Thistlefluff

February 17, 2018 I’ve now lived in the South for longer than I’ve lived anywhere else. I think this fact alone should be enough to make me now officially Southern. My first official assertion as such being, my Southern constitution is just not meant for this winter weather nonsense. January was ridiculous. More ridiculous than your average January, which is pretty ridiculous. Hats off to Northern farmers (except I’m still refusing to actually remove my hat and Amin has taken to wearing two toboggans at time), because even though I grew up on a farm way up in the North, I’m still baffled as to HOW that actually works. Somehow, I don’t think I actually grasped the bigger picture peering through the window at my Grandfather shoveling the house out from under a mountain of snow. I do blame him for not properly preparing me for running a frozen farm. In retrospect, I think I just stayed tucked warm inside, venturing out only long enough to build my snowman, slide ...

Of course I realize that I'm throwing a good deal of personal opinion and bias in here, but if you haven't fallen in love with a chicken I'd chalk it up to the fact that you just haven't been lucky enough to get to know one well enough yet. If this is the case, you may not be interested in knowing more about chickens than a good wine pairing.  I will tell you anyway. It's common knowledge that I spend entirely too much time with birds, but since immersion is generally the best way to learn a language at least I can say I'm now relatively fluent in chicken. A source of great pride for my family, to be sure and of course chickens have a language. Science agrees with me on this, 30 or more identifiable chicken sounds, and I speak for all of them when I say we feel validated. From their let me out of this coop squawk to their quiet evening chatter, they are exceptionally expressive little bundles of feathers. They start talking even before they pip out of the...

The chickens have been put on restriction. To hear them tell it, unfair measures of containment have been taken, to which they’ve agreed to comply only if sufficient treats and toys are provided.  In actuality, we’ve covered their run in the interest of safety and they can free range when I can watch them.  I'm trying to convince Amin that a guard peacock would be an ideal addition to the family. Without a guard rooster, we’ve lost two hens and Blackberry has taken her broody self AWOL to sit a nest in the woods. She’s being very discreet about its location and knows when I’m trying to stalk her. It seems I’m a terrible chicken hunter.  Although I’ve managed to capture her twice, she manages to fly the coop back to her well hidden eggs.  This is possibly how egg hunts originated.   Violet, who would happily try to hatch a basket of rocks, at least has the courtesy to be broody in everyone’s favorite nest box inside the coop. It causes a lot of grumbling, but ...

April 11, 2017 Springtime, along with an impressive to do list, means the pitter patter of little feet on a farm. I assume. I speak with little authority here, since I'm not super authentic with my farming. For me, the little feet belong to mice, in case there were any doubt that I haven't earned my Farmer Badge. (There's a serious don't let mice have babies in your chicken coop clause on that.) Twelve if you're counting. I am, because I have to catch the little critters.  I've read plenty about chickens, and by all accounts, these ladies should be stellar mousers. My chickens have read nothing and are blissfully unaware of natural chicken behavior, flying to the top of their fence to escape the furry monsters that threaten their existence.  As my husband has called in sick to farming this week due to the flu (I'm not mentioning that clause violation), this leaves me to single-handedly run an intricate mouse relocation plan while deeply entrench...

My mother zips around the states giving seminars on something that seems rather important to the folks who understand it, my brother became a doctor, I even have a cousin who wrote a book.  Actually there are all manner of brains, professionals, engineers, librarians, nurses, physician’s assistants, and the like in my family. Me? I talk to chickens.  It’s a skill.  My grandmother, ever the encourager, the beautiful lady who taught me to read, has always told me, “Write what you know!”  Hand me a post-it. In short, there’s not much I know.  I’m not a writer, I’m a terrible decision maker, and some of my best conversations  go down in a chicken coop . You can’t win them all, Grandma.  Instead of writing what I know, I’ll have to just settle for just writing a bit for me, a bit for Grandma, and a good bit because the chickens need an occasional break from my prattling.   The Weekly Fluff: This week was my husband’s birthday. In traditional...