Country Life – Page 6 – Angel Wheeler

What You Love

The sound of heavy bootsteps and the jingle of spurs woke me from dreams filled with high heels and travel plans.

My husband was up, dressed, and stirring around the house, waiting on the “guys” to get here. It was time for me to rise anyway. I threw the shoes I was trying on in my dream back into the closet, pushed the cobwebs from my mind and rubbed the sleep from my eyes.

My husband’s day of branding cows was soon to begin, and he was waiting on his friends/co-workers/fellow cowhands to arrive with their horses, pick-ups and trailers, so they could put the horses in one trailer, put the cowboys in one truck and head off as the sun was barely kissing the morning sky.

It wasn’t much longer until the roar of diesel pick-ups and the rattle of trailers stocked with horses begin to break the silence of the morning.

Cowboys have never had much appeal to me. I’ve never been a cowboy’s girl. In high school I always thought they were just a bunch of skinny boys with big belt buckles dressing up everyday. Now nearly 20 years later, I find myself married to one. Strange.

The cowboys greet each other, unload horses from trailers, and lead them to my husband’s trailer to load. They’ve got 3 different places to work cattle today.

These are good men. Actually, the best kind. A dying breed. Old-fashioned, hard-working, tough guys. They love what they do, but it doesn’t always pay enough to do it. These are men who take vacation days from their “real” jobs with health insurance in order to saddle a horse and swing a rope. They may even call in sick just to get a workday off. Sometimes they work the night shift at their other job, take an early morning nap, and then saddle their horse for the day. They have a passion for this lifestyle. It’s not about the money, that’s for sure.

As I sit at the kitchen table, my coffee cup steaming, there’s only one word that describes me. Proud. I’m filled with a sense of pride. Not because I’m doing anything. Heck, I’m drinking coffee. But because these fellows work hard, love their work, and do it for practically nothing. They walk tall, perhaps even strut; dark silhouettes wearing cowboy hats starting their day.

I watched out the window until the heat from the house married the cold from the outdoors and steamed up the windows.

Then I listened to the rattle and rumble of the pick-up as four cowboys head out to do what they love.

Do what you love. Know your own bone; gnaw at it, bury it, unearth it, and gnaw it still~~Henry David Thoreau

Cock-a-doodle-dude?

I don’t watch Dancing With the Stars or Gray’s Anatomy or American Idol. Instead of sitting in front of the idiot box, I spend my evenings with chickens. Yes I realize it leaves the question, “who is the real idiot here?” They’re my form of entertainment.

Covered in feathers, with feet like E.T., and mostly green eyes, they are growing quite rapidly and are now in the stage of developing their combs and wattles.

All my girls are maturing into fine young hens.

Here they are preening,

and fluffing themselves.

Of course, Freedom just wants to sit in my lap all the time.

And then there’s this one.

This one is quite suspicious to me.

As you can see, if you look very, very closely, the black Australorps are barely developing their combs and wattles, like this one.

But this one. See? See how red and pronounced his, er I mean her, er I mean his, er her, wattle and comb are.

See the suspicious character in the back compared to the lady in the front.

Do I have a rooster on my hands?

I think my secret desire might come to fruition.

Have I mentioned my secret desire? My deep, dark desire?

No, you say? Well perhaps now is the best time to break the news.

I secretly hope I have a rooster.

Sorry and Thank You

Sorry.

I’m sorry about yesterday’s post. I whined and complained and had a pity party. You came here for an enjoyable read, and got a mess of moping around instead. I will try not to let that happen again. I’m ashamed.

Today I am better. Much, much better. I received some wonderful advice from readers, and I have decided I’m not taking a break from blogging. Not yet anyway. I know myself too well. I know from past experience (read exercising here) when I decide to take a break for a day, it often turns into 2, then 5, then 45. I don’t want that to happen with my blog. So on terribly hard days I may just post a quote or a picture, suggested by my sister. I hope you’ll understand.

One thing that makes me happy is great friends and wonderful blog comments.

You know what else makes me happy? A good book.

You know what else makes me happy? Chickens.

Here is a picture of my chicken coop.

Haha! Gotcha! That is a picture of my dream coop.

This is my real coop before it was a coop. I’d show you a better picture, except I don’t have one. So mentally take the trash out of the yard, the fishing net out of the shed, and put chickens all around. It looks just as bad as a coop as it did before.

I was going to work very hard and make this as adorable as the dream coop, but it is a long way from the house out where the boogers live, I would have to haul water, and it needed time-consuming work. The chickens were growing, my house was stinking, and we needed a chicken house STAT, so instead, we turned the old garden shed which sits right next to the house into the temporary coop. Repeat after me, THIS IS ONLY TEMPORARY. Famous last words.

We built a covered chicken yard around the garden shed coop so they can get out and play in the sunshine. Each evening I shut them up inside their coop and every morning I open the door so they can come out and play while I’m at work.

But because I am as red-necked and as white trashy as the next girl, I hung an old blue and white sheet with swirlies just inside the coop to help keep the wind out of the crack when the doors don’t quite shut all the way. Every morning when I open the doors, I bundle the sheet up into a wad and stuff it into a place above the doorway. The next time I head to The Walmarts I’ll buy some tiebacks. But for now, stuffing it in a crack and crevice seems to be working out.

Today, however, the sheet-curtain had fallen, blocking the exit to the play yard. The chicks were “cooped” up all day. When I lifted the curtain, they came a running. They sure were glad to get out. It was almost as if they were glad to see me, even.

We hung out for a while and played chick, chick, goose. It’s kind of like duck, duck, goose, but less offensive to the chicks. I was always “it”. They’re hard to catch.

Well, my oven just dinged. My chicken (yikes) pot pie is ready. I am happy to be home eating a pot pie and relaxing for a few moments.

And remember, friends are good and God is great and laundry will keep, so enjoy your evening. I know I am.

Angel vs. Life

The Postaday challenge that I unofficially signed up for on January 1st is kicking my butt right now. I’ve managed to post a blog everyday for 109 days. Some good, some awful. I fear I’m boring my readers to tears with chicken antics and doggy drivel.

Do I credit writers block?? No, I don’t think that’s what it is at all. I contribute it to a lack of time. Time to think. Time to sit and reflect. Time to be me.

Each day my blogging is becoming harder and harder.

I recently read an excerpt from a story in the New Yorker about writer’s block. It was entitled A Cure for Blocked Screenwriters and it told of a writer who had a case of writer’s block. After a year and a half of producing nothing, he went to visit a therapist named Barry Michels. The therapist gave him some advice:

Michels also told the writer to get an egg timer. Following Michels’s instructions, every day he set it for one minute, knelt in front of his computer in a posture of prayer, and begged the universe to help him write the worst sentence ever written. When the timer dinged, he would start typing. He told Michels that the exercise was stupid, pointless, and embarrassing, and it didn’t work. Michels told him to keep doing it.

Well of course you probably know how the story ends. In no time, this writer had a script written and a movie being filmed.

I haven’t ever set an egg timer, but I do pray. Not to the universe, but to a real, living God who hears me. I ask him to help me write words that are meaningful, that glorify Him, that will touch other’s lives. And after I hit publish on each blog, I try to remember to send up a very feeble thank you.

I tell you all this because what I really want to say, without sounding whiney, is that I’m struggling. Life has me beat right now. I’m sitting in my corner of the boxing ring gasping for air, blood is running down from the cut above my eye, my opponent named Life is pumped up in his corner opposite me, hopping around. He can’t even sit still. The last round was his. My trainer is squirting water in my mouth, towelling the sweat off my shoulders, and telling me to lead with my left, to keep my hands up. Except all I desire to do is crawl through the ropes of the ring and leave the fight. Forfeit. The only reason I don’t is because of the crowd. I don’t want to be booed.

I want to quit blogging and I don’t want to quit blogging. If that makes any sense at all. Writing gives me peace and joy and I really, really love it. But it is the last thing I do each day. Which sometimes, in my tired state, can feel like drudgery. It’s last not because I want it to be, but because so many other responsibilities take precedence. Except God. He actually is coming completely last in my day. I have it all mixed up I know. And I know how to fix it as well. But I need some help. If you pray at all, would you say one for me tonight? Would you ask for help with my fight?

My time out is over. The bell is sounding, ding, ding, ding, ding, ding. The next round is beginning. So I will rise from my seat, jump around a couple of times, walk to the center of the ring, and touch gloves with Life.

I may not come out the Champ, but at least I’ll come out.

You can read more of the New Yorker story mentioned above, below: http://www.newyorker.com/reporting/2011/03/21/110321fa_fact_goodyear#ixzz1K1UJLzqj

A Dirty Bath

We’ve crossed a milestone here at the J&A Chicken Ranch. The chickens spent their first night outside last night. As one friend said, they made their maiden voyage.

Yes dear friends, the little boogers are growing up. They are spreading their wings and getting the heck out of dodge.

You mustn’t ever let J-Dub know I told you, but I do believe he was more worried about them than I was. We stood in their coop, with chickens at our feet, checking their temperature, watching their behavior, plugging up drafts. The temperature was going to drop into the mid thirties. He said he thought they should come in for the night. I questioned him. “Are you worried about them?” He replied, “I’m worried about you.” Sure you are J-Dub, sure you are.

I convinced myself they would be alright. They were predator-proofed, heat-adjusted, fed and watered. I went to bed. But before I could allow my conscience to rest, I googled what age chickens can live outside, just to double-check that they would be okay. Last night, we put 14 chickens to bed. This morning, at 7:00 there were 14 chickens alive and well. Yea!

I am beginning to understand the term chicken however, after watching these birds. They are scaredy-chickens. They would rather stay in their coop and not venture into their chicken yard. Twice today, me and Ashy had to go in and throw them all out of the coop so they could get some outdoor time.

I played hookey from church today (don’t tell the preacher) and enjoyed some time at home this morning. It’s hard to believe that I can waste nearly 3 hours watching chickens and reading magazines, but I can. Although Freedom is black and white like the others, she is a chicken of a different color. She enjoys outside and often is the only one pecking around. I got such a fright today as she began to do something I hadn’t yet witnessed.

Had I not previously read ahead, I would have thought she was spazzing.

She was only taking a dirt bath. Yeah, I know that sounds like an oxymoron. Chickens like to do this. They dig a shallow hole, kick up some dirt, waller around a bit, and get dirty. “They” say it helps keep the bugs and mites off of them. “I” would like to think it cools them off a little too.

Dust baths are where me and chickens relate. Since I’ve been living outside of town, dirt has become my second skin. I have given up trying to look pretty. When I wear makeup, it shortly becomes caked with dirt. It’s in my hair, my eyes, my mouth, my toenails, my belly button.

It’s on my floor, my dressers, my computer, my canisters, my Raisen Bran.

It reminds me of a little saying I’ve heard before, “God made dirt, and dirt don’t hurt.”

The chickens don’t need to be reminded of this.

So why should I?

Tuesday Night

The evening is breezy and mild. I’m sitting in my front yard in one of those vintage iron chairs as I type this. The birds are perched in the tree and on the high wires singing me a melody. The cows are grazing in the next pasture. The horses are munching alfalfa, and chickens are pecking in their pen. Occasionally the hawk soars overhead, keeping me on my toes. Dang that chicken hawk. The dogs lay at my feet. Occasionally they tussle. When Drew Miller’s adrenaline rises, I catch a hint of skunk smell waft my direction. I guess he did get sprayed after all. The sky is clouding up, teasing us with rain. Makes me feel like a teenage boy sitting next to a girl in a low-cut blouse. Life is good. The only thing missing is a creaky wooden screen door banging closed and a wide porch. Maybe even a glass of sweet tea.

I’ve taken to wearing an aunt Jemima scarf on my head out here. Or as the cool kids would say, a do-rag. The wind does blow and whips my hair about.

I sit here and contemplate my garden. Today I took full advantage of 2nd grade science curriculum and had my second graders help me start my indoor seeds. It might be considered child labor. I call it learning the life cycle and parts of plants. We planted tomatoes, peppers, green beans, okra, squash, and radishes. I don’t even like radishes that much, but they’re easy to grow. I got some seeds planted and children had a good time learning. Can’t beat it. I want my garden in my front yard. J-Dub says, “who puts a garden in the front yard?” I do, that’s who. I’m going to attempt a companion garden with vegetables and flowers. I’m going to walk up my path and pop a cherry tomato in my mouth as I pick a bouquet on the way to the front door. My no dig garden didn’t get finished. I started with such gusto, only to find the cardboard blown up against the fences in a couple of days. Oh the toil I wasted.

I long for care-free summer days, fresh garden veggies, and tan legs.

I glance up to see dust billowing on the road. The dogs’ ears perk up at the bellowing diesel of my husband’s truck. They run to the gate to meet him. Dogs are such great friends. Always glad to see you.

Nothing’s ready for supper. Do you think he’ll be mad?

First thing I notice when he steps out of his truck are his boots are red. Initially, I think he’s gotten new boots, but no. It’s his old boots, they are covered with red dirt from Oklahoma where he was working today.

I’ve got a hard-working husband, a little home, a lot of love, and wonderful people in my life.

And yet sometimes, I allow myself to cater to self-pity. What a shame I should ever feel mistreated.

I’m blessed.

Well, the sun has moved and I’m in the shade now. The breeze is cool and I must warm some leftovers for supper.

Until tomorrow, friends.

May God Bless you richly.

One Step Closer to Coopdom

The chicks are 4 weeks old this week and are slowly being prepared for their new outdoor home.

This weekend we worked on the chicken pen, and it won’t be long until they must spread their wings and fly from this chicky mama’s box in the bedroom out into the coop and the big, wide world.

I’m exposing them to the outside more and more. The perils and dangers, the fun and frolic. The Scot’s Fertilizer that I forgot I sprinkled on the lawn the day before.

If the wind isn’t blowing too badly, we take a daily outing.

I have yet to introduce them to the dogs. Drew Miller had better learn some manners first.

Unbeknownst to him, a chicken sandwich is not on his menu. He is sticking with the Ol’ Roy.

While most chicks are content to explore the ground, pecking about, not Freedom, my little pet.

Freedom marches to a different beat. She’s got a quirky personality and is quite the loner.

Although she loves people and gravitates to them, in the flock she can usually be found off by herself. She’s not too crazy about her pen mates.

I sat in one of my white Adirondack chairs to keep a close eye on them.

Freedom decided to crawl up the other chair and sit next to me. Don’t you wish she sat back, stretched out her feet and put on her big red sunglasses?

She stayed there a good long while soaking up the sun, until she began wondering how in the world she was going to get down.

She stood there contemplating the situation and finally managed in her graceful chicken way, with wings flailing.

I am still enjoying these happy little chicks but I’m anxious to get them out of the box and into their pen.

My house stinks.

Ranch Security

I don’t know how many of you are familiar with Hank the Cowdog books by author John Erickson. Good ol’ Hank, Head of Ranch Security, can usually be found protecting the ranch from varmints and keeping everyone safe with his side-kick Drover.

Well here at the J & A Chicken Ranch we have our own head of ranch security by the name of Drew Miller.

Drew Miller was rescued by the animal shelter as a pup. My mom and niece Ashy picked out this little, cute ball of black and white fur. They were told by the shelter that he was probably a Border Collie. Well, he ain’t no Border Collie.

We don’t really know what he is.

Drew ended up at our house at about 6 or 7 months of age.

He’s a good, gentle boy most of the time. Except when there’s a varmint on the loose. I’ve seen a side of Drew on the attack that I don’t like seeing. He killed a mama possum once that I witnessed and am still having night sweats over. You can read about that murder here.

But that was a possum. They play dead. I mean, how hard is it to kill something that’s playing dead? Even Hank and Drover could do that.

Then there was the porcupine. You know those fights where one says, “You should see the other guy?” That’s what the porcupine was telling his friends back at the Prickly Pub.

Either last night or this morning, we had a very close call. After church I went out to tend to all the animals and there lying dead in the back yard about 3 feet from the house was a black and white animal.

Yep, you guessed it. A skunk.

My mama used to sing a little song to me when I was a little girl.

Black and white kitty, sitting in the woods. Isn’t that little kitty pretty?

I went right over to pick it up, but shooooo weeeeee, (pinch your nose here) it wasn’t that kind of a kitty.

I’ve never seen a skunk up close. For obvious reasons. I thought he would look more like Flower in the movie Bambi. Uh, No. Skunks are uuugggllly.

Drew killed that poor rascal in our backyard. And miracle of all miracles, it did not let off its stench. Had this been a Hank the Cowdog story, Hank would’ve gotten sprayed, tried to go home for supper, got run off from the house ’cause of his stink, and sent to live with the barbaric coyotes for a month till the smell finally wore off.

Which makes me envision Drew Miller, stealth-like, stalking that skunk, then pouncing before the poor fella could even defend himself.

Either that, or these 50 mph winds we’ve been having for 2 days are tricking us. Only time will tell.

Drew Miller, a.k.a. Killer, serving and protecting.

I think I’m going to get him a badge.

Try it, you’ll like it.

Wild West Willy called the other day. He said he was going to stop by after he milked a goat.

My ears perked up at the mention of goat milking.

If you’ve been a reader for very long, you might know goats are my next homesteading adventure. Just quick as I get these here chickens learnt good.

The problem with my goat adventure, is the fact that I’ve never drank goat’s milk. It would be a bad mistake to have a goat and hate her milk doncha think?

So when Wild West said he was milking a goat, I said, “Can you bring me a cup?” Unfortunately for me, this particular goat had an infection and her milk couldn’t be drank. My heart sank.

But then today, who should come driving up the path but Wild West with Tom the Goat Man, as a passenger. Just like Santa Claus, they reached into a cooler and pulled out not one, but two big jugs of goat’s milk.

“Geez Louise, I only wanted a cup!” I exclaimed.

Tom the Goat man gives me instructions: If you can’t drink all that in about 7 or 8 days, put a little salt in it. If it spoils, you can make cheese.

Okay. I’m sorry, but salt in my milk doesn’t sound good at all, and cheese made from spoiled milk doesn’t either. Although I realize spoiled cheese is probably what I’m eating on my grilled cheese sandwiches.

You know what I find strange? We are so conditioned to buying our food from the grocery store already “fixed” for us, that the idea of food raw from an animal is a little unsettling to me. Deep down I know it’s better for me nutritionally, but when I think hard about it, it’s a wee bit abhorrent. I must get over that.

The men drove off and my emotions kicked in about drinking goat milk.

I desperately want to like it. I desperately want to be a goat milker.

But I’m apprehensive. The last time I ate something from the goat farm, I contracted goat flu.

Questions flood my mind.

Am I gonna like it?

Is it gonna make me sick?

Is it gonna gross me out?

Will it be strong tasting?

Will it have an odor?

I open the container and peer inside.

It looks like milk.

I bend over and smell it.

It smells like nothing. Absolutely no odor at all.

I dip out a cupful with a measuring cup.

I rub my hands together, pick up the glass, close my eyes.

And sip.

Mmmmm.

I take another sip.

It’s creamy. It’s rich. It’s magically delicious. It tastes like milk from the store, only better.

Now, would someone please pass the cookies?

All Fowled Up

Remember this little fellow?

Henery Hawk from Looney Tunes.

“I’m a chicken hawk and I smell chicken.” His agenda was to catch a chicken.

Even though this cartoon was all fun and games, tonight I discovered this is a real life problem in my world.

I know there is a hawk around this place where I live. Probably more than one. Sometimes I see him sitting on top of an electrical pole, scouting for a field mouse or a snake in the prairie. Other times I see him swooping and flying low, at times hovering above the pasture grasses. I suspect he’s the one who killed the guinea bird that lived here when we bought the place.

Maybe you’ll remember the guinea bird who got hung up in the fence and broke his leg. Soon after, feathers were everywhere and he was something’s dinner. Probably the hawk.

I’m very aware that I need to protect my chicks from predators, hawks being one of them. I am hoping, however, that they won’t be a terrible problem.

I took my girls outside again today for some fresh air and exercise.

They were happy little peckers, enjoying the fenced in yard.

Every couple of minutes, I did a quick headcount to make sure none had run through the gap between the pickets of the fence.

They seemed to be staying put, so I left the yard to go just a few feet to feed the horses. Then I fed the dogs.

I glanced over the fence, pointing as I counted chicken heads. They were all accounted for. Still pecking around the grass, attempting to fly, and exploring the world outside. Innocent of all things evil.

I needed to get a bucket of fresh straw to put in their box before I took them in. The hay is in the next pasture. They would be fine. I would only be gone a minute. What could possibly go wrong?

I headed out with my bucket, fully aware of the danger they were in being left unattended.

Bending over to gather the straw, it was then that I noticed it. The ominous black shadow of outstretched wings. I gazed upward and saw the hawk, soaring, gliding through the sky.

A surge of panic overtook me. I envisioned my whole flock being annihilated in one fell swoop. That’s probably not likely, but you know how your mind runs away in a moment of panic.

I began to run. Sprinting through the pasture with a bucket of straw, staring at the sky, wondering if I could outrun a hawk, considering hollering and waving my arms. I must have looked like a complete goonie bird to my neighbor who of course, drove down the road at that exact time.

I managed to get to the yard, despite sucking wind. Heart pounding, I grabbed up the chicks two or three at a time, put them in a box, chased the last lone one for a good 70 seconds, and dragged them safely in the house.

They’re sleeping peacefully now. Completely unaware of the danger they narrowly escaped.

They may never leave the house again.

Dang that chickenhawk.