And then there were none…

Bakaaaaawwwwwk!  Bakwaaaaaaak!  came the cry in the wee hours of the morning.  The sun was providing a hint of the day to come as I arose to the alarming cry from our last leghorn hen.  I knew it was not a good sound and quickly dressed.

“Something is after the chicken,” I said to Tammi, who was waking to my activity.

“Oh no! Not the last one!” she said.

I grabbed a flashlight and headed out the door.   I didn’t bother with the .22.  I figured the murdering varmint was long gone.  Sure enough, by the coop, there was a pile of white feathers, like someone had dumped out a pillow.  There was a trail leading to it from the pasture fence, and then a trail heading back toward the barn.  I followed the trail to the barn and looked around, shining the light in the stalls.  There was no sign of the chicken or the critter that took her away.

Thus ended the “25 Chicken Experiment” begun late last winter, before we moved.  One had died in a coop accident (see earlier entry). Eighteen were sold at a profit.  This left six that we allowed to free range since the spring.  Unfortunately, we lost about one a month, on average.

Plans for two additional chicken experiments are already underway — laying hens and meat chickens.  We will keep them separate on opposite sides of the coop.  I doubt we will try free range again — perhaps sticking with a fenced in paddock.  We will keep you posted!

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The End of Summer…

It has been awhile since our last post.  Much has happened!  First and foremost, the Lady Leghorns have been laying…

It all started one afternoon with a tiny pullet egg — about the size of a quarter.  Brandon found it and was very excited.  We decided to cook the egg and share in our bounty.  Everyone received about half a forkful of fried egg — “Best egg ever!” Brandon cried.

Since then, the production rate really picked up.  Through the weeks, we increased from one to two to three eggs a day.  We have now been consistently receiving five or six little gifts from our Ladies every day.  We’ve learned that six chickens are probably too many for our needs — at least during their peak production.  We have now been giving a few dozen eggs away here and there.

A huge distraction these last few months has been the facelift we’ve been giving the old place.  We have completely replaced the roof of the house with a metal roof resembling shake shingles.  This replaces asphalt shingles on the back of the house and ancient slate on the front.  The side and porch roofs were metal.  When this was peeled off, there were mid-19th century cedar shingles underneath.  It was a tragedy to have to remove them, but most were rotten and unusable.  The shake metal roof closely resembles the look of the cedar, after aging.

All of the brick has been repointed and a new concrete steps were poured in front.  The porch and stairs will be covered with slate-like stamped concrete in the next few weeks.  We can’t wait!

Our Homestead – nearing completion

On a sad note, our two elderly nubian goats, Twinx and Nellie (ages 16 and 14) were put down a few weeks ago.  Their arthritis had become very painful and their health was failing.  Neither was eating well and both were beginning to look emaciated.  It was a sad day, and the farm has felt empty since.  They had lived here a long time…

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Keine Hoffnung vor den Hinkler (No hope for the chickenman)

“Mommy!  Mommy! One of the chickens is dead!  The metal thing fell on it, Mommy!” came Brandon’s cry from the back porch as Tammi was putting the dishes away.  It had been a peaceful Tuesday morning up to that point.

Sure enough, upon inspection, the small ten-unit nesting box had come loose and fallen over.  Unfortunately, one of the lady leghorns was not quick enough to escape the sudden force from the metal contraption. It’s legs stuck out of the bottom like the similarly unfortunate Wicked Witch of the East in The Wizard of Oz.  Tammi lifted up the nesting box and put it in place. Brandon stooped down in front of the bird.

“It’s not moving, Mommy. It’s definitely dead,” proclaimed my stepson like a junior coroner at a murder scene.

“I know honey,” said Tammi. “It’s a shame.”

“Are you goin’ to tell Baron?” he asked.

“Let’s bury her first,” said Tammi.

The two solemnly carried the chicken down to the compost pile, dug a hole, and laid lady leghorn #25 to rest.  It probably looked like a scene out of the Sopranos, except that it was daytime rather than two in the morning. The call came to me at work a few minutes later.

“We lost a chicken this morning,” said my bride, solemnly.

“What?” said I, “Did something get in the coop?”  I was imaging a weasel wreaking havoc on our little ladies.

“No — it was crushed by the nesting box that tumbled over…,” she explained.

I was immediately struck by a complete sense of responsibility.  I had killed that chicken through my own ineptitude as a rookie farmer.  I had committed unintentional third-degree chicken-slaughter and was feeling every bit guilty.

“Damn!” said I, “Damn — it’s all my fault!”

Unfortunately, this little episode spooked our ladies again — that made three incidents in the last two weeks — the evil space robot chicken feeder, the township fireworks, and now the death of one of their own right before their eyes.  After catching the birds and returning them to the coop, we decided it was time to downsize.

“I am afraid we just have too many,” I said to my bride, convinced we needed to reduce our flock.

“Really?” said my lady in a tone only a wife can make when reminding her husband she had made a similar suggestion some time ago.

“Yep — put ’em on Craig’s List — $6 each or 2 for $10,” I ordered.

And so it was done — within a couple days 18 of the 24 remaining birds were sent packing for a cool return of $90 cash.  We decided to keep six — enough to provide for us and a little extra.

Tammi set about creating a fenced-in run outside the coop with a small paddock for the birds to “free-range.”  We also downsized the coop, pulling out the two nesting units and replacing them with a three-box wooden one from the barn.  We removed all of the old hay and replaced it.  We then caught the six birds in the barn and placed them in their transformed home.

“How many eggs have we gotten out of this?” I asked my bride as I was raking the chicken poop.

“Uh….none,” she said.

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Old Goats, a Baby Lamb and Spooked Chickens

Last week, while driving home from York with one of the now fixed feral cats, the feline couldn’t hold its bladder, leaving a small puddle of pungent liquid on the back bench of the F150 — despite it being adequately covered. The next morning, the odor was unbearable, forcing me to abandon the vehicle to the wife in a fit of rage. “You’re responsible!” said I, as if poor Tammi had been the one leaking in the back. I went to work angry, worried about how it was going to be cleaned.

Late in the morning, I became so worried it was going to be cleaned improperly, I called Tammi to no avail. So, I headed home to see what was up. I also needed to vacuum my car a bit to make it presentable to some coworkers who were to be lunch partners. As I arrived in the driveway, there was no F150 — no Tammi — and no Brandon (who was now off school for the summer). Perplexed, I set about cleaning my car when the large animal vet pulled into the driveway for his scheduled visit. Tammi had forgotten to cancel the meeting meant to review the health of our goats and sheep — especially the pregnant ewe.

I showed the doc around myself, apologizing for Tammi’s absence.  Fortunately, the doc was able to see Twinx and Nellie, the old goats. He was not able to see the sheep, who were out in the field. After a few minutes of examining teeth, hooves and front legs, the doc declared the pair as “very old” – especially Twinx. Apparently she had worn her teeth down to nothing. Both were diagnosed with arthritis and possibly encephalitis. Both were given less than a year to live. “I will prescribe some pain medication to keep them comfortable,” he said. I had no idea they were both in such horrible shape. “They both have lived well past their normal life expectancy” he continued. I was relieved to hear the prior owner had taken great care of them. I knew we needed to tell him of their pending demise.

I returned to work, not having seen Tammi or Brandon. The vet left not seeing the sheep – especially the pregnant ewe.

About an hour later, I received a call at work from Tammi.  She reported Brandon had been out in the field looking for the sheep and stumbled upon a newborn lamb with its mother!  All appeared well.  Tammi jumped to action to find some way to separate the mother and baby into a holding area to be sure they bonded. It turned out this was unnecessary – the bond was obviously strong and the mother was providing more than enough nourishment, though we did worry a bit on the second day.

We discussed the fact that dinner may just have been born. Given my mood about the cat odor and the missed vet appointment, I was still not happy. But, when I returned home that evening and saw Tammi pick up the newborn lamb, I knew another bond had just occurred. There was no way we could butcher the poor thing (I am talking about the lamb, not the wife). It was just too damned cute and my wife had found something else to care about. I realized, some day Tammi will be a wonderful grandmother. Her mothering instincts are amazing!

So, the talk around the farm and at the office was all about the baby lamb. Brandon had declared it was a boy and that he would name it. I suggested we wait until the sex is confirmed. In the meantime, if it is a young ram, my stepson has declared it to be Ram Bam — an appropriate monicker if he should be anything like his father.

That Saturday my parents dropped in to visit from Alabama. They looked about the farm and were enamored with the baby lamb. After some small talk and a tour, we headed out to an antique mall to look for some items and pass some time. One of the items I found for less than 20 dollars was an old metal chicken feeder painted with a Taneytown (Maryland) Feed Mill advertisement. It was a legitimate old antique with a lot of eye appeal. “What better to feed our chickens than an antique feeder!” I declared, confidently carrying it to the check out. “I am actually going to use this,” I said the the clerk with a smile.

When we got back to the farm, Dad, Tammi and I filled it and hung it in the coup. We then continued our visit. After Mom and Dad left, Tammi and I settled in for a movie — The Descendants.  We highly recommend the film, but about halfway through, there was a huge boom outside — almost like the Battle of Gettysburg was being relived in our front yard.  Poor Gertie, who had been laying asleep on the wood plank floor, jumped awake, startled and confused.

“What was that?” asked Tammi.

“Township fireworks!” I replied. We headed to the porch and watched a spectacular display of pyrotechnics lasting a good 20 minutes. “Impressive for Monroe Township!” I declared.

“Sure beats Harrisburg!” said Tammi. Both of us reflected on that comment — realizing it meant a lot more than just the fireworks.

After it was over, I quickly went to close the chicken coop and returned to the house for the remainder of the movie.

In the morning, I went out to retrieve the Sunday paper and open the coop. I was surprised to find all but three of the chickens out in the yard. “What the…?” I thought. I realized I had not checked them before I closed the door. I went inside to tell Tammi.

“The chickens were out all night!” I said. “They were probably spooked by the fireworks.”

Later that day, Tammi noticed none of the chickens were going in the coop — not even to feed.

“It wasn’t the fireworks, Baron,” she said to me. “It’s that damn antique feeder!”

“What?” said I in disbelief. “Get the f*ck out!”

We went to the coop and switched the familiar plastic feeder back in for the antique.

“Money well spent!” said the wife, sarcastically as I hid the blasted thing in the corner.

“I guess this metal contraption scared the hell out of them!” I said. “To them it probably looked like a robot from outer space!”

While the chickens did return to eat, they did not return to sleep. So, we were forced to catch them in the barn, where they were roosting and returned them to the coop. The next day, the same thing happened — chickens did not return. So, we caught them again and cooped them up — this time for three days. We’ll know the results soon…

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Advice of a Country Gentleman…

Tammi and I were shopping for antiques recently at Bedford Street Antiques in Carlisle.  If you’ve never been there, we highly recommend it === a nice little surprise on a back street in town. The place is full of interesting items at great prices. We happened upon four old painted benches priced very reasonably. We bought them — two went into our master bedroom to line the back wall. The others were stacked in the bathroom to provide some interesting shelving for towels and such. Besides a few other collectibles and knick knacks, I picked up an original copy of the Country Gentleman magazine dated May 16, 1914 – exactly 98 years old!  Tammi pointed to it and I was instantly drawn to the painting of a mother leghorn on the cover tending to her dozen or so peeps.

The other day, I picked up the old magazine and flipped through it, admiring the ancient advertisements — for the Columbia Grafonola record player or Cleveland Grindstones – or Panama hats for $1 – just write to Geo. T. Bungay, 28 So. William St. New York. (I am sure he’ll be happy to part with his hats for a buck each!)  On page 15 was an article entitled “Shall I Begin Farming at Forty-Five?” Obviously, I could not have picked up a better issue!  Here was a “clerk” who lived in the city, contemplating moving to the country to take up farming at age 45. Two writers at the magazine responded to his query.

Here were the gentleman’s concerns:

He has been a clerk in the city and ‘worked indoors his entire life. ‘ He thought working outdoors would be healthier for him and provide a better setting to raise his boys, without the many ‘temptations’ of the city. He asks if the experts felt he could make a decent living to support his family. Interestingly, he never mentions his wife’s feelings about the matter!

Responder #1 – You Can!

Referring to the clerk as a ‘back-to-the-lander’, he encouraged him to do so, suggesting he study up on the scientific methods of farming now prevalent. ‘It is also a fact, however, that a surprising proportion of the pronounced successes in American agriculture are town-reared men…” (I am beginning to be encouraged, here!)  “They have not had the disadvantages of being full of the notions of father and grandfather.”

“…the city man who really studies his job and applies initiative and common business sense is in the position of real advantage…”  (Yeah!)

The writer then went on to ask the man what his wife was thinking – most city women don’t fancy being a farmer’s wife…. (no problem here — it was her idea!)

“…twenty years of close observation and a rather wide knowledge of the United States causes me unhesitatingly to say that the farm is today the place where a man of brains has the least competition…”  (Ha!  I suspected as much – figured that out at the livestock auction!  We’re on a roll!)

The author even goes on to suggest buying his farm in Central Pennsylvania — done!   He encourages him to start now with a garden and to raise chickens!

“…you almost MUST raise chickens…start with twenty-five hens…”  (WTF? That’s what we did!)

Responder #2 – I Did!

“…I say emphatically that the man of forty-five, with $3000 to $5000 in money, with a brain that will work, with a well-made plan and a firm purpose, certainly ought to succeed on the land. Even if he meets with no more than a part of the success he hopes for, in dollar profits, he will be able to realize something infinitely better — a share, right here on earth, in the peace that passeth understanding.”

Clearly, there is no better peace than looking out over one’s parcel just as the sun is coming up – and seeing the chickens beginning their day, enthusiastically pecking in the grass, and the goats and sheep heading up the hill to the high grass, and the barn swallows flitting about, and our puppie Gertie taking a squat — oops — sorry to ruin that scene for ya…

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Two Little Ladies with Nothing to Do

It has been hard to schedule time with my daughters:  Taylor 13 and Abbey (recently) 10.  Since I left their mother, this was my fourth move in four years!  Hopefully this will be the last for a long while. My work schedule makes it difficult to keep a routine, and as they get older, they are busier and less interested in their father and more interested in their friends.

So, when I picked them up this day, I had no idea what to do.  The weather was not cooperating — it was dripping a bit.  I certainly didn’t want to take them shopping or to the arcade.  I had just taken Abbey on a birthday shopping trip a few days prior and did not want to spend any money.

“What do you want to do?” I asked my lovely little ladies as they rode along in the F150.

“I don’t know,” said Taylor.

“Nothing,” said Abbey, staring out the window.

“Ok then,” I said, fully expecting this to develop into a disaster. “Let’s just go to the farm.”

Upon arriving, I told them we would first put the chickens away.  The girls had only been to the farm a couple of times and had not seen the chickens outside — or the sheep. I grabbed the two shepherds crooks and we set about to coax the chickens into the coop.  The little leghorns had been out most of the day and were a bit scattered in the yard.  The girls enjoyed finding them in the brush and undergrowth and herding them to the doorway. Abbey counted them twice and declared that all 25 were safely in the coop.  Our chore was done.

Fully expecting the kids would want to head inside to watch TV or play video games until their mother arrived, I began heading for the house.

“Wait,” said Taylor, “can I feed the goats?”

“Sure,” I said, somewhat surprised. “Do you know where the treats are?”

Taylor nodded affirmatively and headed to the corral in front of the barn where the goats were hanging out.

“Daddy, show me the sheep!” said Abbey, pulling me along.

The two of us headed up the hill to look at the flock in the upper pasture.  Abbey was even brave enough to head into the grass for a closer look.  (It should be noted the ram is not as aggressive as some breeds — he actually runs from humans.)

What transpired was a good hour of talking about the animals, observing them and spending time out in the fresh air.

“We need to name all of the animals!” declared Abbey as we went inside.

The three of us filled the rest of the time coming up with names for the 6 barn cats, 5 sheep and 25 chickens.

Not once did I hear the words ‘I’m bored’…

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Little Leghorns and Vipers

There was enough old wood lying around the barn to build a small house.  We had also found a good amount of chicken wire in various places — all of the materials to finish off our chicken coop. Our little leghorn ladies had been living in the 8×8 enclosed room in the sty.  Now, the plan was to finish off the open section of the building, making it into a very comfortable 8×16 chicken coop for 25 egg laying machines!

Early Saturday morning, I began measuring and cutting the wood using the old Stanley circular saw I had purchased from the same man who sold me a used snowblower a few weeks back. Any time you get a chance to buy used tools on the cheap, it is usually worthwhile.  The old Stanley circular saw ran like a charm and I managed to keep all of my appendages.  The key was the two used folding saw horses that were in the yellow wagon with the cupholder — at the auction last week.  I hadn’t realized what they were – it was almost like they appeared before my eyes when I opened them up to discover their purpose!

After the coop was framed out sufficiently, I moved the nesting boxes inside. I then nailed up additional supporting boards at various points, anticipating the need to staple the chicken wire into something.  When I was ready for the wire, Tammi joined me and did the stapling. Within an hour, we had a completely enclosed chicken coop with 25 galvanized nesting boxes. We temporarily boarded up the side exit – previously used by the pigs who inhabited the place in years past to go outside.  We planned to open this up in a week when the hens were ready to experience the outside.

Finally, around 11 am, we were ready to transfer the birds from the holding pen into the coop.  Tammi spread hay on the floor and transferred the feeder and water bottle.  I came up with a chute, using a couple of boards to channel the birds into the coop. Tammi went into the pen, and I made sure none of the birds flew out of the chute.  Luckily, all but one waddled into their new residence.  One bird had to be different and went the wrong way, getting tangled in some extra wire and boards.  Tammi came over and gently picked her up and finished the job.

I suppose if I drank beer, this would have been a Budweiser moment — having transformed a bunch of old wood and wire into a chicken hotel extraordinaire.

It was about this time Brandon, Tammi’s 9-year-old son, finally awoke and stormed outside yelling  for his mother.  “Mommy!” he shrieked in his high-pitched adolescent whine, “I’m hungry — make me breakfast!”

“You need to teach that kid to cook!” I said, walking with her to the porch.

Brandon was disappointed he had missed the chance to help build the coop. He was looking for any way to make ten bucks so he could buy some more Legos.  I offered him the chance to do so by transferring one of the small wood piles to the barn using the yellow wagon.  We were anticipating the arrival of our wood stove, and wanted to start moving some more wood into a dry location.  Brandon enthusiastically accepted and began the job.

The lad really struggled to pull the wagon up the hill — and then had difficulty controlling it as he went back down with the cart full of wood.  As he was stacking his second load, I was inside resting on the sofa, still enjoying the pleasant thoughts of my morning accomplishments.

“Mommy!  There’s a snake!” yelled my stepson from the woodpile. I jumped up from the sofa, and pulled on my boots. I then grabbed my walking stick and the fireplace shovel and headed out expecting to see my stepson wrapped in the coil of a massive anaconda or dancing left and right in front of a darting king cobra.  Instead, I found a copper and yellow patterned viper laying on a log — the boy just a few feet away.

“Step back,” I said.

“What are you going to do Baron?” said Brandon calling me by my nickname. “Are you going to kill it?”

“Yes,” I said, holding the snake down with the walking stick held in my left hand. The shovel soon followed, coming from the right, like a scene out of the French Revolution — the edge of the tool acting as a guillotine. Our 24 to 36 inch copper head has now in two parts. I tossed them into the pasture using the walking stick.

“Why did you kill it?” asked Brandon, somewhat upset.

“It was a poisonous snake,” said Tammi. He had to.

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The Wickard Brothers Annual Consignment Sale

Not enough credit has been given to our good friend Gary (and wife Kim) who have imparted much knowledge about the rural life to us newbie farmers.  In fact, it was Gary who suggested I attend the Carlisle Farm Equipment Auction also known as the Wickard Brothers Annual Consignment Sale held every spring at  1690 Waggoners Gap Road in Carlisle.

“You’ll be sure to get some nesting boxes,” said Gary, suggesting it would be a necessary investment for our 25 lady leghorns.

I showed up early and got a number.  I had been to many auctions in my life, but mostly indoors, and mostly for coins or antiques or estates.  This affair was sprawled out over several acres in a farmer’s field.  There was everything you could imagine from chain saws to tools to wheelbarrows and rakes to horse trailers and combines and tractors….and exactly two sets of galvanized nesting boxes — one a unit of 10 and the other 15 — exactly 25 nesting boxes in all.  Of course, according to Storey’s, I would not need quite this many, but I thought I would err on the side of caution.

While waiting to bid on the 15-unit of nesting boxes, I bid on a push mower and a small wagon containing a chainsaw and several empty plastic gasoline containers.  After winning that lot for $85, an older gentleman with some chew in his jaw inquired about my purchase.

“What’d you pay for that there wagon?” he asked.

“$85,” I proudly replied.  The contents had been acquired for an additional $15.

“Well, well,” he said proudly, “I paid $65 for mine — the blue one — just a while ago.”

“Yes,” I said, pointing to an appendage hanging from my yellow wagon full of junk, “but mine has a cupholder!”

“Indeed it does!” he said, nearly choking on his chew, “You definitely got me there!'”

The previous owner of my little yellow wagon had affixed a cupholder using plastic ties.  Somehow I could imagine him setting his can of Bud in the cupholder while filling his chainsaw with fuel…

Onto the nesting boxes!

The 15-unit sold first.  It was like-new.  A crowd of people were gathered around it.  I decided to take the “shut out” strategy – starting with a high bid no one else would top.  So, there I was, college boy in my Penn State sweatshirt and athletic shoes amid an anxious crowd of farmers in their overalls and flannels and boots with their John Deere and NASCAR hats.

“Got a nice set of nesting boxes heah,” began the auctioneer, “like new!  Do I have 100?  How about 100 to start!”

I immediately jumped in, much to the dismay of everyone present.  No one was willing to top $100 for a unit of nesting boxes that sells for over $250 plus delivery on the Internet.

The 10-unit was not so easy!  Thinking it was just a few items away, I was dismayed to find the auctioneer changing direction and going all the way back to the other end of the row, rather than just snaking through the field.  It would be three hours until he finally came back around.  In the meantime, I enjoyed a sausage sandwich and some pie — and even spent a little time in the truck.

By the time the auctioneer was approaching the nesting boxes, I realized they would be the last item sold that day — and it had started to rain.  I drove onto the field and loaded my items.  Wisely, I pulled up near the last nesting boxes and waited for the auctioneer to approach in the downpour.  As he was about to begin the item, I stepped out of the truck and into the rain. There were only a handful of people around me.  The auctioneer looked surprised to see me in his face again.

“Alright — last item of the day — a nice unit of nesting boxes,” he called out, “Do I have 100 to start? 100 dollars?”

No one bid.  I had decided to let this one drop. It went to 20 and then up to 70.  I jumped in at that point and got it for $85.  Thus, 25 nesting boxes — galvanized — were had for $185.

In the downpour, one of the farmers helped me lift it up onto the back of the truck.

“Now you need some chickens,” he cackled revealing some missing teeth, John Deere cap cocked back at an angle like some inner-city rapper in a Chicago Bulls hat.

“Oh don’t you worry about that,” I said, “We’ve got a coop full of chicks at home just waiting for these things…”

I drove home with a truck full of stuff purchased at bargain prices.  I was feeling pretty good!

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Cooped Up

“The chicks are growing so fast, we can’t keep them in the pool!” Tammi reported on the phone while I was in Greenville, SC on business.  “I had to put up chicken wire in the hearth.”

I immediately had visions of chicken wire stapled to our ancient fireplace — filled with chirping birds and newspapers full of droppings.

“Uh — ok,” I said.

“Oh, don’t worry,” replied Tammi, sensing my anguish.  “They are still in the pool — but I added a cover for them.”

“I guess it’s time to move them,” I said.

Upon my return that week, the wife, Gertie and I drove in the F-150 to Tractor Supply.  I thoroughly enjoyed riding with my wife and my dog in my pickup truck, driving down 174, through Boiling Springs, and then up Bonnybrook Road to the store, just south of Carlisle.  The whole experience felt like a country song in the making —

Drivin’ my F150

Wife at my side

Dawgie in the back

Goin’ for a ride

Down to the Tractor

Suuuuppply!

Oh Lawdy, it’s enough ta make yew cry!

I immediately turned up some metal on 105.7 the X — banishing the rural country demon to the nether reaches of my brain.  Where did that come from?

“OK,” I began, “We’re going to need some heat lamps.”

“Are you sure it will be enough?” worried Tammi, concerned about the night temperatures in the 30’s.

We had planned to move the chickens into the enclosed room in the pig sty.  It had been somewhat insulated and provided a nice 8 x 8 pen for the chicks.  We walked into Tractor Supply — what has to be the greatest little store on the planet for neophyte farmers like ourselves — and immediately found an endcap full of heat lamps!

“Looks like we’re not the only ones needing these things,” I said, comforted that I was not the only one lacking a source of heat for my little birds.

We grabbed two lights and four bulbs – just in case – and headed home.  We spread hay on the floor of the pen and mounted the lights.   We then set the feeder and water bottle in the middle and transferred the rapidly increasing peeps.  They went right to the heat lamps and fell asleep.

“Do you think they’ll make it through the night?” asked Tammi, almost wanting to stay with them.

“Oh yeah – sure – don’t you worry about them. They’ll be fine.”  I reassured her like a doctor talking to a terminal cancer patient.  It was another one of those moments when I acted real confident, even though I hadn’t a clue what was going to happen.  I fell asleep with visions of little white birds frozen in place staring out at me through unmoving black eyes – like the end of The Shining when Jack Torrance (Nicholson) gets lost in the maze during a blizzard – or like that scene in Guyana when Reverend Jim Jones forced all of those people to drink the Kool Aid – little white birds laid out like a quilt of cotton — neatly arranged in rows — just as they fell asleep…

“They’ll be fine…” I whispered to Tammi as she nodded off.

I didn’t sleep much that night.

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25 Chicks in the House!

A little card arrived in the mail the other day from the Hoffman Hatchery.  It was meant to warn us of the pending arrival of 25 little yellow fluffy chicks – our new family members – the Ladies Leghorn — Egg Making Machines!  Unfortunately, the card was damaged in the mail, and the portion with the date on it was illegible.

“Does that say the 15th?” asked Tammi, concerned about it being so soon.

“Nah — can’t be — must be the 25th,” I replied confidently, as I often do — even when I haven’t a clue.  (I find this tactic works better in allaying the fears of the fairer sex – and I usually luck out.)

“What if they come before settlement?  Either way, that appears to be the case,”  continued my lovely lady, not taking the bait.  (If I’ve learned anything in two years – I should know better – she’s sharp!  She used to audit projects for Deloitte!)

“Well, they are coming to Camp Hill, you know,”  I said. “They’ll come to the post office — doubt they’ll know what to do!  When do you suppose the Camp Hill post office last handled a box of live chicks?”

“Let’s hope they’re alive!” worried the wife.

Sure enough, on the morning of the 15th, a nervous clerk from the post office called —- “We have your ch-ch-chicks!”

Of course, all of this fell on Tammi while I was away at work.  Boldly and confidently she walked into the post office and claimed her babies.  The clerks were astonished — who the heck is chicken farming in Camp Hill? — they thought.  Tammi carried the box out to the Sorento and promptly called me.

“The chicks arrived!”  she announced “Now, what do I do?”

I suggested we put them in the kiddie pool in the finished basement — we had a nice spot in the workshop / furnace room.  I also reassured her I was headed to Tractor Supply (more on this store later) to acquire a feeder, chick starter and water bottle.  By early evening, we were watching our peeping little yellow chicks skittering across the newspaper in a plastic kiddie pool in the basement of our suburban house — the very house we were trying to sell or rent!

“What if the agent calls and wants to show the place?” asked the wife in a very concerned voice.  I had to ponder that one for awhile…

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