Thursday

Oh, the noise, the squawking, screeching, flailing! I heard it when I stepped out to place a letter in the mailbox. It sounded desperate and mean.
Ed! Ed! -- not that he could hear me through the closed windows of the farmhouse, but I felt the need to shout for his help.
I'm inside the house now, panting -- I think the coop has been attacked!
Did you go see what happened?
No! I want you to come! It sounds awful!

But of course, I'm dressed and ready. He tells me to get going -- I'll catch up.

As I approach the coop, the noise is just tremendous. I see that Scotch is outside and she is part of the trouble. Standing on a bench by the sheep shed, the girl is positively screaming. I would transcribe it to something like - I don't like this! I don't like this! I don't like this!

I turn toward the coop. Ed is at my heels. Downstairs, Butter is chasing Henny who is a great flyer, but you just can't fly in a space that is less than two feet tall. Java is upstairs, taking up a huge portion of the roost. (She is one big girl.)

I chase Butter out of the coop with a broom. Everything is suddenly very quiet. As if nothing had happened. As if there had been no battle, no great disturbance.

Well it sounded horrible!
Pecking order: they're still working it out.

I blame their prolonged squabble on the bad weather. We'd introduced new hens before: I'd say it was more like placing a new singer into an existing choir. Oh, you have to shuffle things around to make room, and someone doesn't like being put behind, another one relishes the front row spotlight, but eventually the singing continues and apart from a kick and nudge, you'll hardly notice any ruffled feathers. But here, it's cold and the new hens are staying in the coop and it seems that every time Butter walks by she feels compelled to show how put upon she is by the intrusion. She wont go after big Java in a confined space, but she has no problem chasing Henny, who is, in fact of a more anxious disposition.

The warm air is almost with us. Perhaps tempers will ease and the hens will move back to the business of laying eggs. It cannot happen soon enough.


Breakfast. A blissfully quiet meal. A moment of total peace.






And now I shift gears again. I'm with my granddaughter one last day before again retreating for a bit, this time because of a trip up north to visit my younger girl and her husband.

Snowdrop is already dressed and ready to play and as I watch her, I smile at how sometimes an article of clothing will bring on a mood. I remember seeing a number of skirts and dresses this season that have a sort of dancer's element -- gauzy skirts, that kind of thing. It's a fad, it will pass, but this season, girls, big and small (at least on the other side of the ocean) seem to sport these fuller skirts. And the funny thing is that in this morning hour, Snowdrop, who otherwise seems not especially dance inclined (at this stage, she is a runner and a climber), seems to be raising her leg just so.






Favoring her tippy toes...






Stretching out her arms in her run.






Oh, I know it's just in my mind, possibly because of this impending visit with my younger daughter who, in fact, was a great dancer once, but it is a sweet recollection and I enjoy it especially because it came without prompt or any actual awareness on Snowdrop's part of what she was doing.

Onto the more serious business of what, in fact, has been an important discovery for the little babe -- sometime this week, she has enthusiastically embraced the game of "point to (fill in the blank)." Ask her to point to a giraffe or a strawberry and she literally pounds her finger on the given item (possibly because that has been my way of pointing as well).






And why use just one hand ...






And so is our morning: point to the banana! the baby! Oh, the joy of understanding what's what in this world!

In the afternoon, well, this was the one thing on her mind: are we going out yet?






Why she loves these excursions on days when we're just hovering around freezing is beyond me. Perhaps a testament to her time of birth -- in the deep chill of January.



(pointing, this time to the pinwheel)



We've discovered a new favorite cafe -- a bit further, but the staff more than makes up for the chill of those extra minutes outside. Lovely people who make a point of remembering your name. And her name.






Yes, telltale signs of cookie on her mouth. I always buy just one, for Ed, and she and I split a few crumbs of it.






Today, I let her explore a little on her own.
Just watch the wine bottles, Snowdrop!






Can I run here, grandma?
Go for it, little one. Go for it.






I'll leave you with that image of the girl on the run.


At home,  I find Ed petting Butter (to appeal to her gentler instincts) as the new girls watch.





We feed them in their various private places and eventually they all migrate upstairs in the coop. Not a sound. No protest. Tonight, all is calm. The beginning of a more permanent truce? One can hope.

Wednesday

Sometimes sunshine can perk up the most prickly set of hours. Then there is a day like this one:

The old hens laid their eggs in the barn. We hadn't noticed. The eggs froze.

The new cheepers are up in the roost without interruption for what is now the second day. I brought up food for them, feeling like I have two aging grannies rather than spry new hens.

The morning reading on my walk to open the coop was 5F (-15C).

At breakfast (in the sun room), Ed thought it was funny to hide behind the blender container.





At Snowdrop's home, the little girl wanted to pound on my laptop even more than she wanted to play with penguin, hat and jacket. When I refused, she was crestfallen. And no, distraction didn't work. At least not for significant parts of the morning.

She didn't finish her breakfast and was therefore hungry.

The banana I ate was so rotten that for a moment I wondered if even a pig would reject it.

And so on.

None of these are great menacing events in the scheme of things, but they show that the day was just a little off center. As if someone forgot to give us instructions on how to keep things on an even keel.


And yet, there is that golden warmth of the sun...






... and the snow and the sky took on beautiful shades of blue...






And Snowdrop never goes for long without showing her radiance.






After all, happiness can be as little or as much as a crumb of cookie after a cold, long walk to a cafe...











... or a page full of penguins.







Later, at the farmette, there is the usual negotiating with the girls: which chicken gets what treat in whose corner. Ed had intervened, picking up the new girls and placing them outside. I throw each pair of hens food, making sure that no one is expropriating the riches of another.



(not afraid to touch snow)




(still afraid of nearly everything)


Finally. Everyone is set for the night. Safely inside the coop. At the farmhouse, I heat up leftover soup for supper. Outside, a herd of some dozen deer pass through.






The start of the day was rocky. Now, at the end of it, I can hardly recall why. Looking back, it seems so very lovely.

March

Everyone's recalling the old saying -- March roars in like a lion. Maybe it does. But looking outside, I'm grateful that the overnight big snow was not so big after all. I've missed a plentiful snow cover all winter long, but come March, I'm done with winter dreams. My foot is firmly into Spring.

But it is below freezing, and there is a wind, and there is some snow on the ground. I wonder about the cheepers. The young girls seem completely baffled by the manners and foibles of nature. We chalk it up to a lifetime of barn-living, but who knows -- perhaps they are still adjusting to the newness of their environment, coping, as it were, by taking on a watchful stance.

I am up very early. I don't want warfare behind closed doors, where Java and Henny are trapped and have to endure the pecks and squawks of their "superiors." But as I approach the coop, all is quiet. Ed had thrown some old sleeping bags to keep the winds and snow out and honestly, it looked peaceful and snug in the newly winter-pretty landscape.

I open the coop door and dust off snow that has blown in and covered their feeding tray. Butter and Scotch hear me and they come down readily enough. I had shoveled a path to the barn for them and they step out tentatively, testing the gravity of the situation.






Good enough! They're off!






Good bye, top hens! Enjoy your barn romp! (I throw them some treats there to keep them happy. It is, after all, not their fault that nature programmed them to establish order and hegemony in a brood of hens.)

Back in the coop, I raise the roost flap. Java and Henny are snuggled inside.






They do get up when I poke my hand in to clean the place up for the day, but one look at the snow-dusted gangplank and they turn back. Suit yourselves, girls. Some day you'll understand (if not appreciate) the beauty of the seasons.

I walk back to the farmhouse, taking in perhaps for the last time, the snow, the stillness of the land...






It's not still for long. We get a call from a local several tree service. They have a truck heaped with wood chips that they're looking to offload. Yes, of course! We'll take them! (We never pass on a free load of chips and indeed, we throw down several dozen truck loads in the course of a season. We use them for weed suppression and soil enrichment and path maintenance and for aesthetic reasons too. We think that the beauty of the farmette depends on a steady supply of (preferably free) chips.)

The tree service company dumps the load underneath the big willow. From there, we'll distribute the chips as needed. The tree guy is anxious to unload and get it all out before the entire lot heats up to dangerous levels.

I tell Ed that even though I spent the first years of life and nearly every childhood summer in the deep Polish countryside, I never learned this truth about a heap of damp organic matter: it can turn into smoldering fire that will burn down your barn if you let it be.
Every farmer knows this about storing silage, Ed tells me shaking his physical science-inclined head in that "what kind of a country woman are you anyway?" manner.
I'm not a farmer. And by the way, how hot does it get when we leave the chips alone for a longer spell? (We take our time in spreading them.)
I've checked them in the past -- not really more than 100F, but give them the right environment and boom! Combustion.

Nature has so many surprises for the planet's uneducated inhabitants.

Finally, breakfast. Warm oatmeal in our warm kitchen. Heaven on a morning like this one.






The roads are icy, but I'm used to it. Everyone here, in Wisconsin is used to it. You take the turns slowly. You concentrate. You watch for the mistakes of others.

I arrive at Snowdrop's home only one minute late.

And now it's time for her breakfast. Hey little one, you must stop expressing sheer joy at seeing penguin. It's hard to feed you mush with blueberries when your mouth is all over that guy.






After, she runs to the kitchen and finds that I have set out her jacket and cap for a later excursion. 
And excursion? Can we go now? 






I'll put on my cap! Run, run run...






Not so fast, little one. Bath time, play time -- we have lots to do here.






Snowdrop is flexible. And so happy with whatever game she invents for herself. Today, Snowdrop is at her most creative: she plays all day long with these three items: jacket, cap and penguin, arranging them, carrying them, placing them in interesting setups, all the while keeping a lively patter going, as if telling a story.






(She shares her story here with the family queen, who, for once, listens.)






... until tiredness overtakes the little girl.






Nothing that a nap and a meal can't fix. The afternoon -- well, I suppose you'd call it adventuring on a small scale. All morning, the snow continued to gently fall and now, things are looking rather pretty outside. What if we venture out to a store? Time to restock on peanuts and daffodils from Trader Joe's no?






...followed by a visit to a cafe. You can see her sense of comfort now, as if she were thinking -- I can get into this coffee culture.






She remains perfectly satisified with a few crumbs of a gingersnap cookie.






Outside, I let her manage just a little on her own. Okay grandma, if penguins can walk through snow, so can I!






I feel like the girl grew in leaps and bounds these past few days.


And at the end of the day, I drive home to that treasured place, the farmette, that humbly stands beneath our great Midwestern sky.






Home, where the cheepers greet us (the old girls had spent the day in the barn, the new girls -- in the coop... so predictable!), and trees are just waiting until the moment when their buds burst with signs of life again.






I make a pizza for dinner. Did you ever wonder which topping is placed first -- the mushrooms or the cheese? I've been making pizza for a while now and only today have I come to a satisfactory resolution to this great dilemma. Can you guess?





(Answer: in my opinion, do the sauce first, then the mushrooms, then the cheese, then a few more mushrooms and garlic. There! Ocean has placed itself in the thick of great controversy!)

March came in like a lion, but only weather-wise. All other ways: a lamb. A total lamb.

leap day

I have a squabble with whoever thought to tag on an extra day to February. Who wants any more of February? Why not do it to May? You can't get enough of May! That's one beautiful month! I think even people in Australia are okay with May because it's not quite winter yet. But February? When it could have been March today?

I'm up early. Last night was horrible for the new hens. Henny in particular was mercilessly pecked at anytime she tried to go up to the preferred upstairs portion of the coop (less exposed, comfy wood shavings). Butter would not let her do it. Finally a miserable Henny huddled in the bottom corner of the coop, giving up the comfort for the sake of peace.

As I walk toward the cheepers now at sunrise, I gaze at the sky for a clue as to how the day will proceed. We have a couple of tricky days ahead: some say tomorrow will bring merely a temporary dip into the temperatures, others predict a half a foot of snow. And today -- well, it's transitional. Yes, the sky looks undecided as well.






I open the coop, the older girls fly out. Java is upstairs. Henny is a ball of feathers in the downstairs corner.

Is she dead?

I reach in and gently touch her back.

Nothing.

I give another light pet.

Nothing.

Okay, I guess the girl's in shock. I reach for her, but this noise and movement takes her right out of whatever stupor had taken over and she thrashes and runs (insofar as you can run in a small space) and I know that, whatever her psychological state, at least she is not physically hurt.

All hens are out of the coop now and I notice that Butter's foot is quite fine again. So why the curled toes, the limp, the inability to use the foot yesterday?

There is much that I do not understand about chickens.

As I stand there throwing corn and seed on the ground, both Scotch and Butter made sure that neither of the two newbies would come near the treat.



(the new girls, eyeing seeds they cannot eat)


Still, I have to smile. I remember when Scotch was added to the flock and the white hens attacked her. She seemed so sweet and vulnerable then. Now she's part of the ruling elite. How quickly fates and fortunes shift in life!


It's sunny enough for us to eat breakfast in the sun room.



(Ed eats an egg we found hidden in the barn: Butter's protest yesterday at the coop invasion)


And then I shift gears again, putting the matter of chickens aside, as this is the day Snowdrop comes to the farmhouse.

Hey little one, your new shoes arrived today! Let's see if they put you in a better mood when we go outside.

A trial run indoor first...






Good, good. Now let's go meet the new cheepers.

Ed joins us and he sits her down on the fence to watch. She clutches the bread, thinking perhaps that big Java doesn't look especially food deprived.






On the ground now, liking the feeling of being in control -- it's Snowdrop, the fearless flyer!






I remind her she still has some bread for the older girls. Oh, those two come running! They know what comes from that little hand.






Snowdrop knows Scotch and Butter and she likes them just fine (I haven't told her about the chicken brutality that took place in the coop last night).

But there's something equally interesting out here that she hasn't yet had a chance to play with:





The pinwheels survived the winter just fine (which I think is telling: a heavy snow would have crushed them). And she is delighted that they are at her level. Scotch, you're just going to have to wait.

The new girls? Well, they spent most of the day inside.



(java closeup)


But that's okay. We did as well.