DROUGHT'S END?

BIRDLAND IS GREENING UP. The drought is not over, we're still several inches down. We lost trees and perennials to the scorching heat. My store of carefully picked walnuts is almost gone, and the tree in my front yard is barren this year. I will have to wait until next fall to sit cracking black walnuts again for scones and muffins and pesto. But in many important ways my emotional drought is over. 

 I think those 100+ degree days addled my brain. I remember my ridiculously petulant refrain, whining about the heat, the lack of green, my lack of energy, death all around. Last week I found myself in my yard paring apples and it suddenly struck me: I feel good! The modest rains brought us a sweet coolness and saved some of the plants. My tomatoes are in full bloom and I finally harvested a few of the little grape tomatoes. Even with irrigation, they didn't seem to pollinate in the high heat. Now they are trying to catch up. My cucumber vines, which in past years have filled my big crockery bowl almost endlessly until frost, have given me three squalid cukes, with a bitter taste. Though I watered, I think the ground was so dry at such depths that the poor, baked roots might have been able to grab only a few molecules of water as it ran down to the aquifer deep below. I found that the plants in my yard that did the best were in containers. At the peak of the drought I wondered if we would all have to learn to live in the desert. I envisioned container gardens in my yard, dust blowing between them. I hear it was better in town, and maybe in town the earth is more sheltered from the sun by buildings and trees. Here I found that the only green in my yard was around trees and bushes. At any rate, I'll take what I can get, and after this summer, a few cherry tomatoes to pop into my mouth seems like heaven.

With the coolness and new semester I have newly dedicated myself to bike riding. I found a great, old bike at our thrift store in town, the Willow Tree Mission. It is a 70's era 3 speed with a wide seat for my wide fanny. It was a wreck for just $10. I took it over to Baker's Bikes in Urbana and they fixed it right up for me with new tires, new cables and all for under $50. It is certainly not fancy, but just perfect for me. 

 Last weekend I went to a family birthday party. Ellis needed the car, so we threw the bike in the back and my youngest and I parted ways in town. I rode from my office on campus to the party in far eastern Urbana. I figure I rode about 5 miles. On campus I used the bike path, but when those ran out I got to zig-zag through the neighborhoods on roads I never drive on. What a delight to see! People are so creative with their landscaping. I saw some wonderful front yard vegetable patches, one with rows of cabbages and peppers in front of a modest ranch house, another with a colorful fence of painted one-by-ones arranged in diamond shapes, like a row of God's eyes protecting the tomatoes. I saw a few signs of chicken-keeping too! Urbana has a reasonable policy about poultry, and I delight in seeing “farm animals” in town. We need more reminders of our connection to animals. Keeping them out of sight does nothing to encourage compassion and humanity in our relationships to animals we use for food and clothing. Seeing them reminds us of our connection.

Front yard vegetable gardening seems so wise. You get the best of all possible worlds. The work in the garden gives you fresh air and exercise. You're in the front yard, so you can visit with neighbors. You get double savings of petroleum products and carbon emissions: first by not mowing your yard, second by not paying to have the food trucked from halfway across the country or even the globe. Oh, and of course the savings on groceries, and knowing you have fresh, good food. And with a little luck, and a little more rain, the harvest might be enough to share. If we have another year like this one, front yard container gardens might be the way to go.

Garden in Beauty;

Bike in Peace;

Blessed Be.

ROGUE HARVEST

WE HAVE LEFT THE DROUGHT BEHIND TO VISIT OUR FAMILY IN THE BLUE RIDGE MOUNTAINS OF VIRGINIA. We started in the middle of the night and got into Ohio just as the sun was coming up. This was Ursula's first big trip with us, and she was sleeping in the back. My dog comes up to Chicago with us often, but that's only a short jaunt. She is quiet and patient in the car. At rest stops she is eager for a walk and water, a little break from lying down. But we hadn't thought ahead about what we would do for a longer stop for a late breakfast. We decided to take turns in the restaurant. I wasn't particularly hungry, so Ursa and I went on a walk around the cluster of chain restaurants. I'm not fond of chains, since they are all the same no matter if you're in the mountains or the prairie or the seaside or the middle of nowhere. But here at the sausage place on the border of Ohio and West Virginia I made a discovery. I had noticed before that sometimes at the corporate chains, you can find poorly pruned apple trees amongst the ubiquitous flowering crabs, but here, with time to ponder, as I walked my little black dog I figured out why. These chains tend to landscape with what they probably think of as low maintenance trees, hence the flowering crabs. But if you just plant a crab and don't prune it, it will sometimes revert back to the apple tree in the rootstock. These apples may be smaller, and more on the tart side, but they are very respectable eating and great for pie making.

How do I really feel about these corporations that suck the culture out of a region and wash it with a deadening homogeneity? Well, “hate” is a very strong word. Let's just say that I dislike immensely to drive 8 hours to arrive at a restaurant identical to the one at home. But here, in a cardboard, artificial community encompassing the sausage place, the 24 hour breakfast place, a couple of hotels and gas stations, and a drive through taco place and a couple of burger joints, I figure I can pinch a few apples if I happen to find them. Clearly nobody else wants them, except maybe a rogue squirrel or a rat that frequents the dumpsters out back of each of these places. I fill my arms with apples and hope that another sharp-eyed baker of pies will find the rest. 

Back on the road, over hills and under them, we find ourselves on a two lane highway snaking through the mountains. Here, everything is green, and flowers bloom as they do in my dreams. I believe the Blue Ridge Mountains also suffer from a drought, but not as heavily as we suffer in the Midwest. At any rate, the ramble of Black Eyed Susans at the side of the road gave me a melancholy homesickness for what I didn't have at home. We arrive in time for hugs and a tour around the hunting lodge turned family homestead, and a walk down the path to see the remains of an even older dwelling. Nothing left but the stone fireplace and chimney, about 30 feet tall. A great place, we are told, for a barbeque picnic, especially in the winter, and it sounds lovely. Ursula thinks she is in heaven, tearing ahead on the path and racing up the hills. In the fading daylight we find our way home to dinner. Inside we are temporarily distracted with catching up and visiting, and my dog snatches two steaks from the counter before being caught. Babs, ever the hostess, graciously brushes off our apologies, and she and I rethink the menu, cubing the meat and piercing it alternately with mushrooms and peppers for shish-kebabs. Ursula sleeps off her crime, while we talk and visit and eat and drink into the night.

 In the morning, Ursa and I take a walk down the path and scare up a turkey family. They crossed the path about 20 yards ahead of us, 2 or 3 adults and several half grown poults. My dog took off, but then thought better of the chase when I called her back. Then I thought better of an early morning walk with just the two of us. It's not that I don't want to meet the resident bear; I do. I just don't want to meet him alone, or even with a silly dog. Even with one who looked exactly like a bear cub when she was little. Even one who shares his name.

RAMBLE IN BEAUTY;
WANDER IN PEACE;
BLESSED BE!

THISTLE DROUGHT

WHITE, PUFFY CLOUDS SAIL OVERHEAD...

IN BIRDLAND WE'RE STILL IN A DROUGHT, BUT ONE MORE FLOWER IS BLOOMING ANYWAY. Thistle, of course. I always leave at least 3 of them wherever they care to pop up in the yard, because they are a favorite of butterflies when they bloom. This year one has come up, majestic and brave, as tall as I am, and prickly to match the weather, and has finally sent out tight, purple blossoms. Some are blooming and some have already gone to seed. I've been seeing more goldfinches this year than ever, and they are drawn to my thistle. Today one perches on top, its weight making the whole plant sway. The bird can't wait for the second bloom of the downy thistle, when the flower opens a sphere of ghostly snowflakes. My goldfinch digs into the still closed seed head. One by one shots of thistledown float on the hot breeze as the bird's head jerks and pulls at the down, extracting its lunch.

...BUT PROMISE NO RAIN.

White, puffy clouds sail overhead, but promise no rain. We did have a little yesterday evening. I was watering my poor garden, as I do every day, and noticed a dark embankment to the Northwest. We were on the sunny side of the storm, and it seemed as if the edge would pass just a few miles to the north. But then the wind changed course and before I finished my cycle of watering, the storm was heading for us full steam ahead. It was getting to be chicken dark and I put away my hose and turned to the chickens who perch on top of the coop every night as the sun gets low over the dying corn.

Earlier generations of chickens used to put themselves to bed at the appropriate time. All I had to do was remember to shut the door of the coop after them. This flock, like kids who try to delay bedtime, sits on top and I have to scoop them up one by one, and toss them through the door of the coop. Usually a few jump off and begin to circle the coop, but Ursula stands ready to help me herd them in. My dog hasn't always appreciated her role as chicken-herd, but now I think she understands. She actually taught herself to do this by watching me. One night I didn't remember to put the chickens to bed until way past twilight. It was a night of no moon, and pitch black. I was feeling for chickens in the dark and got most of them in, but sure enough, a few jumped off and had to be herded in. I was doing the best I could in the dark, when I heard a rushing rustle and Ursula was after one that I didn't see escape into the weeds. I heard her catch the chicken, heard its mournful cry. I shouted at Ursa to let loose of the chicken, and ran to feel around in the brush in the dark with no luck. Meanwhile I saw Ursula run back toward the coop. I finally decided to leave the probably wounded, possibly dead, chicken alone, and bring the dog in for the night. Next morning, I counted the chickens when I let them out, trying to figure out who was missing...but everyone was accounted for! When Ursula ran past me in the dark, she must have had that chicken in her mouth. She knew just where it belonged. Since then, I have let her help me herd them in at night, talking calmly to keep her relaxed.

As we put the chickens to bed last night, the wind was whipping the trees into a frenzy, and fat, welcome raindrops were hitting us, dampening the dust. I shut the door and we ran for the house to watch the storm from inside. The storm hovered over us, raining furiously for about 15 minutes and then moved back north again. The gauge measured 2/10 of an inch. My rain barrel is ¼ full. They say it takes an inch a week just to keep the drought from getting worse, but at this point, anything is welcome. We'll just keep looking at the sky and praying for rain. 

RAIN IN BEAUTY;
DRINK IN PEACE;
BLESSED BE.

THE SCENT OF LAVENDER

THE SCENT OF LAVENDER

I USED TO BE A MORNING PERSON. No matter how late I stayed up, or how tired I still was, I'd be up at the crack of dawn, unwilling, but relentlessly awake. The moment the sun creeps into my window, sleep is over for me. In many ways this was a good thing. When the sun rises early in the summer, I'm up, and after the blood starts flowing and the grogginess wears off, I'm energetic. I try to get most of my work done early, while the energy is high. It's a little harder in the winter, when I often have to get up before the sun, but I have always embraced that rhythm. The flip side is that I can't stay up late. Come 9 PM, I'm yawning and stretching and thinking about my cozy bed.

But everything changed when I made myself a lavender eye pillow. I first discovered them in yoga class, where we would spend the last five minutes of the session in shivasana, or corpse pose, lying flat on our backs with our arms outstretched. I'd take off my glasses and cover my eyes with a lavender eye pillow, and would instantly relax deeply. It was partly the gentle scent of the lavender, and partly the gentle weight on my eyes, blocking all light that might distract me from my relaxation. Often, I would nearly settle into sleep before Bev's voice would call me back.

 I made myself a lavender eye pillow. It was very simple. I cut a rectangle out of my favorite dress, after I finally admitted that I was not the only one who could see the tiny holes in the floral pattern. I cut it a bit wider than the eye pillows at yoga class—more like a card envelope than a business envelope. I wanted it to cover more of my face. I sewed it up on three sides and filled it with a mixture of rice and lavender buds. I drizzled some lavender oil on the mixture, stirred it and let it sit for awhile. Then I poured the mixture into the pillow and sewed up the last side. I stitched around the edges a couple of times to make sure it wouldn't leak.

WHAT IS IN THE SKY?

I keep that little pillow on my bedside table, and in the morning, when the sun gives its first, creeping call, I decide whether I've had enough sleep. If not, I grab that pillow and lay it over my eyes and let the gentle weight, the powdery scent, and the quiet darkness lull me back to sleep. The only problem with getting this extra sleep, is that it's pushing my bedtime later and later. I'm now in a cycle of late nights and late mornings, and I suppose I'll live to regret all this when school starts again.

LAVENDER EYE PILLOW

This morning, it was after 9 when I got up. I went out to feed the chickens and saw something strange and wondrous in the sky. I was a little frightened, because it was like the whole world was covered with a flossy grey blanket. The sun was nowhere to be seen, and the blanket was low over the corn and filled with puffs and swirls. I sat down in the glider, and as I looked at the sky, I could feel that I had seen something like this a long time ago. Then I noticed another strange feeling. I wasn't sweating! It was cool. I let the breeze wash over me as I sat in wonderment.

SLEEP IN BEAUTY; PRAY FOR RAIN;
BLESSED BE.

As I sat, the breeze grew stronger and started blowing holes in my protective blanket, and I could see the familiar blue of the sky. Around the pockets of blue are the bright, puffy clouds that carry no rain. And now the breeze comes from the east, pushing whole parade. For a few minutes a big hole of blue sails directly above us. The shadows return and I feel the sun on my back. I sit with my chickens, and together we wait, and wait for rain.

CLAIMING OUR WATER RIGHTS--PROTECTING OUR AQUIFER

IN BIRDLAND, WE MADE IT THROUGH ONE HEAT WAVE, ONLY TO RIDE ANOTHER. 90 degrees seems cool! It rained enough to dampen the dust, but not enough to soak in. The chicory is blooming, finally, with the Queen Anne's Lace, which has a fat taproot. This drought makes me take seriously our responsibilities to the land. My grandmother used to say she wasn't worried about our well drying up, since the Mahomet Aquifer feeds it, and, she said, “This land will be a desert before that ever dries up.” She was optimistic in the long run, believing in the bounty that runs beneath us, but she took a drought seriously. The drought of '85 inspired the original Farm Aid concerts. When some Hollywood Starlet came out to sing in the concert she said, “It's worse than I thought. The corn is dying in the fields!” Since that first concert came to Champaign, Illinois in September, the corn was drying in the fields, like it does every year before harvest. My grandmother laughed and laughed about that. We did have a crop that year, though it may not have been as bountiful as usual. This year, it looks worse.

The tassels on the corn came, bringing the warm pollen smell, amplified in the heat, but that smell didn't call up any rain. The golden silk emerged from the ears, and then dried and turned a deep brown. The plants themselves are doing that pineapple thing, where the leaves curl up and stick up straight. The other day Ursa got excited and chased a chicken into the brush near the back field. My dog is pretty well trained, but occasionally she forgets that she is. The little chicken hunkered down in the brush and I had a word with the dog. Then I had a closer look at the corn. The ears look like toy ears, and now with the husks beginning to dry, I don't think they'll have many kernels on them. I'm not really a farmer, and I don't know what Jim and Sean will say, but I sure hope the rest of the field doesn't look like this. We got a little rain when the pollen was rising, but not enough. I was here, too, for the drought of 88-89, the worst in U.S. history, maybe until now. I wasn't as tuned in to what was growing around me as I am now, but I do remember the fretful waiting, all summer, for rain that didn't come. 

I walk around the yard with the hose every night and spot water the flowers. It just barely keeps them alive. Even native plants, like Jerusalem Artichoke and Black Eyed Susans are not just wilting, but dying. I don't water the lawn, only the flowers along my little path, and the vegetables. I think about the water cycle: How we depend on that aquifer; how we pull water out of it with no thought to how water gets there in the first place. Many years ago, maybe 15, a couple of scientists knocked on my door and asked permission to measure the water level in our well. Apparently it was an ongoing study. Being curious, I went out and watched them at their work. I asked if the water levels were going down. They had apparently measured our well before, and they told me that yes, the well was lower than it had been previously. At the time they told me not to worry too much, but that we should not think of our aquifer as limitless. According to The Mahomet AquiferConsortium, overpumpumping is the greatest threat to our water supply. I haven't seen those scientists lately, and not sure when they last measured the well in my back yard, but I look around and see how much more water we are using now. In fifteen years, how many new houses have been built just around here, with expansive lawns? How many new swimming pools? I try to conserve water in little ways—turning off the shower while I soap up, running the dishwasher (which I've heard uses less water than washing by hand) only when it's full. But how can that compete with industrial usage, which by some estimates is responsible for about 40% of consumption? How many more industries are sucking water out of our aquifer at unsustainable rates? The only way I see to protect our aquifer is to claim it as our aquifer. Let's call it “Grandmother” and honor it. Let's get educated, active and involved in our future here in this region. The waters of life may depend on it.

DRINK IN BEAUTY;
IMMERSE IN PEACE;
BLESSED BE

THIS YEAR THE CORN IS 
DYING IN THE FIELDS

LOOKING FOR LAVENDER

IN BIRDLAND WE GOT A LITTLE RAIN--JUST ENOUGH TO TEASE US. Not enough to turn off the heat or dry up the dust or coax the wild blue asters into blossom. The corn is in tassel and maybe it was enough rain to get a little bit of a crop this year, but not a big harvest. The corn is sending its sweet, sweaty smell out with its pollen. It's a green, fertile smell, but not particularly pretty. Grandma always used to say that we need rain the most when the corn was tasseling, but we are still several inches down. The last rain was maybe 2/10ths of an inch, and we need an inch a week to pull us out of this drought. Even with watering my garden every evening, it grows so slowly without rain.

What we need is lavender. Lavender will bloom despite the dry weather. Last week some of my knitting friends made a trip up by Rantoul to visit the lavender farm at Sharp'sCrossing. It was hot, but the heat diffused the lovely scent so that when we got out of the car, wafts of perfume greeted us. We could see the smaller field from the road, and turned into the driveway where we saw a big, white barn with old wagon wheels spaced around the wall. A larger field of lavender was next to the barn. We went first into the barn where we could sample tiny little lavender shortbread cookies and see various crafts—soaps, tinctures, sachets, pillows, lotions, wreathes and wands—all made from lavender. In the barn we picked up scissors and rubber bands, and then went out to the fields to cut bundles. There were three varieties, I think, and I picked a bundle each of two of them. As we walked out of the barn, the owner called after us, “Cut ginormous bunches.” she said. “There's plenty out there.”

The plants grew in regular diagonal rows through heavy-duty weed barrier. They grew in pretty, rounded cushions. Some plants were already harvested, and these were hemispheres of greenery, almost like topiaries. Others had sprays of tight, blue flowers, an open invitation to the bees and other pollinators. But I didn't see too many bees. Maybe it was the drought—or the mid-day heat. One field was long stemmed, and I picked plenty of that. I cut and sniffed, and cut and sniffed until my nose didn't work any more. Then I took my bundle inside and started again in the other field. They wrapped up my two bundles in purple tissue paper and gave me ribbon and the directions for making a lavender wand. Lavender is one of my remedies when I have trouble sleeping, and a wand would be just the thing to keep by my bedside. I also got a spritzer bottle of lavender water in case the wand doesn't work its magic.

At home, I have old glass bottles in all the windows, dug up from a stream in our woods, where people sneak in to dump trash. I filled each of the bottles with a few stems of lavender to freshen the rooms. At the lavender farm they had a bunch in a vase that they said was a year old, and it was still fragrant. I figure I'll keep these in the bottles until next year, and then I'll take the buds off these stems to use for a new eye pillow. The lavender lady said to put the stems in a pillowcase and roll your hands over it to remove the buds from the stems. 

I was inspired to research the growing of lavender and found it is drought resistant. I'll get a couple of plants to add to my path to joy, or maybe I'll start another path in the sun, just west of the garden and chicken coop. One thing leads to another in my planning, and I begin dreaming about the marriage of bees and lavender: lavender honey!

Rain in Beauty; Bloom in Peace; Blessed Be.

NEW ROOS IN BIRDLAND

IN BIRDLAND WE HAVEN'T MOWED SINCE MAY, AND THE GRASS IS STILL AS CLOSELY CROPPED AS IT WAS THE LAST TIME I HAD THE MOWER OUT.  Only now it's as dry and brown as shredded wheat. Everything in the yard is waiting for rain, including me. I generally have something blooming all summer, but the wild Day Lilies are all but gone—only a few bedraggled blossoms when I picked a bouquet for the table yesterday. The tame Day Lilies have mostly decided it isn't worth the bother, and the Asters and Sedum that should bloom next are all stunted, buds not even swollen with hope. I drag myself out in the yard to make sure the animals all have plenty of water, and then I go inside and wait for evening. I water the vegetables and the flowers, keeping them alive, but not thriving. The humid sky muffles the colors, and the atmosphere doesn't seem so friendly now.

Thank Goodness for
Queen Anne's Lace!

Thank goodness for Queen Anne's Lace. I mowed around a patch in the back yard a few years ago, and it has expanded to become a small oasis of green in the desert of my back yard. These wild carrots are not native to Illinois; they escaped from cultivation, but they do so well in the wild that I count them among the common weeds that I am encouraging to take over my yard, patch by patch. I'll bet their fat taproots keep them from the distress showing in all the rest of my flowers. I don't even water the Queen Anne's Lace, and it provides a landing pad for all kinds of butterflies and other pollinators. I watch a bumbling bee skate across the top one wide flower, then another. It is buzzing and rubbing its belly in what looks like ecstasy, pollen dust rising in the arid heat. It's a good thing I can supply a little island of green and pollen to tide these insects over until the rains come.

We have two new roosters in Birdland—a couple of Golden Sebrights. I named them Hopscotch and Roosevelt. The Mayor of Myra brought them to me. She read about the loss of my flock a while back, and offered them to me. I have such kind readers! She is Myra's only resident, so we decided she was the Mayor. She arrived in a charming dune buggy with her gift of two little roosters in a cat carrier. We had a nice visit, touring around Birdland. She told me about her barn and showed me pictures of her chicken coop. I showed her the aviary, and introduced her to the 4 parakeets, Rumpus, Cloudy, Frida, and Dandelion. She told me a story about how her mother lured a feral parakeet into a cage to bring inside out of the weather. He had been hanging out with the sparrows, and had developed a sparrow's song. She mentioned goats, and she shouldn't have done that, because one of these days I'm going to drive over to Myra, invite myself in, and have her tell me all about goats. I'll take notes.

New Roos in Birdland

 We transferred the roosters to my cat carrier to wait for dark. It's easier to integrate new chickens into the flock if you do it in the dark. They get used to each others' sounds and smells in the night and wake up in the morning and nobody can be sure who is supposed to be there and who is new. My chicks are starting to fill out and just beginning to look like chickens, not chicks, but they are the same size as the new roosters, who are banties. In the morning, I was a little worried, walking out to the coop to open the door. I was afraid they might have a few scuffles before figuring out the new pecking order, but everyone was quietly milling around the chicken yard, the waiting punctuated occasionally by some stimulating crows. I opened the door and they started their morning, busily scratching and searching in the grass. The new roos kept watch over the flock, one eye on the sky, looking for the rain.

Crow in Beauty;
Wait in Peace;
Blessed Be!

BLESSING THE SCORCHED EARTH

DRY AS CRACKER CRUMBS

THE SOIL IN MY GARDEN IS AS DRY AS BREAD CRUMBS. MAKE THAT CRACKER CRUMBS. Birdland got a nice rain earlier in the week, a quarter inch, which would have been respectable if we hadn't already been in the midst of a drought. But here we are, and now the ground is warm and dry as dust even in the shade. Luckily it's fairly cool. But even though the sun is not scorching every drop of moisture out of the earth, the grass is brown and even native plants like Jerusalem Artichoke are wilting. 

URSA HAS UNEARTHED
A MOLE

A wooly bear caterpillar has succumbed to the dryness and lies as still and stiff as a fuller brush. I pick it up to make sure it's not just playing possum, but its bristles break off in my hand. It has shrunk itself into half its usual length. I turn it over and its six arms are curled inward, the claws still sharp enough to cling to my thumb.

We water the garden every evening, and the seeds I poked into the beds last week are sprouting: cucumber, beans, and peas at the edges to climb up the chicken wire that coops the chickens out of the garden. Tomato and pepper plants are growing very slowly, but the tomatoes have their first blossoms. In the beds between the tomatoes, thousands of tiny sprouts show green, and I'll have to wait a few days to see how many of these are weeds mixed in with the beets and lettuce and chard I planted.

I'm sitting in the glider under some mulberry and choke cherry trees, enjoying the breeze and the view. A smooth motion catches my eye: it is the chicks, sweeping in one group across the yard from the shelter of the lilac to the shade of the big ornamental quince. They remind me of cartoon birds, tiptoeing to hide behind first one tree, then another. Ursula roots up something in the yard, oblivious. After a few minutes, the flock begins to leave the shelter of the quince, and graze and cheep in the yard, but one of them startles and they all run under the pine tree to perch in a line on a low branch. They are all such copycats. The chicks are growing suddenly bigger, the Lavender Orpingtons a few weeks behind the rest. I bought all but the Lavender Orps as pullets, but I'm beginning to suspect that a few of them are actually cockerels. 

WOOLY BEAR CATERPILLAR

One of the Rhode Island Reds, and one of the Auracanas have suspiciously red combs. All chickens of either sex will have combs of some kind, but some breeds have prominent combs and wattles, and others have just a hint of these. Hens have red combs when they are laying, but a pullet who has not yet come into lay, will have a pink comb. The first sign that you may have a rooster, is a comb in a young chick just beginning to show red. The comb of one of the lavender orps seems a little red, but I bought them as straight run (unsexed) and the best possible combination for them would be one cockerel and two pullets, because then I'd have a laying pen, and could breed more, so seeing red on the little lavender may be just wishful thinking.

Ursula pounces suddenly, crumbs of earth spray up behind her, her snout buried up to her eyes. I get up to see what she has found. It is a mole, now lying on its back in the grass. My dog sniffs and then trots away, head high, tail wagging, amazingly abandoning her quarry. 

The mole has a thick, grey pelt and a strange, elongated nose—almost a tiny trunk, no visible eyes, and big, flat, pink hands, like paddles, with long, tough nails. The hands are turned backwards, awkward-looking to us, but suiting its life of swimming through the earth just fine. I know an unearthed mole doesn't have much chance of survival, and within minutes it is dead. Our yard has been free of moles for many years, and now we trip over mole hills at every turn. I'm not exactly sorry that it's dead, but I stand for a moment and bless its solitary life, burrowing, burrowing through the earth, always searching for something.

EXCAVATE BEAUTY;
 BURROW IN PEACE;
BLESSED BE.