Still a Farm

When we pulled into town Friday night and saw the lights of the Navajo County Fair, I was so excited, and I immediately was thinking of the photos I'd take so I could share all about how we'd come up to the farm for our county fair/ birthday week tradition, complete with kids getting ride wristbands from Grandma and Grandpa, the legendary Jose's Green Chile fries, Open Class Exhibits (more on that soon) and lots of run ins with friends and family.

Only, when I thought about saying we were up at the farm, all the excitement deflated in a whoosh when I had the stray, unwelcome thought, "Should I really call it a farm anymore when there is no life left there?"  No chickens. No ducks. No farm dogs or barn kittens. No turkeys. No pigs. No Gertie the Goat banging on the door or munching fall leaves.

The thought made me a little forlorn and brought a mix of emotions I decided not to try to sort through right then and there. I pushed this sad little question aside and determined to reclaim my joy for being at our other home, and quickly regained my excitement about the fair, where I knew in just minutes I'd see my sister and my Sweet Ell.

The fair delivered, as it always, always does, and after a late night of canasta with Mom, Dad and Mike (during which Mom and I WIPED THE FLOOR with Dad and Mike...), Mike and I came out to our place and stayed the night in his Mom's camper behind our house. (Have I told you we're pre-remodel in the house itself, so it's full of redwood planks, piles of stone tile, and new windows stacked everywhere? Not a bed in sight.)

Anyway.

I woke up early this morning and while Mike slumbered, Sadie and I went outside to start watering the trees and rose bushes that we're trying to keep growing by watering every couple weeks when we come to the property. (Low-tech auto watering systems are high on the project list, but not yet conquered.) Thank heavens it was a particularly rainy summer up here, which helped keep things alive when our absences stretched weeks apart.

As I looked at our weed covered property while I was moving the water, I thought again about that mood dampening thought I'd had about whether this is really a farm anymore. By my production farmer and rancher friends' measures, no way. Adam's dad, John, is now married to a wonderful girl who is the daughter of a true-blue Minnesota farmer with many, many acres of verdant farms. John enjoys my writing about our farm antics, but one day laughed as he told me, "What you call farming, we call gardening."  And he said that when we still lived here and we still had chickens! AND ducks!!

I laughed along, though, because I knew he was right. By many standards, this isn't a true blue farm. Still, this is our tiny farm, and I've been happy to call it that all these years. The thing is, though, if there aren't any critters or gardens growing here right now, what about it? Is it a farm or not?

As I continued to think about it, I moved the water from the globe willows to the apple tree, then Sadie and I strolled down the lane to the chicken coop so I could check whether we had plenty of straw and old poo to throw on the garden bed since it's preparing to slumber for the fall and winter.

And I looked down to watch my step and saw this.

Look closely.

Do you see them?  Those are somebody's prints in our lane.

A sure sign that something living has been wandering the place since the last rain.

Then I looked closer, and saw these. A smaller critter than the first -- a racoon? a porcupine?

Then there are these.

These tire tracks are from the farmers who drive back and forth on our lane to their well, which is right behind our property. They park behind our barn to tend the alfalfa fields off the back and side of our land, too. We bought this little 3-acre slice of their land, which they hay around us. (Around here, "hay" is a verb as well as a noun.)   Those farmers moving on and around are property -- they are life.

Next to the tire tracks are Sadie prints.

Hey there, Sadie.

A few seconds before she sat for me, I saw her over at the corner of the summer kitchen, alertly investigating the spot where once there was a monster bee hive, dripping with honey, and where occasionally, traveling bees pop in to hang out for awhile.

Bees qualify as life. Heck, bees ARE life, in so many ways -- their value to our living systems can't begin to be overstated.

I stopped in my tracks about this time; just pulled up still, held my breath, and listened.

I heard the grasshoppers rustling the grasses and chirping; the birds perched on the power lines and outbuildings singing my favorite morning songs; the lizard scampering across the tin panel by the shed, and the pigeons cooing atop the weathered grey barn.

I thought about the very act I was engaged in -- I was pulling water from our deep, cold well to water peach trees, almond trees, an apple tree, globe willows and mulberries. The towering poplars are drinking from the puddles surrounding the rose bushes.  And that well? When Mike went down the stairs into the well house, which doubles as a cool, damp cellar, he encountered a very startled tan and white rat. The fat fella had brought in fresh alfalfa from the field and made a nest on one of the shelves that used to be heavy with canned goods preserved, no doubt, by the woman whose husband farmed this land long before we bought this place.

I don't have to water the grapes winding along the fence line or the overgrown asparagus patch, because the water from the hay farmers keep these remnants from the previous owners growing wild. The lilac bush is nurtured on the fence line, too, and the runoff from summer rains have kept the honeysuckle bush under Adam's window green and strong.

I turn from the honeysuckle and see this. A "mano y metate" -- ancient grinding stones, used hundreds and thousands of years ago by Native Americans to grind corn and grain to sustain life. The side of the small stone you see is smooth and flat, from the years and years it was gripped by Native women making food for their families, firmly pressing hard kernels into the flecked, hard surface of the stone basin below. These prehistoric tools were here when we bought this place -- I don't know if the previous owners found them on this land or while out herding their cattle on the surrounding high desert prairie.

As I looked around me again, I came to a realization. This place may be temporarily missing goats and chickens, turkeys and ducks, pigs and barn kittens; and we may no longer live here full time. But we return often to nurture the life that is still here, with dreams of returning for good some day, when we'll delight in our grandchildren and great grandchildren who will tumble out of the just-opened doors of their parent's SUVs, racing to find their favorite kitty, or check the chickens' nests for eggs, or grab a handful of straw to offer to nervous goat kids. They'll toss a distracted, "Hi, Grandma!" over their shoulders as they disappear around the side of the house. We'll find them later, hidden under their grape arbor forts, munching an apple they stole from the tree as they ran past, and picking up where they left off with their interior design projects of the last trip.

Their last trip to Grandma and Grandpa Walker's farm.

Because this IS still a farm.

There is still life here.

I am still here.

And forever will be.

Overflowing with love from the farm,
Teri

Don't Blink

Things change fast on the farm.

Take for instance, Cher. Remember how just 72 hours or so ago I wrote about her being cooped up with Sonny, the promise of little Bonos, her staying power?

 Yep, not 18 hours after I posted that little intro, Cher flew the coop. Up and left. Headed out on a solo career. Leaving Sonny (and my dreams of crazy-haired babies) in the dust. We'd suspect a varmint or a coyote, except there's no evidence of either, no other birds have gone missing, and we saw one of the other ladies on top of the feed shed in the chicken yard. It's been awhile since we've had upwardly mobile chickens around here. I guess it's time for a little wing clipping party.

I had high hopes for Sonny and Cher. Dang creative types with their flightiness.

Then we had another change from just a few days ago. See the pretty red pan holding breakfast-for-dinner below?

It's no longer with us, either. Karlie broke it while doing dishes. It was part of a 3-pan set my Mom gave me last year. Grumble...grumble. Poor Karlie felt so bad Tanner actually offered to sweep up the mess for her. And if you knew the home dynamics between those two, you'd know why that was worth mentioning. I'll miss my red dish. I liked it a lot.

But with the bad comes the good.

Here are two happy events to keep our cosmic house in balance:

We have a new layer.

This is the first egg we've gotten from our new flock and I was so excited to see it this morning.

Almost as excited as I was to see this:

Look close and you'll see Autumn and Pheebs' new bunk mate. Autumn and Pheebs have been sharing a nest for weeks now and overnight or early this morning, their first duckling made its appearance. The Mamas are very nervous and protective, though, so I didn't get a good photo of the little peeper. Can't wait to see how many more they hatch. They have lots of eggs under them and they've been diligent nest warmers.

So, you lose some, you win some.

We're ending on a winning note for today.

Love from the farm,
Teri

I is for Indigenous

We hear "Indigenous" and typically think of peoples and creatures specific to an area.

In my world, I think of what's indigenous to our little country life.

Now, I do take pleasure in the things that are indigenous to this high country desert of northern Arizona, beyond farm life. Like this precious guy.

I got to spend an entire summer with little Kyan while he and about 30 other young Native American kids danced traditional Pow Wow dances on a dirt stage every night outside the historic courthouse in our little city. The regalia Mr. Kyan is sporting here is not indigenous to this region, but it's indigenous to the Pow Wow traditions that he, his parents, and friends participate in around the Southwest.

I've decided to take creative license with this alphabet challenge, and I'm extending the exploration of indigenous things to experiences and traditions, not just people and critters -- although both figure largely in our country farm life, as it happens.

So, what's unique or indigenous to this life?

Poop.

Poop in the hen house; poop on the front porch when I let the chickens and ducks roam freely, which I do a lot; and nice, aged poop that we scatter on the garden to bring out the shiny in the tomatoes, the purple in the eggplants, and abundance in the zucchini patch. (OK, I think zucchini would be abundant even if we grew it in sand and styrofoam -- still, poop is definitely indigenous to this life.)

Now, in the strictest sense, poop isn't indigenous in the sense that the country is the only place you'll find it; but I think it's fair to say you don't find it in such quantity, across such wide expanses, or value it so highly in other places quite as much as you do on a country farm.

Beyond poop, the bright night skies, low nickering of horses and contented murmuring of sleepy ducks and chickens are also indigenous to this farm life I love. Tonight, I wandered the farm by the light of the night sky, shunning a flashlight and letting my eyes adjust to the low light until I could see every feature of the land, the outline of hens on their roost, and the handle on the pump as I lifted it to fill the duck's pool.

Now, the low light meant I was feeling around in the dark of the pot bellied stove where the chickens lay their eggs, which brought me right back around to the indigenous poo again. But, that's OK.

Because I like everything that's prevalent in this life, even if it's not all technically unique just to country living.

The blooming fruit trees, the smell of the garden soil, the joyful anticipation of those first sprigs of asparagus signalling the start of the spring harvest.

The quiet, the squawking, the dirt under the nails, the eggshells in the compost, the flock that comes tromping up behind you once they figure out you're the one with the goods.

The rain forcing you from the garden, the plinking of lids sealing on hot jars full of the harvest.

The list of experiences and cycles and promises indigenous to this life is lengthy.

And I sink down into the reviewing of it and wrap myself up in the gratitude for it.

Much love from the farm,
Teri

(P.S. Thanks for all the sweet comments on my "A" post -- the shoulder is on the mend so I get to play here again. I'll fill in my "B" through "H" posts in coming days. Cheers to the A-Z Challenge!)

A Fresh Look at This Life

The other day, our niece Ellie was at the farm for just a little while. Knowing she had to leave in a few minutes I said, "Hey, Ellie, do you want to run down and gather eggs with me before you go?" She readily agreed and off we went.

With the warmer weather, the hens are changing up their habits a little bit, so we hunted around the chicken yard to see where we might find eggs. We found a couple in the little pot bellied stove in the coop where some of the hens lay consistently. We didn't find any eggs in the brooder shed, but then we struck gold when we poked around the feed shed, where the hens have been hanging out in some loose straw left behind from a straw bale. I spied one egg and pointed it out to Ellie so she could pick it up, then she moved a feed bag and let out a little cry of delight, "Aunt Teri! I found a NEST! They must have been hiding these here."

As she bent over and began grabbing eggs and handing them to me, she said eagerly, very proud of her find, "This is kind of like Easter egg hunting, if you think about it."

I love when someone comes to visit the farm and expresses excitement over a discovery or simply the experiences they get to have here in the outdoors with so much freedom -- it makes you take a fresh look around, to see the magic through their eyes and have that warm reminder of what a great, if dilapidated, place this is to live.

Today I felt that wonder and joy and gratitude all day as I worked outside. It is beautiful weather right now and, while I hope winter returns very soon to relieve the drought, I love stealing outside for hours  at a time to prepare for spring.

I spent a lot of time with the chickens and the ducks, refilling waterers, searching for eggs, feeding and just moving quietly and slowly among our little flock so they'd be comfortable hanging around me. At one point, I sat on the ground with a scoop full of chicken feed and poured a little in front of me. As I sat watching the ducks paddle in the pool then wander as a group over to the water dish to drink, eventually Wyatt the Rooster and a number of his ladies came sauntering up, pecking at the pile of feed, right up close to me. A few pecked at the pebbles and dirt bits in the tread of my shoes. I stayed still and spoke quietly to them. 

Otis, my sweet pup, lay nearby lazily watching the chickens and ducks explore the area, content to leave them be. Unlike some of our previous dogs, Otis doesn't chase the chickens. We took him to the coop from the time he was a several-week-old puppy so he'd think of the chickens as part of his neighborhood rather than food. It's worked out nicely.

In addition to quality time with the birds, I spread some compost material on the garden, moved pallets left over from delivery of our wood pellets to the pallet spot behind the well house, and watered the trees, which are thirsty from lack of snow and rain. I gave the honeysuckle bush a long, slow soak and raked and cut weeds around the place. I picked up stray items that get dragged by the dogs and the wind to the oddest places around the property, and I burned weeds along the side of the house, the first step in preparing the area for seeding with grass. I checked on the peppermint plant by the poplar tree in front of the house, watered the bees and cleaned out and refilled the ducks' pool.

Now, I'm going to look at seeds and hopefully get a little bit of garden planning done, then work on a Sunday school lesson I'm giving tomorrow.

I love days like these, when I remember how wonderful it is to live close to the earth and feel the promise of spring in the world around me and in my very bones.

Love from the farm,

Teri

My Man Mallory

OK, so I had a few questionable moments last week.

As I was discussing our new ducks, I had the nagging thought that brightly colored mallard ducks are always male, or drakes, as male ducks are called (see, I know stuff.) But then I heard someone make a comment that triggered a question mark in my head and made me think, "well, I guess I'm remembering wrong," and without further ado, I went with Mallory being a girl.

It never, ever, ever pans out for me when I ignore that niggling voice way back in the recesses of my noggin. Never.

So, yes, I know Mallory is a boy, and while Mallory may not sound very manly, I kinda like it. I think a fella with a certain kind of swagger can pull off Mallory. In fact, I'm betting with me putting it out there to the universe as I am, within five years we'll begin to see Mallory cropping up on the "Most Popular Baby Names" lists for boys. Mark my words. Mark. My. Words.

I'm psychic, after all.

Not really.

But, I do believe Mallory for men is going to catch on. (Is it just me, or did you just picture someone with a cologne spritzer standing in a department store, saying, "Mallory for Men?" in a questioning voice as they proffered the bottle as if to spray a passerby?)

Speaking of "fellas," you may remember that Mallory isn't the first gender-flexible name we've had around here.

First there was Bruno, who, I'm sorry, looked like a man and there was nothing feminine about her gait or her behavior, either. You can't blame us for being confused, since we were goose rookies. Once she started laying eggs, however, we were convinced of Bruno's female status, if not her femininity; and given that she seemed to have a webbed foot in each pool, we stuck with Bruno as her name.

Our other mix-up was with a little tabby cat called "Stella."

Stella was such a sweetheart, as I've discussed here before, but he turned out not to be a girl, either. Again, we were already hooked on the name Stella, so we opted to refer to him as "Stella the Fella." Problem solved.

So, now we have Mallory -- or as I now call him, "My Man Mallory," and on we go. I'm sure new tiny creatures will come to our farm again in the spring, and again we'll be doing the guessing game. We could play it safe and go with gender neutral names like Pat and Jamie and Chris, but I doubt we will. So our gender-flexible naming philosophy will likely continue, and I don't expect our future misnamed critters will complain any more than the ones who've gone before them have.

I once again resolve to listen to that niggling voice that tries to steer me to the right path. And I also promise that, because I've coined this new little phrase here as well, you will soon start hearing "gender-flexible" in the common vernacular.

Just you wait.

It'll happen.

Mark my words.

Love from the farm,
Teri

Como te Llamas?

Since we're in the Southwest, I thought I'd start this little post with a little Spanish lesson.

You should know that all of my friends and family are snorting right now because they know that I don't know much Spanish.

But, I do know some and I'm going to share what little I know.

In spite of what you might think, with this being a farm-ish blog, the name of this post is not talking about llamas. Cute as llamas may be, and oh my goodness, wouldn't it be fun if we had one?!

Seriously.

 Oh my.

 Oh dear.

I'm. In. Love.

Wait. I cannot go down that road. We have miles to go before we can justify getting a llama. There are a few things we need to do around here first. Like build a bedroom with actual doors.

But I digress.

Actually, "Como te llamas?" means, "What's your name?" asked in a very friendly, informal way. If you were being uber polite or talking to a stranger, you would say, "Como se llama?" or "Como se llama usted?"  (I'm dispensing, by the way, with finding all of the special characters on my keyboard like the fantastic little upside down question mark and accent marks that would make this a more authentic discussion. What can I say? I feel too lazy at the moment to look them up. Roll with me.)

The "te" turns the question from formal to familiar, and I'm going for familiar and friendly when I ask this question. Do you know why?

It's because I'm asking it of these sweet ladies who I want to feel welcome; to feel that I am a friendly and familiar face.

After watching them today, asking their input and puzzling over their names, I've settled on ones that I think are perfect. From left to right, we have Sue, Autumn, Pheebs and Mallory.

Sue got her name because I was standing in the chicken coop this morning, scattering fresh straw for added warmth and freshness, when one of the orange chickens jumped in to start digging in the straw, then a little white duck head poked through the doorway to see what was going on, and I thought, "Oh, there's Sue." Then I realized yep, that's her name. She's Sue.

(It is pure coincidence that I now have ducks named Doris and Sue, which just happen to be the names of two of my Dad's wonderful sisters, whom I love dearly and who, in no way, resemble ducks.)

Now, on to Autumn. I named her this because for years and years I wanted to name a little girl "Autumn Grey" and no one would let me. My mom, sister, husband, friends -- NO ONE in my life liked the name "Autumn Grey." I always thought it was lovely and beautiful and subdued and mysterious. No one would indulge me. So, when a darling grey, petite little duck showed up in our chicken yard, I indulged myself. Autumn it is. Pffffttthhhhhhhhhttttt!! (Sorry, I've waited a long time to win on this one.)

Pheebs gets her name in remembrance of another little black runner duck named Phoebe that we had a couple years ago who had a tragically short life when a heavy object fell into the brooder box and killed her. Phoebe belonged to Macy, and while she couldn't agree to naming our new black runner duck Phoebe, she did agree that Pheebs was a nice alternative.

And, finally, we have Mallory. Forgive me for being completely unimaginative on this one, but really, what else could I have named her? It's so obvious that's her name.

And, there you have it. Our flock/herd/gaggle/bunch of ducks have their very own names. Now to build them their very own pen, so Wyatt the Rooster will quit pushing his amorous intentions on them.

Just because they're in the chicken yard, Wyatt, doesn't mean they're yours. Now stay off. We won't be having any attempts at making the world's first "ducken" portion of the "turducken" on this farm.

Love from the farm,
Teri

New Kids on the Block

Here are the newest members of our little farm family.

Meet The Ducks.

(We don't have names for them yet, but that little grey fellow has stolen my heart so I need to come up with an extra special name for her. I guess I should start with not calling her a fellow.)

 

The Ducks have begun venturing out of the shed and are trying to get the lay of the land. They've even sauntered over to the chickens, cautiously observing their farm mates from a distance.

 

 

There isn't much happening on the bonding with Doris front, though. In fact, this is how it looks a lot of the time.

 

 

The Ducks are interested in her; Doris just isn't having much of them yet.

 

In fact, she even ventured over to the chickens, who she previously spent a lot of her time avoiding, and began making nice.

 

 

"Hey, Chickees, don't mind me. Just pecking around like you, that's all. What?! Nooooooooo - I always liked you guys. What makes you ask a silly thing like that?," she guffaws, only slightly overdoing it, ducking her head over and over, as supplicant ducks do.

 

Not surprisingly, the socializing moment passed quickly, and there was Doris, back to the regular state of things. Alone.

 

 

Maybe she's OK with it. Maybe she's not sad. Maybe she simply likes her alone time. Maybe she's just an observer, content to be among the chickens and The Ducks, not needing to be hanging with them every moment.

 

Time will tell.

 

And when anything worth crowing about happens on the bonding front, Wyatt the Rooster stands ready to testify.

 

Love from the farm,

Teri

 

 

 

Doris' New Friends

Doris the Duck has been alone for awhile now.

Doris used to have a good friend named Bruno the Goose.

Well, I'm not sure how great a friend Bruno really was, since she was kind of mean to Doris. But Doris hung around her all the time and followed her and generally didn't let Bruno out of her sight.

But Bruno died some time ago, and while Doris has been in with the chickens ever since, she's never really fit in. They don't like her much.

She spends a lot of time muttering to herself, all alone.

It's made me sad to see her alone and lonely. I've wanted her to find her place. To find a friend.

And, now, she has a chance to change her stars.

Tonight, the boys went over to pick up four new ducks that we're getting from a family who is moving, and now, Doris will have friends.

We hope.

The boys put the new ducks into a building adjoining the chicken coop, and after dark, they put Doris in with them. Hopefully, they'll wake up tomorrow and find themselves fast friends.

That's the plan, anyway. We'll see how it goes.

By the way, now we may actually have a flock of ducks. Five qualifies, right? As I learned tonight, a group of ducks is actually called a "bunch" or a "raft," when they're paddling on the water. If they're in flight (which I hope will never be the case), they'd be called a "skein" or a "string." Just waddling around the farm? I have no idea what they'll be called.

Ooooo, we'll have to come up with a fun name for a group of farm wandering ducks. I love a creative challenge.

I'll meet the new ducks tomorrow, since I wasn't here before they were closed up for the night. I'll see how they're doing, get some pictures and check back in with you to let you know how I've decided to refer to them.

I'll also let you know whether it looks like Doris is going to accept her new pals.

Fingers crossed on the farm,
Teri

Birds Fly South For A Reason

Turns out there's a darn good reason geese and ducks fly south for the winter.

Here's Bruno.

Bruno's our grey goose. We're pretty sure Bruno is a girl, but I have yet to look up her skirt so I can't be sure. I'm just that expert of a poultry owner.

Now, here's Doris. Doris is our duck. You've met her before. Remember? We named her for her pillbox hat? Because Doris Day often wore a pillbox hat during the era of pillbox hats?

We've loved having Doris and Bruno around the farm. They're a hoot. Can't get enough of them. Truly.

They're also prolific poopers, these girls. And, as you know, I can't handle the poo. I can't handle their particular brand of poo, specifically. Great gobs everywhere you look or step.  It's something to behold.

In recent weeks, we moved Bruno, Doris and their feathered chicken friends to the chicken yard down by the barn and we were blissfully free of poo for a space of time. As we visited Bruno and Doris in the chicken yard and the weeks passed, though, we noticed the fine-feathered girls looking a little bedraggled and distressed.

They weren't happy campers. They were restless. They were in a dither. They were constantly wringing their hands. They just seemed...verklempt. We couldn't figure out what the problem was.

Then, Mike nailed it: the ladies missed their little pool under the trees up by the house. It was their favorite - these swimming fowl NEED to preen and splash and dive and swim. They need to be clean. It's very important to their sense of vanity and self-esteem. These ladies need to feel presentable.

Since we've been having a lot of mild winter days, after getting off to a very snowy start this season, the hose finally thawed, and so today, Mike filled up the girls' pool and brought them up from the chicken yard for a dip. Oh, how the ladies exulted in their nice, clean pool.

They dove and ducked and swam and rooted around in their feathered bellies. They plucked and nudged every nook and cranny; they kept tossing water over their backs and craning their necks in impossible contortions to scrub every last inch of their fancy feathered selves. (Like how I'm pretending that "selves" is a word? Did you catch that?) This took a good half hour. I finally lost interest and went back in the house. I'm not sure how long they actually stayed in the pool.

I remarked to Mike that I was a little concerned that Bruno might not dry off in time for the below freezing nighttime temperatures. Should we run and pick up a new heat lamp for them tonight? Doris was looking nice and waterproof; I wasn't as worried about her. But Bruno, she was looking a little slick and drippy.

"Nah, she'll be fine," said Mike.

"Yeah, she'll be OK," said friend Emily, who was watching the bathing spectacle with us.

Ummm, Em? Mikey? Just so you know, it's freezing out and I got me two wet, incredibly confused bird ladies in the spare, rarely used bathroom that is presently thickly covered with newspapers on every surface.

Did you hear me?? I have a wet GOOSE and DUCK in the bathroom! Anybody watch Friends? Anything sound familiar???

Did I mention the ladies are a little stressed by their surroundings. You know what stress leads to, don't you? Extreme stress? Mmmm hmmmm....stomach aches. And can you imagine what a goose and a duck with a stomach ache can do? Can you imagine the colossal poop fest that I'm studiously avoiding until tomorrow when I can let them back outside? I can't bring myself to dwell on it.

Instead, I am searching my soul and my faltering memory, trying to pin down the dastardly deeds I committed in my earlier years that have put me on the receiving end of this cosmically karmic farmy freak show.

Love from the farm,
Teri

Among the Reeds & the Rushes

This is Bruno. Bruno is a goose.

We're fairly certain Bruno is a girl, but when we named her, we didn't know. We still don't know for sure. But she just seems like a girl: she's kind of gentle, unassuming, looks in the mirror a lot..... The thing is, even if Bruno is in fact a girl, I don't feel like coming up with a new name, so I think we're sticking with Bruno.

Since the death of our white goose, Alvin, Bruno has emerged as the gentle leader of our farm. She follows us wherever we go, but she leads the other fowl into many adventures.

Like this recent adventure in the erstwhile garden (perhaps better described as the reeds and the rushes, if we had standing water in this high desert we live in, that is. Which we don't. So actually, I better call a spade a spade. This is a great big patch of weeds in which a tomato plant or two is hiding.  Somewhere.)

But that's not all that's in there.

Bruno found something interesting in the garden. And she invited all the nearby critters to come have a look see.

"Here we go, ladies and gents. Here's where you'll see my exciting discovery. Just make your way on in. Now, watch out for those mosquitoes, there. Ooo, don't get your foot tangled in that root, there...uh, good...OK...keep moving now. Anyone else coming?"

It seems that not all the ladies are OK with Bruno being in charge. They took a little coaxing to keep going in the right direction. Some went more quietly than others.



Eventually, into the weed patch the chickens all clambered.

And what should they stumble upon? What was the beautiful discovery Bruno wished to reveal to these chickens who are relatively fresh from the shell and have not yet witnessed all the wonders this wide world has to offer?

Why, it was this beautiful little volunteer.

Snuggled deep beneath the weeds, there lies this precious little gourd. Isn't she pretty?
We don't often get volunteers around here. A stray corn stalk or two, maybe, but nothing so delicate and pretty. It was a nice little find. The chickens seemed to think so, too. They "oooh'ed" and "aaaah'ed" in the rushes for awhile.

Which is exactly what Bruno counted on, when she cunningly ushered them into the garden. No sooner had the last black tail feather waddled out of sight, then Doris the Duck magically appeared (no kidding, look at the glow around Doris. That isn't some Photoshop trick, that showed up all on its own. Maybe Doris is a visitor from another, holier realm? Hmmmm....)

Anyway, Doris showed up, Bruno checked that the chickens were deep in the weedy realms. Then the true motive behind her seemingly kind antics were revealed.

Mere minutes later, Bruno and Doris could be found relishing the clear water of their satellite dish pool, without the chicken riff-raff nosing around, interfering in their bathing pleasure.


 


That Bruno. She's one to watch. Seems we have a new thinker on the farm. A cunning conspirator. And, looks like we better not let Doris the Duck deceive us with her fussy-hatted ways. I believe there's a lot going on under that fluffy pillbox of hers.

But wait, what's that rustling I hear in the rushes, far from the bathing beauties and curious cluckers?



Why, it's Bijou the Cat! She couldn't find the chickens, or the pretty little gourd, but she did find a nice cool place to rest her laurels for awhile.

It was a fine time for all. Everyone had an adventure.

Now my adventure will be to find the hedge trimmers so I can take out these dadgum weeds. Or maybe I'll give the trimmers to Tanner, walk towards the garden with him, make like I'm going back to get my gardening gloves, and go take a dip in the pool with Bruno and Doris. We'll see how it goes.

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

The Spring Babies Are Here!

We have babies galore around here. This place never feels more like a real farm to me than when all the spring babies arrive. Chicks, ducks, geese and kittens fill the cornucopia of fluffy love around here these days.

(For the record, all these wee critters make us total kid magnets. You can hear the longing, pining, aching in the cousins' voices when they say, "Ohhhhhhhhhhhh, I wish I could come vizzzittttttttt......" when they learn of our new arrivals.)

But I digress.

Introducing our new little mousers Bijou and Stella:

Stella is the little fluffball on top. Isn't she pretty? Doesn't she have that natural feminine grace? Doesn't she look like the sweetest sister ever?

Yeah, well, she's not.

She's a he.

But we didn't find that out for a few days after we started calling him Stella, when Macy figured she and the kittens had spent enough time together that it was OK to start looking up skirts. Upon discovering we needed to get a pair of dungarees for Stella we talked a little, shrugged our shoulders and decided we wanted to call him Stella anyway. In a nod to his masculinity, we've expanded upon his name, however. He is now Stella the Fella. I hearken back to Johnny Cash's thought-provoking classic, "A Boy Named Sue," and figure there's a lesson in there for all of us. I just hope Stella doesn't come after me in a bar fight some day.

Bijou is a girl, for sure. Lest you think this is a weird name for a cat, you should know that other cat names around here have included Noodle and Two Buddy. I had to put my foot down when the kids were insisting on Miss Momentum for a puppy name. I explained there was no way I would be calling a vet to make an appointment for Miss Momentum Walker. It's bad enough making appointments for Noodle & Two Buddy Walker. Adam points out every time I grumble that Two Buddy has literary allusions - yeah, I don't care. It's still weird.

Anyway.

So, now we have precious new mousers who are about to be moved outside to join their barn cat pals, the aforementioned Two Buddy and Noodle.

Speaking of outside - that's where we have our new duck and geese snuggled down. Pictures of those little creatures are forthcoming. For now, you'll have to be satisfied with an introductory look at our new chicks, who are presently chirping and skittering in their brooder box in the kitchen.

"Shhhhh, close your eyes. Then they can't see you."

Oh, sorry, it appears they were just blessing the food. Way to spoil a reverent moment.

OK, we'll come back to them when they've finished eating.

Actually, they were just sleepy babies. I don't know why they fall asleep on their feet at first, but it's so funny to watch them swaying, eyes closed. It's a little nerve wracking, too, because in those first few days, you find out if you ended up with any sick chicks, and the standing there with eyes closed, looking miserable and swaying can be some of the first signs of a sick baby. We've been lucky that all of these are hardy, healthy little fellers. Now they lay down to sleep. Not sure what marks the transition from standing to laying. Just part of growing up, I guess.

You have to be very watchful of these little ones the first several days, looking for any signs of illness. Something you have to especially be on the lookout for is pasty butt. That's the very scientific formal name of a chick condition where their little poopers get clogged with poo, a condition that can lead to death. So, we're keeping an eye on hineys around here. Day before yesterday we found 3 of the chicks had pasty butt, so we held their tiny hineys under warm water until everything loosened up, then very gently wiped at the, umm, stuff, until it fell away. You have to be super gentle with the wiping because their hiney membranes are so delicate at this stage, it's easy to tear them. Ouch.

The little chicks settle right down while you're holding them under the running water, and close their eyes. It could be from humiliation (back to the "if I can't see them, they can't see me" thinking) or sheer relief at the warmth of the water and the removing of what has to be a very uncomfortable, if not painful, blockage. I used to be a little grossed out by this process, but now I just want to provide relief to the poor things, so I try to look past the poo to the healing. It gets me through. Anyway, I'm glad only 3 of the 15 have had any trouble, which we quickly fixed. We're getting past the stage where we'll need to be on the lookout for the poo clogs, and then I'll be able to give up diaper duty for another year.

Here's one little sweetie warming back up after being de-pooped.

"Nothing to see here folks. Just drying off and getting warm. She'll be fluffy again in no time. Keep it moving. Keep it moving."

Gotta be grateful for those Mother Hens that emerge young, watching out for their fellow chicks from day one. These are the friendships forged in steel, I tell you.

We picked our chicks up from the Feed & Seed on Friday, when they were 3 days old. We have 15 of them, and we're going to investigate which breeds they are since they were marked "Hatchery Choice - Pullets," which tells us they're all girls (hens) but not their breeds. I'm hopeful the orangey-yellow ones are Buff Orpingtons, because they are such great moms and in the past, they've seemed to have nice, calming dispositions. With luck, some of those stripey girls will be Aracaunas, which lay the blue or green eggs. Those super pale yellow ones could be Leghorns, which lay white eggs pretty much every day, which is nice to count on.

It'll be fun to watch this little flock grow into their personalities and quirks. We'll name them as their characters begin to emerge. And we'll hope the new improved chicken yard means we'll get to keep this flock to a ripe old age.

Love from the farm,
Teri

Cozy Day on the Farm

So, we're hunkered down on our first chilly-all-day day on the farm this fall, and I thought I'd give you a completely mundane overview of the happenings at We Don't Know What We Are, But I Can Tell You What We Are Not, And That's Harmony Farms:

• Last night we had our first fire of the season. It was a controlled burn. In the fireplace. (Sorry, it's fall, which is prescribed fire season in the Forest Service and sometimes I hearken back to those days with some longing....Not necessarily the burning part, just the overall working with people who were dedicated stewards of the land part. Me, I just wrote stories about them and talked to reporters. The guys and gals in the field building trails, mending fences, protecting archaeological sites - those were the real heroes.)
• Anyway.
• The return of fires is lovely and it's so cozy this morning to be wearing Adam's sweats, someone else's socks, and to have my feet tucked under me on the couch with the fireplace warming the room. Yum.
• The duck's eye is back. Anyone want to explain that one? Here's my stab at it. I think those mean ol' turkeys pecked at it so much it receded a little bit, the surrounding tissue swelled and closed up, making it appear the eyeball was gone. Poor little duck. She's twitchy and nervous and both eyes are now showing signs of peckage. She's even more skittish at the moment, but we're hoping to coax her into the hen house this evening, with fingers crossed that the girls will be nicer to her. And, we've been putting some antibiotics in her water in the hope of tackling any infection that might be trying to take hold in and around her poor wounded eyes. Poor sweet neurotic duck. She is still nameless, but no longer one-eyed, so it's doubtless her name will be anything clever. We're accepting suggestions.
• Tanner and Macy are home, keeping me company. Tanner is on a great protein producing quest (that's euphemistic speak for spilling copious amounts of protein, which we don't like to see but doesn't mean immediate danger to his kidneys, just requires vigilance and an effort to stem the spillage), so we're keeping an eye on him. He's happy as a clam and feeling pretty good, so he doesn't mind hanging out. We're measuring protein and hoping it'll resolve on its own rather than having to add back in those stinkin' steroids that are just so dang invasive and fraught with side effects. (I'm saying words like "fraught" - blech.) Macy isn't doing so hot with this season's approach to asthma control so we're enjoying her sweet if coughing presence while we mix her meds up a bit to see if we can't get her back in the strong oxygen readings category. It'll be well in hand soon, I'm sure. In the mean time, I've taken to calling the schools early in the morning so I catch the answering machine to tell them which Walker child is blowing school off for the day. This practice offers the same kind of relief you get when you get the boss' voicemail when you call in sick - I don't know why I instinctively dread those calls so much. The kiddos have legitimate, doctor documented health issues. Why am I such a pleaser? Good grief.
• I washed my car last week. Then, I drove it to Mike's work earlier this week so I could cover the clean surface with a nice, thick layer of salt-laden dirt. Then, I looked out the window 2 days ago and saw Gertie the Goat licking the dirt off the car and the wheel well. While this is an inexpensive if time-intensive alternative to the car wash, I think it also is a cue that Gertie's lacking a little something in her diet. We stopped by the Feed & Seed yesterday to pick up her own little Gertie-sized mineral block. She licked it exactly four times, then wandered back over to the car and resumed her hub cap licking. She's all about the chores, that girl. Gotta love her.
• While at the Feed & Seed I mentioned our non-producing freeloader hens and the wise feed store owner, Karen, who I adore, said it's time to throw 'em in the stew pot. I did not prompt her on that statement, and she's the least homicidal person I know, so I'm feeling a little more like my farming instincts are starting to develop, rather than that I have become a cold-hearted maniacal killer. Thanks, Karen. You unknowingly helped me through a terrible identity crisis with your suggestion of a bubbly pot of chicken and dumplings. Now, I have to learn how to kill and clean a chicken. My resume just keeps growing and growing.

Well, that's about all for now. I'm going to go warm my tootsies by the fire that Tanner's presently stoking. Then I'm going to go do chores. Or, snuggle on the couch with my cheerful wheezy, leaking children and then do chores. We'll see how it all unfolds. We've got time.

Love from the farm,
Teri

The Nameless One-Eyed Duck

WARNING: GRAPHIC FARM CARNAGE - NOT FOR THE FAINT OF HEART

Why, oh, why would something peck the eye out of a perfectly nice duck? Has there ever in the history of the world been a one-eyed duck? Why do sweet children have to get out of the car after school and say,"What's wrong with the duck? Wha...whe...where is her EYE? What happened to her EYE? Did they peck it OUT? They DID! They PECKED OUT HER EYE!!"

"They" presumably being the turkeys, who peck at anything that's shiny. And who, as I've already mentioned, don't seem to give a hoot about the duck, but she longs for their company and follows them everywhere.

"Why is she still hanging around them if they hurt her?" "Why would they peck out her eye when she's nice to them?" "Why is she still with them?"

This little string of questions brought all those domestic abuse stories to the fore in my mind and I wondered if this was one of those moments where I could use the story of the turkey and the duck as a parable to explain those terrible patterns that emerge in an abusive relationship. Then I decided no. Nope. Not gonna do it. There's probably a time and a place for those discussions that will come sooner than I want in their sweet, innocent lives. But this is not the time or place. Ain't gonna happen.

The questions that immediately followed were, "WHEN are we going to kill those stupid turkeys?" "I HATE them." "They're awful. We need to kill them NOW." Great. Now we're back to murder being the answer to everything.

Heavy questions. Heavy emotions. How did I address these important questions?

I came right in here and committed it all to writing so we won't lose this important moment, that's what I did. And I'm going to hide in here until they're past the horror of it and I can dodge this situation.

Except of course, I won't. I'll go back out there. Dang it.

But first, here looms the biggest question of all for this poor wobbling duck who won't let us approach her so we can't offer her any form of aid for what has to be a dreadfully painful injury prone to major infection: Since she has never had a name, would it be really tasteless and insensitive if we went with any of the obvious choices that a biker gang or pirate crew might come up with?

Oh, I feel a little urpy even joking about it. Poor little duck. It's just wrong. Is it just us, or are all farm animal experiences so ruthless and cruel? We will never be able to call this place Harmony Farms. Ever.

The duck isn't the only thing needing an appropriate name around here.

Love and horror from the farm,

Teri

For the Love of a Duck

For the past few days and nights, we've had major coyote activity on the farm. Mike walked out to find a coyote not 20 feet from the front door in broad daylight, so he ran towards the wild dog, waving and yelling. Oh, I wish I'd been here to see it.

At night, we can hear packs of them yipping and yowling. Our dogs, Sadie and Mia, have spent the nights running the property, chasing away the wily predators that have us surrounded. We hear Mia and Sadie barks coming from every angle, round and round the house, down by the barn, up by the road. They work hard protecting our critters. They don't stop. It isn't until around 3:30 or 4 a.m. that the battle wanes, and then it starts again around 5:30a.m. Those dogs work hard for us; they're vigilant protectors. They collapse, weary and wasted when daylight comes.

I want to kill them.

Oh, we've been so tired. No one's sleeping well. The incessant, important barking has us up all night. It isn't fair to direct ire at the canines who live to serve, but when you're sleep deprived, you lose rationality.

At the crux of the issue has been the duck. The duck has always been skittish. She takes off when you come near her, squawks as if she's been violated in some way when you turn your attention toward her, constantly averts her eyes then casts furtive glances our way. It's hard to herd a reluctant duck, so she's been staying out at night. So she won't be lonely, we've occasionally let Gertie the Goat stay out with her; hence the need for guard dog duty.

Bless my little lion tamer's heart, somehow Tanner has begun exerting a calming influence over the duck in recent days. I don't know why, but night before last, she let Tanner stand nearby as she followed the turkeys into their pen. Last night, I decided to take advantage of this change in dynamics on the farm. I had Tanner pen up the duck with the turkeys and the girls pen up Gertie, and the dogs stayed in the house.

Mike and I were relishing the thought of a night without barking or bloody carnage. I was snuggled deep in slumber under my down comforter.

Until 11:30 p.m. when the black kitten came scrambling THROUGH THE SWAMP COOLER into our bedroom and jumped up on the bed, frantically rubbing against me.

Because she had been sprayed by a skunk.

I'm going to go get a soda or two to see if it will help clear the grit from my eyes.

Love from the farm,
Teri

....and by the way, it STINKS in here! (Email Classics)

Written May 22, 2009

I was actually just going to leave you all alone, but I walked through the front rooms on my way to toss a Diet Pepsi into the freezer for a few before I dig back into my massive paperwork project this morning and I was again assaulted by the STENCH in my house! It's true - my house STINKS and truth be told, it has for some time, on regular intervals. You know why? Because I'm a SUCKER and a SAP, that's why.

It's because there are presently 12 young chicks and 4 NOISY turkeys under brooding lights in my dining/living room. The chicks are in a big wooden box, with a lid (oh, don't ask me how many times I've been tempted to shut that lid.) The turkeys are in a toddler pool, surrounded by 4-ft orange plastic netting with an infrared lamp keeping them toasty, the fragile little hot-house lilies. There's a light bulb over the chicks keeping them warm, too.

See, you have to keep the young things warmed to 95 degrees. On sunny days, we transfer the turkeys to a pen outside for the day and just bring them in at night. But their pool and their "bidness," if you know what I mean, stay in the house, so the pew-factor is still about the same. But, it's too cool and rainy to put them outside today. So, for the sake of fun, let's add humidity to the equation, shall we? See, it's rainy outside, and the lamps make it warm inside, so we have that great swamp factor going on. And we all know what warm and damp does for smells, right? (Can you just imagine how nice my house looks with pools and netting and such? And a tub of fresh straw, and a 50-lb bag of turkey food? If my mud room wasn't filled with laundry, I could shove it all in there.)

Did I mention that in spite of the rain, the old hay farmers still watered the alfalfa fields surrounding us yesterday and swamped our leach field, so we added sewer stench to the equation late yesterday afternoon? It's dissipated now, except for a lingering aroma in Adam's room. Poor Adam.

I want the creatures OUT, OUT, OUT!!! OUT of my house, with their chirping and their pooping and their STINKING! And, by the way, while I'm in here silently hating them, they're having the time of their lives! See, the chicks? They're almost 3 weeks old, which in chicken life is about like an 11-yr-old boy. And what do 11-yr-old boys like to do? Climb and jump. Well, these silly chicks have taken to flapping their little wings to "fly" themselves up out of the box, onto the ledge of the lid, then they leap back into the box. Flapping and leaping, flapping and leaping. It's an annoying little cadence. Not to mention, when I went to put that Diet Pepsi in the freezer a few minutes ago? I heard a big ruckus. Well, that's because Junior leapt off the ledge onto the floor instead of back in the box and didn't know how to get back in. I had to catch him/her/whatever.

I won't have the little poopers walking around my house. I won't. Mike is off the next 3 days and he will find a solution. He will clear room in the one outbuilding that has non-scary electrical wiring and will remove these cute little stench factories from my home. Or, I'm moving into my mom's house.

Mom, I'll take the newly redecorated room, please, with the 1,000-thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets, please, and the glowing wood floors. And, please have a cool, damp cloth waiting for me to apply to my eyes. And, fresh, mild pot pourri. Please.

For now, I'm going to go take a bubble bath. THEN I'll get back into my paper project. And I won't add Benadryl to their water to make them sleepy. I WON'T.

Oh well, it could be worse - it could be two weeks ago when the 3 ducklings were in here, too.

Seething resentment from the farm,
Teri