might be mites..

Always be suspicious of a chicken with a pink bottom... or vent, a term Is and Ri have grown to love. Upon noticing Chloe's pink bottom yesterday morning, after checking the chickens' food and water, I picked up Chloe and flipped her, bottom up, to see what's going on. Now, I'm not going to go into great detail, because I do think, fairly certainly, that I will always remember what I saw under Chloe's feathers.

Let's just say that I now know how to identify mites and lice on chickens. Gag. Greg and I both know how to strip a coop, spray it, and treat it. Thanks to backyardchickens.com and youtube.com I know how to powder a chicken, by hanging it upside down by the feet and dust it with garden dust for bugs, working it into the feathers - being sure to get the dust around the vent, in the armpits, and by the comb but not the eyes... Greg knows how to make an indoor dust bath box so that the ladies can still get their dust bathes, because if they don't it can contribute to the acquirement of many, many mites/lice... Who knew?

So, after what seems like six months of rain, it's no wonder the girls have bugs. We've all been cooped up so much we probably all have bugs.

And further more...who knew chickens had armpits?

rain.

So, at first we loved the rain. The line-up of storms was just what California needed. We felt thankful that God was watering the fields and flowers and all that baloney. Now? Now, we have humongous pond-like puddles of water standing everywhere. Our wonderful soil is totally saturated. That or the ground is full from the hard pan on up - holding it all like a big bowl. And it's not just the rain... we've had monsoon-like winds that have been blowing for days. Days and days. The kind of wind that wakes you up all through the night, and you have to go out and check to see if the roof of the barn has blown off and the goats are swirling around the pasture.

Seriously, there have been days of rain. The animals have been standing in their stalls staring out at the weather just like we have thinking, "Great. More rain."

But this evening, after a quick thunderstorm passed, the sun came out - sort of - but we'll take it. I quickly put Tessa out in the pasture and had the pleasure of cleaning stalls without being poured on. Tessa walked around in the puddles while the goats just stood in the way - still in the stall - and watched me. Violet, or rat dog as she is affectionately known, waited anxiously outside of the gate for me to be done. I could barely pull the cart full of poop and shavings over to the compost mountain we have going - the water was so deep. But as it turns out, not as deep as the garden soil...

Violet had trotted down the fence away from me as I was wrestling to dump my cart. When I had finally righted the thing and turned to leave I called Vi and she darted towards me right into the tilled, soaked, deep garden dirt. She got about four strides out into the soil when she stopped and actually appeared to be stuck. She had sank up to her belly and couldn't pull her legs up high enough to get them free. Rat dog stuck in the mud. And the first thought that crossed my mind, being the compassionate dog owner that I am, was that I was not about to trudge through that dirt to pull her out. So, instead I laughed and watched her struggle and stagger around. She would wobble one direction then the other, looking at me with pleading eyes. Not a chance... She finally made it across to freedom where upon she ripped around in a few puddles ridding herself of the major chunkage stuck to her undercarriage and legs. The rest would later be washed off in the kitchen sink.

Good rat dog.

But please, no more rain...

girls gone wild!

As usual with most January mornings, we woke up to a gray dreary morning. It wasn't until Isabel and I went to clean the chicken coop that the day brightened a little, thanks to six hens - the occupants of the coop, or as we call it, the Chicken Palace. Being new to the chicken biz, from what we've read, the ladies' laying should have really dropped off at this point in the year. That's why it was such a bright spot on this gloomy morning to find three warm fresh eggs. Three gifts from who knows which ladies. For us.

I have never had an animal that actually gave something back to the cause. Well, something tangible and useful - aside from poop and love. So, it always amazes me that chances are when you go into the coop each day you will find a small perfect gift. And I always feel quiet gratitude. And I do feel like I need to keep it quiet - I just know that one of the other animals will say, "pst, pst! Yo chickens, no need to give them anything. Crazy thing is they'll take care of you anyway." It would probably be the goats that would blow it for us. Not real givers...

Anyway, as a reward for the pick-me-up, Isabel and I let the ladies out of the coop for the first time. They walked straight out the door like they were late for a lunch date, purses, hats, ready to go. They lingered for a while in the wet green weeds before Henrietta took the first steps into the garden dirt. Heaven. Girls gone wild. Those chickens pecked and scratched and flapped and scampered. They marched around in the wet dirt like they were all that - very important chickens. After about 45 minutes, when they seemed to have tuckered out, Is and I rattled their feeder inside the coop and they all walked right back in. Well, two had to be redirected to their front door. A perfect thank-you outing.

all the possibilities...

When I got home last night I noticed Greg had tilled up the garden. Fresh, moist dark brown soil. This isn't just any garden either. It's huge - well, huge by my terms. I will measure the area, because now I'm curious to how big it actually is. This is my favorite time of year for gardening, which seems strange, because I don't have a thing in the ground. It's the "possible" garden that I love! As we sat and ate dinner last night, Greg and I talked about what to plant this year. And the possibilities are endless.

Now, I have to say right now, Greg is a fruit tree man. Fruit trees are his thing. Quite soon he will drive from nursery to nursery looking for his precious bare-root fruit trees. He was going on last night about cross pollination and more trees. His tree possibilities are endless. More peach, pluot, lime, mandarin, lemon, and pear.

I, on the other hand, am a garden girl. I like the soil, the seeds, the starts. I like the possibilities for the ground. So, here's what we came up with last night. Less squash. I am the only one who will eat it in our house, and everyone in the world grows squash, so when you've had it up to your ears with it - there's no one to give it to, because everyone else is up to their ears with their own squash abundance issues. More pumpkins! I want a pumpkin patch! I want to grow enough pumpkins that Is and Ri, and nieces and nephews can come out and pick their pumpkins from our little farm. I will plant red ones and white ones, the tiny Jack-Be-Nimble ones that are so small and sweet. I will plant carving pumpkins, and the giant ones from heirloom seeds. I will plant cooking pumpkins for James, the brother-in-law chef. But only if he promises to whip up something amazing and pumpkiny for me to eat. Pumpkin risotto? Is there such a thing?

We all voted for more strawberries. I voted for more herbs, flowers and tomatoes. I'm not going for the strange heirlooms that are so darn hard to grow. I am going for our favorites. Greg voted for blueberries and thornless blackberries. Black berries are are whole other subject. Let's just say that by the end of the summer we all look like we live with a killer kitten that has repeatedly attacked all of our arms - but really it's from picking wild blackberries down our lane. The best wild blackberries I've ever tasted.

So, as of 8:23 AM on a foggy January morning, as I sit here and drink coffee, our garden possibilities are endless. Just the way I like it.

not the bang I was hoping for...

Well, 2010 has been a bust so far. Since New Year's Eve, we have had two emergency vet ranch visits for Tessa, the pony, one vet appointment for Henry, the new barn cat, and one trip to the pediatrician for Bee, who has a raging sinus infection. It's January fourth. It's only January fourth. If I'm going to be glass-half-full kind of gal in 2010, then I should say that we are just getting all this junk out of the way for smooth sailing throughout the rest of the winter and into spring. That's if I was a glass-half-full kind of gal. Today, I'm right on the verge being a glass-really- almost-empty kind of person.

But, OK, I'll try to find the bright spot...Tessa has gastro meds for tonight. Bee has kiddy motrin and amox. So, all should be well for the next 12 hours. Sleep tight - electric blanket here I come.

But wait, Bee just walked up to me... and I do believe she has pink eye. Glass completely empty.

a year begins...

As I am standing out in the fog holding the lead rope of my daughter's pony, watching her munch wet grass, I am thinking about the year ahead of us. I am also thinking about the year just passed - so many details that can't be recalled. So many laughs, conversations, outings, and episodes that I swore I would remember forever this time - have flown the coop - straight out of my head - lost, in fact, forever.

As we sat in the small Chinese food restaurant last night, I watched my kids laugh and talk with each other and it struck me how quickly this is all going, - this year, this childhood, this life. I kept trying to call up memories made in 2009 as we sat surrounded by other tired farm families at our tiny table waiting for pot stickers and pink chicken (sweet and sour chicken's given name by RT, my son, when he was just a sprout.) I tried closing my eyes. I tried looking out the steamy windows. I tried watching RT and Bee... nothing. Buried. Totally covered up by emails, voice mails, messages, worries, doubts, appointments, meetings, and other useless crap. Right then and there I decided to remember the year 2010. Remember the tiny, significant stuff. The belly laughs, the porch talks, the late night star-gazing. From the taste of warm summer blackberries picked on our lane to the sound of the ladies clucking and scratching in the chicken palace. All of it. And I will write it down here. For my kids to read. For my husband to read. And for me to remember. A year accounted for.

I just hope I remember I've started this...