Wife, writer, tinkerer, grower of food. I'm happiest outside our rambling farmhouse with a basket looped on my arm, picking dinner from the garden. That's joy right there. Please follow along; I'm so glad you're here!
It's been a week of small jobs. It's the time of year when I want to be outside whether or not I have anything to do, and honestly, right now there isn't a lot to do. It feels nice. The past springs have featured busting ass, in no small measure, and I'd hoped I would get to the point, someday, where things would feel a little less nutty. We've arrived. Of course, we still have the kitchen to finish, but things are moving along in leaps and bounds in there.
Yesterday I put down newspaper and wood chips around some of my raspberry bushes. This is because I am tired of mowing down raspberry lane with briars whapping my arms. Especially in a tanktop, when really all I can do is grit my teeth and remember not to use Epsom salts in the bath later. (That is an accident that doesn't bear repeating.) I thought I was getting enough wood chips to do the whole row, both sides, but what I got only covered about a third of that. Hrmph. At least they're free-- from the green dump up the road. Next week, more.
At the top of the hill, just a little bit above the green dump, there is a farm. A farm that has recently been advertising "barnyard mix pullets." So I went to see, because this spring has been remarkably unkind to our little flock. We had six, a month ago-- I kid you not-- and are down to one. Rhonda, our last red, got snatched Thursday morning in broad daylight. Poor Emmy. I never thought she would amount to much-- she was such a fabulously difficult chick-- but now she's become my favorite, easily the most docile bird we've ever raised. The foxes have apparently found our operation, and are endeavoring to set up housekeeping under our neighbors' barn. NOT. BLOODY. LIKELY. This Saturday will feature shovels and lumber and lots and lots of new wire. We are going to make our damn chicken yard look like Fort Knox, and thus the foxes shall be outfoxed.
Anyway, we bought three blondes-- Buff Orpington mixes-- that were born in January sometime, for $5 apiece. Not bad, considering female puffball chicks are $4 at a different place, and chicks are so much work. Sweet work, but still. These guys can eat, and drink, and fend for themselves against a very, very grumpy alpha hen. So far, everything is going well.