Choices . . .

Peep!

Nope, he's not choking it! This chick was rowdy before it came out of the shell, and there are only two ways to keep it still. If I set it on my shoulder, it'll burrow into the long hair at my neck and sing soft happy chirps -- for about 20 seconds, and then it pops up and darts about, which isn't a healthy activity for a chick so high off the ground. The Genius Husband prefers to wrap these wild peeps in his big hand with just a tiny fisthole opening to peer out from.

For two days, this chick's egg rocked and bumped against the others in the incubator. The early peeps were muted, but as the hours passed, they gained in fury. To make matters worse, it was the only chick to hatch from that small batch of eggs, though it does seem to have the energy and vitality of a half dozen packed into one tiny ball of fuzz. For two days it peeped with the volume of 6 or more, and I took to wearing headphones while I worked so I could concentrate. Fortunately, a large clutch of ducklings hatched a few days later so he has company now. I've moved them all to larger quarters in one of the barn brooders.

Growing up with ducky siblings, I suspect he'll have identity issues. We've seen this happen before - ducklings that walk hunched so they'll not stand taller than their chicken friends, guineas who eschew the company of their kind and live with the hens instead. Amusing but relatively harmless quirks. But danger lurks for a chick who thinks he's a duck, for there are buckets about, and he can't swim.

Purple wave

I always grow purple petunias, not because I like them, but because my younger daughter liked them so much when she was small. I think she still favors them, but not with the single-minded exhuberance she exhibited a decade ago. She's grown now, and she no longer spends summers weeding at my side and sneaking away to read the books in some shady spot. And still I grow purple petunias even though I'm not enamored of most things purple. A garden just doesn't seems right without them.

Bee balm

Wild bergamot aka horsemint, bee balm

Monarda fistulosa

I didn't see so much of it during the drought the last two years, but a wet spring seems to have rejuvenated the prairie flowers. I've found a few small patches on my land, and several large patches down the road at the edge of a cornfield and still more in a neighbor's native prairie field.

The Story of Bruce

Bruce the Duck came to live with us earlier this summer. His journey began with a phone call from the Genius Husband. 'You want another duck?" Hmm. Yeah. I didn't have enough of those.
Bruce belonged to a teenage girl, and he spent his early days as a fuzzy, yellow, adored pet. But as ducks do, he grew. And his family began to realize how large (and smelly) he would become. So Bruce made the long car trip from the metro area to the farm by car. Below: Bruce meets the flock. We left him in his cage for the first 24 hours so the rest of the ducks, chickens, and turkeys had a chance to get to know him before any actual mingling occurred. With poultry, this is always a good idea since they'll peck a hole in the head of an outsider if they don't like how he looks. (Or smells.)



Bruce continued to grow, and in just over a week he'd lost the last of his yellow fuzz. He joined the flock and learned about wading pools, mud, and other ducky things.

Silly duck! Anyone who's lived around ducks knows the kind of trouble a duck can get himself into. Bebe, the farmcollie, alerted me to Bruce's predicament -- apparently Bruce had so much fun splashing in the bucket he'd discovered that he splashed out too much water. Ducks have short legs, so they have trouble climbing out if the water level is too low. Bruce, however, didn't want to get out. Oh well. Too bad. No more buckets for Bruce!

Spring bounty

My favorite spring lettuce mix comes from Pinetree Seeds. It's a colorful mix of red, pale green, medium green, and even red-freckled leaf lettuces in a variety of shapes. I love the visual variety almost as much as the tasty salads.

Naptime

Cats choose odd spots for naps. Although maybe if you're a cat, napping on the roof doesn't seem strange. No dogs sticking their wet noses in your ear. No geese tweeking your tail. Nothing to worry about except a little rain . . . and hey, with a fur coat like that, it takes a while for the wet to penetrate.

Happy ducks

The recent rainfall filled the little pond near the house, so I've been letting the ducks out to play. If only they'd stay at the pond instead of wandering along the creek to sample every pool deep enough to paddle through. If only they carried watches with little alarms to remind them when it's time to return to the safety of their night quarters.

You shall not pass!

Goose Goose protects 'her' ducklings with impressive ferocity. I've tried for weeks to get a decent photo, but of course, she spots me and the camera and turns into a sweetie. So this is as good as it gets.

When geese go into protective mode, they stretch their necks straight out, holding their heads low while they hiss and stalk toward whatever they perceive as a threat. (Unless it's REALLY big and scary -- honk, honk, run!) That's a warning, and most creatures back off. Especially if they've ever been pinched by that strong, hard beak. They'll also fly at your head and beat you with their wings. That hurts.

Actually, all three of the Buff Orpington geese take turns watching over the ducklings. The mated pair often have 'other business' to attend to, though, which leaves Goose Goose in charge much of the time. She doesn't seem to mind as she has few other demands on her time. The white rooster she adores apparently has made it clear that they're just friends.

Bye, bye

Hickory at age 10, the last living member of the barn cat trio of Hickory, Dickory, and Doc

Born: Spring 1997
Adopted: Summer 1997
Died: Monday, April 9, 2007

When one spends a great deal of time with a community of animals, certain things become apparent. Personalties, hierarchies, likes and dislikes, and occasionally the odd alliance between unlikely companions. Hickory clearly liked her littermate Dickory best, and she never bonded closely with any of the other cats. Yet the kitten she terrorized most turned out to be the closest thing to a kitty friend she had, so long as he acknowledged her superiority and followed her rules. He alone was allowed to cuddle in the old ratty chair in the barn with her, though only on the coldest of nights. Humans, however, were best utilized as Hickory petting slaves. Idle hands weren't to be tolerated, and those who ignored her hints might get a stronger hint -- a quick poke with the claw tips. She wasn't vicious. She was just reminding you she was there...waiting...getting impatient.

Several years ago she developed a dark spot in one eye. The spot gradually spread until she had one good golden eye and one brown eye. In the last year, her eyesight became worse in the dark eye. She could still sense movement, but not what caused that movement, so waving a hand on that side often earned a nasty hiss and a smacking. Despite her disability, she maintained her position as Queen of the Barn. No cat dared venture within her defined perimeter without permission. Those allowed within that circle had to follow her rules.

1. No stealing cuddles from the humans -- hiss, smack.
2. In fact, do not think of even making eye contact with the humans -- growl, hiss.
3. No milk until Hickory finishes her share as defined by her, and then no milk unless Rules One and Two have been properly observed, several additional minutes have passed, and express permission has been granted by Hickory. Growl. Hiss. Smack, smack, smack, smack.
4. First dibs on fat mice go to Hickory. Leftovers distributed via Rule Three terms.

We'll miss ya, Hickory Pud.

Another project

Behold the new fence for my herb & perennial garden. My genius husband unearthed and moved many large rocks while digging those postholes. Here at the edge of the Ozarks, we grow rocks really well. The fence needs another coat of stain and some chicken wire around the bottom to keep the chickens out, and then I can replant all those herbs the poultry ate last summer.

A breath of spring

Finally, the ice is melting away. By 2 p.m. today, this patch and a few larger sections in the shadows of the woods remained, but the rest of the farm had gone to mud. The ducks are happy. They love mud. They love puddles. We have plenty of both now. I don't mind the mud much myself. It's not nearly so hazardous underfoot, and if one does fall, the landing isn't as painful.

More snow

Apparently we didn't have enough white stuff on the ground already. We woke up Sunday morning to discover another five inches on the ground. And the road out of here looking like this. We don't get a lot of traffic here, which is a good thing because in the best of times it's only wide enough for one vehicle and on the curve pictured above.

The greenhouse held up well through this latest winter storm. By 9 a.m., nearly all the snow had slid off the top. Inside we have mud. Mud, mud, everywhere.

Brrrr!

I'd be cranky too if I had frost on my whiskers every morning. Lottie, the Jersey milk cow, had a chapped udder, too -- ouch!

Tom's been feeling pretty perky now that he's recovered from the injuries incurred during that unfortunate incident with the geese. Strutting around the barnyard with half his feathers missing couldn't have been much fun. Now that he's fully feathered again, he struts and preens all day. He also exhibits an annoying curiosity about the camera.

A few months ago, this guy was bottom turkey in the pecking order. We weren't even sure he was a tom. He didn't act like one, and he hadn't developed enough of a snood and wattle to distinguish him from the hens. As time passed, and the more dominant toms disappeared, one by one, our flock dwindled to this guy and one hen. Likely, it was his very meekness that saved him from the coyotes and bobcat that preyed on his braver flockmates. He didn't browse in the woods, and he usually was first to alight on a high roost near day's end . And thus he's survived predation thus far. With the more dominant Tom's gone, his hormones kicked in, and that long red drip over his beak, his snood, began to lengthen. The red wattles at his throat grew and deepened in color. I've seen this happen many times before when a dominant tom leaves the flock for whatever reason. One or two of the lesser toms will step up to take his place, and in turkeys, the signs include the physical developments as well as the behavior changes.

The year of gates

This may be the year of the gates. I have nothing against a well-made 'farmer's gate' of whatever wire matches the fence, especially in locations that don't see a lot of through traffic. Unfortunately, most of the farmer's gates here at the farm aren't that manageable for a middle-aged gal with wimpy muscles. So I've made a list of gates to replace, as time and funds permit.

First on the list was this one between the cow pasture and the field where the greenhouse, orchard, and big garden are located. This was a life-changing event. I smiled. I might even have done a little dance out there in the sunlight as I considered the sheer volume of time and aggravation this new gate will spare me in the coming growing season.

Life is good.

Breakfast time

The white-breasted nuthatches laid claim to this feeder full of plain old wild bird mix.

Shy birds

The male cardinal draws the eye with its flashy color and bold behavior. Spotting them is easy, particularly when snow blankets the land. The females intrigue me with their subtler coloring and their caution. They're more challenging to photograph, and they're more interesting to watch.

Drought busting

First it rained. A lot. The ducks and geese rejoiced and dabbled in the puddles all day. I wore my knee-high boots to wade through the little creek to get to the greenhouse. The dogs seemed disturbed by that. Apparently that upset their sense of order -- people don't belong in the water.


Then it snowed. A lot. Twelve inches is a lot for my corner of the edge of the Ozarks. I got the truck stuck in the driveway three times. UPS and FedEx refused to come up the driveway. Both drivers left my packages at the gate. The geese retreated to the barn. The ducks gathered close for warmth, but only three took advantage of the shelter in their pen. The rest didn't seem to mind the snow much.


The dogs were belly deep in the snow, even the 80-pound English Shepherd.


Then the melting began. The process lasted days. Now there's mud, mud, everywhere. The geese don't mind. The ducks are delighted. I'm not complaining. Mud means moisture, and hopefully the end of the drought cycle.

Life is good.

They're thankful...

It takes so little to make an old goat happy -- a few cups of cracked corn in a pan each morning, the occasional scratch along the jawline, clover hay...

Francesca, on the left, is 10 years old and still frisky and playful. Katrinka, right, isn't as sprightly, though she'll perk up and run through the gate fast enough to swipe a nibble from the rose bushes. Little Girl, middle, is Katrinka's last kid. She's a sweet, flighty thing, much the opposite of her attention demanding herdmates. She jumps fences at will but is too shy of people and dogs to make a pest of herself in the yard or garden. Her rambles mainly consist of excursions into the sheep pen to see if they're getting better snacks.