April in Pictures

April is being WONDERFUL here in New Hampshire. Lovely. Warm, windy, cool, sunny, cloudy, rainy, just delightful. Finally, after months of weather that only allowed short trips outside, it's all day, every day outside play. We get school done by 10am, hit the gym quick so Mommy doesn't lose her mind, then the rest is done here and there while we play.

Oh it's nice.



(Neighbor ducks who LOVE our yard because we have lots of running water.)

We added four little Rouen ducks to our flock. They are basically domesticated mallards who don't migrate and can't really fly. The babies are INSANELY cute, and we are hopeful that at least one of them will be a female for the eggs. But we are enjoying their extreme excitablity. They are SO SO SO cute.


See? ADORABLE!

My garden is blossoming a bit in a tiny little green house of sorts. I can't wait until the frost danger is past and we can put them in the ground!





My chicken-ladies are hard-workers turning soil, looking for anything that wriggles. They DO NOT appreciate the neighbor ducks and run those giant cowards off at any given opportunity.



My goodness. This little girl wants to be outside just as much as her brothers. Since she can't be out without supervision, LESS gets done inside the house. But truly, when she brings me her little tiny boots and begs for "owsigh" I can NOT say no.



What happens when we takes "selfies":


We are awesome like that.

April: Keep up the good work.

Mud Season

Spring is coming, it is! It is!!

I can see dead,  brown grass in my yard, and MUD IS EVERYWHERE.

It's Mud Season here in New England. We live on a dirt road and drive a white van. It's DISGUSTING.

This mud is a metaphor for my life, I tell you.




I'll take the mud right now, see? I'll accept it because while it's gross and ugly and cold and wet, it's BETTER THAN SNOW, better than it was.

And, mud means eventually, things will grow. Things will START to blossom.

Mud season will not last long. I'm sure of it.

And when it's over...

It'll be spring.

Life on the Farm, and Hope

Winter is streaky this year, freezing, thawing, freezing, snowing on TOP of the sheets of ice. I'm trying not to be completely offended by the entire season, but frankly it isn't going well.

The ice has caused the gate to the goats to get stuck and break, so now I have to suck in my ever-expanding belly along with my marshmallow puffy coat in order to squeeze in to feed those menaces. Additionally, they are BORED and also offended by the weather, and escape at every given opportunity. Since they free range in the warm weather, the fact that they are loose would be less of an issue except that the lack of forage when they escape has led them to chewing on my house. This is unacceptable.

But, the bright side is, regardless of the bitter cold, freezing cold snowy days, our little chicken ladies keep on laying. I'm very grateful. We've seen a bit of a drop, somedays only getting one or two eggs, but many days we get four or five. With five chickens I'd call that success. Getting them in the house before they freeze is a challenge though.

So, our little farm life isn't without it's worries or fears. I worry every night when I see how low the temp will drop, even bringing all the birds in one night when the temps were way below zero. The goats were fine, a nice thick layer of bedding and another, along with their spongy, wooly winter coats kept them comfortable. But, I stress and worry. We have had a bout of some sort of respiratory virus with both the girls, but they got over it fine, and are not worse for the wear.

It's a funny life we're choosing here. I think about undoing it all the time. Maybe I don't REALLY want to do this. Maybe the stress and worry is too much. Maybe my heart just can't take it.

I come in from chasing a wily, house-chewing goat back in her pen AGAIN and declare to Derek that THIS TIME I mean it, sell the damn goats on Craigslist!

But I don't mean it.

 I have a tendency to pull away from strong emotions, to distance myself from things that hurt or might hurt (I'm human) and I know that our little farm is a breeding ground for heartbreak, just like it is for good things.

But then I find myself at the farm store, reaching for books like these, bringing them home, and dreaming of spring when I can plant, then summer when I can chase goats from my strawberries, and hope for the future, for the new life that is promised.

So, life on this micro-farm is changing, growing, expanding. We'll plant and toil and chase and hope.

A Sad Day on the Farm

We lost our first chicken today.



I knew it would happen eventually. Poor little Susie was an outcast for months. We worked pretty hard to reintegrate her, and as of late, we were having good luck.

I don't know how it happened, but it somehow, they turned on her, like chickens do. We found her this morning, the coop looking like a crime scene on TV.

Oh, but she was alive. My scrappy little chicken who had survived worms and attacks and isolation and some health problems had made it again.

I got her in the sink and cleaned her up and realized there was no hope for her. I couldn't save her. There was no chance. Even if I got her put back together somehow, she'd probably die of infection, or lonliness since putting her back with the rest was no longer an option.

So. I panicked.

I've always said there's no way I'd kill my own chickens. I'll let them retire gracefully when they stop laying, I'll probably never face it anyway, since harsh winters and predators were sure to get them before they ever reached that age.

But I wasn't expecting the need to do it today.

There was no way she'd survive. But I've also learned enough about chicken-keeping to know it could take days for her to pass naturally.

And the truth was, letting her go slowly was cruel.

One of the reasons we keep chickens is because the depravity and disgusting behaviors that exist in the poultry industry. Raising our own laying birds and buying hand, farm raised chickens from the farm down the street for meat is an excellent way to healthfully, ethically feed my family. I can not fathom cruelty when it comes to my animals. It's not an option.

I knew the only answer was to let her go as quickly as possible.

Googling "Cull a chicken humanely" was helpful, but the reality was I didn't know what I was doing. I was an emotional mess, and I was positive our axe wasn't sharp enough. I was NOT going to take this step unless I was sure I could be 100% quickly successful.

So I prayed, and I prayed. I prayed that God would just take her quickly, NOW! Please!

And that didn't work. Instead, realizing I was ill-equipped and unprepared (which made me feel even worse, really), I sent a text to a dear friend and neighbor who I know keeps chickens. Within minutes, my neighbor had contacted HER neighbor who raises and processes her own meat birds.

"She promises her a nice final resting place," My friend told me as I bawled on the phone to her. "Take her right over." She gave me the address, and so I loaded up my five kids and a chicken and went straight over.

I apologized upon meeting her for crying over a stupid chicken. But she was lovely and kind, and assured me they'd cried over a few too. "We lost one just this morning, we'd been trying to help."

My new friend looked poor Susie over and assurred me, as I already knew, that there was no hope.

"We'll take care of her right away. My husband has to leave soon, he'll do it before he goes."

So I cried some more, and bid my sweet chicken girl good bye.

We went and met Derek for lunch to try and quell our sadness, and discussed the reality that is keeping poultry.

They die.

But I am so grateful for Susie's little life. She mattered to us.  I'm grateful for that little yellow fluff ball, turned big white chicken. She taught us about food, about caring for life smaller and more helpless than ourselves. She taught us a lesson about death.

And I'm grateful for a loving Father, who's eye is not only on the sparrow, but the little chickens of the world, and the little children, and heartbroken mama who love them too.

Walking in the Woods

“Instructions for living a life. 
Pay attention. 
Be astonished. 
Tell about it.” 
― Mary Oliver









Sometimes you just need a walk in the woods to clear your head. Sometimes you just have to investigate holes in trees in hopes a snake willc ome out. Sometimes you have to climb, reach and climb a bit higher. Just because, well, you can.

Sometimes, you ignore the to-do lists and just run away from home for a bit.

Friday Fotos

I'm putting serious effort into choosing to be happy these days. I'm NOT going to stress when the house is in shambles five seconds after I clean. I'm NOT stressing about the little things. Except that I am and I do, but I'm working on it.

So, here are some happy pictures to take you into your weekend.
The goats decimated my peach trees, like completely stripped them and knocked all the peaches (that they had NO interest in) onto the ground. No peaches for us this year. So, now, the peaches have a happy little cage to keep the stinking goats out.


Miriam likes to help. Ezra too.


There is a church right next to the karate studio where Henry takes classes. Trying to observe karate classes with four other children is not possible, so we go over and play. Yesterday was like my perfect weather, cool and cloudy. Perfect! So we played and played.






Finally, crack kills.

Updates from the Micro Farm

Well. We'd been talking since we moved, okay since even before then, about how lovely a grass-eating goat would be. Then I have had the privilege of mowing the lawn twice now, and well. Say hello to Sir Linus Goatington:










He's a sweet little wether Oberhasli (which means he's been "fixed") and likes to headbutt the dog, who does NOT appreciate it. Jonah, in just three days, has learned to avoid Linus' front end, Little Linus has taken to the weed eating I'd hoped he'd enjoy, like a fish to water, or a goat to overgrown grass. No, he won't be able to handle the entire acre of grass that requires mowing, but any little bit helps.

We like him.
Additionally, things are growing. They are a bit desperate for some nice warm sunshine (rain rain rain rain rain rain) but they are hanging in there regardless.



And I don't believe I ever showed you the completed (okay, not quite, but enough that the chickens can live in it) coop.



Derek did a fabulous job. The girls agree.


Our little micro farm is growing.

As Derek was assembling an "emergency" pen for Linus on Sunday morning (Father's Day), he looked at me and said, "Am I a farmer now?"

I'm not really sure, but nonetheless, our little house on the hill is blooming and growing.

It's a dream come true.

Chicken Run

Chickens don't belong in houses. Baby chicks? Sure. CHICKENS, no. Just no.

Except it's still butt-cold at night here on our little hill, so we don't keep the chickens outside then. That and the coop is in six pieces.

So, my dashing prince of a husband made the run for them this weekend. It isn't QUITE finished, but close enough.



Each morning we gather the chickens out of the wire dog kennel in my dining room where they spend the night, carry them out-of-doors to their portable run and shove them in.

It's fool-proof, except when it's not.

We also have to stick a feeder and waterer in there because there aren't enough bugs in their limited "free-range" run to fill up the growing bellies of these fat girls.

And ^^^that is where we got into trouble yesterday.


After carefully flinging the girls under the run, we realized (by "we" I mean me, and five super helpful children) we'd forgotten the food and water.

No matter, just lift and stick.

Food in.

Water... water... "STICK THE WATER UNDER THE WALL OH MY GOODNESS. SPENCER!"

Then, little Pecky Becky who is Derek's chicken, ducked her little fat chicken butt under the tiniest little space and was suddenly a real-live-free-range chicken.

And she was gonna enjoy it. She.ran.for.it.

Thus began the chase of the century. Four children, running in all directions as that white poultry dodged them all. Miriam was SCREAMING at having been plunked rudely down in the grass.

"Stop chasing her! Stop!" I hollered.

No one stopped.

For a stupid bird, she was pretty smart. She headed straight for the woods. And my dear sweet children headed straight for her.

Well. Becky picked the prickliest, thorniest spot of our yard to hide.

Of course.

The boys were determined to rescue her from her fun. She wasn't interested.

After chasing her even deeper in the woods (oh the crying as they scratched themselves), they FINALLY realized that there wasn't anything to do but listen to MOMMY. LISTEN TO MOMMY.

Goodness.

Spencer went left, Henry went right, clapping their hands, to scare her away from heading up the hill over the stone wall and joining the wild turkey clan that resides up there.

Oliver began to cry again when I dare suggest that we wait until she decided to come home.

Finally that feather-brained dinner on feet realized that life wasn't that great in the wild (Luckily she's never seen "Chicken Run") and came on out, while the little boys clapped and clapped to scare her down the hill.

Eventually she wandered out and right up to me and cocked her head to one side as if to say, "Hey, don't I know you?"

"Yes you stupid bird! I'm your momma!" A slow chase ensued where Oliver headed her off and I grabbed her from behind. Clutching her to my side I lifted the run and shoved.

WOOHOO!

Miriam was rescued, grass dug out of her angry mouth. Oliver was STILL crying but about how scratched he'd gotten.

"Good morning, Mary!" I called to our only neighbor, who was enjoying her morning coffee on the porch, watching EVERY SECOND of our chase.

"Morning!" she called back jovially. She was laughing. Of course.

Then all into the house to start school.

Except I had lost Spencer somewhere.

A quick yard sweep showed he'd gotten himself completely stuck in the brambles. The harder he tried to free himself, the more stuck he became.

I saved him, never fear And my badge of honor is that I'm completely covered in scratches.

All because of Derek's chicken.

Hagey Hens

For a very long time one of Derek and my goals has been for self-sufficiency. We've always ALWAYS discussed chickens, but they were continually put off because we were perpetual-renters. Farm animals and renting don't usually mix well.

Well. My bank account app tells me that we have a mortgage that we owe ALL KINDS of money on now. And it's spring. That means CHICKENS.

So, on Friday we hauled tushie over to the farm store to get the girls. We ended up "settling" for a mix of breeds because the breed I wanted was only available in "straight run" which means that the gender is a mystery. Could you IMAGINE six roosters? If was going to eat the chickens, then big deal. But our ladies are not for eating. So, ladies they MUST be.




Anyway, we'll see what we end up with breed-wise in a couple months, but for now, they are little balls of fluff (who's wing feathers are already showing at just 5 days old). They are residents of a rubbermaid tub under the school table.

Here is the viewing arena:
 

The big boys are allowed to "hold" the babes but the little boys have learned "wun-finner" as Ezra says, which means "one finger" so they are learning to be gentle. (I promise, it LOOKS like Henry is squeezing the crap out of this chicken but he's being gentle!)




The poor dog can NOT figure out what these girls are all about, but he is very interested. We aren't sure if he thinks they are food or what, so he is NOT allowed near them unsupervised.

We are anxiously engaged is scavenging pallets for the chicken coop, which will be all set for the girls as soon as it gets warmer and they get some good feathers. In the meantime, they are growing and making the cutest little chirps.







Dreams come true! It's the real deal, folks. Awesome.