March fire...

 Monday is my day off. Normally I use this day to run errands, go to appointments, and write for various publications. Chris is up and out early to work. He encourages Bravo to hop in bed for a cuddle, and I doze or read luxuriously while I listen to morning sounds; the splash of running water, the thud of Chris' boots as he puts them on, the jingle of his car keys against the change in his pocket as he heads downstairs. I smell coffee brewing and hear the metallic squeak of the woodstove door and the thunk of logs and know he is starting a fire. 

This morning, snuggled warm under handmade quilts and watching bright dawn fill the windows, I could hear birdsong and smell a springtime smell wafting in through the ever-so-slightly opened window. I thought a fire seemed a little silly on what promised to be a lovely day. 

Once up, I showered, made the bed, put on comfy clothes that made me smile, started a load of laundry, and came downstairs to let the dogs out and do chores. Instead of my heavy winter Carhart jacket, I zipped into a light fleece. Chris had already tossed some hay to the hoofstock, bribing them to be quiet for a while and let me have a peaceful morning. We had heavy rain yesterday and most of the night. There is the faintest hint of green on the lawn and in the pasture. The goats and donkeys are all heads down, their nimble lips straining to pinch the tiny shoots. In frustration, they paw at the ground, willing the good grass to grow enough so they can graze.  

I let the chickens and ducks out of their coops. They stream around my ankles, heading for the food and water bowls, intent on a day of scratching in the dirt (chickens) and searching for puddles (ducks.) A chill wind makes me zip my jacket higher and move a little more quickly. As I carry water and scatter corn for the chickens to find, a lone gull, 12 miles from the nearest beach, laughs overhead. The ducks tilt their heads to one side to watch the stranger, then resume their waddling explorations. 

Muddy boots left on the deck, the door opens to the delicious warmth of flames snapping in the stove. That fire does not seem so silly now. I add a few logs and crank the damper down, glad of its comfort. 

There are brownies to be baked and delivered. Some neighbors are moving away, and I want them to have something sweet to remember their time in Maine by during their long ride south. I'll tidy the house, sweep spring mud up off the floor, and spend a grateful day writing by the stove. 

Birthday boy...

 Bravo was born on this happy day 5 years ago. I had struck up a pleasant friendship with the woman who bred him, and she and I were messaging back and forth. Bandit, Bravo's mother, was in labor and had already delivered three puppies.  My friend messaged, "Here comes another one, I have to go." A while later she was back, "A male," she wrote, "Clear sable with the cutest dot on his head." A shiver went down my spine. That was my puppy. 

I had a stern talk with myself. I was NOT going to choose a puppy because it had a cute dot on its head. I was going to choose a puppy with a temperament that would suit me and our lifestyle. Dot be darned. The next day the breeder posted a photo of the lineup of puppies, and my eye went right to one puppy, I really liked its shape. Turns out, that was "dot" puppy. I went to meet the wee ones when they were 3 weeks old, and I still found myself drawn to this one particular boy, though I tried hard to fall in love with each and every one. The breeder thought his personality was a match for us, and on a happy day in May, we brought Bravo home.  He's been the best dog ever, ever since. 

He even lets me put silly hats on his handsome head, (covering his cute dot!) 

I had an article due this morning, so he spent the early part of the day snuggled next to me while I wrote. Then I took him for a romp, and he was joyous. 

It was my turn to be joyous when my friend Brenda showed up, unannounced, with her lovely sister in tow, and an enormous armful of forsythia branches. I've been wanting to force some so we could enjoy their happy flowers indoors, but I only have one wee shrub and it couldn't handle a serious pruning.  It will be a thrill to watch these branches bloom. 

March is full of springtime gifts... birthdays to celebrate and flowers to anticipate. 

Contentment, beauty, and luck...

 The animal's happiness with the warmer weather is palpable. They are out wandering the pasture, and the ice from Puddle Pond has melted, so the ducks are in their glory. 

The goats spend a good deal of time napping on the manure pile, or in the spent hay around the feeder instead of in their cozy. I delight to see them, contentedly soaking up the early spring sunshine. 

The donkeys had a prolonged, wild play session Friday. Lots of rearing, bucking, kicking, and braying. The donkey on the left is Jezebel. She lived without another donkey companion most of her life. It took her nearly a year of being here before she learned to play, but now she is all about it. It makes me especially happy to see her enjoying a good ruckus with her pals. 

Our eagle friend swooped in again last week. 

The wind ruffled its feathers. It sat a while, then lifted off and swooped to the north, leaving me richer for its visit. 

Collecting eggs one evening last week, I stood on the last big patch of ice as I reached into the nest boxes. A wide wooden splinter along the wall of one box jammed deeply under my thumbnail, and I jerked back in pain. My sudden movement on the ice sent my feet out from under me, and I landed hard on my behind. I felt the jolt of impact reverberate along my spine. I stayed put a long moment, doing an assessment to see if I was hurt. Bravo was at my side in an instant, taking advantage of my face's proximity to his to give it a helpful wash. I rolled to my knees and got up, wondering how sore I'd be the next morning. To my relief, I was no worse for the wear. I'm chalking that week up to one filled with contentment, beauty, and luck. 

Creative chickens...

 We've kept poultry here at FairWinds for 16 years or so. I find the birds to be fascinating. I like to see how they interact, watch them form relationships, and get to know their various personality quirks.  We have had a variety of breeds over the years, and have found that the larger, heavier types work best for us. Lighter breeds hop up and over the 4 foot hardwire fence. From there they molest the vegetable and flower beds, and dance in traffic causing motorists to honk their horns loudly and wave their arms about in frustration. Big, un-athletic hens tend to stay where we want them.  

The current batch of birds is a breed called White Rock's. I bought them from Murray McMurray hatchery. They give a nice description of each breed on their web page, and the following words were what convinced me to try this type when I last ordered chicks. "They are all big birds, hens reaching 6 to 7 lbs. and cocks 8 to 9 lbs. A flock of these pure white birds ranging busily over a grassy field is one of the prettiest sights you will ever see." 

Sure enough, they are big, and for the most part, they stay in the fence. Bonus point, it is, indeed, a pretty sight to see all 18 of them out foraging about in the pasture. That being said, we've recently had an unsolved mystery in the coop. 

This is a photo of the chicken feeder.  It is quite tall, as you can see. It holds several pounds of food, enabling us to top it off once a week and not worry about it again. It is hung from a sturdy cord, several inches off the ground. This helps prevent the birds from kicking shavings into the area where the food drops down. It works quite well. But twice in recent weeks we have peered inside to check the feed level and found this: 

Eggs. In the feeder. 

There is only one way those eggs could end up in there, and that is if a big, heavy bird hops up on the narrow edge of the very tall feeder. She'd have to work around the arching metal handle, (like a bucket would have) that the cord is attached to in order to find a place to perch. And she'd have to aim her business end into the mouth of the feeder while she was at it.  The whole mechanism must swing and rock like a mechanical bull in a Western-themed barroom when the hen tries to balance there. 

Mere inches away are 4 lovely nest boxes. They are built with sturdy, thick plywood to prevent drafts. We keep a deep layer of fresh shavings in each box so the ladies have a comfortable place to settle in for the duration of their egg-laying. We've even provided cheery bandana "curtains" so each girl can have some privacy. But somewhere in our flock is a renegade hen. One that likes to live on the wild side, depositing her eggs where they don't belong and taking herculean efforts to do so. I wonder what the other biddies think when they see her, swinging from the ceiling when it's time to lay. 

Signs of spring...

 I took the ice grips off my boots today. This is a small celebration. One of many this time of year. 

Day by day the old snow and ice have been retreating, leaving mud behind. The mud freezes then thaws again. Local dirt roads are all but impassible. This is not a pretty time of year in Maine by anyone's standards. But signs of spring reveal themselves each day. 

Bluebirds are investigating the houses we have out for them. I hear them calling their sweet, trilling song and it seems full of promise. 

Robins are making an appearance from warmer climbs, and we've heard the springtime song of Red-Winged blackbirds. I was even a little bit excited to see a housefly. The goats and donkeys can now meander all around the pasture. They look about hopefully for shoots of green, but it's too soon for that. I imagine they are heartily sick of hay.

When I open the coop door in the morning, the chickens are lined up waiting to rush out. After weeks of barely leaving the coop, they seem happy to be out scratching about and soaking up some sun. They have kicked up egg production, too, now that the days are longer. 

The apple trees have been pruned. In no time they'll be covered with blossoms and humming with bees. 

I treated myself to this little "Tree of Enchantment." It started out as just bare branches, then little catkins appeared. They dropped off and now bright green foliage is sprouting. I will find a spot for it to be planted outside. The label says it will grow to be 5-6 feet tall. I think it's adorable. It's fun to have growing things inside, a harbinger of days to come. 

It's cold today, we even had snow flurries. This is the way March is in Maine. One step forward, two steps back. But my steps will be without ice grippers as I walk towards the hopeful season.