March 12, 2014

"Chickens" -- When Dennis first uttered that word my reaction was summed up in two words: "Absolutely not". I had nothing against chickens, mind you, I just didn't like the idea of a big, grassless pen filled with little hens taking dust baths & requiring food and water every day. "We'll let them free-range" Dennis said, "it will be fun".  And then he tried to sweeten the pot: "They'll eat the ticks and bugs and you'll enjoy the yard more." Okay, that held a little appeal, but I still wasn't sold. No chickens for this city girl. Case closed ... for a few years anyway.

In April 2009 Dennis turned 55, retired from his job and headed down to the farm. I decided I would stay behind until our house in the city sold. "Don't get any ideas about chickens," I said to Dennis as he pulled out of the driveway, "and especially don't get any ideas about putting chickens in the little planting shed right behind the house." Famous last words that ranked right up there with the Titanic crew member who said, "God Himself could not sink this ship" and George Bush uttering "Read my lips; no new taxes."

It didn't take him long.  Chickens.  In my planting shed. Right behind the house.

Being a hopeless animal lover, I couldn't very well send them away. After all, Homes are Forever ... even for Homes for chickens. They would have to stay and I would have to learn.

So with an open mind and no practical chicken knowledge whatsoever, here is what I quickly discovered:

1. The chickens you name always get eaten first. Not by us....this former city girl does NOT eat her friends even though Dennis jokingly tried to make them seem palatable by naming them "Fried", "Extra Crispy" and "Barbecue". No, I mean by predators. I don't know how a hawk can discern "Frieda" or "Gertrude" from a non-named fowl, but they can and they are pretty darn accurate at it.

2. Chickens poop...a lot. The first round of chicks our hens hatched were so cute that I actually found myself won over (who doesn't love babies?!), and I could not wait to teach the baby chicks to come up onto the deck and get treats. Kudos to me; I was wildly successful! Not only did the chicks come when I called them, they came up of their own accord and pecked on the patio door if their treats weren't dispensed in a timely manner. They sat in the chairs and posed for innumerable cute pictures on the deck rails. But then they started growing ... and pooping ... a lot. They had no preconceived notions about where it was appropriate to poo, and try as I might I could not teach them. The power washer quickly became my new best friend. Good idea gone REAL bad.

3. Chickens are sneaky. While we let the hens hatch a few chicks here and there, there just isn't room for tons of chickens in our little hen house. We do try to be understanding to the wanna-be-mommas though, and split very a limited number of eggs between whichever hens happen to go broody. Everybody's happy, right? WRONG! Imagine our surprise one November when a hen came proudly parading out of the hayfield with an entire line of new babies in tow. She obviously hadn't cared for our rules on population control and simply hid her eggs until she had reached Octomom status. Final score: Chickens:8 -- Humans: 0.

4. Once you have experienced fresh eggs from happy little free-ranging chickens, you become very spoiled. Store-bought eggs with their big, yellow yolks no longer hold any charm when compared with eggs with yolks that turn cheesecakes flaming orange and omelets into works of art. Now if we could only teach the chickens to gather the eggs for us...

Yes, I've learned a lot from the chickens I never wanted to have. They have also provided this transplanted city girl with many an adventure ... picture a designer flip flop clad woman with a fresh pedicure tromping through an Amish barn because they had Silkie chicks. I don't know what was more important that day ... hoping that I would get a Silkie or praying that they hay didn't stick to my freshly painted toes.  Probably the latter, but that's another story for another day. :)

March 11, 2014

As I sit here preparing to venture into the vast world of blogging, I can't help but think, "Where to start?" So, let's start at the very beginning. Well perhaps not the VERY beginning -- you would be bored to tears. So instead perhaps we should start with the obvious: Why is this City Girl on the Farm in the first place?

For those of you who know me personally, I am absolutely sure that you are shaking your heads and giggling uncontrollably at the whole concept. Who could blame you? After all, tee shirts and jeans have never been my forte'. For those of you who don't know me well enough to know why this seems so absurd, let me clue you in about my "previous life":

Until 4 years ago I had always lived in the city. Neighbors next door, 5 o'clock traffic, restaurants that were open all night, and the mall and at least 3 good coffee bars never more than 10 minutes away. It was life as I knew it and loved it. Need a friend who could trounce around the mall in 4-inch heels? Need a good road-rage rant when the bridge was backed up? Need to know that the round racks in each section at Von Maur are the unmarked sales (Heaven forbid they should be marked ... tacky, tacky!)? Well, I was your gal!

What was I NOT good for? Being outdoorsy, that's what.  Call me a girlie-girl, but in 3rd grade I refused to join the Girl Scouts because I thought the Brownie uniforms were ugly. What can I say ... it's one of my favorite colors now, but I didn't like brown back then. Oh, and I didn't like the concept of camping out either. I signed up for baton lessons instead -- sparkly costumes and a silver stick to twirl; yep, much more up my alley.  In 5th grade I threw the hissy-fit to end all hissy-fits because our class was going to Land Between the Lakes for a day and everyone was required to wear jeans.  Yep, it's true. I am sure my mother was ready to kill me in the middle of Sears and I can still remember her hissing, "Stop acting like a 3-year old. You can throw them away after the field trip."

Then there was the time I made my younger brother ride home holding his fishing pole out the car window because he had actually caught a fish on it and no way was that pole coming inside my car after being contaminated.  Yep, that was me. Girlie girl to the core and quite happy with it.

So what changed?  Well, I blame my husband.  Of course, I use the term "blame" very lightly. I'm sure there was also some "with age comes mellowing" involved in my evolution, but it is much more fun to just blame Dennis.  With Dennis, walks in the woods were kind of nice (as long as I had plenty of tick spray). Fishing was also not so bad. After all, I got to spend all day out in the boat and I didn't have to touch anything.  Yep, the outdoors wasn't quite so bad after all.

And then there was the motorcycle -- that sort of outdoors was suddenly a-okay, too. I found that I loved riding on the back of Dennis' Harley Road King Classic.  There are limits to how much one can evolve, though, and Dennis' constant question, "Wouldn't you like your own bike?" was always met with a very firm "No."  Why on earth would anyone even consider putting two wheels and a motor under someone who can hardly stay upright on a bicycle?

Then came the day that Dennis took me to visit his property in Missouri and I knew my City days were numbered.  Perhaps it was age, but all of a sudden I found myself loving the concept of a house in the country. It was quaint ... it was relaxing ... and  here 5 o'clock traffic simply meant that there might be 3 tractors passing through the town square instead of 2.  Yep, I could do this! Sign me on!

So, in 2009 Dennis retired from his job and we moved to our farm.  Now bear in mind that I use the term "farm" loosely. We do not grow crops or raise cattle, but we do have chickens.  Oh yes, the chickens ... a story unto themselves, which I will tell you all about tomorrow. <3