Spring Homestead Updates

Homestead updates:

Pie for my sweetie

1.       I AM smarter than a chicken! After being locked into the coop all day, until Eggs Were Laid, for five days, they decided that laying eggs on their side of the fence was a pretty good deal.

2.       Both hives of bees have settled in and are packing in the pollen—a god sign of bee larvae.

3.       The planting is done. The squash plants have moved into barrels in the front yard to replace the leaf mulch pile. The leaf mulch is on the revamped garden bed along the sidewalk.

4.       Solar production is up—12 to 13 KWH on a sunny day.

5.       The school assignment calendars in the back of my classroom now show the Last Day of school for the year.

I

She Persisted-- Chicken Run, part two

   

                        It’s been a rough couple of weeks on the Chicken Escape front. Rosie and Aussie keep getting out, desperate to lay eggs in the day lilies and under the empty rabbit hutch. The third young chicken, Amelia, has settled into the nest box/pollinator habitat that I created from an old hive.  I stalked them one day and closed gaps, but that did not work.  I clipped a wing on both, which reduced how high they could fly (no more over the eight foot trellis), but they still got out. I moved all of their launching pads. Still out.  I clipped more severely, but they were out the next day.

      

          On Saturday, I settled  into a few hours of yard work, planting out the tomatoes, determined to catch the escapees.  For a while, all was quiet. When I turned my back and went into the greenhouse, Rosie made a break for it. I caught her dashing across the lawn and put her back. Five minutes later, she was out—a gap near the gate. I closed in. Out again. Close the gate gap. She started to pace. Amelia settled into her nesting spot, looking smug.  Meanwhile, Aussie began the assault on another section of fence. I closed gaps. Toss and close. Toss and close.  Finally, I was tired of the game and the frantic, panting pacing around the fence. I put Aussie into the coop and shut her in. There, I told her. Lay your egg. She gave in. Twenty minutes later, she was out and Rosie was in. Another egg. I let everyone out and they all climbed over the trimmings around the compost pile for the rest of the afternoon. This morning, they are not coming out until they have laid their eggs.

               After all this was over, I realized I was wearing my “She Persisted” tee shirt. The irony was clear. Here I was, the dominant creature in the back yard, tossing the interlopers back over the fence every time they broke through. I closed gaps to make it more difficult for them to get out. They persisted. They created spaces, squeezing out where I was convinced they could not. They watched each other, seeing where each had success.  They talked to one another. They yelled at me. The other chickens looked on; two are too old and plump to take action.  Meanwhile, I worked on my side—clearly the better, bigger side—of the fence. In the end, I tossed each one back into her house, saying “Go to work there.”  Today, they are not even allowed out.

                Maybe there is a lesson here.

               

I am smarter than a chicken!

I am smarter than a chicken. I am. I have college degrees. I am smarter than a chicken.

The chicken coop left the garden beds two weeks ago. It was time to begin planting and they needed to  be in Summer Quarters, behind the garden fence, around the compost piles, and under the laurel hedge. It’s a nice spot. They have shade, places to hide, and lots of compost to dig in. However, this batch of chickens has decided that they do not like to lay their eggs in the coop. One likes the empty rabbit hutch, the other the day lilies. The third really does not care. She lays an egg wherever. So, when we moved the coop, I knew we were in from some work.

                The first day, we tied the fencing to the trellis and hung pinecones off of the high bars. Pinecones have worked in the past to convince chickens that there is really a higher fence. The next day, there was an egg in the rabbit hutch. I shut the  hutch door and put up some twigs around the gate, which is the low point in the defenses, and added some pinecones which  look cool and  move, unlike twigs and wire fencing.

                For about two weeks, I have been adding twigs to the fence whenever I find a gap and a chicken egg out (thry often let themselves back in after laying). One day, I was home early enough to watch a determined chicken check out the defenses. I thought we were good until she climbed onto the top of the (empty) beehive and launched herself over, flying through a remarkably narrow gap.   I tossed her back over and rearranged the hive, away from the fence. She still got through when I was not watching.

                I spent an hour  one afternoon arranging some tempting nest boxes in the run. The old langstrom hive that I have never used, tipped on its side, was one candidate. A milkcrate of straw in the coop was another. I considered a pile of straw under the hazelnut, an old favorite, as well, but did not do it. My egg-dropper took me up on the hive box offer and has laid two there so far. The others refuse.

                Saturday morning was warm and sunny, so I headed out to do some serious spying on the ckickens.  Armed with the grass trimmers, I observed. Rosie, the hutch layer, pushed her way through the gaps around the gate. I closed them and tossed her back. She found another gap. Toss. Close. Trim. Major fuss from the other side. Fly. Gap. Toss back. Fuss. Repeat.  I watched and waited for over an hour, hiding behind the artichoke, trimming and raking the grass, until I was sure she could not get over, and left for twenty four hours.

Free Bird!

                I came home this afternoon and went on the egg hunt. One blue egg in the hive box, one brown egg in the day lilies. One chicken under the hutch, watching me balefully. Clearly, there are still some gaps. I need to make sure she cannot push her way out from UNDER the fence this afternoon.  I AM smarter than a chicken.

Henny and the election Season

   

            I have been seizing the occasional hours between downpours to tidy the yard this week. I’ve hauled a pile of leaves and mulched, raked the back yard, cut down the asparagus,  moved my beautiful metal hoops onto the bed that will need to be covered if it ever grows cold this winter, and planted two buckets of small mystery bulbs that I sifted out of the front strip planter when I did a bit of revamping  in early October.  Bringing order to the garden helps my mind to settle down, away from the chaos of this last (Thank God!) week before the election.

                Our white leghorn, Henrietta,  is not feeling well. She has had a huge molt this fall, but she has also, suddenly, grown old.  Her comb is drooping. She is moving slowly and napping a great deal. This week, she has not flown up on the perch at night. One afternoon, when I offered her some banana—a preferred food—she did not even see it. I was sure that she was about to go. I let all of the ladies out while I planted bulbs. The Buffs ran about, hunting bugs in the grass. Henny sat, stooped, in the sun. When she did not even come out on Friday, I sat with her for a while, telling her that she had been a good chicken and it was ok to go.  I sent Mark out when he came home for the same reason. The next morning, I did not rush out; when Mark took a while coming back in, I was dreading the news. “She’s still there,” he said. “Looks pretty good. She even ate something.”

                Today, we let all of the hens out again. Henny came out to sit in the sun near the greenhouse for the afternoon.  She was munching on some grass. I like to think that she is waiting, as I am, for the outcome of Tuesday’s election. She has always been a scrappy little hen, bossy and loud. A good layer—we could host Hot Cross Buns for eighteen on just her white eggs alone. She kept the Buffs in line until just last week, when her comb began to droop. Even now, they leave her be. She was always  first into the compost heap when we brought out the yogurt container full of kitchen scraps. Henny never doubted her place. So, maybe she is waiting—more patiently than me, to be honest—for Tuesday evening. And she is hoping, as I am, to see history – or, maybe Herstory—made, when we finally elect a woman for president. It will be a victory for women. I hope Henny is still here to see it.  I hope I am, as well.

One Percenters-- the Chickens

I am afraid I have raised a bunch of entitled chickens.

My chickens have the best possible life for domestic birds. They have organic feed—and not just ANY organic feed, but the feed that requires me to drive out of town to purchase it, rather than hauling a bag home on my bike. They have access to piles of compost full of bugs and worms and other tasty bites. They have chicken treat (also known as table scraps) delivered to their door, rather than dumped in the pile of compost with  everything else. They have some grass to nibble on and they are adept at thrusting their heads through not one but two fences to take large chunks out of the pole bean leaves.

They have a new coop which rests on some excellent leaf mulch and straw to poke in when they are in, which is seldom in the summer because Mark rises at the crack of dawn, literally, to let them out so that they do not fuss and wake people up too early. They have a nest box which they have rejected for eight months now, preferring to lay their eggs under the hazelnut tree. They have access to a quarter of the back yard, which includes all of Mark’s compost piles, a pool of water to stand in on hot days, and two hives of bees. Occasionally they have to share the space with the bunny, who can slip under the fence, or the cat next door, who also likes the shade of the blackberry thicket.

They will live their lives out here, protected from predators, until they die of old age. They will not be thrown in the stew pot when they stop laying. They will be allowed to drowse in the sun and claim the best tidbits as their own, even if they live to be twelve years old (which is some kind of crazy chicken record).  They have dream lives.

And yet—do they appreciate this life? No. They holler. They fuss. They walk the fence. Not to get too political, but they act like the One Percent—which they are, of the chicken world. That is MY NEST SPOT Bertha shouts as Blondie moves under the hazelnut tree. MINE. And they she sits on her sister, literally squashing her down.  Or they all shout at a jay—my yard, my yard, my yard—when she tries to scope out a nesting place or a bit on compost for her own. God forbid another bird land in the pool for a quick dip!  It’s embarrassing. It’s annoying. I wish I could train them out of it, but it is their nature to protect this perfect life for themselves, even when it costs others a good morning’s sleep or worse.

We are not chickens. But we behave like they do fairly often, shouting MINE, MINE at the tops of our lungs, protecting our perfect lives, no matter what the cost to others. Maybe our goal should be to be a little less like backyard, One Percenter Chickens,  and more like human beings, who are not bird-brained and can work out compromises and share the resources equitably.  And then everyone could sleep a little more easily at night.

Frittata—what’s for dinner when there is nothing else

Using a large cast iron skillet that can go into the oven, cook two or three cups of veggies. Potatoes in chunks and greens are nice, but not essential.  Add garlic and herbs.

Chunk some cheese—a good handful. Beat three or four or five eggs in a bowl. Add the cheese

Throw the eggs and cheese into the veg and stir. Cook until there are little bubbles in the egg  mixture on the stove, the finish off under the broiler.

If there are leftovers, do not leave them in the iron pan overnight, but transfer into containers for lunch at work the next day.

Chicken Tractor Photos

Nest box and roosting area

With nest box door open for egg collection and cleaning

Nest box door closed

interior roof

side veiw, door open

opposite side from nest box door

Chicken Run

         

Chicken Run away

  It is official. I am smarter than a chicken.

            Henny, our scrawny white leghorn, has been escaping from the chicken run for the last few weeks. It was annoying, especially after we closed all of the obvious escape routes, but not that big a deal. After all, chickens just want to be with the flock, so, after a few moments of running around and shouting “Free at last!” she would wander back to the coop and dig through the garden bed next door, waiting for the gate to open for her return. When I chased her around the yard, it was, really, a half-hearted chase on he part. However, when Gladys followed her out yesterday and found the collard patch, we had a larger problem. Half the flock was out.

            As anyone who has ever kept backyard chickens knows, the grass is always greener on the other side of the fence, even if the “grass” is actually the back alley or the neighbor’s dusty gravel parking area. You can give them free run of the entire backyard, but then they congregate (and poop) on the back stoop, waiting to stroll into the Big Coop. That grew old fast. When they are not chatting on the back step, they are roaming through the garden, digging up the just sprouted carrots or eating a collard plnat to the ground. They need to be restrained.

            Restraining a chicken is not as easy as it sounds. We learned this a few years into chicken keeping. Our first two ladies, George and Mrtyle, were full-grown barred Rocks when they arrived, and they required little restraint. They stayed in the back yard with a few pieces of chicken wire between them and the Big World. When Gracie, the Houdini of chickens, arrived, I would come home to find notes on the front door: “Your chicken was out. We chased her back in.” 

            Chickens escape by going over or under the fence. Both have their challenges and solutions. Over can translate into higher fencing, which can be expensive, or running a piece of yarn or wire higher up to create a thin barrier—cheaper, but kind of tacky. For years we banged together a complex fence from pieces of wire I had found along the roadside, but it was very tacky. I invested in some decent four-foot high hog fence two summers ago. It is a huge improvement.  It is also flexible and coils in amongst the beds in early spring, giving the ladies access to the compost pile, but not the young plants. Another solution, which we are working on, is to raise bigger chickens. Henny is a light and scrawny bird, who still flies easily. The Buff Orpingtons we brought home last spring are much bigger—and more peaceful—birds. They will be too big to fly over the fence in the spring. It is always easy to know when a chicken has escaped over the fence. She announces her landing and, if you look out quickly, you can see her shaking her feathers down before she heads for the collard patch.

            Under is more difficult to detect—but easier to solve. We eliminated the majority of under escapes by building a board fence around the back area. This stopped the chickens from even seeing the alley and neighbor’s parking lot, so they were no longer temptations. Now, when we have an under escape, we watch. Mark takes a book into the back yard as a decoy, sits down, and observes chicken behavior. Within fifteen minutes, he can find the weak spot, usually where the cats have pushed through near a fence pole. A brick in the gap, a good tug on the fence, a few staples to reattach the wire and we’re good. Toss the chicken back into the run and watch her head right for the gap once more. If she stays in the run, it is closed.

            There is a certain triumph to outsmarting a chicken, especially if she has been more clever at hiding her escape hatch than usual. This morning, when I opened the coop, I stood perfectly still and watched. Within two minutes, I had the answer. Henny was pushing her way out through a hole in the netting, which was big enough for her, but not for the larger buffs. When she was three quarters of the way out, I grabbed her and tossed her back in, then blocked the gap. She did not come out today. Victory has been declared, at least for now.

Pasta with Broccoli

Start a pot of water to boil.. While waiting, chop two big stalks of broccoli into small bite sized pieces.  Toss a handful of whole wheat spaghetti into the boiling water. When about two thirds of the way done, add the broccoli.

While this cooks, chop three cloves of garlic and cook in olive oil. Toss in almonds or walnuts and brown lightly. Also, grate some Parmesan cheese.

Drain. Mix olive oil, garlic, and nuts in. Top with cheese.

             It is official. I am smarter than a chicken.

     

Eggs!

           

 Who designed the chicken molting process? Really, who thought it was a good idea for the flock to lose feathers in November and December, just when the temperature drops? Henny began molting in late November and the yard was strewn with bright white feathers. As soon as she was done, just when the temperature dropped to ten degrees, Gladys started. Black smoke everywhere and she exposed her scrawny legs and neck to the cold. Why?

            But Henny is glorious in her fresh coating, tail proud and clean against the green grass. On the day after the solstice, she dropped down into egg crouch when I walked by. I gave her a pat and shook my head. No eggs yet, I thought. Not until the light comes back around Candlemas. It’s too dark and she’s no spring chicken. I bought a dozen pale eggs for breakfast and baking.

Then, on Christmas, I wandered out to free the Ladies for the afternoon. They ran out, discussing the dust under the rabbit hutch. I peered into the nest box to see if they needed new straw yet and there—two pure white eggs.

Squash Mash, version one with leeks

It has been a very good year for squash, but several butternuts were bitten by the frost in the larder and needed to be baked. I cut them open, scooped out seeds, and popped them in the oven until soft and squishy. Once cool, I peeled off the skins and pushed them into a quart jar.

Sautee a sliced leek and some garlic in olive oil until soft and translucent. Add two cups of mashed squash, season with salt, pepper, and a pinch of cinnamon. Stir until heated through.

Betty Lou is... Billy Lee?

       

    Denial is a powerful thing….for weeks, we have been looking at the peeps as they grew into peepsters and pondering Betty Lou. She was bigger than the other Barred Rock; her comb was a brighter red and more pronounced; her peep chest butts were more forceful than the others. But, I just thought “She was born a few days earlier.” Or “She has a stronger personality than the Buff Orpingtons. Barred Rocks are a more aggressive chicken, after all.” I never thought—is she a he?

You would think we would notice sooner, but it’s been a busy few weeks and the peeps are just a small part of the daily routine. Take them out in the big blue tub at seven in the morning and pop them, one by one, into the cold frame under the plum tree. Make breakfast, pack lunch, go to school and take another whack at the huge pile of junior assignments on my desk. Come home, make dinner, check the transplants in the garden, read a bit, move peeps in when it is growing dark so that they are easy to catch.

  Yesterday, however, the whole situation came to  the forefront of my attention. I moved the hoop of fencing that they run in to the far back yard, right against the chicken run, thinking that eventual flock integration might go more smoothly if they saw each other first (hope springs eternal in raising chickens). This meant that The Ladies, Gladys and Henny, were exposed to the peepsters for the first time and they were Not Happy. They squawked “My Yard! My Yard!” for five hours, until they finally lost their voices and were distracted by an overgrown sprouting and flowering broccoli plant.  It was a long morning. Meanwhile, the peepsters ran around singing “peeps just want to have fun” while snapping at flies, shredding newspaper, playing King of The Blue Tub, and munching on their own broccoli plant.

At dinner, Mark raised the issue—how do we know we have a rooster? I fetched our Raising Chickens book from 1975 and we studied the notes. By eight weeks, it read, you will see wattles and comb. Hmmm….we walked to the back. There they were. “Looks like wattles to me,” Mark observed.  “I think Betty Lou is Billy Lee,” I added. “Now what?”  We went back to dinner. We don’t want a rooster; there is enough noise in the neighborhood already. We want eggs.

Maybe, I thought as I popped them back inside last night, we are wrong….maybe Billy is Betty…just a little bigger than the others. But, I doubt it. Those wattles are pretty red.

Breakfast Granola—basic recipe from The Sunlight Café, with variations

This is breakfast at least twice a week with homemade yogurt. All ingredients are measured roughly and subject to change!

3 c.   oatmeal

1 c.  barley flakes

1 c. sunflower seeds

1 c. of pumpkin  or sesame seeds

1 c. of nuts—almonds, pecans, walnuts, hazelnuts….

.5 c oat bran

1.5 t salt

1 T cinnamon

Toss dry stuff together in a BIG bowl.

Add: .25 c of oil

            .5 c of honey

            1 t vanilla

Toss again, then spread on a sheet pan. Bake in 350 oven until lightly browned, turn, bake for about five minutes longer until golden brown. The last bit goes quickly, so keep an eye of it.

Remove. Spread .25 c brown sugar over it all and stir. Add a handful or two of  small dried fruit, like cherries, raisins, or blueberries. Nibble while it cools.  Store in a couple of quart mason jars.

Bees and Chicks

     

Peeps!

      It’s rough being male on the Urban Homestead. Mark went from being outnumbered six to one—one human, a rabbit, two hens, and two cats—to 10,010 to one this weekend. We have acquired four chicks and 10,000 bees.

            Saturday was Chick Day in Dallas, Oregon. Old Mill Feed and Grain takes orders for seven or eight varieties of chicks, guarantees females, and distributes them all in one long “Chickens All Day” festival in early April. There is chicken themed music, a large dancing chicken, chicken hats, and chicks, as well as feeders and feed. The line begins at 7:15 AM. We—myself and three other teachers who have chickens—leave Corvallis around 7:30, armed with our carrier boxes, warm chocolate raspberry scones, coffee, and the Chicken Hat and T shirt.  This year, we were inside the building by the time the rain began—people outside, natives all, just pulled their hoods over their hats and got wet. It’s a lively line, full of families, women who raise chickens for meet and eggs, and a few backyard pouters. This is not a fancy crowd—sweatshirts and boots, pick-up trucks and cheap coffee dominate the scene. We chat while we wait. When the time comes, we move into the chick room, bend over the bins, and pick out the chicks. It’s not always easy; I have a tendency to go for the loudest animals, seeing that as a sign of health and intelligence, and it has backfired on me, leaving me with several high maintenance pets over the years. This year, I resist the chick running over the backs of everyone else and go for size. We are herded out, pick up our free Chick Day mugs—Karin has five or six now—buy our chick feed and peepers, and head home. The car sounds like a jungle of peeps as we all hold two, balanced over old towels that Karin remembers to bring each year. We are all settled in by 10:30 AM, chicks asleep under the heat lamp, me with a second cup of tea.

Lucy checks out the peep installation

         

Queen

   The next day was “Bee Package Day”, put on by Nectar Bee Supply. Usually, we have to head for Eugene for our bees, but, this year, a local apiary organized a delivery next door to the co-op. Go shopping and pick up bees in one fell swoop. We were thrilled. I studied the clouds all morning and we headed out right after a major downpour. I picked up the bee package, came home, looked at the clouds, and decided we had time to install them before the next deluge. Mark put on his new bee jacket with veil attached and acted as photographer while I sprayed down the box with sugar water. The queen box was plugged with the sugar plug quickly. (I lost her once and had to scoop her back into her cage.) I sprayed the bees again, knocked them down, and upended the box over the hive. Bees poured out. Quickly, I placed some of the bars around behind the box so bees would not swarm up, then tipped the box and knocked more bees down into the hive. Bees flew all around. One more knock and 95 percent of the bees were in the hive. I replaced all of the bars, set the bee feeder, which is a chicken watering bottle filled with syrup, with rocks in the bottom so that the bees don’t drown, on top of the bars, placed another box on top, and replaced the lid. A few bees began a casual investigation of their surroundings while I placed the package box next to the hive and covered it with an old langstrom hive cover. The whole process took about fifteen minutes.

           

Bees installed

Spring and all of its new life is settling into the back yard. Sprouting broccoli and asparagus are beginning. Plants are up in the cold frames. Tomatoes are ready to be bumped up into four inch pots. More seeds need to be planted between showers. And the chores of chick and bee feeding add to the complexity of our days. But, with the addition of the bees, the backyard is alive once more—even if it is all girls.

Crockpot Beans and Greens

There’s a brief scene in the Grapes of Wrath when Tom, the main character, is walking through the government camp early in the morning and smells the “strong smell” of beans cooking on an open fire. “I wish I had a plate of them,” he says in passing. “You’d be welcome, if they was done,” the woman replies. The scene gets at one of the underlying themes of the novel—poor folks will always help out and feed poor folks—and I think of it when I come home from school to the scent of beans cooking in my crockpot.

Put four cups of beans and one large coarsely chopped onion and maybe some garlic into the crockpot. The Indian Woman beans I bought from Sunbow are really nice, but black beans or some variety of pintos also works well. Cover with about double the amount of water. Cook slowly for six to eight hours. Near the end, when the beans are all soupy and falling apart, add 4-5 cups of chopped greens, salt and pepper, maybe a can of roasted tomatoes from the basement. I like to add collards and mustards, rather than cabbage (which does not do well slow cooked!) or chard, which is soft and gentle.  Stir it all in and let the greens cook down. Serve with new bread and salad, maybe some salsa, depending upon the beans.

            

Summer in Jars

The canning season is here. The shelves have been cleared and surveyed, the jars sorted—pint and quart, large and small mouthed—new lids purchased, canning dishcloths, stained with last year’s blackberries and beets, found, and foraging has begun. A few weeks ago, Mark and I clambered about on a friend’s roof, picking cherries and watching a cold front blow in from the west. The next day, I pitted cherries until my hands were deep purple, choosing some for a pie, packing most into the dehydrator and the rest into jars for the winter’s granola and yogurt. Then rather than hauling everything back downstairs to the far corners, I transformed The Larder (a space half way down to the cellar) into the canning storage unit.

Today I pickled beets from Sunbow. It is cool and clear out with a nice breeze, perfect canning weather. Two loads of laundry are flapping on the line—t shirts, underwear, jeans and a lovely flowered tablecloth. The chickens are cheerfully fussing over whose turn it is to sit in the nest area; Agnes is turning into the yard’s labor coach and the entire neighborhood knows it. The house smells of vinegar and sugar and allspice simmering on the stove while I peel and chop the beets—once again, it looks like a massacree has taken place on the counters. Clean jars wait for the vegetables and brine; my steam canner—a wonderful invention!—waits for the filled jars. Old music plays in the radio. It is a perfect morning and this energy will go into the pickles and waft out again this winter, when I go looking for something with color to add to a pale dinner. Summer in a jar, as Greg Brown sang years ago.

Chicken Drama

We’ve been having Chicken Drama in the back yard this week.

The delicate, fluffy, sooo cute peeps have become Peepsters— adolescent chickens with all of the desires for freedom and poor decision making skills of adolescents everywhere. When we open the rabbit hutch (their usual home) to let them out on grass in a wire enclosure for a little while, Penny, the leghorn, flaps madly around the cage, whacks her wings against my head, then flies out. Mark swears. She runs around, peeping pitifully while we herd her into the pen with the others using our arms and a rake. “She’s going—into the stewpot,” Mark mutters when I finally fling her in with her cohort. At night, it’s the same routine all over again. We’re so tired of it, we left them in today.

Meanwhile, in the big coop, Agnes, lowest chicken on the totem pole, has established dominance over the nest box. She did this last year. In early May, she decides, even though there is not a fertile egg in sight, to brood. Logic has no sway over her behavior. She has settled into the straw, laying an egg about once every three days (which I confiscate), and refuses to move. Once a day, I haul her out into the sunshine for a few moments, then she hops back up and settles down, threatening anyone who comes near. At the same time, she has sent out some sort of signal that stops the other two chickens from laying, so I am getting lots of attitude and no eggs. I don’t need all of this Drama….

Chick Day

Mud Season

It is Mud Season in Oregon.

Mud Season in New England arrives at about the same time, but it is triggered by the thawing of the winter earth and is a sign of both near spring AND maple sugaring. Robert Frost wrote a poem about “Two Tramps in Mud Time,” moving from a comment on the changeability of the weather to a meditation on doing meaningful work that I have always loved. Mud Season is beautiful in New Hampshire. (maybe I’m being nostalgic here…)

Mud Season in Oregon is a totally different experience. After dealing with long slow rains from November through February, the ground is saturated. Then, in March, we have teaser days of sun, followed by days like today—downpour, sun, downpour, sun, downpour, sun, and maybe some hail. The packed clay soil just cannot take any more moisture, and it rebels. Water seeps into the basement from the cracks in the floor. The entire house shifts and doors will not shut and windows will not open. The bathroom curtain never dries out. Mildew blooms on the bedroom window frame. AND the entire yard turns into a mud pie. I went out barefoot a few days ago and my toes sank into the ground, covered. The path to the back yard has disappeared, eaten by the mud. The ladies stand on the doorstep of the coop and talk about the water that surrounds the garden beds and how they what to visit the compost, but the mud and the water and… it is just too much for a chicken to bear, so they go back inside and refuse to lay eggs. This year it was made worse by having a yard and a half of fertile mix delivered during a sun break and then the next day, having two guys come out to insulate the walls. They tromped around the house all day, turning grass into mud. It is awful.

It would be okay, I think, if it stayed outside, but it doesn’t. There are five or six pairs of shoes gathered by the doors, covered in mud. Shoe prints throughout the house. The cats go out reluctantly and dash back in when the downpours begin. They track in grey mud that turns to dust from the dining room, through the back hall, across the kitchen, along the brick fireplace, and into the bedroom, where they proceed to knead Mark’s pillow before washing their feet. Then, bored, they tear through the house, rumpusing around, over and around the couch, fur flying. We are all losing patience with the rain. We all want to go out, to sit in the sun, hunt for Fawn Lilies, which should be blooming by now but aren’t, to dig through soil and plant seeds or eat bugs, and then come home with clean feet. It will be a while….

Out of the mud two strangers came
And caught me splitting wood in the yard,
And one of them put me off my aim
By hailing cheerily "Hit them hard!"
I knew pretty well why he had dropped behind
And let the other go on a way.
I knew pretty well what he had in mind:
He wanted to take my job for pay.

Good blocks of oak it was I split,
As large around as the chopping block;
And every piece I squarely hit
Fell splinterless as a cloven rock.
The blows that a life of self-control
Spares to strike for the common good,
That day, giving a loose to my soul,
I spent on the unimportant wood.

The sun was warm but the wind was chill.
You know how it is with an April day
When the sun is out and the wind is still,
You're one month on in the middle of May.
But if you so much as dare to speak,
A cloud comes over the sunlit arch,
A wind comes off a frozen peak,
And you're two months back in the middle of March.

A bluebird comes tenderly up to alight
And turns to the wind to unruffle a plume,
His song so pitched as not to excite
A single flower as yet to bloom.
It is snowing a flake; and he half knew
Winter was only playing possum.
Except in color he isn't blue,
But he wouldn't advise a thing to blossom.

The water for which we may have to look
In summertime with a witching wand,
In every wheelrut's now a brook,
In every print of a hoof a pond.
Be glad of water, but don't forget
The lurking frost in the earth beneath
That will steal forth after the sun is set
And show on the water its crystal teeth.

The time when most I loved my task
The two must make me love it more
By coming with what they came to ask.
You'd think I never had felt before
The weight of an ax-head poised aloft,
The grip of earth on outspread feet,
The life of muscles rocking soft
And smooth and moist in vernal heat.

Out of the wood two hulking tramps
(From sleeping God knows where last night,
But not long since in the lumber camps).
They thought all chopping was theirs of right.
Men of the woods and lumberjacks,
They judged me by their appropriate tool.
Except as a fellow handled an ax
They had no way of knowing a fool.

Nothing on either side was said.
They knew they had but to stay their stay

And all their logic would fill my head:
As that I had no right to play
With what was another man's work for gain.
My right might be love but theirs was need.
And where the two exist in twain
Theirs was the better right--agreed.

But yield who will to their separation,
My object in living is to unite
My avocation and my vocation
As my two eyes make one in sight.
Only where love and need are one,
And the work is play for mortal stakes,
Is the deed ever really done
For Heaven and the future's sakes.

Winter Weather

The last week of February has held some wild weather. First, we had snow squalls blowing horizontally by my classroom windows (I am not exaggerating here), then three or four inches of snow in town,-- Snow Day!-- followed by an arctic blast of 15 degrees overnight. Finally, we are returning to Late Winter normal—40’s and drizzle.

It’s not unusual to have a blast of frigid air in Corvallis sometime during the winter; it reminds us of how far north we actaully are. So, we have our systems. I have “frost blanket” of heavy duty remay that we wrap around the bay and the columular apple trees in barrels out front, right in the wind tunnel of house and garage. The larger one is even labeled “bay” – not that you can see it at 8:00 PM when we realize that the tree needs protection. I have an old army blanket and plaid plastic tablecloth that I wrap around the bee hive. And Mark brings the chickens in to roost in the cellar stairwell as our coop is pretty airy, even wrapped in plastic. They are not keen on the move; huge hands reach into the coop in the dark and grab them, tucking wings in under, and deposit them in a strange place that smells of potatoes and wood. There’s quite a bit of conversation between them before we turn out the lights. And again in the morning. Occasionally, one goes exploring….

Before the rains started this morning I went out to unwrap the hive and trees. A few bees were out checking out the morning because the sun had been on them for a bit. You could here them muttering—I know I came out of here somewhere—until the blanket was lifted. The trees came through unscathed, the daphne was beginning to bloom, and the chickens dust bathing under the rabbit hutch. Pre-Spring in Corvallis.