Let Me Count The Ways...

   Los Olivos Chickens                                                            Photo credit:  Nancy Shobe

Over the last three weeks, I've had no less than ten or so close friends or relatives say to me, "I never imagined that you'd be into chickens."

"Never did I imagine either," I replied.

It's true. I grew up a suburbia girl--deeply concerned about the clothes I was wearing, the trendy styling of my well-coiffed hair, and learning about all things urban. (I confess; I was also a cheerleader.) Chickens weren't even a part of my lexicon unless it was cordon bleu. I always envisioned myself one day living in New York City, attending off Broadway shows, dining in tuxedoed restaurants and "doing lunch" at white-clothed cafes. Even though I grew up in Michigan (which some folks think is all rural, but it's not), THIS girl was going BIG TIME.

Big Time didn't end up being the Big Apple, but it did end up being the Windy City...and then the City of Angels where I landed my second job at the Music Center of Los Angeles. I met Mary Martin, danced with Gino Conforti, had the door opened for me by Tommy Tune and snuck backstage to watch the rehearsals of the Academy Awards.  This girl was now officially Big Time.

Never did I imagine.

Perhaps it was that red and white checked collared shirt that I'd wear on occasion while in high school. I'm not sure why I was attracted to it. It was a kind of Hee Haw style or perhaps Marianne from Gilligan's Island. I'd take the two ends of the shirt, tie them into a knot at my waist, slip on a pair of slender capris, poke some big hoop earrings through my ears, and head out for a casual evening.  I didn't realize what I looked like until my date with the convertible Corvette came to pick me up one evening to drive me down to Detroit's riverfront. He told me, in an offhanded and non-confrontational way, that I was dressed like a bag of Purina Cat Chow. Talk about instantly taking the country out of the girl! I was more determined than ever...

Never did I imagine.

I do have fond memories of being in the country as a young girl. Like the times I went to my relatives, The Fox's, who took me for tractor/hay rides and the times I traveled to my girlfriend's family's Up North cabin and went trail riding around the lake. I was drawn to the quiet, country life, but it seemed so foreign to me, and so... well, so dirty...and unkempt and filled with animal odors. I always thought horses were kind of interesting, though. In fact, I groomed my friend, Karen's, horses for her equestrian shows. I combed their manes and blackened their hooves with paint. But, chickens? Heck, I didn't even grow up with a dog or a cat.

Never did I imagine.

I AM into chickens. My daughter swears that I have a unsolvable case of empty nest. Perhaps she's right. But, what I noticed over the years as my life grew calmer, my hair longer, and my personality stronger, is that Vogue Urban wasn't really my style. I was more an environmentally-friendly, food-growing, blue jeans and flip flop loving Hippie Chick.

Where high-heeled nights with thin eyeliner used to be the hours I dreamed of and waited for, I am now more drawn to dawn when I can throw my hair up into a clip, slip on a well-worn pair of Levis, and head up the hill to the chicken coop. There's something about the early dawn, light glistening off my beloved chickens' feathers, that begins my day in a state of grace.

Never did I imagine.

Benadryl, Tylenol and Arsenic in Chicken? What?

What? You're Kidding Me...                                   Photo: Keith Skelton, www.keithskeltonphoto.com

Check out Arsenic in Our Chicken? by Op-Ed Columnist Nicholas Kristof in today's New York Times. "Poultry on factory farms are routinely fed caffeine, active ingredients of Tylenol and Benadryl, banned antibiotics and even arsenic..."

WHAT???

Just one more reason to raise your own chickens...

The How-Tos of Burying a Chicken

    A Remembrance to Jersey                


How many remembrances of deceased animals can adorn your yard before it starts looking like Stephen King's Pet Sematary?

Last weekend, Jersey came down with Marek's disease. For someone who has never witnessed the effects of what is commonly known as "fowl paralysis", it's not a pretty sight. One moment, Jersey was hunting and pecking around the yard. Hours later, Jersey's a heap of feathers on the coop's floor, one wing splayed out. When I tried lifting her up and placing her back down, her legs gave way, collapsing beneath her.

I separated her from the other three hens because Marek's is highly contagious between poultry. I was assured by the feed store where she was purchased that she had been vaccinated as a newborn chick. But, vaccinations can sometimes go awry and new viral sub-strains can derive.

I tried every homeopathic remedy recommended on backyardchickens.com, to no avail. When her breath became so labored that I was sure she was going to die, I removed her from the cage and transferred her to a bed of clover. If she was going to die, I was determined to give her one day of acting like a healthy chicken. She nibbled a few leafs of clover. It was her last supper.

What do you do with a dead chicken?

The first thing I did was tell myself that my dreams for Jersey were no longer. I always joked that I was going to put a rhinestone bracelet around her neck and take her to the beach. "She'll be 'Jersey Shore'," I'd say and laugh.

The second thing I did was look for a remembrance of her, like a photo, but there weren't many. It's ironic because she was the prettiest of the flock with her iridescent feathers of aquatic blues and greens. She reminded me of an opal I used to wear. If I turned her toward the sunlight, I could watch her magical colors. But, there wasn't a good photo. Well, except for one--Jersey as a baby chick. It seemed to capture her personality as the leader of the pack.

Now another hen would need to assume the alpha role.

The third thing I decided to do was to call the feed store and ask them how to properly dispose of a chicken. Lucky for me I have land so I could give Jersey the proper burial. I asked what people do who live in very urban settings and the poultry expert and I agreed that we would rather not think about it.

He suggested that I bury Jersey near a tree so that her decomposing body would become fertilizer. "Dig a hole at least a foot deep and cover her body with some Dolomite Lime," he suggested. The lime helps decompose the body faster and cuts down the smell so that other animals won't be drawn to the gravesite. I knew already to put rocks on top after I buried her in the soil so that the raccoons wouldn't indulge in an evening snack.

I buried Jersey under the apricot tree just two nights ago, as the sun set across the hill. Earlier, while I was checking out of the home improvement store with the Dolomite lime, I did an impulse purchase of a little chicken planter to put at her gravesite. In my backyard amongst the lavendar and irises, a stone angel lays over the gravesite of my deceased cat. Now, a ceramic chicken resides near the apricot tree.

As I buried Jersey, I had the strange urge to begin to sing Ave Maria. Perhaps it's because the beautiful song has often filled the cathedrals during ceremonies for loved ones who have passed. Although I didn't sing, I did say a prayer of gratitude for Jersey's time with me and wished her a beautiful afterlife. And, then I planted a small rose quartz by her head.

Rose quartz is my thing. I plant it around the foundation of houses I move into. I give it away to friends. I have jars of it around the house. It's known as the love stone; it symbolizes the heart.

I  know. I know. It's kind of a ridiculous ceremony for the burying of a chicken, isn't it?

But, a ritual, whether it be for a person, animal or even a place, is a wonderful way to begin to let go. I am solaced knowing that Jersey received the proper burial and that a beautiful chunk of rose quartz lies beside her head.

In a world where we're often too busy to stop and reflect on life's meaning, it's important to give death the opportunity to remind us.

Rest in peace, Jersey.

Dye Your Hair Not Your Chicks

With Easter coming up on Sunday, Jennifer Kingson wrote an informative article in today's New York Times about dyeing chicks for Easter: Nobody Minds Dyeing the Egg but the Chicken is Another Story.  The dyeing is often performed by injecting the color into the egg before the chick is even hatched.

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.