The Easter Blues

A typical Easter up on the Palmer Divide includes snow. It's difficult to believe that a week ago the grass was green, the trees were starting to bud and I was closing up the chicken coop at night without even bothering to don a jacket.  That was the day before the blizzard dumped 18 inches of snow on us. The subsequent four days of overcast and snow have finally given way to the sun, which is why I bundled up and headed out to the paddocks to dig a path for the chickens.

I looked great, by the way, wearing my fancy galoshes, my burgundy barn coat and my new brown felt slouch hat. Admittedly, I can still be seen in the yard wearing some highly unfashionable get-ups that result from a single mindedness to get to work that makes me all too absent minded about my appearance.  On those days I appear as a diminutive, firebrand hauling my cumbersome wheelbarrow to and fro with great determination, while dressed as a wild eyed bohemian. Most likely my attire is what I pulled out of the laundry that morning so I wouldn't get my good clothes dirty.  Often, I realize half way through the morning that I really should do Salt the favor of reminding him that I am still the fashionable sophisticate he married.

Fashion aside, I need not have bundled up this morning, despite the fact it was 29 degrees out as I chipped away at the densely frozen snow. The plastic snow shovel wouldn't cut the icy pack, so I cut small blocks with a garden spade and pulled up blocks that would have been excellent material for an igloo.  This was a hot and sweaty job laboring in the sun.  I took frequent breaks to catch my breath, enjoying the sparkling glint of the eastern sun reflecting off of the crystalline lake that is a pasture in warmer weather. The ponderosas were still tufted with snow, and the sky was bright blue and cloudless.  The crisp air smelled faintly of mesquite, which is how I knew that Salt had put a brisket on the smoker. 

After freeing the chickens and airing out their coop, I headed inside to reflect a little on the day and, obviously, to blog.  Salt, who could make a profession of reflection if he chose to publish his writing, had already concluded the sitting silently portion of his contemplation time. He had moved on to practicing the harmonica. And so, my appreciation of life continues as he plays the blues with the dogs sleeping nearby and watches the temperature of his brisket.  It feels a little like Easter in a roadhouse, which has its charm.

So here is wishing you all a happy Easter. We are having a day most worthy of celebrating with gratitude: warm sun on our faces, cool breezes in the smoke scented mountain air, dogs at our feet, dinner and family on the way and music all around. Happy Easter!

Small Successes for the Diva Dog

This morning while I was making the bed, Calicocoa -- my diva-dog-in-training-- lumbered into the room and upon seeing me she sat down to wait. An expectant look was on her happy face.  I continued arranging the bedspread and setting the pillows in place.  As I was putting the cover over the last pillow I looked at her and said brightly, “Good girl!” At that she leaped onto the bed and collapsed onto the cushioning comforter and pillow top.  Once settled she turned her face to me, waiting for more praise and petting, which she received. 

It was a gratifying moment to see how far kindness has brought our old girl. She didn't always know that she could trust herself, much less trust us.

I recall when she first came to us nearly two years ago, she would return to bed in the mornings to take a post-breakfast nap. Since I needed to make the bed, I would quietly, but firmly, say “Get down.” This simple, calm statement would inspire fear bordering on terror, as she scrambled off of the bed and out of the room with her tail between her legs. This wasn’t the only clue we had that our sweet Calicocoa had been brought up in an environment where commands accompanied violence. 

For weeks, when I told her to get down from the bed, I tried to say the words “Good dog” before she could rush out of earshot. Eventually she slowed down enough that I could pet her and praise her properly for getting down from the bed. Always, when I finished making the bed, I called her back so she could resume her rest. Finally, she began lingering long enough to watch what I was doing, until she could anticipate when she would be called back.

Finally, she knows that she isn’t bad for being on the bed.  She is good for waiting patiently until I am done with whatever it is I’m doing every day. Now that she understands the rules, she can succeed and it seems to make her happy.

A few months later we trained her to use the dog door.  She senses a trap in every puzzling training moment, so it was slow going for her.  It took a few days to teach her to use the door, but even longer to teach her that the door was there for her to use when she desired it, as opposed to when she was told to use it. Part of the delay was that it took me a few days to surmise that she was afraid to make an independent decision to use the door. Once I understood the problem, I began by showing her a treat, then walking outside with it and calling her.  If she came through the door she received the treat.  After a couple of days of this, I stopped calling her. I could see her big nose poking through the door as she tried to decide if it was worth the risk. Eventually, she took the plunge and received her treat. Three repetitions later, she knew the back garden was her domain. 

Calicocoa has made other improvements.  As much as she detests little Griffin she tolerates his proximity and even takes a defensive posture when “strangers” get too close to him. 

She is still wary of strangers herself, but quicker to accept their presence and with certain rare visitors she warms up enough to be friendly. Last summer she met my cousin and within minutes adopted the demeanor of a cuddly 60 pound lap dog. Most of the time, we have to send her to her special spot until she is calm enough to assess the situation rationally. We may be working on Calicocoa’s stranger issues until the old girl is gone, but her definition of a friend keeps growing broader as she feels safer and trusts herself more. All she needs is love and praise. All she wants is to succeed.

This Mean Old House

Our downstairs is completely torn apart.  The items in the storage closets have been housed in the garage since July.  The furnishings are stacked in the center of the room, covered in dusty plastic. The hallway and bedroom closets have no walls.  Long channels have been cut through the ceilings to expose the floor above. 

The reason for this catastrophe is the installation of the first ever central heating system in our house. We paid dearly for the privilege of nearly freezing last winter. The $400-$600 /monthly electric bills moved that gas furnace right to the very top of the list of renovations. The new furnace needed a place to be, so we had to expand the utility closet. Salt, being an architect, naturally decided this would be a great time to change the configuration of the downstairs guest rooms, because architects decide stuff like that with the same ease that I decide to buy a new comforter set for the bedroom.

In short, our basement is a construction zone, but let me tell you a little about the do-it-yourself experience from the perspective of a novice.

You know those reality shows where the homeowners help with demolition and finish the job in what the show purports to be the same day with enormous grins on their faces? The homeowners always start out energetically heaving sledgehammers and gleefully tossing large fixtures into a dumpster. They laugh as they kick down walls like they were made of papier maché. It looks like so much fun. 

Now that I’ve done a demolition, I know those happy-go-lucky, dust covered homeowners really spent the day in the craft services tent munching on muffins, while day laborers ripped the studs out and painstakingly removed every last remaining nail head.  Oh, I’m sure someone occasionally calls those homeowners away from the break table to get a shot of them helping the host lift something heavy, but there is no way they do a full day of demolition and have the energy to smile.

My first day of demolition went something like this. . .

8:30 – 9:30 a.m. – I remove the baseboards from the hallway and closets, scraping my hands on the floor with the pry bar. 

9:30 –9:40 a.m. – Find my gloves and begin tackling the trim around the doorways. 

9:40 – 9:50 a.m. – Push and pull with all my might on the trim around the doorways.  Try to think of ladylike sounding curse words and settle on growling in gibberish, until Salt comes to remove the trim from around the door.

9:50 – 9:55 a.m. – Try knocking out dry wall in the hallway. The sledgehammer bounces off of the wall several times.  Salt demonstrates how to find the sweet spot with one’s foot. 

9:55 – 10:00 a.m. – Miss the sweet spot.  Spend a few minutes trying to extract my foot from the wall. In the meantime, Salt finishes removing the door frames and begins removing drywall surrounding one of the closets.

10:00 -10:30 a.m. – Remove the dry wall from the hallway.  Begin tackling the nail heads from the studs that will be remaining in place. If we don’t have a craft services tent, we should at least have a production assistant bring us lattes.  Note for next demolition: hire a personal assistant (PA).

10:30 a.m. – 2:00 p.m.  – For three and one half seemingly endless and unrewarding hours, remove nails that were put in by an OCD contractor who was clearly afraid the linen closet would fall down if the dry wall was not secured every three inches by a nail. I have two blood blisters on my thumb from pinching it under the hammer and have hit myself in the face twice when stubborn nails gave way suddenly.

2:00 – 2:10 p.m. – Take a break from removing nails to take out a stud. Pound on the stud for a couple of minutes, then look helplessly at Salt. Salt rips it out with his bare hands. I explain, “I could have done that, but I have these blood blisters.”

2:10 – 2:15 p.m. – It’s time to assess the damage. I’ve been up and down the step ladder so many times, my thighs and gluts are screaming. My shoulders and neck are stiff and sore. My blood blisters need bandages. The joints in my hands are completely swollen and bruised from pounding against the pry bar. I can no longer close my right hand. We’re not even half way done with the demolition. House 10, Diva 2.

2:00 p.m. Time to tear out a stud.

2:15 – 3:30 p.m. – I decide the house is mean and endeavor to remove more nails just to show it who is boss.  Trip up and down the ladder a few more times.  Hit myself with the face with the hammer handle pretty hard this time.

3:30 p.m. – Officially exhausted to the point where I am more of a danger to myself than the house. Note for next demolition: hire day labor in addition to a PA.

4:00 p.m. – My last ounce of energy is spent lifting my arms to wash my hair. It’s time to lie on the sofa and die.  Salt is still downstairs working. Shouldn’t the camera crew be taking the victory shot of us high fiving each other in the rubble by now? I couldn’t lift my arms anyway. I dare the DIY Network to show up on my doorstep. I’d give them a piece of my mind. On second thought, I’m too tired for that too.

In summary, it took three weekends to finish the demolition, and I probably only did a quarter of the work. I’m not as fast or able as Salt.  Partly it was because I didn’t have a PA to raise my beer bottle in a toast to success at the end of the day, so I had to conserve my energy.  Mostly, it was because I try not to be in the same room with a sawzall for a variety of reasons related to me being klutzy menace to myself and others.

After the demolition, it took three more weeks for Salt to install the duct work, and six painful weeks for the furnace company to complete the installation of the furnace.  This last was only made possible by the heroic efforts of the company’s salesman, who spent weeknights at our house for three weeks.  Ultimately, the furnace was fired up just in time for the first cold snap of the season. We received our first gas bill after a full month of heating which was $80. .  and the entire house is warm.

Central heating is an amazing invention. It is now my second most appreciated household convenience, after running water. Someday, we’ll get the downstairs put back together again, hopefully before the satisfaction of being warm wears off.

Monsters in the Dark

Autumn is the cold and damp season here at 6600 feet above sea level, which gives us the unusual experience of waking up to a yard socked in by clouds. The days are getting shorter too, so we go to work in the dark and come home to a few fading minutes of light to work by in the evening. On a particularly cloudy morning last week, I made my way to the chicken coop in the dark through a dense cloud obscuring my vision for all but the few feet in front of me. In the beam of my flashlight, I could see wisps of mist shifting in the air like sodden ghosts.

Yes, it is the season for ghost stories, but instead I have a monster story. It is a true story of something that occurred last October. I've been saving it to tell you now.

It started with the snow. We'd been getting light, but frequent snow for the previous couple of weeks, which is not unusual in the autumn.  There is also nothing strange about finding deer tracks in the fresh snow around our house each morning, but earlier that week I had also seen paw prints on our deck and around the yard that looked like those of a cat.

One morning walking out to the chicken coop in the dark, flashlight in hand, I noticed as I rounded the garage that there were larger paw prints intermingled among the deer tracks. We hear coyotes every night and see them frequently tracking the deer from a distance. I was suddenly wary.

Approaching a deer in the dark is dangerous enough, but running into a coyote is even more troubling. Besides my own safety should I startle one in the dark, I am not particularly keen for the coyotes to be on the property taking notice of the chickens. With a flush of concern, I tightened my grip on the flashlight. I swung the beam around to make certain there was nothing else in the area as I made my way to the safety of the barn. At least, I thought it was safe.

The entrance to the chicken coop is inside the barn. As I opened the outer barn door that leads to their inside run, I noticed that they were unusually quiet that morning. Usually, they are at the coop door clucking and pecking in anticipation of freedom, but not on this particular morning. The coop was still and eerily silent. Expecting a sense of relief when I entered the barn, my concern about the tracks outside was quickly renewed.  Could an animal make its way into the coop somehow? 

I called out my usual song. "Hey, hey, hey, chicka-bay-bay-bays!" Silence answered.

Trying to shrug off the mounting tension, I stayed on task. Ignoring the fact that there were no chickens waiting impatiently on the other side of the coop door, I unlocked it and swung it open before making a perfunctory turn to drop the flashlight on a shelf nearby so I could have both hands free for the scratch bucket.

As I was shifting the flashlight to the shelf I saw something in the narrow beam of light, something huge and grey. It registered in my brain just as I settled the flashlight into place. The shaggy, grey mass was crouched low to the ground, lumbering slowly toward the doorway, exiting the coop. 

I started and cried out. What could this be? A possum? A raccoon? How? Had it chewed its way in? These thoughts flashed through my mind in the millisecond it had taken me to jump away.

I had no time to regain composure as I recoiled in horror. Even in the darkness, my unaccustomed eyes could make out the dark mass of the grotesque monster relentlessly plodding toward me. My poor hens! Poor me! What deadly, sharp teeth and powerful jaws it must have in its terrible maw. And claws... Did it have claws? My mind raced. My heart pounded.

I took several slow steps back. My eyes were wide with horror and I could not look away from its lumpy, headless, misshapen body...

In the dim, indirect light provided by the flashlight I had just set aside, my eyes adjusted and I realized that its bulbous body was the same shape, size and color of our rooster, Javier. His down-turned head had been outside the pool of light during the instant I saw it. His feathers had been fluffed out to insulate against the cold, making him look even larger than usual. It might have helped to have worn my glasses too.

The hens were slowly rousing from their deep sleeps on the frigid roost. And after hearing a few coos from the room, I knew everyone was safe.

It goes to show that our minds can make us see the things we expect. On this particular morning I expected to find a monster in the chicken coop rather than chickens.

Typical for me it was a lot of drama about nothing, but there were consequences.  Once Javier had sensed weakness I had to put up with two days of him posturing and threatening me when I came in the coop. We worked it out with lots of petting to show him I'm not scared. He detests, but tolerates, being petted. My little monster.

Now, I just have to remember my glasses and hope I don't mistake a coyote for a chicken another time.  Happy Halloween!

The Rooster Whisperers

I love my rooster.  From a human perspective he's a little stinker on his best days, but as roosters go, he's pretty great.  He keeps his flock in order. He pronounces his reign at the top of his lungs frequently enough to keep the other roosters in their own yards. He protects the girls from predators and each other.  He calls them when there is food. His frequent mating keeps the egg production up.

He can be pretty brutal with the girls. He believes in his testosterone-bathed, cashew-sized, bird brain that it's all for the best... and they believe it too. If one considers that he is the vanguard between the girls and predators, their survival role is simplified to coming when called or getting out of the way when he sounds the alarm. Whether the girls like him or not isn't relevant.  Some cling to his side seeking protection from the other girls and a prize spot when he finds a treat he wants to share.  Others steer clear of him, as though they were polarized magnets.  It's a working system and he knows how to run it.

If hens are ambivalent about roosters, imagine how rare it is for a farmer to love a rooster.  I'd heard so many horror stories of aggressive, attack roosters that I was a little nervous about bringing one home. Javier certainly is an intimidating size, and he was not happy about being taken from his home by complete strangers.

We were lucky, though, that he had been handled a lot by his previous owners, so he wasn't completely terrified of humans. Still in his early days here he didn't trust us and was intent on being in charge. Or at least that is how the rooster whisperers might have described his dilemma.

I've found the rooster whisperers on various blogs and message boards about chickens. They are a highly controversial group of chicken farmers who are usually shouted down for their recklessness and blind admiration of all demonic poultry.  Most of the whisperers say they've never met a bad rooster.  All of them say that neither threatening, nor assaulting, nor running in terror will induce a rooster to behave with any semblance of rooster-civility. Based on my limited experience I have reason to believe the rooster whispers are right.

The trick, they say, is to think like a chicken. In chicken-think, humans are potentially threatening, a status that garners the aggression of roosters protecting their flocks. Brandish a stick in any direction, wave your arms in the air, talk excitedly and the rooster will think one means to hurt him. This triggers an aggressive response from posturing to outright attack. Given this, one would think the goal would be to be non-threatening, but roosters tend to read that as submission. They also sense fear and read that as submission too. Roosters react to submission by being more aggressive in order to establish dominance. A rooster, as I have observed, will almost certainly jump at anyone he thinks he can bully.

The rooster whisperers focus on creating a balance between exerting dominance over the rooster, being benevolent toward the rooster and being a predictable element within the flock. An easier way to think about it is establishing mutual respect in which the flock keeper respects the rooster as the head of the flock and doesn't disrupt his order.  The rooster in turn is taught to treat the flock keeper as a peer, which is not a friendly relationship in rooster-think. Peers are competition, but not necessarily subject to attack. A good peer relationship among roosters is more like aloof acceptance.

When I first got Javier, I was very intimidated by him, but I tried not to let him see it.  That was easier said than done, because he was prone to making sudden, skittering sideways runs at me, which almost always made me start and gasp. I usually managed to stay firmly where I stood, and eventually recover the presence of mind to take a couple of sideways steps back toward him. We would square off in our side-facing crouches studying each other with one eye, until I would relax my shoulders and calmly walk away with my chin held high as if my point had been made.

One rooster whisperer I follow espouses picking them up when they get ornery.  The difficulty here is catching them. Salt can  catch Javier every time, but even if I catch up with Javier I often fumble the hold. Fortunately in those early days Javier was just as uncertain about my abilities as I was about his, so he didn't make a serious advance on me.

It was during that time that Javier began his current practice of taking scratch from my hand. I used it as a means of getting him to approach me and of gaining his trust. The old food bribe worked, but there is a price.  The little stinker bites. Fortunately, he doesn't bit hard.

To this day, the girls race for the scratch I throw on the ground, while he stands perfectly still glaring at me insistently, waiting for his handful.  When I put my hand down his beak dives into my hand and begins biting. Sometimes he eats, but usually he just bites me as he calls out excitedly, "tuck, tuck, tuck, tuck, tuck!" This is his rooster-speak for "Look here, girls! I've invented food! Come look! I'm amazing!" And they do come running to eat out of my hand, while he steps back to look on in pride. When the scratch runs out, he starts glaring at me again. We repeat this until I'm bored with it. For his part he is never tired of insisting I serve him so he can bite me and claim credit for the tasty treats he gifts to the girls. Stinker is definitely the best description for him.

Once I got used to being bitten by a rooster, I stopped being frightened of Javier. I've learned, however that he never lets his guard down and neither should I.  The first time he really squared off with me, worked out spectacularly in my favor because I didn't even see it coming. I was leaning over feeder, pouring in some fresh pellets, when I felt something solid hit me hard on the back of the leg. It didn't hurt because I was wearing galoshes and I was too busy concentrating on not spilling the feed to be startled. I didn't even react.

I realized what must have happened in the couple of seconds it took for me to finish filling the feeder. When I was done, I calmly stood up and turned around.  The guilty scoundrel was alone with me in the coop, still eyeing me with raw disdain.

I thought, "I'm still bigger." I took two measured steps toward him then swiftly leaned down and grabbed him around his body, catching his feet in my hands, pinning his wings with my arms.  I stood up and pulled his body toward mine. As soon as his wing contacted my chest, he leaned his head into me and his body relaxed into mine. I stood there stroking him for a moment as though soothing a baby.

Then I held out my arms to let him go.  He leaped to the ground and barked angrily at me. His eyes flashed daggers before he turned to stalk away. Boys don't want to be hugged by their mamas, especially in front of girls. Roosters are no different, so we don't have these sorts of confrontations often.

Indeed, nowadays, I enter the coop looking for him. We look each other over in silent acknowledgement and then I carefully step around him to go about the chores. He follows me, I think partly to make sure I know he's still in charge, partly to show the girls he's on guard for them, and partly to make sure I don't suddenly drop a watermelon rind or other treat that he needs to distribute to the girls. With only one rooster to my account, I can't say that I'm a rooster whisperer, but Javier and I have found our way to mutual respect. He may be a stinker, but he's the the stinker in charge of my chicken coop.

On being a success...

If you didn’t know by now, I will tell you that I don’t know anything about farming.  I spend a great deal of my “free” time reading and thinking about chickens, soil, preserving food, garden pests, etc. just to get myself up to speed on projects that are flying at me as fast as the seasons change. I am on a sharp learning curve when it comes to all matters of the mini-farm, which is why I talk about it so much. As a farm diva, I flounder in ignorance, overwrought and overwhelmed by every project. I am not competent.

But in my other life, my professional life, I am truly a master at planning meetings. (Allow me to take a moment to think of Ganesha as a reminder that a true proficient never stop learning.) I handle numerous meetings over the course of a year, but every year I have one large conference on a scale that consumes my life. I work long hours and weekends, taking calls and answering emails from home. I become the hub of communication assessing needs, placing orders, directing activities, and solving problems in a complex logistical system that I create and that grows larger and larger as the first day of the conference approaches. My co-workers who have been recruited to assist in these projects have noted that I seem unflappable regardless of how much is going on or how large a problem has just been thrown at me. Of course, the advantage of being the hub is the ability to see the entire picture, but my biggest advantage is that I’ve done this a lot, for many years. I know I can handle it. There’s not much to say about it. It’s just what I do. 

Knowing what needed to be done this past spring when my conference was rolling around, I had planned ahead to have everything buttoned up on the mini-farm so I could focus those last few weeks on my conference. All went well until the last week, when Salt had to leave town on a business trip. Initially, this only meant to me that long days would be longer, I didn’t realize I would be getting a lesson in the depth of my humanity. Enter Linnea. . .

Linnea

Linnea, you may recall, is one of my chickens, whom I had no intention of spending time on during those few days Salt was away other than to give them food, water and shelter. What I didn’t know that week was that Linnea was sick. In fact, she was dying.

I had noticed her struggling through some tall grass when I went out to feed the chickens one  evening, but when I returned an hour later to lock the coop for the night, I saw she had not gone inside. Shortly, I realized she wasn’t walking or standing. Hopeful, I picked her up and set her down a few times. Every time, she collapsed, until the rooster jumped on her back and one of the other girls pecked her head. I had no idea what was happening to her, but I knew she wouldn’t be alive in the morning if I left her to the flock’s tender mercies.

Thinking I really didn’t have time for this, I scooped her up and took her inside where I deposited her in a dog crate while I searched the internet for clues. It was eight o’clock at night. I hadn’t eaten. I was tired. I had meetings in the morning. Linnea fell on her side, her feet sticking out at strange angles, her chest heaving with every breath. I had no idea what to do and the internet search had been inconclusive. 

The best advice for the multitude of problems that could be causing her symptoms was to give her water. I put a dish in her crate, she lifted her head to the edge and collapsed into it.  Fantastic! I was drowning a chicken! I pulled her face out of the water, and waited for her sneezing to subside. Then little by little I fed her water with an eye dropper, until she fell asleep.

I thought that this little mercy would just be a parting gift before she left for the happy pecking grounds. I woke in the night to give her more water. . . still alive. And in the morning, still alive, she lifted her head. My first foggy thought of the day was, “Great.  Now I have to do something about her.” And to my surprise, because I can surprise myself, my next thought was “I can’t leave her here like this. I can’t go into the office.” Understand, I was five days away from the start of a conference. I had meetings to attend. I had problems to solve. I had last minute orders to place. I had people waiting on me to know what to do next. And, I had no intention of letting Linnea die alone of dehydration. I didn’t have any idea if she was going to live or die from whatever had made her sick, but it was definitely not going to die from neglect.

I’m pretty sure that my grandparents would have opted to break her little neck and have done with it at that point; and I had hoped I’d be such a pragmatic farmer. At that particular moment I wanted to cut my losses in such a simple way, but my conscience was nagging at me. Could I really break a chicken's neck, because it was inconvenient to my work schedule?  Ignorance was still nagging at me too. I really had no idea why she was sick or how bad it was, having had no basis of comparison.

I finally decided to take her to the local veterinarian.  Mind this is not a farm vet, and most farm vets don’t deal in chickens anyway, because most farmers just wring their necks when they are sick. Prize show chickens – yes, people really show chickens for prizes -- go to avian specialists half-way across town and pay premium prices. I happened to know our local vet owns chickens, so I decided to take my chances there.

An hour later, I was standing outside the veterinarian’s office when it opened, irrationally dressed for work with a chicken in a dog crate tucked under my arm. When I explained to the receptionist that I had a sick chicken, she said, “Oh. . . and you’re here to put it down.” Conflicted between the my shock at her stark pronouncement and the indignation at the idea I couldn’t figure out how to break a chicken’s neck, I managed to stammer politely, “Uh. . . well. . . let’s take a look at her first.” 

The veterinarian was more diplomatic when I explained the situation; cautiously suggesting that I could take it to an avian specialist for tests. “No, she’s a layer hen,” was my firm, swift response, which I hoped made it clear that I was under no illusion that this was a $20 chicken. I just wanted to know generally what might be wrong with her and to give her a chance if she had a chance. After a brief examination, the vet concluded that it was a respiratory infection that may or may not be cleared up with an antibiotic injection. I consented to the injection, and five minutes later I was back on the sidewalk with a $60 receipt, more knowledge than I had before, and the same dilemma I’d had all night.

Linnea couldn’t be left alone.

I've certainly had to set aside personal interest for the benefit of others before. Indeed, an attitude of self-sacrifice for the service to others is what drives the best meeting planners through the eighteen hour long days of conferences. But, never before, had I had to make a choice between my attendees or my team and a bird. I was ridiculously, ineptly, and unexpectedly the only person Linnea could count on at that moment to ease her suffering. I called my boss from my cell phone, “I’ve still got this sick chicken and she can’t get to food or water by herself, so I’m on my way into the office with her.” That moment on the sidewalk is one of my finest moments of my career as a meeting planner, because it was one of my finest moments as a human being. Kudos to my boss for overcoming the stunned silence with, “Let me see if there’s something we can do and I’ll call you back.” I am aware that an office building is no place for a chicken, but I had to be at the office and I had to give Linnea water every couple of hours and I was determined to do both. . . and I did.

My boss called back as I was pulling up to the building, and told me they had found a space in the covered garage where I could park. It was a sheltered, temperate, airy, safe place to leave her crate while I worked. I gave Linnea some water and raced upstairs for a flurry of meetings. Five meetings, four phone calls, three emails and two hours later I was back out the door with a brief case full of notes to work on at home. When I got to the car, Linnea was sitting up by herself for the first time, so I held her water dish up to her beak. She gulped from the dish. Hallelujah! 

Linnea spent the afternoon napping at my feet while I worked in my study. By late afternoon she was eating and her breathing was easier.  I left her water and food dishes with her overnight and in the morning she was crawling around the crate. A crawling chicken is a little sad to watch, but in this case it was a vast improvement.

With Linnea able to get herself to her water, I left her alone for the day. That evening we went to the garden where she made a wobbly attempt at standing. Over the course of the next few days she progressed from taking teetering steps to being able to stand and walk for several minutes. I gave her an extra day to recuperate before moving her to back to the coop, where she stayed in a large brooding cage for a few weeks until she was strong enough to join the others.

Indeed, Linnea lived. 

I don't think I am Linnea's hero for saving her life; she could just as easily have died in my care. Rather, what happened with Linnea touched me very deeply by giving me that rare glimpse of myself at my best. We all do the right thing every day, but usually our lives are arranged to make our choices easier. We don't always notice or give ourselves credit for the sacrifices we make. 

In the aftermath of this, I had another excellent conference and have earned an asterisk next to my "Meeting Professional" title that reads: "Crazy Chicken Lady." While this epithet may have once mortified me as a mark on my professional reputation, at this point in my life I'll wear the mark proudly. You see, my definition of success has changed. I certainly want to be a great meeting planner and to be great at caring for my chickens, but above all I want to do best at being my best self. I feel assured that on that day when Linnea was so sick, I managed it. Success!

Racing Hail: A Gardening Adventure Story

Courtesy N. Russell

A few weeks ago I finally removed the shade covers from the garden.  The plants had hardened against sun scald and the there were no forecasts of hail bearing thunderstorms in the next week. The garden flourished in the sunlight.

Non-gardners might find it useful to know at this point that one does not work every day for six months nurturing seeds to the light, just to let a hail storm shred the plants before harvesting.  Consequently, I keep an eye on the weather with a mind to returning the shade covers should thunderstorms threaten, and this weekend was no exception. There were two thunderstorms predicted for our area on Sunday afternoon and late night, neither had indications of heavy winds or hail. The first storm never materialized, and the second arrived early. We were sitting down to dinner when the first rain drops began to fall. Shortly, it became a heavy rainfall. A while later, Salt observed that a pea sized hail had begun to fall. Knowing that pea sized hail could be the precursor to something much bigger and preferring to remain in the warm, dry house, I chose to hope for the best. In spite of this decision I kept a wary eye on the deck where an occasional hail stone would collect.

Shortly, the phones began to ring and buzz and beep.  Living in a rural area, we can not count on the nearest metropolitan area news to provide current coverage on anything short of a tornado. The county makes up for the difference with an emergency alert system that sends texts, emails and robocalls whenever anything important is happening in the county. It's a fantastic system that covers everything from thunderstorms to washed out roads to ice conditions to missing children.  When both of our smart phones begin sounding off with message alerts at the same time, we know something is up in the county.

On that rainy Sunday night the alert was for a thunderstorm -- noted -- with large hail developing --rats. It was time to stop acting like the lady of the manor and brave the rain. Mind, I was in a hurry, and it was raining so hard that I knew I would get soaked anyway, so I eschewed a raincoat and shoes. I knew I would regret that decision as soon as I opened the back door.

The first blast of cold air struck me with a force of a full body blow. As if in response, the blood retreated from my hands and feet. (It's called Raynaud's Syndrome and it happens to me all of the time, though not usually so suddenly.) I kept moving forward, and within two steps my sundress was drenched and clinging. At the bottom of the steps my bare feet landed in two inches of ice water. I rushed toward the bin where the shade covers are kept. Shivering by then, I remembered that I had put the covers in the greenhouse. 

At this point, Salt had made his way into the yard. He had the good sense to wear shoes. He and I raced through the puddles and mud across the yard to the greenhouse, where I fought with the wet latch on the door. When it finally gave way, I burst inside and began grabbing the shade covers and throwing them to Salt. He ran ahead, while I wrestled with the greenhouse latch again.

By the time I returned to the garden he was half way through covering the first bed. I was performing a mental triage to prioritize which plants needed the most protection, so I went first to the lettuce. I grabbed a rolled up cover and began trying to unknot the ties that were keeping them in tidy rolls. My wet, numb hands fumbled with the string as I ran clumsily on unfeeling feet through the garden. The hail picked up as I went to cover the sweet potatoes. By this time, I was oblivious to the pouring rain, the hail was remaining pea sized, but it was falling more intensely, stinging my shoulders and head.  I began to wonder if we would be driven back in the house with the task unfinished, and determined to stay out as long as I could.

Finally, with the last cover in place we ran into the house and straight down the hall to the bathroom. Responding to my cries of "Oh, I need a hot shower! I'm going to freeze to death! Oh, I need a hot shower!" Salt deftly opened the hot water valve for the shower and leaped out of my way. I pulled off my sopping wet sundress and tossed it aside. There was a loud splat as it landed in the sink. I rushed into the shower. Even though the water had not warmed it was still warmer than my skin. I felt the blood come back into my hands and feet as the bits of muddy mulch and straw washed toward the drain.

After a brief hot shower, I dried off and put on a warm dressing gown. I stepped out of the bathroom to see that the rain had stopped. The storm had passed. Good thing we got the shade covers put on.

Courtesy N. Russell

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