A Stroke of Very Sad Luck

James and Helen are gone. GONE. 

And as if that isn't bad enough, their baby goose (who was now every bit as large the parents) is gone as well! 

We can make no sense of it. They are, in short, enormous. We've seen them terrify dogs. They've lived for over a year on the farm without ever falling prey to raccoon, marmot or any other critter that our lesser chickens have occasionally been lost to.

So all three gone? At once?

It's boggling. 

We might have even suspected them to be stolen ... only we did find one rather large pile of feathers (surely suggestive of an attack). But dogs, well, when dogs kill ... they do not make tidy work of the remains. There would have been far more goosely evidence than feathers. 

As we wandered around the farm Friday evening looking for any sign of them, I looked across a field and saw Jesse, Summer and Hans kneeling in a little circle praying. It was so touching to me. But also so sad. I knew, in this instance, the prayer would most likely not be answered as they were hoping. 

Our best guess was coyotes (?) or a dog getting in and going on a rampage ... and the dog's owner nervously cleaning up afterwards (and not telling us) (?) 

But it's still a mystery.

And it's true James could be quite the stinker. But he was our honking, hissing stinker. And there was some character lent to the farm by the presence of those three intrepid rulers. (Also, side note: Large Dewlap Touloose geese can cost over $200! So ... had we wanted to get rid of them, it would have been on our terms, and with a little money in our pockets!)

Alas. 

(I don't even have any good pictures of them.)

With the dismal business of lost geese still fresh in our hearts, it seemed extra sad luck (what's the opposite of fortuitous? is unfortuitous a word?) for Summer and Mette to discover, later that very same night, that Skittles the hamster had passed away. 

They were, at first, inconsolable. And their inconsolableness spread to Hans. (Only Starling seemed to quietly take it in. Petting his small furry back and saying, "I'm sad Skittles died.") It took some time before we could shift the weeping and "why"s to happy memories of Skittles.

Eventually some peace prevailed. The next day Mike helped Summer pick out a little box to serve as a casket. She set to painting it. They placed Skittles and a good deal of fluff in the box. Mike nailed the lid on. And we had a little funeral at the farm. (A favorite Skittles memory from each of us, a prayer, and then a shovel of dirt from everyone. 

A Gift Fish

We all know you are never supposed to look a gift horse in the mouth, but what about a gift fish? Can you look that in the mouth?

Last night, as kids were just settling into bed, the doorbell rang. What met us on the doorstep, was, to our surprise, not a human – no neighbor, ward member or late-night family visitor -- rather a small goldfish swimming about (quiet and lonesome-like) in a water-filled Ziploc baggy. (Artistic depictions done by myself and Abe – respectively)

We have no fish food. No fish bowl. No colorful little fish rocks. And . . . I’ve never wanted a fish. Yet, there the fish was. On our front porch. And there our kids were, peering out of bedroom doors, peeking heads down the stairs, and whispering in wonderment about such a strange offering left on our front step.

We couldn’t very well let the poor thing die – loathe though I was to let it in – so we got out a big glass dish for the fish (ooh, rhymey) and shooed kids and all their speculating back to bed.

By morning the poor little swimmer was hardly swimming at all. In fact, I was quite sure he had gone on to that big fish pond in the sky, but the kids insisted he was moving from one part of the bowl to the other. I wasn’t certain if it was swimming or floating, but Goldie particularly was in great agitation about getting it fed and cared for so it’s life might be spared.

So, I did the only valiant thing a mother could. . . .

I told them to carry it to the neighbors and ask if it could live in their fish pond where it would surely flourish, and thrive, and live in great happiness. (With nary a bit of work or trouble on my part.)

Off the girls went with the fish. And back they came – fishless; our kind neighbor having agreed to take on fishykins (particularly kind of her since I don’t think it could have taken much looking to deduce that our fish was likely not long for this world).

But that is that. Perhaps it was a bit shameless (though maybe not so shameless as leaving it wholly unannounced on their doorstep). I very well may have looked this gift fish in the mouth, but . . . so be it.

Honky

One early morning, years ago (and a few weeks into our first experience as homeowners), I pulled open the long white drapes covering our Spanish-style front windows and was met with a strange sight: a small black goat tethered with a short, frayed rope to our mailbox.

It might have been an omen – something like the black cat crossing your path or the owl flying over your house the wrong direction at just the wrong time. And it had to be a federal offense. (Surely our esteemed US Postal Service wouldn’t put up with goats attaching themselves to the sacred receptacles of our precious post.) But beyond that? I was at a loss.

So, I called Mike – absolutely certain he would know what this was all about.

After all, he was the one who made the offer on this small piece of county land we now called home. And, having grown up visiting his grandparents’ farm and having once rather seriously considered life as a sheepherder, wasn’t he educated in the ways of the country?

Surely he would know exactly why and how a goat came to be tied to our mailbox. Perhaps goats and and mailboxes were run-of-the-mill – something to be expected -- when living the country life (even if you were only a narrow strip of “country” surrounded mostly by suburbs).

But Mike did not know.

He merely acted (as any country dweller worth his salt would do when confronted with such a situation). How it got there was irrelevant (perhaps it was a gift from the gods). What to do now – now that the goat had landed in our arms (or close enough) -- was what mattered.

Of course, when I say “he acted”, what I mean is, “he instructed me to act”. He was at work and could only serve as a voice of instruction and encouragement at the precise moment when goat needed confronting.

The only reasonable thing to do, apparently, was to untie the goat --  keeping a firm hold on the rope and a stubborn resolve to continue dragging and pulling despite the goat’s bleating and determined resistance – and stick him safely in the fenced portion of our yard.

We would put up a FOUND sign later, certainly (though Mike was shocked at my naivety when I suggested a description for the sign. We would not be giving too many details -- color and size and the like -- as that would surely bring throngs of the unscrupulous who would be willing to lie and deceive – sacrificing any integrity -- all  for a chance at a free goat).

In the meantime, toddler Abe fed the goat various leaves and twigs from about the yard and named him Honky.

And when, within a day, a call did come (with a matching description) from a young family around the corner whose goat had chewed through the rope that held him staked in their yard, I was surprised (having been a bit skeptical about the hoards of goat seekers, and a bit too certain that sensible folk would only be thrilled to wake and find their goat missing), but Mike and Abe were only disappointed.

And it was not much longer at all before I found myself the proud (or perhaps “reluctant” would fit better) owner of two pygmy goats – cleverly named Brownie and Whitey (and if you use your powers of reasoning and intellect, you might be able to deduce their colors)

Mike and I recently celebrated our 13 year anniversary. (I know this seems quite a leap from Honky the goat, but it’s all tied together in my mind.)

13 years seems an incredibly long time to have passed since wearing that gorgeous white dress and securing myself forever to Mike, and, simultaneously, a ridiculously short amount of time to have experienced so much: to have lived in five homes, and three month-long temporary abodes; to have grown from two to eight; to have finished degrees and worked various jobs; to have known stress and worry and loss, and joy and peace and gain; and to have developed so many memories – so many shared stories – chasing horses trotting down busy roads, vans stuck in deep snow, delayed flights keeping us apart, bunnies hopping around outside hotel windows, Christmas trees purchased at the last minute, holes dug and fences put up, broken water pipes and surprise gifts from strangers; ER visits; tears (from a child) over the sell of an old couch. And, of course, goats tied to mailboxes.

It all makes me rather nervous and extremely excited to contemplate what stories there will be to tell in 13 more years of life together -- what things we will learn and overcome, what people we will meet, and what moments, yet to have happened, we will look back on and laugh about. Daisy, of course, would be hoping that one of those stories includes a bunny tied to our mailbox (and with no owner to claim it), but I suppose we can’t know yet. We can simply dig in – take the bull by the horns (or goat by the chewed through rope as the case may be) -- and go about living!

The Chicks Have Hatched!

I do believe I owe little Hennykins an apology. Did I say something about lacking fortitude, earlier, when I spoke of her egg hatching prowess?

I take it back.

She sat on those darn eggs for three plus weeks before hatching these cute little chicks. And even now that they are hatched she sits on them to keep them warm and leads them around and pecks Mike’s hands to death if he tries to come near them.

I used to think things like, “Bah” and “Pshhh” when/if I thought anything at all about the puny little variety of hen this gray one was, but I have a newfound respect for the small chicken. Perhaps it is because I can relate – being as I am getting ready to hatch and care for my own little one. And I must admit: despite all my mockery of our chickens, it is a cute thing to see a mother hen looking after her little chicks . . . and it makes me sad thinking of our previous chicks who had to learn to survive totally motherless. Why, this very hen was one of those. How did she know how to be such a perfect little mom?

Nice work Henny. You’ve done us proud.

P.S. I had no idea, back when one little chicken flew to our window well, and I then named my blog “A Chicken in the Window Well”, just how apt the title would continue to be. This little hen flew down there to lay and sit on her eggs in privacy. Then, when they were hatching and it was so cold, Mike moved them to the garage for awhile. Today, however, when they were out pecking around and a certain Jesse began to terrorize them, Henny lead her chicks straightaway to the safety of the window well (though it seemed a bit of a leap for the poor chicks). Anyway, it all keeps coming back to our window well . . . and chickens being in it.

Don’t Judge People . . . Well, Maybe Judge Them for Some Things, but not for Other Things . . . Like Coming Late to Church Things.

We should never judge one another. No. Never. Because, take little things. Like, oh, say . . . I don’t know . . . just off the top of my head: someone coming in very late to sacrament meeting. Or, maybe not just one someone. Maybe even . . . like . . . SEVEN someones. And let’s say they are trying to sneak in all quietly with downcast eyes, but they are having to step over and past other seated-on-time people’s knees, and five of the seven are actually rather small and rather irreverent and probably not having properly downcast eyes at all.

See. You want to judge them. You want to say, “Come on! Church doesn’t start ‘til 11:00! Get here on time.” I mean, I want to judge them because that would certainly never be me. But, I don’t because who knows really? I mean any number of things can happen, if you think about it, between one walking out their front door (with church only a half block away and ten minutes to spare) and one actually arriving at said church. Yes, any number of things.

For example, they could be heading off happily – pleased at their perfectly curled girls’ hair, and their overall promptness. And then, who knows? Maybe their two year old might see a wasp of some sort, and he might think to himself, “I ought to catch that wasp post haste!” and he might catch it, and then the mother – who was poised and pleased as could be – might turn and see her two year old shaking his little hand and sobbing and she might, through instinct or experience (one can never be certain with mothers) say, “Oh no! Did you get stung?? Did you pick up a bee??” And as she runs to him, she might notice an angry and disgruntled little wasp crawling away. And she might know, “Yes, you did pick up a bee . . . or something very like it.” And she might scoop her son up and think about how he is always swelling up and having allergic reactions to everything. So, she might decide she ought to give him some Benadryl and probably ought to find his epipen to bring along just in case, and she might be about to run in to get those things when a neighbor might drive by (in a perfectly timely on-time-to-church fashion) and that neighbor might stop and say, “Umm . . . I think you have a chicken on my front porch.” And the mom holding the crying toddler might say something like, “Oh . . . is it grey and kind of little . . .” as if, perhaps the neighbor is mistaken. As if it might possibly be someone else’s chicken (in a neighborhood where chickens do not live and are, quite probably, not allowed).

So, then the mom of this little group might run in and tell her husband (who is still tying his tie – which seems odd as they were all out on the front porch, with ten minutes to spare, ten minutes ago) that a chicken is loose and might possibly be leaving unmentionable things on a very well swept, well kept neighbor’s porch. And then she might shout for another daughter to find a little cloth to wrap around the stung brother’s hand (as some sort of placebo comfort mechanism), and that daughter might open the closet in the bathroom and purse her lips and think and think about which little cloth would be best as the mother is reaching rather frantically for it. Then, the mom might go to the medicine cabinet and stare and stare – trying to find the Benadryl, but not finding it – even though it is directly in front of her (because maybe she is a little frazzled and slightly less poised by this point). But eventually she might find it and give it to her sad little son as she continues to remind him about not picking up bees because that is just what they do.

Then, the mom might go back outside – only not really thinking that now they will all get to church, but thinking, “I wonder if they’ve caught that chicken yet.”

And she might look down the street and see her husband and several of her children trying to slowly hem in the chicken – only to have it pass them. She might then watch them all leap and dive and miss (time and again). And she might think about how these neighbors had workers there sprucing up their yard “just so” for several hours the day prior to this one, and she might wonder a little about the chasing of the chicken through flower beds and the like. And she might think it is a little embarrassing that her family is chasing a chicken across this yard in their Sunday best instead of sitting reverently in church in their Sunday best. But then she might remember that her neighbors can’t see because her neighbors are all at church already (or, possibly in a drunken slumber – as all neighbors who aren’t at church would certainly be).

And, in the end, she might find herself actually enjoying the sight and chuckling to herself as her husband instructs his young helpers to “make a tight circle” and “walk slowly” and, in the end, when a brave leap allows the husband to catch the squawking chicken (pretty much by its tail feathers), she might be laughing out loud.

Only, then she will see that it is about ten minutes past the hour, and the girls’ hair and dresses might not look quite so proper anymore, and the older son might be happily brushing dirt off of the knees of his pants. Still, the sight might have at least calmed the wasp-stung smallest boy. And, in the end, they might all make their way to church and walk in at the very back – only to have the very back full. So, they might make their way sheepishly up a few rows and have to climb over several people to find a place to sit, and the boy (who nobody in the congregation knows was just stung by a wasp) might start to cry loudly about needing his little cloth wrapped around his hand (even though nobody recalls which hand anymore – not even the boy).

And that is why we shouldn’t judge people at all. Mostly at all if they are late to church (or don’t go to church – because some judgmental people might say something like, “oh, they are probably all drunken and asleep anyway”). Because true, most likely that is not a scenario that would occur (heaven knows how I came up with it), but it could possibly occur, or something kind of like it, and I just thought it would be a good and important thing for us all to think about . . . 

Cows, Etc.

Any time I drive past cows, I really really want to stop and take their pictures.

Hey cows, how are you doing?

Well, not just cows. Pretty much any animal. I mean, here are some boring little pigeons.

And here, are some horses? No, donkeys?

And in the spring, when the grass was so green everywhere, I nearly cried at having to drive past a field of sheep every day with out knowing whether or not the owner would ever allow me to place my children among the sheep and take their pictures. I never asked. Only wished.

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And, speaking of horses (we were speaking of them -- a minute ago when I thought the donkeys were horses): one day, I missed a dentist appointment and had to have Mike come pull our truck out of a snowy ditch because I had pulled over (not very carefully) on my way to said dentist's to take a picture of a horse that was just standing there -- wanting his picture taken.

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But these cows. Well, I have been driving past them, and wanting to take their pictures, for months now. Usually they are standing (or sitting) in nothing but muddy slop. Yesterday, however, they were coated nicely in snow, so what could I do but drive home and return with my camera?

Is this something everybody likes to do? It seems like it would be. Later, cows.

15, 16, 17! Getting Close to Done!

15. Something you are currently reading:

Well, it is quite the shame that I should be answering this question just now. It wouldn't be unheard of for just such a question to have found me at the ready with something of great interest to other potential readers. Sadly, I am momentarily in one of those lulls where I pick up a book here and there but find nothing that really sticks. I did grab this book in a moment of curiosity as I left my mother's house the other day. It is a children's book of sorts (though the writing is a bit older). From the cover alone you can tell it is from an age gone by, can't you? Still, the first 20 pages (which are all I have read) were charming enough. We shall see if it continues to be so or if it gets cast aside as well.

16. Your handwriting:

I tried to be honest here by finding a few things about the house that I had written before knowing it would be displayed for my blog readers to critique. I don't mind the look of my handwriting, but, I must admit that it does get a bit sloppy and quite difficult to decipher unless I am paying the strictest of attention. It might stem from my college days of note writing (sooo many notes to get down in so many classes), or perhaps it has something more to do with my ever being in a hurry. Either way, here are a few true little samples. Dear little handwriting. Sigh. You could do better.

17. Pets:

Pets you say? Well, what about them? Yes, I have them (you all know that). I thought perhaps I'd venture out to take their pictures so I could say, "Yes, I have pets. Here is what they were doing just now." But it is frighteningly cold, and, speaking of frightening, there is supposed to be a giant blizzard hitting here in a few hours, and I have called Mike no less than twice to see if he couldn't somehow leave work early to miss driving in it, but he doesn't think he can,and I don't like it one bit! I want us all bundled up safe and sound inside our own home -- together -- when it is blizzarding!

Nevertheless, here is a little pet business from last month when the chickens were pecking about freely for a moment.

Here Jesse actually tried to take a little ride on the chicken (the chicken was quite put out by this occurrence and my failure to stop it more quickly).

Here Jesse decided to throw the chickens a zucchini half . . . only he hit one with it . . . which, again, was an unhappy occurrence for the unlucky chicken.

The zucchini itself, once it wasn't grounded, did seem to give them some enjoyment.

For the Birds

The other day Mike heard a thunk against the window. He went to investigate and found a little bird lying on the ground. He wrapped it in something and set it in the garage because -- maybe it was dead, or maybe it was just stunned and needed a moment to recuperate before being ready to fly off again.

At this small act of kindness I simply bit my lip and remained quiet because it so happened that that was about the third "thunk" I'd heard in as many days and it had never once occurred to me to go check on the state of the little fellas (although, I did think hopeful thoughts for them).

Mike's act of kindness proved sadly needless. When I went into the garage the next day there was the dead bird. Dead as could be. I had forgotten about the sad little thing and it gave me quite a start. I think I may have jumped and thrown my hand to my chest and gave a panicy intake of breath. Then I plead with Mike to do something about the dead bird sitting in our garage.

"I will," he said, "it just seems like now that I brought it in I ought to give it a proper burial."

I left it at that (uncomfortably -- because who likes to think there are dead birds just sitting in their garage??), but when nothing happened by the next day, I broke my silence about all the other birds that had been hitting our windows of late and told Mike that if he planned on burying that one, he may as well gather up all the other dead birds around our yard so they could likewise have proper Christian burials.

He realized the fruitlessness of having mercy on these birds all too quickly when he managed to hear several other bird/window collisions himself over the next day or so. He then adopted a less sentimental approach towards the creatures. On Saturday morning we were lying in bed laughing about the oddness of our bird situation when he informed me that he was going to head off to some gardening or hardware stores that day to see about procuring himself a bird rake. Then, after a few moments of mulling that over, he said, "Or maybe just a bird mulcher."

Somehow it came up again yesterday and thinking shudderingly of someone having no problem with a dead bird in their garage, I sadly questioned, "What are you going to do if something happens to me . . ." but before I could continue he said, "I'll just put you in the garage too."

My husband. He's trouble.(A little picture I found on Daisy's camera -- apparently Mike and I aren't the only ones noticing all the birds around here . . . hopefully we are the only ones noticing all the dead ones . . .).

P.S. Oh, yes, about all the birds. Surely you are wondering, "Why on earth so many birds hitting your windows all of the time?" Well, I would like to say it is because they are so sparkly clean. Alas, it is not that. I have only cleaned the tall outer windows ONE TIME in our nearly two years here. (Oops. Should I have not admitted that?). Mike and I have been speculating it might have to do with our chickens. Nearly every day when we throw feed out to them, we get a small flock of other tiny birds who are eager to sweep in and get their share. Maybe the sheer number of extra birds means an increased frequency in window crashes, or maybe chicken feed gives non-chicken foul poor navigational skills or bird drunken like behavior? I don't know. Maybe a bunch of birds are just migrating right now and we are right in their southward path. Again, I don't know. I simply know that a bird hits our window pretty much every single day lately and it seemed like I ought to post about it.

A Little Photo Documentary

Jesse sees Thor lying in the grass. He takes Thor's dog bowl off the patio steps, and, spilling dog food left and right on the way, carries it over to Thor and drops/chucks it at him.Seeing Thor appears uninterested in his offering, Jesse sits in front of him and attempts to force feed him the food.
Thor tires of this business and removes himself to a distant part of the lawn. Undaunted, Jesse scoops up handfuls of dog food and . . .
carries them to Thor. He then throws the dog food, helpfully, at Thor.Knowing this was a good plan for getting that darn dog to eat, Jesse returns for more handfuls.More handfuls to throw at Thor -- Thor, who, according to Jesse, often says, "Bock bock." Yes, like a chicken.
After many rounds of tirelessly carrying Thor handfuls of food, Jesse stops to evaluate the situation. It would appear that Thor is surrounded by food and has yet to ingest any of it. Jesse stands. Pauses -- wondering how best to proceed. He then notices Thor's tail, and so steps on it -- checking for Thor's reaction as he does.
Then, to teach the ungrateful lout an even better lesson, Jesse removed himself to Thor's water bowl and proceeded to fill it with handfuls of compost. I would have captured this in my Jesse-umentary as well only I was unaware it was happening 'til Jesse appeared again at the patio door soaking wet and with muddy little hands and feet.

Chicks

When you change your blog name to a name about chickens being in your window well, soon EVERYONE wants a piece of your window well chicken (I don't mean a piece to eat . . . though some of you might want that, but it's not happening). Or, if they actually don't want anything to do with your window well chicken, they want something to do with your other chickens. Chickens you probably don't even have!!Chickens that are more chicks than chickens.

Chicks that they assume you have just because you have a chicken in your window well. But, when they make those crazy requests, you don't even respond because you are above that sort of thing. You won't have people left and right assuming that just because you have one full grown chicken, you likely have every other type of chicken -- including not full grown chickens. But then, you humble yourself when you realize that they know you far better than you know yourself . . . or at least know your husband better than you do . . . or just even a tiny fraction as well as you do . . . which is enough . . . enough to know that one chicken in your window well assuredly means more chickens/chicks will soon follow.Well hello, honey, aren't you handsome.(Look, that little one thinks he's an eagle . . . how disappointed he's going to be when he learns the truth someday)

Here is the funny email Mike sent to his family about it:

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I have been twice blessed this Easter season. First, I purchased six baby chicks which have been a delight to all. Second, one of the chicks have been prominently featured in a blog header http://atypicalmormonchick.wordpress.com Nancy was the photographer so she does deserve some credit. I have great expectations for this chick, but of course I love them all in their own way.

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Mike

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That blog link is to a friend's blog. She was starting a blog about her day to day life as a "Mormon Chick" and was the one who requested I send her a picture of a chick with a Book of Mormon BEFORE I even had a chick! OR a Book of Mormon (oh wait, we do have quite a few of those . . . though, Daisy did lose hers . . . and Mike thought he lost his for a week til I found it under my dresser where I accused him of hiding it so we wouldn't be able to read it together).

Anyway, I feel like I am a famous photographer now what with my chick displayed so prominently in someones blog header. In case you didn't click on the link, this is the picture she used.

Look how cute our little chick looks. No wonder Mike's so proud of the little fella (the "little fella" might actually be a girl).

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Here are a few others I took (before trying to blur the lines in the paper out with our paint program). Mike's favorite is the last one because he thinks those two tiny little gray chicks are the cutest things he's ever seen (excluding our children I assume).

They are pretty tiny and I think they are in constant danger of having their eyes pecked out by the bullying bigger chicks.

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He isn't certain of the variety of chicken they are, but told me they might grow up to be Blue Cochins -- which look something like this:

He also told me that that is what we are too strongly hope for because if they don't turn out to be Blue Cochins, then they might turn out to be Silkies . . . which look like this:and would clearly make us the complete laughing stock of any and all chicken owners.

From Sissy to Stone

I used to be such a sissy pants. That's right. A total wimpy wimp. Once, at Lake Powell, my dad and brothers were fishing. Fishing and then throwing the fish back. That was all good and well, but then one fish got the hook stuck too badly in his mouth, and they had to kill it, and I cried and cried and can't remember who finally calmed me with talks of eternity and Heaven and no sparrow falling unnoticed. Then there was the time when my older brother took me, just me, with him hunting. "Just me" was a big deal in a family of 11 kids. Anyway, we were off in the mountains happy as could be when suddenly my brother recalled that I was a complete pansy and that if he did indeed shoot a bird and I then saw that bird, I would likely fall into a state of sobbing despair. So, he sadly (and nicely) suggested we just have a picnic of sorts with all the snacks we brought and call it good.

Luckily, this earth we live in has hardened my heart into pure stone. Whew. Pure stone is waaaay better. Sure, there was the time when I tried to save a chicken from our dog's jaws. The time when I only saved it . . . sort of. Sure I called Mike in tears with the mostly dead chicken at my feet. But, those other chickens -- the ones that our dog killed that I didn't actually have to see? Ha! Big deal. I could simply guffaw and say, "Tough break, chickens. That's the risk you run being a chicken! Hahahahha!" And remember how I laughed and laughed when our horse threw our dog with it's mouth? Stone I tell you. Pure stone.

Anywho, I planted some little seeds a week or so ago. CA giant Zinnia's to be exact. I was instructed to plant two seeds per little container and then, when they sprouted, I was to pluck the lesser sprout from each tiny cubicle. Piece of cake, right? Only, there they all were -- new and growing and green -- each one hoping to become its own lovely flower. Big deal. I pulled the first seedling out of cup number one. Then, I got a little sad for a minute when I saw its puny little roots that had just taken hold. So, I took a break. But that's totally natural. Anyone with a heart at all . . . even a rock for a heart . . . would do the same. It doesn't mean I'm still a sissy. I am going to kill off the rest of those tiny in the way seedlings first thing today . . . or maybe tomorrow. How dare they aspire to flowerhood? . . . Or, you know, if Mike feels like doing it himself, I'll let him. And then, when they are thrown away, and I can't see them, I will laugh and laugh at them. Easy.

Chickens in the Mist

Well, that's a ridiculous title.

But really, chickens, Nancy? Again??

It isn't my fault really. It is just that there was a lot of conversation spurred by my last chicken post and my possibly changing my blog name to something more chickeny -- Chickens Chickens Everywhere? Duck Duck Chicken? Don't be Chicken? Why'd the Chicken Cross the Road?

Anyway, it seemed funny to me that I truly could have a blog with a title having to do with chickens because, for crying out loud, if I counted, I probably have more posts involving chickens than any other girl who isn't actually entitled to write about chickens (you know, like how a chicken farmer is).

I don't live on a farm.

I don't even live in the country.

I live in the city . . . or maybe the suburbs? Or maybe something else altogether. I've never really been certain about the exact meaning of words like city and suburbs and urban -- I just have vague ideas sometimes involving houses, and generally involving no large fields, and occasionally involving lots of traffic and tall buildings. I mean the place I live is called a city, but that doesn't seem like that means I can just go ahead and say, "I live in the city." And yet, I feel like I can say, "I live in a city." Maybe that is it? The "the" makes it, not necessarily one particular city, but definitely a super busy big city? Be careful with that "the" and you are OK, is it?

Well then. Weird that I live in a city and somehow always seem to be associating with chickens. I don't think of myself as someone with chickens. Of course, I don't think of myself as someone with loads of kids either. And yet, certain things just are. In fact, my parents lived in a city, and they never even purchased chickens OR got chickens as white elephant gifts, but one year when I was younger, a chicken came to live with us there just the same. It was a stray. A stray chicken. Only we called it The Racing Chicken. Maybe if I'd been reading my life in a book I would have seen the sudden appearance of that chicken as foreshadowing -- I would have known more chickens were yet to enter my life. But, at the time, we just wondered where on earth a stray chicken came from, and why it decided we were home. We called it The Racing Chicken because we only ever saw it streaking full speed across our yard. Maybe it was being chased. Maybe it just liked to run. Once I went into the garage to get something out of our big freezer out there. Suddenly I was startled by screeching and meowing and then a big cat fell from the rafters above and tore out of the garage like a bat out of you know where. I was stunned for a moment, but when I looked up, I saw The Racing Chicken -- standing firm and proud on the rafters above -- eyes blazing, wings held firm. He was a noble breed of chicken I am sure. Only, he wasn't a he I guess because later, when The Racing Chicken had either met an untimely end, or moved on to greener pastures, we found a large clutch of eggs up in those rafters. (And no, they wouldn't have been baby chicks. I always have to tell everyone about how there needs to be a rooster, and frankly, it gets a little awkward).

Anyway, it's no wonder we keep having chickens. Mike thinks they are the perfect animal (actually, it might have been pigs he said were the perfect animal), but he has definitely said that they are the perfect thing to have for our food storage -- when hard times hit, won't we be happy to have fresh eggs galore every day (and I did read somewhere once that eggs are a near perfect food -- from a survival standpoint -- you'd only need to supplement with like one vitamin to have your diet A-OK). So, Mike says, when I feel conflicted about meshing chickens with my life, I can just view them as food storage. Of course, Mike also says our "food storage" ought to be 12 matching rifles. Shotguns? Oh he'd be so disappointed in me for not remembering which it is. I'm not sure if it is so we can protect our food storage or so we can steel other's food storage. I like to think it is only to protect our own -- of course, if the guns are the only food storage we've got, it seems to leave us with the less noble alternative. Oh wait. There won't just be the guns. There'll be the chickens! Of course, we must protect the chickens! That will put our guns to the very noblest of work.

This is what happens when Mike leaves me and won't come home to me for too many days. I get all typey crazy. Honey? Where are you? Well, I know where you are, but, come home to me, and I'll quit writing all this nonsense! I'll go back to writing nice sensible posts about the joys of motherhood and of being your wife. But, maybe you like this nonsense. Of course you do. You like everything I ever say or do. Don't tell me different or the chicken gets it.

A Chicken Lives in our Window Well and Other Stories

Actually, there aren't any "other stories." It was just as I typed "A chicken lives in our window well," it sounded nice to add, "and other stories." Doesn't that seem like a catchy title? One for a book -- a collection of memoirs or short stories perhaps? In fact, wait a minute here, maybe I should rename my blog that! Should I? I mean "Nancy's Thoughts"?? Honestly. BOR-ING. "Oh, I'm going to go see if Nancy has posted any new thoughts on her blog about her thoughts -- what is she thinking in her thoughts anyway? I guess I'll have to go to Nancy's Thoughts to see." Contrast that with, "I wonder if there are any new stories -- any other stories on that Chicken in the Window Well blog." This definitely warrants considering.

But, moving on to the chicken in the window well. Yes, one lives there. Those of you who have begun reading my blog recently or who don't know much about my years as Mike's wife might be thinking something like, "Whhaa?? Cr-A-zy!" The rest of you are thinking, "Yawn. Big surprise."

My sister and her husband brought this particular chicken to a family white elephant gift exchange. Their neighbors were going to cook the bird up because it was being picked on by all the other hens. Hen pecked. Huh. I just remembered that term. Well, now I know why it's a term. We didn't choose the gift, mind you. It was just the natural assumption that Mike would take the chicken home in the end. I mean, look how scared every one else was of it.

Anyway, it wasn't an ideal situation. Our dog was VERY interested in our chicken. And having him immediately kill it when it had just been rescued from the stew pot would make for quite the bitter irony.

Luckily, Mike's aunt lent us her little breeder (I think that's what it's called). It's basically a large wire cage with a little hen house at one end so the hen can hang out in her little hen house and then strut about her tiny fenced in section of the world totally dog free. Only our hen wasn't planning on strutting anywhere at any time for anybody. I thought surely she was dead all winter long. She never left her tiny house. Mike tried to put her food at the end of the breeder so she'd have to go out that far, but ended up moving it closer for fear he was starving her. I don't know. Maybe she preferred a bunch of other hens pecking at her all the live long day to one clumsy large dog breathing his slobbery breath down her neck every time she stepped out for a bit of fresh air (even though his breath was now separated by some nice safe fencing). She wouldn't lay an egg for nothin' and I just kept thinking it wouldn't be the end of the world if she'd give up the old ghost (well, technically it would be the end of the world for her, I guess).

j

Anywho. I don't know how long she was down the window well before I knew. Probably awhile. I'm sure Mike knew as he was the one caring for the creature. Maybe he'd even told me how she got there. I do recall getting Penny off of the trampoline one day and her struggling to not go in the house because she wanted to look at the chicken and she kept pointing to the window well, but I just thought, "Silly, there's no chicken down there." Actually, I don't know that I even thought that. I don't think I even thought anything. Certainly not, "What? Is the chicken living in the window well now?" I think it just skimmed right off me much like someone asking for ice-cream right before dinner might -- not even a thought worthy of my pausing to consider.

j

Eventually, I must have asked or been told that the chicken was there. I don't know why she hasn't been moved back to the breeder. But before you go getting all up in arms about animal rights and how our chicken should go for a daily walk and only be chained up so many hours of the day and have time in the house and snacks for good behavior, let me tell you this: Our chicken loves her window well. In fact, she's THRIVING in the window well. A few happy nights in the window well and she started laying eggs EVERY day. Sometimes I hear her down there pecking the glass loudly with her beak. She probably sees her reflection and thinks it's some other hen, and she's probably thrilled to death to be hen pecking a chicken back for a change. Think how her confidence must be growing as that sissy chicken in the glass can't even manage to get one peck in. Besides, it's a pretty large window well.

j

So, now Mike goes down to the basement and, opening the window, reaches out to take care of old henny every day. (Side note: I recently realized that "everyday" all as one word does not mean every single day. It's like "boring old common" -- so, I'm glad I remembered to do it right in the last sentence, otherwise I would have been saying something like, "That chicken's feathers aren't one bit exciting. They're just so everyday. She's just such an everyday chicken").

j

But, this all came up because Mike is out of town, and I'm in charge of animal care and feeding whilst he's away, and it just felt a little weird going down to the basement to feed the chicken in the window well tonight. But, that's one of the fun things about my life. It's not so everyday as one's life might be if they didn't have things like chickens in their window wells.

Dog Carts

If you wonder why this lovely face, it is because of my husband. Actually, I think this is a picture Goldie took, but it is the very face I'm sure I was making when my husband mentioned how a dog backpack is one thing, but even better would be a dog cart.

And no, I wouldn't need to worry about our kids falling out of the dog cart (because that was ONE of my issues with a dog cart). It wouldn't be for them to ride in. It would be to cart their wares – the wares they would be selling – that would be pulled by their dog and his cart (that last sentence was a chiasm for you literary geniuses).

He's a big dog, so I guess he would need to pull big things like watermelons or giant Hubbards maybe.

Mike saw a little cart as well. Perfect, he thought, for a dog pulled spice cart. I think I was making that same face as above while I envisioned our kids going around the neighborhood shouting, “Spices! Spices for sale! Get your Cumin! Get your Cloves! Spices for sale!”

Of course, anyone can see that Thor is just too much of a dog for spices. It just isn't a good match. Maybe Mike's sister's dog Nacho could get away with pulling a spice cart. He seems small and . . . spicy? Hmm. Maybe too spicy. (Nacho? Are you in there?? Thor! Did you eat Nacho? Bad dog! Open your mouth!!)Anyway, it's a good thing I love my husband so ridiculously because one of these days I will be found curled in a small ball – shivering – eyes glazed but twitching occasionally. I won't be able to respond to any questions. I won't really say anything at all. Only, occasionally, I might mutter something like, “spice cart,” or “pack goats,” or “beehives,” or “chickens,” or “apple press,” maybe even, “sheep herding.” And that will be the end of the Nancy we all once knew and loved.

Ah well, at least Mike will be able to love me all the more. He can put a little shirt on me that says, “My Little Nut Case,” or, he can wear one that says, “I'm with Crazy,” and take me along to his dog cart conventions.

If only I'd seen the warning signs when we were dating. They tell you to talk about finances, religion, kids, etc., but they always forget to mention the ever so important, “inclination towards homesteading.”

Oh, who am I trying to kid. Even if I had known, I still would have married him with out batting an I (wait, I might have batted an “I” – I'm not sure . . . I meant to say without batting an EYE), and he knows it. Darn him.