I’d Choose to be a Bear

If I believed in reincarnation, and could choose what I would be in my next life, I’d  choose to be a bear. Bears have it figured out.

All summer they lumber through the forest eating berries with honey for breakfast, a fish for lunch, and cleaning up after some hiker who left half a sandwich for dinner.  They loll about in the sun, then cool off in the river, then take a nap.  After which they get up and eat some more.  They get nice and fat and never step on a scale or chastise themselves for not fitting into last year’s bikini.

Fall comes and the days get shorter and the weather gets cold and it’s dreary day after day.  But bears have sense enough to go to bed.  And stay there.  For the winter. They sleep away the days, with nary a worry about freezing pipes, icy roads, going to work in the dark, being snow bound on the weekend.  They just sleep. And all of that fat melts away as it keeps them going while they hibernate.  The female will even give birth while she snoozes the cold lousy weather away!

Right on time spring arrives and the bear wakes up, all svelte and hungry, and heads out for another great summer.

Makes a lot of sense to me.

The Early Bird Catches the Worm

If I wasn’t a vegetarian I could’ve had breakfast by now.  I’ve been awake since 4:00, on a Saturday no less. A day I can sleep in.  A day of rest. And my body decides I should be out catching worms.

I did not, however, jump out of bed at 4:00.  Instead, I tossed and turned and thought about work and all manner of things that I didn’t need to think about at 4:00 in the morning.  Finally, at 6:00, I conceded defeat and got up. Took a nice long hot bath, treated myself to a facial, read a magazine

It’s now nearing 7:30 and it’s barely light out there.  I seriously doubt that the worms are even up yet.

But I did get to read and check my e-mails and text a friend and blog about worms.

It’s going to be a great day!

Two Months From Day is Christmas

It’s October 25.  And, as my father would inform us, it’s two months til Christmas.  

This is useful information  It’s also a bit annoying.  But for me it’s also a reminder of my father.

He’s been gone for over 15 years.  But my brother and I carry on the tradition by sending monthly reminders (he beat me this month) of how much time is left til Christmas.  It also reminds us of our dad and what a great man and father he was.

Which makes me wonder, what will my kids remember when I’m gone?  I hope it’s more than things like, “Do you want me to help clean your room?” (That statement struck fear in their hearts, because my method of cleaning was to use a shovel.)  I hope there will be some fun silly thoughts along the lines of, “It’s two months til Christmas.”

Two months.  Get shopping.

Chickenalities

Having been a keeper of chickens for 10+ years I have made an astute observation:  Each chicken has her own chickenality.  And each flock also has its own chickenality

Each of my previous flocks took great pleasure in finding the smallest patch of bare earth in the lawn or garden and expanding that patch in length and depth by using it for their personal dust bath.  Soon my lawn and garden were riddled with chicken wallows.  But not this flock.  This flock uses the dust under the gazebo or the dirt in their chicken yard (now there’s a thought!) for their bathing.  Good girls.

Each of my previous flocks got up at the crack of dawn, if not earlier. Even in the months when it was still dark, when I’d open the gate to their yard they’d be up and about and ready to leave the yard. But not this flock.  They are into sleep.  This morning I opened their gate about 10:00, several hours after sun up, and they were still tucked in their coop, snoozing.

Each of my precious flocks had a member or two that wouldn’t go to bed. Instead, that hen or two would roost in the pine tree just outside their coop.  And then she would scream bloody murder and run helter skelter into her coop when she was chased out of the tree each night.

Same with this flock.  I guess there’s one in every crowd.

Who Likes Rain Best?

I met another one today. A person who likes rainy days better than sunny days. Me and Karen Carpenter don’t dig the rainy days.  They get us down. On rainy days my mood drops, my energy drops, my enthusiasm drops. I don’t really notice it at the time.  But when the sun comes back I feel a surge of energy and my enthusiasm and mood improve.  I feel so much better when the sun is out.

I wonder if it is that way for rainy day folks.  Does their mood increase on rainy days?  Are they more energetic and enthusiastic on rainy days?

Or is a rainy day just a good excuse to be lazy and stay in bed curled up with a cat and a good book?

Chickens II

Sure enough Daffy 2, as she’s affectionately known around these parts. is molting.  (Here’s a long aside:  When we moved to the country and got us some chickens, we had to, of course, name them.  So we chose cartoon duck names like Daisy, Huey, Dewey, and Louise, Donald and Daffy.  The original Daffy has passed on,  so the current Daffy is Daffy 2. That part makes perfect sense.  But why, you ask, did we choose cartoon duck names for our chickens?  Good question.  I’ll get back to you later on that.)

So Daffy 2 is losing her feathers and I can’t imagine how she stays warm. She also looks like heck. But mostly I worry about her staying warm.  We had a nice stretch of hot summer weather which would’ve been perfect for shedding one’s feathers.  But she’s doing it now.  She could end up. as some of our chickens have done, losing all of the feathers on her neck and down her back.

One year I asked my mother, a knitting fiend, to knit them little turtle neck sweaters so they could stay warm.  But she gave me the same kind of look you’re making as you read this.

There’s only so much I can do, Daffy 2.  You’re on your own from here.

Chickens

I got home from work and found chicken feathers, lots of chicken feathers, scattered around the water bowl.  Thought this must be the day. Somebody got my chicken.  While she was getting a drink.  In front of the back door.  So where were you, I asked my dog, when this evil occurred?  He didn’t answer.   I just hoped whoever it was, got both chickens ‘cuz I don’t want to be left with just one sad, lonely hen.

I went to the front of the house and looked around the front yard.  Took a peek behind the garage.  And there stood my chickens. Both of them.  Looking quite pleased with themselves over nothing in particular. All of those feathers must be from one of them deciding today, on the back porch, would be the perfect time and place to start her molt. This time of year doesn’t seem ideal for a chicken to lose her feathers and run around half naked. But then again, chickens are creatures of very little brain so it probably makes sense to them.

Well, featherless one, sleep well.  Tomorrow it’s supposed to rain

Fireside

I’m not a fan of rain and dreary overcast days, so many of which I have to muddle through here in the Puget Sound. And the wet and dreary came on with a vengeance this past week. Summer flew out of here in a hurry leaving a vacuum into which Fall flew in. We’ve had record rainfall over the past few days. Our yard is a swamp and our road was flooded. That means there’s just one thing to do: build a fire in the wood stove.

Which I did. And here I sit, in my p.j.’s at 7:00 pm, in front of my fire.  It’s my consolation prize for saying good-bye to summer.  

Chickens

I took a look at my About for this blog and it’s been awhile since I updated my chicken count.  From the high a couple of years ago at 18 chickens, I’m now down to 2.

We city folks moved to the country 10 years ago.  We had no experience or knowledge of raising chickens which made it perfect for us to raise chickens.  Who needs experience or knowledge to raise these creatures of minimal brain?  So we got us 8 or 10 or 12 chicks (it was 10 years ago, I don’t remember) and raised them to fine hens who ate bugs and seeds and laid us brown and white and green eggs, and pooped all over our patio, and created holes in the yard where they took their dust baths in their chicken wallows, and it was great.  They were healthy, happy, free range chickens. But over time they became coyote food and my herd of chickens was dropping so the next year I got me some more chicks, and lost a few over the year, get some more, and so it went.

But this last year I decided I’m about done with my chicken phase. It’s been fun.  They laid us some eggs and provided some entertainment–we’d have chicken races when things got really boring out here in the country.  But these hens are getting older and laying fewer eggs. Which is okay because I’ve gone vegan.

So I said some time ago that when the last of these hens go, I’m done.  And now I’m down to two.

But I know me.  If I lose just one chicken, and am left with just one chicken, I know I’ll feel sorry for her. And I’ll go get her a friend.  And I’ll never be done with chickens.