Beauty is acutally a hen. We have been wondering ever since she came back from her trip to IFA with the roosters. This morning, my silly girl witnessed her laying her egg. I'm so glad that the man of my dreams didn't listen to me and brought her back.
Lucy and Ethel still haven't started laying yet. They are younger than the other chickens so I'm not surprised, but I'm anxious to see what color of eggs they lay.
That's all for now. I have to finish purging the entertainment center of last year's school books and misc. educational stuff.
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
Monday, September 20, 2010
Tomorrow is always new with no mistakes in it. . . Yet.
I love the wee hours of the morning when everyone is still asleep and all the house is quiet. At that time of day, all is right with the world and the day has so much potential. It is then that I make my "to do" list for the day. I always think that I will be able to do everything that I put on the list. I have such visions of idealism that I am certain nothing will interrupt "the list", everything will go smoothly and everyone will cooperate. I believe this every time even though the last time I had a day like that was back in 1993 B.C. (Before Children) I have all these grand illusions of what my day will be like and how successful I am going to feel. Then it is time to get everyone up and have breakfast, and about the third time I have to say, "Eat," I realize that I never should have gotten out of bed.
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
Nothing philosophical or thought-provoking today, just a little update of what's been going on in my chicken coop. (Someone keeps pointing out that my chicken blog hasn't been much about chickens lately. Who says that it has to be about chickens?!?!? It's my blog, and I'll write about what I want to write about. So there!)
On Saturday, the man of my dreams took my roosters to IFA to give them back. They were getting to "frisky" with the hens. (I was nervous to crack open the eggs. It would break my heart to crack open an egg and find a chicken embryo inside.) They were also a little loud, but I loved the sound of them. It's awfully quiet in my hen house now. My little warrior and my silly girl went with the man of my dreams to drop them off. Imagine my surprise when my little warrior came running in the house and said, "We got to keep Beauty!" when they returned home.
I have to take partial responsibility for Beauty's coming back home, although I'd love to lay all the blame at my man's feet. After they'd gone, I started second guessing myself. I called the man of my dreams and told him to ask someone there if they thought Beauty was a rooster or a hen. We went back and forth about what to do with Beauty, but before I hung up the phone I said, "Leave Beauty there. I'm fairly sure that he's a rooster. Don't bring him back home with you." That planted enough doubt in the man of my dreams' mind and Beauty came back home.
I know, you're wondering, dear reader, how can you be unsure of the gender of this chicken. Let me explain. Beauty is VERY small compared to the rest of the chickens. He doesn't crow -- he screeches. (Is there a screech chicken, similar to the screech owl?) He doesn't screech loudly, though. It's just annoying, like someone else's crying baby. (Not that all crying babies are annoying -- don't get offended.) He never chases the hens or tries to pin them down like the other roosters did. That could be because the hens are all two to three times bigger than he is and he is intimidated by all those large women. (Poor Beauty! Even the girls are bigger than he is.) Of course, being given a name like Beauty probably didn't help his manly ego much either. (All the roosters had girly names. Once they started to display rooster tendencies, I let the kids call them whatever they wanted because I had given them all girl names. Miss Biddy got cut short to Biddy because we were already used to it. Sugar is a name my silly girl picked because the chicken was white like sugar. Rob was short for Robin because my little warrior thought he had the same coloring as a robin. And poor Beauty's name just stuck.) If chickens could be gay, I'd guess that Beauty definitely was.
On Saturday morning, I finally gave in and we ate fried eggs from our chickens. They were yummy, bite-sized, but yummy. The man of my dreams says they better taste heavenly because these are the most expensive eggs that we will ever eat. I told him it's not about the eggs, it's about me having my farm, and could we please get a cow? (He said no. Dang it!)
Before Saturday I was getting about one egg each day. Apparently eating the eggs is a signal for the chickens because ever since then I've gotten three each day. I know that Alice and Bertie are each laying everyday. Alice's and Bertie's eggs are the size of small eggs at the supermarket. Bertie's are a deep reddish-brown color. Alice's are that deep reddish-brown with white speckles or a white film on them. Lucy & Ethel's eggs are tiny. They are off-white, and they are soooooo cute! Only one of them is laying daily. I think the one who is laying is Lucy. We have only gotten a few eggs that weren't laid in a nesting box (2 on the floor and 1 outside.) I think those were Ethel's eggs. Ethel is doesn't go up into the nesting boxes much until night time. Poor little Ethel is mostly blind. I know this because her pupils are white and where the brown/orange/yellow color is in the other chickens' eyes, Ethel's are black. She's a sweet little chicken and very gentle. The kids like her because she is easy to catch and hold. She doesn't like to go outside very often unless it sounds like everyone else is getting a treat. She's not good at catching bugs like the other girls. When she gets out of the nesting boxes in the morning, she flies full-force at the window and then crashes to the ground. If I am the one who lets them out into the yard in the morning, I try to help her down so she doesn't have to crash. (It was funny the first time it happened. Now it just makes me sad for her. Although some uncaring people around here still find it amusing.)
My hens always run to greet me now. They always hope I will have a treat for them. They really like the grapes off of our grape vines, or old cucumbers that the slugs started eating in the garden. Last night we had some left-over corn on the cob which they loved once they realized they needed to peck at it and not hide from it.
On Saturday, the man of my dreams took my roosters to IFA to give them back. They were getting to "frisky" with the hens. (I was nervous to crack open the eggs. It would break my heart to crack open an egg and find a chicken embryo inside.) They were also a little loud, but I loved the sound of them. It's awfully quiet in my hen house now. My little warrior and my silly girl went with the man of my dreams to drop them off. Imagine my surprise when my little warrior came running in the house and said, "We got to keep Beauty!" when they returned home.
I have to take partial responsibility for Beauty's coming back home, although I'd love to lay all the blame at my man's feet. After they'd gone, I started second guessing myself. I called the man of my dreams and told him to ask someone there if they thought Beauty was a rooster or a hen. We went back and forth about what to do with Beauty, but before I hung up the phone I said, "Leave Beauty there. I'm fairly sure that he's a rooster. Don't bring him back home with you." That planted enough doubt in the man of my dreams' mind and Beauty came back home.
I know, you're wondering, dear reader, how can you be unsure of the gender of this chicken. Let me explain. Beauty is VERY small compared to the rest of the chickens. He doesn't crow -- he screeches. (Is there a screech chicken, similar to the screech owl?) He doesn't screech loudly, though. It's just annoying, like someone else's crying baby. (Not that all crying babies are annoying -- don't get offended.) He never chases the hens or tries to pin them down like the other roosters did. That could be because the hens are all two to three times bigger than he is and he is intimidated by all those large women. (Poor Beauty! Even the girls are bigger than he is.) Of course, being given a name like Beauty probably didn't help his manly ego much either. (All the roosters had girly names. Once they started to display rooster tendencies, I let the kids call them whatever they wanted because I had given them all girl names. Miss Biddy got cut short to Biddy because we were already used to it. Sugar is a name my silly girl picked because the chicken was white like sugar. Rob was short for Robin because my little warrior thought he had the same coloring as a robin. And poor Beauty's name just stuck.) If chickens could be gay, I'd guess that Beauty definitely was.
On Saturday morning, I finally gave in and we ate fried eggs from our chickens. They were yummy, bite-sized, but yummy. The man of my dreams says they better taste heavenly because these are the most expensive eggs that we will ever eat. I told him it's not about the eggs, it's about me having my farm, and could we please get a cow? (He said no. Dang it!)
Before Saturday I was getting about one egg each day. Apparently eating the eggs is a signal for the chickens because ever since then I've gotten three each day. I know that Alice and Bertie are each laying everyday. Alice's and Bertie's eggs are the size of small eggs at the supermarket. Bertie's are a deep reddish-brown color. Alice's are that deep reddish-brown with white speckles or a white film on them. Lucy & Ethel's eggs are tiny. They are off-white, and they are soooooo cute! Only one of them is laying daily. I think the one who is laying is Lucy. We have only gotten a few eggs that weren't laid in a nesting box (2 on the floor and 1 outside.) I think those were Ethel's eggs. Ethel is doesn't go up into the nesting boxes much until night time. Poor little Ethel is mostly blind. I know this because her pupils are white and where the brown/orange/yellow color is in the other chickens' eyes, Ethel's are black. She's a sweet little chicken and very gentle. The kids like her because she is easy to catch and hold. She doesn't like to go outside very often unless it sounds like everyone else is getting a treat. She's not good at catching bugs like the other girls. When she gets out of the nesting boxes in the morning, she flies full-force at the window and then crashes to the ground. If I am the one who lets them out into the yard in the morning, I try to help her down so she doesn't have to crash. (It was funny the first time it happened. Now it just makes me sad for her. Although some uncaring people around here still find it amusing.)
My hens always run to greet me now. They always hope I will have a treat for them. They really like the grapes off of our grape vines, or old cucumbers that the slugs started eating in the garden. Last night we had some left-over corn on the cob which they loved once they realized they needed to peck at it and not hide from it.
Here are some pictures of the chickens and their eggs.
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| Beauty (the little back one), Ethel (the brown & black one), & Sugar (the white one) |
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| Rob |
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| Bertie & Alice |
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| Biddy (Lucy & Sugar behind him.) |
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| Sugar |
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| Beauty |
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| Biddy |
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| Alice's first egg next to Lucy's or Ethel's first egg. |
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| Fried in my small, eight-inch frying pan. |
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| No, the muffins aren't giants. They are regular-sized muffins from a normal muffin pan. |
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| Rob crowing one of the last times I heard him. |
Thursday, September 2, 2010
"Some books should be tasted, some devoured, but only a few should be chewed and digested thoroughly."
Sometimes I have such a need for words. It's a craving more insatiable than any other need or desire I ever feel. When I get this way, I long to read things like To Kill a Mocking Bird by Harper Lee and submerse myself in a Shakespeare and spend hours perusing Webster's Dictionary. At times like these I hunger for the wordiness of Dickens or Twain. Most of all in these fits of prose, I yearn to write. I fill pages and pages in my journal when I get this way. In times like these I wish to be back in school taking English class after English class after English class writing paper after paper after paper. I ache to spend more time with inspiring words. I become so weary of the limited scope of phrases such as, “eat your lunch”, “are your chores done”, and “knock it off, you two”. I want so much to feel the richness of words like “perchance” and “languid”.
Then reality slaps me in the face as one of my children chatters on about every ordinary thing in the universe -- on which she is, of course, an authority -- while another child explains to me why he needs this or that new set of Legos (which, by the way, dear reader, we have nearly enough of to build ourselves a house.) When this happens, I realize I am a lone island surrounded by an ocean of mundane nonperplexities (which by the way is not actually a word.) So I am sending out my SOS, someone, please send the coast guard. I think my island is sinking!
Then reality slaps me in the face as one of my children chatters on about every ordinary thing in the universe -- on which she is, of course, an authority -- while another child explains to me why he needs this or that new set of Legos (which, by the way, dear reader, we have nearly enough of to build ourselves a house.) When this happens, I realize I am a lone island surrounded by an ocean of mundane nonperplexities (which by the way is not actually a word.) So I am sending out my SOS, someone, please send the coast guard. I think my island is sinking!
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