My Pet Chicken

Things are Changing

"My book came in," Craig announced as I came through the front door, still wearing the weariness of my work day. What nonsense is this? My husband does not read books, he reads the Internet and quotes Bill O'Reilly.  I gave him a cautious eye. Earlier in the week, I had walked into the bedroom to find him sprawled across the bed with one of the bee books I purchased for his birthday wide open. "What's going on in here?" I ask, startled. "I'm reading my book," he says. "Really? Why?" I ask. "I've already read the other one." I am certain this is one of the signs of the Apocalypse but a quick review of Revelations and I found it didn't fall in the top seven.

He holds the new book up to show me. "My Pet Chicken," he reads. "My Pet Chicken? I think I have that in the picture book collection at the Library."  "Nooo," he argues. "It's one of the best guides on raising chickens." "Chickens?" I ask. I have a history with chickens. There's the rooster incident, of course. I think any kid who grew up in the country has or knows of a rooster incident. But there's also the hen house from my youth, second only to the cellar for creeping me out.

(Insert harp flashback music.) 

"Cindy," Mom calls. "Go up to the hen house and see if we have any eggs."  My eyes widen. "It's Marge's turn," I attempt. "No it's not," my sister argues. "Go get the eggs," Mom says. I get up slowly, walk to the front door, slowly, go around the house and climb the hill toward the hen house of death, ever more slowly. There's a fence around the hen house and chickens scratching the black dirt, still damp with morning dew. Dad has clipped the chickens' wings so they don't fly away. This has given them an "I don't give a damn, I'll scratch your eyes out for looking at me, kid" attitude. The few meandering around barely give me notice until I move the gate. They start to come closer but I stamp and scream at them until they think better of it. This part isn't so bad, it's the inside of the hen house that is dangerous. If one rogue chicken decides this is the day she's taking down the humans, I'm trapped in there.  

I peek inside the door of the hen house. One brown bird sits on a nest and dares me with her beady, little, peck you until you're bloody eyes, to even think about taking her eggs. I size her up and she sizes me up. She smells the stink of fear oozing from my pores. She smirks, let's out a cackle of a laugh. She knows she's won. I back away, slip out of the fence and run down the hill at full speed.

Back inside, "No eggs today, Mom." My mother releases an exhaust of disgust. "Marge Ann, go up and get the eggs," she says. My sister growls. She stomps past me, "You're so stupid," she says, passing me on her way out of the door.  

She shows up again in what passed as seconds bearing a handful of eggs, which she displays with raised eyebrows as if they only served to prove that I was indeed, stupid.  Today, my sister is a strong, successful, and responsible woman and I like to take the credit for making her pick up my slack for 16+ years.

Back on the farm, tree removal day approaches. This old fence line is coming down so we can see the view and replant desirable trees on the new boundaries.

It's still dark when Craig awakens me to say he's heading out to the farm. "It's cold out there and windy on that hill. Bundle up. I've got a stocking cap for you." I'm still in bed. "A stocking cap?" I ask. "Are we knocking over a liquor store on the way?" I'm pondering if the the term stocking cap went out of use in the late 1800's.  Sometime's Craig is just one pair of black socks away from being from another era.

When I arrive, the contractor is already at work, employing heavy equipment to remove trees and reshape the pond. Because I'm a girl who cares nothing for machinery, I refer to these things as the scooper and the scraper. (Insert collective groan from men and women who are equipment savvy.)

Enjoy this video of the scooper at work. Excuse the poor quality of video and my use of the term scooper.

It was indeed nippy, and our contractor was channeling his inner Cousin Eddie with a fur-lined, ear-flap hat. Craig was avenged somewhat when I slipped on my stocking cap. (Sigh.)  It was brisk and the air smelled of fresh cut wood and chainsaw oil. It reminded me of cutting firewood with Dad in the Fall on the mountain above our house in West Virginia. It seems I can't make it through an Autumn without at least once falling back on a remembrance of that time.

We're saving the larger pieces for firewood and the root bundles for a large bonfire this October. I help Craig unload the wood. "If we're going to have a pet chicken, I will have to name her Minerva Louise and give her a mitten to wear on her head as a hat," I tell Craig.  He looks at me, silently. "It's a book from the Library," I explain. "You and that chicken are crazy," he says.

"If I'm going to have a chicken, she might as well be a literary chicken," I say. "Chickens," Craig corrects. "Chickens? I'm going to need more names." He continues piling wood. "There's Rosie from Rosie's Walk." I'm silently considering whether I need to read more chicken books. "How about Pox?" I ask.  He stops and looks at me. "We could say, Come see our chicken, Pox," I encourage. He smiles. "It would have to be a slow one, so children could catch it," I explain. Now he's laughing. 

Our goal for the weekend was to get the trees lined up and ready for the chipper shredder. Quickly Craig decided that trying to line up 1,000 feet of downed trees with one small distracted wife, was going to be a slow business. We arrived the next day with Jr., Jr's truck, and a few chains to speed up the process. 

See these pretty little purple pineapple-shaped flowers. Thistles. Aren't they lovely? They are the devil. They slip right over the top of your boot, melt through your jeans and sting your legs. I did discover if something stings you enough times, eventually you don't feel it anymore. Isn't that a nice lesson?

Now the chipper shredder has arrived and it's all hands on deck for making mulch. Booboo spent the night and so I was awake from 3:30 AM before heading to the farm. Look at those feet propped on my chest in the middle of the night. So worth it.

Before I show the next photo, I thought I'd show this one to demonstrate how far I've come in the farmer girl business. This is me checking out the land before we  bought it, never even got out of the truck - too many grasshoppers.

But now, I'm out there, fighting thistles, brushing away grasshoppers, stomping cactus and shredding trees. I have never worked so hard in my life. Shredding these trees took 14 hours over 2 days with three people. And it wasn't cool. It was hot - mid-90's hot. Haul trees, shred trees, unload mulch, try not to die.

Day 1 of shredding went pretty well, it was windy and somewhat cooler on the hill. We were energetic, excited and sure we'd finish in one day. What fools we were. We only finished the easy part on Saturday. The dense tangled mess still lay in wait. The wind stirred up the sawdust such that we each coughed out a 2x4 when we got home.(I appear to be doing some kind of dance in this photo, not sure what is happening with my hands.)

We were also scratched to ribbons in any place we'd been crazy enough to leave bare flesh. Not exactly the professional look so...

I opted for the "fresh from the psyche-ward" look for the next day.  It helped heal the scratches, protected my arms from more damage and left people asking questions at the Home Depot.

This is called pick-up sticks, farm style. It's one thing to pick up trees and feed them through a shredder. It's another thing to try and untangle hundreds of trees and branches from one another, then pick them up and feed them to the shredder.

Then there's the unloading of the mulch, which we all agree was the worst part of it. After about 5 hours of this, we started getting a little short with one another. Craig and Sawyer bicker over how best to feed things through the machine. I silently resent them (and their mothers for having them) as I drag trees to the shredder as they argue, certain that I've carried more than they have. After 7 hours, we're exhausted but still optimistic that we can knock it out by noon the next day. After 10 hours, the chipper breaks down and what little hope I had threatens to die.

Once we unclog the machine and it's running again, the heat of the day really beats down. Still exhausted from the day before, we're now too tired to argue with one another. We stop occasionally and sit in the AC because the hawk circling overhead is certain we're going to die and leave a fresh meal. We think he's right. After about 11 hours, the mind starts to go. I pick up a tree and my muscles burn. I look down and see a grasshopper perched with his head high looking around as if he's on a theme-park ride. "Hey, lard a$$," I tell him in my mind because my throat no longer works. His head turns slightly. "Yeah, I know you can hear me. No freeloaders. Start pulling or get off my tree." He doesn't move. With great effort, I slap him upside his grasshopper head and send him sailing. He was warned.

After 13.5 hours, I give up. The last little bit is a tangled up nightmare and I'm on the verge of tears. "Burn it," I tell Craig. "What? You really want to leave it when we're this close?" I throw up my hands. "I can't do anymore, I'm telling you. I don't know whether to cry or vomit but I'm done. I don't care what happens to it." He can see I'm really done. "Go sit in the truck and get some AC for a while." He follows me in a minute, covered in a thick layer of sawdust. Sawyer is already there. Three of us sit in the truck and try not to pass out. "Sawyer?" Craig asks. "Do you have anything left?" "Sure," Sawyer responds, surprisingly cheerfully. They get out and finish the trees.  This is the last of it. I found enough energy to snap the photo.

The land is cleared now and we have a blank canvas on which to paint our own vision. We have been dreaming  of our new home; sharing images of house designs, researching trees, naming chickens (Fricassee), and checking out honey competitors. Craig visited with a local honey producer. "We're going to be your competition in a few years," he tells the man.  "I've got a hundred hives," the man responds. "We're not going to be much competition," Craig adds.

And we have a nice view of the little valley below. Our new house will sit right here and I'm already on the patio in my mind, looking down on Whoville and talking about all those Whos.

Our babies have arrived. Aren't they cute? I think they're funny. They're all standing so tall, looking at their new digs with great anticipation. That one on the right is so happy, he's dancing. Who knew Live Oaks were so lively?  Next week, we give them their new spots.  I'm going to dance with that little guy. I will name him Fred, as in Astaire. "Go, Fred! It's you're party."

Craig's been a busy bee this weekend. He is working on a rock berm for the pond to protect it from all the rain we never get. Rain is like Christmas in Texas. We all sit and wait for it and clap our hands with excitement over any sprinkle. Sawyer and I begged off because later we're going to buy him a new outfit for a college interview. Fancy. 

Craig incorporated the heart of Texas into the berm. I may have to rescue it for my garden. I'll walk Rosie the chicken out there and tell her all about how we found it. We'll have to stop and wait for Pox anyway, because he's slow.

Look at that. We must be scenic because Craig snapped the hot air balloon over Justin this morning. You ain't seen nothing yet - come back in 5 years.

Adios Amigos!

Grasshopper Hill

Welcome to the farm. 

Before we get started, take a weekend tour in this video.

"At some point we need a name," I tell Craig. "How about Grasshopper Hill?" he asks. This is in reference to the 4 million (conservative estimate) hopping inhabitants native to our 11 acres.  "It certainly fits, but I'd like something that doesn't reference the current plague." He is pensive. "What can we do with them?" he asks me. "Find something that eats them and get a few hundred of those." "No, I mean, how can we make money off of them? Cover them in chocolate?" I laugh. "Who is going to eat them?" He is earnest. "People eat them," he assures me. "Name one American you know who eats grasshoppers," I challenge. Silence. If I'm wrong and you, Reader, want the leggy delicacies, by all means, let me know. I can hook you up.

Let's start with the sunrise over the eastern boundary of the property. I imagine looking out from my porch and seeing this each morning as I wander around in my raggedy bathrobe and hair rollers. It's a beautiful image. This was taken a few weeks ago because, in reality, we never made it to the land before 8:30 AM. The first day I didn't make it until 11:45 AM. (I needed to buy a hat.) I've got to work on my farmer's hours because it's a darn sight easier to work when it isn't 100 degrees outside. 

Here's Junior, surveying our chore on the third day of playing rock picker upper. We were both darn sick of rocks by this point. Pa can't mow the area with all of the rocks some Helpful Harry pushed into the drainage ditches. So, we dig and lift and haul. He's looking at those rocks and counting down the days until he leaves for college. He will be an old farmhand by the time this year is over.

If you're looking to strengthen and tone your upper body, I might suggest the pickax workout. It's a great way to shape up those arms, back, and shoulders - if you don't die first. This was primarily my job. I'm typing with my toes now.

If there's money to be made in rocks and grasshoppers, we will never go hungry again.

This giant spider haven bore many large stones but thankfully no snakes. My job was to bang on the rocks to scare away wildlife and to swing a pickax wildly at spiders as large as my hand, carrying golf ball size egg sacs on their bodies. (A moment to have the willies.)

The moment when boy triumphs over rock. It's a man thing.

What are we doing with it all? This is the eastern fence line. Craig estimates we will have a 3 foot rock fence along the 450 foot boundary by the end of the cleanup. That makes me tired. So far we have about 1 foot of rock boundary about 150 feet long.

In all of this digging, we did find the heart of Texas. It's a rock.

I'm particularly proud of this area because it was a rock bed when we arrived in the morning, and I dug them up and left this pretty green strip. If you are not impressed, do not tell me, because I will be devastated.

And the rocky bed that had Sawyer contemplating a new family? Now looks like this. We only have about 10.75 acres left to clear. Seriously, it's time to hire the men.  

And so we are. We have contracted some of this labor to kick start the process of getting the land shaped and graded to our satisfaction. The first thing to go is this tree line. It cuts the property in half as it was an old fence line. It's funny to me how the contractors seem surprised when I say I want every tree on the property removed. Every one. All of them. Nope, not one is to be left. Why? Because they are thorny, scrub trees that grow on fence lines and my vision has oaks and pecan trees with a fruit orchard in the back. Ma will plant her own trees, the ones she wants, right where she wants them. Thank you very much. I look at this tree line and see mulch. And so it will be.

This week a contractor will come with a big ol' trackhoe and rip them out by their root bundle, shake them like their momma doesn't love them, and throw them down for us.  He is also going to grade and shape the land. Then Craig gets to rent that big chipper shredder that makes him happy and we will make mulch.

We are having this T-Rex footprint sculpted into a beautiful pond so hopefully, it will begin to fill a bit better as more of the runoff will drain into it. The person we are hiring is a bit of an artist when it comes to shaping the land, he speaks of it like a poet. He may have also been drunk the first time we met him, but poets are often drunk so we're okay with that.

He will also scrape off the cactus which is another bumper crop we grow. Once the land is shaped and cleared, we will return for more rock picking upping. We are preparing the land to be good farmland. Next month the property will be plowed and planted with rye and oats. This helps with our agricultural exemption (boring boring tax talk).  I can't wait to see it after it's shaped to please me. I'll be sure to show you. In the meantime...