We've Got Bees!!!!

I sold my bees last year because the hive had become incredibly 'healthy'.  That's usually a good thing, as it means there were thousands and thousands of bees.  But these were not nice bees - they were small, hard working and mean.  I had reached the point where I had to either split the hive or do something else.  I called in the Bee Guy.  I have never met anyone with such knowledge of and such an affinity for bees.  He is very generous with his time, too.  We bartered and he left with the hive, and I got 30 bales of hay and the promise of a new hive in the spring.  Saturday, the Bee Guy arrived with an entire hive to install into my shiny new hive with it's gorgeous copper roof.  My friend, Linda, came to watch and take mental notes because she is interested in beekeeping as well.  What a difference!  Even with all of the shifting and bumping and noise, even with being brushed and smoked, these bees were pretty darned calm.  The only one who got stung was Linda (who bravely decided that it was no big deal), and the Bee Guy didn't even wear gloves.  I watched them this morning as they spiraled up into the sunlight, getting the lay of the land and scoping out all the pollen and nectar opportunities.  It is so nice to have bees on the homestead again.

Win Some. Lose Some.

As anyone who raises chickens knows, they are not the sharpest tacks in the box. I love my chickens and there is nothing that I love more than walking out my back door and seeing all my hens racing towards me. Food Lady!!! But they can be a real challenge when something goes off-kilter. Such as one of my Barred Rock hens finding herself on the other side of the fence. I am not sure how she managed it, but she did. I have spent three days trying to catch her, herd her, reason with her, and trick her. It hasn't helped that I have been so bone-tired that my limited agility was almost non-existent, and I managed to fluster her more with each attempt to grab her. I couldn't leave the gate open because they would ALL get out and decimate my front yard in it's fragile garden-ness. And every night that she was not in the security of the coop, I heard the coyotes howling. And mysterious, ominous rustlings. ALL night. This is a good example of why I am not a parent. I would be institutionalized by now. This morning, while I made my rounds (I work from left to right), I glimpsed a flash of black and white on the gated side of the fence. Hurrah! I silently went over and opened the gate a crack - then busied myself with my patient, Pearly Mae, and the ducks. Sure enough, the hen came in through the gate. I raced over and slammed the gate shut and locked it. Back, safe and sound.

Unfortunately, while I 'won' that round, I lost Millie, my angora rabbit. There were no signs that I could read that she wasn't well - she was eating, drinking, she had shade and shelter and chicken t.v. When I came home last night and went out to check her food, she was gone. My lovely, soft, white rabbit. It just broke my heart and I keep thinking there should have been something I could have done or noticed. I have gotten better at taking my losses, but some are harder to take than others.

Slow Food.

As recently as five years ago, the thought of raising my own food (other than gardening) would have seemed completely alien to me.  Even when I started raising chickens, about 12 years ago, they were for egg production only.  Everyone had a name and when one succumbed to SCUDS (sudden chicken unexplained death syndrome) I would tearfully dig a hole and bury her in the back yard.  When I moved to this small homestead and decided to become as self-sustaining as I could manage, I began to look at how and what I ate, what resources I had and started raising chickens for meat.  These chicks, pictured above, are slow-growing red and slow-growing white roasters.  (And, yes, that's a washing machine dial in the background.  Don't ask.)  I had to reconcile that these cute, downy chicks were future entrees.  As hard as it was in the beginning, after tasting the difference between store-bought chicken and home-raised chicken, I was a convert.  As long as I continue to eat chicken, I will continue to raise my own.  I do not, however, process my own chickens.  That's a line over which I have not been able to step.  I use a fellow about an hour away who has a family-run, humane poultry processing business and I am entertained by his many children while the processing takes place.  My other forays into raising my own non-plant food has not always been successful.  Last year's quail experiment resulted in weeks of interrupted sleep (male quail are LOUD and LOUD at all hours of the night), this year's turkey experiment was also a bomb (my breeding pair turned out to be two males who were LOUD and LOUD constantly), my Guinea Forest Hogs (Ethel and Kate) were too cute and smart to be food, I lost Ethel to an aneurysm and Kate went off to help repopulate the breed in Virginia, and the ducks - Puff's surprise hatch of 10, mostly male offspring (who were LOUD.  Constantly.)  I'm seeing a pattern here - you, too?  Now, I happen to eat duck, turkey and pork.  Quail?  Not so much.  So my turkeys are in the freezer, I 'raise' a pig cooperatively with friends, and I'm going to try ducks again - this time with a Muscovy hen and a Pekin drake.  I'm hoping the ducklings inherit their mother's Muscovy quiet trait.

Bonanza!

While walking the dogs the other day, something caught my eye - I couldn't believe what I thought I saw...morels? Here? YES!!! Not the smaller, dark ones, but golden morels. Needless to say, we hot-footed our way through the rest of the walk, then I grabbed a bag and out the door and up the road I went. These beauties are now in my dehydrator - my present schedule not allowing for cooking at night right now. I'm making a note of time and place for next year. They smell heavenly! Isn't it wonderful to be able to live in a place where you can find such treasures practically outside of your door?

Working Alone

I have a lot of friends who help me. Lots. And I am so thankful for that, I can't even begin to thank them all. But there are many times when I end up working alone. Depending on the undertaking, sometimes it's very nice to work by myself -- I can get into a nice rhythm and let my mind loose to go wherever it wants (although, that can be pretty scary). This weekend, however, I was faced with a bigger job -- having to finish off the hayport so that Gigi could be let out of her crate into the larger 'crate' of the inside of the hayport. She has been sweet and patient, but it's been two weeks of confinement and she's getting pudgy and bored. Sort of like me by the end of winter ;o) I went through the usual shenanigans of dealing with well-meaning but condescending guys at Home Depot and wrestling the 4x8 foot sheets of T-111 off the truck - all the time being conscious to NOT use my left shoulder. Then the last sheet slipped off the back and landed on my 'panel-helper' - a very useful and nifty tool my dad gave me that allows me to carry large sheets of things by myself. And crushed it. So, being the stoic that I am, I cried. A little. Then strong-armed the panels to the opposite end of the hayport where my sawhorses were set up. The sawhorses kept getting knocked over while I tried to maneuver the sheets on top of them. What to do. More cursing and whining. Voila! A step-in post or two propped up one end while I tilted the other on the horses. Then I did a mighty fine job of trimming the sheets so they would fit along the curved roof of the hayport. Mighty fine, by my standards, of course. Then I screwed them into the frame I had built on Saturday morning and put another sheet across the future door, screwing it in with the help of the now-very-handy step-in posts. All during this long, hot, sweaty process, Gigi sat curled on her bed in her crate, silent, giving me a large-dark-eyed stare. I'm not sure if it was because of the noise of the tools, or the surrounding air, colored quite a dark blue by my running commentary. During the entire process, the sheep bleated, the llama hummed, and Scrappy followed me from window to window, yipping incessantly. He does this so that I will get infuriated and come inside and yell at him. Which I finally did - but, luckily for him, I was so exhausted, all I could do was shake a shaky fist in his general direction. This morning I finished the job with a poorly constructed but adequate door covered in chicken wire so she can look out at her future domain without quite venturing out yet. More for my peace of mine than hers, of course. After I fed her, I left her crate door open and closed and latched the wire door. One small step for cats - one giant step for cat-caregivers.

Poultry Relationships

There is so much drama on a homestead when one has poultry. Or so it seems to me. I have enough room in a large fenced side-yard to give everyone their 'space'. But, as in human relationships, there are just some personalities that don't mesh. For the most part, Alfie, my Pekin drake, could care less about the chickens. They are mildly annoying when they are crowded around the waterers, and they will attempt to run him over if he stands between them and me with possible food treats. A couple of rapid quacks are the extent of his irritation. That is, until he sees Attila the Hen. Alfie HATES her. If his beady eye spies ATH in the yard, he is after her faster than a bell clapper in a goose's butt (I've been waiting to use that expression). I'm not sure if it's the fact that she's loud and puffed up all the time, or if she just exudes a certain something that he finds offensive. He chases her all over the yard, in the coop and out, and in again, until she hops back up and sits on top of Dotty. Some of the hens are drama queens and any little thing will set them off, shrieking like little girls. That sometimes will get the rest of them going and it is total cacophony until, one by one, they realize they've forgotten what all the hubbub was about. Junior is usually the last to stop - he loves a good hissy-fit.

On a more sober note, little Pearlie Mae is not making progress. I put her outside, knowing that it will be warm and sunny so she won't get chilled. The rubber flooring in the infirmary may be hampering her recovery, since she can't get purchase on the slick surface. Then, again, she seems to have lost most of her muscle tone in her legs, so it's a moot point. I will have to make a decision as to keep on trying to get her mobile, or ... not. That is a very difficult decision for me, as I find it almost impossible to take life away. I've had to do it twice before and it haunted me for weeks, even though it was the right decision in both cases. Let's hope the sunshine, green grass and nice (low) bowl of water work a miracle.

It's Complicated.

The one thing I can count on is that nothing I undertake is simple. Sure, it may start out simple - say, like raising a few chickens. Before you know it, you have chickens in all manner of 'special needs'. And special needs need special housing. Right now, in my small operation, I have a) a paraplegic hen recuperating (I hope) in a redwood dog house now rigged up as the infirmary in a special fenced in area that also houses the rabbit; b) duck quarters (photo above - no comments, plz, about my carpentry skills) which include an A-frame building that they hate, my late quail cage - partially deconstructed, then adopted by Grendal the duck as her nesting spot - also fenced; c) the main coop occupied by my 20-something chickens, Junior rooster, Alfie and Puff, the odd-duck couple (both figuratively and literally) who take offense to the duck quarters and prefer the coop, Dotty Duck & Attila the Hen - nestmates, and the five pullets - the Violets, Prissie, Peanut, and Almond - who, until last night, lived in; d) the nursery coop, now occupied by Marie-Claire and Home-Chick (photo below). Each of these set-ups require their own food and water dishes, security devices (aka doors), etc. When I came in from chores yesterday morning, there was a message on my voicemail alerting me to the fact that my 12 meat chicks would be arriving this morning. Sigh. I am, however, about half-ready for them. That is quite an improvement to my previous endeavors. They will be housed NOT in my laundry room, but in a donated galvanized water tub, equipped with a hardware cloth lid, hanging heat lamp and all the appropriate accouterments - situated in my shed. Which, in turn, had to be varmintized - meaning nailing boards over large/small holes, more hardware cloth over obvious openings. The upshot of all this is - learn to plan ahead. Realistically, I never do this and, most likely, never will. Then again, I have gained all manner of new skills - chicken first aid, carpentry skills, reusing/recycling/rethinking. It's not all bad.