House Hen Of The Week...

...is Rocket, one of our gray Giant Cochin girls.

Rocket has injured her thigh, which I've noticed tends to happen with the heavy breeds once in a while.  They'll jump down off of a roost (even though we purposefully keep all of the roosts low) and tweak their leg somehow, then when they try and sit and heal, the damned roos won't leave them alone long enough for their leg to get better.

So...Rocket is currently hanging out in the house, being a chicken puddle (nothing can puddle like a Cochin), eating cut-up grapes, live mealworms and other tidbits, watching TV and bossing us around by calling us whenever we dare leave the room.  She especially likes to hop over and sit on my foot and purr (she's very talkative), effectively pinning me down so I'm forced to flock.

So far she's being a good girl and staying sensibly on the ground, not trying to hop up on anything and reinjure herself.  She'll likely be OK to return to the flock in a few days, meanwhile she's having a grand time getting spoiled!

Snoooowww...!

Got these pics today from my mom and they actually made me whimper...you will permit me, as a southern Californian who rarely sees this stuff and/or actual weather, to say that these pictures made me long to go play in the white stuff!

Look at how gorgeous that is. Perfect for snowball fights, man! And here I sit in lousy muddy southern California...My kid saw these pictures and instantly started bugging me to go there now (the drive to play in snow is a cruel mistress, imperative to a child and rules them with an iron fist).

Hmmm...how much gas is in the car...?

Chicken Site Missing For Now!

Argh, my stupid site provider has taken down my chicken info site with no explanation and won't respond to our repeated emails. I KNOW it's all paid up and there are no problems with the site content, so I don't know what the heck is going on--but I suspect the provider is going under. We're working on moving my site to another provider, for now if anyone needs my help with anything chicken just let me know here.

Bloody frustrating though!

Our Head Hen, Bear, who is turning 9 years old this year has been under the weather. I'm not sure what her issue is but I'm treating for for a few likely causes (God, my kingdom for a microscope so I can do fecal smears--!)...but it may simply be her age. Phoenix the Head Roo is fretting for her and staying close by her side. We had her in for a few nights this last week when the temps got really cold overnight and learned after the first night to bring Phoenix in, too. He was SO worried about her the morning after that first night and was overjoyed to see her the next morning, he danced and danced around her for several minutes, chuckling and talking to her. I felt really bad, I didn't realize he'd think the worst the next morning!

We'll have to watch them both closely, I still remember when my first Head Hen, Wild Child, died from old age--my Head Roo, Jack, died about 24 hours later, out of the blue--I'm convinced of a broken heart. Phoenix is Jack's son, and has the same personality. But Bear is looking better the last two days, and the weather is FINALLY cutting us some slack on all the damned rain.

Another Stage Of Life Passes...

...and I'm not sure how I feel about it. Today N. graduated from Kindergarten. I know she didn't, technically, but until someone comes up with a better term, well...'matriculated' is too fancy for 5 year olds. I've been helping out all year by being there every morning to help the Kindergarteners line up for class, after which we all walk waaaaay out to the back field with the rest of the school kids, then on to class when the bell rings. Myself and 3 other moms have been doing this every day all year, rain or shine, sick or well, being there as a comfort and a familiar face for the kids. I'm glad school is over since my leg pain has been viciously growing in leaps and bounds for the last few months and towards the end it seemed a race between the end of the year and the hospital (school won, the hospital thing is in a week and a half), but at the same time I'm sad. The difference in the kids from tiny, clinging little things who barely knew their own names last September to self-confident school kids who can read, write, do addition and subtraction, charge around the school like they own it and follow rules today is nothing short of amazing. I've had a lump in my throat the size of Kansas all day. Today was tougher than N.'s first day of Kinder, although that first day I DID pace the living room, watching the clock and counting the minutes until I could go and get her.

Today the contents of N.'s back pack were: The last few school assignments graded and returned, a pink, yellow and green construction paper flower and white paper dove she made, her final report card (overall pretty good, she needs improvement in penmanship and paying attention, but is two years above the norm in reading ability, no surprises there), three invitations to summertime birthday parties, her Kinder graduation certificate, her little softcover yearbook with many scrawling signatures and a Fourth of July headband they made today.

It was nice that everyone made a point today of lingering to look each other in the eye, smile and say goodbye and have a nice summer. I tried to explain to N. yesterday and today that today was the last day of school, and she wouldn't be seeing many of her friends for a few months, but I'm sure I'll be hearing "Can I go to school?" quite a bit in the next few days. I'm glad she loves school so much. I loved elementary school, too. I can still vividly remember my own days in Kindergarten, and how excited I was to finally be old enough to go after watching my siblings leave for school each morning.

But now I know how my Mom must have felt.

Progress, I Guess...

I HATE it, just HATE IT, when a long-time, favorite store of mine closes.

This time it's Stat's--a floral and craft supply store nearby. It's been a family-owned business since way back, and they have something like 5 locations so I figured they were safe. No such luck.

Stat's was one of those stores that was a teensy bit pricey but always carried way cool stuff, especially during the holidays. I love the old-time glass Christmas ornaments that are painted, glittered or otherwise done up in a fancy way, and Stat's carried literally hundreds of them in all shapes and sizes.

The other night we stopped by on a whim and the place looked...wierd. Open, but not. Then we realized that while some of the lights were on, most were not, and they had very little merchandise inside. We knew then what was going on, but went inside anyway to see what was left.

While we did score some great things at 75% off, it was strange and sad to walk around the empty, cavernous space inside. There was no heat and only a few lights were on. People were talking in whispers to each other, don't ask me why. They had drug everything out of the back storerooms to sell, even things that hadn't seen the light of day in 20 or 40 years. Out of pure sentimental value I picked up a couple of rolls of 1960 era corrugated border paper, it's white and says 'Season's Greetings' in red Atomic Age font with blue Sputnick-style starbursts, the edges of the paper are scalloped to look like icicles. I remember it from my grade school days.

Much of the remainder of the stuff was damaged in some way, which left it looking like decorations for the Island of Misfit Toys--unloved, unwanted and more than likely destined for the dumpster.

The Olympics And Ridiculous Dreams Of Childhood

Tonight we watched the closing ceremonies of the 2004 Summer Olympics in Greece.

The opening ceremonies were simply stunning. We were so enthralled by both the show and what this small country had managed to accomplish that all three of us had sat there watching the teams enter the stadium, the flame lit, the theatrical performances. We were so engrossed, trying to impart the historical importance of the Olympics returning to their birthplace to my four year old daughter that we quite frankly allowed her bedtime to come and go.

Over the last two weeks we tried to sample many different events to watch--NBC got smart and spread various events over their many NBC-owned stations so there was a MUCH wider variety of options--not just the same old mega-popular events. N. did pretty well and was genuinely interested in a lot of it, but I don't know how much of this she'll remember.

Tonight, I mostly watched the closing ceremonies by myself--N. had been put to bed at a sensible hour for a change and J. had wandered off to take a shower, nursing a probable broken toe courtesy of a late-night foray into the darkened kitchen and an unexpected greeting by the immovable kitchen island last night.

As I watched I was surprised to feel myself choking up a bit as they showed scenes of the many amazing victories, failures and strain that the athletes endured. Then it hit me as to why I tried so hard to get my daughter interested in the games, why I got so absorbed myself: I remembered watching the 1972 Olympics from Munich when I was 11.

Still, quiet summertime in Norco, with no air conditioning and the house opened up to every possible breath of fresh air, fans running at high speed. My Dad mostly asleep on the couch as I watched the events. Surprisingly, while the terrible murder of the Israeli athletes towards the end was the prevailing memory of that year, it was also the year that had really fired my every-kid's-wish to somehow, someday, be on that Olympic medal podium myself.

When you are 11 you know that certainly you can do it!

...if only you didn't have to wait until you were older. The problems of being short in height, never having been on a real sports team before and being the youngest child of a large family with admittedly modest means doesn't even enter into it. In my family I learned by watching the older kids--and learned pretty quick not to even dream of playing little league or go out for expensive school sports. My folks couldn't afford it, and what they were able to give us came with a lot of hard work and sacrifice on their part. I think we kids decided privately to ourselves to appreciate what we had, enjoy our family and not whine.

My personal ambition was to be able to compete in the high jump and it had hit me hard. I had seen Dwight Stones in the Olympics and what he was able to do amazed me. Again, never mind that I was lamentably short--even as an adult I don't exactly tower at 5 foot 2--and the high jump bar loomed overhead like a damned skyscraper. I was determined to try. Surprisingly--especially to me--I actually did pretty well and was looking forward to taking the first step along the Olympic road. To me, anyway.

I had been practicing the high jump during P.E. and was screwing up my nerve to ask the coach if I could get at it seriously when--

we moved away.

Not only moved away, but moved FAR away, to a tiny country town where the high school student body numbered exactly 100--for grades 9 through 12. Needless to say, they had no such thing as high jump equipment. When my dad told us of the move I could practically feel any chance of competing draining away from me. Heck, they barely even had a football field, and no track and field program at all. The sports choices for the girls were basketball, volleyball and softball.

I even asked the one girls' sports coach about starting up a track and field team, complete with high jump, and was given a gentle but firm lecture on the small-time budgets of small-town schools.

For a while I tried to practice on my own in the sagebrush-and-fire-ant-infested area up behind our barn. I built two poles with nails every 1/2 inch to hold the bar and marked the measurements on them. My problem was the pit. When you high jump, ya need something large and soft to land in. This is where I was stymied. That town wasn't even big enough to collect old mattresses from. From somewhere I obtained some miserably thin foam padding, cut into weird shapes that was obviously scrap material. There was precious little of it and I had to arrange it juuuuust right to keep from breaking my head. Even then it was woefully thin and eventually, sadly, I had to give up that particular dream. All I was doing was pissing off the fire ants. It's probably just as well and saved me many injuries, failures and disappointments when my lack of height would eventually put a stop to my dream. But I did watch Dwight Stones again in the 1976 Olympics, feeling a kind of kinship with him. We were lucky to even see the Olympics since in our remote area we had three TV stations, and only one was semi-reliable.

Tonight, I was shocked to have that childhood memory and dream of the high jump come roaring back so strongly. I haven't even thought of it in years. It's been filed away I guess, waiting for the chance to pop up. Now that I carry an extra pound or two of scrap metal in my left ankle and have had to give up running in any form I am reduced to watching others strive for that dream. I don't often feel sorry for myself for what has happened to me--heck, if it's the worst thing I'll be lucky--but tonight I do, and it's because I had a huge flashback--being 11 years old and having any possibility in the world open to me. Not only having that door closed, but having it welded shut, still jumps up to bite me at unexpected moments.

I guess that's why it was so important to me to explain to my daughter what the Olympics mean--it's the best of the best, and she won't see them again until she's nearly 9. I hope she remembers something of what she saw this time, and gets to experience that same amazing, breathless, wide-eyed epiphany of possibilities when she gets older. I hope that she trusts me enough to come to me and say, "Mom, can I...?" without any barriers.

When she does, I hope I can remember how I felt in 1972.

Goodbye, Jack...

Well, just to keep the depression going, we unexpectedly lost Jack, our 8 year old Barred Rock rooster last night. He and Wild Child were a couple, the grand old couple of the flock. He died suddenly but quietly in his sleep less than 24 hours after Wild Child went, and we buried him right next to Wild Child in a bed of roses just like hers.  He had been clearly distressed and depressed, searching for her...I think if it's possible to die from a broken heart, Jack just may have.

The rest of the flock is mostly standing around staring at each other or wandering aimlessly about the yard in clumps. They look at each other as if to say, "Well, what do we do now?" In two short days they have lost their father, protector and lover in Jack, and their mother, matriarch and guardian in Wild Child. The flock dynamic has been thrown into turmoil with no clear successors to either the Head Roo or Head Hen posts.

We are trying to keep them company as much as we can. When we go out into the yard they group around us more than they normally do, even the normally more standoffish birds. I'm trying to adjust to the loss of two long-time and well-loved pets. Anyone who has ever had an older pet, no matter what kind, knows how incredibly cool and laid-back they are to have around. I also can't help but look at the others and wonder who is next. Several of our chickens are older and recent events have left me gun-shy, trying to steel myself to finding another dead bird. It's no fun.

Jack was our household symbol. We use his image and his name in our email, our Internet dealings...so many things. Emotionally I'm a train wreck, but that is, indeed, the cost of keeping pets. It's just hard when such a big bill comes due all at once.

This has not been a good week.

Little Kids And The Way Cool Things They Say And Do...

To quote my hairdresser: "Aren't kids just the bomb?!" This was during a discussion we had way back when my daughter was two years old, and the heart-squeezingly cute things they say and do; just to make us adults melt into little twist-'em-round-your-finger idiots. My daughter is now four, but she still is the cutest damned thing--not that I'm partial or anything. I'm trying to savor these times and do what I can to make it last, both for us and her.

Like the other day, nearing the end of a long, tiring 8 hour road trip. Heading south on Highway 395 out in the desert we were going over a long series of elongated dips in the road. While I'm sure these have some serious, somewhat higher purpose of channeling flash floods or keeping truckers awake, to us it became "The Whee Whee Road" and my kid was thrilled no end. She giggled breathlessly, widened her eyes and raised her hands and feet into the air while Grandpa obligingly sped up to try and get the 4 x 4 airborne. When it was over she turned to me and ACTUALLY SAID, "Mommy, that made my tummy silly!" I thought I'd die of cuteness. It also made me think of when I was a kid and my father would do the same thing for us. There was a road--I don't know where exactly--located somewhere near an airport here in Southern California that had a similar series of dips. We also dubbed it "The Whee Whee Road" and for us held thrills akin to a roller coaster.

Then last night in the bathtub, my daughter was playing with her two newest toys, a pair of big rubber lizards from Target. A bargain at 99 cents for both, they have been The Toy Of The Week around here, The Chosen Ones For Now. Suddenly she dipped both lizards in the tub and raised them up coated with bubbles. The she grinned at me and proclaimed, "Sheep!"

God, kids are just the bomb.

Goodbye, Mrs. Black

Mrs. Black died today.

Peacefully, it seems, and of natural causes. But still a shock for her to turn up missing at nightfall when it was time to close up the coop and say goodnight to our little backyard flock of pet chickens.

A quick search of the garage, where a few months back she had managed to hide and gave us a scare, produced nothing. We found her curled up underneath my daughter's backyard climbing-castle-thing; one of those plastic, brightly colored things that kids love these days. Mrs. Black had no marks on her and seems to have slipped her earthly bounds quickly and quietly with no fuss.

Mrs. Black was a Chicken Hell feed store rescue and had health problems from the start, along with having almost no feathers on her skinny little body. One eye was swollen shut and weeping fluid and she wheezed something awful. Seeing her in that horrible place I hadn't expected her to last long, but couldn't stand to walk away and leave her there. We bought her and brought her home after a trip to the vet for medication. She spent two months inside the house getting well, fattening up and growing feathers. Her eye, which I had doubted was even still there, healed up and turned out fine. She got her name from my then 2 year old daughter, who walked by her one day and said, "Oh...hello Mrs. Black!" Mrs. Black had a quiet dignity and could stand next to you for several minutes before you realized she was there.

We will miss her sweet nature, wall-eyed stare and her raspy-voiced burblings. Just this afternoon she had come running with the rest when I passed out a handful of strawberries and all was right with the world. Just yesterday I stopped on the back porch to give her a quick pet.

I know some people will read this and think, "It was just a chicken!" What most people don't know is how personable, smart and cheerful chickens are and what terrific pets they make.

Tomorrow we will bury her in a bed of cut flowers, under the bay tree by the back fence.

Goodbye Mrs. B.