When it's time to end

It seems like a mere blink ago that we were receiving these little ones into our hearts and home.  Oh, the anticipation...the excitement...the wonder and adoration when they finally arrived...

Acquiring chicks felt like we were finally, really living the "country life."  Silly to think, now, with the rise of urban chicken husbandry but, in our minds, chickens would fill out the picture of simpler living for us. 

Three years later, I don't know that I would say it was simple, but it has certainly filled out our lives.

We were complete newbies at this but we threw ourselves into the effort.  How difficult could it really be?

We managed to keep those little chicks alive, build them a coop (with almost 100% re-purposed wood), introduce them to our yard (and many neighbors' yards, as well), and to love on them daily.

In return, they provided us with beauty...

entertainment...

meat...

and, always, eggs...

Remember that I said we were newbies to this?  Well, the deep swoop of our learning curve has leveled out now and we have closed the first chapter of our "Chicken Experience."  Due to some ignorance, a misguided trust of dogs, the failure to ever electrify our ELECTRIC fence and several forgetful nights where we failed to close up the chicken coop, well...  we managed to whittle down our flock of 34 laying hens to one single, fluffy white, faithful, egg laying hen.  We have decided to give her to a neighbor with more chickens so that she doesn't have to be alone.  I won't pontificate on how I feel about how we got to this point.  I'll just say that I wish we had landed here by way of a different path.  But I will say this.

It has been a joy.

I highly recommend keeping chickens.  Always.

Yes, it's inconvenient when you go out of town and have to secure chicken-sitters. 

Yes, if left completely unattended, they will get in your flower beds and garden.

Yes, they can be stupid and dim witted at times (but who among us has not been described as such at some point?)

But they are also
easily contented,
make wonderful cooing sounds,
produce a miracle of nature EVERY DAY, no questions asked,
love "treats" like broccoli stems and bread crusts,
annihilate a tick population unlike anything I've ever seen,
and, if you're lucky enough to scoop one up and cuddle with it, they are like a little heater, purring under the grasp of your encircling arms, trusting you completely.

It will be strange not to see them out there in the yard.

But I tell you what, come Spring, we'll be pouring over the Hatchery catalog, sizing up the colors and attributes of every chick imaginable... because

"Hope" is the thing with feathers—

That perches in the soul—

And sings the tune without the words—

And never stops—at all—

Emily Dickinson



and so I count
 
--the zillions of hummingbirds, each vying for one of the feeders on our front porch as they tank up for their thousand mile journey
--the quiet of the morning when I stumble out the door to walk the dog and am bestowed with the gift of golden-laced clouds playing hide and seek with the sun
--pulling weeds..hard, back breaking work that is so very satisfying to my need for neat and tidy edges
--warm apple fritters that make boys giggle with glee
--the anticipation of friends gathering tomorrow for new adventures
--the strength and trust of a dear friend, facing major surgery with grace and peace
--the joy of another friend as she plans her small wedding ceremony and the fact that I am included among the small circle of friends and family blessed to be invited
--the promise of long needed answers to closely kept questions, despite how it might affect the future
--the abundance of food from the garden that simply must be shared
--the opportunity to serve from a place of strength and knowing that such a reality is only because of the ever flowing amount of grace of God...
 

Carnivorous chickens, amazing butterflies and Harry Potter

Carnivorous Chickens

There are a few things that I need to share with you. 

First off, you need to know that anyone that tries to sell you eggs that are described as both "Free Range" and "Fed an all vegetarian diet" is selling you a big carton of malarkey.  Chickens, by their very nature, cannot be of both the aforementioned persuasions.  Chickens, when left to their own devices, will, most willingly, hunt down and eat meat.  My sweet Golden Laced Wyandotte hen, pictured above, is running very determinedly away from her fellow lady friends in order to eat her just bagged toad, alone.  She will most likely, peck its fool brains out, toss it around in the air a bit, and then leave the remaining carcass for anyone else who might be interested. 

Now, if all this time you've naively brought home your Fresh Farm Eggs  and imagined that the sweet hens that shared them with you had, only just that morning, been grazing contentedly in their open field, feeding on seeds and nuts and berries while simultaneously eschewing anything that crawled across its path, well you have been mistaken. 

Chickens are ANIMALS I tell you!  Animals!

Amazing Butterflies

"God uses broken things. It takes broken soil to produce a crop, broken clouds to give rain, broken grain to give bread, broken bread to give strength. It is the broken alabaster box that gives forth perfume."

--Vance Havner

As I shared in a recent post, I've been struggling a bit lately.  Valley living, I called it.  The place where everything is hard.  Where everything seems, very simply, broken.

And then, when stumbling out into the blinding sunshine to gaze upon the zinnias outside my front door, the ones that were planted as an afterthought and with nothing more than a haphazard scattering of seeds, I find this marvel pictured above.

A broken butterfly.

One whose wings had an actual hole in them.

And it didn't even seem to notice.  It was flying.  And flitting.  And sucking nectar.  And flapping its wings in that quiet and subtle way that all butterflies do.  It was doing its thing, despite the hole. 

Or could it have been because of the hole?

Did it matter, really, which was the reason?  

Does it matter that I, too, am broken? 

Of course it matters.  But it is what I choose to do with that brokeness that defines me.   Sometimes, all I can manage is what is most basic...eating, sleeping, bathing, caring for my children.  Other times, I can push through and open the shades to let in more light, even if it is a little later in the day than I would have wanted.  And the warmth penetrates something deep within, stiring up the dying ember that He wouldn't snuff out.  And there is hope.

"Grass grows at last above all graves."

--Julia Dorr



Harry Potter

I don't think I will be able to adequately describe to you how our family is forever changed from reading the Harry Potter series.  I know we're a little slow on the draw, having witnessed fellow friends be swept up in the Harry phenomenon a decade ago, but the timing just wasn't right.  But I suppose all of the planets lined up just right three months ago and we found a set of books on sale for cheap.  We gobbled them up and determined that now was the time.  Was it ever.

Our "schooling" has been all over the map this fall.  We've endured growing pains with regards to structure and flexibility, independence and neediness, desire and apathy.  We've studied history and math in spurts and science as the spirit moved us.  We've been tossed back and forth between plans made and undone, sickness and health, dreams cast and reality reeling us back in...  Nothing has gone as planned for a long time.

And then we began reading Harry Potter.  And everything (some days, literally everything) was put on hold.  We read the books aloud, together, all of us, whenever possible.  John couldn't wait for the rest of us and quickly read through the whole series in a week.  Aidan, similarly restless, succumbed, kept at least 5 chapters, if not a whole book ahead of us and, for the first time, while reading in bed, had to be told that we (John and I) were going to sleep and we would see him in the morning.  August, restrained only by the fact that he simply couldn't read the book on his own, depended on me to keep up the momentum and begged, at every turn, to please read another chapter. 

It was magical.  Truly magical.  Our nights, after dinner, were defined by how many chapters we could squeeze in before grown up eyes became too tired and blurry, or little ones' eyes could no longer stay open.  And the discussion.  Ah, the discussion.  There were the continual interuptions by August, full of questions and commentary, that, honestly, often tried our patience but, just as often, presented an insightful observation that caused us all to stop and ponder anew.  There were plot predictions and interpretations of characters' actions and musings on why things had to be the way they were.  There was action and fear and joy and utter despair--one night, as we read after dinner while still sitting at the table, unable to even wait until we had cleared the dishes, an unexpected plot turn found me racked with sobs and tears that I carried with me to my bed.

And then, almost as suddenly as it had begun, it was over.  We had managed to read through the whole series, aloud, together, in less than three months and now, it was over.  John had asked me, the whole time while we were reading aloud, why I didn't read ahead.  "I just don't understand how, after the kids go to bed, you can keep yourself from reading more?" he would ask.

The answer was simple.  I didn't want it to end. 

I suppose, upon finishing, there was some relief.  Like that which comes when you endure a long race or a big project.  A sort of "We did it!" kind of thing. 

But there was also a tremendous sense of loss that came with reading that last page.  We had been completely immersed in this world that had come to define us, in a way.  Questions surrounding the power of truth, love, sacrifice, friendship, bravery and righteousness had informed our conversations with each other as well as the quiet of our own heads.  Conclusions about the consequences of actions, or lack thereof, had been made, again and again.  These books had been an incredible bonding agent, for weeks on end.  And now, we had to move on.  Stumble back into the light of a new day, find our bearings and trudge on.

The level of discourse and understanding that my two boys (one of whom is not yet 6) demonstrated as we read these books truly stunned me and easily accomplished what years of "Language Arts" curriculums aim to achieve.  The attention to detail, ability of recall and overall comprehension of the text was truly impressive.  And the beauty of it all was--they couldn't help themselves.  It just happened.  It had to. 

For that, I thank you, J.K. Rowling, from the bottom of my heart.

Life with chickens

One of the big shames about me not posting for so long is that you have been left out of the egg loop. Our chickens finally started laying eggs in October and we have been trying to get into the egg business ever since. Like I have alluded to in previous posts, tending to these chickens has provided a ride on one of the biggest learning curves of my life. We have basically been making this up as we go (okay, we do read a lot about chickens and such but when you've never done something before and you just start doing it, well... there are a LOT of unknowns) and we have found that we've made some good decisions and some not so good decisions. For example:
*Decision to finally take the plunge and order our chicks==good decision
*Decision to order 50 of the darn things==RIDICULOUS decision
*Decision to butcher the roosters ourselves==good decision (for the incredible education we received in the process)
*Decision to butcher dual-breed birds at 24 weeks of age==unfortunate decision. Yes, we have a freezer full of birds, but we can really only stew them or smoke them (on the grill, people!). If I want to make my fabulous buttermilk oven baked chicken I still have to buy it from the store. That right there really frustrates me, especially when I think that the chicken we do have in the freezer is some of the most expensive meat we have ever had in our possession. It's criminal, really.
*Decision to build our own coop with scrap materials=very frugal/green/whatever-you-want-to-call-it of us decision. This saved us a ton of money.
*Decision to build the frame of the coop with the idea of it being a chicken "tractor" and then changing our minds about that idea mid-stream==not so smart decision. We definitely should have fleshed this idea out a bit more before we started sawing and hammering and committing ourselves to an idea that we flip flopped on. What we ended up with is a coop that is really too small for the number of chickens that we have. Since they only use it to sleep in, we can get away with it. One saving grace to having built a quasi-chicken tractor is that it is moveable, which has come in handy as we figure out the best way to fence in our chickens and keep them out of our neighbors yards while also providing them with fresh ground to graze on. Remember what I said earlier about making this up as we go along? This is a good example of that.


Oh well, live and learn, right? Actually, it has been kind of fun to fly by the seat of my pants on this one. There are not many areas in my life where I can afford to make bad decisions, learn from them and not ruin someone's life/future/psyche in the process.

What you see here are the various hues of our eggs. They really are beautiful and the picture really doesn't do them justice. Some of them are a pale brown, others darker, and even some have spots. Just lovely. Unfortunately, our hens started laying as the days were beginning to get shorter and shorter. The number of hours of light in a day is what determines whether some hens will continue laying through the winter or not. So, we were up to a high of 18 eggs a day and now we are lucky if we get 10. We set our price at $1.50/dozen based on that higher number of eggs a day. That would guarantee that we would cover our feed costs and maybe recoup a small portion of the grand investment these lovely birds have become. Now that our daily numbers have dropped, we aren't even breaking even on the feed. Oh well.
By the way, the eggs are DELICIOUS so, even if we have to eat every cotton pickin' one of them, at least our palates will be satisfied.

The latest drama regarding our chickens has been the nasty turn our temperatures took this week. We had our coldest weather of the season these past few days, even some wintry mix the other night. So, with temperatures diving into the upper teens, I became obsessed with how my chickens were going to survive. See, our coop is really bare bones. No, I mean really bare bones. It's walls are made of tin, for the love of Pete! There is nothing about our coop that is insulated. You can see daylight where the walls meet and the top foot of the coop is open air, covered only by hardware cloth and more tin for the roof. Cheap to build, yes. True shelter, questionable. So, the first day of the arctic blast, I did what any self respecting mother would do. I made the chickens hot oatmeal. Yes, I did and they LOVED it! I just felt that I had to do something to help warm their bones, or at the very least, their combs, wattles and ugly chicken feet. Amazingly, though, these chickens are incredibly resilient. They are, of course, covered in feathers, and that said feature is something I depend upon myself when I snuggle in under my down comforter in my freezing bedroom that hovers around 59 degrees this time of year. They work--amazingly. As long as they are out of direct winds, can hunker down over their feet completely and tuck their heads under their wing, they are pretty much good to go. It's helpful that we also have breeds that are more cold worthy. Remember, three of our birds are of a breed that actually have feathers on their feet! Even better. Also, we decided to rig up, out to the coop, a ridiculously long extension cord fitted with the lamp we used in the brooder when the chickens were but wee chicks and their warmth was of the utmost importance. It kind of helped. A little. At least they can look around at each other all night and know that they are not the only chicken freezing their tail off.

It doesn't mean that they aren't cold, though. These ladies had just come out of the coop, had some hot oatmeal and then settled down on this limb in the yard in order to soak up the weak morning sunshine. They're not exactly warm, but they will most certainly survive.

Admittedly, though, we are still concerned so John spent a few hours yesterday making some modifications to the coop in anticipation of even nastier weather headed our way this week (impending winter storm, frigid wind chills). He stapled some opaque plastic around the hardware cloth at the top of the coop and made a temporary "second" wall out of hardware cloth on the inside of the coop. He then stuffed the pine shavings that we use for bedding and some extra hay down inside of it. We'll see how well that works.

I suppose the worst case scenario is that one morning we might find we have more frozen chicken than we thought. Wouldn't that be grand?

George and why he must now go

I can't believe that I'm having to tell you this. I never, in a million years, would have believed that it would come to this. But I'm afraid, dear readers, that the George that we grew to know and love has now become, well...how should I say it? Okay, mature, in a "manly" kind of way. He has reached his peak, if you know what I mean. And I'll tell you this, it is not pretty.

Just look at those eyes! You can tell just by the way he's looking at you. He's thinking, "I wonder how hard it would be to fly up on her back and peck the daylights out of her?"

I know, I know. I can't believe it either. But it happened. George has turned on us and I'm afraid there's no going back.

It began slowly and, ironically, it happened to John first. I went away for a weekend recently and so John was on chicken duty while I was gone. Well, John doesn't ordinarily spend a lot of time around the chickens, especially when it comes to giving them their bread and butter, so when he told me that George wasn't all that friendly to him, I kind of wasn't surprised. I mean, he was wondering where his sweet Holly mama was, the one who normally visits him twice a day to feed and water him. The one upon whose face he has looked and thought, "Are you my mother?" since the very beginning. I could understand that his feathers might be a bit ruffled at this "strange" man barging in on his yard.

Oh, and that's another thing. It really is His yard. It has been for quite awhile. While they were yet chicks, Aidan made that observation. "Mom," he said. "Obrahma will never be the head rooster."
"Why?" I asked.
"Because he's not aggressive enough. See, look at George. He has no problem pecking other chicks. If Obrahma won't peck, he can't be the head rooster. It will be George."

Truer words were never spoken! George is the head chicken. If only he was strutting around the chicken yard, led by his head. Unfortunately, he is now led by one thing, and one thing only. The pursuit of his lady friends. Or any lady friends, I discovered. I guess by nature of being female, I am looked upon as another possible conquest, despite my being 25 times bigger than he, and a HUMAN, thank you very much!!!!!

The other morning, armed with a cultivator, just in case, I opened up the chicken door to let out the chickens. As is my custom, I let down their door/ramp and then stand to the side to let them out. I usually stand there and watch them all come down, greeting each of them and telling them good morning. Well, once George emerged, he began his morning ritual of chasing down any chicken that tried to get food or water before him, or, so it seemed, any chicken that looked at him wrong. When he finished all of that running around he turned and saw me and, I suppose, realized that he hadn't chased me yet. I felt it before I experienced it. He was going to come at me. I held up the cultivator (like a hoe but with a forked end) so that it would be between me and George. That didn't seem to deter him a bit and he briskly walked over to me. I didn't want to wait and see what he would try so I kind of nudged him away with the cultivator. He nudged back. I nudged him again. He nudged me again, but this time it was a little stronger. I came back stronger.

(I must admit, that at this point, despite my growing hysteria, I did take a moment to note that the fact that his body was strong meant that he had a lot of muscle which meant that he would weigh a lot which meant he would make for a fine roaster in the oven. You think I'm kidding but I am totally serious. If this chicken was going to go down, at least he would make for good eating.)

He tried to dance around to an unguarded side of me. I danced along with him. He kept coming towards me. I kept pushing back. You get the idea. I didn't want to wait around to see how creative he was going to get. I just wanted to get out of there. I danced myself around so that I could slowly back up to the barn and escape through the door. As a last ditch effort to save my face (figuratively and literally), I turned and ran full throttle. I closed the door in his face and ran all the way to the house. That was not fun at all.

So, we've talked to the boys and they are okay with it. George will be butchered along with the other roosters. We always said that George and Obrahma would stay, but I'm even wavering on Obrahma now. What if, once George is out of the picture, he decides to man up and take over? I would be crushed. I used to think it would be nice to have a rooster around so that we could have more baby chicks in the future but, honestly, we've got way too many chickens and I need baby chicks like I need a hole in my head! Plus, the crowing, which August was so excited about, is not even a need. Our neighbor has a few roosters now and we can hear his plenty fine.

It will be awfully quiet around here, sans the roosters, but it will be a whole lot calmer as well. I like calm.

Umm, a slight change of plans...

Well, for lack of a better way of saying it...

We chickened out!

As the hour approached and when it came down to doing the dirty deed (how's that for alliteration?) we very quietly and simply chose...to wait a little longer. Actually, it wasn't exactly that smooth of a landing. There was a bit more conversation between John and me regarding the specifics of how all of this was going to go down and as a result of that "configuring" we both shared our apprehensions about trying to do this on our own. John asked me to email, again, the family that I had communicated with a month or two ago. Back then, when we were looking at the inevitable need to butcher soon, I put out a question to my homeschool group asking if anyone had any experience with butchering chickens. I, happily, received several responses from families, all of whom had their own methods and various tricks of the trade. Some of these were more antiquated than others and as I shared them with John, he became more resolved to this on his own.

But then we found ourselves at the kitchen table last night, beginning to put the finishing touches on our "conversation about butchering the chickens ourselves". After a bit of posturing, on both of our parts, we found ourselves confessing to each other our fears, concerns, apprehensions and overall questions about how EXACTLY this was all going to go down.

And basically, we balked.
I emailed one of the families about their availability in the next week or two and we, thankfully, took a deep breath.

Now, some may say all sorts of things to this turn of events.
"You wimps!"
"Not cut out for farm life, huh?"
"You talk all big but really..."

And perhaps there would be some truth to those comments. But, I choose to think of it as a healthy dose of humility.
We don't really know what we are doing, as far as butchering chickens goes, and to push forward with airs that we (or one of us, at least) do...well, it is kind of presumptuous.
There is most definitely a place for submission and instruction in all of this and we certainly won't be any worse for the wear if we admit to that.

So, I don't have a gruesome tale to tell you today, or pictures to illustrate the dirty deed. But I do have a beautiful weekend waiting for me and I have to say, I'm glad it doesn't involve dead chickens.

Oh, and also...
I'm really doing a good job of not saying, "I told you so!"

Talk about humility.

Time to do the deed

Well, tomorrow is going to be butchering day. We've managed to find other things to do the last several weekends and we've also had some disagreement over how to do this, exactly. I wanted to get help, seeing as we've never done this before and have only read about the mechanics of the job. One thing that I've learned about myself is that I really benefit from seeing something done, rather than just reading about it. That became very evident when I was apprenticing to be a midwife. I had read tons on the subject of childbirth and could spit out at you a multitude of facts, but as far as the application of those truths, well, it took my apprentice work to really put roots on my shoots.
But John approaches projects differently. He learns by doing it himself. The end result, with all of its correct, and incorrect, maneuvers serve to shape how he'll do things from then on. It's almost like he purposely enrolls himself in the school of hard knocks. Maybe he just likes a good story, I don't know. Me, on the other hand, Mrs. Follow the Rules and try do it perfectly from the beginning, balks at this approach. We've had some terse conversations on the subject, talking round and round about the best way to do this--similar to the way that our roosters hop around in a ring as they challenge each other but not quite as entertaining.
Finally, when I realized how very important it seemed to John to do this himself, I relented. What's the worst that could happen, really? We will have a big nasty mess on our hands whether we are by ourselves or not, we will have to pluck a gazillion chicken feathers regardless... truly, what's the worse that could happen?
I can actually think of a lot of bad things that could happen but because John might read this and I don't want to insult his manhood, I'll just let them go. Besides, someone needs to worry about all of the worst case scenarios in order to keep them from happening, right? Worrying is one of my gifts.
I really want to document this experience, almost in a photojournalistic kind of way, but I'm not sure how I'm going to justify not helping at all in order to get the right shot. We'll just have to see what happens.
I'll keep you posted....

All natural chickens

One of the many joys of raising these wonderful chickens is knowing exactly what they eat. That's in addition,of course, to being privy to how they spend their days, how comfortable they are and their general happiness level on a day to day basis.

One of the treats that we give our chickens from time to time is organic plain yogurt. I know, I didn't believe it myself when I first read about it. Yogurt to chickens! Bah! But believe it or not, it provides the very same benefits to chickens that it does to us humans--beneficial bacteria. And if there is anything the world needs more of.... it's beneficial bacteria.
I have been committed from the get go to raising these chickens as naturally as possible. That's meant no vaccinations, non-medicated feed and general common sense regarding cleanliness of waterers and feeders. I believe that our practices have worked. Out of 52 chicks we have only lost two-- one within the first two days from what must have been genetic issues and the other due to unknown reasons. That's a pretty good track record.
So, to be able to offer them something so simple that is also so helpful, well, it just makes me glad.
And they LOVE it! I mean full on, out and out devotion. I do believe that if they could get away with laying down and rolling in the stuff, they would do it in a heartbeat.
As you can see in the second picture, heads and tails are in the air, yogurt is flying, they eat it off of each other and they keep looking up at you to see if you are going to give them some more.
Soon, chickies, soon.

Here a chick, there a chick...

Well, Chick Day finally arrived on Thursday and, with much anticipation, we headed off to the local MFA (Missouri Farmers Association--not a place for expletives) to pick them up. Ours was the largest box there and we heard the little guys and gals before we even got close. It was a terribly nasty day outside--rain and cool temperatures--so we wasted no time getting them to the car and home.

In their box, they were divided by half. The first picture shows them just before we began to transfer them into the brooder. You can see that we do have a variety of birds, as promised. So far, I think I've been able to distinguish at least five different breeds but I also have NO idea. It is very possible and very likely that my "different" breeds are simply different sexes of the same breed. We'll just have to wait and see. And that's just one of the fun parts!

The next picture shows August helping me with the transfer of each individual chick. My research told me that you should take each chick directly to the waterer, dip its beak into the water and watch as it lift up its beak to take a drink. Although I referred to this, to the boys, as "teaching" the chicks how to drink, it is really more just making sure that every chick has had some water as soon as possible. We received them as day old chicks but they had not had food or drink prior to our receiving them. After we moved about six or so chicks, one of the first in the brooder moseyed over to the waterer on its own, took a drink and then all of the other chicks quickly followed suit. It was pretty neat to watch unfold. August was a great help and very good at his job. Aidan wanted to help but after holding two or three chicks he simply couldn't stand the way their feet felt on his hands. They weren't sharp at all but to my ultra sensitive son, they were just too much. I knew that this is exactly how it would all play out so I was not surprised in the least.

After we got all of the chicks into the brooder, we then proceeded to sit there and just watch. To say that they are cute just doesn't do them justice. They are simply adorable!
I've been trying to put my finger on what it is about these little animals that satisfies me so. I do know that I most definitely feel like the mama hen and I instantly fell in love with every single one of these little chicks. It's incredibly difficult to imagine them in even just a week, when they begin to enter their awkward stage, to put it kindly. As they begin to feather out they take on a less adorable front, the kind of look that only a mother could love. But I am confidant that I am that mama! In just two days, we can already see changes. Many of them are beginning to get some wing feathers, which offers some small clue as to what they will look like eventually. Further, they are less skiddish, kind of, and much more inquisitive. After I enter the brooder area, having called/sung to them of my approaching presence, and have sat myself down close to where they are, they begin to warm up to me and move over to my side, kind of. When they do manage to meander over to me, their eyes seem to be searching my face as I talk to them about what I'm planning on doing or as I ask them what they are up to. I can't help but wonder about what kind of imprinting is going on in their minds as to who I am and what I mean to them. I keep encouraging the boys to talk to them a lot so that they will be very used to and comfortable with them, as well. So far, they have been wonderfully sweet to the chicks, using almost a sing-songy voice with them as they converse.

One major concern I had with the chicks was our recent June bug invasion. About a week before the chicks arrived, we suddenly were overrun with beatles all over our drive way. We have a very large dusk to dawn light on top of our garage (which I HATE and which we normally have turned off because it is just too dang bright. It completely obscures the night sky and it casts this horrible blue green tint on everything. Can you tell that I hate it?). Anyway, a huge number of June bugs recently began flying into the dusk to dawn light, as if committing some kind of pitiful bug suicide. Unfortunately, they weren't entirely successful in their attempts to end it all and would thus go plummeting down to our driveway where they would proceed to writhe and wiggle themselves into an exhausted state of non movement. The next morning, you were never sure if they were dead exactly or just really not excited about facing the fact that they were still alive and now they had to figure out what to do with their lives.

Normally, we simply take out the fuse for the stupid light, since there is no switch for it, and we are all much happier. We would certainly be happier without hundreds of bugs all over our driveway. But, when you take out that fuse, you also remove the power to a couple of key fixtures inside the garage, which we needed for the chicks. So, we have been forced to keep the dad blasted light illuminated. As a result, some of these bugs (okay, a lot) have found their way inside the garage and then, once they see the brooder lamp, have a sort of resurrection moment and begin the whole "I see a light and thus I must fly into it and end it all" crazed thinking that got them there in the first place.

Well, I was afraid that the loud buzzing of their wings (I suppose for dramatic effect?) that occurs when they go plummenting to their end would stress out the little chicks. It's really loud and freaks the heck out of me and I,
a) am a lot bigger than the chicks
and
b) know what it is that is making the said noise.
The chicks are small and innocent. These bugs could be hawks for all they know.
And, yes, the first time one of these beatles landed in the brooder my, until now, content and quietly chirping, chicks went crazy. All it took was for one to scream, "Help! Murder! Police!" and the rest joined suit and went all crazy themselves. But then, one brave soul stopped, looked at what it was, pecked at it and the next thing he/she knew, a whole gang of chicks was pecking on the poor beatle. Okay, I really didn't think it was a poor beatle. I was rooting for the chicks on this one.

So, what I feared would be a stressful experience for our new little chicks actually turned into a learning moment and became their first lesson in foraging. Nice.

Oh, one other snag. When I got all of our supplies for the chicks, I picked up a ginormous bag of chick starter, as well I should have. What I shouldn't have done was purchase chick starter for TURKEYS! Yes, it wasn't until this morning that I realized my mistake. Yes, day two of having been feeding the said starter to our sweet little CHICKENS. The difference between what I have and what they should have is about 4% of protein. After calling around and asking some folks, it was determined that it was fine and wouldn't hurt any of them to continue to feed them the higher ratio starter. I'm sure it will probably make them grow a little faster, but that's about all it will do. If they start gobbling in a couple of weeks though, I'll let you know.