Heeding the Wake-Up Call

Every morning I awake to the hens' calls. Diamond, the Silver Spangled Hamburg, chirps a noise somewhere between a woman's guffaw and the screech of a red-tailed hawk. The other two hens emit quieter sounds, more like gentle "Top o' the Morning" greetings.

Jersey, the fourth hen and alpha bird in the flock, has taken ill and no longer sings her morning wake-up song. Three days ago I walked into the coop and discovered her in a heap on the ground, one wing splayed out. I picked her up and placed her back down. Her legs folded under her and she collapsed on the bed of pine shavings.

Does Jersey have Marek's disease?

She was a gift to me, Jersey, the giant black bird with iridescent feathers. So, were the other three hens and the large two-tiered coop, hand-built with love, that houses them. Even though it's nearing the time for Jersey to start laying eggs (she's six months old), instead she has become ill.

I purchased a small dog cage from the local pet store and separated her from the other hens. Marek's, an airborne poultry virus, is a highly contagious disease.

I called the local feed store. The poultry expert assured me that all of the hens had been vaccinated as chicks for Marek's disease.

"Ten years ago, we never saw Marek's in this area," said the woman. "Maybe some strains are becoming resistant to the vaccination. Or, perhaps, there was something wrong with the original vaccination." Whatever happened, she agreed, that Jersey's plight sounded like Marek's. She suggested I put Jersey next to a small light to help keep her warm. "Hens body temperatures are high and without the flock to warm them, their bodies can become stressed from the cold."

Jersey now sits in a cage on the patio during the daylight sun and sleeps at night in a cage in the garage under a light. She's stilling eating and drinking water. I'm feeding her a homeopathic remedy Hypericum Perforatum (St. John's Wort), 5 dosages in 1 tablespoon of distilled water and also a complex of crushed food-deriven Vitamin B. Occasionally during the soft hours of the day, I hear her gently cawing to the other birds as if to say, "I miss you." And, I also see her scooting around on her tail feathers trying desperately to stand up. She seems determined to not give up on life until she can stand on her own again.

Having a sick bird is a wake-up call to how fragile life is.

Last year, I had a series of my own wake-up calls. Some were medical, others professional, but they all resulted in the eradication of toxic things from my life.

Intuitively I knew that if I continued on the same path, a path that seemed to wind through a thicket rife with poison oak and venomous snakes, I would end up like my beloved Jersey--wings clipped, legs splayed--unable to stand on my own two feet.

So, I made some changes and heeded the wake-up call.

And, while in flux, I met one of the most important souls I've ever met. He challenged me to debunk status quo, eradicate prescribed meanings of success, and to follow my creative being. He asked tough questions, taught me what he knew, and pushed me beyond my boundaries. Under his tutelage, I flourished. Or, at least, I began to.

But, thickets are notorious for spawning new growth and, sure enough, the weeds of exterior forces began to entangle our feet, ensnaring us in expectations, judgments and external demands. Even the sun that cast its dappled guiding light at the end of the thicket, couldn't stop the questions from coming. Had we, like in Don Quixote's Impossible Dream, dared to run where the brave dare not go? Were external forces clipping our wings? When did love become not enough?

Wake-up calls sometimes don't go as dreamed.

This morning when I awoke to the sounds of the hens, I realized I was like Jersey. Alone. Sequestered in a cage. Sad. Hurting.

It's time to heed yet another wake-up call.

Picture Perfect

Anticipation                                                                Photo credit: Keith Skelton

Keith Skelton's photo of Sequoia and Coachie, the Partridge Giant Cochin, made picture of the day on Workday Chicken Pictures today.

The First Egg

Coachie's First Egg       Photo Credit: Keith Skelton www.KeithSkeltonPhoto.com

Just in time for spring, Coachie, the Giant Partridge Cochin laid her first egg. I knew she was getting ready because I found her in the nesting box early last week scrambling the straw into a funnel so she could sit down in the middle of it. "I think we're going to have an egg when we get back from the Valley," I said. I had seen this behavior before, preparing a nest. Years ago, my cat did the same thing before she gave birth to kittens.

Sure enough, a small, brown egg was on the coop's floor when we returned from the Valley two days later. While we were admiring Coachie's beautiful creation and discussing how we would prepare it for breakfast the next morning, Coachie jumped up into the nesting box and started making a racket--a noise so loud it resounded through the neighborhood. And, then, she laid another egg, right there, while we were lifting the lid, watching. She arched her butt up and lowered her head to the straw. Her bottom eyelids (nictitating membrane) raised up as she strained. And, then, a warm egg popped out beneath her. I stroked Coachie's head. "You're such a good mother," I said. "Well done."

There's nothing like birth.

When my daughter was young, our cat, Snowflake, became impregnated with a litter. Snowflake searched out a dark nesting place under the bed where a blanket was stored for winter. That morning before work, I was sitting cross-legged on the floor, cat in my lap, stroking her belly and the underside of her chin, when she began to push and strain. "Hurry over here, Alli," I yelled to my daughter, "I think Snowflake's giving birth." My daughter and I watched as a kitten in a sac began to emerge from its mother. We were so in awe that the birth was happening in my lap, that our glee upset Snowflake. She raced to her nesting place, the newborn still half in and out of her. There she birthed six kittens.

There's nothing like birth.

Years ago, while vacationing on the south shore of Kauai, my family and I were sunning by the beach when we saw a great fin sticking out of the water. At first, I thought it was a wind surfer who had caught some errant breeze. But, then I saw the fin flip around, and around, and around and realized that it was a whale of some sort. The locals were all stopping and pulling their cars over to the side of the road. A great commotion of people began gathering. No farther out to sea than a short boogie board ride was a Humpback whale. It rolled and rolled around in the water, its great fins becoming giant sky masts. Moments later, a small whale could be seen floating behind its mother. Together, the two Humpbacks began gliding their way down the shore toward their next destination.

There's nothing like birth.

Years ago, I didn't have the chance to see the birth of my daughter. Because of the quickness with which she finally arrived, my eyeglasses were left on the hospital's bedside table instead of being brought into the operating room. Even though a large mirror was carefully positioned at the end of my surgical bed, I couldn't see anything. I remember squinting my eyes at the mirror and trying like crazy to see her come out of me, but all I saw was an unfocused blur.

Even though I couldn't actually see my daughter's birth, it didn't matter. Because once I heard her "I'm here in the world" wail and wrapped her in my protective arms, I knew I had just seen the most miraculous of events that has ever happened to me.

There's nothing like birth.

Last year was an unusual and difficult year. A lot of things changed for me. Some events were very sad, others happy and rewarding. But, all were somewhat unanticipated. I re-learned that the Universe can easily toss "balls" into the air and use its great hand to juggle and keep them there.

So, in preparation for whatever this year decides it will bring, I am readying my nest. I have ripped up my front yard, mended fences and reinforced retaining walls.  Tomato plants now overflow my extra large garden box and 100 sunflower seedlings have been planted in anticipation of them turning their faces, one day, toward the sun.

I am preparing my nest so when the confusion clears and the Universe decides it's time for the "balls" to drop, they will have a soft, safe place to land. With my nest ready, I feel prepared.

Because, there's nothing like birth.

The Art and Egg-ucation of Chicken Farming

Hana chases a chicken in the chicken pen          
Photo credit: Keith Skelton, www.KeithSkeltonPhoto.com

     

Montecito Messenger published an article written by me (photos by Keith Skelton) about Crane School in today's weekly edition:

 Putting the “Country” Back in Crane Country Day School.

For Anne Dascomb, assistant to the head of school at Crane Country Day School, starting Crane's afterschool Discoveries Chicken Farming program for first through fifth graders was a natural. When she was a student at University of California-Santa Barbara, her roommates were veterinarian students and always had chickens around. Dascomb's animal husbandry skills combined with a generous grant from Parents from Crane (Crane's parent association) and a chicken coop donated by parent Ramsey Cronk, provided Dascomb with all she needed to launch the chicken farming class.

"I always say that I'm putting the 'country' back in Crane Country Day School," says Dascomb, dressed in a flouncy Western skirt and stylized leather cowboy boots.

A quick stroll past the Sprague Mathematics and Science complex to the far end of the parking lot leads to a small knoll above the basketball courts. There sits a bucolic patch of land that hosts the chicken coop, the chicken pen, a compost, vermicompost, the school's organic gardens, and an outdoor classroom with wooden benches and an oversized white board.

"We were so lucky to have Eric Haessler, our Lower School Drama teacher, donate a weekend of his time to construct and install the chicken run," says Dascomb, pointing to a long, extended run that is enclosed by chicken wire and opens up to the coop with hinged doors. "The pen gives the chickens room to run."

Known affectionately around campus as "The Chicken Lady", Dascomb says she loves the program because she is no longer "just an administrator behind the desk." Children visit her all day, bringing her empty egg cartons from home in hopes of being one of the "winners" of the dozen egg giveaways (a half-dozen each) at school assembly. The weekly or so winners receive egg cartons designed with a gift label that says, "From your friends in the Poultry Club at Crane Country Day School." The label portrays animated caricatures of Dascomb, Haessler, Maintenance Supervisor Joel Jamison, Learning Specialist Theresa Gorey, and two of Crane's inaugural chickens. The person who draws the winner of the eggs enthusiastically recites the catchy chicken phrase, "Winner, winner, chicken dinner" as he or she pulls the name of the egg-cellent prize.

In fact, many of the first-, second-, and third-grade girls are "totally into the Crane hens," says Dascomb. "They collect the eggs from the nests daily and bring them up to the office, and they beg to announce the winner of the eggs. It is so much fun to see an otherwise shy little first-grader stand up and, all on her own in a brave voice, shout out to the 280 assembled students, faculty and administrators, "Winner, winner, chicken dinner.'" Besides barnyard activities, Dascomb has a "flock" of curriculum ideas. The students watched the Virtual Chicken DVD, a movie produced by Auburn University's (Alabama) Department of Poultry Science that takes a "trip" through the hen-making apparatus. 

They've also whipped up tantalizing chocolate eggs and formed their hair into rooster-like styles using egg whites.

The students crafted felt "flock" jackets for the chickens, better known in the poultry industry as "hen savers." These jackets provide chickens with extra protection from aggressive, pecking peers, which are often the more dominant hens in the flock. One chicken "farmer", Rhys, glued cut-out fabric letters onto a hen saver for his cleverly named chicken "Fly."

Besides the care and feeding of the chickens, the students also learn about chicken anatomy and by the end of the class, are required to know the Chicken Farmer's Glossary of Terms from backyardchickens.com, a popular chicken blog. During the final egg-xamination, the students crowded around an outdoor picnic table next to the coop and began answering Ms. Dascomb's questions.

"What does a chicken need to lay an egg?" asks Dascomb, which is in itself a bit of a trick question.

Zane raises his hand and proudly says, "A hen doesn't need a rooster to lay an egg."

"You're right," says Dascomb and hands him a rubberized see-through egg with a yellow yolk inside.

Other questions are asked. Enthusiastic answers are given. Each member of the Chicken Farmers Club receives an egg toy and accolades from Dascomb.

"You've all graduated," Dascomb says proudly as she holds up the Chicken Farming T-shirt. "And, you're now official members of the Chicken Farming Club." She hands them each a T-shirt. On it, it states, "Crane Country Day Schoool. Eggucation at its best." And, that it is.

Always Spring.

Looking into the outside - from the winter to the spring.                          Photo credit: Nancy Shobe 

A friend of mine, Rebecca, constructed the most amazing coop. She gathered recycled boards, windows, and a door and built her coop in her backyard. Every time I visit her, I'm in awe of her finished endeavor. It's not just that the coop is the perfect little house, a house that could become a future mother-in-law getaway (if it was well-scrubbed) or a tucked away artist's studio. What amazes me is that Rebecca constructed it herself. She donned her hip belt and adopted a Rosie the Riveter's attitude. It's as if "I Can Do It," is written in subliminal messaging all over the coop.

What Rebecca doesn't know, and to which I doubt I will ever confess, is that I often tiptoe inside her coop while visiting her, camera in hand, and snap photos of her eleven or so engaging chickens. They prance around, hen dancing to some invisible beat. A hen has often laid a warm and recent egg and that egg sits like a golden prize in her hand-built, wall-to-wall nesting box.

But, what captivates me most is the view from the coop. Inside the all consuming darkness, I look out of the four-paned window and find a magical world of oaks, orange-blossomed nasturtium and long forgotten garden "things". Right before me, is a painting-perfect portrait of Rebecca's life: the sturdiness of the oak, the vibrance of the orange flowers, and the tradition, history and storytelling of the old and rusty things.

I feel very fortunate to have her as friend.

Friends are often remembered in ways other than the visualization of their faces. Perhaps it's their hands, the way she sat on your couch knitting her grandson another sweater. Or, maybe it's the scent of the freshly-baked apple pie that alights on your senses as you walk into her house. Or, maybe it's the scratchiness of his unshaved morning beard against your sensitive face.

I once had a friend who doesn't even know he is my friend. He sat on the airplane next to me while I was journeying back to the "homeland" to visit my dying father. We talked about life and death and what it meant to us. We talked about losing loved ones. We both had tears in our eyes as we filled the hours with a kind of partnered talk that one can almost only find with strangers--a baring of our souls, souls that are usually intensely guarded with our own immediate loved ones. Even though I can't tell you his name and I have no idea where he lives, he was a great friend to me and my heart will always be grateful to him.

As this is the last day of winter (and also National Poultry Day), I think it's important to remember those people who warm your heart and bring you spring. I admire Rebecca for her strength and courage. I respect her for taking a month sabbatical every year to pursue and refine her love of painting. I treasure the fact that I was the first person other than the parents to hold her gorgeous newborn baby daughter. And, I am thankful that she allowed me to sit with her for days waiting for her goat to give birth. I even appreciate the way that we can squabble and still be friends.

Nearly all the ways that Rebecca has touched my life has been captured by me in color and black-and-white photographs. But, the evidence of her presence in my life is so much greater. She has shown me that with strength, conviction, and a can-do attitude, the view from the window is almost always spring.

Stepping Outside of the Box

Stepping Outside of the Box            Copyright Keith Skelton; www.KeithSkeltonPhoto.com          

Every morning when I walk up the hill to the coop, the chickens are standing at the door.

The entire flock rubs their beaks against the aviary-wired door, clucking their morning "hello's", sashaying their little tail feathers back and forth. When I open the door, at least two of them jump onto the lower doorframe and peek out their heads.

Due to predators--namely my cat, hawks, a neighborhood dog, and a lack of fences--I've been hesitant to let the chickens free-range. Yet, their constant behavior of greeting me mosh-pit style in front of the door leaves me feeling guilty. So, the other day, I decided to grab two of the hens and let them explore.

With a cup of my morning chamomile/citrus tea in one hand and a chicken in the other (I made two trips), I brought two hens down to the "flatlands."

Coachie, my Giant Partridge Cochin, went into a snit. She was fine in my arms, but the minute I put her on the grass, she cawed out for the rest of her flock. Even when Sunshine, the Golden Spangled Hamburg, was set down beside her, she still cawed. With equal fervor, the penned hens responded. The communication went back and forth for over a half hour.

After 45 minutes or so, Coachie began to relax. Well, kind of. One peck here, and a quick twist of the head and a dash of the eye. One peck there, and a quick twist of the head and the dash of the eye. She clearly didn't appreciate being the Christina Columbus of chicken explorers.

I kneeled down next to her and petted her. I tried to reassure her with my best Chicken Whispers. Her agitation lessened but never ceased. After downing my cup of tea, I scooped her back up into my hands and transported her and Sunshine back to the remaining flock.

Coachie was having a difficult time being out of the box.

Settling into the "coop" of life is so much easier than stepping outside of the box, isn't it? When a challenging opportunity arises, instead of "going for it", it's much easier to heed the bugle blowing warning calls: What if I fall apart? What if I get sick? What if I die? What if I'm a failure? What if I'm away from my kids too long? Our mind rages with warnings like an overprotective parent. "Don't you dare do it," it screams while throwing a protective arm across our chests. "You could get hurt." So, we don't move forward. We stay. We listen to those whispering voices and nestle back under the wings of our existing flock. After all, it's warm there. It's comfortable. It feels familiar. Maybe life's just easier staying inside the box, we tell ourselves.

But, what happens after awhile?

We get bored. We suffocate. We pick fights with significant others.

Our minds and souls feel as if they are turning to mush.

A librarian friend once asked me, "How do you do what you do for a living?" referring to my career as a fundraising professional.

"I do it because everyday I wonder if I can. When I wake up in the morning, I have 'butterflies' in my stomach. I suppose it's the challenge that keeps me interested, keeps me engaged. My life's motto is,'Go for the butterflies,' " I said with a giggle.

"I can't even remember the last time I had "butterflies" in my stomach,"  she said.

Going for the "butterflies" adds excitement to life. It means taking ourselves beyond our own prescribed limits, testing who we are.

There was the time years ago I attempted to climb Vernal Falls in Yosemite, despite my deeply embedded fear of heights. I almost made it to the top. Even though I didn't climb the last twenty steps, I gained such confidence in my abilities that I landed a very significant philanthropic gift the next week.  I learned that "butterflies" in my stomach--although certainly not comfortable or at all desirable--are a sure sign that I am stepping outside of my box, or "wandering" away from my norm, and that "ain't all bad."

I interviewed a man once who helped found a branch of an international leadership organization and at 83 years old or so, still travels extensively around the world for work.

"What's the secret to your success?" I asked him.

He paused for a moment, deep in thought. Then, he looked at me, with amusement dancing in his eyes, "It's that I've never said 'no' to any offer. When someone asks me to do something or go somewhere, I always say 'yes', that is unless I have a sense that it's very dangerous or really not good for me."

"And, the result has been your success?" I asked.

"The result has been that I've done so many different things and been to so many different places that I had never expected or even imagined. I've led a very rich life."

All because he chose to step outside of the box. He chose to say yes to the "butterflies."

As I sat and watched Coachie's distress yesterday, I realized that I have often felt that distress, too. Stepping outside of the box isn't easy. It causes anxiety, fear, and sometimes pain.

Just this afternoon,  I sat at my desk reviewing my to-do list.  I added: create a safe space for the chickens to free-range. After all, they can't choose to free-range for themselves. The option has to be given.

But, for me...I have the ability to choose...

I, then, picked up a yellow sticky note and wrote on it in all caps: REMEMBER TO CHOOSE THE BUTTERFLIES. It's now posted on the keyboard of my laptop. After all, by choosing butterflies, I'm guaranteed wings.


P.S. According to research, the gut plays an important role in creating memory due to something called our vagus nerve (derived from the Latin word "wandering") and "second brain". This is all fascinating material. 

Will They Eat It?

A very funny video on You Tube. This episode is about whether or not the chicken will eat the banana.

P.S. I tried to feed two of my chickens a banana this morning and they just kept walking by it for over 30 minutes. I guess I'll stick to peanuts.