SMALL PACKAGES

HOW LONG HAS IT BEEN SINCE I'VE SET EGGS IN AN INCUBATOR AND TURNED THEM PATIENTLY FOR THREE WEEKS? Many years. We did it in the early days a few times, but mostly bought day old chicks by mail—a different kind of patience, a different kind of waiting. When you order chicks by mail, you get a range of dates they might arrive. Expect an early call. Our postmistress usually calls before 7 to tell me that a suspicious package has arrived in my name—full of cheeping! I drive the mile and a half to town and she cheerfully hands me a box. She tells me she likes this kind of package, but last week someone ordered bees! She was afraid of the buzzing and didn't want to get too close even though it was tightly wrapped. I don't tell her that I aspire to someday receive a mail order package of bees.

How can they send chicks through the mail? They have to put enough chicks into the box to keep them warm through body heat to make the trip, Some places will send “warmer chicks” if you order only a few They are cushioned in straw. Before they hatch, chicks absorb all the rest of the yolk through the umbilicus (Yes, chickens have umbilical cords!) and that gives them all the food and water they need for the next 24 hours. After hatching, they need time to dry off and learn to walk. No time for eating until those important tasks are finished. They make the trip overnight and I get to open the box of peeping chicks. I used to order the bargain mix, which really just means the leftovers from the hatchery. Opening the box for me was even more exciting, since I got to see what kinds of chicks I had. They're not all yellow. Look at a hatchery catalog sometime to see the colorful assortment of chicks. We always had fun transferring them from the box to the brooder, counting them carefully. The hatchery often throws in one or two extra, in case some don't make the trip. When I put them in the brooder, the first task is to show them each, one by one, where the food and water are. I dip their beaks in the water, and set them down, so they know where to find it again when they are thirsty.

Well, that was how we used to do it, but this spring I got a hankering to hatch out some Serama chicks. Seramas are sometimes called "the teacup chicken" because they are so tiny. A full-grown rooster is about the size of a 6-week-old kitten rolled up in a ball. Before I could talk myself out of it, I ordered a dozen Serama eggs. I set up an incubator and marked the eggs with an X on one side so I could tell that I was giving each egg a full turn. I realized later I should have put an O on the other side. 

My memory of hatching is pretty foggy. You need to turn them 3 times a day (or 5 or any odd number). If you let them lie on the same side for 21 days (or even for most of that time) the chicks will develop unevenly--one side of their body bigger than the other. I did faithfully turn them, but I forgot the part about leaving them still for the last 3 days. In fact, I didn't remember that until yesterday, when I went to turn them and heard peeping! 

At first I thought it was my imagination, or that a bird had flown into the vent fan again and made a nest. I had read that you could hear chicks peeping from inside the eggs, but I had never heard it myself. Oh my! Time to get a brooder ready. Three eggs had tiny chips. When I exclaimed the peeping grew louder. They were responding to my voice. I kept checking, but the cracks didn't seem to get any bigger. I checked the humidity. If it's too high, the chicks can drown in their shells. The humidity was in the right range. I had to go to town, and when I returned I found 2 sets of eggshell halves and 2 tiny, wet chicks peeping and trying to stand. The chick uses its egg tooth to cut the shell in a perfect circle, all the way around, so the top of the egg comes off like a little hat. The chicks went into the brooder (a box with a light bulb), but I didn't hear any more peeping. The next morning, one more wet chick was in the incubator, and he joined his nest mates. Will more eggs hatch? The adventure begins.

Wait in Beauty; Hatch in Peace; Blessed Be.

URSULA AND THE GOLDEN EGGS

IN BIRDLAND THE SAGA CONTINUES. We thought we hit upon a method, if not the perfect solution, then at least a stop gap measure to keep Ursula from eating all the eggs my chickens lay. My dog recently discovered the treasure trove of golden deliciousness hiding in the nesting boxes in the coop. Instead of finding eggs in the coop, I'd find empty shells near the kitchen door, just taunting me. In the morning, after letting the chickens out, we decided to lure them into the garden coop with a big scoop of pellets. They ran happily in and began scratching at what I spilled there, and I went out and shut the door. We originally built the garden coop to protect the garden from the chickens' beaks. It works well for tomatoes, cucumbers and greens, but after the frost, we encourage the chickens to spend some time there to cultivate the soil, eating grubs and bugs and scratching up any weeds that come after the last harvest. It's a great way to get a jump start on preparing the ground for spring planting, and to fertilize the soil. Well, I figured if we put the chickens in the garden coop for the day, they would lay their eggs in there, safe from the dog.

The first day everything was fine. They laid their eggs in the corner and Ursula looked sadly from the yard as I collected them in the afternoon and then let the chickens out to wander a little before chicken dark. The next day, I led them out there again, and all was well when I left, but when I arrived home after work, I was met with 2 half eggshells on the front walk, and another next to the walnut tree. How did Ursula get the eggs out of the garden coop? I went around the house to find the garden coop door was open, the chickens scratching in the spinney of woods nearby. Did Ellis open the door and let them out? He said no, maybe I forgot to latch the door.

The next day I arrived home to a repeat of the previous day—empty eggshells on the ground, garden coop open, chickens at large, dog fat and happy in the sun. Ursula had figured out how to open the door by pulling with her claws, despite a latch. Well, played, puppy. Well played; but the game is not over yet. We needed a new plan. I thought about making a dog excluder in the regular chicken coop. She can get into the coop through the door, so Michael screwed a bar across the opening, cutting the space in half. Still big enough for the chickens to get in and out, but too small for a silly black dog to squeeze through, especially one who has grown fat on rich egg yolks.

I got 3 brown eggs and a tan one that day. All was well. Problem solved. Or so we thought. Next morning was Saturday, and I slept in a little. I let Ursula out and went to make my coffee. When I stepped outside with a scoop of food to let the chickens out, I couldn't believe my eyes. They were about a hundred feet off, scratching in the beanfield. Did I forget to shut them up the night before? No. the door was still shut. I investigated to find that the whole back end of the coop had been peeled away, 2 layers of chicken wire and some fencewire. Did coyotes come in the night? No. They would have eaten not just the eggs, but the chickens. The chickens were all still with us. We stapled back the chicken wire and got out the big guns—our behavior modification system. We have a little device we call the “bad dog egg.” It is how we got Ursula to stop chasing the chickens. It emits a high pitched sound that we can't hear, but is apparently very unpleasant to Ursula. One beep from the bad dog egg and she stops whatever it is she is doing. The drawback is that it requires someone to constantly monitor her behavior. Luckily, it was the weekend, so we could devote some energy and attention to making sure Ursa stayed away from the coop. For now, it seems to be working out. Yesterday's egg count was Mary—3, Ursula—0.

Walk in Beauty; Work in Peace; Blessed Be

 

NEW CHICKS IN BIRDLAND

URSA SURVEYS BIRDLAND

BIRDLAND IS SUNNY AND GREEN. The rain barrel is full and the little pond is fresh. A few weeks ago I dropped in a plastic bag with 12 feeder fish. You let the temperature equalize before you open the bag. That way the shock of cold water won't kill them. Later, when I tore open the plastic, the fish swam promptly under the leaves of the water lilies and now hang out in the roots of the cattails. They swim up to sun themselves, but they're shy yet. Soon they will learn to come out when I sprinkle fish food on the surface of the little pond, their mouths opening to nibble the flakes. On the edges the Day Lilies are bushy, and sending up stalks with little buds like the pods of squat green beans. The flat leaves of Ghost Lilies are drooping, yellowing. Soon they will fade back into the ground and we'll forget all about them. I almost did forget them in the hustle of new blossoms in the yard. 

MORNING COFFEE

BIG, SHOWY, EGGPLANT
COLORED BLOOMS

Sunny Daisies bounce in the wind. My grandmother's peonies open their generous blossoms, each almost a bouquet in itself, perfuming the yard. A few of my new Irises are blooming for the first time—big, showy blooms in a dark Eggplant, a soft, buttery yellow and white, another the deep, golden color of the yolks of eggs. The eggs I won't taste again until December. The yard is quiet now, after last week's coyote attack. Well, quiet of chickens, though we still hear the musical trills of frogs, and the chirpings of the parakeets in the aviary, and the singing of all kinds of wild birds. But the house, on the other hand, is another story. Listen carefully! In the back, closed in behind a sliding door, can you hear the soft peeping of new chicks? We'd been searching for a solution to our problem. I didn't want to order a flock of 25 that most hatcheries require, when a dozen would do. We looked online and found a few local possibilities, but the competition is fierce. Local broods seem to go fast and only one person with day old chicks answered my queries. These were the rare Lavender Orpingtons, and I was sorely tempted to order a few, but $9 each was too rich for my blood. There was a picture, and they are just lovely! Not really lavender, but a soft grey with rosy overtones. I don't have to use too much imagination to see Lavender. I thought about getting a breeding trio—a cockerel and 2 pullets—but these were straight run day olds. I only had a chance of getting one of each sex. We kept looking, kept emailing, prowled the farm stores in town for chicks.

MY GRANDMOTHER'S
PEONIES OPEN

Finally, after I had just about decided to order 25 from a hatchery, I came up lucky at the farm store. They were selling not just day old chicks, but day old pullets and I bought an even dozen—4 Buff Orpingtons, the soft, fluffy, good-natured chickens who make gentle, reasonable mothers and lay big tan eggs; 4 Rhode Island Reds, more businesslike, who lay brown eggs; and 4 silly Auracanas—rumpless, bearded ladies who lay eggs in a greenish, bluish tint. They're still under lights in the house, but we've been allowing them playtime out in the chick creeper. They are content scratching in the grass, running back to the warmth of the light when they get chilly. Soon they'll begin feathering out and will graduate to more and more time away from the lights until they can stay in the yard all day and just come in the house at night.

KEEPING WARM

they are content scratching
in the grass

The chicks will feather out, grow gangly and awkward, and finally take the matronly shape of a hen and begin to lay eggs around the winter Solstice, when I turn on the lights for warmth. Perhaps a few of these pullets will turn out to be cockerels after all. It's happened. It's hard to tell the difference in a day old chick. One way or another, we'll need to get a rooster or two to protect the flock as best they can. Maybe in a few weeks I'll email the woman with the Lavender Orps. Maybe she'll have a few left. Maybe she'll sell me a breeding trio or at least a pair, on the cheep.

SCATTER BEAUTY; CIRCULATE PEACE;
BLESSED BE!

EGGS OF POSSIBILITY

WHAT DO YOU DO WHEN YOU WAKE UP TO DISASTER? Do you carefully set aside the last four eggs for hatching? Or do you decide to savor them one by one? Do you replay the night before in your head over and over, thinking how you could have changed one little thing, and that would have made the difference? Do you curse the world or yourself or another? Or do you vow to be more organized, stronger, smarter, kinder, from here on out? Do you mourn what you've lost? Or claim what remains to you?

IRIS PAST THEIR BLOOM.

 Yesterday morning I woke to a long streak of feathers blown across the yard, and a worrisome quietness. I opened the lid of the coop to a sad vista. Not the gruesome scene of a weasel attack, with headless bodies lying limp. No, this was, I think, the work of coyotes. The coop door hanging open, piles of down in the corners of nest boxes, on the floor. The smell of feathers hangs in the air. I walk around the yard, calling for survivors. Maybe some managed to run under the shelter of the cedar grove, where they hide when they see a hawk circling. Maybe someone made it to the machine shed. The yard remains quiet and I find brave Chaucer lying still in the bed of poppies. His lovely red comb and wattles are stark against the green, the heads of poppies keeping quiet watch. He has kept his feathers, but the back of his neck is bloodied, his feet stretched out behind him. I imagine the heavy spurs landed some blows before he was caught. He would have fought bravely to protect his flock.

IRIS BLOOM

 I look out into the cornfield, now softly striped with fuzzy rows of green, new life emerging. Another spray of feathers halfway to the grass waterway shows where the dogs had their picnic. I sigh and return to the house. Sadness sweeps over me, but I can't let it defeat me. I've been here before. I know that living in the country comes with joys, but the country can also extract a price. I can't really be angry with predators who are just expressing their nature. In fact, predators help us keep an equilibrium. Coyotes, possums, skunks, hawks, weasels all eat chickens, yes. But they also eat rats, mice, and even rabbits whose gentle persona belies their capacity for destruction if they are not kept in balance by predation.

In the kitchen I find four eggs from yesterday. Two are white, one tan, one a deep brown. I could set these in an incubator and in three weeks have some chicks. Or I could eat these, and buy some day old chicks already hatched. What to do? Either way, it will be a good, long time before I have fresh eggs in my kitchen to coddle again. Perhaps December. I look out into the yard to consider. I see the summer laid out in front of me, full of opportunity. The sweet rocket is at its peak; Daisies are just beginning to bloom. Peonies are tight round bulbs ready to burst into a full blossom. My new iris varieties are beginning to open. These are two-tone—one has lower petals of deep purple, upper petals a soft lavender—another is purple and brown. One opened with buttery yellow blossoms, another is just beginning to reveal petals of a deep, almost black, crepe.

 

PEONIES ARE TIGHT ROUND
BLOOMS READY TO BURST
IN FULL BLOSSOM.

Further out I see the brown and green corduroy fields of corn, lines going straight back to the fence row. Yes, my summer is all laid out, full of opportunity. These four eggs each contain a rich, yellow yolk. If I crack them open I will see a tiny circle with a small, bright dot in the center. If I crack the eggs open, they will be delicious. If I keep them warm and turn them three times a day for 21 days, I will have 4 chicks. Either way, these four eggs are full of possibility. What would you do?

Await Beauty; Balance Peace; Blessed Be.

A GOOD EGG

MY GAZE FALLS ON TWO EGG CODDLERS

THIS MORNING I WOKE UP GRUMPY FOR NO GOOD REASON. Maybe the weather? It's been unseasonably lovely —balmy, sunny, light winds to quickly disperse any buildup of heat. Today is overcast and very cool—mid fifties—perfectly respectable for early April. Actually, I enjoyed wearing a sweater today. Sweater weather was not the problem. It was the weather report that justified my fears that all my yard's early fertility would be nipped in the bud. Driving home from work yesterday I heard that we are under a frost warning. My peach trees have been rewarded for their floral display with tiny fuzzy fruits, like tight round pussy willows, and after a year of no peaches, I can already taste the pies of August and September. But we are not guaranteed a harvest. If we dipped down below freezing last night, those baby peaches are not showing it, nor are my peonies, pushing up shoots like small crimson trees. They are safe for today, but the warning pushes on through tonight, and I am helpless against the possibilities of another frost.

Well, if I can't control the frost, what can I control? I cast around for something to improve my mood. My gaze falls on two egg coddlers standing next to my egg rack. My friend, Elaine, first introduced me to egg coddlers. I noticed on her kitchen shelf a pretty ceramic jar, like half an egg cup with a metal lid screwed on top. I asked her about it and she told me that she collects egg coddlers. “What are those?” I wanted to know. Instead of explaining, she showed me, right then and there. Though we had just eaten lunch, she coddled us a couple of eggs. “First,” she said, setting them on the counter and unscrewing the lids, “you put a little bit of butter, salt and pepper in the cup.” She cut a little slice of butter into each cup, then grabbed the salt and pepper shakers. She set a little saucepan of water on the stovetop and broke an egg into each cup, screwed on the lids and set the egg coddlers into the pan of water to boil.

My grandmother used to occasionally serve us soft boiled eggs in egg cups. The process fascinated me. She would have us set the table with a spoon, a knife and a napkin beside an egg cup, small end up, while she boiled the eggs. We'd also have a plate with buttered toast. She would place the steaming eggs in the small cup. Using the knife, you would tap a circle in the tip of the egg, to top it. Then, you had a choice: you could use your spoon and scoop the egg out of the shell and spread it on your toast, or you could upend the egg cup and use the large side as a bowl to hold your egg while you ate it. At some point in my childhood I got squeamish about “runny eggs” and then always hard cooked my eggs. At some point we outgrew having breakfast at Nanny's house, and I had all but forgotten egg cups and soft cooked eggs.

IF I CAN'T CONTROL
THE WEATHER, WHAT
CAN I CONTROL?

Elaine and I chatted as we waited for our eggs to coddle. Quite likely I told her about Nanny's egg cups. When the timer went off she pulled the coddlers from the water and unscrewed them, handing me my first coddled egg. With the first bite I completely understood the name. The egg was soft and delicate. I gently chopped it with my spoon and each bite melted in my mouth.

ENCOURAGE BEAUTY;
CODDLE PEACE;
BLESSED BE

That first coddled egg was many years ago, but ever since I have been looking for egg coddlers without much success. Then, last week, at the thrift store, I was paying for three wooden spoons to replace the ones that Ursula ate—with a sneaky dog like mine, I can't keep a wooden spoon in the kitchen—and I happened to glance at the locked cabinet for the high-end items. There was a Royal Worcester set. Two porcelain egg coddlers in a box, including yellowed directions and recipes. I used my entire March coffee allowance, and still had to go to the car to dig in my parking meter change, but it was worth it. Now, when I wake up in a funk, I can coddle myself a little. The ritual calms me. I add herbs and a little cheese to mine, and pop the coddler in the tea pot. When the kettle sings I let the egg sit in the hot water for 4 minutes for a perfectly coddled egg, perfectly coddling my morning, and I can face the day with courage and hope.

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.

THE CUSP OF THE YEAR

IN BIRDLAND THE CHICKENS ARE GETTING USED TO THEIR WINTER COOP, BUT IT IS WARMISH AND RAINIY. They give us two eggs every day, a large brown one and a smaller white one. They’ll likely double that once we turn on the lights for warmth, but so far, their body heat in a closer space is a fine furnace. Soon enough the longer days will trigger more eggs with or without the lights. The upside on the unseasonably warm weather is that they can still find plenty of greens as they graze the yard in the daytime. I haven’t had to keep them in for the cold at all yet.

It’s hard to count chickens when they’re moving, but I think we have ten left. Yesterday, Michael called me into the kitchen and had me look out the window. High in the maple tree perched a big hawk, stark in the naked branches. The flock had taken shelter under the forsythia bushes below. I hurried outside, but the hawk had flown off. I still ran around the yard, windmilling my arms and shouting for good measure. I hope come spring we have enough hens left to set some eggs and increase the numbers again. The predators never get the roosters. The one time my little rooster got carried off, he came limping back across the back field a few days later, much the worse for wear, but still protective of his hens.

Here, on the cusp of the year, I like to think about new plans and new beginnings. In the Solstice—the longest night of the year—hides the hopeful seed of summer. That’s why it’s my favorite holiday. It’s dark; the days are short; but they can’t get any shorter. The sun will return. Gardening catalogs have been arriving for a while and I pour over them, planning. This year, how about the little cedar boxes that Cody envisioned for me so long ago? Or those tomato trees made of wooden slats—tall pyramids to provide structure for the unruly growth of July and August? Now, at Barb and Dave’s house they double as Christmas decorations, strung with tinsel and tiny lights. Or a salad table, like Susan and Brian have? I look to my friends for inspiration.

The first of January brings thoughts of resolutions, and I have a growing list. My friend, Sue, tells me that in Korea, people add a year to their age on the New Year, no matter what day they were born. She tells me, the kids welcome counting their age on the New Year, but “when we get older, we don’t like it.” She says this with a playful smile and I laugh to think how many many more New Years I have welcomed than she has. Eventually we learn to appreciate that growing number again. I tell her that by her reckoning, I would have had to wait for 11 months to celebrate my last milestone Birthday. Maybe an excuse for another party on January 1^st?

The New Year brings me more organization—for a while, at least. Maybe just thinking about the opportunity to start fresh is therapeutic? All I know is that we have a new pantry shelf to hold 50 lb. bags of flour and rolled oats. I’d been talking with my friend, Sheryl, about our common desire to take more control over our food choices. One idea was to start a buying club, where we make quarterly orders together from a whole foods distributor. The first order came and a new pantry shelf was in order.

   

This morning I awoke to the smell of fresh crepes, Ellis’ specialty. Apparently he has resolved to “beat Zelda in one day.” This required early rising to greet a morning guest, and fortification in the form of a fancy breakfast topped with blackberry preserves and yogurt. I slept late, but found him and his good friend, Landa, in the kitchen making provisions for their long day of adventures in the Kingdom of Hyrule. I went about my own day, in the Kingdom of Birdland, enjoying the gentle music of the Ocarina drifting through the house.

Greet Beauty: Determine Peace: Blessed Be.

GREET BEAUTY; DETERMINE PEACE; BLESSED BE