The Chicken Lady


Overheard in the market one day:

“Gram, don’t we know her?!”

“Shh!  Don’t point!  And yes, that’s the Chicken Lady!

This is me, as illustrated by very talented Sarah Jane.  I believe I am holding Emma Grace, our sweet little hen-that-could!

Farmer Tam, the Chicken Lady, as illustrated by Sarah Jane in 2010. Here I am, holding “Emma Grace”, the little Buff Orpington that could.

I could be called worse things.  Some women, they have a thing about shoes.  For me…

Over the weekend, I outfitted dear friends with some new hens after something, probably a fox, made off with four of theirs.  We had a lovely Easter Eve stroll through our poultry, shopping for “colors” to go with the 3 they already have.

I sent them home with an Araucana, 2 “Wing and a Prayer Mix”, and a Columbian Wyandotte.

I popped by yesterday to drop off some Hot Cross Buns and check on everyone.

“How are the girls?” I asked.

“Oh, they’re great – loved the Easter Egg hunt, wired from jellybeans, came home and had great naps” replied my friend, referring to her adorable toddlers.

“Right!  Of course!  Yes! That’s super!”  I refrained from further querying, “But, how are the GIRLS?” (You know, the feathered ones.)

Yesterday I’d also received a series of passionate emails from friend J that has only recently become a chicken farmer.  She bid on 4 hens & a little coop at a fundraiser last fall and won, much to her husband’s chagrin.  She came by our farm and selected her 4 girls  in late October and I stopped by a few times to see how things were going.  Oh gosh, my hens had stepped into chicken-heaven.  The digs are posh.  J does EVERYTHING right, attending to their smallest needs.  A chicken-mama couldn’t be happier.

But two days ago, she & her family had returned from a sunny vacation to find Winnie, an Araucana she’d gotten from me, was probably suffering from a vent prolapse.  J sent me emails and texts with photos and I coached her through some home remedies.  I was going to take her to nurse for them last evening if things weren’t going well.  Sadly, she emailed that after they’d bathed and soaked her and were about to treat her with some Preparation H (to attempt to shrink the swelling tissue), dear Winnie departed on them.

I mourn with them. She & her husband are beating themselves up for missing an earlier detection, but I tried to reassure her that these things happen to all of us.  I know how sad it is to lose a hen, a beloved pet.  I offered a new hen in her place, but they declined, saying they’d like to have some time to grieve.  I understand.

The incubator has 4 days to go before 42 eggs reveal new loves.  I’ve been candling and monitoring humidity and temperature for 17 days.  I’ve got Faverolles, White Crested Black Polish and Wing and a Prayer Mix chicks on the way.  Most are pre-sold, but not all.

There’s always room for more chickens.

The Girls

Fresh Eggs


We wash the eggs the day we pack them for sale.

Last night I was busy painting our bathroom. I’d hoped for a night off in the kitchen but it didn’t quite work out the way I’d envisioned.  Dinner was exquisite anyway.  I cooked two delicious and very fresh eggs.  They were perfect.

We’re just spoiled rotten around here.

Taking the daily eggs out to the road side.

Taking the daily eggs out to the road side.

Fresh Eggs sign boasts a Barred Rock on one side, a Rhode Island Red on the other.

Fresh Eggs sign boasts a Barred Rock on one side, a Rhode Island Red on the other.

I stand at the side of the road all day long and yell "Fresh Eggs!" (Only yoking, folks!)

I stand at the side of the road all day long and yell “Fresh Eggs!” (Only yolking, folks!)

Jackie will lick you if you steal 'em!

Jackie will lick you if you steal ‘em!

This is how we sell eggs in the country.

This is how we sell eggs in the country.

Hard working hens having a nibble of grain on a winter's day.  They are free to forage as well, though winter foraging is a bit slimmer than the rest of the year.

Hard working hens having a nibble of grain on a winter’s day. They are free to forage as well, though winter foraging is a bit slimmer than the rest of the year.

Sassy Wing and a Prayer Farm Sultan-mix hen is very comfortable with me and Cricket

Sassy Wing and a Prayer Farm Sultan-mix hen is very comfortable with me and Cricket

Hmmm, wonder how these would stack up in a taste test?

Hmmm, wonder how these would stack up in a taste test?

Not Chicken…


I took this photo yesterday morning of a little Sultan that I’ve had for 4 years.  She pops out of the coop every day to scratch around, bustle with the biddies, play her part in the flock.  She always looks great, even if her outfit is akin to a luxurious bathrobe and slippers.  We’ve had below & hovering around zero weather lately, but Sal doesn’t turn tail and run like some of the other girls. Nope, she’s out there.  Taking it all in.

Sal, the Sultan Hen

Sal, the Sultan Hen

Next we have Schill, the glamorous Maine Coon Cat.  Schill is short for “Schilling”, as in Curt Schilling, who helped our favorite Red Sox win the 2004 World Series.  We call him the “Big Schill” and he has so much presence in our home, amongst our other cats and dogs.  Here he is, surveying the front yard from his rooftop perch yesterday afternoon.  Bold move, Schill.  Way to be the Big Guy!

the Big Schill

the Big Schill

And here are Char & myself & friends, this past Saturday.  The air temperature was about 9 degrees above zero at plunge time with a brisk and steady wind.  This was Char’s 4th plunge and my 3rd, and our team consisted of my Youth Group and friends raised a little more than $2,000 for Vermont Special Olympics.

Everyone asks, “Why?  How?  What was it like?”

It’s for a great cause.  We’re crazy fun people, also. As you can see, we have ridiculous costumes which were supposed to be some sort of scholarly owl-look.  We didn’t win any prizes.

When it’s actually time to plunge, you don’t want to spend much time analyzing.  It’s all a blur and you just go for it. You can’t see it, but the water we’re jumping into is surrounded by thick ice that had to be chainsawed to carve out an opening.  And yeah, its super cold.  But we did it.

And we’ll do it again next year.

Because we’re not chicken.  No, I know what we are.  And now that I realize it, I’m really grateful.

We’re brave.

Team Healing Waters ready for the Plumage Parade

Team Healing Waters ready for the Plumage Parade

Char hit the water first, though I thought this year it might be me!

Char hit the water first, though I thought this year it might be me!

Teammate Kati in the middle, Ahmad(from Palestine!) on the left, me on the right(reddish hair flying)

Teammate Kati in the middle, Ahmad(from Palestine!) on the left, me on the right(reddish hair flying)

The team splash

The team splash

Mother/Daughter Pre-Plunge

Mother/Daughter Pre-Plunge

Mother/Daughter Post Plunge

Mother/Daughter Post Plunge

By the looks of it, I'm having a great time!

By the looks of it, I’m having a great time!

Grapes and Grain


Life is really fast for me.  I have thoughts of retelling the many stories that unfold during the course of each day, but like many, don’t often get a chance to jot them down.  Once I wondered if it is just that I think of my life as so enchanted that every moment is story-worthy.  Really, most of what happens in the course of my days is not news.  But it is all important to me, and that is why I share and it is why I enjoy other’s sharings as well.

I start the day running C to school which is nearly half an hour one way.  I often stop on the way home to take photos of the sunlight filling the valley as I descend.  It’s a gorgeous round-trip ride and I do this twice a day.  I’ll miss my kiddo when she’s off to school next year, so I savor our time together.

sunrise over Bennington

I reflect on lovely rural Vermont, where you can fill your pots with dead-ripe, intoxicating-ly sweet Concord Grapes for Brussel sprouts, homemade dill pickles, free-ranged eggs and garden grown leeks.  A place that you can pass along a pie for a bucket of homemade chicken grain.  Barter music lessons for roasting chickens.  Load your hayloft in exchange for a Thanksgiving turkey.  Trade  thrives if you’re tenacious enough to inquire, and it is not only smart, but satisfying to avoid the cash economy whenever possible.

Three days ago, in the pouring rain, I filled a bucket with 20 pounds of my friend L.’s luscious grapes in less than 30 minutes.  Fifty pints of grape jelly later, we’ll sell our jars at a local CSA as well as filling our own pantry.  Labeling those jars commences this afternoon.

Bountiful Concords

Jars of Concord Grape Jelly & Apple Cranberry Jam, a sampling of our contribution to a local CSA

Later this morning, I struck out at my local grain store for an order of organic turkey grower pellets which I’d ordered.

Lucky for me, just a mile away I popped in on a neighbor farmer that produces biodiesel on his property, along with his own grown grain mixes for chickens and turkeys. Instead of me going home empty-handed from the local feed store, he set out a bucket full of freshly made poultry grower to pick up on my rounds and expected nothing in return, just a report as to how the poultry enjoy it.  You may enjoy reading more about John Williamson and State Line Biofuels here or here.

inside the State Line Farm Biofuels’ Biodiesel Barn facility

more tanks

State Line’s own mix of poultry grain, made from their own organic crops

I arrived home to find I’d missed a friend’s stop-by.  Lovely E. had played with the dogs, looked around the barn, and finding me gone left me a bag full of spring bulbs to plant this sunny October afternoon.

Last but not least, while at the local market picking up more jam jars and a case of pears for a Pear Ginger Jam recipe, I finished my morning outing with the following text from daughter SJ:

SJ:  I learned why Winky has horns!
Me:  Cool! Can’t wait to hear!!!!
SJ:  Who was her mom?
Me:Her mom was nikki or Pansy or Lily? I’ll ck when I get home
SJ: Ok. If you breed Winky’s mom with another horned ram, either all or half of her female offspring will be horned, because she’s heterozygous for the horned gene.
Me: Ok, will check who it was at home. Then we will know who is heterozygous in our flock! Cool!  BTW, Interesting Grammar discussion on NPR right now

And the day is only half done.

Hens and kits


It was a very busy morning relocating 20 of our layer hens to True Love Farm which is about a mile from us.  While there, I received 4 unwanted roosters  and enjoyed visiting the pullets we had hatched earlier this year.  I also witnessed the first eggs being collected from the young gals.  Sort of a “full circle” a.m. for me.

new home for 20 of our year old layers

thriving and beautiful pullets which Wing and a Prayer had hatched out earlier in the year

Karen is starting to collect a few new eggs now!

Niska & Wasabi, our barn kitties, also had an outing this morning.  Wasabi had been missing for almost a week and yesterday I was planning her funeral out, in my head, and thinking of making the call to the vets to cancel her appointment when she showed up in the aisleway of the barn, mewing “hello.”  She & Niska are not fond of the cat carrier nor the truck. Collecting them for the ride was a more dangerous endeavor for me than catching 20 chickens.  I had to stalk them in the barn loft, scaling the hay bales and balancing on the beams in pursuit.  I’m covered with cat scratches now, but they’re up to date with vaccinations and that’s what is important, right?

Wasabi surveys the outside of the veterinary hospital from the front seat

Niska, wondering which way is “out.”

Flying the Coop


We’re puppy sitting for our neighbors and this lovable bundle of bounce is just too much for our farm animals.  The sheep have been stamping their little hooves whenever the miniature terror comes near their pasture.  Bean-the-bunny hops quickly back into her hutch to avoid the wet nose investigations.  The chickabiddies, who are currently confined to protect them from the Daily Fox, crowd to the middle of their yard when a certain silly wagger runs over to say ‘hello.’  The housecats have scattered, but by now, with trepidation, our three dogs have accepted this new charge.  At least the goats and horses seem unphased.

Figaro, our white peacock, typically hangs around our house, calling and displaying rather constantly as his duties these days are all about courtship.  Jewel, his gal, typically moves in larger circles and seemingly ignores him.  Sometimes we find them involved in a “can’t catch me” game where he pursues and she runs away, and it includes some very interesting guttural sounds from her as well.  At night, the two of them roost far, far above in the giant oak tree in the backyard and Fig keeps watch, emitting those very loud and stereotypical peafowl hollers from his branch intermittently in attempts to cast spells to protect his lady friend.

Fig, in full display

Figaro spends a lot of time on the back porch

On Day 2 of puppy-sitting, Fig flew the coop.  We noticed he was missing somewhere around midday.  We searched the fields and surrounds on our road for tell-tale signs of struggle or a trail and couldn’t find anything.  I bemoaned and belittled myself for bad-mothering.  Jewel had come up to me at some point and just hung out for the longest time so that I knew she was worried too.  We walked over to the coopyard together and I tucked her in with the hens for the night.  She and I accepted that Fig was not nearby and she should not sleep alone in the trees that night.

Jewel spent the night without Fig in the enclosed chicken yard

Next morning, bright and early, I was up and catching our loose pony.  I rescued a duckling that had been stuck in his crate all night.  I tended the flocks and was just shutting the door on the chicken coop when a white truck came sweeping into the front yard. (Cue Knight in Shining Armor!)  I fairly flew and ran to say good morning to someone whom I was sure had news of my peacock.

Indeed, this neighbor from several streets away introduced himself and told me the tale of Fig’s arrival in his backyard the day before.  Apparently he came upon his wife who was sunning by their backyard pool and “Honked!” her to attention!  Their afternoon was spent enjoying his company, observing his interesting behaviors when their cat decided to play with him, and searching for his owners.  Somehow or other, we have a reputation in this area for owning white peacocks and they learned that he belonged to us.  They looked our name up in the phone book to try to hone in on where we lived and took it from there.  These kind neighbors had been trying to phone me, but to no avail.

Confession:  I am a HORRIBLE phone person.  I’d never even checked the phone to see if there were messages and obviously hadn’t picked it up during the day when they tried reaching us.  Often I am outside and don’t hear the phone, sometimes I am inside and don’t get to it in time.

All I’d had to do was check my phone for messages and I would’ve saved myself a loss of sleep and frazzled nerves!

Jody and I loaded the truck with a large net, a bucket of scraps & scoop of grain, and crated lady-friend Jewel.  We drove for less than 10 minutes and arrived at Fig’s respite-house.

Jewel, crated for the ride to lure and capture Figaro back

Imagine my relief when we pulled up and there he was, posed on their rooftop.

Figaro-on-the-Roof: safe atop the neighbors’ garage!

The question of the hour was “How are you going to get him down?”  We hoped that Jewel’s presence would lure him to the ground and then we’d be able to shut him into the crate “tunnel of love.”  He was wary and seemed not in a hurry.  So I announced, “I’m going to call him.”  Jody just shook his head and luckily the neighbors had removed themselves to the background to give us a little room.

When I call my peacocks, it’s a rather humbling experience if there is an audience.  I don’t profess to be an expert at animal calls, but if I’m going to do it at all, it means giving it my full effort.  So when you try to sound like a peacock, you do not necessarily stay “composed.”

I held my hands up to either side of my face, tented my fingers and pressed against my sinuses just so, and then called “HmmHAWWW!” as loudly and resonantly as I could.

Guess who knows his mama?!

Imagine the wind spinning the weathervane on top of the roof and you’ve got the picture of Fig after he heard me call.  He quickly trotted down the roof, flew to the ground and trotted right over to me, Jewel and the large crate set up in his honor.

Jody just stood there and said “I don’t believe it!”

After that we gave Fig some time to figure out what he was supposed to do to become captured. When we decided he’d had enough time for that and didn’t really want to spend the day waiting, we used the net.  Jody just swooped it down on top of his head and neck, he didn’t budge, and we carried him into the crate.  Two peacocks loaded into the back of the truck later, we brought the pair back to Wing and a Prayer Farm.

Waiting for Fig to “take the bait!”

Succesful capture – loading peafowl up for their ride home!

Home again, home again!

Fig and Jewel are now chillin’ with the chickens until the puppy goes home tonight.  Better safe than sorry.  Not too many feathers were ruffled though I have happily promised feather souvenirs to the 10-year-old-twins that helped their parents keep watch over my guy.

Safe in the chicken compound.

Preening some ruffled feathers after a morning ride.

Good neighbors, just so you know, they’re still out there!  And today I’m making some sort of pie as a token of gratitude.  The suggestions for appropriate “Peacock Rescue Pies” have been “PEAch” or “PEcan”, of course!

Don’t Count Your Chicks


10-week old “Farmyard Mix” Chickabiddies

Tomorrow is moving day.  True Love Farm, just down the road, will be the new home for our 10- and 14-week old chicks to help fill CSA shares with fresh eggs this upcoming year.

It has been an interesting journey, thus far, for this flock.  The 14-week olds had a horrible, tragic experience when they were less than one day old.  We had tucked them safely into their brooder box after hatching and found them all drenched and drowned or nearly drowned the next morning.  Unbeknownst to us, the waterer that we had put in with them had a leak and had filled the plastic box gradually, and by morning it was a swimming pool.  It still seems miraculous that about 30, of 40, were able to be resuscitated and survived.

We had to incubate more to try to make up for the loss.  When this next group hatched out, they experienced an unidentified malady in their barn stall at about 6 weeks old.  We weren’t sure why 5 seemingly healthy chicks were becoming weak and dying and we quickly added electrolytes to the water, hoping to strengthen the remaining flock to fight off whatever had befallen them.

However, more heartbreak in the upcoming weeks was a result of “picking” between the two groups of chicks as we gradually integrated them.  The older birds were scarily mad with bullying the younger group and it seemed we could not segregate and rescue them quickly enough. We lost 4 chicks in what felt like 1992 Los Angeles in the barn. We created a “hospital stall” which allowed 5 patients that did survive to heal, coating their badly bloodied bodies with ointment after peroxide baths.  After about a week, feathers started to grow again and energy returned to the poor little babes.

Seemingly overnight, the bullies found other hobbies and the quarreling stopped.  The flocks were finally integrated and thriving, free-ranging the pastures, woods and surrounds of the barn.

Since the order was for layer hens, 10 roosters went into the freezer last Friday.

It was time for a final assessment.  One little chick has “bumble foot” which is a genetic-defect that occurs now and then.  She can go with the others if the farm wants her, but if they do not, then she will have a home here.

The order is for 50 pullets.  We attempted to tally. The flock has a tendency to move around and come out of or go into hiding just when you’ve almost finished counting heads but we thought there were 30ish hens.

And then 2 more crowed.

“I’m bigger than you!”

The Rooster Crows


A lot of cackling and crowing near 5ish.  I typically love it.  This morning my head is migraine-y and so I’m not as happy about not being able to fall back to sleep.

I walk downstairs with a spill of dogs underfoot.  I feel like I’m caught in a sluice-way when I wake up and imagine that someday when I’m less nimble, I’ll end up in a heap with several pairs of soulful eyes imploring me to arise and get them some breakfast.  I automatically open the front door and we pour out onto the porch where we collect metal dishes, back inside to be greeted by baa-ing and then to the bin to scoop food into 3 bowls.  Meanwhile, 3 cats alight onto the counter, inviting me to throw a little kibble their way.  Back out onto the porch we go, doing the breakfast dance and I slip back into the house for a minor triumph of “6 down, so many more to go.”  I then warm up some goat’s milk in a pan and funnel it into a bottle for Aisling, the bottle lamb.  She delicately skitters about, occasionally bleating, until I lean to serve her a warm and yummy morning brew.

I try to put the kettle on for my own cuppa in and around this.  By the time I’ve made a bottle, the water is boiling and I let my morning tea steep.

I’ve got this down in 10 minutes or less.  The rest of the chores take me an hour or more, depending on the to-do list, and then I’m ready to start the day.

Happy Saturday, folks!

Ginny & Aisling discussing their morning plans

Dead Duck


“Kack! Kack! Kack!’ chirrups little 1-year-old Phoebe,when I tell she and her mum the story whilst they visited the farm this morning:

"Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted" - Matthew 5:4

Darn that fox, but he killed the rest of my Blue Runner Ducks.  Granted, they were not behaving very intelligently in the last several weeks while they set up two clutches of eggs. But I’ve known ducks in the past to be all about the business of their nest and not necessarily pay attention to the details.

And so, silly ducks, they’d moved their nest(a feat unto itself) not once, but twice.  Relocating it from the protection of the coop into the doorway of the coop.  Once that happened, it was difficult to shut the door on them at night, for safekeeping.  And then somehow they were motivated to move the nests(now TWO nests) into the garden, which exposed them entirely to the predators of the night.

Nest #1

Nest #2

It was a sad affair to happen upon when I was doing the morning rounds a couple of days ago.  I buried the last of their threesome, wasteful foxy leaving one behind, and then salvaged the eggs from the nests.  They’d been abandoned for several hours at that point, but I thought it was worth a try to bring them inside and set them up in the incubator.  Perhaps I can finish the job for their dearly departed mums & dad.

Did you need some help out with your groceries, Mr. Fox?

Hatch, eggs, hatch!  Give us vengeance on Mr. Fox!

Oh, I know that Mr. Fox & the Missus have some kits to feed somewhere around these parts, but I’d rather they leave my fowl alone and find something that is a little more sporting than nesting garden ducks.

Unfortunately, the incubator is reeking and it’s a real guess as to whether we’re just keeping old eggs super-warm or whether there is development going on inside those waxy, dingy shells.  My “candler” that Jim made for me is not working and none of the flashlights have batteries, so unless we are driven out by the stench, we shall wait and see.

Eggs-periment
(sorry, shameless!)

We could just go around with a nosegay, as the dandelions are in full bloom, to refresh our senses…

Nosegays, so as not to swoon

“Don’t try this at home!”


Peeping and scuttling noises are the background music this morning as I type the tale of the latest ‘rescue chick.’  Since late Thursday evening, the hatching has begun here and by this morning’s count there are 30 out of 42 chicks in various stages of dry & fluffy in the brooder box next to me.  I think that by Tuesday we will know the final count and then the incubator will be cleaned up for the next batch of eggs, the chicks all established in a properly outfitted brooder to keep them warm and comfortable for the next several weeks.

Every now and then we have a ‘chick with a story’ here at the farm.  When a chick has pipped and attempts to hatch out, all of the books advise you not to interfere.  Chances are that if there is low to no progress, there are reasons for it that mean she may be weak or malformed and therefore it will be nature’s way for success or not.  However, my kids and I have actually played God and by involving ourselves in helping the struggling, we’ve been blessed with “Marshmallow”, “Sticky” and now “Gummy.”  From what we can tell, after the pipping begins, air enters the egg and if a chick is unable to finish the hatching in a reasonable amount of time, the shell dries onto the chick which intensifies the struggle.  That means a chick will be stuck to the inside of its shell and resists removal.

So here is a photo demonstration of the method we’ve devised of interference.  A little chick-c-section, if you will:

at the sink, I remove the shell that is loose, revealing the weak and stuck chick

A wet paintbrush helps us to put a bit of water on the dried and stuck membrane encasing her.

With nail trimmers, I carefully break the shell a fraction at a time to loosen, but careful not to tear her skin or feathers.

She's able to push free when we start lifting the softened membrane and shell off.

Cleaning the final membrane off of her feathers.

Free, free, free at last!

On her towel bed, she rests and dries out in the brooder.

Christened "Gummy" by a visiting 4-year-old, she is quite ready to join the rest of the flock!