Shhh! Chicken in a basket. Privacy, please!
There are four eggs in the basket now and today I watched as Dearie used her beak, working to pull that lid shut. And she did it! It is so ridiculous for me to wish for another hatching of chicks. What if we get all roosters again? Or mostly, anyway. Why would I want to put my hen through that long three week period of the sitting coma where she will barely eat or drink or even move off the nest?
I don't know.
I do know that if I don't let her nest there she'll do it somewhere else. Once a hen goes broody, that is that.
And of course there's the fact that there is nothing quite as darling as baby chicks.
Liberace keeps bringing other hens on to the porch and showing them the basket. As we speak, Connie is in there.
This is all so interesting to me. I know that when hens sit on nests, they are often sitting on the eggs of other hens. Do the roosters always encourage this?
I have no idea.
Anyway, Connie only stayed in the basket for a few moments and then left it and she did not lay an egg.
So that's it for chicken news. As for other news- well, I'm not coping with life real well right now. For whatever reason I'm just incredibly emotional and even typing that caused my eyes to well again. These days sometimes happen and sometimes they do last for awhile. I remind myself of that when I go to sleep at night. To try not to despair too deeply because things change and I will not feel this way forever. Meanwhile, I took a walk this morning and then pulled the spent lettuce and those beautiful bolted, flowering mustard greens. It's getting warmer again and that was all I felt like doing and so that's all I did. I gave the spent plants to the goats and chickens next door who do not get fresh greens very often. They seemed most appreciative.
I really don't have anything else to say and can't seem to figure out a way to blunder to an ending. I suppose I'll just stop writing. That should do it. Not very gracefully, but effectively, nonetheless.
I love the broody basket, and the chickens. And yes, I understand those broody moments we all have, I think; it's part of being human, as much as anything. And she is just doing what we all wish we could, now and then, climb back into bed and pull the door shut. At least she gets chicks out of it (or something), all we get is a rumpled bed. =)ReplyDelete
We're still waiting for the slight haze of grass up here to turn into must-mow grass, and bit of warmth, to boot. I think I saw A Yellow Jonquil out there this morning, but didn't dare look too close, in case it was an illusion.
Spring does happen, sometimes late, sometimes later.
Hello, Mittens! Welcome. Thanks for coming by.Delete
You are right about all of us wanting to get back in bed sometimes. SHUT THE DOOR!
I think our spring is about done here and we are gliding right into summer.
But, you know- Florida.
That damn spammer has been by already to put links in your comments. Do you think Hank knows a solution?ReplyDelete
I remove them and remove them. I'll ask Hank if he has any idea.Delete
Some seasons are just emotional and the reasons not always clear and all we can really do is rock with it till it passes and in the meantime dear Mary, here's my hand. Let's sit together on your porch and muse about the chickens. Or watch the light change through your cathedral trees. I am loving you from here.ReplyDelete
Oh, how I love you, woman! Thank you. You always understand.Delete
all we can do with the downish days is carry on......as you know.... as best as you can. I know we all have them and they aren't fun, but we know they will pass.ReplyDelete
Chicken in a basket makes me smile....chickens have the strongest survival instincts of any creature I have known.. hugs to you tonight
PS It instantly *became* summer here today in Ca.......88 degrees, I've got the dreaded bug bites to prove it, and I am NOT happy.
I've already been bit by mosquitos and have removed a tick from my leg. And of course, the ants never cease biting if we get in their space.Delete
Yep. Chicken in a basket. I have no idea why people thing chickens are stupid. Or birds in general. Seems to me that bird brains work quite well.
I hate those days but they do pass thank goodness. Sending hugs and love.ReplyDelete
It's true, Lilycedar. And I know that by now.Delete
I am finding magnesium is regulating me very effectively there days. It might be a matter of finding the right one, and method of ingestion, as they are not all the same.ReplyDelete
I'm glad I'm not broody on a basket I have to say! I suppose things could always be worse...
I've tried magnesium and perhaps never found the right one. I'm glad it's working for you!Delete
Well, Dearie isn't brooding yet. Maybe she won't. We shall see though, won't we?
Oh Mary. There are days (times?) when it feels to me that I am getting a glimpse of the dark stuff behind my veneer of all-is-well. Hold on. Take care. Be gentle with yourself.ReplyDelete
Oh my god, Sabine. That is it exactly! And that glimpse is enough to scare the fuck out of me.Delete
Its LilyCedar but I'm at work so I'm on my phone. I'm reading a very good book right now which gives me a great deal of hope. Love 2.0 by Barbara Fredrickson. I struggle so often with loneliness and grief and a lack of hope but this book gives me hope that I can feel better.ReplyDelete
I'll look it up. Thank you!Delete
Mama said there'd be days like this, as the song says. We all have them. Tomorrow will begin anew!ReplyDelete
Thank you SO MUCH for your comment on my flowerpot post. Of course I think you're completely right -- it's a pedestal, not a pot!
I'm so glad I could help you with that, Steve. Haha! It will make a handsome pedestal, won't it?Delete
Hang in there, chickie.ReplyDelete
I know you will.
Your chickens are so interesting! I'm not a big chicken fan, but your notes about them pique my respect for the little creatures.
I thought of you this week while reading a novel about the life of a woman named Frances Mary Moon. (Liberty Street, by Dianne Warren; couldn't put it down. Now how often does that happen? Not often enough.)
Happy Spring, Mary, in your exotic deep south.