Thankful

Its been a sort of funny year, 2010. Lots of stark raving good and some pretty serious lousy too. Our family tradition is to make "Thankfulness pictures" to share before dinner, but this year they seemed too... much. We needed a new tradition, one that would sum it all up without the obligation to gush. (Gushing, by the way, is fully appropriate at Thanksgiving. I can do it. I love doing it. But for extended family, gushing just didn't cut it this year)

And so, the Thankfulness Pinata was born. We stuffed it with anonymous notes of thanks. And then bashed it with a baseball bat.
The kids thought this was a lot more fun than obligatory art. And the grown-ups too. And when the bag finally cracked open, all our THANKS spilled out onto the damp fall dirt and the kids rushed them as if they were candy.

All fun aside, here are some things I am truly thankful for:

My husband, the calm in my storm and the true heart of this crazy lifelong enterprise.
The kids, each so much who he/she is it makes me cry sometimes
The extended family and friends that bless our days
Work. Hard, meaningful, often joyous work.
My other work, writing. I am thankful I've been able to carve out the space for my inner space.
The everyday comfort of our hilltown home
Dogs, sheep, chickens etc etc
The luck and hardships that led me here to all of this

Happy (slightly belated) Thanksgiving!

Eggless

Maggie's Farm takes this free-ranging thing seriously. Our 30-some chickens hang out under the porch and on the porch, in the barn and pasture, under the apple trees and, if the kids leave the van door open, IN the vehicles (yes, it's happened. Really). They are happy birds, lucky to be engaging in full-time poultry politics. (Chickens are born politicians. Anyone who's spent any time around the coop can imagine them in little powersuits nodding and "yes-ing", and jockeying for position.)

But they've quit laying eggs.

There was a period of diminishing returns-- 3 or 4 eggs a day in September and now, zero, zilch, bubkus. (I have no idea how to spell bubkus) They have a light in their coop to stave off the afternoon darkness. They have food and fresh air and water. They have lovely nest boxes full of comfy shavings.

But.... Nothing.

Now, many of our hens are elderly. "Fancy Feather" and "Chicklee", "Sandy" and "Rangey" are over 7 years old now. But there are also many younger hens who have no good excuse.

I wonder if the non-egg laying is a silent protest. Our male-to-female poultry ratio is terribly skewed at present. We have about 8 young and cocky roosters, survivors of this summer's fox attacks. As roos are wont to do, they sneak around waiting to catch the biddies away from the flock. Jaguar, our dominant rooster has his hands (wings) full fighting them off.

Now, I'm all for converting these young roos into chicken soup. But my better half has a bit less enthusiasm for this project. He started it a few weeks ago when I was out of town, managed one rooster before he lost his resolve and called it a day....Yes, he's a softy :)

And so, while we lurch through endless "what to do with the roosters" debates, the hens continue their protest

And we go eggless.

This is the Farm... a poem

This is the farm, cozy and still, all hunkered down at the top of the hill.

This is the dog who looks after the farm. She crouches and tends and keeps it from harm.

This is the yard the chickens destroy as they scratch and they bask and flutter with joy,

watched by the dog who looks after the farm. She crouches and tends and keeps it from harm

This is the coop where seven roosters crow. They scuffle and tussle, step on each other's toes,

beside the yard the chickens destroy as they scratch and they bask and flutter with joy

watched by the dog who looks after the farm. She crouches and tends and keeps it from harm

These are the sheep that graze in the sun. Growing fine wool is about all they've done,

under the coop where seven roosters crow. They scuffle and tussle, step on each other's toes,

beside the yard the chickens destroy when they scratch and they bask and flutter with joy, watched by the dog who looks after the farm. She crouches and tends and keeps it from harm

These are the fences all broken and crashed, when trees topple over, the best ones are dashed freeing the sheep that graze in the sun, growing fine wool is about all they've done,

under the coop where seven roosters crow. They scuffle and tussle, step on each other's toes, beside the yard the chickens destroy when they scratch and they bask and flutter with joy, watched by the dog who looks after the farm. She crouches and tend and keeps it from harm

And this is the barn where stray poultry roost, strutting and preening and leaving their poo, beside the fences all broken and crashed, when trees topple over, the best ones are dashed freeing the sheep that graze in the sun, growing fine wool is about all they've done,

under the coop where seven roosters crow. They scuffle and tussle and step on each other's toes, beside the yard the chickens destroy when they scratch and they bask and flutter with joy, watched by the dog who looks after the farm. She crouches and tends and keeps it from harm

These are the apples before the first snow, all spotted and ripe and ready to go

stored in the barn where stray poultry roost, strutting and preening and leaving their poo. beside the fences all broken and crashed, when trees topple over, the best ones are dashed freeing the sheep that graze in the sun, growing fine wool is about all they've done

Under the coop where seven roosters crow. They scuffle and tussle and step on each other's toes, beside the yard the chickens destroy when they scratch and they bask and flutter with joy, watched by the dog who looks after the farm. She crouches and tends and keeps it from harm

These are the shepherds all weary and maxed, doing their chores as the new moon waxed

heading out to the barn where stray poultry roost, strutting and preening and leaving their poo. beside the fences all broken and crashed, when trees topple over, the best ones are dashed freeing the sheep that graze in the sun, growing fine wool is about all they've done

Under the coop where seven roosters crow. They scuffle and tussle and step on each other's toes, beside the yard the chickens destroy when they scratch and they bask and flutter with joy, watched by the dog who looks after the farm. She crouches and tends and keeps it from harm