NUT BY NUT

IN BIRDLAND THE LACK OF A REAL WINTER IS BEGINNING TO BE A DISAPPOINTMENT. The warm, clear days are beautiful, sure, but I can't seem to dress for the weather, and I think we only had a fire in the wood stove once. I'm not sure it will be cold enough again to fire it up, and now it seems like a big waste of iron and space. I've been mulling over the difference between “putting things up for winter,” and hoarding. In the fall I collected baskets full of walnuts that fell from the tree in my yard, and bit by bit, have been shelling them. It's a lot of work—husking off the hulls (and dying my fingers a deep brown) and then cracking off the hard wooden shells. The outer husks come in various degrees of freshness, from a bright green (which still dyes my fingers dark) with a sharp, crisp scent—to a damp deep brown smelling of soil and rotting off the inner shell, leaving brown-black, sandy, wet crumbs all over my hands. Sometimes the hulls have dried to a firm, papery texture, and many of these I can slice with my nut-picker and open the halves with my thumbs, but often I have to just put them in the nutcracker, dried husk and all.

It's slow work, but I enjoy it. I generally watch a movie, or, better yet, listen to the radio while I'm picking the nuts—you have to keep a close watch, because even a small shard of shell in a bite of walnut is hard on the teeth. I freeze the nut meats, because they go rancid so quickly. Right now I have a half gallon in a jar in the deep freeze, and a smaller plastic container in the fridge freezer. I'm proud of my work, but over the holidays I got busy with other projects and put the nuts aside for awhile. When I finally returned to them, I brought up a half bushel up from the basement, where I had stored them. These were now dried, grey pods, and I set to work.

Imagine my dismay when the first one, then ten, then all but a few opened to reveal...no nuts. The shells cracked easily, but the meats had dried out to thin mahogany colored bits of paper. The essence of the nut—the oil, the flesh, the flavor—was gone, leaving only a paper cut out to remind us that the nut was there. All my hoarding was wasted.  

 I'd been using the nutshells to mulch my path up to the front door. Walnut trees give off toxins that kill other plants, and I'm not sure whether the toxins are in the shells and husks. I didn't want to add these to my regular compost for the garden, so I decided to use them where I don't want plants to grow. The walnut gravel makes a nice, brown texture on my path, but you can't walk on it barefoot. Nutshells are sharp! I sadly took my bowl of shells out and spilled them on the path, thinking how the nuts I have in the freezer will have to last me until fall, and, oh, how I love to bake with walnuts.

In the yard I still had a small pile of nuts left over after I had filled my two bushel baskets, but they had been outside all winter, such as the winter was this year. I didn't have much hope, but a few days later went out and collected them. These had mostly lost their hulls, and appeared damp. I thought I'd give it a try, and pulled out my heavy-duty nutcracker. Remember my dismay at the ruined nuts? Reverse it! These were fine. Fresh and plump and aromatic and sweet. I have learned that sharing with the squirrels in my yard is better than hoarding, at least when it comes to walnuts.

Store in Beauty; Share in Peace; Blessed Be.

LIVING FENCE

   

The hedge

A NEW SEMESTER BEGINS A NEW PLAN, and an 8 o'clock class means I'm up before the sun. Yesterday on the way to town I turned the corner toward the east and found myself headed full into a rosy glow reflecting off of some dappled clouds. As I approached the hill, the hedge on the edge of the field rose up, creating a stark silhouette tangled in the dawn. The sun was still below the horizon, and I could only drive forward, wishing I had time to stop and stare, or at least take a picture.

I've been thinking a lot about hedgerows lately. We have so few left now, but my grandmother once told me that they used to edge all the fields. This was when farms were diversified and after the harvest, you let your cows and probably pigs out into the field to graze and glean. A few farms nearby still do this, and we drive past cattle, heads lowered to munch in the stubble of the fields, but these fields are fenced with mostly invisible electric wire. Time was, these fields were fenced with hedgerows that were “horse high, bull strong, and hog tight.” I always wondered about that. The remaining hedges around here might define the border of a field, and filter a sunrise in a lovely way, but a hog could certainly mosey right through a hedge row. I'm sure a horse and a bull could too.

I'm up before the sun.

I don't remember when or how I learned that historically, these hedges were trimmed to keep the growth down at the ground level, the rambling, thorny, curving branches tangling into an impenetrable thicket. I've been thinking for awhile about planting a living fence, hoping that “hog tight” might also be “goat tight” for my future goats (Remember Hester Pryne and Dewey Dell? Hester and Dewey are probably not even born yet, but someday I'll bring them home to a nice little goat shed and a pasture fenced in Osage Orange.) The autumn before last I walked out to the back hedge of our field with a basket and brought it back full of hedge apples. Have you seen hedge apples? They are like big, green oranges which may be the root of the name, “Osage Orange.” They have a sharp, fresh scent and a sticky, milky sap that is supposed to repel cockroaches and other bugs, though I haven't had much luck with that. I read that a good way to get the seeds out of the dense fruits for planting is to leave them in a bucket of water over the winter. The freeze-thaw cycle is supposed to turn the whole thing into a mush, and then I'm not sure what you do—plant the mush or pick the seeds out. At any rate, the squirrels in my yard devoured them all, and this fall I never did get out to gather more. I wonder, though, if I were to walk out now, whether I'd find that the squirrels left me a few that I could gather for seeds to plant in the spring.

I found the full text of a historic pamphlet on www.osageorange.com: “Growing Bois d'Arc Fences” by Robert C. McMurtrie. It gave precise directions for everything from collecting seeds and cultivating them, what to do when the shoots come up (he lays them down flat to the ground and weaves them into a fence “as one would osiers in wicker work,”) to pruning and maintaining the living fence. I couldn't find the date on the pamphlet, but found another source, published in 1914, which quoted Mr. McMurtrie's instructions in full. After three years of careful work, McMurtrie tells us, “..there was a good hedge, sufficient to turn ordinary cattle, as it seemed. Certainly in all subsequent years it was impervious to man or beast. And it has a foundation as firm as a fence.”

My life goes in fits and starts.

My life goes in fits and starts. I lay out plans, and squirrels come to chew on them. Tomorrow, the sun will come up a little bit sooner, and I will try to get going a little earlier, to leave time to linger at the hedge, maybe snap a picture or two. In the afternoon, if it's not too cold or wet, I'll take the dog and walk all the way back to the hedgerow, just to see if the squirrels left me anything for my living fence. Either way, it will be a nice walk.

Weave Beauty; Cultivate Peace; Blessed Be

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.

CIRCLE OF LIFE

WINTER HAS FINALLY COME TO BIRDLAND, AND FIERCELY IT HAS COME.  Only a few days ago I saw a mosquito. I didn't think anything of it, until I realized it was January. Apparently the little bit of flirting we'd done with winter hadn't been enough to interrupt their life cycle this year. They have been going along in the mild, short days, hatching, feeding, laying eggs, avoiding the minor frost. It was a little bit scary to wonder if we were ever going to get a really hard freeze. Yesterday it seemed to come, bringing snow and blowing it around into swirling, driving furies. This morning is pretty monochromatic. The grey sky muffles the snowscape, and I have to squint to see where the sky meets the edge of the field.

The chickens have been confined to the coop and run for two days. Yesterday was too blusterous (Chickens don't like wind, but don't always have the sense to come in out of it until dusk, so we leave them in the coop on windy days.) and today they are drifted in. They are snug and warm, though, and generous with the eggs this cold morning. We gathered four. The wind has sculpted the drifts into sinuous hills, a graphic picture of the shape of the wind.

This sudden winter reminds me that even the cold, sunless, lonely parts of the circle of life are necessary and good. A few weeks ago, while my boys were home for the holidays I was fixing breakfast and happened to look out the kitchen window in time to see a gang of turkey vultures in the distant field. I said aloud, “I wonder if there's a carcass out there.” I couldn't see what was attracting the birds, but it was not just one or two of them. I was occupied with waffle batter, and the boys were enjoying coffee in their jammies, so their father put on his shoes and walked out to the field to see what the commotion was about. Michael returned shortly to tell us it was a young deer. “It's really beautiful,” he said. “After breakfast we should all walk out to see it.”

It lay in the stubble of beans. 

 We couldn't tell what had killed it, perhaps it was wounded by a hunter or a car? Perhaps illness? It's hard to believe that starvation would take a deer this year, though their numbers are increasing, and after the harvest food would be more scarce. It lay in the stubble of the beans, its head thrown back, its hooves muddied. Dylan knelt and focused his camera. My middle son is an artful photographer. I think the camera helps him focus on ordinary things to find the grace in them. We didn't say too much out there in the field—just stood quietly for a bit, and then walked back to the house. When we reached the driveway I turned back. The vultures had returned to their work.

 A few days later, Ursula raised the alarm. My puppy is kind of a chicken, but always lets us know about any disturbance or intruder. I went to the window and saw a big, red tractor in the field. Jim and Sean were out to finish the work of the birds. I was a little sad, but of course they needed to remove the deer before applying fertilizer in the coming weeks. When I looked again a while later, the tractor was gone and so was the  carcass. I was glad, again, that we had walked out as a family to honor the cycle of life and death in our clumsy way.

 This morning, back in the winter time, I watch from the window as Michael throws the frisbee for Ursula. Her muzzle is sugared with snow crystals and her excitement is palpable. She trots up with the frisbee (which is really the plastic drip tray of a flower pot that she stole) and drops it at Michael's feet. He lets it sail and she carefully watches the trajectory of the flight and bursts into a run like a greyhound from the starting gate. She catches the frisbee in a wild explosion of snow spray, and trots it back to Michael for another round. I watch for a moment more, thinking with wonder of the cycles of life and death, frisbees and snow, and the dance of a little black dog and a big man in a brown parka.

Begin in Beauty; End in Peace; Blessed Be.

WILD WINDS

The clouds sail like freighters to the East.

IN BIRDLAND A BITTER WIND BLOWS FROM THE WEST, and yet we have picked today to attach the protected chicken yard to the winter coop. It is both very important, and very foolish to do it today. Important, because without shelter from the cold wind, the chickens will surely get frostbitten wattles, combs, and feet, even though I coated them with vaseline a few days ago. Foolish, because, covered in plastic, the chicken run is essentially a giant box kite without the kite string. Michael built the run in the basement and covered it in chicken wire. He asked me to help him carry it to the yard to cover in plastic, and we soon discovered that he forgot to measure the door. He had to partly disassemble it to get it outside. I reminded him of the story of his father building a boat in his basement and discovering that they couldn't get it up the steps without taking out the railing. His mother wouldn't allow it, so he had to cut the boat in half. 

The wind makes a sound like a buzz saw.

By the time Michael has put the chicken run back together and covered it in plastic, the big wind threatens to carry us to the next county. It is an enormous wind. Dark clouds of blue grey cover most of the sky, only a little bright turquoise showing through as the cloud sail like freighters to the East. The wind has a sound like a buzz saw and my hair whips around my face as I try to hold onto my end of the structure. Michael has come armed with a staple gun, a drill, and some screws. The plan is for me to hold it still against the wind, while he joins it to the coop proper. The chickens have gathered to watch. It is nearly chicken dark, but they are leery of us, blocking their door. They huddle down near a clump of grass near the peach tree. 

The chicken run is essentially
a giant box kite without the string.

 We secure the snug yard to the front of the coop. They will need to learn a new door to go in to their dinner and their roost. They are puzzled and circle around the coop, suspiciously looking into the new door, one at a time. We try to herd them in, but they are wary, and every time they get close to the door, they veer away at the last minute. I go in and get a scoop of food, sprinkle it near the door, and then pile the rest right inside. They begin to take the bait. My brown hen even hops in and begins to pick at the pile of pellets, but then startles and hops out again. I suggest that we leave them alone. The sun is going down, and either they will figure out how to go in by themselves, or we can go back in a few minutes and catch them easily in the dark. We warm ourselves in the kitchen with hot tea, and return to find them huddled again in a clump of weeds against the wild wind. We catch them without too much trouble, and pop them in the coop.

They are suspicious of the new door.

Inside we begin to prepare dinner. I am baking the overnight dutch oven sourdough bread that Chad taught me while he was home. My oldest has taken a new interest in cooking and baking, with great success. I loaf the dough and let it rest on the counter while the oven preheats. The groaning of the wind grows louder. We put in a movie and settle with our supper on the couch. The lights flicker, then dim, then go off altogether. The first power outage of the winter, and we are not surprised, but not prepared, either. We sit quietly in the dark for a moment before getting up to fumble with candles, matches, and flashlights. Soon we have a cheerful glow in the quiet room. We start a fire and call the aunts to see how they're doing. Yes, their power is out. No, they don't need anything. I transfer my half-warmed dutch oven to the top of the stove and pop my loaf of dough into it. Ellis pulls out his phone and starts a long-distance chess game with Chad by candlelight. The brothers spent a lot of time playing while Chad was home last week. We sit at the table and Michael suggests reading Cannery Row. The smell of bread begins to fill the room with warmth, and the story curls through our minds. When the lights slam on an hour or so later, we are startled out of our peaceful world, but snuff out the candles one by one to save for next time.

Warm in Beauty; Illuminate 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