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. 

Ice, snow and other white things...

 The world gets small for my animals this time of year. Old snow and ice limit their movements. I have spread some soiled bedding in front of the chicken coop on top of the snow. I toss cracked corn and sunflower seeds over it and the chickens get out of their house to scratch around a bit. It's even worse for the goats and donkeys. They have made a path from their house to the water tub, and one to the hay rack. Ideally, I would take their hay out into the pasture and scatter it in piles here and there so they would move around more naturally, but the ice makes walking dangerous for all of us. The thought of a potentially broken leg wins out over the idea of them foraging about. They have sure-footed hooves, and I have vicious ice grippers on my boots, but both the animals and I stare at the ground and carefully pick where each foot will fall as we move about. 

Yesterday I noticed that Jezebel walked to within 4 feet of her water tub, but refused to go any further. The ice around the tub was too scary. Chris kindly went out and sprinkled old bedding around the bucket, and she immediately stepped up and took a long drink. I feel sorry for all of us, conscripted to our dangerous, narrow paths. 

Though rain and snow were predicted yesterday, I left the Silky chicken's coop door open so they could at least get fresh air. Normally if the weather is bad, I keep them locked up, because they have hopelessly little sense of self-preservation. When there is snow on the ground, it is rare for them to step foot out of their safe home.  Chris and I left for a few hours to run some errands, and when we got back I noticed one Silky had not only wandered out of the coop but had climbed through the fence. She was sitting next to the hay rack, sopping wet as icy rain pelted down. She was clearly lost, though only about 10 feet from safety. I slipped and slid across the yard and into the pasture, and scooped her up. Then I noticed that the rooster had also left the coop. He is quite elderly now, and seemingly confused much of the time. I had to break a path through potentially ankle-breaking crusty snow to reach him. He appeared to have given up and was hunkered down in a depression in the frozen world surrounding him, head bowed, eyes shut, water streaming through his once-fluffy feathers. He didn't protest when I lifted him and perilously made my way back, tucking him into his home and locking the door firmly. 

Today the sun is shining and the high temperatures promise to be in the 40's. I am hoping for melting so our world will open up to more than treacherous paths. Both my sister and my cousin have told me that "winter's back is broken."  This is a term my father used to use, and I am hopeful that they are correct. It is lovely to have the days getting a bit longer with every turn of the calenders page. Still, I know that March and even April can bring storms with deep snow, so I am not getting too excited just yet. 

Meanwhile, I have had a long put-off project tackled. There is a hallway in our upstairs that I last painted over 10 years ago. The ceiling had some damage, and there were spots on the walls that needed patching, plus the paint looked dingy. Parts of the walls are difficult to reach due to the stairway being below them. Though I've painted many a space in my life, I am simply not good at it. Last week I had a professional guy come and paint not only the hall but also the master bathroom.  He was here for 2 1/2 days, and it was fun to hear his big boots thumping overhead and tools scraping and clattering as I worked downstairs. As always I chose a shade of white for the walls, and now everything looks fresh and clean and so much brighter. My painter friend jokes about how "daring" I am with my color choices... white, white and more white when it comes to paint. He says it's a little boring, and I'm sure he's right, but my choices make me happy. 

I've never once had any sort of curtain hung from this little window, which seems a shame. Yesterday Chris helped me by putting a rod up, and now a pretty little lace valance softens this spot. 

Today I'll move things back to where they belong and be glad for a project well done. It's good to get these sorts of things done now so that when winters back really is broken, I can get outdoors and enjoy a world not confined by ice. 

Sleepover...

 If you have ever lived with chickens you will know that most of them do not enjoy the snow. Luckily for local hens, we have had a fairly open winter so far, but the last few weeks the ground has been covered in icy white. This keeps my birds close to the coop. They might venture out for a snack or a bit of sun, but most of the day is spent close to the pop door so they can retreat indoors if their scaly toes get cold. 

All except one brave hen. She has skittered down the slope from the coop to the little hole in the fence that leads to the pasture. From there she has navigated across the field, past the manure pile and hay rack, and into the Donkey Dorm and Goat Cozy. She spends the day scratching around, a single bird amongst the hoofstock. All is well until evening comes, and she suddenly isn't so keen to skate back to her cozy coop.  You know, the place where there is food, water, safety, shelter, and the company of other avians. So she decides to have a sleepover with her mammalian pals. 

She either tucks herself into the goat's hay bucket or perches on the gate between the goat and donkey rooms. This isn't entirely safe. Though it's doubtful the donkeys would let a predator into their house, she is more exposed here than in the locked-tight coop. She could get stepped on by a misplaced hoof, and there is not a ready water supply for her, even if she can find enough seeds and bits of hay to keep her crop full. 

The biggest problem is that I have been forbidden to go out to take care of the animals by both my husband and (bossy) daughter. Last week I lifted something in a thoughtless way and strained muscles in my lower back. It's a bit better each day, but I've been banned from lifting, toting, hauling, and most of all, meandering on ice until I am fully healed.  This means that Chris and Rachel have been taking care of all the stock every day, all week, and Chris has to try to catch the bird at dusk with our trusty fishing net. If Rachel is here in the evening, the two of them tag team to catch the errant featherhead. Then she is escorted home tucked under someone's arm, and reunited with her family. 

Tonight we decided to let her stay put. Permissiveness runs rampant here at FairWinds. With my trusty barn cam, I can peek in and see her, sleeping soundly with her pals. I guess she's tired of being cooped up in the snow with all the other fowl and is enjoying a little "alone" time across the pasture.