A MIDWESTERN WINTER INTERLUDE

Snow Dogs

I STEPPED OUT OF THE GROCERY STORE INTO THE NIGHT. The wind was just gently kissed by tiny snowflakes sparkling under fluorescent lights. The promised “storm” that Siri kept announcing had arrived. Laughing, I loaded my trunk with groceries.
“I’m not sure I’ll make it home in this, Siri.” 

CONTINUE READING IN THE NEWS GAZETTE

Pictures from our woodland walk.

Hedge Apple Tree

Cullen: Mighty Hunter

Who Goes There?

THE NATURAL ORDER

Gifts from the flock.

IN BIRDLAND, WINTER HAS FINALLY SETTLED IN FOR A VISIT, but it came late and by the time it arrived, the days were already growing longer. Although it is cold, the spring seems almost on the horizon. Look! Here comes Groundhog Day, my favorite holiday: The day we can decide for ourselves whether we will suffer six more weeks of Winter, or celebrate the six weeks of the coming Spring. Or, maybe we can even celebrate the remaining weeks of Winter as we anticipate the Spring.

Leaden clouds march across the sky.

Today the sun shines off and on.

 Today the sun shines off and on. Leaden clouds march across the sky, and maybe we will get more snow. The little bit left on the ground is embedded with a thin layer of black topsoil, Illinois' riches, blowing across the Midwest. The goldenrod stalks still stand in the meadow, maybe emitting or reflecting a little bit of warmth? The snow has melted in little circles around each bunch of stalks.

She now understands
the natural order of things.

The chickens were eager to be let out of the coop this morning. The defroster under their water dish had quit in the night, and their water was frozen. They poured out of the door and ran to the little pond, only to find it frozen. I figured out the problem pretty quickly and ran to get them a temporary bowl of steaming water until I could figure out what went wrong on the de-icer. Meanwhile, Ursula kept her distance. We have finally solved the problem of our chicken chasing dog. After some very focused behavior modification, she now understands the natural order of things: that the red rooster is the undisputed king of the yard. She used to think his protective stance was a game, and sadly, she had so little respect, and such quick reflexes, that when he would fly at her in attack mode, she would grab him and run around the yard with him in her mouth. Great fun for somebody! Not so much for the rooster.

Now, however, she keeps her distance from him. This is a very recent development, and last week, when the flock stayed inside for several days, protected from the bitter, frigid wind, I worried that she might forget her place, and indeed, she did. I opened the coop from the top to gather eggs and feed the flock, when the little black and white speckled hen jumped out. Ursula was after her in a flash. I yelled and started to run after them, but then the red rooster emerged and flew to the rescue. As soon as she saw him, Ursula immediately sat down by a tree and nothing could entice her to move, not spilled chicken feed, not the frisbee, not the rest of the hens streaming from the coop to scratch in the yard. The red rooster strutted around her, and she looked demurely at her paws. When he was satisfied that Ursa would do no mischief, he left her and joined the hens. My dog sat quietly until I finished my chicken chores and then followed me back toward the house. I didn't let her in, though. Her new job description includes keeping at bay the hawk who's been picking off my hens, one by one.

You look closer and see it is
standing above a clutch of.
brown, speckled eggs.

Today, a frigid wind blows from the north, carrying crystals of snow. Not enough to stick, but tiny crystals that hit you in the face on their way south as you go down to collect the mail. Inside, a few minutes later, you find comfort in cozy things. You put the kettle on for tea and soak garbanzos for tonight's supper. You put on a pan of eggs to boil for Nanny's Purple Eggs. You sit down with your tea and enjoy the postcard that arrived today from Russia. It has an odd looking bird on it, and you wish you knew what kind, but the name is printed in Russian. The bird has green wings and a majestic crest; a black mask and bill, and orange legs. Its tail is squared off, like a chisel. You look closer and see it is standing above a clutch of brown, speckled eggs. You sip your tea and think about the wide world and all it holds.

Sip in Beauty; Anticipate Peace; Blessed Be.

FIRST SNOW--FIRST EGGS

WE GOT OUR FIRST SNOW IN BIRDLAND THIS MORNING, just a gentle sifting that had stopped by the time a blue light crept into my bedroom to tell me I'd better get out of bed. I let Ursa out and she stopped at the front step for a moment to sniff curiously. My dog is no longer a puppy, even though I call her that most of the time. This will be her third winter, so snow is not new to her, though it must be a deeply buried memory.

JUST A GENTLE SIFTING
OF SNOW 

CHICKENS THIS WAY -->

My spring chickens, so tiny when they arrived in June, have begun to lay. Usually that happens when we put the lights in the hen house for warmth, but lately it's been warm enough without lights. That will soon change, and we'll find time this weekend to put up plastic and plug in the Christmas lights that do the double duty of warming and decorating the aviary. Most days I find 4 eggs, two white ones and two a deep brown. It's so nice to have my own hens' eggs to eat again. The yolks are so golden, not like the pale yellow yolks from a grocery store egg. I love the flavor, but even more, I love knowing that that flavor comes from the varied diet my chickens have—scratching all day in the yard, eating grass, dandelions, curly dock, Shepard’s purse, thistle, any bugs or grubs they can still find, and even the kitchen scraps I put out for them. Soon the snow will cover this smorgasbord, and the greens will go dormant and brown, but for now the yard is still a fresh green. I love the connection to the land my chickens give me—direct from the yard to my table. The bowl of fresh eggs on my counter reminds me of the Hobbit's riddle: “A box without hinges, key, or lid, yet golden treasure inside is hid.”  My bowl has both brown and white eggs, and I like the combination. The mail-order chicks we shared with Abby and Daniel so long ago were the “Rainbow Layers Mix.” This summer the predators took half of our share, and we have about a dozen left. Only two colors so far, but I hope some of the others will come into lay and give us more variety, especially of browns.

SCRATCHING ALL DAY IN THE YARD

The brown eggs are beautiful, but I know the color of the shell says nothing about the value of the “golden treasure” inside. The nutritional composition of the eggs has everything to do with what the hens ate and nothing to do with the outer covering. Still, the grocery stores demand a higher price for the cartons of brown eggs. You can also pay a premium for “cage free,” “free range,” “natural,” or “organic” eggs or meat. Here, let the buyer beware. You only need to google a string of words, “cage free range egg debate” to see that this discussion is very complex. Factory farms might do the bare minimum to get away with the “cage free” label (sometimes even achieving the rich, yellow color—and perhaps flavor—through the use of feed supplements. It is the carotene that occurs naturally in the grazing diet that gives that color, nutrition and flavor to my chickens' eggs, and you can add that to the feed.). According to the USDA web page, the definition of “Free Range” or “Free Roaming” is this: “Producers must demonstrate to the Agency that the poultry has been allowed access to the outside.” Note that they don't specify how long. All day? Five minutes? And what does “allowed” mean? That there is a tiny door to a yard that a hen might wander into? Are these assurances enough to warrant the pricier “Free Range” label? The USDA doesn't give a legal definition of “Cage Free” but the technical name for this is “high density confinement.” A google image or video search of this term is interesting, but it might put you off your dinner.

A BOX WITHOUT HINGES, KEY, OR LID,
YET GOLDEN TREASURE INSIDE IS HID.

In Birdland, “free range” means my chickens have the protection of the coop from dusk to dawn (or at least my interpretation of “dawn,” which is admitedly loose). During the day, they wander all over the yard, tails up, beaks to the ground, as they graze nearsightedly for their dinner. The best assurance you can get for good quality, humane poultry production is to buy your eggs and meat from a local farm or CSA that you could go visit if you wanted to see where your dinner comes from. Check www.localharvest.org to find your sources of locally grown food.

GATHER BEAUTY
FUND PEACE
BLESSED BE

Close Knit Community

In Birdland the sky is gray and the snow is spilling down again. The last cycle of snow and melt and re-freeze had left us with a bare yard and only the grays and tawny browns of a winter landscape. The fields and garden are dry, as if the freeze has squeezed out all the moisture. Yesterday I noticed the hackberries scattered all over the ground like currents in a bun. Did the wind shake them down, or did the trees just let go with the cold?

Now a flurry will add another layer to the wintertime landscape. The sky is leaden as far as I can see to the West, and it’s cold but not windy, so I expect by noon we’ll have a nice frosting on all the fences and a blanket for the yard.

Today I am rushing to get my work done because of two important visits. This afternoon is my knitting circle at the Steeple Gallery Coffee House—a weekly gathering of wonderfully creative and fun women who meet to knit and share and visit and drink coffee. It convenes on Fridays, so I can only come during semester breaks, making today’s visit even more special for its rarity. I’ve got a finished project to show—a felted knitting needle holder that I copied from Susan. But I need some advice, because my washing machine doesn’t agitate, which is necessary for the felting process. Mine is pretty, but not quite felted, and it doesn’t like to stand up on its own. Should I just wash it about twenty more times, or try to felt it by hand, or ask Susan to agitate it for me in her washer? When I told Barbara about the flower I was going to knit for a decoration, she dug up a crocheted flower she had cut off of an old sweater and gave it to me. Now when I look at my project, I think of my connections to both of these lovely women—something to be glad of in the gray days of winter.

The second visit is from some of my nieces and nephews. Once in awhile they converge at

Birdland for a holiday. Some are home from college; some are already back at high school. I like to bake for them. I’ve got cookies already made, and plans for pizza and scones, waffles for breakfast.

They are busy young people, and they won’t all be here, but I am grateful for any who can spare the time. They come to get out to the country and away from their routines, and though I know they love me, they come more to visit with each other. I’m happy to provide this venue and mostly stay out of the way. They energize me, and give me an excuse to get the house clean, make up the guest beds, and pull out the board games and the ping-pong table. Ellis will be glad for their company. My youngest is the last little bird in the nest, and he loves to hang out with his cousins.

The snow continues to fall in tight, tiny crystals that collect first in the packed down places in the yard, showing me where the dogs have trotted out a new path around to the side of the house where I’ve plugged in their wintertime water bowl.

They also have one to the edge of the field where they go to bark at the coyotes whose commute takes them down our grass waterway every morning. The sky is now a bright white in the West, and the snow is falling faster, with bigger, fluffy flakes. It’s time for me to get to my baking and cleaning, my preparations to receive my guests.

Believe in Beauty; Dwell in Peace; Blessed Be.

Mary Lucille Hays lives in Birdland near White Heath. She cherishes family and community and any excuse for a gathering.