Dear Friends,
I am very sorry to have to tell you that I have decided to end my blog. I have loved describing my life on the farm and from the comments I have received, I gather that you have enjoying hearing them. Thank you so much for being such an important part of my life.
Terry Lord
StoneTree Farm
StoneTree Farm
Monday 21 March 2016
Thursday 11 February 2016
A Coordinated Attack
It has been a challenging morning. Have you ever noticed how we use the word 'challenging' to mean horrible, disastrous, or just plain lousy? I mean all those things and more. So much more.
But first a little background to set the stage. These chickens - all 10 of them - are rapidly becoming my least favorite animals ever. They have dug up our yard, our gardens, etc. etc. They run everywhere; they poop everywhere; they never come when called. I have spent way too many of my declining years (all right, it FEELS like years) chasing them down at night. They lay eggs in every inaccessible place in 4 acres.
So we finally sequestered them in their chicken coop and the surrounding coop yard. We also clipped their wings: AGAIN! They didn't like it. They were vociferous in their protests. It reminded me of Chicago in '68. I think they were most upset at losing access to their shrine to the dearly departed Auntie Hen. You may remember that we had a hen whose curiosity led her to stick her head in the possum trap. History will record that curiosity killed its first chicken that day.
A few weeks back we reinstated said trap into the driveway verge and ever since we have had hens sitting at the shrine. First they dug a really, really big dirt hole. Then they assigned hours and each chicken takes her turn at sitting reverently at the shrine. Now that they are cooped up, no shrine vigil. Religious rage fuels their every squawk.
We have also been doing battle with a nest of rats under the coop. The rats don't seem to bother the chickens but they do bother us. So we set a trap for them. No rats, but to date we have trapped (and disposed of) 4 hedgehogs. The last hedgehog was dispatched this morning. Cue a rising screech of horrified hen sounds.
I walk to the coop to try and calm our feathered friends. As I bend over the fence, one 'friend' flies up into my face, talons out and voice on high. I reel back and hit a tree resoundingly with the back of my head. As the chicken lands and I start shaking my pain filled head, a rat runs over my foot. Now I could have been hallucinating, after all I just got a concussion from the tree collision, but I could swear I heard "Farmyard friends 1, humans 0" and a heartfelt cheer from the coop enclosure.
Two hours have passed and so has much of my headache but I have hauled up the proverbial white flag. The farmyard has won; I will spend the day inside. Better yet, I will spend the rest of the day in bed. Going to bed at 10:30 in the morning sounds just fine to me!
But first a little background to set the stage. These chickens - all 10 of them - are rapidly becoming my least favorite animals ever. They have dug up our yard, our gardens, etc. etc. They run everywhere; they poop everywhere; they never come when called. I have spent way too many of my declining years (all right, it FEELS like years) chasing them down at night. They lay eggs in every inaccessible place in 4 acres.
So we finally sequestered them in their chicken coop and the surrounding coop yard. We also clipped their wings: AGAIN! They didn't like it. They were vociferous in their protests. It reminded me of Chicago in '68. I think they were most upset at losing access to their shrine to the dearly departed Auntie Hen. You may remember that we had a hen whose curiosity led her to stick her head in the possum trap. History will record that curiosity killed its first chicken that day.
A few weeks back we reinstated said trap into the driveway verge and ever since we have had hens sitting at the shrine. First they dug a really, really big dirt hole. Then they assigned hours and each chicken takes her turn at sitting reverently at the shrine. Now that they are cooped up, no shrine vigil. Religious rage fuels their every squawk.
We have also been doing battle with a nest of rats under the coop. The rats don't seem to bother the chickens but they do bother us. So we set a trap for them. No rats, but to date we have trapped (and disposed of) 4 hedgehogs. The last hedgehog was dispatched this morning. Cue a rising screech of horrified hen sounds.
I walk to the coop to try and calm our feathered friends. As I bend over the fence, one 'friend' flies up into my face, talons out and voice on high. I reel back and hit a tree resoundingly with the back of my head. As the chicken lands and I start shaking my pain filled head, a rat runs over my foot. Now I could have been hallucinating, after all I just got a concussion from the tree collision, but I could swear I heard "Farmyard friends 1, humans 0" and a heartfelt cheer from the coop enclosure.
Two hours have passed and so has much of my headache but I have hauled up the proverbial white flag. The farmyard has won; I will spend the day inside. Better yet, I will spend the rest of the day in bed. Going to bed at 10:30 in the morning sounds just fine to me!
Saturday 16 January 2016
Pear Shaped in Paradise
Friday is my busy day. The family is up from Auckland for the holidays but Yael is commuting back and forth for her job. That leaves the extensive cooking/baking on Fridays to me. Since we don't cook on Saturdays, I need to double up.
For 6 days of the week, I meander around gazing at the gorgeous countryside; chasing chickens, inspecting stock and thoroughly enjoying what has to be one of the most beautiful spots in the world - one might almost call it 'paradise'. Very little happens and the days roll by. So little happens that I have been mulling over whether or not to cease writing this blog. Nothing much to tell.
And then there was Friday! I was busy cooking oatmeal raisin cookies, baking bread, preparing a chicken, sweet potatoes, potato salad, beets, and supervising Dan's brisket. Busy, busy, busy. The kitchen is hot, hot, hot. Dan leaves to move the steers down to our farthest paddock and returns to say that our neighbors have put a new bull in the next pasture. A big bull, a bossy bull intent on marking his territory, and a bellowing bull. We will have to check our fences and our poor, wee steers several times a day. Whoopee, just what I needed.
By the time dinner rolls around and Yael has survived another horrendous traffic trip, I am beat. In between child care, cooking, and monitoring the sheep in the front paddock, I am pretty wiped out. Jesse asks, yet again, where my cat is. I have no idea, I am just glad I have been spared the incessant rescue efforts I am usually involved in.. "No Jesse, don't pull her tail. No Jesse, don't pick her up by her ears", etc. The last time I remember seeing my cat was when I gave her a new, veterinarian recommended flea and worm medicine.
I assumed she was hanging out in my room away from the heat and from Jesse. And she was. She was lying on my chair, mere inches from as profound a mess of vomit as I have ever seen. It covered a major part of my hassock. (I am sort of pleased to report that the evidence is that she had killed another mouse.) So, majorly not happy, I clean up the mess and reassure myself that Smudge is not dead. She's not but lay there inert for at least 12 hours. Not a medicine I plan to buy ever again.
While I am playing hospital orderly, I keep hearing strange sounds from my bathroom. Remember, my apartment is over a 3 car garage and has a very large bathroom. And a flight of stairs. I know, I know, you're busy saying "Duh". But the stairs bit is important.
Finally, I go to investigate. The door is pulled almost closed which is unusual since I always leave it open. Make that "used to". From now on it stays closed.
Why? Because once I forced open the door it was to find a scene of great devastation and a frantic chicken scratching at a window. The chicken is at the window. It has hit my mirror which has fallen sideways and knocked my ironing board over. The ironing board hit the side pole of my clothes rack. (No, I am not making this up!) The clothes rack fell over, forcing the door to close. On its way to the window the chicken managed to scatter all my toiletries, hair clips, bands, and jars to creation and back. Ever tried to pick up 100 bobby pins? Not easy.
So I went from cleaning up cat vomit to cleaning up chicken poo, hair gel, and assorted other things. Yes, I managed to capture the frantic fowl and return it back down the stairs where I tossed it (a tad vigorously but it flew) into the chicken yard. So my paradise comes complete with a cat with a delicate digestive system and flying chickens who climb stairs. Perhaps its not quite paradise after all.
For 6 days of the week, I meander around gazing at the gorgeous countryside; chasing chickens, inspecting stock and thoroughly enjoying what has to be one of the most beautiful spots in the world - one might almost call it 'paradise'. Very little happens and the days roll by. So little happens that I have been mulling over whether or not to cease writing this blog. Nothing much to tell.
And then there was Friday! I was busy cooking oatmeal raisin cookies, baking bread, preparing a chicken, sweet potatoes, potato salad, beets, and supervising Dan's brisket. Busy, busy, busy. The kitchen is hot, hot, hot. Dan leaves to move the steers down to our farthest paddock and returns to say that our neighbors have put a new bull in the next pasture. A big bull, a bossy bull intent on marking his territory, and a bellowing bull. We will have to check our fences and our poor, wee steers several times a day. Whoopee, just what I needed.
By the time dinner rolls around and Yael has survived another horrendous traffic trip, I am beat. In between child care, cooking, and monitoring the sheep in the front paddock, I am pretty wiped out. Jesse asks, yet again, where my cat is. I have no idea, I am just glad I have been spared the incessant rescue efforts I am usually involved in.. "No Jesse, don't pull her tail. No Jesse, don't pick her up by her ears", etc. The last time I remember seeing my cat was when I gave her a new, veterinarian recommended flea and worm medicine.
I assumed she was hanging out in my room away from the heat and from Jesse. And she was. She was lying on my chair, mere inches from as profound a mess of vomit as I have ever seen. It covered a major part of my hassock. (I am sort of pleased to report that the evidence is that she had killed another mouse.) So, majorly not happy, I clean up the mess and reassure myself that Smudge is not dead. She's not but lay there inert for at least 12 hours. Not a medicine I plan to buy ever again.
While I am playing hospital orderly, I keep hearing strange sounds from my bathroom. Remember, my apartment is over a 3 car garage and has a very large bathroom. And a flight of stairs. I know, I know, you're busy saying "Duh". But the stairs bit is important.
Finally, I go to investigate. The door is pulled almost closed which is unusual since I always leave it open. Make that "used to". From now on it stays closed.
Why? Because once I forced open the door it was to find a scene of great devastation and a frantic chicken scratching at a window. The chicken is at the window. It has hit my mirror which has fallen sideways and knocked my ironing board over. The ironing board hit the side pole of my clothes rack. (No, I am not making this up!) The clothes rack fell over, forcing the door to close. On its way to the window the chicken managed to scatter all my toiletries, hair clips, bands, and jars to creation and back. Ever tried to pick up 100 bobby pins? Not easy.
So I went from cleaning up cat vomit to cleaning up chicken poo, hair gel, and assorted other things. Yes, I managed to capture the frantic fowl and return it back down the stairs where I tossed it (a tad vigorously but it flew) into the chicken yard. So my paradise comes complete with a cat with a delicate digestive system and flying chickens who climb stairs. Perhaps its not quite paradise after all.
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