For the Birds

 

Random Rambles and Rants in Late Summer

The maple tree says it's time. The past few days have been our hottest of the summer so it's pleasant to think that fall is on its way.

The chicks that Josie and I purchased back in the spring are all grown up and have been moved in with our laying flock's old girls. Some discussion of pecking order has ensued but John says he expects that the Speckled Sussex (above) will emerge as top dogs chickens. 

These pretty girls are Buff Orpingtons --known around here as Buff Orphans, as a friend's neighbor once called them.

Did I mention that it's hot? And our county is hot too, full of anti-vax, anti-mask people. It's depressing.  And scary. We are being very cautious and limiting exposure--and wearing masks in the grocery store--where too many are not. I've again postpone some routine healthcare appointments and reluctantly decided against getting my hair cut by a professional. I know she's vaccinated and wears a mask--I don't know if that's true for her other clients. So I take a mirror and some scissors out on the deck and have at it.

A year and a half of this. The isolation and bad haircuts aren't a problem. Worrying about my family contracting the Delta strain is the problem. And I'm getting pretty hard-hearted--finding it impossible to muster up even an iota of sympathy for those folks who gasp through their ventilators as they are dying that they should have gotten the vaccine, should have worn masks. . . 

We can have herd immunity or we can have thinning of the herd--Live Free and Die.  

 

Chicken Parenting

Gregory Peck

 

 

 

 

 

 

Out Early in the Garden

On these hot days, it's good to get outside by seven or earlier to get the watering done before the sun burns off the morning mist.

It's a good time to pick tomatoes and cucumbers and beans -- and that early light is good for taking pictures.

The bees are at work too.

The tomatoes are afflicted by blight -- I've been removing the affected leaves which is whay the plants look so minimalist.

I'm somewhat schizophrenic in the garden -- pulling weeds, picking tomatoes . . . and then light illumines the graceful curve of a blade of corn and I have to go get my camera.

Sunflowers for the house -- I'm tempted to pick some crepe myrtle but I know how bad it sheds...I'll enjoy it on the tree.

A load of weeds and worm-infested broccoli for the biddies.

And the sunlight transforms a simple Rose of Sharon.

A Sunday Story

It was the Henderson's turn to host the preacher for Sunday dinner after church and Mama, somewhat reluctantly, had sacrificed several of the young chickens she'd been planning to trade for sugar, coffee and calico at the nearby Mercantile. Every last one of the young uns needed new shoes too, what with winter coming on. 

But the pride of the family rested on how well the preacher was fed at their house so Mama fried up four young cockerels in the big black frying pan atop the Modern Maid cook stove.  Snowy biscuits, green beans simmered with sidemeat, creamed corn, smothered potatoes, turnip greens with vinegar and chopped onions, home-churned butter, an assortment of jams and jellies and pickles crowded the table, along with pitchers of sweet milk and buttermilk.  Mama looked at her work and saw that it was good.

The family waited, heads bowed and hands folded while the preacher asked a blessing. No sooner was the 'Amen' out of the preacher's mouth than he reached for the platter of fried chicken and scooped up two large pieces of white meat.  

"That ol' preacher can sure hide him some fried chicken!" Little Clete whispered to his brother as the platter made a circuit of the table and the preacher  reached for more. He talked and he munched and he reached for more till a pile of chicken bones grew on the table beside his plate. 

As the meal continued and the platter of chicken was reduced to a wing, a back, and a gizzard, Papa whispered to Mama and she rose, with a look of thunder on her face, and made her way to the kitchen.

If the preacher heard the back door slam or the clucking of chickens scurrying for cover, he gave no sign but just reached for that last wing.

If he heard the thunk of the axe on the stump or the sizzle and crackle of more chicken parts hitting the frying pan, it didn't stop him from accepting the back and gizzard when the platter came round again.

And when Mama returned, her mouth set in a tight line and her eyes steely, the preacher didn't notice her lowering expression but smiled happily  and helped himself to another piece of white meat as the second platter of hot fried chicken was set before him.

But even preachers finally get their fill and as Mama was clearing the table, the preacher leaned back with a deep sigh of satisfaction.

Just outside, the rooster began to crow long and loud. The preacher smiled indulgently.  "Just listen to that feller, won't you? Don't he sound proud?"


"Humph!" snorted Mama as she collected the pile of chicken bones from beside the preacher's plate and piled them on the second empty platter. "You'd crow too if you had six sons in the ministry."

Only the first photo is mine. The others are from the Internet.

 

Do Butterflies Have Knees?

Monday was a perfect day to get out in the garden as rain was forecast for Tuesday. I had a few more potatoes to plant as well as some broccoli and kale and parsley starts to put into my box beds. 

This row of beds above has benefited from the helpful biddies in the chicken tractor which was carefully constructed by John to fit the beds. The girls eat the weeds and weed seeds and bugs and leave behind a bit of high powered fertilizer.

The swallowtail butterflies were knee-deep in the thrift. (Do butterflies have knees? Allegedly, bees do.)

Such beauties --  they seemed almost drunk on all that nectar!

You know I took more pictures...

Early Spring Mosaic . . . with Chickens

The handsome fella in the middle is our Buff Orpington rooster. I always name our roosters Gregory Peck but this guy was raised by Justin and Claui who named him Reginald Dukakis.

It doesn't matter; he won't answer to either. 

 

We have to keep our biddies in a pen, due to predators -- hawks, foxes, coons, and, alas, our own dogs. The birds seem pretty content -- they've got room to move around, a house to shelter in, dirt to scratch in, and we make a points of bringing them green stuff.

Reginald/Gregory is starting his little rooster dance -- preparatory to jumping on the hen's back and mating -- ah, chicken foreplay.

We have Buff Orpingtons and Gold-Laced Wyandottes, who lay pinkish-brown eggs and Ameruacanas, who are responsible for the pretty bluish eggs. 

They are laying well now, after slacking off during the dark days of winter -- fourteen hens and most days we get ten eggs.

Good thing Easter's almost here! There'll be plenty of eggs for the Easter egg hunt!