Loosening Up

A surprise awaited me when I stepped into the chicken coop a couple days ago.

Laying there atop the straw in the middle of the coop was a big white duck egg. We haven't seen a duck egg around these parts in a very long time. I don't know the last time Doris laid an egg; she's been freeloading on feed, water and shelter for some time now. That's OK. We still love her.

Because a few of our hens are laying some nice fat eggs these days, you may not see as big a difference as you typically would between the size of our duck vs. chicken eggs. But that dirty lighter egg right there in the middle is the sign that either Doris is back to laying, or one of our newcomers is finally loosening up a little. (Side Note: I gathered the eggs a little early in the day; we're getting 6 to 7 eggs per day from our 9 hens right now, which is allowing us to share with family and neighbors. I love the abundant laying season.)

Kristi, who we got the ducks from when she had to move to another town, said her little duck gang was laying regularly and she got eggs from them every day. Unless they've been burying eggs beneath the straw somewhere the last several weeks, they've been holding out on us. 

Today, though, I found two duck eggs, which tells me it isn't just Doris who's in on the action. 

I wonder if the girls are simply getting settled in and used to being around chickens, or if it's just because the weather is warming up and all farm animal systems seem to kick into gear at this time of year? Either way, I'm happy to see the new eggs showing up.

While I'm not as fond of duck eggs for fried eggs because the yolks are a bit sticky, I will include them in omelets with chicken eggs and they're fabulous for baking, somehow making everything you bake a little more special. A new bakery is opening in our town and I'm going to approach the owner to see if he's interested in buying duck eggs, since I know they are eagerly sought by pastry chefs and bakers.

One thing I can tell you for absolute certain -- I do not believe for one second that the eggs are coming from Mallory. I don't. No one's going to trick me on that front again. 

Love from the farm,

Teri

What I Haven't Posted About

So, there are a few things I haven't posted about that I'll share now.

Mike's sweet Granny died this weekend. Oh, how we love Granny. She was this beautiful, smiling, engaged-in-our-lives lady who always had a gleam in her eye.

It's weird to use "was," "had," "loved."  I'm not sure I can quite say "loved" yet. We love her; we always will. She was 92 years of love. This picture of Mike and Granny was taken at her 90th birthday party. 90th!! Can you believe it? She was ageless and gracious.

 

Mike loved his Granny. He still does.

 

Tanner has pneumonia and it's caused his kidney disease to flare for the first time in a long time. We've postponed our departure for the funeral in the hope he stabilizes enough that I feel comfortable leaving him at Mom & Dad's while I accompany Mike and the other kids to Granny's service. I'm, of course, completely comfortable with the care he'd get at Mom & Dad's. I'm just not comfortable being away from him when he has so much going on.

This was Tanner without pneumonia, at one of his football games this fall, deep in remission, right where we like him.

This is Tanner rockin' a mullet during his show choir's "Rock of Ages" tribute performance. Yep, 80s music is the thing of elevator music and school choirs now. I don't feel old at all.

Adam's been here a few weeks and will be here a few weeks more before he heads to Utah to live, and begin his post-South Africa life. I'm very excited for him.

 

Here he is with cousin Megan and sister Macy at the Chinese Cultural Center in Phoenix.

 

Here he is with Mike at the mall. (Mike is Pops to Adam, but he's Mike to me.)

 

Here he is with Karlie, giving her a kiss on her 13th birthday.

 

Here he is with Macy lurking like a creeper behind him, and Sadie our sweet dog enjoying the summer heat. (When Adam left South Africa in August it was winter there. Flying into Phoenix Sky Harbor Airport in the blistering August heat represented a bit of atmospheric shock, I'll tell ya. Thankfully, in our high desert corner of Arizona, summer is a bit less punishing.)

 

This is Adam with Mike, Tanner and Macy, fresh off the plane from South Africa. I may or may not have breached the boundary stanchions and ropes in my eagerness to hug my sweet boy after his 2 years away.

 

 Dad had cancer last year, and he got through it with just fatigue. No other horrible side effects. He's so grateful to have it behind him; so am I.

He was a little tired when Macy and I picked him up from his two weeks of radiation in Sedona. (See that red mark? That's where they aimed the radiation 10 times. The spot's gone now; so is the cancer.)

 

Soon after we got him home, he was back in his garden, and all was well.

 

One of my dear, dear friends is having a baby after a struggle with infertility -- I'm so excited to meet miss Nora when she arrives in April! (I don't have a photo for this little note, obviously. Note the not arriving until April part.)

My sister's baby, Ellie, turned 8 on Christmas Eve and was baptized in January by Mike. I can't believe the baby of our family is not a baby anymore.

Finally, I am feeling good. Better than I have felt in years and years. It's fabulous. Right up until about 2 weeks ago, it had been some tough years of illness. Each day the past couple of weeks has felt better than the last and I am so grateful.  (Even with my fantastic fall in the chicken pen last week, which I am completely over by the way. All scabs are almost gone.)

I'm a little uncertain what to do with all the energy and good moods. But, I'm accepting it all greedily and loving it. And the kids and Mike are adjusting to my goofy extra energy. Well, they'll just have to adjust. Because I don't plan on giving it up.

And that's a synopsis some of the events that I don't necessarily write about, but they add the color and shadows to our lives here.

Love from the farm,
Teri

Three's A Crowd



Meet Wyatt. See him there? All black and white with glossy green tail feathers, just hanging with one of his ladies?  

 

Wyatt is the cock of our walk, the King of the Coop. He's the man.

He's our one remaining rooster.

See, we had three roosters. And three roosters among only eight hens is two too many. (Too bad I couldn't have figured out a way to work in "to" in that sentence, too. That would have thrown any of you who are just beginning to adopt the King's English. Who doesn't like a challenge?)

Anyhoo.

There is keen importance attached to the ratio of roosters to hens in a flock. Just ask the girls. I'd show evidence of that importance, but I respect my sisters and know I wouldn't want to be pictured when I look so bedraggled. Suffice it to say that when there are too many roosters forcing their attentions on too few hens, the girls show the wear and tear. Feathers ripped from their heads, shoulders, lower back and the base of their tails (I don't know what that's about. I've seen the roosters yank their heads back unceremoniously, or grab on tight with their talons dug into the ladies' shoulders, but not sure what the heck is up with plucking their lower back. Different strokes for different folks, I guess.)

Beyond the overuse, though, we had a bigger problem. One day a few weeks ago, my mother-in-law Sharron stumbled on a gruesome discovery behind the coop. Our hen Blackie was dead, appearing to have had her neck broken and the back of her head and neck pecked, well, to a pulp. We considered all the options - had the dogs gotten into the pen? No. Could a predator such as a raccoon or skunk have crawled in under the fence and killed her? Perhaps, but they most likely would have left evidence of a fight (feathers) and drug her away. A coyote? Don't see how one could have squeezed himself into the coop, first of all, and it's more typical he would have a) drug her off to devour at his leisure, b) created a pile of feathers from her initial fight, and/or c) tackled more than one hen, creating loads more carnage while he had a captive audience in the pen. Given the lack of evidence Blackie had put up a fight alongside the aforementioned considerations, we were left with the conclusion that the roosters did her in. A few days later, Sharron saw a rooster hop on one of the hens, then the other two boys came running up and started pecking on the hen's head while the first guy was still...umm...involved. Sharron shooed the other two away and our suspicions were confirmed. Blackie's death was murder.

We hadn't planned on having three roosters, but it was the luck of the draw at the Feed & Seed when we picked up our baby chicks this spring.  We didn't know until the little boogers started getting bigger what we had.

So what happened to other two roosters, you ask?

Well, this.

 

 

Sharron , the fast learning farmer, "took care of" (that's farm speak for "killed") the other two, with Mike's help, while I was off editing film for a video project. Mike helped her with getting the right heft behind the, well, "whack", and she did the rest -- scalding, plucking, eviscerating, cleaning and cutting up the roosters. It's the first time we've killed and eaten any of our own poultry.

 

Before we get into how that was, let me tell you why Wyatt was selected to be the surviving fella.

 

We spend time among our little flock and we observe their habits and characteristics. And, we've been around the block a few years now and have a sense of typical rooster behavior. We observed that one of the two ill-fated roosters was a bit "touched." That's genteel Southern speak for a little off your rocker; simple; oh, let's just say it, stupid. Stupid Roo (we didn't call him that while he was alive, swear; I just came up with the handy moniker for the purpose of distinction during this tale) would sort of wobble around the place, a little off kilter, stumbling here and there. He did not command any respect from the ladies, who would routinely run him off when he came around. Not King of the Coop behavior, whatsoever. Worse, he would dart in to do something mean to a hen if he got a chance, then would run off, occasionally looking over his shoulder and stumbling as he made his get away. Not exactly primo characteristics to be contributing to our future feathered gene pool.

 

Bully Boy, our other now gone rooster also not named that in life, was a meanie. He was more tolerated by the ladies, but he was just rough. He didn't have adoring girls who hung around him; they'd just let him bully them around as he did his business and then would have nothing to do with him.

 

Now, neither of these boys' character flaws were enough that we would have put them down if our rooster to hen ratio was acceptable; they just made the decision easier when it came down to who would get the axe. Or hatchet, as the case may be.

 

Where Stupid Roo and Bully Boy got it wrong, Wyatt gets it right. He has a little group of ladies who hang around him all the time; he's protective of his girls, keeping an eye on them throughout the day and calling to them when it's time to eat or go in for the night. Trust me, the girls like these qualities in their man.

 

Happily, we appear to have made the right decision. Our little flock is calmer and quieter. The ladies are looking less bedraggled. We aren't seeing any signs of unnecessary roughness. All is well.

 

So, how did it go eating the roosters? Well, we left it a little long. Ideally, you want to eat a young chicken. While the roosters just hatched late March, early April, that's still a little old for eating. You want them at 6 or 8 weeks old if you plan to eat them fresh. The chicken and dumplings made from these roosters were tough and stringy. We got a little grossed out and couldn't finish our bowls, but we had some happy dogs that evening.

 

While we boiled the meat for the dumplings, we pressure cooked the other meat that was used the next day in chicken enchiladas. That meat was more palatable. But, I think if we find ourselves eating older poultry again, we'll pressure can it first, which cooks the meat a lot longer and is supposed to take care of the toughness factor. I'm not sure we'll ever do much regular butchering on our farm, as it certainly hasn't been a regular occurrence up to now, but it's good to be learning the ins and outs of regular farm life. (I say this, having been in a nice clean television studio while the deed was done, but still.)

 

Well, there you have it. Another day in the life. How about you? Done any killing around your place lately? No? OK.

 

Love from the farm,

Teri



Up For A Chat?

I'm not saying that it's been far too long since I've been over in this corner of the world, I'm just saying that when I entered my username and password to sign in to my very own blog? I botched the password. It's been a long, long time.

I've missed it.

I've missed it all: the reading my farmer/foodie/hippie friend blogs (friends I've never met, mind you, but who I think I might actually love. Not in any way you need to worry about, honey. You get all the love and affection that should be directed toward a husband, every last bit, trust me.) No, just love in the sense that it feels good to peek in and see how things are going, to find out a favorite pet or grandchild came through surgery OK, to feel a twist in my stomach when I read that someone's beloved critter passed away, to gaze with bitterness and covetousness upon others' gardens when mine is struggling, straining, working to live.... OK, maybe I don't miss that part.

I've missed all of you, too. It's been a bit of a gaping hole, to tell you the truth. It's good to be looking at this silly screen again, outdated Easter art, and all.

I've been without a computer for quite some time - my laptop didn't take kindly to my dropping it, the picky thing. And, around the same time I dropped the Dell, we had a death around here that made it feel a lot less like our familiar old farm. Then Adam moved out and took his computer with him. And then I got a job. And, Karlie played softball, and I volunteered to help with the concession stands. Which means I didn't get home before 8 p.m. three or four nights a week, for something on the order of 68 years, by my count. To say the least, things have been a little off kilter.

(We still don't have a computer, but Adam's home for the weekend, which means he's nowhere near home because he's out with friends, so he agreed to let me borrow his computer.)

So here I am.

And there's so much to tell you, I don't even know where to start.

So, let me start with the hardest thing.

Miss Gertie won't be knocking on my door anymore. She hasn't banged against that hardwood door in more than a month. Oh, I miss that silly, grumpy, wonderful old goat.

I woke up Mother's Day and realized after 40 minutes of laying there with my eyes closed that there was not a soul in this house that was even beginning to stir, so any hope of breakfast in bed was fading fast. I decided to get outside and wander the farm during the quiet. I went down to the chicken yard that is presently home to the otherwise wandering dogs and Gertie. It was one of those awful moments where it takes you awhile to take it all in. I talked to the three dogs who were eager to greet me, then said, out loud, "Hey guys, where's Gert?" and I hadn't gotten her name out before I looked to my left and saw her lying there, obviously dead.

We don't know what happened. There were no visible indicators as to why she died. She was just laying there, still, and so darn quiet.

We don't know anything about Gertie's past: she was a rescue critter that came to us through a friend of my sister's, so we never knew how old she was, whether she'd been a healthy little goat, whether she'd come from a good line of old goats. She'd certainly seemed fine the day before Mother's Day. There was no warning.

It was a shocking and sad start to Mother's Day, darn it. I miss that silly old goat. No more rearing up at the dogs, dodging her way past us into the kitchen; shelling out Triscuits, scratching between horns, regretting walking behind her when she was feeling a little bloated. All that's gone now. Mike pointed out there were lots of little goats being born down the road from us and I could "get another Gertie." He meant it right, of course. But, I don't think you get two Gerties in life. I don't know that I'm a goat person, per se. Gertie just waltzed into our lives and we made a place for her, and she was part of it all. I wasn't looking for a goat for the farm, I just welcomed Miss Gertie. Will we ever have another goat? I don't know. I really just don't know. Right now, it feels like the wrong question to ask, so I'm just going to leave it be for awhile.

So, that was the sad part.

But there have been lots of good parts since last we spoke. For instance, we have lots of new feathered friends on the farm. We have some chickens who are getting pretty close to full grown who are frankly a little skittish. Right now, the kiddos are in charge of feeding and watering them, but soon we'll be moving the dogs out of the chicken yard and moving the chickens in there, and then they'll be my chickens. I'll take over feeding and watering and spending time in the yard with them, making sure they know who I am. It's right that the kids are taking care of them right now for a few reasons, but I can't wait to make them mine. Don't ask me to explain it further, that's all I have for right now. I can say that I'm eager to sit with them awhile so I can figure out their names. These chickens will have names and will live long enough to learn them, by golly.

We also have a batch of younger chicks who are currently on the front porch, and who we've taken to letting out to peck and scratch and wallow in the dirt. These 8 chicks are loving and tame, and not very skittish (unless I use the power washer a little too close to their brooder, that is.)

Why, you ask, would I be using the power washer near their brooder? Well, to blast away the goose poop, of course. Because I'm learning that geese like to poop about as much as turkeys and ducks do, and by golly, that's a lot. And, they like to poop while standing at the front door looking in at us. Even so, these geese are awesome. As is their pal, Doris the Duck. (So named for her pillbox hat, which of course evokes Doris Day. It evokes Jackie O, too, but somehow Jackie the Duck didn't have the same ring to it.) The photos will be coming. These guys and gals are beautiful. (I don't actually know their sexes, I've just made some assumptions that I will verify or disprove as soon as I get a new computer.)

So you'll feel like you know them when you meet them, I'll tell you now: the grey goose is Bruno, Alvin is the big white fella, and as I mentioned, the duck is Doris.

I'm big into naming these critters these days. I think it's because I'm really hoping we can keep all these animals alive to see next summer, and somehow, if they all have names, they'll be permanent fixtures - indispensable characters in the story we're unfolding here. Maybe if we pile all this guilt on them about being important to us, not just nameless little feathered things, the universe will see fit to let them keep us a little longer. (I'm not just putting my faith in the universe for critter longevity - we've also made strides with our coyote/dog-proofing, that I hope will pay off.)

OK, so photos of fowl are forthcoming.

Other news: Tanner's doing fantastic. He looks healthy and strong. He feels good. Except for some silly white blood cell action, his labs are great and his kidneys are doing their job. We couldn't be happier or more grateful. It's a beautiful thing.

Adam is enjoying his pool boy job, and is preparing to head to South Africa at the end of August. He's going in for immunizations next week, we just received his FBI clearance in the mail, and I just picked up a letter of good conduct from our local police department (these are a few of the things South Africa requires before letting young foreign men come hang out in their country for a couple of years.) We're excited at the prospect of all that he's going to experience during this big adventure. What an amazing opportunity for a 19-year-old kid.

The girls are doing great: Miss Macy went to a week-long dance clinic and loved it - she'll be starting dance in the fall. She just returned from her first girls' camp - it was relocated and cut short because of the wildfires raging in the area where our beautiful regular girls' camp is located, but she still had a wonderful time. More on that later. This summer, Macy's learned the joy of earning cold hard cash through babysitting, and is getting goofier and more beautiful every day. Karlie Q is holding her own this summer. She just finished her first season of softball and her coaches were impressed with her focus and budding skills. It was wonderful to watch her out there doing something new and working hard at it. She's off to volleyball camp on Monday and basketball camp after that. I'm ignoring the fact that she looks more like a teenager than any 10-year-old has any business doing. I'm just choosing to avoid it. Nobody need feel compelled to tell me otherwise.

My sweet sister beat her cancer. She's coming back to us after a long, exhausting process of diagnosis, surgery, treatment, and the beginnings - very beginnings - of recovery. She's been amazing through what has been a really lousy couple of years, and she's shown fortitude that she may not realize was shining through, even when she was drooping in a big chair for weeks and weeks. She's quit shedding radiation, so we can all hug her freely now. There was no end to the GlowWorm and radiation jokes - I'm not sure we've exhausted them yet. The doctors think they have the cancer licked and don't think any more treatment is on the horizon. We are so, so grateful. She's been through so much and I'm glad she's getting to the other side of it all. I just hope she will begin to feel like herself soon. She's missed herself, and so have we. I can't express what it means that she had such a fightable form of cancer and we didn't have to live in that netherworld of fear and uncertainty. Now, I just want her to feel good. Slow and easy.

Did I mention I'm working? I am. Just part time, as a -- you'll love this -- reporter. I'm not kidding. I am actually writing for a living again for our little, hometown newspaper. I'm having so much fun. These are such neat, neat people who are running a paper with the thinking that if a child decides to pick up an issue, they won't be harmed or upset by what they read there. It's idealistic to be sure, and I am pleased as punch. Let the big state newspaper tackle all the "if it bleeds, it leads" stuff. We'll stick with community newspapering, thank you very much. It's been an adjustment to not be keyed up all the time, intent and hyper-alert and always worried about the message, like I was during my umpty-ump years as a PR person. Until I stumbled back into the working world and began attending meetings again, I didn't realize how much time I spent analyzing every situation, worried about the outcome, really wanting to help people better get their message across. In my early forays back in the professional realm, I found myself wanting to script the participants, to whisper in someone's ear how they could make a more powerful argument, or slip a note to someone to coach them on their approach to a tricky conversation. Oh, the bliss, when it dawned on me during a particularly contentious meeting: I don't have to fix this situation, I just have to report on it. I just have to tell what happens, not shape what happens. If you haven't been there, this might all be a big yawner. If you've ever been there, you'll know how delicious this awakening was.

It struck me the other day, though, that I may have left it a bit too long getting back into an office environment. My moment of realization came while talking to my editor and another reporter: I noticed that my editor was craning her neck a little bit to look down past my knees. Wondering what she was looking at, I glanced down and saw what she saw: without skipping a beat in our conversation, I had pulled out a bottle of foot powder from my bag and was shaking it right into my shoes. Yep, right there in the front of a real live office, in front of real live witnesses, I was taking care to avoid foot odor.

I'm going to try harder, swear.

Hopefully, I'll have a new computer soon. I miss being here.  Regardless, I'll be back soon.

Hope all is well at your end.

Love from the farm,
Teri

Not Lost

I've been thinking so much of my friend whose baby, Brenna, died just before Christmas. This morning in the shower it struck me how unusual it is that we say someone has "lost" their baby. We always say it in hushed tones, "It's so awful, she lost her baby."

Somehow, that's such a soft way of saying it - for us. For those of us who didn't "lose" our baby...we say this word because it is so much less stark than saying "Her baby died."

But the reality is stark.

There is starkness in an empty nursery that once seemed so warm and glowing with expectation. There's the car seat that never was taken from the box in the garage. The carefully folded up pink and lavender gift bags from the shower a few weeks before. The milk that came in so painfully the day after she was born, that hurts as warm compresses are applied rather than being relieved by a searching, snuffling newborn. The recovery from nine months of growing and changing to accommodate that little creature for whom you'd eagerly made room within the safety of your own body. The returning to "normal" after birth without anything being normal anymore.

I think of my friend who has retreated to cope and heal from birth, but who must wonder if this is a hurt that will really ever heal. Who, in the time between the birth and the funeral, had to return to the hospital to hold her baby because she couldn't bear the thought of her being alone or cold. I wish for the right words that might bring some measure of relief or comfort, and feel inadequate to the task.

I ache for her loss. Especially because her baby isn't lost; my friend knows exactly where Brenna is. She just can't reach her. And I can't think of anything more stark than a mother who can't reach her child.

I may not have anything else I can give that will help a mother in such distress, but maybe it will at least matter that I get it that this isn't something she just needs time to "get over." And why do we require that someone get over the death of a child? Should we really ask that of someone? What does getting over a child entail? Forgetting? Not noticing the empty spaces that child was meant to fill?

My friend will likely never get over Brenna nor do I expect she wants to; she'll just find a way to keep living. And she will need to know that those of us in her life will always remember that she has two children: one precious, bright little guy who is witty and endearing, and a sweet little girl that we didn't get the chance to know.

I'm so sorry, my sweet friend. Take your time.

Love from the farm,
Teri

I Know You

We had been anxiously awaiting the arrival of a friend's baby girl, who was due in just a few weeks. Tragically, and with no understanding of why, little Brenna's heart stopped beating last week. She was born an angel, 7 pounds, and beautiful.

What does a mother do when a baby who was almost here, who was already here in so many ways, who she already loved, slips away before she ever got to hold her in her arms? She cries and she tries to find sense in it, but there isn't sense in it. Her arms are simply unbearably heavy with the absence of her baby girl.

Those surrounding such a mother feel helpless to help in any way that will really matter.

This is for my friend, her sweet Brenna, her husband and their precious, precocious little boy.


I Know You
For Brenna

I know you.

You are the little girl I cradled next to my heart for months, and waited for for years.
You are the one I spoke to, shopped for, and held my breath for so I could better hear that strong little heart beat at every check up.

I know you.

You are the little girl I played Mommy to all those years ago, all those times I gently held my baby dolls in my arms and danced around my little bedroom.

I know you.

You are the little sister to a big brother who doesn't understand why you're not here after all.
You are the little girl that Daddy had already begun worrying about keeping away from boys who wouldn't possibly deserve you.
You are the little girl I was going to have tea parties with, whose hair I couldn't wait to curl, whose eyes I knew would dance.

I know you.

You are my sweet angel girl, who I ache to cradle once again. Who I held so briefly and never want to let go.

I know you.

Because I am your Mommy.

And I love you more than I can begin to say.

And I always will.

And, one day, I will see you again, and I will sweep you up in my arms, and I will know it's you.

And you will know me.

Because you are mine.

Dogs Are Neat-O...Among Other Things

Dogs are neat-o.

Dogs are loyal.

Dogs are always happy to see you.

Dogs give great hugs.

Dogs wag their tails.

Wagging tails make those looking at dogs happy.

Dogs are good sniffers.

Dogs sniff out dead things.

Dogs LOVE dead things.

Dogs roll around gleefully in dead things.

Dogs smell like decay and all manner of horrid aromas when they roll around in dead things.

Dead-thing-rolling dogs stay outside.

Well, at least one does. The other one has 3 fat pups who whine pitifully if their milk mama doesn't snuggle her chubby fanny down with them in their cave in the corner of the living room.

So, when the little critters start to fuss, we have to let mama dog, who heretofore has not been "kept" outside since she had her puppies, back in the house. With a fan blowing from the doorway.

Bad mama dog.

Dogs stink.

(Well, at least temporarily. We'd bathe them, but it's snowing. Again. Snow's beginning to stink in my book, too. If only for the fact that you can't wash the dogs when it's snowing and risk them catching a chill. We love the dogs, after all, even if they stink. To high heaven. Which they do. Review the above if you missed that little tidbit.)

Love from the farm,
Teri

I Have Flunked Farmer

I have been traumatized and may never be able to eat or write again.

I've tried to write about my present horror twice already this evening and I simply can't. I can't relive the images in my mind, I can't overcome the quease in my tummy, and I can't find the words to adequately describe how I'm feeling. All I can tell you is:

• This sorry state of affairs involves the turkeys that used to roam our farm, and 12 roosters.
  




• No one should ever have to wash a turkey in a bathtub because the creature is too big to fit in a sink.
  




• A turkey should not weigh 37.8 pounds.
  




• A portion of a turkey neck should not weigh more than one pound.





• A pressure-cooked rooster should not forever ruin the savory aroma of rosemary for a person.





• One's 11-yr-old daughter should not delight in a headless rooster flopping around on the ground and should absolutely not command the poor dead rooster to "jump higher!"
  




• The poor dead rooster should not comply to such a tactless command. It shouldn't...it really, really shouldn't. Dear Heavenly Father, could you please tell me why, oh why, dead roosters are capable of leaping on command?





• Finally, one should not find out that one is in fact NOT an unflappable, sturdy farm woman, but is instead an easily traumatized, urpy wuss as a result of one, 3-hr experience on a bright, shiny, sunny winter's day.

Because I can't bring myself to write (or eat) after today's shenanigans, I'm just going to leave you with the below image of our little farm the morning after the first snowfall of the season this year (which occurred in October, but given the frigid weather, is still timely).

Yes, those are my garden remnants you see poking up in the foreground - guess who didn't till under the garden in the fall?

Between my untilled winter garden and my squeamish response to today's carnage, it's official:

I have flunked farmer.

I hope spring will bring the renewal of my farming spirit. And the ability to put food in my mouth once again. And, I hope I can close my eyes tonight without seeing a replay of all the sights and sensations of this afternoon's gut fest.

Love from the farm,
Teri

An Addendum

After Karlie and Adam ventured to the barnyard this morning to feed the two remaining chickens and discovered a red hen in the horses' trough, I realized I had erred on the tally sheet and given the coyotes credit for a few too many kills. Please see the revised score board below:

Coyotes: 57
Smiling Dog: 3
Horse Trough: 3
Walkers: 2 (still alive)

Most of the post holes have been dug and posts are in for the new and improved, more secure chicken yard. I guess the two remaining hens will go in the freezer (they're the non-producing girls we spoke of previously) and we'll start again in the spring.

So sad to have our chicken joy thwarted. While the newcomers hadn't grown on me yet, our "veteran" chickens - the ones who lived to a ripe ol' age of almost one - sure had.

Deep sigh.

Love from the farm,
Teri

(P.S. Then again, we might just find ourselves warming baby chicks by the fireplace this winter. I'm not sure I can go a whole winter without chickens, or wait 10 months for farm fresh eggs. Without the chickens, and after the turkeys do their holiday duty, we'll be down to one goat and one duck, 2 dogs, 5 cats and 2 horses in yonder fields. Not quite farm status. Hmmmm....I think it's likely we'll be ordering some peeps in the near future.We'll keep you posted on any new deliveries.)

A Good Old Fashioned Book Burning

"Hey, Macy, run down and let the chickens out of the coop, will ya? In fact, go ahead and leave the chicken yard door open so they can wander around a little bit before we close them up for the night," I said at 5 this evening.

My thinking? The girls NEVER get out of the chicken yard these days. Some of the books talk about chicken farmers who choose to let their chickens out of the yard for a few hours late in the day - they get their ranging in, then trot themselves in to their roosts for the night. Our hens have always been good about returning to the roost. I miss our free-ranging days, so I'm happy to give the hens a few hours' freedom.

It's "a few hours" later. Mike and Macy just went down to lock the girls in for the night.

There are only two hens remaining.

The coyotes? They've just begun their victory howls in the surrounding fields.

I'm going to burn those darn books.

If anyone's keeping count, the tally for the 2008/2009 season is as follows:

Coyotes: 60 Smiling Dog: 3 Walkers: 2

....And then there were 2.

It's a cruel, cruel world on the farm.

Love and loathing from the farm,
Teri

Raw Silk

Last night, my heart broke when I read a text that had come in a few hours earlier from a dear friend, letting me know her mother had passed away in Tucson where she had been fighting, and I mean fighting, cancer. I gasped that immediate, tear-invoking "Oh, no!" that we all do when we've just found out that in spite of our earnest prayers, someone we care about - or someone loved fiercely by someone we care about - didn't get to be one of the 20%'ers after all; rather, they had to join the ranks of the 80% who fought valiantly and with spirit, but whose bodies were just too tired after relentless battle.

I had just had the chance to sit down with this friend last week, for the first time in probably 9 months, and we had talked about her mom and my Tan. We were able to laugh, roll our eyes and make what others would probably have thought of as horrifically shocking statements and jokes; unless, of course, those eavesdroppers had dealt with a loved one's critical illness completely standing their lives on end and rearranging every facet of what they had once thought of as "normal." We laughed one minute, railed the next and fought tears a time or two before we laughed again. And, I was so impressed by the strength, courage and perspective I heard coming from this amazing woman.

Today, I was waiting to pick up lunch for Mike, Tanner the Boy On House Arrest, and me, and I was wondering what I could send my friend to let her know I'm thinking of her. My mind settled on a raw silk handkerchief. I could envision giving her this soft, dove grey handkerchief that she could use to dab her eyes during the funeral and feel close to her mom. And I thought that it was ironic that it would have been at an elegant little boutique like the one her mom had once owned in Scottsdale where I could have found the perfect hankie.

Her mom owned a shop called "Valerianne's," and it proffered the finest, most luxuriant linens. There were other beautiful things there, but the linens were what defined the experience. They were exquisite, sometimes fragile in their beauty and of only the finest materials. There was no question they were of highest quality. From the few times I met her, it struck me as entirely appropriate that my friend's mother would spend her time among such beautiful things. She was a beautiful woman. She was one of those rare beauties who are timeless; I would say she reeked of refinement, but there is no way the word "reek" should have been used in a sentence describing her. She simply was refined and gracious. I know from anecdotes my friend would share of family get togethers that she wasn't a shrinking violet, but I'm sure even in repose or at play, or even in a quarrel, she didn't quite shake that indefinable quality that she had.

I thought of raw silk today because in our conversation the other night my friend remarked that here was this woman who had always taken such good care of herself, liked things just so and took great care in her appearance, yet she had long since lost her carefully styled hair, had ports and tubes attached, and wasn't even fully aware of the marring scars from recent surgery. But, this friend told me, "In some ways she isn't the same person right now, but she's still my mom. She's still beautiful."

Silk can certainly be treated to smooth out the wrinkles and imperfections, allowing it to shine and exude its highest levels of refinement. But when it's raw, it has texture and there is beauty in its very being, and in the way the light catches its slightly uneven facets. While finished silk is uniform and smooth, the raw silk reveals nuances and shades in its unvarnished state that cause you to examine it a little more closely and appreciate its complexities.

My friend's mother's name is Gloria. She was beautiful - both when she was able to present herself exactly as she wanted to, and as her life and her appearance became more complex and raw. There was a certain fragility to her beauty that might have obscured her hidden strength from those who didn't know her well; but to those who fought alongside her all these many months, it was the innate beauty of her raw strength that left them in awe.

I don't know if I'll find that raw silk hankie in time for the funeral. But I'm not sure I'll see one again without thinking of my dear friend and her beloved mom.

Love from the farm,
Teri

Goodbye, My One White Dog

Our sweet niece, Rayne, loves to come to our little farm to gather eggs, see the horses, the chickens, the turkeys, the duck (well it was ducks when she was here last time), the now invisible pigs and the kittens. But the farm creature she loves the most is the one named Billy, who she calls "My One White Dog."

Rayne, who just turned 3 last month, earned a trip to the farm from the Valley one weekend this summer just because she wanted to see My One White Dog. When she learned she was going to get to come visit, her mom (Mike's sister) told us that she could be heard to spontaneously break into song, "Mike and Teri have a farm, ei-ei-o...."

We're not sure how Rayne came up with her quirky little moniker for Billy. We're also not quite sure why, when she isn't calling him by his Indian name, she insists on calling him, "Bill." The rest of us have always called him Billy - it's the name he came to us with. But not Rayne. For her, it's Bill. Maybe she takes him a little more seriously than the rest of us; maybe she senses a wisdom in him that we all have missed. To me, he's the goofy little white football I watch through my kitchen window, leaping through the high green alfalfa field, visible only when his ears clear the waving fronds. But, Rayne must have sensed the side to Billy that needed to be taken seriously, the side that called for a little respect. The side that required he be called "Bill."

When she arrived at the family campout in the White Mountains of Arizona in July, Rayne's first words to me were, "Where's Bill, My One White Dog?" Turns out, we'd brought him along because he was recovering (splendidly) from coyote attack No. 2 and we wanted to keep an eye on him.

I don't know how we'll tell Rayne that she isn't going to find her favorite friend on our farm anymore.

It's taken me a few days to be able to write about Billy because my heart's just broken that he died in the night and there was nothing we could do for that little guy who made me laugh. I actually ache because we didn't get to let him go the way we did our old dog Whitney - petting his head, looking in his eyes, and talking to him until the sleeping meds finally closed his eyes.

I'm having a hard time shaking the sadness, and when I look out my kitchen window at the tall, empty alfalfa field, I wonder, "Where's Bill, My One White Dog?"

Smokey (Email Classics)

Written May 2, 2009

Our sweet mama cat, Smokey, became suddenly ill about two weeks ago and after initial treatment and rapid decline, it was obvious she just wasn't going to recover.

So, although she was only a year old and had 7-week old kittens, Smokey was put down by the vet this week.

We were all so sad, but she was Macy's cat and Miss Macy felt her first true-blue heartbreak this week. She was inconsolable for more than an hour, weeping the rest of the night, and is still prone to tears silently streaking her face as something brings the raw pain right back to the surface.

Tonight I found this little note in my email. She sent it to me, her big brother and her grandma. I get emails these days full of Macy's deepest hurts, thoughts, musings and fears. Email is a whole new, safe way for children coping with so many warring emotions to communicate safely with those of us they're aching to confide in, especially when they just can't bring themselves to say the words out loud.

Macy and I share lengthy email streams - not a word is spoken outside our inboxes - and I receive sporadic hugs and kisses letting me know it's helping, that she knows I'm listening and that for those few moments it's all about just me and her, not the other 4 yahoos we share the house with. Often, these exchanges are a precious insight into the workings of her fascinating little mind. They add a whole new dimension to parent/child communication and I cherish it.

Even so, I wish she weren't aching with that hollow pain we all remember like it was yesterday, when we each lost our own pets. Those are awful big feelings for a 10 year old.

She's missing Smokey; I'm missing her blissful, innocent days before her heart was broken for the very first time.

Love from the farm,
Teri

(BTW - Whitney is our old dog you remember who we put down last spring; Speckles is one of the hens we lost in the great 2008 chicken massacre.)

From Macy:

"Smokey was hurting, so Heavenly Father took her. There is no pain where she is. She can run and play again. She is with Whitney, Karlie's baby chick, and the other little chicks and chickens. She is with Speckles and our fish. Heavenly Father wanted her back. She was suffering. Smokey is gone, and I miss her , but her pain is gone, too. She doesn't have to hurt anymore. I miss her. "

Fido Lives Out His Days on the Farm (Email Classic)

Written August 27, 2009


Remember when we were all young and you heard of dogs getting old and sick, and when the dog wasn't home one day after school, the kids were told that ol' Fido or Rover or Butch had gone to live on Uncle Ronald's farm in Kansas to happily roam the fields of flowers and chase butterflies?

Well, we actually are "Uncle Ronald's Farm" for a little Jack Russell Terrier named Billy. Billy came to our farm last spring after living an unfulfilled life in Scottsdale where he wasn't satisfied with life by the pool. Billy wanted to roam. Billy wanted to hunt. Billy wanted to be let through the towering arcadia doors to pee on the leather couches just once, for crying out loud.

Billy was attacked while lounging poolside in Scottsdale by a vicious coyote. It took weeks of IV's, drains and lots of antibiotics to nurse little Billy back to health.

So, one day, Billy came to live on the farm with us. Now, you should know that our neighbor has teased us that our farm should be called "Harmony Farms, where no animal will ever meet death," because he didn't believe we'd ever get around to butchering a chicken or a pig, in spite of our professed intentions to do so. Given this, it would seem that our farm would be the perfect landing place for Billy, the recuperating pup.

Well, Billy came to our farm where he now hunts and he romps through the alfalfa fields, and he chases small things under the wood pile.

And, one dark spring night, he was attacked by a coyote. Again.

There were 5 puncture wounds on either side of his little belly, making it clear that coyote just clamped on him broadside and tried to carry him off. But Billy, he's a fighter. He wriggled free, left a trail of blood under the girls' bedroom window, and lived to carouse his way through another summer.

Flash to this morning:

RRRRRRRRIIIINNNNNNGGGGGGGG......

Mike: "Hullo?"
Teri: "Hey, I have to say you look HOT driving that truck!"

(Oh, sorry, it's just that we had just passed each other on the main drag in downtown Holbrook - he on his way back from an early safety meeting at work, me having just dropped off kids at school. And, I was NOT, by the way, on my way to McDonald's to get a soda before heading home.)

Mike: [Bashful protestations. "Aww shucks" and guffaws.]

Teri: "Oh, whatever. Anyway, what are you doing when you get home?"

Mike: "Getting ready to go to your mom's to finish her trim. Why?"

Teri: "Well, I was wondering, do you think you could get the porcupine quills out of Billy's lips?"



"Welcome to Harmony Farms. WE may not kill you, but it's almost certain SOMETHING will."

Harmony Farms Mortality Rate:

Humans: 0
Turkeys: 25%
Ducks: 33% (Not counting the dead duck lying in our yard whose origins we're not sure of.)
Chickens: Whatever 3 remaining of 35 works out to be. And that's just for this year. If we added last year's carnage it'd be more like 3 of 60 remaining.
Dogs: 25%
Cats: 6 of 7 remaining (sorry, not into higher math this morning. I'm recovering from the flu, cut me a break)
Horses: 0
Pigs: 0 (that would be part of the neighbor teasing; they should have died months ago)
Goat: 0 (but she's only been with us a few months. Give it time.)

* Disclaimer: I did scoop 3 dead fish from the tank the other day, but I refuse to count them.

Love from the farm,
Teri

A Day in the Life (Email Classics)

Written July 18, 2009

So, after I just raced outside with my big 5 gallon bucket full of chilis, hoping to catch my sister Lynda before she left the house at 11:15p, so she could see our abundant harvest, I thought AGAIN about how wonderfully farmy my life is, and thought I'd share a typical DAY IN THE LIFE.

6:15a- Awoke to Mia barking with purpose (you can tell the different barks if you pay attention.) Stumbled outside and found our goat-dog standing on the fence next to the house looking out over the neighboring field and howling and barking. I followed her gaze to see a coyote running for cover - with one of my white roosters in its mouth. This led me down to the chicken coop where I did a count. We have 16 of our 34 chickens that we started the season with remaining. Dadgum coyotes have been picking them off one at a time this summer. I swear I could hear the coyotes talking in my dreams, "Hey honey, I'm gonna run on over to Walker-Mart and pick up breakfast. Can I get anything for you while I'm out? No? Ok, I'll be right back." I was a fairly unhappy camper for awhile - it's discouraging to buy, feed, nurture, feed, manage, feed and talk to these birds and have them picked off one by one by the sniping coyotes.

I'm surprised we're getting any eggs at all - I'd expect the remaining hens to be quivering in a corner all day, certain they'll be the next to go. While we try to keep them penned up, some of those sneaky hens like to escape the coop through the broken door joining the chicken coop to the hog pen. (The door is broken courtesy of Gertie the Goat who is new to the farm, and is trying to earn the admiration of her new roomies by being destructive. We're keeping the spray paint away from her so she can't start tagging the coop as part of some weird girl-gang ritual.) Once they're out of the coop, they're fair game for the brazen desert hunters who I've come to loathe.

7:15a- Finished with animal chores, watering the squash and melons, putting the water on the corn (which I will forget about all day long, until 4p, which means the well pump ran all day long. Can't wait to get our next APS bill), re-washing the laundry I left in the washer overnight, re-count the chickens and curse some more, head back to the house.

8a - Showered, shaved, dressed and made up, ready to head to town. Ran up the hill to get hay at Stock Up, only to find that apparently farmers don't get up so early on a Saturday. Stopped at Safeway instead and bought groceries for the impending cousin visit - including s'mores fixin's for next weekend's camp trip. Chatted with the little old lady who struck up a conversation while closely inspecting the cabbages. You know the type - hair styled once a week at the salon, conservative make up, cotton-linen blend, pastel button-down blouse with slacks....She proceeded to tell me the best way to select a head of cabbage, extolled the virtues of store-bought vs. home-grown cabbage for different culinary purposes, related that her tomatoes had grown beautiful big plants but something keeps eating her fruit so nothing is setting; explained that her neighbor, Betty, was having better luck with her tomatoes, and, upon my relating my chicken woes of the morning, looked me dead in the eye and said in very serious tones, "You need to getchyerself a gun, that's what you need to do." I have no idea who the woman was - just a friendly great-grandmother who believes in predator control, coiffed up-dos,the 2nd Amendment and firm cabbage.

8:45a - Stopped at the Feed & Seed to get hay for the horses, feed for the pigs that apparently are destined to live a good long life, and fixins for my raised bed zucchini plants. Chatted with Karen, the owner, for awhile. She's one of my favorite people - we discussed the country singer who'd been playing at El Rancho last night, where we saw each other when we all showed up for a late dinner. Discussed the dang heat; tried to con her into letting one of her helpers back Mike's truck up to the loading ramp so I wouldn't get laughed at trying to do it myself, then proceeded to do it myself. I don't know if the young whippersnappers getting the hay laughed at my driving, but I'm fairly sure one of them called me "Ma'am." Ugh.

9:30a - Conned Mike into helping me unload all my treasures and finish up the last few chores up at the barn. Discussed what to do about the chicken mortality rate. Lined the kids out on the chores they had to complete before their cousins arrived today. Hollered at the kids for the next 2 hours to keep going on their chores; cleaned out the fridge to make room for all the groceries; made the hogs happy with the buckets of food I pulled from the fridge; vowed not to buy any more food without a menu so that I don't waste food. Said a little grateful prayer that we didn't have to throw anything out - at least the pigs are eating the stuff and we'll eat them so eventually we're eating the food after all..... Felt bad when the flour coated the pigs' heads when I dumped one of the buckets in their pen, but the greedy old toads won't get out of the way and they about kick the stall down trying to get at the buckets. Poor pathetic creatures (who I periodically thank for the sacrifice they'll be making for our family in the not-too-distant future.) Holler at the kids a little more, do a few more house chores, leave the house with an admonition that no one is to stop working while I'm gone - they are to stay focused. They are not even to stop for lunch until I get home (if I'd known I wouldn't be home til 3, I would have amended that one.) Refill turkeys' water in the heat and immediately regret feeling sorry for the little turds since they spent the whole time I was trying to retrieve and replace their waterer pecking HARD at my fingers. We'll see who gets the last laugh, Butterballs!

12:15 - Pick up lunch for Mike, then head off to Heber to pick up nieces to stay for the week. Chat with the in-laws about camping plans for next weekend, load up the girls and their gear and head home.

3:30p - Arrive home, drop off girls to squealing cousins. Pause to watch Kayla, the 7-yr-old, laugh in sheer delight as she chases the ducks. Drive back to town to pick up Mom's birthday gift and cards, then stop at Mom's to raid her freezer and pantry for the fixins for her birthday dinner tomorrow (What?!? I didn't want to go to another store. I was pooped! Besides, she's always telling me to get the meat out of her freezer before it burns - and she's the one who asked for enchiladas for her birthday, ok??) Kiss the husband who has been sanding Mom's just-unearthed wooden floors much of the day, then head back home. Instruct girls to go gather eggs; see the delight on Kayla's face at the suggestion, and wonder just how long it will take before the novelty wears off for her (hasn't worn off for me yet...).

4:30p - Plop on couch and check email, cruise favorite blogs for 30 minutes. Determine NOT to spray garden with calcium supplement, considering the wind is blowing like crazy; find out that neighbors have been working in garden during said wind storm, then feel abashed that I didn't see their car and thus let them get sandblasted in my backyard while I surfed the 'Net! Yikes!

5:15p - Start cooking enough potatoes and summer sausage for small army, forgetting we added 3 young girls to the mix today, not a dadgum platoon. Rationalize that leftovers will come in handy for small meal before church tomorrow afternoon. Have so much fun using food processor to slice potatoes, that I decide to boil 7 lbs of potatoes to shred for hashbrowns to freeze and use for Sunday morning breakfast.

6:00p - Realize there is still way too much food - run dinner in to Mom and Dad. Come home and feed family.

7:30p - Now that wind has died down, head out to garden to finish watering. Entice Mike to come out and "talk" while I pick chilis for Mom's birthday enchiladas. Pick nearly 5/6 of a 5 gallon bucket (we're coming full circle here) then run in and get a Coleman lantern so we can see as we finish watering. Chat with Mike while I hold the lantern and he weeds (see how that worked out for me? I'm a genius.) Thank Mike for monkeying with the broken chicken coop door so we have hope of avoiding coyote carnage for the night.

9:30p - Return to the house full of laughing cousins. Get on computer for another 20 minutes; Mike settles next to me to read the headlines then vacates the couch when I start looking up recipes for pickling jalapenos. Act blase so the kids can't tell by looking at me where the various cousins are hiding during their rousing game of "Sardines."

10:30p - Head to the kitchen to grate the potatoes for the hashbrowns. Decide I better find a potato pancake recipe once food processor turns potatoes into glutenous globs. Brave the dark on way out to shed to get the roaster - feel heart skip a beat as I scrape open the warped door, let the dog and kitten in first to snoop out any interlopers of the furry or slithering variety, and leap to pull the string to turn on the bare light bulb. Carefully lift down the roaster, making sure nothing's moving in it - then stand back and stare at the neat rows of glistening, empty canning jars. Wonder about what's going to end up in the jars, admire the darling little jelly jars that Adam found when cleaning out the shed, pull the string and hustle out the shed, hoping the kitten made it out before I scraped the door shut behind me as fast as possible and bolted back to the house. Scrub roaster - just in case - and put pork loin on to cook overnight for Mom's birthday enchiladas. Pray I can find the recipe for the homemade chocolate cake she wants for tomorrow.

11:15p - See headlights signalling someone has brought Adam and my visiting niece Haley home from yet another stinking 40th birthday party planning nonsense, and hurry to grab bucket of chilis to show off to whoever it is. Chat with Lyn for awhile.

11:45p - Realize that I'm doing things like gardening by lantern light, chatting with old ladies, making hashbrowns just before midnight, and running outside in my PJs to show off a Home Depot-orange bucket full of chilis. Also realize it's the end to a pretty typical day (just interchange more laundry and more hours of gardening with any of the above) on the farm, and decide to share. I'm fairly certain there was a time in my life when I got up with an alarm, got dressed, commuted, officed, meetinged and came home to kiss the kids goodnight. I had no idea I was missing out on all this fun.

12:47a - Oooooooooo - just heard the coyotes start up. They better stay away from my chickens......

Love from the farm,
Teri

Life, Death & Mystery on the Farm (Email Classics)

Written May 22, 2009

The following is a sequel to "Suicide Watch on the Farm"

Strange things are happening around the horses' trough at Walker Farm. Or more accurately, IN the water trough. You remember back in early April when I rescued the despondent red hen from the near-freezing depths of the trough? (She recovered fully but is still a little standoffish when I'm around. I understand. It's often uncomfortable to be around those who have seen us at our most vulnerable.) Well, what I didn't relate was that the following weekend, when we were leaving for our Easter picnic in Payson, Mike found one of our pretty Barred Rock (black-and-white spotted) hens drowned in the trough. The water was only a few inches deep, so we're just not sure what happened there.

Then, about one week ago, Mike found one of our young layers, a Buff Orpington, in the trough, pinned between the float mechanism and a board we put over the trough, presumably to discourage hens romping in the trough. (By the way - I'm telling you all of these breed names since it's Friday, I know you're bored at work and you'll have time to go to Google images so you can see what our chickens look like. Go ahead. The boss isn't looking.)

Well, this hen was alive, if wedged, but a new twist to the story is that there was an egg in the water beneath the hen. So here's the mystery: did she seek out the hidey-hole in the trough because she was looking for a secure place to lay her egg? Did she get stuck, freak out and shoot that egg out of her butt in a moment of panic? What is the fascination with the horses' trough? Does it resemble a mystical poultry icon that beckons to both rooster and hen?

These are some of the questions I ponder as I walk among the chickens.

Love from the farm,
Teri

(P.S. For those who will be Googling, our other breeds are Aracauna, Wyandott, Rhode Island Red, Australorp and Leghorn)