Renewing Magic.

I remember when I was very small and my parents had first obtained our own little flock of chickens just how magical t was, as a small child, to go into the coop to collect the eggs.

The rational mind knows this is a natural, normal part of living, but for a small child it is still a magical event. Long after the magic had worn off for me, my cousin still had that magic when she came to visit and would often ask to go out to check for the eggs.

That was decades ago. Half a lifetime ago. For herself and I, the first eggs fro our is flock were a new kind of magic and if you've read the early postings on this blog, I am sure you've read about the excruciating wait we went through followed by the sheer elation of those first eggs from our hand raised babies.

Yesterday, the seven year old daughter of a friend was visiting  and she asked if she could go visit the chickens. I hadn't collected the eggs yet, so I asked her if she'd like to help me do that.

Out we strode to the coop, and with the hens and particularly the rooster momentarily distracted by a fresh handful of cracked corn, I opened the nesting boxes for our young guest to check. She was delighted to find the eggs and collect them herself. She proudly brought the eggs inside to show her mother and beamed as if she had laid them herself! The eggs were cartooned and sent home with them to enjoy.

Children raised with chickens may not quite understand this thrill, nor children raised in the city with no exposure to these experiences at all. But for a young child, old enough to know what's going on, this first experience is positively magical.

Moreover, it is a reaffirmation of the magic of my own long past experiences and makes me feel utterly refreshed to seethe wonder on the face of a child.

Had an odd thought concerning the yearly ritual of children hunting for Easter eggs. Some chickens will lay eggs in random places if they're not used to laying in a box. The spring is when they start laying again after a brief winter shut-down. I wonder if some frustrated ancient farmer in northern Europe had a flock of hens laying 'willy nilly' and decided to make a game of it by sending his children out to hunt for the hens' best 'hiding' places around the farmstead.

Silly thoughts for a Sunday morning.

Will Never Learn.

I'll probably never learn.

Yesterday I came home from work and, with a goodly amount of daylight left, thought I'd let the chickens out into the yard for some exercise and wild scratch. Hither and fore they roamed without a care and nary did they once stray to the neighbors yard. Thus, I went about my business inside while they found an old, untilled flower bed that had last years' flowers coming up again. Lots of new shoots and bugs to eat there!

After a time, I realized my wife would be home soon and I should think about getting some dinner together for her. I am, perhaps, the worst cook. I cook only just so well so as not to die and my wife is eternally patient and grateful for a hot meal that she didn't have to cook herself ... No matter how terrible it might taste!  Needless to say, knowing the task would require my full attention, I brought out treats, pitched them in the empty run, and set about to gather the flock.

Already they had spit apart from the safety of numbers - much to Coq Au's consternation. So I rounded up two or three groups and herded them toward the safety of the run for the night.

Initially the usual complaints were being issued.
"Hey, it's still light out!"
"Quit pushing, I'm going!"
"But I was gonna go scratch around the compost for a while!"

And so forth. The whole, long way. At least until the lead hen spotted treats in the run, then the mad dash begins.

One inside, I took a quick beak count. Six hens and one angry rooster. We're short two hens.

Coq Au was already agitated and bordering on apoplectic over the missing hen and he, now on the other side of the closed run door, could do nothing other than pace and complain.

"I know, I know!" I said. "Keep your feathers on, I'm gong to get them!"

A quick trip around the side of the hose found Lily who had just discovered she was all alone. Charging forward as fast as her waddling legs could move her, she huffed and puffed back to the run for the safety and comfort of the flock. Coq Au was partially satisfied, but one was still missing.

I had just began the search wen herself pulled into the driveway, all smiles at finally being home from work. I clued her in to the missing hen, but by now we knw the drill. We don't panic, we just know where the usual places are that she might be hunkered down in.

Who was missing? Hortense of course. The eternal 'me time' girl.

I checked by the compost, no luck. We looked under the canoe, nothing. My wife searched the thick knotweed while I peeked under the shrubbery in front. No sign.

We were just about to start getting worried and I began to take another circuit around the property.

It's just not that big of a property. Sure, she's one small hen, but she should've been found by now.

Half a loop later and she was in that old garden bed, wedged under some weeds/flowers, whatever ... In the failing light of the evening sun her black feathers blended in perfectly to near invisibility.

And she was dirt bathing.

"I hoe you're proud of yourself, you had us scared for a moment!" I said as I picked up the relaxed and unmoving hen.

"Y'know what? Yer darn right I'm proud of myself! I had a long luxurious dirt bath while everyone else was being corralled in. Sorry/not sorry!"

Oh well, she missed out on treats! "That'll teach her!" I briefly, but foolishly thought. Then I remembered that you really just can't teach a chicken anything.

Especially Hortense.

Coop Cleaning Day!

We use a modified 'deep litter' method and give the coop a full clean out in the spring and in the fall. The worst of the poop is taken out and new layers of straw added through out the season, but a full cleaning is  much more thorough.

I use straw as the primary bedding and a mix of wood chips and straw in the meeting boxes. I had heard of all manner of types of bedding to use and have tried more than a few over the years. After several seasons of careful experimenting and observation I have decided that straw works the best. Practical, cheap, and breaks down really well in a deep litter method. For the meeting boxes, the wood chips still make a more comfortable nest, but the girls - as they are 'redecoratig' - tend to kick out a lot of it, so a mix of straw and wood chips locks it in nicely.

No matter how many years go by, no matter how much I should 'know better', I always end up doing a clean out at mid morning. Just when the flock is wanting to lay. Sure, they love being out and about while I am shoveling out the old bedding, but through the whole process concerned hens stop by and peek there heads in. Invariably, they give me that low, slow chicken 'oooohhhhh' which in this case translates to "Ain't ya done yet?"

"Not yet, honey, you'll have to hold it for just a little longer."

As I puttered about putting out new feed (in the backyard for now), wheeling out a couple of loads of old bedding for compost, and washing out the water fonts, Coq Au, now thoroughly rested from the long winter, had a go at me!

As tame as he's been, lo these last many months, I knew he would be looking for trouble eventually and I've learned never to fully turn my back on him. So, as I passed, he thought he saw an opportunity and rushed me. Just like his old self ... I'm strangely proud!

I spotted his coming onslaught just in tie and turned to face him. He was just bring his feathers to fluff and about to issue his customary "Have at you!" When he skidded to a stop. He glared. A made to poke him with my finger.

"Hey tough guy ... What'cha got?" My pokes never landed on him, he sprightly stepped back with each one, but I taunted just a bit further. "C'mon, tough guy ... Don't you want some?"

He relented, but was not broken nor beaten.

"Okay, bud. You caught me coming. But you just watch your back!"

His threat is not without merit. One day he will catch me sleeping, I know.

Meanwhile, the long awaited clean out is done. Healthy and happy chickens have a healthy happy home.

In other news, I took a short drive early this morning and right on my corner was a mamma deer and spotted baby. This is not a strange scene around here, but I could tell that this baby was JUST BORN at dawn and was still on VERY unsteady legs. Mamma was encouraging it to cross the street and I stopped my car. Once across, I proceeded with caution and as I passed, the new fawn, sensing my car might be a monster, crouched flat into the neighbor's tall grass. Another car was behind me, also moving very cautiously, but mamma deer, fearing for her baby, strode out RIGHT in front of the other car to distract the monster from seeing her baby. She offered herself as a willing sacrifice for the protection of her newborn. Thankfully, my fellow motorist was as alert and cautious as I was and had already stopped and patiently waited for mamma to assess the danger, turn aroud, and collect her fawn.

Witnessing these things are gifts. They are small everyday miracles that I truly treasure.

The Big World

There is a big, big world out there. I am in it, I peek my head out as often as I need to. I work my job, pay my bills, and pay attention to the events of the world.

But I don't often blog about it.

This blog is part of my escape from it and I don't post about it. Sometimes I'll make a passing reference. With the trials, tribulations, and tragedies, talking about the simple things makes me happy and there is nothing more simple than my small world that I enjoy very much. I also enjoy sharing it with you and I hope you enjoy reading about it.

Today I'm going to break that rule very briefly.

Yesterday morning I tuned into the royal wedding. I normally don't have a strong opinion on the doings of the British monarchy. After all, as an American, why should I care? We fought a whole war with England so that I don't care to care about what the royals do. And yet, this is only the second time in history that an American would be joining the royal family ... so why not check it out?

On social media I saw folks posting about it. Some in favor of the pageantry and spectacle, and some expressing the common American opining of "Who the heck cares? With so much going on in the world, why focus so much media attention on this?"

I caught the opinion of a friend that really stuck with me. This royal match, this wedding ceremony, seemed full of the usual strict and constrained ceremony that is the usual fare with royal affairs, but there was also love. There truly seems to be deep love between the happy couple and that pleases me very much. My friend commented on those who grouse about the coverage "What's wrong with watching love for a change?" I couldn't agree more.

So, I watched the ceremony. It was on in the background as I did some light cleaning in the kitchen and surfed the interwebs. I was well pleased by all of the details and love reigned over all.

Best wishes to the happy couple!

In other news, nature hates a vacuum. And so does my pig. Don't worry though. She may scramble under the kitchen table whenever I vacuum the living room, but afterwards, her shattered nerves are always rewarded with a nice apple. She loves apples, so love reigns here as well.

Addendum: for the younger readers

In my last post I made reference to "Flockheed" and Porky Pig. For the benefit of the younger readers, the link below is the cartoon in full.

Lightly touches on themes of homefront WWII production and pop stardom of the day.

Warner Brothers -Swooner Crooner

Off the intensely curious, or the overly nerdy about trivia, the roosters involved are parodies of Frank Sinatra and Bing Crosby. Among other cameos are Al Jolson, Jimmy Durante, and Cab Calloway.

They're Messing With Me Again.

 

So after I had been neglectful on collecting the eggs the other week, and thus opened an egg with a blood spot from under my broody hen, I have been extra diligent in collecting them in a timely fashion.

Now it is high spring, egg laying is at its height, as it should be for the better part of the summer (barring uncomfortable heat waves, or unforeseen disasters).

So, Monday, I collected four eggs. Not too bad and it seems like that was the number I had been getting of late. Most of my hens are over four years old, and I figure eight hens that are past their prime are doing well laying about four eggs per day. Tuesday, I got eight.

Eight full eggs from eight laying hens. Coq Au, as you might expect, doesn't lay very many eggs at all. In fact, if I tally the entire number, he remains at zero.

Then Wednesday ... zero eggs. Thursday and Friday seemed back on track at five eggs each day.

I think they're doing quite well, honestly. But I am concerned that after a long and troubled year, followed by a long and cold winter, their consistency has been off. Oh how I wish Matilda was still with us! She was the best union rep the flock had and certainly could've sorted out the weirdness, or at least explained to me. After all of this time, they still haven't told me who the new Union liaison is and with a hen having gone broody in the middle of February and the egg count up and down, I fear they have chosen NO ONE.

Maybe my older biddies age become too set in their ways to listen to one above them. Maybe they just can't come to a consensus. I tried talking to Lily about it. She's semisweet that I know she'd tell me, but being one of the 'newer' girls, she provided little insight and stared lovingly, if blankly, until I couldn't help but distribute a few dried crickets.

I strode up to Hermione (the alpha female) looking for answer.

"Hermione, we're getting plenty of eggs and all, but what's the deal? Eight in one day, zero the next? Who's running production?"

She flicked away the last ash of her Marlboro, adjusted the curlers in her comb a bit and replied with a directed sneer: "What's to you, bub? Yer getting' yer eggs, so we don't want to hear any gripes. You get me, daddio?"

With that, she strutted off and left me wondering where she was getting that kind of talk from.

I wonder if Porky Pig had these kind of troubles when he was managing 'Flockheed'.

Seems everything I learned from old Warner Brothers' cartoons was a little off.

 

 

Oh well ... if I didn't learn the finer points of egg production, I did learn a lot of cool old music!

Bloody Eggs and Herding the Flock

Well, the spring has finally brought the gorgeous weather in earnest.

Mama hen has gone broody again. This time the weather is appropriate rather than the middle of February when she was last determined to sit. However, herself and I are still not inclined this year for baby chicks, so the eggs are removed. Trouble is, that with the upheavals in the last couple of weeks, I've not collected eggs everyday! In spite of popular misconception, eggs do not go bad in a few days. In fact, only in the United States (to my knowledge) are eggs sold out of refrigerated sections. So, eggs a few days in the coop are perfectly safe in terms of spoilage. But some of these eggs have been sat on for a few days! This results in the rare, but unpleasant surprise, of a bit of blood in an egg. Also perfectly safe to eat, but unappealing to most senses. I am not squeamish in such a way, but I WILL redouble my efforts to collect these eggs in a timely fashion!

Also, with the warm weather, has brought a new found sense of antagonism to our 'hero' Coq Au. It has been over six months since he and I had a proper dust up, but he is spoiling for a fight. After I distribute breakfast, leave the run and close the door, he 'bravely' flings himself upon the fencing in my general direction as a show of aggression. And, as per usual, I reopen the door and quietly challenge him to 'go for it'.

"Whaddaya wanna do?" I'll defiantly intone.

"Nuthin' I ain't doing nuthin'" he replies with a defiant sneer.

I know one day soon he will muster up the courage once again to shout "HAVE AT YOU!" with barbaric glee as he thrusts his body in my direction, awash with talons and snapping beak. At over four years old, I'll be both proud and horrified at the same time. You go on, old man, give it your best shot!
Yesterday morning saw the flock outside foraging the yard and enjoying the outstanding weather. I had even plucked mama off the nest and she joined in on the ranging for a good hour at least before returning to the now empty nest.

The early afternoon found me needing to leave to attend to errands, so I readied myself to herd the flock back into the run. By this time they were buried deeply in one of their favorite dust bath spots (NOT, I am pleased to say, under my neighbors' bush!). I stepped outside and was greeted by Not My Cat who has been lurking about once again for free meals and time to gaze wistfully at Osha through the open window. Loose cats and chickens normally do not mix, but Not My Cat has proven that he has no interest in molesting my chickens. I also have to figure that he has no interest in running afoul of Coq Au. Yet, he would be directly in the path of where I needed to herd the flock through. I told Not My Cat to 'sod off' as I had already given him a free meal this morning and he was completely unmoved at my brusque admonition. I grabbed my rake to herd the flock. Please note! For those of you checking into this story for the first time, the rake is NOT used to strike the hens ever, ever, ever. Just waving it overhead simulates a low flying predator. It now no longer strikes terror in my flock, but there is still enough instinctual knowledge within these domesticated birds to get them moving reluctantly in the direction of safety.

So, with rake in hand, I went to their bathing spot. A goodly shake of the rake got them standing and moving slowly toward their run. Even the defiant Hermione stood up without resistance and shook the dust off. But wee Lilly sat their. She wasn't defiant, but she gazed wistfully at me and with small voice said:

"But the sun is so nice, and I don't want to go in yet. Can't I please stay for just a little while?"

"No, sweet, I'm sorry, but it's time to go in." I sympathetically replied.

She stood up, but even with a gentle overhead shake of the rake, she would not start walking off with the others. She gazed longingly at the warm scar in the earth that she had scratched out for herself and just wanted to relax, poor baby. So, I carefully picked her up and held her nestled in my one arm while the other took to waving the rake at the rest of the slow moving flock.

Lilly in one hand, rake in the other, I slowly advanced, but tree was great confusion. They did not want to cross paths with Not My Cat and gave him a wide berth through the shrubbery instead. I was obliged to follow to keep them on their protracted course toward home. With some effort at juggling Lilly, waving the rake, advancing through the shrubbery, keeping the affectionate, yet greedy, cat at bay, and keeping the flock on course, they eventually made it back into the run. Treats for all and order was made out of the chaos.

Everyday is like a mini adventure.