bag and if ever there was a product that appealed to everyone's fancy -- this one is it! Even the chipmunks can't stay away as I scatter the grains. Boldly, they come out and join the pack of hens.






The fields around us are wet -- everything is wet, dripping wet, but the air is warm still and I expect by mid morning, we'll be dry again.






Breakfast... Lovely, warm, summer-like breakfast.






And then we motivate ourselves (it takes some doing!) to go out to the veggie patch to weed the grape vines and tie the branches to the wires. But fifteen minutes into the project, we give up. The sun is out again -- that hot summer sun that tells us we need another storm to make a dent in the heat we've been having. We weed, yes, we do that much, but then we retreat to the farmhouse. It's Labor Day, no? A day of less work and more contemplation about the value of work and the balance one must strive to reach between the demand of work and the lust for nonwork.


In the afternoon, I spend a brief while with Snowdrop. Her hair tussled, her face inquiring -- she is, to me, a bag of wonders!






Is she really still just a baby?






The three of us (mom, Snowdrop, me) take a walk again and the little one tries to hold in her grin, but today, she she just can't help herself!






The girl is in such a good mood!



(on a self-timer)




(proudly standing while I hover; also on a self-timer)



And then, in the evening, the young family comes to the farmhouse for Labor Day supper, out on the porch of course. Every now and then, a wisp of sun pokes through...






...but even in the cloudy moments, it is a beautiful evening! I cook inside, but now that there is a door! and there are steps! -- the dinner itself is easy to bring out at the last minute.

How beautiful it is to sit back in the protected shelter and linger over a last bit of food, throwing a glance at the little one who has her own play space right next to us.






My daughter comments that the goldenrod is just beautiful...






It is, but in fact, everything about the evening is beautiful!





Every last bit of it.

I know summer doesn't end for another couple of weeks, but it ends for me now, with this last beautiful hurrah, on the porch, tonight. After this weekend, we move into Fall.

Sunday

I would give our farmhouse cleaning work today an A for effort and a B+ for execution. By the time noon rolled around, I'd been up for five hours and the thrill of cleaning and tidying was definitely waning. Still, there is never a shortage of work around here -- only a shortage of will and of time.

I began my day as always, around the coop area. I did a thorough job of cleaning the little hut and changing the wood shavings inside, pausing to watch the hens dance around each other, still cautiously, but not belligerently.

[By the way, I never did explain that they are Oprie and Apple to commemorate the day they came to live with us -- a day where I was also bringing home cakes for Snowdrop's baptismal weekend. You'll recall, perhaps, that one cake was the traditional French Opera cake and the other -- a Tarte Tatin, which is nothing more than an apple upside down cake, caramelized in a pan rather than just baked in the oven. So, Oprie and Apple.]






In these early hours, I profit from Ed being still in bed, in that early morning haze of tranquility and unawareness and I chop down a tree that was a relic from days when there weren't any flower fields spinning off the courtyard. The tree -- a ghastly thing with prickly spurs nearly two inches long still has roots that will force new growth, but for now, I don't have to look at it. Yay.






Neither of us are motivated to do a thorough Sunday housecleaning. Ed has a list of small repairs to attend to and I just did a fine cleaning job last week, but then one thing leads to another and before long, we are pulling out the refrigerator and vacuuming the cobwebs in the basement and honestly, it feels like I am getting the place ready for some secret inspection. (You could well ask -- who cares if there are cobwebs in the basement?)

It's a hot day -- almost too hot to eat a late breakfast on the porch...






But I am very much aware of the fact that it's the last of the hot days this year and so the outdoors beckons, because honestly, I prefer feeling a touch warm to being chilled by a blast of cold morning air.

The garden is still holding its own. Our expectations aren't high and so it continues to pleasantly surprise us.



the last roses are always the most beautiful





looking toward the porch, from the west



And so we work hard and sweat a bit but our list of must-dos grows smaller, in anticipation perhaps of the inevitable new breaks and malfunctions that always come along.






In the afternoon, I play for a while with Snowdrop. She is now officially eight months and one day old -- something that is so obvious if you're with her, even as you can't believe that she has accumulated this much wisdom already in her young life.



(her lovely greeting face)






(I'm into working through books today, grandma!)


We go for a walk -- the three of us: Snowdrop, her mom, her grandma. She is so used to this routine that she seems quite content, despite the incredible heat.




(a walk? we're going for a walk?! Yay.)


After, a few more minutes of play...






...and I'm off, on Rosie, scooting home. This is the best time to ride a motorbike -- when the hot air feels buoyant and strong against your frame as you speed along the rural road. I remember when I used to come visit, before moving here. I thought then how beautiful the landscape is! I still think that as I turn in toward our dirt driveway.







The evening light on an early September evening is stunning.






Simply stunning.