Coyote Central

For a while it felt like Coyote Central around here. Right before we put the chickens on pasture we could hear the coyotes every single night, multiple times a night, howling and heckling and daring us to put our chickens outside at night. They seemed to be sitting right outside my window and all I could think about were my poor, defenseless chickens sitting like bait in their chicken tractors.

My father-in-law came to the rescue with a .22 rifle. He came from Oklahoma for a visit and brought his father's rifle and gave it to Hadley to reckon with the coyotes with. One problem solved. Sort of.

We still couldn't SEE anything. You don't want to shoot in the dark without being very clear what you're shooting at so I ordered a heavy duty 1 million candle power rechargeable light from Amazon. The first night we had the chickens outside was nerve wracking. The coyotes were carrying on and we had the gun but the spotlight hadn't arrived yet. Hadley slept on the sofa and Sadie was barking what seemed like every hour. My light was still a day away so, the next morning I drove into town (25 min. away so I rarely drive into town) and 5 hours later (it always takes longer than you plan...) I came home with a 3 million candlepower rechargeable spotlight, among other things. We were elated. The first couple of nights were exciting. The coyotes would bark and howl in the middle of the night, I'd fly out of bed, Hadley would grab the gun and we'd go outside, I being the designated light holder and Hadley the coyote hunter.

Nothing.

This went on for several nights until, finally, the howling died off. We didn't hear coyotes for days and I foolishly assumed that they went on to bigger and better poultry operations far, far away. I was wrong. They came back. The only problem now was that the weather was warmer, our windows were open, and when Sadie started barking, the coyotes stopped howling. Can we say that Hadley was not pleased with Sadie? I thought it was the ideal set up. Coyotes howl, dog barks, coyotes leave, everyone goes back to bed and no one has to throw on boots and go traipsing through the pitch black night in knee high rubber boots and a nightgown. Hadley, however, was by this time bent on "getting a coyote". I pointed out that the whole goal was to prevent the coyotes from getting the chickens but that didn't go over well with Hadley. This had gotten personal. He wanted a coyote.

Well fortunately for the chickens and the coyotes, the coyotes have continued to howl but have kept their distance. Unfortunately for Hadley, he has not "gotten" a coyote. He is outside now as I type, obsessively stalking the coyotes, probably staking out a spot on the other side of the dried up pond. I imagine he'll be back in within the half hour. That's okay. It's good for a boy to sit outside in the dark waiting for a coyote to make his day. It's an adventure with a good measure of hope mixed in.

We all need that now and then, don't you think?

The Gift of a Letter

Ever since the boys and I have been here, Kent has written us letters. Real live, stamped, addressed, hold-in-your-hand letters. I've come to look forward to walking Sadie up to the gate at night and taking that extra jaunt down the road to the mailbox to see if there's a letter. Usually there is.

I didn't expect any letters this week. Kent has been at a Windsor chair making class all week at Homestead Heritage (near Waco) and he is busy from morning to sometimes way after dinner with his chair project. It's a neat class. They basically start with a log and, using only hand tools, he should have a Windsor chair by the end of the week. It's a Monday to Saturday class and they are going fast to complete their chairs in the 6 days.

Kent is a sweet, thoughtful kind of man. Still, I was surprised to go to the mailbox on Tuesday and find a letter waiting for us. Even better, he has been sending us news clippings this week from the papers he reads at breakfast. He sent clippings to Harrison about the volcano in Iceland. He sent clippings to Hadley about a music group he likes. Today we got two letters at once. In one was a clipping about a medieval castle that is being built in my birth state of Arkansas (one of only 2 in the world) and another about a sailing ship, the Plastiki, (think Kon Tiki) built from recycled plastic.

I love this man.

Letters are a gift. Yes, email is good and phone calls are great and we still do all of that. But I can't SAVE a phone call, and emails...well, think about it. Emails are a convenience but they are still emails. Letters are personal. They are handwritten. And even when they aren't, they are still signed with a pen and an embellishment of endearment.

It makes me think. How many letters have I written this year? More importantly, it makes me ponder...how many letters might I write in the coming months? Who might I gift with this simple pleasure of a letter? And it makes me grateful for a man who knows the pleasures that the gift of a letter can bring.

Chickens on the Lamb

It was hot today. Really hot. The chickens were roasting in the tractors so we propped up the corners on two ends to let the air circulate. In a few hours we went to check on them and several had their heads poking out of the bottom, gasping for breath. A little while later we checked and several chickens were sitting outside the tractor. Wow! How did they do that? By evening time we had a good dozen chickens hanging outside the tractor, scratching in the fresh grass and grateful for the extra water that Hadley had set out for them outside the tractor. I went out to water my garden beds (no, the irrigation is still not in) and one little guy followed me. Every time I walked him back over to his tractor, he followed me back to my watering. I finally had to pick him up and carry him back. He got the message. He didn't follow me again.

When dinner time came, the ones on the outside kept wistfully eyeing the ones inside the tractor who were happily eating from the feeders. I was able to get about half of them back in, but little did I know that a fresh batch was sneaking out the propped open end as fast as I put their brothers in through the top on the other side. I finally decided they could wait and I went in and finished fixing dinner. We didn't put the rest of them back safely in their home until after 8:00. Once the sun starting going down, they were no longer panting and were obviously happy to be hanging out. What a sweet picture they made -chickens sitting by the tractors, chickens venturing out a few feet from the tractor, one chicken playing King of the Mountain on the compost pile. Sadie did great with them too. I call her "Chicken Dog". She is so good with them. She keeps good boundaries and just sits and watches them. She doesn't bother them and they don't bother her. Of course, she has a selfish motive. She loves to be by the tractors because she has a penchant for chicken poop. Gross, I know. Still, I'd rather her eat that than the chickens.

A Sad Blessing

Miss Chicken died this afternoon. I went out to check on her about 4:45, as Hadley readied the gun to help her out of her suffering. Luckily, that wasn't necessary. She was a real fighter. I'm going to miss that chicken.

Singing on the farm

Though I am loathe to sing in public, I belt it out at the farm. I seem to have different songs that come to the surface, depending on the activity at hand. Early on, I found myself singing different songs as I fed the chicks and added more clean bedding to their brooders. Nothing was ever premeditated - whatever song popped out of my mouth was the song of the day. Literally. Do you know how hard it is to get a song out of your mind when you are consciously trying to rid yourself of it?

The chicks seemed to really like Dan Folgelberg and Seals and Crofts (I am showing my age, aren't I?) So for several days I would walk into the workroom to do my morning chores and the words to the song would slip out of my mouth before I knew what I was doing. "Longer than there've been fishes in the ocean, higher than any bird ever flew..." They especially seemed to like that one until I ran it into the ground. Then one morning, out of the blue, came Seals and Crofts' Summer Breeze. "Summer breeze, makes me feel fine....something on the jasmine in my mind..." I never could remember the words to that song. So it was always..."something on the jasmine in my mind." Something what??

Okay, I cheated. I finally looked it up. You already knew this but now I know. It's "blowing through the jasmine in my mind." What is jasmine doing in my mind?

Probably my all-time, number one, "run it into the ground" favorite is the mower song. I cannot seem to get through a mowing session without the old stand by, Green Acres.

"Green acres is the place to be, farm living is the life for me.

Land spreading out so far and wide, keep Manhattan just give me that countryside."

Then I forget a little so I hum under my breath until the beat allows me to blurt out:

"da, da, da, da, da - fresh air!

da, da, da, da, da - Times Square!

You are my wife! Good-bye city life!

Green acres, we are here!!!"

This, of course, is followed by about 30 repetitions of the same said song until I finally start inserting my own words for another 15 repetitions or so. Finally I either finish mowing and the completion of my task miraculously marks the ending of my singing, or I start consciously thinking of other things to think about or sing about.

How crazy is all of this? It's a wonderful crazy. It's a puttering kind of non-serious, "let your hair down" crazy that I love. It's a silly childish kind of crazy that is completely allowed on 30 acres with no one around to tell you what a bad singer you are or how crazy you are being (except your kids, of course, but they don't count. Your family always knows how goofy you can be; that's one of the joys of close relationships. You are a goober and they love you anyway.)

Even when I try, I can't NOT sing. I love mowing and moving chickens and singing dumb songs all the while. Life here, though not perfect, is pure joy. What's not to sing about?

Day 36 - Day 36?!!

Wow, can it really be day 36? That means these chickens are definitely no longer chicks. They are 37 days old and growing big and fat. Each morning I go out to walk Sadie up the road to unlock the gate (not that I expect anyone to come through it really) and I go back down the road towards the house and check the chickens. They are usually a bit low on food so I fill up one of their food troughs (we have two in each chicken tractor), I check the water, then go in for breakfast and wait for the dew to dry. We don't tend to move them until about 9:30. By then the grass is dry and we can move them to a new green spot. It takes both boys and me to move the larger tractor - gosh is it heavy! Kent put removal wooden wheels on and that helps unless we are having to move it sideways and not forward or back.

Once they're on fresh grass, the chickens go wild. I would too. If you could see the mess they make of the spot they've been in for the last 24 hours, you'd want to move too. That mess they've made is such a great thing though! They are part of the soil restoration plan for the pastures. Of course it will be wonderful when we have a few head of cattle to precede the chickens and then follow the chickens with sheep, but those animals will have to wait their turn. All in due time.

I have a wonderful photo of a white, plump chicken but my new computer and I are not seeing eye to eye. So I promise I will post it later, as soon as I get this glitch figured out. In the meantime, just imagine a fat, happy chicken peering through the wire of the chicken tractor.

Sick chicken update:

I am beginning to wonder if my chicken with the bum legs is the one I sat the waterer on a few weeks back. I suppose it's possible. None of the other chickens have suffered from this malady. That poor chick is still alive, but not filling out like the others and is still confined to the hospital pen. I have finally concluded that she (yes, I've determined she is a she) is having a really tough go of things and that the only humane thing to do is to let her go. Only problem is that I can't do it. Hadley has graciously offered to take care of that for me since Kent won't be here to do that for a couple of more days. I think I'll accept his offer.

Chicken Tractors

We moved the chicks on pasture on Saturday so they've been in their new homes for 5 full days now. The photos show the two types of chicken tractors we built. The top left one is a "Salatin style" tractor named after Joel Salatin of Polyface farms. It is sturdy and solid (and heavy). It is harder to move than the second type and we've since learned that chickens in Texas don't do well in these type of tractors in the heat of the summer. Apparently, the tractors are so well insulated that the chickens cook. That's not good.

The second type of tractor is one that Hadley designed. Since he is raising 24 chickens himself (we're sharing the mortality), he decided to house his in a separate pen. His tractor is lightweight, easy to move and after adding the tarp it provides some protection from the wind. We can get some pretty strong winds out here so we are still waiting to see how it fares when the big winds hit. He stakes them down with soil filled plastic bags.

We had one more unexplainable death last Tuesday and right now I have one chicken in the hospital. That guy (or is it a girl?) has been there since Saturday. He barely moves. I gave him beef liver (for vitamin B-12) on Sunday after self-diagnosing Mareck's disease. The chicken's feet have curled up and he sits on his haunches, almost completely immobile. On the 3rd day I really thought he was not going to make it and I did more research and gave him the homeopathic remedy Causticum 30C in his water. Yesterday he seemed to rally, though he didn't eat much. I said a prayer for the little guy last night - you know, "take him if he's going to suffer or make him stronger." I fully expected a dead chicken this morning and, wouldn't you know, he is now quite alert and eating and drinking more but still can't move.

I was thinking about this whole death thing today when I was (what else?) mowing. It seems ironic, I guess, that I would go to these pains to save this chicken, knowing that I am going to slaughter him in another month. Keeping him as a pet isn't an option even if I wanted to because he is a Cornish Cross. These are fast growing chickens that will not live long after that 8 week period because they are bred to grow so fast that they will die sooner than later if they aren't "processed." Cornish Cross are the industry standard and yet one that many pasture based chicken farms still use because of their nice breast size. It's a catch-22. People expect plump, full-breasted chickens and yet to get that, genetics are compromised and the chickens are not as sturdy and resilient. My chicken's leg paralysis is actually very common in factory raised chickens. It is not unusual for the bulk of the chickens in factory farms to not even be able to move at all because they are too heavy to carry themselves. Pasturing Cornish Cross's helps to mitigate that problem but these birds are still genetically prone to leg weakness.

So, while I will be happy to enjoy a plump chicken when I cook it, I have decided to try a different breed next time. I am looking into different heritage breeds or the "newer" hybrid Ranger Chickens.

Even if this was a breed of chicken that could live longer, I would still be planning to slaughter him. Growing your own food forces you to be very honest about the way you eat. I eat meat so it is not fair for me to pretend when I buy a neatly wrapped or flash frozen chicken from the store that those chickens didn't die. I know the living conditions of my chickens and I know the living conditions of factory raised chickens. I'll take my "happy to be on pasture" chickens any day. As my friend Ruddy said, "they have a great life and then they have one bad day."

Day 19 Bed Wetting

My chicks have reverted from teenage to toddler.

The problem? Wet beds.

In all fairness, the problem lies not with the chicks but with the waterers. I cannot for the life of me figure out why gallons of water keep leaking all over the floor of the brooder. I've had many theories and once I think I've figured it out for sure, then another avenue of leaking presents itself. It's crazy making to feel like you've done everything right: clean the waterers thoroughly, fill them up so they are nice and heavy and will have less of a tendency to tip over, position them just in the right place so the chickens are less prone to bump into them when they're acting out - and yet you go out to a steamy bed of wet bedding. Gee. It's the perfect metaphor for how I feel about life sometimes. You do everything right, try to "be good," stay organized, be prepared and not get in the way of others and "bam!" bad things still happen. That, I guess, is when you keep going anyway. It's a faith thing for sure. And in my case, a growing love of rural living. I love the process, the idea that I will one day be eating what I've taken so many pains to raise. The whole notion of a start to finish food supply pulls me in. I told Kent the other day that when I saw tiny peaches on the peach trees, I was almost surprised. I always seem to be taken aback when something actually works... So why bother? It's the hope and the dreams that something wonderful will come from a tiny spark of an idea. It's like going to a fabric store and coming home with a whole bag of fabric. That fabric might sit on the shelf from here to eternity, but a big part of that process is sometimes just the idea that, yes, you CAN imagine something going from nothing to something.The whole idea that I might possibly be able to grow more vegetables than my city tomatoes, basil and lettuce...that I could actually start with a baby chick and later prepare Chicken Parmesan with my own chickens...wow! Willa Cather expressed this kind of contentment perfectly in "O Pioneers!" when she wrote: "A pioneer should have imagination, should be able to enjoy the idea of things more than the things themselves."

So, last Friday Harrison and I spent a good couple of hours pulling out most of the bedding and replacing it with dry leaves and more wood shavings. It was a big job. I won't go into the exasperating detail, just trust me. It was a process.

Just when I thought I had it figured out, I took one last look at my little feathered friends last night around 11 pm and - you guessed it - one gallon waterer was completely empty. Wet bedding. Tired farmer. Throw in a lost cat for good measure. An hour later, I was lying in bed, praying for no leaking, praying that the coyotes wouldn't find one big, black cat too tasty and I finally fell asleep. This morning I woke up to good news. William the cat was at the back door and the waterers had apparently not leaked. I said a prayer of thanks and did the only prudent thing I could think of. I removed one of the waterers and decided to just stick with one.

No use tempting fate.

Day 15 - Wildflowers and Laying Hens

The wildflowers are beginning to pop up along the roadside and oh, what beautiful scenery for my walk up to the gate each morning with Sadie. William, our cat usually joins us in the evening, but this morning he followed us as well. It's a funny thing to go for a walk with your dog and a fat, black cat tagging along.

The chicks are growing. Long white feathers are replacing the fuzzy yellow fur. It's starting to get hot in the workroom in the daytime so the heatlamps are off and the garage doors are raised ever so slightly to let some fresh air in. I have to keep the cats in the house when I do this and it's a real pain for now, but when the chickens are safely in their chicken tractors on the pasture, they'll have a "real" top and not two old window screens as their ceiling. For now, though, I don't trust William one bit with that flimsy top to their brooder cage.

Today is April Fool's Day and I played a very mean trick on Kent. He knows I have been wanting laying hens so I could have fresh eggs. So I emailed him and told him that the feed store had received baby chicks and ducks and turkeys and rabbits this morning and that I went ahead and paid for 25 laying chicks and would plan to pick them up on Saturday after I came home and cobbled together a hen house in the old tractor barn. Of course this makes no sense since I don't have a way to take care of them once I'm back in Houston and I don't know the first thing about raising laying hens but that sweet man backed me up 100%. His email back said something like "Hey, that's great honey. You know we tend to analyze things too much. Go for it!" I just love this guy. How did I get so lucky??