Good grief, twenty teenagers? Yes, our chickens have reached that pubescent stage where their feet are growing faster than their bodies, their voices are cracking, and in accordance with their hairy Persian and Colombian owners, they’ve sprouted unattractive facial feathers. They’re now old enough to venture outdoors into a little fenced area where they’re learning to hunt and peck in the grass. We’ve propped a couple ramps leading through a trap door. Making their way down the plank in the morning, they’re out of control and gangly, like thirteen-year-olds on a dance floor.
Read moreRIP Sweet Chicken
Our most proper Henrietta has died. She who once ruled the roost became sick last summer with an infection that would not heal despite the medical attentions of the vet, of Dona, our resident chicken expert, and of my father, a retired pediatrician. She spent her last weeks in the glass house (above) where she reveled in the warmth, ate lots of mealworms and tomatoes, and really seemed to get better. Then she got worse.
Read moreAn Episode of The Bachelor at Little Laurentide
A couple weeks ago, some irresponsible stranger dumped a couple of rooster brothers on our lawn and sped away. The pair hung back for a couple days, too shy to meet the hens, and roosting in the trees at night.
We did eventually catch them. Our neighbor, Dona, who helps out here, took one of the roosters home with her – the troublesome one, so we thought. But once again, we are greenhorns in these matters and Dona’s rooster is superior to ours. By superior, I mean that he is so meek, so trepidatious, that she has named him Wimpy. It took him a week to work up the courage to sleep in the coop.
Read moreA Good Morning to You
Here we are, the last few days of May, and we are sore, both my husband and I, to the point that it is difficult to sleep. I see some dried blood in his ear. My clawish hands couldn’t open a spice jar today.
Read moreA Peek at Our First Week on the Farm
Do we look like two soldiers in the pic above? We are settling into a workflow now. There’s Atticus who loves freeing things like trees encircled in wire, limestone paths covered in dirt, or fieldstone fences drowning in hostas. He wants to see progress now, dammit, now. There’s Walter who won’t let anyone weed anything because of medicinal properties and nutrients. Stinging nettle can cure blah blah blah and purslane tastes delicious with blah blah blah. There’s my nephew Graham who loves the slash and burn approach. He has sharpened the antique tools hanging on the walls of the chicken coop and if I don’t keep a close watch, the 40-year-old tamarack pine will be pruned into a telephone pole in an afternoon. There’s Nick who is painting chickens and Jane who pets chickens and Liz who names chickens and George who says chickens are dicks.
Read moreGetting to Know Our Chickens
Lots of people in the Milwaukee area know our farm well. It was a thriving business and a popular destination for over forty years. When folks learn that we are the new owners, the first question they ask is, “What about the chickens?”
The chickens are staying. As of Monday, we are in charge of their welfare. All thirty-nine of them. Scott and his staff are done renting and we are keepers of the coop.
Read moreWhat Not to Buy New: Collectible Chickens
Back in September, I started a series called "What Not to Buy New," in which I talk about the categories of things that we ought to buy used or vintage. You can read Part One here.
Today's post is Part Two, about collectibles. Some of us collect quirky things, don't we? I bet you can remember with pride each time you found a piece to add to your collection. I doubt I need to encourage you to hunt for your collectibles in vintage and antique shops.
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