Compost Win!

When your neighbor sets out a gold mine of leaves for trash pick up that runs today, you hop in your trusty ol' truck only to find that you left the ignition switch in accessory mode for the last 36 hours. Dang. Never fear, the Mazda 3 was up to the task. In three short round trips most of the leaf bags were moved to our house. Glorious leaf compost is in our future!

Banner Egg Day

Our twelve ladies have proven to be prolific egg layers throughout winter. Without stimulation of artificial light, many chickens stop laying eggs during the short daylight hours of the winter. Our chickens typically provided a collective three to five eggs each day. This being our first winter with chickens, we were delighted.


Yesterday was a banner egg day! I collected eleven eggs from our fine feathered friends - the most eggs collected in one day. Each morning I greet our chickens and wish them a good day as they flutter out of the coop and begin their foray around our yard and the neighbor's farm. Each evening I thank them for the eggs that they provide us - rich, nutrient-dense, intense orange yolked, tough shelled eggs in a variety of shapes, sizes, and colors.

This morning I wished the chickens well and made eye contact with each hen wondering which one held out yesterday.

Lurking Predator

Chickens are serious about their sleep and hilariously checked out after nightfall. A big part of having chickens is making sure they are protected, thus why we have an electric net fence and a mobile coop. The chickens are amazingly efficient at loading up in their cozy coop as the sunlight starts to wane. Thus far, we've been successful at keeping all 20 of our chickens alive. With only five months under our belt, winter not too far away, and the adventure of living in a rural setting, we have to be willing to observe, learn, and change up our routines as needed. 

Returning from our walk this morning, my miniature schnauzer picked up the pace and her nose went into overdrive as we approached our front porch. Chipmunks are abundant here, so I started scanning for a glimpse of Alvin, Dale or Theodore. To my surprise and confusion, a much bigger animal emerged with a flurry from under our porch. My first thought was our neighbor's cat, but then quickly realized my error.  

Ranger Rick has decided to make sleepy observations from the crotch of our beloved maple tree today. Unfortunately for our fly-out-of the-net-fence, free ranging chickens, the debris and perennials around the base of this tree make it a favorite spot for scratching and finding chicken snacks. According to Wikipedia, "Contrary to popular belief, raccoons eat active or large prey, such as birds and mammal, only occasionally, since they prefer prey that is easier to catch, specifically fish, amphibians, and bird eggs." I'm going to put my faith in that statement, trust in the wild, survivor quality of our chickens, hope the roosters look up, see how things play out today, and order that pressure washer I've been intending to buy for a while. 

Chickens

In mid-June we loaded up in Red (our pickup truck) and headed over to my husband's former boss' house. Upon learning that we planned to get chickens, he insisted that he would happily give us some. With some ambiguity in his wording, he mentioned two hens and some chicks...maybe nine. Two hours later we returned home with two hens and eighteen one-week old chicks. They were ADORABLE!

Chick love

Cheeps and the nine designated as hers to mother

Salsa and her brood

Without much time to prepare and unwilling to spend thousands of dollars on a fancy coop, we rigged up a makeshift area that has managed to keep them all alive to date.

Cutting the chicken wire in preparation for our tiny chicks

We have 164 linear feet of 4' tall solar powered electric net fence enclosing a portion of our backyard and a contraption of cattle panels, chicken wire used more in the early days when the chicks were tiny, a tarp, and some big sticks for roosting jammed through the cattle panels.

As the winter and cool spring days found us rocking in our respective rockers in front of our soapstone stove, summer and chickens have us plopped on the back porch, beer in hand, watching chicken TV. It's educational, entertaining, and nutritious! Mothering done, Cheeps and Salsa starting laying eggs about three weeks ago. With a little hunting, we've found all of the eggs that they insist on laying outside of the safety of the net fence and in the cool shade of a kiwi vine, locust tree, or out of commission burn barrel.

The chickens are a mix of colors, shapes, and sizes. When I asked the previous owner what kind of chickens they were, his reply was simply, "Chickens." Our neighbor said, "Those are the kind of chickens that'll fly up in a tree to roost." In a nutshell they're survivors of a mix of breeds over thirty some years. They're a bit skittish around people but we're working on that. Every day I hand feed them some food. Two of the chicks have let me pet them and pick them up. These are proud mama moments.

I'll keep working on taming the chicks. Until then, we'll be entertained by the silliness of chickens. It takes them fifteen to twenty minutes each night to find their spot on top of the tarp or on one of the roosts below the tarp. "Finding" means pecking, nudging, crawling under, hopping on top of, sliding off of, and complying until they settle. I highly recommend Chicken TV over traditional TV.

Settling in for the night on top of the tarp (their choice of place to spend the night)

Oak

Growing up with oak floors, they were simply the floor that went down the hallway and into our three bedrooms; cool under my feet and slippery in socks. Majestic Virginia Hall at Mary Washington College had wood floors in the dorm rooms. My roommates and I quickly learned not to scooch our bottoms on the floor unless we were willing to pluck out splinters thrust from the well-worn floor. 

The following five years were spent on carpeted floors of varying descriptions. Only one carpet remains firmly in memory - a sculpted 70's wall-to-wall carpet remain whose color name I decisively discovered when I misplaced a roll away brussel sprout. 

My Portland, Oregon and Charlottesville, Virginia apartments returned me to the comfort of oak floors. 

Puppies and a baby found their footing on berber wall-to-wall carpet in Roanoke County, Virginia. Two years old, my son struggled with asthma and wood floors became a priority in the search for our next home. 

We moved to our Roanoke City, Virginia house with oak floors in May 2010. There's a dark spot in a bedroom from the previous owner's cat. There are holes drilled in room corners for cable television we never used. There's a couple of dents in my bedroom floor from when my son scarily pulled over my jewelry chest. There's a bit of tackiness where the 24" x 48" rug and rug pad lay in my office serving as a collection point for my family to snuggle and watch movies on my computer screen across the room. There's a dent in the dining room floor where my husband and I remembered the IKEA cabinet comes apart in two pieces. 

Today I did my final vacuum of these floors and closed the door on a chapter of my life. It was a chapter filled with moments that challenged me to stand strong, bend in the wind, adapt to the seasons, and soak up the moments of swinging in the shade of a mighty tree. Today I settle into my life in Eggleston, Virginia with a mix of 90-year old wood floors and 9-month old wood floors. Our lives will blemish these floors and we'll reflect on those stories as well. 

Rooted

In the first couple of years of my son's life, once he went to bed the mom part of me was mentally done for the day. Our bedrooms in my former house were a hallway width apart. My tuned-in ears of a mother were always on, but I rarely went back into his room to steal one more kiss or to watch him sleep. It didn't occur to me to do that until reading a friend's Facebook status.

Our bedrooms are adjacent to one another now. Every night before I go to bed, I return to my son's bedside, readjust dream swept covers, lean in next to him, kiss his upward turned cheek, and soak up his sleepy peaceful warmth. Seldom does his pattern of breathing change and seldom does he move. His subconscious mind knows that his love-struck mother is snuggling in for one more kiss goodnight. He is rooted in my love, my guidance, and my support.

There are nights when I wake up, mind whirring of tasks undone, tasks ahead of me, and much needed sleep evaded. Cups of chamomile and lavender tea, homeopathic sleep aids, stretching, and disengagement from electronics before bed have helped me regain more restful nights. On the mornings after I sleep well, I wake renewed, rooted in where I am, and smiling knowing that I am doing my best to give my son roots for whatever his life journey may hold.

Reused

Everyone should know the three Rs by now: reduce, reuse, recycle. My guess is that most people don't think about the fact that they're listed in order of importance.

In our materialistic society, reduction should be first and foremost. Do you really need one more newly made shirt that was most likely made by underpaid workers, shipped across the Pacific Ocean, and then trekked all through a retail stores' warehousing system? Could you survive wearing one of the twenty shirts you already have hanging in your closet? Reduce.

If you must have another shirt, could you possibly find a new-to-you shirt at Goodwill or the fabulous little neighborhood consignment store? Maybe you and some of your friends could organize a sip and swap where everyone gathers to sip beverages and swap clothes that no longer fit or just don't appeal to the current owner. Reuse.

If your current shirts are in tethers, you can still donate them to many clothing donation sites. As they sort through the clothes, they'll take the unacceptable clothes, package them together, and ship them to a facility that recycles fibers to be made into new products. Recycle.

Sometimes new-to-you items are necessary. For example, you can't exactly squeeze a 18-month old toddler into the 6-month old infant romper it was wearing just a short year ago. Unless you are in direct line of a friend that has all the clothes you would ever need for your child in the fashion style you prefer, shopping for children's clothing is inevitable. I hate to shop. I do everything I can to minimize shopping. I rarely go to the mall. In recent years, I try to avoid chain stores. Thus said, every spring and fall after my son was born, I've been doing my part to reuse. I bring the clothes, shoes, toys, and anything else I can sell to the consignment sale. As a consignor, I bring my battered old laundry basket (reserved for such occasions now) and shop the night before the sale opens to the public. In 2-1/2 hours time (an hour is spent waiting in line to pay), I get almost everything my child will need to wear for the next season at a steal of deal.

Consignment loot

I spent $97 on 7 pairs of shorts, 10 shirts, 1 pair of shoes, and 3 pairs of pants. I could have easily picked out 3 or 4 items that would have quickly added up to the $97 at retail prices. I save LOTS of money, time, and fuel by not having to drive all over town shopping for this and that. The pricing of my items beforehand takes a bit of time, but it forces me to methodically get rid of outgrown items each season and make room for the next growth spurt. Reuse. It keeps me sane.