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

Among the English

Ok, I promised recently that I would tell how I spent my time working through a migraine last week, but frankly, I was still in the midst of a migraine hangover when I made the promise, and I regret the promise. I was going to blow it off, but if you can't trust that I will keep my word, then what are we doing here anyhow?

The reason I was going to blow off the story of working through my migraine is because it wasn't really all that interesting. Just embarrassing. And, let's face it, I've given you enough embarrassing to last a life time.

But here goes.

If you'll recall, I was in the Valley last Monday for Tanner's doctor visit and the funeral of my friend's mom. Well, my migraine began to take hold during the funeral. I spoke to friends after the services were over, then had a few hours before the celebration of life at the family home that evening.

As I broke away from everyone, I knew I'd better act fast if I was going to head off a doozy of a headache. Also, I hadn't eaten yet that day. These two things provided a blessed convergence and required a wonderful thing of me: a trip to AJ's Fine Foods - my favorite gourmet market, which I have missed oh so much since my sojourn to the northland where my only grocery choices are Safeway (which is a lovely store for which I am grateful) or Circle K.

You should know that Adam and I love fancy and unusual foodstuffs, so we feel like we're on the mother ship when we browse through AJ's. (Well, actually, I've always felt Williams-Sonoma is the mother ship, so I suppose AJ's is the shuttle to the mother ship, if I have to perpetuate this silly little analogy.) When we lived in the Valley and had time together, we were delighted when we'd get to wander through AJ's and pick up quirky little nuggets to try. Only the two of us can truly understand Adam's joy when one of the gifts I gave him for some occasion or another was a bottle of fancy pearl onions. Actually, maybe Adam's the only one who truly understands his joy - I just can't get excited about tiny onions from a jar.

Anyway.

I went to AJ's last Monday and headed straight to the pharmacy, where I was able to find Excedrin Migraine, and then I walked with anticipation toward the salad bar. Oh, how I've missed AJ's salads. I piled on spinach, arugula, mixed greens, beets, garbanzo beans, kidney beans, artichoke hearts, cubed ham, goat cheese, marinated mushrooms, and peas - drizzling only scant dressing so as not to dim the flavors of all those colorful, crisp and yummy ingredients. I took my frosty beverage and overpriced salad outside to sit on the patio on a beautiful fall day, popped the Excedrin and settled in to savor the experience.

I registered a guy sitting at the table behind me as I munched away, listened to the birds chirping and enjoyed the familiar Scottsdale neighborhood as I waited for the pills to take effect. I stifled a laugh when an obviously "procedured" woman tottered past on her ridiculously high heels, chattering into her phone and I kid you not that I heard her saying, "....no, really, Tabby and Stephanie have both had it done and they say there are absolutely no side effects, so I was thinking we absolutely should have it. It's supposed to be a perfectly safe procedure. Do you want to do it with me?" It was like a bad line from a bad movie scene set on Rodeo Drive. And, in defense of all of my friends in and around Scottsdale, it was the first time I'd seen and heard such a stereotypical Scottsdale vignette in all my years in the Valley.

As I sat there enjoying my salad, I heard the chair scrape behind me and the guy who'd been sitting there threw away his trash, trotted over to his car then turned to me and said, "I LOVE this weather. I wait all year for days EXACTLY like this. Days like today are the only reason I bought this car," he said before he grinned and jumped into his silver convertible. (Yes, it was a Mercedes but I wasn't going to say it because I'm really not pulling the Scottsdale affluenza card. No, the intent of this post is to illuminate my own sad evolution...or is it devolution??)

So, happy convertible guy pulls away, I resume munching on my salad and think how much I, too, love this weather in the Valley, how nice it is to visit and enjoy this familiar favorite lunch, and hear the birds. And see the birds. Like this little bird hopping around my table and walking up and down the sidewalk. Squawking. Poor little bird - is he alone? He sure seems small compared to the ravens/crows I'm used to seeing in the Valley. Most of the crows/ravens (I knew the difference at some point but I can't remember) are much bigger. And, I don't believe I've heard that call before. Is that a distress call? Is this a baby crow/raven? Is it lost? Are you ok, little guy? Where are your friends? Did you lose your way? Are you ok?

"Hey, lit........."

Noooooooooooooo! Shhhhhhh! You can't talk out loud to the bird! You're in Scottsdale! You're among the English! You can't talk out loud. People will think you're crazy. Am I crazy? Am I a crazy bird lady? It never occurred to me to talk out loud to birds when I lived in the Valley. Why do I feel comfortable talking out loud to the chickens at home -- in fact why do all the books say I should talk out loud to the chickens at home?

Why do I feel ashamed and decidedly country when I talk out loud to the bird in Scottsdale? Have I completely lost my ability to move among civilized folk after only 2 years on our nearly 3 acres in a rural county?

No, no, I'm fine.

Why, just today, I had a pedicure and put on heels and restrictive undergarments. I'm wearing lipstick, I'm sipping from a clear plastic beverage container and my earrings are shiny and new. I have been able to use multiple syllable words and there are no screened cartoon characters on my shirt, and I'm eating arugula, for pity's sake. I'm fine. I'm just fine.

As long as I don't talk to the birds, out loud, I'm fine.

So, I tapped my heels and consulted my Blackberry as if I were a professional gal taking a late lunch. That's it, I'll just resume my role as Normal Woman Enjoying Lunch Al Fresco.

Surprisingly, my migraine didn't abate much during all of that intensive internal dialogue.

And that's how I spent my afternoon in the city.

The end.

Love from the farm where I can talk out loud,
Teri

The Lone Egg & An Evolving Philosophy

One brown egg.

A single, solitary brown egg.

That's all I found in the hen house when I fed the hen this morning. Oh, did I say hen? I meant hens - all 7 of them.

Yes, 7.

Why, Teri, if you have 7 hens, did you find only 1 egg, you ask? Why? Because we have some opportunistic slackers who are drunk on the heavenly mash and sweet scratch we generously ply them with every day, but are refusing to give anything in return. They haven't given for some time. These new gals that we welcomed to our farm a month or so ago are not putting out.

In short, they're takers, they're not givers; and for that, I'm seriously thinking it's freezer time. You know why? Because for the first time in months, I had to buy eggs at the store this week. Why am I buying eggs when I have 7 perfectly healthy hens wandering around the chicken yard, for whom I buy feed twice a month?

And may I say, it's a very nice, clean fresh chicken yard at that. Because on Monday, did I spend the day primping and preening so Mike and I could enjoy a nice, intimate celebration of our 13th anniversary? Oh, no. Not me. I donned a dust mask, and for the first time in months laced up what were once very expensive running shoes and along with my intrepid mother-in-law, cleaned out the chicken coop and chicken yard, raking and scraping up months of hay, food scraps and chicken poo. We spent a couple of hard hours cleaning that coop and yard, then scattered fresh Bermuda grass all over the coop floor, filled the nests with nice soft grass, and spread yet more Bermuda out in the chicken yard. The girls were very excited by the fresh grass and scratched merrily in the new green litter.

We had one hen, though, who was very distressed during the process, continuing to check the nests to see what was happening, wandering from one end of the coop to the other, checking the nests again. As women who have felt a certain urgent need to deliver an uncomfortable burden ourselves a collective 9 times in the past, it finally occurred to us that perhaps the little red hen's distress wasn't so much upset at her changing habitat as it might have been an urgent need to give birth to an egg. And soon. We hurriedly put hay in one of the nests and she gratefully settled right in to complete her daily labor. Poor old girl. Nothing like arriving at the emergency room to have your baby only to find there's not so much as a wheelchair ready to give you rest. As fellow birthers, we should have cottoned on earlier.

She doesn't realize it, but the little red hen's distress may have very well saved her life. Because now we know who is providing us that one lone egg; we know who is returning our hospitality with labor of her own. We know who will be spared when the inevitable axe falls, should the other girls not start producing real soon.

I'm not sure when I became such a cold-hearted "put up or die" kind of person. Never before did I require that everyone show a direct return on my investment if they were to live. Never before did I respond to slights and discourtesies and just plain ungrateful behavior with threats of death. It's this odd new approach to life and death that has crept into my makeup that I'm pondering these days, trying to determine if I need to quash this new philosophy, or if it's a necessary step in my evolution from city girl to farm woman. It's a slightly disturbing turn of events, and I'm not sure where I'm going to come out on this.

I do believe my "serve me or you die" attitude may be leaking out a bit, oozing from the seams; I'm afraid my grim reaper watchfulness may be starting to make the people around me nervous. Could that be why Mike's mom, my beloved mother-in-law, works from dawn till dusk when she visits, never sitting during the day, hardly resting long enough to eat a quick meal before returning to some unpleasant task? Perhaps I should tell her that the yummy vittles and clean towels we proffer during her visits don't require labor in return; that my tit-for-tat requirements extend only to the farm critters.

On the other hand, my refrigerator and kitchen counters have never sparkled so much as they do following my mother-in-law's visit this week. Could be that mercenary glint in my eye has its merits....

More to ponder as I walk among the chickens.

Without an axe.

For now.

Love from the farm,
Teri