The Natural Lives of Chicken

"Ebony" One of the original girls.

We lost May this week. May was one of our original bunch of chicks. Hatched in March 2004, May arrived with the rest of our first flock. We ordered 25 chicks, but unlike anything else in this world, hatcheries give you more than you order. This is to give roosters a home. See, you order 25, but then they throw in a couple "extra", to fill up the box and keep all the chicks "warm". Then, they mail a box of little peepers, and the mailman calls you at like, 5 am and tells you your package has arrived- like he can't tell what it is, you can hear the little frantic peeps over the phone. So, you bundle up the kids and drive to the post office. You then remove your coat to cover the little box of peeps, because it is dawn, in March, and ergo: it is cold. The little babies are supposed to be kept at a consistent 95 degrees. Nothing in your life approaches 95 degrees, not even body temperature ( I run a steady 92 all winter- I am cold.) You also have to protect the fascinating chicks from the cat, drafts and drowning. Keep in mind, that like all babies, their main function for the next few months will be eating, sleeping and pooping. So, you fix up a heat lamp over a baby pool in the only room in the house that has a door- the bathroom. There, you keep them at the ambient 95, showing each baby how to eat and drink, on a bed of shavings covered with newspaper, so their little legs don't splay, and they don't eat the shavings instead of the chick feed causing starvation. Each week you can take them down 5 degrees. Now, if you do the math, from 95 to, let's say, 60 is 7 weeks. That about coincides with late spring here in the valley. That means for at least 7 weeks (barring late spring cold spells) you will have chickens in your bathroom. They are cute. Really cute. For about 2 of the weeks. Then they just smell bad. They start to fly out of the pool, and poop all over the bathroom. They flap their little wings and send shavings all over the floor for you to step on after you get out of the shower. You erect taller walls to keep them in the pool. You contemplate introducing them to the cat.

Then, the joyous day they move to the barn to begin a life independent from the area you keep your toothbrush.

This is how May started her life. She and her little mates were very tame by the time they left the bathroom. She was a Barred Rock Hen, and the sister of June and April, all Barred Rocks.

Our first group of hens was much coddled, and each had their own personality. Flo was my favorite. A top hatted Houdan hen, she had a crop of feathers coming off the top of her head that made eyesight impossible. Her little beak was crossed, and I had to file it down every few weeks so she could eat. She would often get lost, and start calling out. If you called her "Flo! Over here!" She would make her way to you, and contentedly start to cluck, no longer lost.

Early the next spring, before the hens were even a year old, something caught my eye that made my heart stop. A  large female pit bull was in the front yard. I raced out there and made tentative friends with her in order to catch her and make sure the chickens were safe. With a large chain used to close off the driveway, I padlocked her to a post and went to find the girls. I was soon hysterically running around trying to find any chicken left alive. Everywhere I went, there were feathers and bodies of my little friends. The dog had just gone from one to another, killing and moving on. Panicked I dashed around the farm yard, and farther, calling their names. The dog thought I was inviting her to join in the hunt, and easily popped the post right out of the ground, dragging it behind her with the chain. Now, sobbing and holding a post with a chain and a pit bull on the end, I struggled to the house to call a neighbor. The poor farmer quickly identified hysterical female voice and handed me off to his grown daughter. She deciphered my fractured words, and they came to help. Pit bull removed, I continued searching for chickens, dreading the bus arriving and depositing my chicken loving children.

We lost more than half of the flock that day. I never saw Flo again, never found her body. But May I plucked out from between two straw bales where she had wedged herself to attempt escape from assault. She had lost all her feathers on her back and rump, along with skin in places. The most gravely hurt of the survivors, I put her in Chicken ICU- back to the bathroom. Her sisters, April and June were both found far from the barn, up against the neighbor's wire fence where they could no longer flee. May lived. Her comb a bit mangled, and naked from the neck back. For several years, she looked like a naked red chicken. Then, one spring, magically, she sprouted feathers again, becoming a large, healthy bird.

I moved her into Chicken ICU again this weekend, after finding her in good spirits, but immobile, with legs that didn't seem to want to work. My middle child and I got her a deep bed of straw and placed water and food at her breast. I expressed her bladder for her a few times a day, and she continued to be alert and cheerful, chirping happily for me, and eating whatever treats I gleaned from our plates. I didn't have much hope,  and she died overnight.

I have been asked "How long do chickens live?" In most of the world, about a year and a half, because that is when they stop laying eggs regularly, but are still okay eating. At Cowfeathers, having not yet mastered the art of slaughtering, our animals die for other reasons. My mother has had some birds that live a long time, 10 years or so, but I think 6 is about the time when a chicken is old. Earlier this year we lost Lace, also of the original girls, in a similar "stuff isn't working so well anymore" fashion. So, now I watch Sapphire and Ebony, Imelda and Junior and the remaining old guard carefully. All look about the same, a bit older,  but still sassy and still putting themselves to bed on the same spot on their perches every night. There are empty spots where Lace and May once curled up for the night. No doubt, those spaces will eventually be filled by one of the newer girls, fulfilling the natural life of a chicken.

Sleeping weather.

It's just starting to be perfect. It may be in the 90s during the day, but at night it drops and drops, until you grope around at the bottom of the bed for the down duvet and snuggle down beneath. If it is really cold, a pillow over the head helps interrupt the cold coming from the open window 6" away. A wonderful sleep. And, such a fleeting time here at Cowfeathers. See, we do not air condition. We have air conditioning. It works. We turned it on once when my inlaws were visiting from Florida. They certainly do air condition, and it seemed hot and humid here in the north without it. But, I find myself to be crippled by air conditioning. With 60 some animals and gardens, living on this piece of paradise requires being outside a lot. When it is 93 outside with thick humidity, and 87 inside with thick humidity, inside is a slight break. Drink some water, then right back outdoors. When it is 93 with thick humidity outside, and 72 with low humidity inside, outside seems really bad. My limbs are heavy, breathing hard is more difficult, and the lure of the artificial environment gets too powerful. Sleeping with air conditioning is another problem. I'm sore all over and sluggish. So, live green, and enjoy the blasted heat is my motto. Besides, in my estimation, there are two hot months in our valley, two perfect ones and the rest are cripplingly cold. So, like a snake on a rock, I have to soak up as much heat as possible in my two months.
This means we are just around the corner from unpleasantly cold (we don't do much heating either) so, perfect sleeping weather( like indoor plumbing and the perfectly ripe brandywine tomato)  is to be recognized, and celebrated!

Mulberries, the Huns of Cedar Hill

I have lived in a lot of places. Connecticut, Jersey, New York, Virginia, North Carolina, New Mexico, Iowa, North Dakota, Oklahoma, Tewkesbury (England), Palmerston North, (NZ), and traveled to gobs of other places. Not until settling myself in this valley at the crossroads of Cedar Hill Rd. and Cedar Hill Rd. (Really. They named the roads in all 4 directions the exact same thing) did I encounter the Mulberry. I didn't recognize them at all until my small children returned from playing with a little girl down the road (yes, one of the Cedar Hills) with purple stained faces. I had a moment of panic- what were you all eating???? I called the girl's mother, who reassured me that it was Mulberry season, and they were quite edible. Okay, then, kids, show me these mulberries. I am open minded when it comes to baking pies. It turned out they were everywhere. The pretty shaped tree on the top of the barn hill with the old porch swing hanging from its branches? Mulberry. The oddly braided tree at the split in the drive? Mulberry. The scrubby looking bush near the septic tank? The thousand scraggly chums growing through the neighbors fence? The graceful branches hanging over the creek near the black walnuts? All Mulberries. A-twitter with fruit. Sweet, purple fruit, smallish, like the size of a wild blackberry, and conical. They have a thick fiber cone shaped center under the fruit which makes them less desirable to bake into stuff. You end up feeling like you're eating a lot of stem, not so much fruit. The birds like them, which makes the cars covered with white and purple splatter. And the flies like them as the fruit falls to the ground and ferments. Drunken flies. And the bushes grow anywhere, and everywhere. I cut one clear to the ground 2 years ago. It is taller than the house. I neglected the south bank of the driveway turn this summer, and now they scrape the sides of the car on every pass. You can't kill them by cutting them down. Pulling them out when they're saplings seems like the best method, but I'm not nearly thorough enough to do so on this whole farm. I try to keep them out of the gardens and the lawn. I think I'm losing. I think if we were to leave the farm for one growing season, the mulberries would drive forth with no mercy, pillaging everything in their way. Cowfeathers Farm would be a forest of mulberries, covered in poison ivy frosting...

Friday Night

Friday night means different things to different folks. There was a time in my life when it meant a night out on the town, with heels and makeup. For about 15 years it has meant working late. But, with my eldest child a passionate member of the marching band, Friday night now means for me what it means for much of the rural midwest- the local high school football team. Now, I went to High School. But, it was Connecticut. It was different. We had a football team, who, I'm sure tried very hard. We had maybe a half-dozen slightly dispirited cheerleaders, and we had an orchestra that played very nice concerts in the auditorium every spring and winter. And, there were football games. I was a football manager my senior year- Amy B. dragged me into that. This was a job where one brought water bottles to frustrated and angry teen aged boys, and tried to keep them from loudly using genetic slurs to indicate the small group of teen aged girls that were supposed to be making them feel victorious. "We are the Falcons, the mighty mighty Falcons..." can really get you annoyed when you're losing by 5 touchdowns. I even received a varsity letter for my efforts.( I hesitate to use the word "earned"). But, in no way did we approach what it means to play high school football in the shadow of Ohio State University. I think similar to playing in Norman, Oklahoma, Tuscaloosa, Alabama, anywhere in Florida, or Texas.....It means spectators, and it means a lot of cheerleaders with spunk and athleticism, and in Ohio, more than most of those other places, it means a big, serious, marching band.

The first game of the season for the marching band is a bit casual, they have not refined the program, and thus march in casual uniform- believe me the hats and capes await.

We drive through cornfields and soybeans turning brown at the top, harvest will be soon. Eventually, a cornfield gives rise to a lowslung brick building with a high-watt football field behind. High School X. Last night, Westfall High, Williamsport. The Mustangs had a bit of big-time in a sky diver landing on the field to get the game started!

Skydiver landing on the 40..

Then, the rest of the fanfare, the teams arrive to bands playing and cheer squads holding up banners for them to run through, then somehow, the game has begun. The Teays Valley Vikings vs. the Westfall Mustangs!

Rah Rah Rah!!!

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As the Golden Sound of the Vikings take the field, you can see an uphill climb ahead for our team in the second half... 27-7. Gulp.

Final Score and well done!27-48?

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Family getting into the comeback!

Having gobs of trouble with my blog tonight, so will leave it all awry, and go have fun smelling the hay drift in the bedroom windows under a waning moon.

Livin' Large.

Today, I am dissembling the living room. Painting this room has been on my todo list for many years. It really wasn't bad, so kept getting shoveled aside for the more pressing items on the list. When we moved here, the house was very early 1800's. I mean, it was built then, and when the K.'s restored it, they were faithful to the era. Lots of dark red, mustard gold, and chalky blue. I am partial to light. Sun, reflected light, windows, there is nary a curtain in this house; the need for privacy already addressed by 1400 acres of soybeans. So, I painted, lightened, whitened, brightened.

Slavish devotion to light demo'ed in my sunroom addition

But the living room, part of the original structure, was a sort of flat white, aged to oncewhite, with trim in a nice green-grey color. Pretty acceptable and neutral. Now, it has been close 30 years since it's last spiff- which coincided with the deportation of the raccoons, cows and Rush devotees. It is time.

I couldn't ask for better structure; 10' ceilings, wide board wood floors- so original, there is bark between each plank. Four deep set windows, and wood plank ceiling, embedded chair rail and transom topped front door- the room is beautiful. So, I have taken out the furniture and rugs, leaving a piece or two that I will ask for assistance to move so as not to groove the floors any further. And I will paint. White and bright. Then comes the part that has me wondering. See, I do love to decorate my home, but I am what one could call, thrifty. My furnishing choices are an amalgam of sorts. I pulled out a glass front secretary, made by an ancestor, has always been in the family and is full of pottery bits the kids have created and ancient books, several of which were rescued out of the middle of the road in front of my farmhouse in Clayton North Carolina, no doubt bound for the dump. I moved a sideboard picked up for $30 on a tip from another dumpster diving friend at the Salvation Army in the Columbus projects. A dresser of sorts, in a wonderful lurid blue-green from the back of my Gram's sagging garage, the feet of which are bolted on 2x4s. Two matching one-armed dainty couches, covered in gold brocade in 1953 for JC Reynolds; my Mimi and Grandpa's treasured living room furniture, slipcovered by me in heavy white cotton duck with muslin ruffle and blue ticking cushions . A chest forgotten in Mimi's attic as a coffee table, filled with the kids games- a house without closets is always a challenge. My spinning wheel and quilting frame- reasons to sit.  A gorgeous Bokhara Rug, castoff from my Mum, bless her, as well as an antique sheriff's gun cabinet- also a discard from my Mom, housing what passes for electronica in our house. The "chicken chair"- a $5 yard sale challenge from a friend who thought it hideous, and we made a bet that in 24 hours she would want to buy it from me.  A dutch hall mirror off ebay, a heavy gold antique mirror from a yard sale, I have to say not a new thing to be found anywhere. In fact, the couches from 1953 are probably the shiniest penny in the bunch, and my financial commitment in the room totals probably less than $200. But, that is how I've always done things, and I like my house rather well. I suppose I should point out that there is some new things in the room, like the enamel Jotul woodstove we put into the fireplace (when we moved in, the fireplace had snow in it- a 36" flue with no liner, etc. I could look up the chimney and see the stars). And one winter in the house convinced us to have new windows made, with double panes for a bit of insulation.

The room playing host at my eldest's Greek Birthday Party.

Still, I'm wondering if I can bring myself to fill the newly painted room with my previous mishmash. A bit like Cinderella going to the ball in the dress the mice and birds pieced together. Would I do something so unheard of as to buy a piece of new furniture? Or, my more common solution- move around the bits and pieces already in the house to create a fresher mashmish.? I guess we'll have to see.....

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From the front door.

Say Cheese!

Making cheese really isn't very complicated, in the same way making toast isn't very complicated. Unless you are really making the toast. To make toast, start with well turned fertile ground, plant wheat. Water. Wait for wheat to grow, blah blah blah. So, when decided to make cheese I started with a sheep. Breed sheep to ram. Wait for lamb to gestate, blah blah blah.

Dancer getting milked.

Dancer came to us as a Christmas present for middle child, already bred. Unfortunately, we were unsure about when she was bred. The gestation period for a sheep is 147 days. And Dancer was, well, kinda large when she arrived, but she was hefty all over. Hard to tell how far along she really happened to be. But, we started a lambwatch on the 26th of January when her udder started getting more firm and full. Lambwatch means you go check on the sheep about every 2 hours, round the clock. On January 28th we prepared a lambing jug for her. This is a smaller enclosure where she can peacefully have her baby(ies) and nurse them without interference from the rest of the flock. Well, by mid February, she still had not given birth, and lambwatch had somewhat slackened. We crutched her ( cut the wool away from her bottom and udder) and just watched her vulva to see when it started to relax. Finally, in early March, parturition looked more imminent. On March 4 she gave birth to a large ram lamb (that would be a boy). He was white, and he was not alive. After failed attempts to change that status, great sadness ensued. Poor Dancer, she was upset and anxious. So, we had no lamb from her, but we did have a wonderful great big udder full of milk. When Dancer came to us, she wasn't really used to being handled. Being milked involves a lot of handling. But, eventually, she would call to me in the early dawn, and settle near the wall as I placed the stainless steel pail next to me, sit on my stool, clean her udder and teats with warm water and mild soap, rinse and massage her udder, bump it and then massage some more. (The bumping imitates what the lambs do to get the milk flowing). Strip the teats, (this is squirting the first few milk flows out on the floor which may have bacteria)  and then place the pail under the teats, one arm in front of her stifle to prevent her from being able to kick over the milk pail, and start the rhythmic milking. Talking softly, resting my head on her springy soft fragrant wool, morning milking is one of my favorite times. It is kind of like going running, in that when I leave for a run, I am reluctant, but once I get going, the pleasure of the movement and the rhythm takes over and peace happens. Milking a sheep on cold March mornings, with breath of steam, waiting to the last minute to take off gloves to keep hands warm (goodness knows you don't want to grab a teat with ice cold hands!), I could still be in bed. But, the barn is warm, and the milk is too. Peace happens. Evening milking isn't quite as easy to arrange, but it must happen, and at the same time every night. If the lamb had lived, that would have been his job!  At first, Dancer was giving about 12 oz. each milking, but in a week or so, she was up to 24 oz. each milking.

Draining the whey off the curd into the sink. This is what cheese cloth is for!

I strained and pasteurized the milk and stored it until there was enough for a first batch of cheese. I made a extremely rich and creamy soft cheese. Beautiful flavor and spread smooth and thick. Wow, terrific. Making cheese is easy. Just start with a sheep.

Quintessential Country- The County Fair.

I have only just begun this blog. I think this is about day #11. And, although each day on Cowfeathers Farm brings rich reward, any of you who missed the accounting of our 2010 County Fair experience are truly living only partial lives. In any case, it is worthy of this blog....
So, I thought I would sub in a day at the fair, probably once a week, until any who missed it the first time get all the way through. Hang on to your hand-tooled belt and settle down with some tractor churned ice cream!

Carrie Bradshaw famously chronicled city life of singles in Sex in the City. I, too, sit at my little Mac laptop, chronicling(is that a word?) and there the resemblance slides off like the frosting on the top of the blue ribbon pecan corn cake in the 90 degree heat at the county fair. Instead of sharing the latest goodies in the window at Bergdorfs, or pithy observations of Male interaction, I’m here to share what it means to live in rural America 2010 in a day so rich with image and so ripe with sweat, fried food and the smell of the decaying skunk in the manure pile outside Peaches’ horse stall.


Yes, today was the first day of the Pickaway County Fair! I think. It is hard to think of the fair as starting today, as we’ve been hard at work for many days. The Fair Booth started going up on Wednesday, the six wooden standards that make up our 8’x16’x4’ display for the club. Speaking of the club, Saddle and Sirloin has grown this year. We now have 54 members taking 108 projects to the county fair. The booth is where we display the non-livestock projects, of which there were 60 some. Gun safety, photography, archery, welding, engine building, interior design….the range of projects are staggering. The Fairbooth committee designed the booth this year around the Bicentennial of our county, stars and pigs, flags and Carhartts. Country meets The Country. The booth was finished on Saturday, just after we moved our rented camper into the fair. This is where I now sit. In AirConditioning??? (Those of you who don’t know, I never use AC). The camper is moving back and forth, as Hamilton is here with me, and he is constant motion. Georgia and Tod are finishing nighttime Fair barn chores (we’ve already been home to shower and to do Home barn chores- we have 8 animals here, which leaves another 50+ at home that are still needing us) and Madeleine is enjoying the benefits of neighbors by playing cards with friends at another camper. In any case, Sunday is “Move-in-day”, which is the day all animals projects are moved in, by midnight. We got a good start, arriving with the horse by 10 am in order to get in a ride. Georgia is taking Peaches this year- in fact, Georgia is our only child showing livestock this year! Peaches is notoriously rambunctious at the Fair. So we got out in the morning heat to give her a chance to get her jollies all out. She did very well, after an initial prep by me. By 1:00, George was done with the ride, and we had Peaches installed, next to the aforementioned skunk. Back home to pick up the sheep and poultry. Georgia’s ewes both had twins this May, and Georgia brought Dolores, her white Border Leicester ewe to show with her twins, Evelyn- also white and Everest- a black ram lamb. We picked up Dolores and put her in the bed of my monster truck, with her babes in a large metal crate, packed up a pair of Australorp hens and a pair of Cuyuga ducks and off to the fairgrounds once more. Even out here, a monster truck with lambs in a dog crate is a novelty. I think the truck gets so much attention because with the loud diesel rumble folks think their brother/father/buddy is driving past, but the attention is held with the “Awww” factor of the sweet lambs. Once at the fair, all animals were shown to their pens for display. Water buckets filled, bedded, fed. Horse stall decorated in a Disney theme (decorated stalls! What?) By 9:30 pm, we were done with all chores, home and Fair and could tromp back to the Camper for the night. But, I offered to help braid Peaches mane, which Georgia accepted. I haven’t braided a horse since, maybe, 1986, so I was a tad rusty. Still, by 11:30 Peaches mane was reasonably tamed- a real accomplishment- and we were off for a few hours rest.

Blondie with our temporary home attached, getting ready to leave Cowfeathers.

Monday is the kick off of the Fair, and it kicks off with horses. Historically not one of our more successful arenas, I have talked at least one kid into a horse project for the past 4 years or so. This year started in similar fashion to year’s past, although, Peaches was on her best behavior after a getting a little hormone help from the Therio department at Ohio State. After several years as broodmare, she assesses the start of the fair as a fantastic opportunity to get back on the job. This year we opted for decreasing her employment opportunities. It worked nicely, and she was MUCH calmer. Can’t say the same for Georgia, who by the time she got in line for her Showmanship class was in tears. I’m sure it doesn’t help that Peaches stepped on Georgia’s right foot on the walk down to the arena and it might be a little broken, certainly significantly bruised. She never complained, so another mom fetched a bag of ice, and I tried to do what I could to keep her off her foot. I’m pretty sure the tears were of stress. I attempted a pep talk, then ran away, thinking if she has access to me, she’ll quit. She cried her way through Showmanship, but did it anyway, and a pretty decent job, although she made a few errors ( hard to concentrate when you’re crying) and was not “in the ribbons”. A few sunbaked, dust filled classes later brought us to the Walk Trot class-another good time for me to hide, leaving Dad to field the possible “ I don’t want to”s that she’s prone to, but rarely shares with any but me. I got her up, and on the horse and in the arena, and dove into the crowd of sweating grandparents with cameras. She walked, she trotted, she stopped, she backed, she was a star. The pair rode around with real pleasure, Peaches tail swinging rhythmically Georgia posting up and down with a bright, genuine smile. Amazing. As usual, one of only three English riders in a field of 20+, she laps the slow moving western horses, weaving through the clumps like Secretariat 30 lengths ahead, only at a trot. They line up, the announcer starts calling places, and in historic repeat, her number doesn’t get called. Places 5,4,3, - all members of our club, and then- miracle, she is called. Her place? First. I burst into tears, so relieved at the confidence boost this would give her- way to go Georgia and Peach!!!! Our club members were so great, parents coming over to congratulate and hug, and a whole gallery of momma and popparazzi. Georgia was thrilled. “Now, that was fun!” She said. So much so, that she promptly agreed to enter the Walk Trot Horsemanship class and go again! An hour later, there she was doing her thing again. Happily. She posted on the wrong lead for some time, but corrected herself eventually, and in another large class, earned herself a second place ribbon. The steward came over later and told her the judge had her in first, but moved her to second because of the incorrect lead. Georgia conquered. She floated the rest of the day, through the sweat and the pen cleaning, she enjoyed. LOVE that.

Mom tries to give encouragement, just before abandonment.

 Madeleine had spent the morning working as a Junior Fair Board member at “Weigh- in”, where all the market livestock projects are weighed to assess if they are of required weight, and in which class they are slotted to show, then she spent the afternoon working the dog show. She was so surprised and pleased for Georgia’s success in the horse arena. Lovely. Hamilton was, well, he could have been worse. He did decide to put eggs from the hens in my bag, unbeknownst to me, where they smashed and slimed, he disappeared during the horseshow right before Georgia’s first class, so I had to abandon my crying broken footed daughter to locate my heathen son, and he got in a water fight with our only drinking water, but he tried to behave. Really.

We had a few minutes watching the dairy show before it was time to line up with the rest of the club for the Parade. The evening Parade on the first day of the fair is the official kick off. The clubs have floats, or line up with a banner, leading their llamas, driving their goat carts, doubled on horses, etc. and parade around the fairgrounds, ending at the King and Queen Contest. Kids who sweated all day scrubbing their hogs and blow drying their steers get into evening gowns and suits and sit on the wood stage, answering questions like “What would you tell a younger child who was interested in 4H or FFA?” ( FFA= Future Farmers of America) and they answer into a poorly amplified microphone. This year, Saddle and Sirloin had a champion in Kobi Sethna, King Candidate. The whole group, in matching shirts, marched in front of a pick up, with Kobi standing in the back, cheering for him. He was the youngest of the candidates, having just finished his junior year of high school, but he is a good kid, and a bright kid, and got a wholloppin’ cheer when he was named First Attendant. As we checked all the critters before leaving for home chores, we passed a teen in a lemon yellow gown and heels holding up her train to keep it off the barn floor as she checked on her turkey. The Fair.

After home chores and showers, we noted how far the neighbors had gotten in the hay fields today, with hundreds of huge round bales in a seeming random pattern in the field, and the lightning bugs started rising out of the corn on the longest day of the year. We arrived back to the fair to the roar of the crowd, and the combines at the Combine Derby. Large gaudily painted combines battling to the death in front of the grandstand. Elmer Hines had two massive orange combines this year, good to see, as Elmer had a bad accident with some farm equipment last year….I saw his wife, Mary, during booth set up, she does the packer bid for the market chickens and dresses them out at the bargain price of $5.00 a hen! But I didn’t bring up Elmer, as I wasn’t sure if he was still with us. The kid I bought my monster truck from showed up in a big flat black combine, and there was a rather dented pepto pink combine in the battle as well. It showed up dented, it left in pieces. This morning, Georgia showed up in pieces and left restored. The Fair.

Triumphant!

Eggidemic?

Reason #5

It seems as if eggs have made big news lately. I was late to the party, as I don't buy eggs  or watch the news. Inevitably though, I happen to spend time with people who do, and thus become more informed. So it seems salmonella laced eggs are the weight loss plan du jour. All that effluvium leads to a greatly shrunken mass. True, that once you get reconstituted with fluids and get enough antibiotics to kill the buggers you regain your former figure, but still- temporary gauntness does ensue. Unless you're one of the desperately unlucky few whom actually cannot be reconstituted. Then, that is really bad business.
For this reason, amongst others, you may want to hunt down a local, small farm egg producer (like me!) Cowfeathers Eggs is the name of my youngest's business. He sells them for $2.00/ dozen. He started pricing them at $3.00/dozen, but couldn't sell enough to keep up with supply. This may have to do with his business being a bit of a secret. Of course when your bottom line is in negative numbers, it is hard to justify money for advertising.
Reason #2 for buying locally produced eggs from a small farm? Taste. Fresh eggs are amazingly different from the store bought variety. The yolks are deep yellowish orange and stand up right off the white. They whip up into a creamy souffle effortlessly, what I have for breakfast most mornings. I just crack an egg, hand whip it and pour it into the pan. I then add veggies, brown rice, pesto, hummus, whatever eggcellent idea I have, and voila! Perfection. You'll never eat store bought eggs again without remembering what a real egg tastes like.
Reason #3 ....happy chickens do make better eggs. Our chickens are what is deemed "Pasture Fed". See, first there were "Eggs". Then, folks weren't really pleased with the idea of stacking chickens in shoe boxes on top of one another to be little egg laying machines for the duration of their shortened lives. So, they designated "Free Range", by definition having access to the outdoors. This was easily manipulated to opening the end of the layer building, screening it and labeling the eggs "Free Range". Hmmm. So, they designated "Cage Free".... so they let the 30,000 chickens out of the cages to stand on the floor of the chicken house. There just is no way to produce eggs for the price most America wants to pay, and have the chickens live a nice existence. So, here we are with "Pasture Fed". This means they spend a significant period of each day running around outside, chasing bugs, avoiding the rooster, and living a reasonably protected chicken life . (Chickens are pictured in the dictionary next to the word "vulnerable", everything likes chicken.)
A few years ago, my middle child decided to do a little study on her chickens and their egg laying atmosphere. She split the flock in two. One group she kept confined to a small part of the house, indoors, no access to outside. Now, true, they had plenty of room, and perches and stuff to do, but not their usual activity. The other half got to go out and scratch, and give themselves a dust bath, get jumped by the rooster, etc. This went on for 14 days. During this time the number of eggs and weight of each egg was recorded for the two groups. Statistically, the group that went outside laid more eggs, and they were slightly heavier. Then, after 14 days she switched the two. That got interesting. The newly confined group almost quit laying altogether, and the newly free group laid 75% more than they had during their two weeks of confinement. Happier? Maybe, but certainly more prolific.
Now, since it takes about 26 hours for a hen to create an egg, she can lay, oh, about 5 a week.
That would be about 260 eggs per chicken per year.
We have about 30 chickens (it varies a bit year to year, but 30 is average).
That brings me to Reason #4 to buy your eggs from a local small farm.

The day's take, from a while back, but what made this day special, besides the variety- including goose and duck eggs, was the circus freaks. The teeny tiny green Ameraucana egg on the left above the salt cellar, and the one farther left that was a white shelled egg, then mostly encapsulated in a second, brown shell. Never did figure out how that happened.

If you've already done the math, yes that is right, 7800 eggs a year.

With 5 people in the family that is 1560 eggs per person, but my middle child only eats them certain ways and misses most of the egg eating, so we'll say closer to 1800 eggs per person.

That would be 5 eggs a day. Every day. I love my eggs, but I can't eat that many. No way. So, Reason #4 is  my fridge is full.
And, lastly, Reason #5? They're pretty!

Coverall Days are the best!

Uninterrupted manual labor. Getting up in the morning and putting on coveralls holds just such a promise. Few things give me contentment like uninterrupted manual labor. Today was a banner day. Nothing to stop me from puttin' on those coveralls. I chose my dress-alls (read: no paint and they actually kinda fit) for the occasion. With all the driving around for kid activities all summer, my coverall days had been sparse! But by 8:15 this morning, me an my dress-alls were loading supplies into Blondie (my truck) to get the day started. Today's task? Dig post holes, plant posts, put up driveway gate, add fence. 4 easy steps. Ah-hem. I screwed up the uninterrupted part of my labors,  with a water and breakfast break at 10 that then segued into a chatting with my Aunt, who gave me the task of hunting down my folks, who were at the Brazeal's, Brazael's, Brasil's Brazils Brazille's Brazelle;'s......ohmigoodness how do you spell their name?? Leading to a nice catch up with my sister, who didn't know and a short, but heartening chat with a friend in Memphis- who did know how to spell the Brazeal's last name, but by then I didn't need it because I'd heard via email from my Dad. Dang. Two hours gone! But, fun to catch up with family and friends. Almost as fun as uninterrupted manual labor- so back to it! I still got the task complete by the time I had to get myself into a car to pick up the middle child. There it is, August's project for my New Year's Resolution 2010. (The resolution was to complete one task each month that had been sitting on my To Do List for several years). I guess it isn't really done, as I have to wait for the wood to dry to paint it, ( a task for the un-dress-alls) and I could fancy things up a bit,  and I have to build a stile for the north end of the fence line-but I'm gonna call it complete anyway!

The newest gate- put up by Cate...

Hangin' in the Hills

Samantha and Peaches with their charges.

Oslo and Peaches at the Artesian Well.

Took the opportunity to load up the ponies and go for a ride in the hills. My middle child has started to enjoy the trails, and we hunted down our friends, another mother/daughter riding pair (Terry/Emma) who is often on the trail during the weekend. My middle child rides Peaches, a clever trail horse and we also brought Samantha, as Emma's horse was a bit lame today. So, friend Emma rode Samantha- also very clever on the trail- for the first time. Emma did rather well, by the way, not that Samantha is particularly complicated, but she is different from Emma's usual mount. I rode Oslo. He was wonderful, amazing, dashing, graceful, and perfect (if you can't yet tell, I'm a bit over-the- moon about my horse). I found him, after years of looking, last spring, and we are still getting to know one another. He doesn't seem to have much experience outside of an arena, so trail riding can be very exciting for us both. He is also a bit bigger than your average horse, so trail riding involves a good bit of ducking. I don't mind. He also isn't very familiar with horse flies. He bucks when there are horse flies around. It is a bad year for horse flies. I don't mind. He's brave about most things, dashes right into water and over bridges, and will even chase deer with me. He's gonna be my huntin' horse. I'm teaching him to jump and that is coming along nicely too. So first, trails and jumping, then the chase! Hunt season begins soon....

A sweaty Peach back at camp.

Henry the Horrible.

Henry.

He's awfully pretty. Blue eyes and bright orange beak and feet, pristine white feathers, soft and clean, inviting- almost. Henry is at his best in August. Especially this August, August is not breeding season and this year  Henry is alone. He is a Pilgrim Gander. The Pilgrim breed are special in that they are color sex linked. This means that the boys are one color ( white) and the girls are another (soft brown and white). So, as little baby goslings, it is simple to choose one boy and one girl. This is not normally so in the world of poultry. As youngsters most poultry look the same by breed, with no difference between the sexes, and because the sex organs are inside the vent area, you can't really see the difference, even if you look in the nether region. There are a few talented people in this world who can, with reasonable accuracy, evulse the vent and tell the difference. I don't know any of them, and in fact, there are some bird breeds that the only way to tell is to wait to see who lays an egg. That, or anesthetize and laproscopically have a peek at the parts in the abdomen. For this reason, Pilgrim geese are special. Several years ago, when Georgia decided she wanted to show geese, we easily settled on the Pilgrim as our breed of choice. We already had a mixed Toulouse-Embden gander, offspring of my mother's geese. His name was Rosebud. Yes, His. But that wasn't his only identity crisis. Rosebud was hatched by a duck. You see, his own mother, a goose, had abandoned the egg (perhaps because she had the good sense) but a misfit duck had adopted the large egg, faithfully sitting on it, until to my mother's surprise- and father's chagrin being not a big goose fan- it hatched. The duck was a Pekin, the common white variety of duck. She was unmercifully picked on by the other geese, and had escaped while sitting on the egg, but now that her little gosling had hatched, she was being picked on again. Her little boy was swiftly bigger than her, but they were a bonded pair, inseparable. I decided to take the odd couple to Cowfeathers. We called the duck "Clover".  Rosebud was always kind to his mom, and Clover spent the rest of her years hanging out with the geese. All the geese accepted her as part of the gaggle. Now, Rosie was not always kind to all, and the first spring of his gander-hood, he was a terror, both to human, duck and chook. He killed at least two chickens, and I spent several afternoons with a duck tucked between my thighs sewing their skin back over their skulls. The next year, in our blithe ignorance of goosely ways (despite the facts that we not only had a raging Rosebud,  I was raised with geese and much of the "It'll be funny one day" lore of my family featured geese) middle kid's desire to show geese put us in the market for cute little, fuzzy goslings. Pilgrims, a boy and a girl. She proudly named them Henry and Henrietta. Doted on them, cuddled and kissed and loved on the buggers. They grew. Henrietta was lovely, and sweet and social. She would come when you called her- albeit closely followed by Henry and Rosie and Clover. Henrietta wanted badly to see her people and  if you left a door open, which we often do on the farm, you payed for it in cleaning up goose poop. When they were a year old, middle kid showed them at the fair, winning the fancy geese category, as well as Water Fowl Showmanship (really). But it was Henry who started making his presence known on the farm. It wasn't long before we could tell that Raging Rosebud was a kitten compared to Henry. Henry feared no one and nothing. He would go after the dog, humans, horses, sheep, and cars. Woe be it to the duck or chicken who crossed his path. The kids had sticks and shovels lined up by the back door, so as to never leave the house without a weapon. I mainly relied on swift hands, but miscalculated once or twice earning some nasty bruises. The bugger even jumped at my face one day, missing by a good foot and painfully finding my left boob. Nothing like a 12 pound goose hanging off your boob, beating you with his wings. Thank you God for not posting that one on youtube.

We lost Henrietta in  June 2009. She had been sitting on a clutch of eggs for some time, and hatching was nigh. I was of mixed feelings. I didn't really want any more geese, but stealing her eggs made her fretful. While the kids and I were out of town, poor Huz left to watch the farm, a marauding critter pulled her right off her nest, through a hole in the wall of the barn ( darn horses always chewing!) and left her remains in the pasture. The nice goose, gone. "Dash", as my eldest would say.

That left us with two ganders. The odd couple redux. I believe this spring, a goose-less one, made the ganders a bit kinder, more gentle. They only killed one duck. At my mother's farm, her gander - a infinitely more tolerable version of ours- had been killed by a fox while defending his ladyfriend. Wing and Wing was ganderless, and Cowfeathers was ganderfull. A quick switcheroo in Pennsylvania returned Rosebud to his birthplace, where he seamlessly became head honcho. And Henry? He's alone. He's so lonely, he's begun to defend the ducks from the roosters. He's so lonely, he flies over his fence (erected to save human limbs and purposeful vegetation) to hang out by my minivan. And poop. And, I feel bad enough that he's lonely to not complain so much about the poop on the patio. But, not so bad that I'm ready, yet, to get him friends.

Henrietta the prize-winning goose.

Back to school

Time again to watch my kids walk off to the bus, and come back some 8 hours later with my homework. The first week of school homework for mom. Forms, forms and more forms. Identical to the ones I did last year. And the year before. Fortunately, once you're done with the forms, you're done. Still, it takes a few hours, and I always end up thinking about our neighbors, who at last count had 13 kids, or maybe 15? I'm not sure even they know. But that is a LOT of forms. Only one of the kids has graduated from high school, and only one more is in high school. That makes 11? 13? less than 12 years old. To make it more confusing, all the kids names start with "C". Believe me, after 7 or so "C" names, I'd get a little desperate. I believe I would end up with one named "Cottage Cheese". And since "Cruise" would probably already be taken, #14 might be "Carnival" in hopes that "Cruise" would take over the care of his/her namesake. In any case, I cringe at the thought of all those forms!

Then, there is the other parental homework. Parent response journal? The kid writes a letter with a question and you write a reply.  Okay, that one is pretty fun, and I see some value, but I have balked and been rather uncooperative about some of my parental homework. I had one 7th grade teacher who wanted me to watch my child read for 30 minutes a night, then record what was read and sign off about it. That particular child reads approximately18 hours a week, and has been doing so since age 2. So, I just signed a note that said "Already accomplished for this year." Making the teacher unhappy. He declared to my child that it was sad her mother did not believe in education. Tee hee hee. So, when he emailed me about it, I did mention that  my child's parents had acquired 45 years of education and that we knew that higher education requires self motivation. He did not ask me to do any homework after that, but I still get the feeling that he was a bit disgruntled.

Then, there is the homework that is just plain busywork. UGH. My kids take homework seriously (well, one of them isn't convinced yet) and even the busy work has to be perfect. For this reason, I was woken for assistance on the second day of school at 5:56 am to unscramble words. My middle had worked hard, and figured out 13 of the 16 challenges, but was stumped by 3. I assured her that I didn't think this would be a graded assignment. It is busy work, I said. But, due to the distressed look on her face in the rising dawn, I rubbed my eyes and gave it a go. Completely unsuccessfully. FNSAAODCNO? No clue. Equally stumped by the other two. Something you get for school was the only hint. So, worried and unhappy, she went off to school with incomplete homework. When I collected her that afternoon from the school curb, her first words were "Guess what ? We didn't even hand in that unscramble, we just went over it together." Really. Just wanted to keep you busy, when athletic practice and dinner and chores and 60 animals and sleep isn't enough.

Then there is the homework that is perhaps worthwhile.

I went to turn the grass once after one
Who mowed it in the dew before the sun.
The dew was gone that made his blade so keen
Before I came to view the leveled scene.
I looked for him behind and isle of trees:
I listened for his whetstone on the breeze.
But he had gone his way, the grass all mown,
And I must be, as he had been, - alone,
"As all must be" I said within my hear,
"Whether they work together or apart."
But as I said it, swift here passed me by
On noiseless wing a 'wildered butterfly,
Seeking with memories grown dim o'er night
Some resting flower of yesterday's delight.
And once I marked his flight go round and round,
As where some flower lay withering on the ground.
And then he flew as far as eye could see,
And then on tremulous wing came back to me.
I thought of questions that have no reply,
And would have turned to toss the grass to dry;
But he turned first and led my eye to look
At a tall tuft of flowers beside a brook,
A leaping tongue of bloom the scythe had spared
Beside a reedy brook the scythe had bared.
I left my place to know them by their name,
Finding them the butterfly week when I came.
The mower in the dew had loved them thus,
By leaving them to flourish, not for us,
Nor yet to draw one thought of ours to him.
But from sheer morning gladness at the brim.
The butterfly and I had lit upon.
Nevertheless, a message from the dawn,
That made me hear the wakening birds around,
And hear his long scythe whispering to the ground,
And feel a spirit kindred to my own,
So that henceforth I worked no more alone;
But glad with him, I worked as with his aid,
And weary, sought at noon with him the shade,
And dreaming, as it were , held brotherly speech
With one whose thought I had not hoped to reach.
"Men work together," I told him from the heart,
"Whether they work together or apart."

Robert Frost.

Ah, memorize poetry. Me likey. That is homework worth doing, and now when I yield my scythe I have a poem to contemplate. Back to school, yes, never stop learning, indeed!

Cowfeathers Island

Island living! Sun, sand, water, fronds, waves, margaritas... okay, Cowfeathers is not an island (unless crops are water and chickens are sandpipers). And although we do have sun and wind regularly, I don't think anyone could mistake our little creek for a body of water. So, although we are not on an island, we do have an island. One of which I'm quite fond.

When we moved to Cowfeathers, the house had two bedrooms. The toddler boy had one, and the parents had the other. That left two little girls with a hallway to share. We tucked beds into the eaves of the hall and tromped over toys, clothes and treasures to get to the bathroom. It was evident that a remodel and addition would be a fine consideration. I'm sure I'll discuss this period in Cowfeathers morphology in further blogs, but let me say here, many thanks to my Dad, who was a huge influence in getting the addition ball rolling with creativity and enthusiasm and also to Architect, Shawn Baird (check out his website, Fusion Design, it's excellent) for his insight and expertise in making what I wanted possible.

In any case, many parts of Cowfeathers got a spiff, including the kitchen. The original kitchen at the farm was, of course, a summer kitchen and not attached to the main house. Somewhere in the mid 1800's, I envision a windblown, blue-lipped, hand-chapped farm wife declaring she'd rather brave the ravages of fire than to have to go outside to get to the kitchen one more time! Thus, the main house was connected to the kitchen. Then, in the early 1960's, when Cowfeathers still had a kitchen pump and an outhouse, the house was abandoned. For 25 years it was empty, save for the raccoons, cattle, and a brief stint as a flophouse for disillusioned, under ambitious local teens with a few electric guitars and an endless supply of native datura. This was a blessing in disguise, as the house skipped the 1970's era of strip and stain. This was  tragic disease whereby historic, aesthetically beautiful farm houses were gutted in order to "update" them with fake wood paneling, clam shell molding and cemented on linoleum. Whilst other local farms were denigrated thusly, Cowfeathers spent this era getting covered in cow pies and bat guano. So, when Tom K. and his wife, who worked for a county historic society were hunting for a property to restore (not renovate) in the mid 1980's, they happened upon this little gem (a kind of treasured island) and did a wonderful job ridding it of the cows and making it quite habitable. (They did not however rid us of the bats- blog subject of the future, but not for the squeamish.) They did a great job with the house, but the old kitchen was a bit tired by the time we bought the place. The K.'s must not have been foodies, as the room was small, very dark and unfriendly, with cheap cabinets and no insulation. To give you an idea of how cold it was in the winter, we lost power before Christmas in 2005? at 10 a.m..  By 3 pm, the kitchen was 31 degrees Fahrenheit. So, making a kitchen I wanted to spend time in was a priority. Still, my budget was tight. REALLY tight. When the builder was coming up with his estimate, and I told him I was redoing the kitchen from the studs up on a tight budget, he budgeted in 16K. I told him his tight was different from mine. I was talking less than 1K. And I did. Ripped it out to the studs, built it back the way I wanted it. Mostly, I wanted and island. And I mean an ISLAND. Not one of those dinky things from Ikea. So, after I built the sink and counters, installed the appliances, I took stock of my available space and got creative. I found a 12' long butcher block top on ebay from a machine shop that was being liquidated and bought it for $200. Unfortunately, it was in Chicago. So, my blessed brother and sister in law who live in that fine city, figured out a way to pick it up and store it in their garage. Next, my husband went to a meeting in Chicago, and instead of flying, took my minivan-and yes, I did know it would fit a 4' by 12' piece of thick butcher block, and he drove it home. Good man. Next, I called my Dad! He and I like doing projects together, and this was a good one. He and my Mum came for Thanksgiving, and the two of us created a masterpiece of islandom.

Three years later, we continue to be island dwellers- no hammock, but certainly center stage in the Cowfeathers kitchen!

After assembly, Thanksgiving 2007

Cowfeathers island, today.....

Moon Maiden

Sun sets, and the planets shine and then the moon comes over the edge of the corn...

There is a bit of exquisite pleasure in sleeping in a moonbeam. I have always loved the moon, although, spending many of my formitive years in the Connecticut woods made my relationship with the moon one of hide and seek. But I feel a little more "me" when in the rays of the moon. Here, in the windswept farmlands, the moon is much easier to find. In fact, she follows me down from the barn at night, giving me a moon shadow, then waits outside my bedroom window to show her stuff when I get out of the tub. There is a different smell in the air on bright moonlit nights, kind of an ozoney smell. And falling asleep is so comfortingly easy. This affinity for the moon may be tied into my horoscope sign. I am a cancer, and I as I've heard it said, cancer's are moon maidens. The lore also says moody and sensitive too. I'm not so sure about moody. My sister, Aunt E. would probably be able to illuminate the connection further. She knows all sort of cool stuff, like how to read tarot cards, and how to press on part of my foot and make my uterus hurt. Badly. ( If you don't believe you can feel individual organs screaming for mercy, don't put your foot in my sister's lap.) The closest I've come to much astrological knowledge was during college I regularly consulted Linda Goodman's 1968 classic Sun Signs and her follow up Love Signs published a decade later when deciding on worthwhile dates. I disregarded most of her advice anyway as I don't find myself to be the crabby, modest, weepy, reticent or clutching Cancerian she describes, although, to be fair I do have a hard time letting go of mementos and I do like food, so maybe she's not off base completely. Still, Cancer is said to be ruled by the moon, and even if I'm not sure what she means by "ruled", I'm pretty sure the moon and I do have something special.

Partisan Sheep?

I think, if I were to query 100 shepherds of the pure intelligence of their charges, the shepherds would be dumbfounded. Intelligence? Hmmm. As one who has sheep, I would say, pure of heart? Yes. Pure of intention? Certainly. Predictable? Indubitably. Social? Indeed. Intelligent? Um, well, not very. There is a reason you see trained elephants and poodles. Horses star in movies and the arena, rats are amazing in their Pavlovian ability, and then in their reasoning. Heck, even cats use a litterbox (although admittedly this has very little to do with our training, and much more to do with their instinct and fastidiousness). Sheep, well, they were in "Babe". We even have the same breed as those that were featured in the movie, Border Leicester. And, believe me, they were predictable enough to film, but not smart enough to train. So, you can understand my surprise when I realized that I have political sheep! In the spirit of solidarity to the defunct and derided  Bush Administration (Bush II, Little Bush?) they adopted their own version of the "No Child Left Behind" policy. Understanding, perhaps, that each of us are responsible for our own corner of the turf, they have unwaveringly been strong in their enforcement. The policy is jauntily titled "No Fence Left Behind".
     The leader in this grassroots effort is Cesar, the heavily testicled Man of the Barn. He may not be smart, but he certainly uses his head, with effective ramifications. When surrounded by an area with already destroyed fencing, this shepherdess has witnesses our hero back up and ram the concrete water trough (subject of 8/16/10) repeatedly. Fortunately for the long deceased traveling water trough man, his legacy was stronger than the policy of our hero, maybe falling under a loophole of not being actual fence.
     The less direct, and more crafty of fencing destroyers is Dolores, a white ewe who has no problem crossing party lines or electric ones. She has threaded herself through six strings of high tensile wire, farm gates and woven "no climb" (HA!) wire fence. Electricity is no match for her wool and lack of understanding. When given the opportunity, she has shoved her head though a 6 inch square hole of wire fence carrying more than 3000 volts of electricity. Then, realizing that she was now stuck and being a bit shocked, proceeded to tangle her entire body in the electric grid like a soft taco. Then, because this moved the fence a bit, she could graze until rescue. Post rescue, why not try it again? Worked the first time. That fencing modality was soon abandoned altogether at Cowfeathers Farm.

Dolores greets the next gen : "Everest". First there were the Kennedys.....

     It is rather common to wake up to sheep in the yard, working on the subset of the "No Fence Left Behind" Policy. That being the "No Pansy, hydrangea, hosta, lilac, boxwood, buddelia, rose, peony, viburnum, beebalm, veronica, pine, holly, echinichea, joe-pye-weed, forsythia Left Behind Either" policy. In this they are challenged, because I am a great planter of ground, and so we have a match on our hands. But a post dawn sweep up of patio-scattered sheep turds comes before morning tea, and in that they have a majority. Without a doubt they have succeeded in causing Cowfeathers pansy extinction even without assistance from Mother Nature's 100 degree days.

Dolores(a.k.a. "D-lo") and Dancer;  political partners

     So, tonight, we are at recess, having grazed all day in undesignated areas, they are full, and baling wired, roped and twined into their respective stalls, clean water, hay and fans blowing on them, lest they feel fatigued from the heat. In the morning, they will have destroyed a wall, or gate in order to go where their Policy dictates, on the way decimating the wall of barn cleaning tools (ram, ram, ram; no tool unscathed, we have 1' long handles on the pitchforks, shovels with 90 degree turns and manure forks with 5 tines left).  And, tomorrow night, I will have fence to repair. Cutter and spare wire in hand, tester at the optimistic ready, I will grope my way around in the dark yet again, trying to find all the gaps in the fence and triumphs in the Policy. Now, who here isn't smart???? Duh.

Where is that dang thing?

The trough in winter. NOT a good time to locate a lost plug, but not a current excuse for losing it...

So, I'm out in the gorgeous, cooling evening (night?) air, sloshing around in the wet (very!) grass, looking for the plug to the water trough and it has disappeared. The grass is wet as I have drained the last two inches of water from the trough to clean it up. It is dark, but it is trough cleaning day, despite the time. Perhaps the plug has disappeared because it is dark, and I cannot see it. This would seem to be the time for a flashlight, but as anyone who has had a little boy knows, a still working flashlight is not compatible.
      The water trough is a grand affair. When the kids were little they believed we had a pool, above ground to be sure, but still. It is crafted from cement, and is signed by the craftsman on the side, along with some other sort of notation. Local legend says he was a traveling concrete worker who came through these parts sometime around the turn of the 20th century. He poured the huge troughs at several farms in the area, and there is even one down the road in a cornfield- trough abandoned and full of farm waste. I should get out there with paper and a crayon and solve the mystery of when more definitively by rubbing the date on the side, but I'm too preoccupied with just keeping it clean and modestly full for the horses. If it was a trough salesman, I wonder if he also plied his craft on the other ancient, but fine, concrete structures at Cowfeathers? We have a large concrete bridge culvert for our creek which is still strong enough to hold a modern firetruck ( knowledge we have thanks to Nana's smoking dinner in the oven whilst Huz and I were out, and she didn't know the security code) , but the bridge is at least a century if not older. The dairy section of the barn is also poured concrete, and also is not new by American standards. The stanchions (the area the cow puts her head through to feed in the feed trough that slide closed to keep her reasonably stationary for hand milking) are crafted of wood and metal, quite usable still, but by no means modern in themselves! Concrete has been around since the 1750's and hasn't changed much since 1824 when Joseph Aspdin burned ground limestone with clay to create modern cement and then added aggregate to produce concrete. Cowfeathers Farm was built right around this time with the barn going up before the creation of concrete by Mister Aspdin and the house going up just after. I would surmise as there was not concrete used in the building of the house, that the concrete was poured sometime after the house was finished, or perhaps they were reluctant to use new technology in their home, but not in the barn? In any case, that water trough has been up on the hill with the barn for some years now. Beautiful utility.Hundreds of gallons.  And I've drained the water, scrubbed the bottom (don't like greenstuff) and misplaced the dang plug. So, it's buckets for the horses tonight, and great hopes for daylight.

Marking, or squat and pee.

Boundaries!

I know I spend  a lot of time around animals. Perhaps too much time. But I was admiring the simplicity of marking. Humans mark their territory too. Of course we build walls and doors that are the most defined areas of territory, but we are not limited to built structure. We mow. We garden. We fence. We plant tree lines, dig ditches and build stone walls. We mark with visual integrity. Pretty. How much time do we spend marking? What about the beauty of squat and pee? Efficient, mobile, satisfyingly simple and invisible. Yet, serviceable. Lucky dogs! Each morning, Tucker, the family hound, travels southwest where the edge of the woods meets the soybeans, gets the job done, bounds home grinning. This is where the coyotes travel from, and he's just putting them on notice. The coyotes don't seem to care about the visual boundaries of lawn and fence, but I think Tucker's boundaries give them pause. Now, twice now this summer, a large coyote has ventured past the kitchen garden only to meet my patented "Scare the bejeezus out of predators" routine. It involves screaming, lots of rotating arms and running after my prey for some distance. Now, the strained vocal cords and inflamed rotator cuffs lead me to believe marking is much more efficient. But, my talents don't lie there. When we moved to Cowfeathers, the 200 year old barn was unused and a bit neglected. The groundhogs had seen this as a real opportunity, and had created a fine network of tunnels and holes in the bottom of the barn. Well, Hannah, our huntress mutt (now sadly gone from cancer) wasted no time in fixing up the ground hogs. She wouldn't pee atall, except in the barn, preferably right in the holes. "Take That, ya naughty hog!" And the ones that ventured out, did so but once. Quick, efficient, mobile, marking is a beautiful thing.