Fair fowl...

Our neighbors at the goat dairy have peacocks. They roam about, often hanging out in the road. No one seems to care, because they are just so darn pretty.

Rachel and I visited the dairy yesterday, and I was delighted that this guy hung out within touching distance. He did a lot of loud yelling, but in small doses even that was enchanting.

I had never been close enough to a peacock to notice the green fringe that hangs down along the bottom row of the fan. It's iridescent, and an incredible addition to an already show stopping display.

I even like the rear view. That little ruffle! I thought for one moment that we might need some pea fowl here at FairWinds. Then I decided I'll just visit these from time to time.

One of my customers is a professional photographer. She has a lens on her camera as long as my arm. I may be a wee bit envious. She captured this picture of one of my White Rock hens out patrolling the meadow for a bug lunch.

                                                (photo credit Sarah Beard Buckley.)

Today was the day that our 9 week old broilers went to have a date with destiny. We are trying out a new butcher this year, much closer to home. Normally we have to be up at dawn to catch the birds, tuck them into dog crates and then drive an hour to drop them off by 7:00 AM. This place is only about 15 minutes from home.  We raised more birds this year, so Rachel and her husband can have some. It was a good thing, too, because Rachel ended up sharing their care with Chris while I was healing up from surgery. I'm glad she can look forward to a freezer full of pastured poultry to enjoy all winter. We were not sure if we had enough room in our old dog crates to fit 35 very large birds for transport. Neighbor Cheryl offered the use of her chicken crates. In the past I thought they looked cruel because they are not very tall, and the birds looks packed in. The reality is that the flooring is kinder to their feet than the slippery dog kennel trays, and the snugger space keeps them from flapping about and hurting themselves. They stayed very calm in these crates. I think I will have to get some for next year.

The pasture seems empty without the tubby birds tottering around. I am glad to not be worrying about them being too hot during the day, or getting gobbled up by a fox at night. Raising broilers is always a bit of bit of work and worry.  They are messy, too, but it makes us feel good to know that the chickens we eat had a wonderful life They had plenty of room,dust wallows to roll in, tall grass to nibble and hide in, endless supplies of good food and fresh water. They only had one bad day.  I will forget all about the work of raising them and the sadness of butcher day by next spring. Then I will delight in the arrival of tiny peeping balls of fluff. And every time I roast a tasty bird all year I will feel grateful.

Relationship rapprochement...

We had an example of rapprochement here recently. The dictionary defines this French word as, "an establishment or reestablishment of harmonious relations." It all began when one of the knobs on our relatively new stove came off in Chris' hand when he was cooking.

He tried to repair the knob, but some little mechanism that makes it attach to the stove had become damaged. The very next day he took it into town and bought a replacement. I was delighted that he acted so quickly. That is, until I saw the new one he had purchased.

It was black. The existing knobs on the stove looked more like this:

I knew that the new knob would work perfectly. I also knew that it being black when the rest of the knobs were white (as is the stove) would bother me. A lot. I wasn't sure if the store didn't carry white knobs, or if my dear husband just wasn't paying attention to detail when he bought one that didn't match, but I was on the horns of a dilemma. If I said something about it, I risked hurting his feelings and seeming ungrateful. But if I didn't, I'd have to look at a mismatched knob every day. I certainly didn't want to insult him, after all, he'd gone out of his way to promptly rectify and repair the damaged stove.

I decided to be grateful and gracious. I thanked him for going out and getting a new knob. But I think my eyes twitched a little as I pictured what my pretty new stove would look like.

A while later I saw him with some tools, and both the new and broken knobs. "What are you doing?" I asked. "The store didn't have any white knobs, but all the old one needed was the inside portion, so I am putting the new inside bit into the old one so they will all still match." The look of relief on my face must have been comical, because he chuckled. "You didn't really think I'd put a black knob on your white stove, did you?"  I nodded. "And you wouldn't have even said anything, would you?" I shook my head. He gave me a hug.  Rapprochement in action.

Half way celebration...

Both my husband and my son in love have birthdays in December. They have enlightened us that having a December birthday is not much fun when you are a kid, and they both have rather sad, fatalistic feelings about their natal celebrations. This past year, Evans (my son in love) birthday was especially lacking in merriment for a variety of reasons. They kept the observance to a bare minimum, and it chafed on Rachel. She and I are seriously into birthdays. Fast forward to spring, and Rachel was still talking about how Evans didn't have a good birthday. She hatched a plan. We got to help.

When Rachel was a little kid, I would sometimes surprise her with some goodies on her half birthday. A half of a cupcake, or a dollar bill torn in half. I'd sing her half the birthday song. It was fun and silly and she still remembers it. Since Evans half birthday fell in June, far, far from Christmas festivities, Rachel thought it might be fun to plan a surprise for him. And we did.

She invited a group of his friends, and swore them all to secrecy. Some of them have a very poor track record for keeping a secret, but this time they all got an A+. Because of Covid-19 fears, we held the part outside in the fresh, farm air. Chris grilled burgers and yummy freshly made local sausages. We had potato salad, pesto pasta salad and garden salad. Evans' dad brought his famous baked beans. There were crudites and dip, hummus and chips, grilled peppers and onions. I baked a marble cake with mocha frosting.

Everyone showed up right on time. Rachel propped the scarecrow of Evans that our friend made for the wedding up at the end of the driveway. She put a party hat on it and hung a "happy birthday" banner. Soon Evans arrived. He thought he was coming to a little family supper. But there were all these CARS parked. He looked puzzled. We all yelled "SURPRISE!" Rachel zipped out and told him the party was for him, to celebrate his half birthday. For one brief moment he looked peeved. Then he grinned and said, "I think I've been punked." 

Indeed he had been.

The day was fine, if a little hot. There were plenty of cold beverages. And good humor. Soon Evans was greeting his pals, chatting happily. Laughter erupted.

In the middle of it all, I had take care of the farm animals. The goats get milked at 6:30 AM and 6:30 PM, and though they don't wear watches, they know the time.

Bliss went out of her way to step, HARD, with her sharp hoof on a guests foot as we walked from the milk bench back to the pasture. He was wearing flip flops. He took it like a man, but I know from experience it hurt.

Marion started an amusing game. She blew a noise-maker at Bravo. He was astonished!  He play bowed and bounced, barked, ran zoomies around the table, barked some more. It was all quite entertaining.

Opal checked to see if anyone had left a burger unattended. (She is wearing panties because she is in season.)

Flirt went from person to person, begging to be worshiped. People happily complied, and held and petted her. This dog LOVES a party.

We had a wonderful time celebrating Evans. This half birthday thing may need to become an annual tradition. I doubt, however, that we will be able to punk him a second time.

Co-parenting...

Some breeds of chickens have the genes to be broody. They are prone to wanting to hatch eggs. Some breeds are almost completely lacking this urge. I have two kinds of chickens, White Rock's, which are large laying hens. The description I read said were not too broody. I also have Silky's, which are tiny fluffy things and very prone to wanting to hatch chicks. So far I have 4 broody White Rocks. The description lied. This is not good, because broody hens stop laying eggs. Two of my broodies have hatched chicks. One of my Silky's tried to hatch some eggs at the same time one of my White Rocks did, but failed. However, she snapped out of her broody state when the White Rock's chicks hatched. Now, all day, every day, she is out with the mama and her chicks. She scratches in the dirt and calls the babies when she finds something edible. She and the mama White Rock stay side by side all day long.These birds were not raised together, and live in separate coops. But now they have a shared mission. The chicks alternate between the two adult birds, snuggling under them to rest or warm up, running to them when they are called for food.

 The real Mama hen in on the left. The diminutive Silky is to the right. They are both showing the chicks were some delicious goat milk soaked chick food is.

 What is exceptionally cute is that both the real mother hen and the Silky cram into the nest box each evening, and the chicks pile under them to stay warm. There they stay, all the long night, sweetly co-parenting a pile of warm chicks.

These two bird brains have put their differences aside and joined forces to keep the babies safe and help them grow up to be happy, healthy, productive members of the flock. People could learn a lot from animals, I think.

Romantic get away...

 Regular readers will remember that Chris and I first met in Bar Harbor, Maine, 37 years ago. This place has always been a favorite spot for us, however if we go in the summer it is oppressively  crowded, which is not enjoyable, and in the winter most of the stores and restaurants are closed.

Since Covid-19 has dramatically reduced the number of tourists in the area, we had the bright idea to spend a weekend in Bar Harbor now. Chris booked us a room with a balcony overlooking the ocean, and off we went. The day was lovely, warm but not hot, and a thick mist hung over the ocean.

When we arrived we parked (easily!) on the main street, and walked up and down, visiting the colorful shops. Once we had done all of that we desired, we stopped at a favorite pub for some lunch. It did not disappoint, and Chris regaled me with a story of how he and a bunch of his sailor pals got tossed out of that very establishment in '83. "What did you DO?" I asked. "I didn't do anything, but our group was rowdy and we were asked to leave." This was a story I had not previously heard, and I found it to be quite entertaining.

On the way out an employee asked if we had enjoyed our meal and struck up a conversation. Somehow it came out that we had met just up the street, and she ran inside to get her phone and asked if she could take our picture. We had a fun chat, then headed off for more exploring.

We walked on a sand bar out into the ocean, and I filched some lilacs and lily of the valley flowers from an overgrown road side garden. Storm clouds were gathering and we could hear thunder rumbling in the distance.

We checked into our beautiful hotel just as the rain began, and I remembered being on the grounds of it the weekend we met, and thinking how rich people stayed there. It was something so far out of our reach at that time, and now, fast forward, we watched the storm from our lovely covered balcony and felt rich indeed.

This was the view from our room-

 I loved hearing the sound of the waves lapping on the granite shore, the calls of sea birds, and the chime of a buoy out on the water.

We had a light supper at the hotel restaurant, then changed into bathing suits and enjoyed the hot tub and infinity pool perched near the oceans edge. We had the place mostly to ourselves, and came out relaxed and happy.

After a most excellent breakfast Sunday morning we drove the park loop road around Acadia National park. We made a quick visit to the top of Cadillac Mountain, (where we shared our first ever magical kiss,) and enjoyed the beautiful scenery "where the mountains meet the sea."

Just as we were ready to exit the park I caught sight of this guy, and Chris kindly turned around so I could get his autograph.

Then we headed home, where Rachel and Evans had kindly taken care of the animals so we could get away. We ducked into a few antique stores, and got one very special treasure, but that will be told about in another blog.

Our romantic get away was beautiful, from start to finish.

Chickens can't count...

One of my laying hens, a lovely White Rock, recently hatched some chicks. They are tiny yellow fluff balls with strident voices.

For 3 days she kept them in the coop, where they were safe and had plenty of food and water. Then she took them out into the world. They scratch around like big chickens, but looking like wee wind up toys. When they get cold or tired they scramble under their mama's ruffled skirts. If anything comes along that looks like a threat, the mama hen calls them, and they rush to her. If a dog gets too close, she puffs up her feathers and goes after them, looking larger than she is and very fierce. She is an excellent mother. Except for one thing.

This shortcoming became apparent to me during the evening after the chicks spent their first day outside. I put a makeshift ramp up so the tiny babies could get in, and 3 of them figured it out immediately. The other two ran laps around the coop, yelling so loudly I could hear them from inside our house. I went out to investigate. Mama hen was in the coop, snuggled into a nest box, feathers fluffed. She was perfectly content because she had some chicks snuggled up with her. She cared not a wit for the babies hollering outside.

And that is why my chickens need me. After some chasing and cussing and handy work with a net the little family was reunited. The hen ignored all the excitement, and left the care of her fragile infants to us. Because chickens can't count.