Clearing my conscience

My husband was in China a month ago, and I gave his side of our bed to a cat. It wasn't premeditated. I wasn't even certain the spur-of-the-moment kitty acquisition was actually happening until my dear friend put the kitten in my car and my confused kids said "What?". It might have been appropriate to wonder what my husband would say, since we already had a herd of one indoor and three outdoor cats. Then I remembered that I am the crazy cat lady, and my groom was well aware of that when he married me.

As it turns out, I had no need to worry. I was about to pull off my best yet "It's easier to ask forgiveness than it is to get permission" moment. Not that I try to make it a habit or anything. See, as we were on Facetime attempting to gently break it to him that we had brought a new animal home in his absence, he jumped ahead of my words and assumed it was a large animal that eats grass. A donkey.

He was so relieved that it was only a cat.

Excuse me while I high-five myself in the mirror...



Paw-lee looks an awful lot like Bad Kitty, but with extra toes on her gigantic adorable feet. However, if the tragic events leading up to the cat re-homing incident had a title, it would definitely be Bad Doggie.


The roller coaster of emotions was rattling at top speed.

My own kids were angry and in shocked disbelief that I had executed our Red Rooster while they slept the night before. Despite my 20 minute top-of-my-lungs sobbing under the stars I was nowhere near finished grieving. It may have been Game Over but that doesn't mean it wasn't horribly upsetting or that I didn't love that ornery rooster dearly.

My friend's family was reeling from the violent death of two of their other kittens from the week before, which had followed yet another one, which had followed the inexcusable death of their sweet beloved Momma cat just days after her babies were born. Bad, bad doggie.

Now that the remaining one is ours, I feel so guilty that I wasn't more strongly insistent on taking a time-share of bottle feeding that batch of kittens when they were tiny.

For the record, The Old Nichols Farm has officially reached it's quota of cats.

For the record, we're in love.



My husband is in China again, and I think it would be pretty darn funny to borrow someone's ass (the four-legged kind) and park it in my corral just to mess with him when he gets home.

How (not) to tame your rooster

First, you've got to catch your rooster. This is likely easier said than done. Go ahead, click that link. I'll wait.

Red happened to be distracted by the little sister's dance moves. He was either plotting against her or very confused. Or both. One of the grown-ups saw the golden opportunity and nabbed him quick. The element of surprise... there's nothing quite like it when it comes to catching a disrespectful rooster.

It's true. We've got an ongoing respect issue. Lack of respect. The bird hates my kids. Having them sit on him once in awhile boosts their courage and knocks his ego down a healthy notch.



Except, ummm... when the rooster's face turns dark purple and you have to remind the kid he's not supposed to be sitting with ALL his weight on the rooster. I mean, the thing has to be able to breath.



Oops.

Well, that's better. Red is so much more handsome red than purple.

The other brother will want a turn too. But the sister won't.

And when we finally let him go...

Did you know roosters can swear?

Natural consequences

So cliché, but true. It was one of those days.

The kids caught me enjoying a mug of apple cider. Shortly after, the jug was empty. Boo hoo.



My little Bean fell into the toilet. When you have a really small behind, singing and dancing while you sit on the pot is not the very best idea. But like I've said before, she is a tough cookie and recovered from it surprisingly quick. Sometimes the best lessons are the ones with natural consequences.

The big rooster. *sigh* He decided to pick a fight with me.

I know that look in his eye. The way he cocked his head to the side and stepped toward me. That confrontational moment. If you don't know roosters, dear reader, let me tell you one thing. You never back down. Or you lose. You must always ALWAYS be the bigger rooster. Even when Spring seems to be on track for an early arrival and the big daddy roo-a-roo hormones are raging. The dude has long sharp spurs, and his attitude toward my small children depends on who he perceives as being in charge here.

That would be me. No room for error.

(Or my husband. I'm okay with that too.)

Red picked an interesting moment for the battle. I had just stepped out of the barn, holding my little girl, who was in turn holding two fragile eggs... which meant I didn't have a lot of speed or ability to put my actually-yes-I-am-the-bigger-rooster moves on him. You might think that gave him the advantage, but it only meant he wasn't as soundly punished as he might have otherwise been.

Don't worry. His ego was really the only thing bruised.

My first grader decided his school lunch was inedible. When you try to fuel your entire day on nothing but (okay, thankfully he had his hearty oatmeal breakfast) three cupcakes and a handful of baby-sized carrots... and then decide the pasta mom made for supper is gross... it makes everyone's evening rotten.

And then, when I splashed into rather than stepped through my kitchen, I decided it wasn't such a bad thing. Because the floor probably needed to be cleaned anyway. I tried to fix the problem, but it appeared I only made it worse, so I decided a bucket would be a fine temporary fix. I am many things, but a plumber? Not me. I have experience in my prior life in the exciting world of Biotechnology, where I did honestly try to be a plumber on occasion. It involved three hundred rabbits, a plugged drain, a shop vac and some duct tape. The whole truth, I swear.

I realized that with this amazing mild winter we've had, I could be using my clothesline. Something I love. I was sort of frustrated that it hadn't crossed my mind a few months ago.



So it seemed somehow appropriate that the next morning, my sheets were still tangled up out there, crusted with frost and flapping in the fog.

What Arnold doesn't know

***Warning*** This blog post may contain disturbing images. Mommas, cover your babies eyes appropriately.

ban·tam [ban-tuhm]
noun
1. a chicken of any of several varieties or breeds characterized by very small size.
2. a small and feisty or quarrelsome person.
adjective
3. diminutive; tiny: bantam editions of the classics.

We'll go with definition number one, although number two is fascinating and truly, I had no idea my Bean could be classified as such. I've mentioned a time or two that Arnold, he is an adorable little thing, fun-sized (as my friend Rachel would say). He is a mini-chicken. A Bantam.


That's a naked corn cob on the ground beside him, for comparison.

Except he doesn't know this.

Also, his size? The reason my own offspring aren't afraid of him.


The wrong kind of perspective, Arnold looks huge relative to my boy because the bird is way closer to the camera.

Being a Bantam isn't a handicap for Arnold. Oh, no. Not in the least. As I said, he doesn't know he is a Bantam, and I, for one, am certainly not going to suggest it to him. Being fully mature now, Arnold has taken on the responsibility of every single one of his Mr. Big-Stuff Rooster duties. His small stature hasn't *ahem* slowed him down any. At least it doesn't stop him from trying.

Big Red, on the other hand, gets business done.

If you know what I mean.


Oh, honestly. Didn't you always wonder how they did it?

Timing is everything. I tell you the sad truth: My littler boy just walked through here, stopped to tell me they broke the light in their room, glanced at the computer and.... "Mommy, what is that?" Life on the farm. People, he knows what that is.

Ummm... I totally lost my train of thought there.

Okay, so... I swear I didn't go looking for that photo opportunity.

Lucky timing. Lucky, I tell you.

Not to give you a visual, or anything. Really, as if I would do that? It's more like "stackable poultry" when Arnold mounts to the task with one of the big girls. After a moment or two the hen becomes impatient, although it's quite an impressive - dare I even say "valiant attempt" on his part. She shakes poor Arnold off since she has much better things to do (like scratching at the ground), and walks away. Then, of course, Arnold crows. Because he's such a big proud handsome successful fella, like all roosters are.

Or!

Lord have mercy. Red catches them in the middle of it.



This is the more humiliating option for our little hero.

It's easy to understand that Red finds this completely unacceptable, since he is The Ruler of The Universe. He runs at the busy couple and kicks Arnold in exactly the way that only a jealous rooster can, launching him straight into the air like a space shuttle headed for yonder far reaches of our atmosphere.

The good news? We do have three sweet tiny little Bantam hens.

The bad news? Arnold doesn't seem to have noticed them yet.

Amazing Arnold

This is Arnold. He wants to join the circus and be a famous flying trapeze artist.



Does he seem a bit intimidating?

Sort of powerful?

Maybe like he thinks he's the man?

Don't be afraid. He's really just a harmless tiny little squirt.



Look! Clown feet!

He's ready for the circus!

One yellow claw on each foot!

An extra toe in the back instead of a sharp spur!

(The ladies will thank him later.)



I don't remember why Arnold was in the house that day. I'm sure it couldn't have been purely for entertainment purposes. Ahem. I mean, that never happens around here.

He came from an itty bitty egg. Remember these eggs that I asked permission to take only after I stole them?

I'm so classy.



All we managed to hatch out of those were four of the smallest small eggs. Two are (very) little red hens, one is a beautiful soft white hilarious Silkie hen, and one... well, one is Arnold.

The Silkie has blue earlobes. I loooooove her, but I can't tell you about her until she has a name. And don't beg. The stress of having to come up with a great name for sweet little thing that looks like she stuck her toe in a light socket... well, let's just say I have enough to deal with right now.

Arnold is a little bitty rooster. He can crow, and it's good for your health to hear Arnold crow. He's a little squeaky toy rooster. Imagine picking him up and squeezing him a few times. Yep. There you go.

When our big Red rooster crows, it echos off all the buildings and a quarter mile down the road.

Arnold's song may be a bit lacking, but besides being such a handsome guy, the bird does have another talent.

Are you ready?



People, if only I could post video.

Alas, my satellite internet majorly stinks.

Once upon a time Several weeks ago (yes, I've been holding out on you) I walked into the barn to put my birdies to bed for the night... although it seems to be entirely unnecessary because we have a gigantic Chesapeake Bay Retriever who has taken it upon herself to keep these chickens safe at any cost, and ride the school bus occasionally...

I opened the coop door and was surprised (to say the least) to find a chicken standing on top of the door. You know who it was. On top of the door. Not the door frame. Does this make sense? No. Not at all. They just, those birds can't... well, they just can't be there.

He looked at me like I'd really bothered him.

They can't be there.

It defied the Laws of Physics.

Not much truly surprises me around here. After all, this is a funny farm. But the Laws of Physics? They must not be defied. So I grabbed the video camera the next evening.

This time I looked before I opened the door. And see? He's levitating.



Notice the girl peeking at me from the roost. Obviously, something is up.

When I opened the door, it bumped the cord, which is normally up near the ceiling where electrical cords should be. The cord slid along the top of the door, and because I did it verrrrrrry slowly... Arnold didn't have to suddenly and silently jump from his electrical wire roost to the top of the door, which is what had me so confused then night before.

Because there is no way on earth a chicken (even a tiny one) could fly up and land on a cord that was (past tense) only inches from the ceiling, without pulling it out of the wall or causing all sorts of destruction. No way. Trust me.



And if he could do it, how could he ever find such a slippery swinging unstable sort of roost comfortable?





It's a good thing I took video too, because even though I can't share it with you, it turned out to be valuable because my husband would never have believed me otherwise. My only mistake was not continuing to shoot video as I attempted to close the coop door with Arnold still on the wire.

He ended up on top of the ladies on the roost. Briefly.

When having chickens isn't glamorous

He launched himself off the bus and made it to the house in three monstrous leaps. He was out of breath. Not because the bus ride was so strenuous, but because he was so utterly overwhelmed and giddy about what he needed to say.

"Mom. (huge breath) I think I saw a (huge breath) big Barred Rock rooster (two huge breaths) and he ran (huge breath) across the road (huge breath) and into the (huge breath) tall grass!"





*crickets chirping*




"What?"

The floodgates broke and his words flew free: "abigblackBarredRockrooster andhe ranacrosstheroadrightbeside thebus".

There are no black roosters here.

"What? With feathers?"

"It looked like a Barred Rock Rooster and he ran across the road. With feathers."

Impossible.

"Are you sure it was feathers? Maybe it was fur. Was it a badger or a raccoon or a skunk?"

Because people mistake badgers for roosters all the time.

He cocked his head to the side, "I think maybe it was a turkey".

"Right", I agreed in complete disbelief, "a turkey".

The disastrous unending chaos that is our normal school-day afternoon and evening caused me to completely forget about that wacky conversation. After all, it was only one of many that fill my mommy-days. Like so many things that I want to remember, I promptly forgot about it.

Until.

Until the boys were in bed, The Bean ready to head to her bed, and a huge pile of dirty dishes in the kitchen sink. Until I heard an unfamiliar noise. Until I looked out our back door and saw my husband with...





*wait for it*





With a very large annoyed black rooster in his arms.

Now honestly. What the heck is this.

I dropped my bedtime Bean and stepped out the back door to assess the situation. She took this as an opportunity to escape out the front door. It was a clever move on her part since a rogue rooster is more than enough to sufficiently distract her mother.


Bean exit stage left.


He hung onto that mythical Black Rooster just long enough for the boys to get a peek. They deserved a free pass out of bed to see this. The Older Brother had seen almost exactly what he thought he'd seen. Almost. It was no Barred Rock. But still.

I took a closer look.

Lord. Have. Mercy. He was infested with parasites. Just crawling with them. Many different kinds.

We figured chances were good he'd never last the night (coyotes and all), and let him go. He was gone. Fine with me because Lord knows I already have more on my hands than I can deal with.


Big Black Rooster exit stage right.


Nearly a full day later, guess who came marching straight through our yard like he owned the place. The second evening he magically appeared again. He wanted to stay. I watched through the window as he puttered around the yard, cautiously approaching my hens. I was certain he didn't belong to any of our neighbors.

Our dog wouldn't touch him because, well, it's a chicken. Around here, chickens are to be defended, not attacked. It's part of her job description. It seems I've trained her well.

My headache:

1. Would my very healthy flock now come down with all the yuck he'd exposed them to?
2. Could I catch him to medicate for all the filth he was carrying?
3. Would it even be possible to treat that severe level of disease?
4. Could he peacefully spend his days with a flock already ruled by a Red Rooster?
5. Would there be some serious rooster drama?
6. Would he attack my kids?
7. Would he refuse to go into the coop at night and freeze to death when our extreme cold arrives?
8. Either I keep him or I don't.
9. People who dump animals off in the country are cowards.
10. Where's a coyote when I really need one.

Option A:

"Shoot him", I muttered to my husband.

He laughed and walked out of the room, "You shoot him".

*sigh*

If it had been a badger or a raccoon or a skunk, I wouldn't hesitate to take care of business. I've done it before.

Option B:

I meandered my use-no-chemicals-attitude self through all five (or was it even that many?) "animal health" aisles of our local farm store. I couldn't find what I was looking for, and no one seemed interested in helping me. I didn't want to be there. I was sweaty. I was hungry. I was frustrated.

The item for "livestock and horse" was there.

The shelf that was supposed to hold the "poultry" version was empty.

Apparently it's a hot item.

I slammed my car door and headed across town to the other farm store. Aren't we lucky to have two? Maybe not. They had only one aisle for "animal health". None of the four items on the mostly bare shelves had anything even slightly to do with healthy or diseased chickens.

Vaguely recalling that chickens are officially classified as livestock, I found myself back at the first store. Funny it didn't occur to me to check the fine print on that label the first time. Sure enough, there it was: the "livestock and horse" version works just fine for chickens too.

All the miles home, with a few groceries and a can of chemicals in my back seat, I was still debating precisely what my plan of action would be. As I pulled into our yard, Big Black Roo was dancing up to the ladies whistling "Hey Baby!". Really? I was not amused. At all. And in that moment, I knew exactly what that shaker can of "livestock and horse dust" was going to be used for...

The rooster is shooting blanks

Scavenger Hunt at Ashley's!

Bet you can't guess which two I took with my loyal old malfunctioning mess of a Canon Rebel. No guessing if you cheated and peeked!

Photographer friends, don't miss my big giveaway!

1. Emotion

Mother of the groom. And yes, I have the rights to post this photo. Doesn't she look young?



2. From a Flower's Point of View



Can anyone tell me what these flowers are? They're along the side of our road.



3. Natural Frame

Red Rooster, Red Rooster. Only one chick out of fourteen eggs? For real? I don't think it's fair to blame the hens. What am I going to do with you?



4. Letters

I'm afraid this is going to make you all insanely jealous. I'm sorry.



That classy thing is on the side of our house. As in, covering up the space where a window used to be.

"Baked Goods
Baked Fresh Daily
Priced to Save
You More"

Sometimes I wonder if we could get any more white-trash around here. But I'm sure it's entirely possible.

5. Bliss

Summer. Bedtime. Playing with the bus for just a few more minutes.



Just enough available light. Capturing her at this exact moment.

Bliss.

Fashionable hens

I wrote this a few months ago as a guest post for another site. The lady I handed it to has had her world turned upside down, so while the guest post may not actually happen, I thought I would share it here anyway. Please excuse the crappy pictures. And, you can find my original post on this same topic HERE (it's one of my all-time favorites).



I have a problem. Several, actually... but let's not go there. Not today.

I have a Buff Orpington rooster, who just happens to be a rather handsome fellow. He has a number of jobs here on The Old Nichols Farm, and he does them well. Very well, in fact.



Red adds atmosphere to our farm, sings the praises of each and every day, protects and provides for his ladies, and generally marches his Royal Highness around like he owns the place. He also, ummm... gifts his hens with what they need in order to lay fertile eggs.

He takes every single one of these jobs very seriously. You would too, if you were king.

But, as those of you who share space with a rooster already know, he is a trouble maker. A royal thorn in my side, to be exact. Luckily, Red has a few things going in his favor. At the moment his good attributes outweigh the bad, and anyway, I can't find my axe.

Red is endlessly enthusiastic about one job in particular. He likes his ladies. Very much. He's got his favorites too, which doesn't help matters any.



You notice the missing feathers on her back?

Yes, I do have a problem.



Chickens can get sunburned. Who knew?

Summer is the least of my worries for these naked hens of mine. Out here on the prairie, winter is coming. It's not negotiable. It won't be fun. When the thermometer hits minus 20 Fahrenheit, I throw my hands up in defeat, plug in the heat lamp in the coop, and pray that I don't end up burning the whole barn down.

Colder that that? Yeah, it happens.

I chose these breeds (Buff Orpington and Barred Rock) for a number of reasons, but the most important was cold-hardiness. Oh. Oh, my. Oh my poor, poor, naked hens.



I've been restricting the amount of time Red spends with them, but it makes everyone so grumpy. I think he just makes up for the lost time by getting extra busy when he is with them.

I could always turn him into chicken soup (the axe has got to be here somewhere), but I like having him around more than I care to admit. I was nearly in a panic the other day when I thought we'd lost him.

I've weighed my options. There is only one thing to do.

Time to saddle these girls up!

Sadly, this isn't our first rodeo. Last fall I used fleece. The girls need more hefty coverage this time around. I honestly can't believe how many feathers Red has ripped out stomping around on their backs.

I went searching for a few items: leftover snake-skin patterned (seriously) fleece, my favorite pair of jeans that just happen to have a hole across the butt cheek (no I'd rather not talk about it), and the pattern for the size and shape of saddle that seemed to work best last year (it took a few tries).

I couldn't find the snakeskin fleece, which totally ruins my story.



We're going with white flannel instead.

Now this is highly technical. Try to stay with me.

Flannel on the bottom for comfort, rugged denim on the top for protection from overzealous claws and sharp spurs. Two teardrop shaped holes for wings. A slit at the back for the tail.



Approximately nine and a half inches each way.

As I began to sew the two layers together I had a thought. Romeo was going to get his toes caught in the stitching and Lord have mercy, then I would have a real circus on my hands. So I only stitched across the front side.

Embellishment optional. I couldn't help myself.



Now for a test drive.



New clothes usually feel odd at first. But a few minutes later she was back to scratching around the yard.

Fleece is stretchy. Denim and flannel? Not so much. I should have made the holes just a bit longer.



I haven't specifically seen it in action yet, but I think this will work.

Now if I could just get these girls to stop leaving their eggs in the doghouse...

The cost

You Capture this week is "photographer's choice". I don't understand how that is a theme. But, whatever, it's Beth's deal so she can do what she wants. It will be fun to see what everyone comes up with.

Photographer's choice? Consider yourself warned.

Okay, I'm teasing and I promise my photo isn't graphic. Promise!

I had some business to take care of on Saturday. My oldest boy wanted to assist, which made the job even more entertaining. Things started off in our usual fashion as it took us nearly an hour to round up the items we needed.

First, a rake. The tines on the one in the barn weren't wide enough for the job. Since it was obvious that the boys had stolen the other one, I sent the kid searching our yard. Our yard is big. BIG.

Meanwhile I looked for the block of wood I used last year. It wasn't in the barn. It wasn't behind the barn. It wasn't anywhere. I started searching our woodpile for a suitable replacement, but couldn't find one that met my strict criteria. I am so hard to please.

The kid had gotten distracted and was hypnotized by a water hose.

As I stood there bemoaning the fact that my perfect old chopping block was gone forever, the little rooster crowed honked, which caused me to burst into laughter... until I realized I was an idiot. Why hadn't I locked him up the night before? I needed him too.

Aw, heck.

From the front corner of the barn to the back, around the lean and back in the front of the barn, me after Honk the whole way. This interested the kid so he joined in the chase. My memory fails me at this point as I don't recall where I finally nabbed him. I do remember the kid laughing.

I decided one of these blocks of wood was going to have to work, but I now had a hormonal adolescent rooster in my hands. The kid didn't want to hold him. I needed my hands free. Into the dog house Honk went.

"HONK"

There was the missing rake beside the dog house which is also in the barn. It had been there the whole time.

My shiny, new, gleaming, expensive, sharp, forged steel head, unbreakable handle, lightweight, evenly balanced axe has gone missing. How is it possible to lose an axe? If anyone can, well, apparently it's me. I grabbed the awkward, double-sided, four foot long wooden handled, hefty old blood spattered axe. Honestly.

{Cue the theme from Mission Impossible here}

I am woman, hear me roar.

A lost-and-found rake, replacement block of wood, barely tolerable axe, and annoying rooster.

Use your imagination.

Or not.

Did I mention I had the camera on the tripod, all set up and ready to go?



No roosters were harmed in the making of this photo.

It's like picking home grown vegetables, except... not.

Honestly, although it makes for a humorous story, taking his life was not something I took lightly.

I was able to thank him for his life, knowing he had a real one. Honk did not grow up under a heat lamp, but under the warm wing of a loving hen. He spent his days scratching and singing out in the sun, interacting with the social order of the flock... so different from the lives of store-bought chickens. In taking his life, I was mindfully aware of what my food really cost. You're welcome to read more of my thoughts on this topic HERE.


You Capture - "Photographer's choice"

Delicious quiet

The boys are out fishing with their Daddy, in the wind. The Bean is down for a nap, recharging her batteries. The house is quiet, momentarily.

Quiet. It's delicious.

My quiet is balanced on top of the sound of a cricket singing and the trees dancing in the wind and something else.

A screen door is softly tap tap tapping as the wind pulls it barely open and then lets go.

Why?

Because my "I am such big fancy stuff" Red rooster crowed.

He does not crow once. Nope. Once he gets fired up he crows at least a dozen times. At least.

Where?

He crowed right underneath The Bean's window, and she is sleeping, you recall.

I jumped off my chair, out the door and down the back steps, nearly landing on a hen.

Red saw me coming.

He took off for the lilac bushes and I was close behind. I chased him across our clover and bee filled yard... bare foot. I did not get stung. It must be my day!

Around and around we went. I told him to shut-up. I said it nicely. Maybe.

Dude gave me a dirty look like he always does when he admits that I am the bigger rooster. And I am. He knows it's true, just needs a reminder once in awhile.

And then we just stood there looking at each other. He is a beautiful bird. His tail feathers whipped around in the breeze. The sunlight bounced off his back. He turned and I watched him walk his ladies across to the other side of the yard.

I am sitting here listening to a cricket singing, the trees dancing in the wind, and the tap tap tapping of the screen door that I didn't quite get latched on my way back in. I do not hear any chickens.

Quiet. Mmmmmm...

Despite hail and high water

In the evening after my kids are to bed, it's then that I escape down this path lit with golden light.



I come to visit my beautiful green things.

July is the magic month, the time when my little green things become lush and lovely.

The potatoes are starting to flower. That means if I gently reach beneath them, I would find perfect small new potatoes. It's addictive, pulling those little jewels out of the ground with my bare hands. You have no idea.

And when I do, I'll have garden dirt under my nails for at least a week.



I instantly like people with garden dirt under their nails.

Gardening teaches patience.



Our new bed of asparagus is doing exactly what it should. The growth on top is feeding the baby crowns below, giving them the strength to make it through our harsh winter. In a few years they'll be strong enough to survive the harvest of some of the first shoots that grow in early spring.

Corn should be knee-high by the fourth of July? Well, we're doing better than the ankle-high we had last year at this time. Deceiving angle, isn't it?



When sweet corn is harvested, it immediately begins to convert it's sugars to starch. There is nothing like grabbing some ripe ears, husking them right there in the garden and then racing back to the house to a pot of boiling water that is ready and waiting.

Look what I found!

Cilantro!



I thought it looked suspiciously like something when I was weeding. I wasn't sure what kind of something it was, so I let it be. Patience is a virtue.

I love the quiet calm and repetitive motion of hand weeding. It's my time. My time when no children are yelling, "Mommy wipe my butt!". My time to ponder on the mysteries of life, such as the reasons why my Red rooster attacked my mother-in-law.

Gardening forgives, giving me a new chance every year.

And yet, this gardener wonders how many chances that Red rooster should have. Right now, he's hanging on by a very thin thread of grace.


For the You Capture challenge this week, Beth gave let us choose between "Green", "Hands", or "Chairs".

You Capture - "Green"

Why the chicken crossed the road

Or more specifically, the reason why my terribly handsome Red rooster crossed the road.



He was in an awfully big hurry too.

I was chasing him with a five-foot-long bamboo pole.

Now don't think I'm cruel! The alternative is to chop his head off, and I really don't want to do that. As much as that bird is a huge pain in the rear, I really do like him.

Red has a job and he does it well.

I just don't trust him. Apparently, he feels his royal reign is threatened by small children. The kind of small children that mind their own business... playing in the sandbox, coloring the sidewalk with chalk or dragging a hose around the yard. My small children.

That type of shenanigans in completely unacceptable.

So there I am racing around the yard behind my Red rooster. In my sandals. In the slippery dewy wet grass.



My boys are laughing hysterically.

But I have the advantage! I have the bamboo pole! Not to smack him up, just to steer him. It sure works better than a flyswatter.

And yes I know, it's a crying shame my husband wasn't here to man the camera.

When it's hot out, a running Red rooster loses steam faster than you would ever believe. One loop around the yard and his beak is wide open and he's gasping for breath.

Chickens have wings, you know, but I'm starting to think they are mostly for decoration. He won't fly away from me.

The second time around the house he tries to hide in corners or under the steps, but he knows I'll have him if he stops for too long. But soon, he's had it. He's done. He sticks his head into the flower bed, between a gigantic daylily and an overgrown chive plant, shuts his eyes and waits.

I haul His Highness off to the barn and lock him in the doghouse. Don't worry, he doesn't mind. He's pooped out. He needs a nap. He can sleep while my kids play outside, and I won't have to worry about them being attacked.

One of these times I swear that Red rooster is going to see me and my pole and head straight for the doghouse on his own.



It would be so much easier. For both of us.

Procrastination and a Fritz update

This post feels so disjointed to me. I started writing it three days ago, then Wednesday I ended up with a miserable high fever which knocked me flat on my behind. I still have a headache. I never get headaches, which is suprising considering my life with these little ones. Anyway, here you go.

My husband was gone all last week. There was one thing he wanted me to do while he was gone. By that I mean, in addition to my usual job of keeping our children alive which is the bare minimum of my successful day.

I'm a fairly good mom. All three of my children are still alive.

I was supposed to look over our taxes, which my patient husband had completed, and check for any mathematical and/or stupidity errors.

Remember, I had all week to do it.

So I reorganized the living room.

That project was actually necessary for the baby's survival (which is an important part of my job as I just mentioned). The little bean had begun attempting to take flight lessons off the back of the couch. She thought it was funny. I did not.

For safety reasons, the couch is now backed up against a wall. Problem solved, except that it meant I also had to move two chairs, scoot the large playroom area rug over a bit, and generally vacuum and extract toys from underneath every piece of furniture in the room.

Why do a job except to do it well, right?

I dusted the corn soot off the baseboard and window trim. I sorted through the kids books, replaced batteries in a few much loved toys, and even vacuumed underneath that big playroom rug. I'm not sure that we have ever vacuumed under there. Now we have.

In between changing diapers, feeding kids and gathering eggs, that was basically a full day project.

The next time the thought of taxes went through my head was also the same unfortunate moment that I noticed a carpet beetle larvae crawling up the baseboard in our sun room. Gross. If there is one, there are more. How many more I am going to keep my little secret.

Let's just say, I carefully peeled up the tiniest corner of that yucky carpet to see what kind of floor was underneath.

And then I peeled it some more.

Like some really amazing dark chocolate, I could not stop myself.


I ripped the whole dumb thing out. Good riddance carpet beetle larvae!

The baby laughed.

The three year old said, "Oh MOMMY! You shouldnint have done THAT!"

The five year old said, "What did you do?"

I said, "I wonder what your Daddy will say?"

Of course, then I had to pull up the carpet padding, vacuum, pull staples up, and vacuum some more. I wasn't sure what tool I needed to get those nail strips off the floor. They were stuck tight.

Anyway, in the spirit of procrastination and distraction, I want to tell you a little story about this tool. A tool that is mine, and one I actually did use in my carpet beetle larvae removal project.


You see the rust?

No? Of course you don't.

This little tool of mine, it is a handy one. Someone else likes to use it too.

Once upon a time he used it in late summer, and then it disappeared. It was gone all fall, the entire long winter, and finally turned up the next spring, as rusty as anything. And not for lack of searching either, believe me!

Any idea where it was hiding all that time? The one place we never thought to look?

The garage roof, of course.

There is still some rust on it. And even though I'm glad to have it back, it just hasn't been quite the same since.

I did finally look over our taxes, ummm... after my husband returned safely home, and I did indeed fine one minor error, but it didn't change any of the final numbers in any way.

Alright, I know the truth is that you read all this way just for the news regarding Fritz. People, it's good stuff. It made me laugh out loud, and I hope it does the same for you.

Ready?

Let me simply give you this, which is as close as my foggy brain can recall how it was told to me, "King Fritz did scare our other rooster enough that he flew the coop and the dog ate him."

And that was the end of the Leghorn.

Seriously, I am wiping tears from my eyes. I am so glad I did not axe that guy.

Fritz's new kingdom

So sorry, people! I didn't mean to be mysterious about Fritzy's sudden exile from our little farm. Was it really that much of a cliff-hanger?

A rooster can only have so many chances, you know. And, well, he had more than he deserved.

That full-body aggressive maneuver against my leg the other day was the last straw. Well, not technically. Three shiny new straw bales arrived in my barn today, but you know what I mean.


That's an eight second shot, by the way, so just imagine the kind of light I was dealing with.

All I really know, is that I am rid of my rooster headache.

I had even gone so far as to consider trading my mother for a cat she has been threatening to get rid of for years. He's a very bad cat.

Darn lucky for Fritz, it turned out that a neighbor (in as much as anyone within ten miles of us is a neighbor) wanted him. Not in a pity poor Fritz kind of way either. The kids came with to pick him up, and they were excited. In fact, their Dad said he would likely whack his Leghorn rooster before Fritz, if it came to that (which made me smile). Barred Rock is a great breed. Leghorn, not so much, unless you like high-strung chickens with brains made of fruitcake who aren't amazingly cold-hardy but do lay lots of boring white eggs.

So it was that as the sun set, King Fritz growled as he rode off in a dog kennel, loaded up in the back of a truck. Transportation fitting of his royalty, don't you think?

Curious how things are going at the new place palace?

Here is how it went, as far as I understand the story.

It was evening when he arrived, and Fritz roosted up in the rafters of his new coop. He was on one side, by himself. The Leghorn rooster and all nine hens were squashed together on the other side, as far away from the intruder as they could be. The next morning Fritz and two hens were on the ground, and he was bossing them around, and crowing. Then, apparently there was some fighting between the two roos. Last I heard, the Leghorn spends his time sitting in the corner, and Fritz marches around doing his thing, and acting like he owns the place.

So there you have it. The dude basically walked into his new kingdom and set up his throne.

Looks like it turned out well for everyone, except maybe the Leghorn. That, and my mother, who is still stuck with her cat.

I will be in trouble if I don't announce that things turned out especially well for my husband on Monday. He has been busy leaving wheel tracks like this,


all over the place, as well as odd snow formations.


We have been waiting and waiting, and it finally arrived.