The Week That Was

About a month and a half ago, we had a string of what some would call "bad luck." Everything started out fine. Sunday was fun. We spent it at church and at home. We were looking forward to the fair and a week full of overtime. But then, Monday dawned.

MONDAY

I woke Monday morning and went outside to let the chickens out of their coop to find this:

A very large tree branch on a very old elm tree had decided to commit suicide and fell down... kind of. It was still supported by the half of a branch below it and, well, the ground. (For scale, my son in the photo is 46" tall.) The chickens were very confused and immediately ran out, climbed into the leafy mess, and began scratching at it to try and clean it up.

TUESDAY

Tuesday I went out to check on the girls before wrangling three boys into leaving for a doctor's appointment when I stopped breathing. Feathers were everywhere and there was a black (and very smug looking) dachshund in the back yard. It took me over an hour to find all of the girls. By the time I found everyone I was hyperventilating. Needless to say, I didn't get to the doctor that day.

WEDNESDAY

I got the call no wife ever wants to get from husband's best friend and carpool partner... the one that starts: "Don't worry. Everyone's okay, but...."

Except our only vehicle was not okay. Both my husband and his best friend missed out on half a day of work, and we didn't have a car for the next two weeks.

After the first three days of the week, I was seriously contemplating not going to the fair on Thursday. (We went, and I got sunburned, but not too badly.) Friday and Saturday were actually enjoyable.

But--despite my ramblings and rantings on Facebook that week--I could (and can) see God's hand of protection in each one of these instances. In fact, it was the only thing that helped me even leave the house on Thursday and Friday. Each one of these instances could have been so much worse.

Monday: Look back at the picture. See the silvery line up in the top right hand corner? That's the power line coming to the house from the alley. It's our house's umbilical cord. The branch that came down was only inches from that power line in life. In its death, it completely missed the line altogether. Five weeks later,

Tuesday: Other than losing some feathers, none of my chickens were hurt. They could have easily all been killed because neither I nor the dog heard their cries of terror. According to the record in the feathers, Aki the Cockerel--who was supposed to be a girl but ended up not being one--fought off the dog while the girls ran for cover. In my panicked, frantic searching, I found him sitting on top of them in a back corner of the coop quietly whispering comforts to the terrified girls. (I love my Aki.)

Wednesday: Obviously, the big thing is that everyone was okay and both cars were repairable. Not only that, but the repairs were only about 75% of the estimate sent to the insurance company. We called to ask about the remaining money and they said it would be okay for us to keep it, which helped us cover 80% of our deductible.

So, that week will always be known as "The Week That Was." It's one to remember, not only because of what happened, but what could have easily happened instead.

But let all who take refuge in you be glad; let them ever sing for joy. Spread your protection over them, that those who love your name may rejoice in you. (Psalm 5:11 NIV)

"Is That an Ostrich?"

Um no. That, my friend, is a 4-week-old chicken. "Lady Buffy Peckington," to be precise.


Gandalf once said, "You can learn all that there is to know about their ways in a month and yet, after a hundred years, they can still surprise you." He could have been talking about chickens just as readily as hobbits.

Backyard chickens are the new "it" craze. With so much in the news lately about salmonella outbreaks and conditions of "factory" chickens, more and more people are considering the more humane (and cheaper) option of getting eggs from their own back yard. No longer relegated to being pets of "the crazy lady down the street," urban chickens are now legally permissible in many very urban areas of the United States, including cities like Atlanta, GA; Houston, Texas; Seattle, Wash.; Boston, Mass.; and even L.A. and New York!

My Valentine's Day present from my husband this year was a flock of 10 chickens. Our city voted last year to allow for urban chickens, and I had been planning on getting the max ever since. Since April--at about six weeks--the girls have been free ranging outside, eating grass, bugs, and kitchen scraps.

From Day 1, they have amazed. It is mind-boggling how much information is contained in those itty-bitty heads, even at a day old. Because of supply issues (and then untimely deaths), we got our current flock in stages. Our oldest girls, though, had no one to teach them how to be chickens. We picked them up when they were a day old from the hatchery. And yet, no one to teach them that those small crumbs in the dish are food. No one to show them how to drink without drowning. No one to teach them how to take a dirt bath or preen their feathers. No mama taught them how to be good mothers in return.

When our oldest girls were two weeks old, we got the second set. We were told by all the books and the people at the hatchery to expect fights over dominance (establishing their pecking order), but at the first peep, our older girls fell in love with the babies and taught them everything they knew. The younger girls learned how to be chickens much faster than the older set.

As the girls grew, they began to show different personalities. We have a mama (who, at 6 weeks, adopted two chicks to replace two who were got by predators), the baby, the one who thinks she's people (Buffy, pictured above, who is a "lap chicken"), the leader, the "enforcer" (who makes sure the leader's orders are carried out), the dumb blonde, the stuck-up pretty one, the sidekick, the timid one, and the bully--whose favorite thing is to go after our cat if she feels he's getting to close.

Despite their small "bird brains," they all know their names, recognize my mother as "the one who brings treats," put themselves to bed at night, what is good to eat in the back yard (which, unfortunately still includes my pea and bean starts) and what isn't, and exactly how far the dog's tie-down will reach.

In a few months, each girl will start laying about one free-range not-quite-organic egg every 26-28 hours--eggs with various shades of shell, from blueish green to brown to white, with dark yellow yolks. But they have already brought so much in the areas of organic insect control, fertilizer, and entertainment that they have already earned their keep.