Cycles of Life

 

                                We moved the bed inside this afternoon, after spending one thunderstorm under Mark’s plastic sheeting—it was loud! We stayed dry and it was very cool, but the season is changing and we have to move in reluctantly. I am already dreaming of how to build an outdoor bed platform that would protect us further into the season. This evening, we will move the chicken coop onto the garden beds. One of the young chickens I indicating a desire to lay an egg and I don’t want to play hide and seek the egg with another flock of hens.  And I spent four hours yesterday roasting tomatoes for the winter and then running the half pint jars through the steam canner.  Seasonal cycles.

                We are working our way through another cycle of life—the young pets. For seven years, the chicken flock has been stable. We brought on three chicks one spring—a Rhode Island Red, and Americana, and an Austrolorp.  It was a really pretty mix—red, black, and gold. They got along pretty well in general, but somewhere early in the game they all decided that the coop was not the place to lay their eggs. One hopped the fence every day, deposited her egg in a nest right on the other side, and wandered the back alley until someone tossed her back over. Another liked the old bee hive I tipped on its side and lined with straw, the other searched out spots all over and kept the eggs hiden until there were over a dozen. When we brought on our three new chicks, I worried about them picking up bad habits. But, before the two flocks mingled, two of our old ladies died and the last stopped laying—until today, when I found her egg in the bee hive nest box. First in four months! I am hoping to head this behavior off early but putting the coop on the garden beds and limiting their range before they learn about free range nesting.  We shall see.

                We also have kittens, about four months old. Our fluffy orange beastie, Kayli, died back in late March, after long and happy life in and out of the back yard. We took some time off and brought the kittens home a couple of weeks ago, before school started, so that we could have time to adjust to one another before I went back to work. For a couple of weeks, they rumpused about the house, ignoring us.  Then we opened the back door so that they could explore the backyard. Mark was worried—“How are we going to keep them on the farm once they have seen Gay Paris?” he asked. Whenever one crossed a boundary—climbed the tree and hopped on the roof, for example—he muttered “Gay Paris…” But it has gone pretty well. They prefer keeping each other in sight, sleeping on the couch in the sun, and eating far more kitten kibble than I thought possible. They do not come when I call yet but they do come to the rattle of the food jar.  They too, as slowly developing their spots, rituals, and personalities as well as acknowledging our existence beyond the hand that feeds them. It will take a long while for them to become fully part of the household, talking back and coming when called, sleeping on laps and, hopefully, bringing down the rodent population a bit in the backyard.

                The days are shorter. The rains are coming. The squirrels have hauled away every hazelnut from the tree and buried them all over the neighborhood.  School is back in session. Tonight, we will go watch the full moon rise. And, before we leave, I will chop up all of the cherry tomatoes in my basket into the crockpot to cook down for sauce for the winter.