It's not about the chickens anymore

After finding Mark and Anjali's favorite chickens, Brownie and Sh-eagle, miraculously alive after a subzero night of exposure, I called Tim, and said, "It's no longer about the chickens.  It's about my kids.  We've got to do something about keeping those chickens warmer and safer today."

And we did.  We moved their coops out of the fenced and netted compound we'd spent hours setting up and put them in the greenhouse with deep straw bedding and a heat lamp.  

My chickens were going to be winter hardy.  My chickens would eat snow when they were thirsty.  Natural selection.  Prepared for hard times.  Keep themselves warm with their own body heat.  A few combs would be lost but heck, who needs combs?  We were not going to pamper our livestock.

We have now reinvented the barn but sunnier, more expensive, and breakable in the form of a greenhouse.  We lug warm water out three times a day and set aside kitchen scraps on top of feed rations and even defrost special goodies we saved for them in the freezer chest.  The fact that it's too cold and dark to collect more than about 3 eggs per week is just frosting on the cake.  Believe me, the irony of this is not lost on me. 

"We still have limits.  We still have some principles," I assure myself. 

We did not follow Joe's advice to "Keep warm.  Sleep with a chicken…."  Although we did have some good laughs about it on those record setting frigid days when we were housebound and chilly. 

We do not put diapers on our chickens like the people at the feed store in Forest Lake whose pet bantam rooster roams the store in his protective undergarment.  Houle's Feed Store.  Check it out.

Last year, I felt confident that I would never do certain things.  I even wrote a No-Can-Do List for my farm, the things I would never let happen when I farmed:

1.  Knee deep mud
2.  Old machinery rusting around the yard
3.  Nasty manure smells
4.  Animals in my bath tub
5.  Large equipment laying around disassembled and in disrepair
6.  Animal skulls nailed to the fence posts of the front gate

But then I got an old pick-up truck and brooded chicks in my basement bathtub.  I've also lusted after dirt, gotten jealous of corn, slaughtered chickens, chased ducks, killed three deer, and paid to eat road kill since then.  

Apparently, I have no idea what I'm capable of or what will happen next, so today I'm celebrating that it hasn't come to diapering our poultry.  Yet.

I still have my dignity. 
Well, a little.
So far.

I tell my dad the story of the lost chickens and the found chickens and the newly-ensconced-in-the-greenhouse chickens.  "It's no longer about the $5 chickens," I say a bit embarrassed.

"It's about a relationship," he replies without missing a beat or batting an eye.  Just so.  The wise grandfather knows.

It's not about the chickens anymore.  It's about my kids and their hearts. 

And me and my heart, too.  I can do better for them so I must.  If we couldn't, then they'd eat snow and huddle.  But we can, so we must.  

I told the kids, "How we take care of our animals says more about us than about the animals.  The chickens are just chickens, but how we take care of our responsibilities is about us.  Just like how we treat people says more about who we are than about who they are.  If someone is mean or rude to people, then that's about their heart and not about who they are talking to.  How we treat these chickens is about who we are."

Mark's still really hoping that who we are will eventually encompass Brownie sleeping in his bed wearing a diaper. 

I'm really hoping not.
But, heck, this is only Year 1.
Imagine where Year 2 might take us.

Lost and found

Back in December, on the first super cold, way below zero night, neither Anjali's favorite chicken, Sh-eagle, nor Mark's favorite, Brownie, tucked themselves into their coops at dusk.  Nothing to do but hope and wait for dawn.

Next morning, we went out to care for the chickens and Anjali found Sh-eagle alive, stiff from cold and roosting under the front ramp. We returned her to the flock with rejoicing.

  
We hunted for Brownie- all the way around the house, all over both levels of the garage- but could not find him.  We piled into the van chilled and running late.  Mark was grim and calm.  I asked him how he was feeling about Brownie and he burst into sobs.

"Brownie's dead, I know it.  I'm never going to see him again!"

Brownie was dead.  Almost certainly either frozen or eaten.  A superfluous second rooster worth a couple bucks.  Except that he is the sunshine of my son's heart.  When my son's sunshine is missing, what else is there to do but go looking?

I re-snapped my down coat, mobilized Anjali back into search and rescue, and told Mark to stay under the blanket in the van.  We'd give it five more minutes. 

Anjali and I hike up the driveway reviewing where Brownie liked to hang out along with all the other places we'd searched for him already.  Looking pretty futile.

Then Anjali's head snapped up.  "The other coop.  The one we've been moving the roosters to at night.  Maybe he's back there.  I'll head to the top of the septic mound and Mom, you take the path around the side."

I prayed and hoped and despaired and waded through snow while Anjali climbed up for a better view.

"I see him!  I see Brownie!  He's all white."

"Is he alive?  Is he moving?"

"He's alive!  I saw him move a little.  Mom, he's alive!"  

My heart leaped and I cheered "Praise God!"  My knees were weak and I started to cry.  It was a pure miracle.  My son's joy was alive. 

Brownie was covered in frost and unable to walk but alive.  Anjali grabbed him up and we waded back to the greenhouse.  I sent Anjali the Hero to tell Mark the good news and Mark came running as quickly as his snow gear allowed.  Brownie didn't perk up so I told Mark to bring him inside.  Mark kept him company on the tile floor with a bowl full of water and a handful of seeds.  Now that Brownie was found, he must live.

Five minutes of warm TLC later, Brownie was well on his way to recovery.  

"Mom, I was praying for Brownie and he's alive," Mark said earnestly with tears in his eyes.  "I asked God and he's alive." 

Cancel the day's responsibilities.  
Take pictures and celebrate.
Sunflower seeds for everyone.
Kill the fatted calf.
Eat lunch at the Wedge.
We won the lottery.
My children's joy lived.  

Taking it personally

My neighbors have urged me not to take the deer thing personally.  These things happen, they tell me.  Deer are dumb.  All one can do is drive more cautiously. 

This is wise and sensible advice based on decades of country living experience.

I'm having a hard time accepting it, though.

This is my third deer incident in two months (here's 1 and 2).  I had no idea going into this homesteading adventure that the things I would become most proficient at this winter would be hiking up and down my driveway, knocking the ice out of my chickens' water bowl, and picking up the pieces after deer accidents.  

Is it my van, Traveler?  Is the black shiny color too camouflaged in the dark?  Should I try a brighter color?  Maybe those deer whistle repellant things?  Or maybe paint glow-in-the-dark predator eyes on it?

Ginger recommended that I take the deer crossing signs off my van.

Maybe a cow catcher like train engines have?

Or maybe deer hide silhouettes on Traveler's sides, like notches on a gun slinger's belt?


Heck, maybe I should try a Humvee or a small tank?

Tim won't let me drive his car.  "Bad things happen to vehicles when you drive."  Jinxed.

Angela and Megan pointed out that the rear of my van is still undented.  Wait for it.  Wait for it. 

Yep, taking it personally.

Aggie, my walking buddy neighbor, weighed in saying that rather than get a humvee, I should keep my van since it has been in three significant accidents this last year with no injuries.  She believes I should drive it until it won't run anymore. 

So, here's to Traveler- faithful minivan, wounded warrior.  
Wear your zip ties and mangled plastic with pride!  
You have kept me and my loved ones safe through it all.
I salute you!

Deer Wars III: Revenge of the Doe

 Last Monday, on my way to walk laps at the high school 

before dawn,

a large doe sprinted out of the ditch

jumped just before impact,

and barely missed coming through my driver's side window 

into the van,

leaving Kifah, Aggie, and I shaken.

Fortunately, none of us were hurt.

We drove on to the nearby high school 

while it rained little glass window bits.

I did my Dukes of Hazard exit, sliding out the passenger side.

 

Then we went for our walk 

congratulating ourselves on surviving unharmed, 

debating the relative merits of leaving or trying to save the meat,

and discussing the capriciousness and stupidity of deer. 

 We drove home grateful

for safe cars and near misses,

balmy near-freezing weather and good friends.

By 2:00, 

my window had been replaced, 

the glass bits vacuumed, 

the dent pulled out so the window could go down

by All Auto Glass of Forest Lake

 at the bottom of my driveway for a good price.

By 3:00,

Ginger my chiropractor was realigning my spine.

And by 5:30,

I was home, 

pleased at concluding another deer misadventure 

within 12 hours for under $200. 

Feeling groovy

Tim and the kids are visiting his folks in Florida and I'm stay-cationing.  They are certainly getting their money's worth.  It's snowed multiple inches and dropped below zero.

This morning, I've done circuit training homestead style.  I walked down the driveway at 5:35 admiring the gorgeous full moon.  I went walking at the high school with my neighbor and we walked and talked for an hour.  Then I came home.  I shoveled out the mailbox for 5 minutes, hiked up the driveway, tended chickens for 10 minutes, dragged the recycling can down the driveway, shoveled for 5 minutes, hiked up the driveway, dragged the garbage can down the driveway, shoveled for 5 minutes, and hiked back up the hill.  Fire and ice- sweating muscles and throat burning cold, panting like a dog, and feeling gloriously self-sufficient and powerful. 


I've always been a bookworm and never saw the appeal of the whole honest-day's-work-physical-labor thing.  Wow, was I wrong.  

Now granted, I can't keep up that pace for hours and hours and even after 40 minutes, my back was aching.  But I could do 40 minutes of chores following an hour's walk.  I took bioplasm and homeopathics to reduce the swelling, did my new PT and took a hot epsom salt bath to relax my back all by 9:00 a.m.


Not only am I feeling great, I'm feeling righteous.  It's 9:20 a.m. and I've got the beautiful day to myself with 90% of my responsibilities behind me.  I've had a fabulous conversation, done real meaningful physical activity, and now I've got nowhere to go and no promises to keep.

Here's what I'm humming today.

Happy New Year!

Happy 2014 from all of us on R Farm

On 2013
Anjali:  I learned about chickens.  I've learned how to build hugels. 

Tim: I learned that not all good ideas are right for us.  I learned how to chainsaw.

Amy:  I've been practicing being more willing to fail my way to learning. 

Mark:  I learned how to take care of chickens.  I've had two birthdays at this place and this year's party was Nerf Gun Wars. 



On 2014
Mark:  I can do lots more things at the county fair.  It'll be fun to fly to Gramma and Grampa Reisdorf's in Florida. 

Amy:  Wow, I'm still digesting last year's adventures so I'm not sure about 2014 yet.  Definitely looking forward to fresh chives and lettuce.

Tim:  Spring can't come too early.  Another year of learning and adventures.

Anjali:  I'm looking forward to having real goat caramel.  Learning how to take care of goats.  Hopefully going first to the county and then the state fair.

fantasy

I'm starting to have escapist fantasies- waterfalls and tropical places where compost piles become gardens with no effort at all.  Tim has pointed out to me recently that all cradles of civilization arise somewhere with warmer climates- Egypt, Mesopotamia, India, China- since food grows easier and longer and people have more largess for fancy stuff versus worrying if their chickens are freezing to death.  

I keep thinking of the pioneers and what incredibly determined, desperate, competent, and hardy people they must have been to settle here. 

And nuts, slightly nuts, too.  Or is that us for staying here when we know how crazy it can be?