Oh My.

It has been a splendid day with boys galore. Okay, mostly Owen but Gibson came over for his first visit and even had supper with us.
Okay, okay, he didn't eat but he slept while we ate.

Of course I only let him stay in that little seat for a few minutes before my body took control of me and I reached down and scooped him up and ate with him cradled in my left arm. It made no difference to him but it gave me great joy and contentment.

Owen was such a good young'un today.

He seems so big now that Gibson is here. We sat on the kitchen steps and fed the chickens some biscuits from yesterday's breakfast and when it came time to eat our lunch he wanted to eat out there too. I said, "But Owen, let's eat on the back porch where we have a table."
"'Tend table!" he said.
"You want to pretend we have a table?"
"Uh-huh!"
"All right."
"Whoo-hoo!"

And so we did. He ate watermelon and pizza and we fed Miss Ozzie a few bites of fruit too, which she enjoyed tremendously and we discussed Mutant Ninja Turtles and their love of pizza and I tried to be hip and remember their names but all I could come up with was Michelangelo and Leonardo and I wasn't really sure of those two.

He took a nap with me on my new sheets which he proclaimed to be cozy and when I'd gotten him down with the Mr. Peep story, I discovered that one of the incubator eggs was actually doing something. Rocking a bit and there was a tiny hole in it and I could see a beak working at the shell. It was pretty darn exciting and I had to call Mr. Moon and the process is still going on now, hours and hours later and Mr. Moon is sitting in front of the incubator, watching the baby try to peck its way out. Another egg has a cracked shell and is moving a bit and yet another one is rocking. So...
We shall see.
If we get one real live peep, I'll be so happy although I would hope that there would be more. We'll just have to see. All of the instructions say to leave them alone and let them peck their way out- that if you don't, the muscles will not have developed enough for the babies to stand up.
Survival of the fittest and so forth and it seems cruel but so is nature and that is just the truth. It has its own system and it's best not to fuck with it. You can already hear the little guy in that shell chirping away. We chirp back, hoping to encourage the chick to continue with his or her struggle for freedom, release, life.

So it's been a very good day with lots of playing and painting and coloring and bathing and sleeping and pecking and chirping and cooking and laundry and laughing and Mr. Moon got home in time to play too and then were were puzzles and bamboo kicking and the hitting of trees with bamboo and then there was supper and baby-cuddling and now the little family has gone home and here we are. The kitchen is cleaned up and I am tired, tired, but a good tired.
A deserved tired.

Now I have to decide whether or not to stay up and watch this baby come out of its shell. I need to do a little studying to determine whether or not it can stay in the incubator. The information on the internet is so conflicting. And the information I have in my chicken book has yet a different opinion.

Ah-lah. I know far more about the birthin' of human babies than I do of chicken babies.
I suppose this is a good thing.

Well, I'll report in tomorrow. You can count on that.

Tomorrow. Gibson will be one week old. Bless his little heart. And he's already been out to Mer-Mer and Bop's house which his big brother knows better than anyone. When I bring Owen here I always ask him who lives here and he always says that Mer-Mer lives here and Bop lives here and Owen lives here.

I like that. And before we know it, Gibson will be considering it his house, too.

This sweet old house where chickens are born and there are hiding places for boys, and goats next door and a garden to help in and trees to climb and bamboo to kick and porches to play on and beds to nap on and where life just keeps on happening.

Night from Lloyd, y'all.

Love...Ms. Moon

UPDATE: The chick is out of his shell. Early moments and we shall see if he survives.
Wow.
Just...wow.

Who The Fuck Knows?

This. This. THIS is a day when if I were a religious fruitcake to whom GOD spoke and told to run for president, I would blame on something like the fact that gay marriage is not allowed in Florida (hey- even if I was a religious fruitcake, I wouldn't be a fundamentalist, okay?) but I'm not so I'm just going to say that I think today is a day where Mother Nature is saying, "I'm still in charge, bitches and don't you forget it."

I GET IT, MOTHER NATURE! CALL OFF THE FLIES!

I suppose we're still getting bands of Lee's (Bands of Lee's would make a good band name, don't you think?) and the wind picks up and the rain falls again and it gets all dark and cloudy and then it all calms down and the sun comes out and it's like, Tra-la-la-la, and then the next thing you know branches are snapping and falling out of trees and it's raining again and all of the air has been sucked from the universe and we're living in that mushroom again.

And the electricity just went out. Of course.

Honestly. I give up. I'd just go to bed but I took a two-hour nap with Owen. I finally got up and then he got up and came and found me and said, "More sleep," and so I went and laid back down with him and he fell BACK asleep while I traced the outline of his tiny shell ear. And oh, Lily, if you are reading this, yes, he did indeed write on his nipples with a pen and you should consider yourself lucky- I stopped him just as he was about to tattoo his own scrotum. I'd keep an eye on that boy if I were you.

I hope he doesn't read this when he is fifteen.

There's a female cardinal on the feeder right now and she's not eating. She's just looking around like, "What the fuck?" and I know exactly how she feels.

I'm thinking of letting the chickens into the house to eat the flies. I'm at the point where cleaning up chicken poop would be far preferable than smacking or vac'ing any more flies. Owen learned to smack flies today. "Got it!" he'd say, smacking and smacking and smacking one dead fly on the floor. He's also learned to say "maybe."
He told me he wanted to see some cows. He is sort of obsessed with cows these days. Then he said he'd like to see a moose.
"There are no mooses in Florida, honey," I said.
He raised his shoulders up to his ears, looked at me and said, "Maybe."
Perfectly.

One never knows. There could be mooses in Florida somewhere. For all I know. I'm pretty sure there aren't any in Lloyd, though.

We got another giant egg today but it was blue. The new hens' egg-size regulators still aren't quite working properly I think. Takes a while to calibrate those things. Owen threw a hissy when it was time to go home. I had to give him an egg to take with him. He doesn't even like to eat eggs, but he sure likes eggs. Lily put it in the diaper bag. Lily, if you are reading this, remember you have an egg in your diaper bag.

Well, that's all I have to say. I tried to take some pictures of the spider out front, wrestling a wasp unto death and dinner but none of them came out right. Take my word for it- it was fierce. Another reminder that Mother Nature doesn't fuck around. I should bring in all the spiders I can find to trap the flies. No, I can't think of any problems which might arise from THAT, can you? Or maybe Mr. Moon and I should just abandon the place for a few days. Go spend some quality time at the Jamison Inn up on Bainbridge, GA. We used to do that, now and then. We could just hole up on the King Sized Bed and watch crappy TV and not deal with flies. Take our meals at the Waffle House.

Sound like a good idea?

Maybe.

Or maybe not.

Who knows?

Not me.

As always...Ms. Moon

Scatter Shot Of Love

The heat is back up to roaring, stunning levels and the thought of working outside today makes me shudder. I had a quick sensory memory the other day of how it feels when all of the doors and windows can be flung open and in my mind, it seemed as if that were a sort of going braless- no constraints. I am looking forward to that. It is a completely different way of living than having the house shut up for the air conditioning. To think of the cool breezes sweeping my walls and floors is something good to look forward to.

Something else to look forward to: I am truly and really going to the beach next week. Kathleen has rented a house on St. George for a week and I thought I wasn't going to be able to get away until Thursday but it looks like I can go on Tuesday instead.

Wow.

I can't even imagine that many days in a row on St. George.

So Kathleen is going and Judy is going and Kathleen's childhood friend, Vicki, and a friend of hers who has never seen an ocean. And Denise will be down on the weekend when she gets off work.

A no-man, no-bra week at the beach. Can you imagine? (Although, to be honest, as much as I love a girl's only island trip, right now I am sort of wishing I could have a no-bra, all-man weekend, with the man being my man but you can't always get what you want but if you try sometime, you just might find, you get what you need, etc. and what I need is probably an all-woman trip but who knows? Not me. Owen and Lily are coming down on Thursday for some beach time so there will be THAT man of mine- the little one, but most assuredly a man for all of that.)

I have no idea what it's going to be like and I am not making any plans other than a plan to make pizza one night for Denise's birthday dinner because that is what she wants. Which makes me happy and feeling honored.

So. The beach is coming up and I am thinking of how for me, that means complete and utter letting-go. To have yogurt for breakfast and to have lime-flavored tortilla chips and salsa and cold Coronas with lime when it's time for the day to come to an end. Long walks, dolphin sightings, sitting on the beach under an umbrella with a book and a thermos of tea, perhaps, always lots of ice, the smell of salt and and sunscreen, the deep, deep sleep born of sun and swimming, floating on the water, the sound of the tide as it scrapes back across the shelly, sandy beach, the hiss of the foam, the moon rising over the water, skies that look like this:

All of that and trips to Apalachicola to buy supplies at what used to be the Red Rabbit grocery store but is called something else now. Perhaps also we'll stop in at the fantastic bookstore and River Lily,



of course, the best shop in the tri-state area, whatever that is, where we can buy or not buy mermaids and sparkly earrings and beautiful skirts and perfumes and candles and whatever a girl's heart desires. Perhaps lunch at restaurants, shrimp and oysters and grouper sandwiches. Ah-yah.

Oh, Ah-yah.

I sort of wish I could take my chickens with me. Just a few minutes ago one of the new hens who'd been on the nest came out of the hen house and made her bold and proud call of "I have just laid an egg!" and Elvis came running over to her and pretended that he wanted to fuck her but I think it was just a token love thing like when your sweetie comes up behind you when you're making biscuits and grabs you from behind, and then they ate some corn together and she rejoined the flock. I mean, who could get tired of watching this sort of activity?
Not me, baby. Not me.
Can you imagine though, hens on the beach eating periwinkles and sand fleas and pecking through the beach morning glory? Oh my. Well, that's a dream for another time.

It's good here in Lloyd this morning. I have spoken to both Kathleen and Judy. Judy and I planned the games we're bringing and the liquor we're bringing. Judy and I know what's important.

Mr. Moon is off to town to pick up some parts for a truck. He is in a very good mood today, as well he should be. We are feeling especially lovey and giddy and what could be better? I got an e-mail this morning from a woman who has recently found my blog and she told me that she and her husband, who have been married for 48 years are still very much in love and still love to make love and then she apologized for TMI and yet isn't that just what we all need to hear? Isn't that the best thing ever? What a gift she gave me in telling me that.

I am feeling especially lucky today, but even more importantly, I am able to accept that into my heart.

Okay. That's all. Chickens, the beach, sexy love.

Be well, my sweeties. Be well.

P.S. Yes, I am fooling around with the blog again, changing its look. Who cares? But that header picture? That is actually a shoe that dearest Lizzie gave me a long time ago. Well, she gave me two of them. They are the awesomest shoes I will ever own, each with its own village in the platforms. Maybe I will take them to the beach.

Awww.....

One of the new hens, the one, in fact, whom I saw Elvis doing some serious feather-ruffling with the other day, has laid me an egg.
It's brown, and compared to Miss Mabel's egg, quite small. I remember that- how when they first started laying, my older hens' eggs were tiny.

Oh, bless her little heart, this hen.

I have said it before, and I will say it again- chickens are the best pets I've ever had. I can't even imagine life without them now. I just feel so damn lucky that I get to have them. To be able to live out here in this relatively rural area where we can keep them. To have them greet me when I go outside. To watch them scratching through the flower beds, napping in the sand. To see the way Elvis watches over them and calls them to come when he finds something good to eat. To watch the two different flocks become one. To hear their lovely voices chatting away as they go about their daily rounds, almost as soothing as water in a creek, running over rocks.

Yesterday Owen and I took crackers out to feed them and Elvis walked right up to Owen who stuck his hand out and said, "Hey! Hey! Hey!" and kept repeating it as if expecting Elvis to say something back. Maybe like, "How ya' doin', dude? Got a cracker for me?"
Honestly, I wouldn't be that surprised if Elvis did. It just makes me laugh to see the boy and the rooster, almost at eye-level, observing each other. Roosters and boys are both curious creatures and I do prize curiosity as a virtue.

It is a beautiful day here in Lloyd and I can look up and see a cardinal fluttering in the distance like a piece of red cloth which has somehow caught flight. The heat is back but it is less humid, and therefore more tolerable. The air is clear and sunlight catches on the broad green backs of leaves in changing silver pools and although we need rain, most of what grows in this yard is heat-and-drought tolerant and may look a bit wilty, but remains vigorous.
The ashe magnolia has also given me a gift which I only found today.


That is its cone with beautiful hard, glossy, red berries in it. I expect the hurricane lilies to come popping up any day now and the firespike will begin to bloom soon. These are also red. Spring is more about the pastels- the pinks and lavenders, the creams and the yellows. Late summer brings the crimson, almost as if the heat of summer has erupted finally into flame.

A good day. A day in which I did truly try to constrain my thoughts to positive ones about myself. I am not ready to take the pledge yet, but I am THINKING about it. A day where a friend came by and we had a perfectly entertaining chat, talking about everything from geothermal energy to Tate's Hell to road maintenance. A day in which I cleaned a little bit, thought about my upcoming trip to the beach, and cooked beans which are slowly, by degrees, being turned into soup. A day in which I found the first-laid egg of a hen and the first cone of a magnolia tree I planted five years ago. A day in which I took a sane walk which served not to punish or make me suffer, which let's face it- is how I usually view my walk- but as a way to exercise, to be out in the woods and in the fields and to actually enjoy that.

The most simple of days doing the most simple things and that is the sort of day which bring me the most pleasure. Hell, it's too hot to eat soup but making soup is one of the joys of my life and so I have done it anyway. Although I do not by any means enjoy cleaning, if I set my goal at one or two rooms instead of trying to do the entire house, I find that it is a matter of an hour and so what? I can concentrate on this house which is such a fine house and which I have been given the very real honor of living in for however long I live here and I can find actual satisfaction in tending it.

No. I did not get to my office. But tomorrow I think I will. And that will be another sort of pleasure and I am far more apt to do it, to accept that pleasure, if I don't spend the first part of the day telling myself that there is no point in me trying to write, I will never get a book published, etc., etc., but just to do it for the joy. If it brings us joy, it must be something we should do.
That's what I think.

And so, that has been my day here in Lloyd. A day of very, very simple tasks done with no resentment and no hidden agendas, just a sense of purpose and contentment.

I would not ask for more than that. And why in the world would I?

Gifts. Chickens. Eggs. Easter

Roses that I have discovered in the yard which have never bloomed before, a white wisteria seed that Lis brought me, a tiny creamer bottle for fairy flowers and a book, both sent by Bethany.

All gifts.

And I planted the seeds for bottle gourds and heirloom cucumbers Bethany sent me as well as the zinnia and sunflower seeds. And I settled the wisteria seed into that pot and watered it well. I love gifts that say, "I know you. Here, grow this."
I love gifts that spring out of nowhere, red roses so deep in color that blood running from a vein couldn't touch it.

But my hens. Oh, they are not gifting me. Where are they laying their eggs? Darn those hens. Scared of snakes in the hen house and not one egg in the fern in the last two days. I don't have time to watch them all day long as they go from one part of the yard to another, doing whatever it is that hens do.
They are withholding their eggs from me and it's almost Easter.
It's not like they sit on those eggs and are protecting their soon-to-be-chicks.
No, they lay and then they leave.
Not one damn good mother in the bunch.

Perhaps they are just providing me with an Easter Egg hunt.
And perhaps Easter Egg hunts are nothing more than a very, very old dance between humans and chickens to find the eggs the chickens lay so profusely in woods and leaves and old sheds and ferns and wherever it is that chickens lay.

And what any of this has to do with the resurrection of Jesus Christ is beyond me.
Or chocolate for that matter.
Or some sort of pink protein served at Easter dinner (ham, salmon, rare lamb) or...Peeps!
Or bunny rabbits! What do bunny rabbits have to do with the resurrection of our Lord and Savior?

Mmmm.
Probably no more than trees have to do with the birth of Baby Jesus.
Or Lay-Away at Walmart.

Sometimes I feel so sorry for Jesus that it makes me want to steal him out of the manger

and send him to public school and tuck him into bed every night and tell him that it's not his job to save the world.
Just be a boy, I'd tell him.
Just be a sweet man, I'd say.
Just be a really, really smart man and know how much your mama loves you.

And maybe he'd look at me with eyes like, really? and I'd look back at him with eyes like REALLY and he'd stick his thumb in his mouth and turn over and I'd reach under his shirt and lightly scratch his back and hum a little song to him and I wouldn't leave his bedside until he fell asleep and then I'd kiss his little Jesus curls and on Easter, I'd fix him up a basket with jelly beans and chocolate bunnies and chickens that you could wind up and set down and watch hop, hop, hop across the floor and leave it by his bed so that he'd wake up in the morning and find it and he wouldn't have any fear of being crucified at all.
And then we'd go hunt eggs that our hens had left us. Somewhere. It might take all day, but we'd find them.

Oh. And no one would have to wear a crucifix around their neck and churches wouldn't have to have that horrible statue of Jesus with his bleeding hands and feet, his ribs all poking out, his head tilted to the side, his eternity-seeing eyes staring off into space and little children wouldn't have to see that, none of them.
Especially not Jesus himself.

And maybe on Easter Morning there would be a new litter of baby rabbits to cuddle and stroke, maybe there would be a nest full of just-hatched peeps to wonder at.
I know boys.
And if there was a Jesus he was a boy once. And I think he would have liked that.

Well. I've just picked basil and my hands smell of it, stink of it, and I'm going to go peel and mush garlic and they'll stink even more.

I have a good imagination, I'm a good cook, and I've had a weekend full of gifts.

Ain't nothing wrong with that.

Not one damn thing.

Meanwhile, Back At The Ranch

When we got home this afternoon, I let the chickens out of the coop and they raced to the yard screaming, "Mama! Why'd you keep us in chicken jail so long?"

And they proceeded to scratch around the yard the way they do and after awhile, I heard a big old commotion on the front porch. Daffodil was standing on the steps cackling up a storm and Elvis was standing on the porch and Miss Dolly was sitting in the fern pot.
"What?!" I asked them and they just continued on.
After awhile the noise got louder and I went out to see Elvis wallowing in the fern, cackling and wooting the way he does when wants the hens to lay in a certain place. You see, this is yet another task of the husband of the sister hens- pointing out good nests to them. I swear, the more I learn about chickens, the more I know about humans.

I took the trash to the trash place and I came back and Dolly was back in the fern and Elvis was standing guard like a daddy in the labor room.

Lord.
May called and we talked for quite a bit and then I heard more noise and went and checked out the situation and here's what I found:

A nice brown egg laid in the flattened out remnants of my fern which is at least ten years old, maybe older.

Damn.

And still- I wouldn't trade my chickens for anything. Like I keep saying, there is something about having chickens which makes me feel as if my life is complete.

Yesterday when Jan and Jack were here, Jack was talking about how much he missed having chickens. But they live sort of in town these days (Monticello) and they don't even eat eggs. "What would we do with the eggs?" Jack asked.
"Give 'em away!" I said.
And Jack said, "We could give them to the food bank!"

Which to me, is brilliant. You'd have the pleasure of having chickens and you'd be giving away perfect protein to those who need it.

Win-win.

As I have said before and I'll say again- chickens have done more for the human race than Jesus Christ. And they're soothing and beautiful and real as a deviled egg with paprika sprinkled on the top.

Has anyone ever gone to war over chickens? Has anyone killed anyone over the burning of a chicken-book? Is there anything better than chicken and dumplings?

I rest my case.

And I love my chickens.

It's Been So Exciting I'm About To Pass Out

It has been such a long, fine day. Owen was here from one until eight and Mr. Moon and I are both dropping from fatigue.
I hope we can make it until ten to actually fall in bed.

If I listed everything that Owen and I did today, you, too, would pass out from fatigue. The child never stops. He can now climb the bar stool chairs in the kitchen. All by himself. This adds yet another level of peril to our adventures. I go into the laundry room to switch out the washer and dryer and he's on top of the kitchen island. Oh Lord.
But he's such a great little man. He carries things for me and he can open doors when he's on my hip and he can feed the goats leaves through the wire fence and he can FEED THE CHICKENS THEIR SCRATCH and I almost melted with pride when he reached into the can of corn and threw it for the hens and Elvis. THE BOY CAN FEED THE CHICKENS!
He can also carry things to his Bop and he can say, "Pearl," although it comes out more like, "Bewl," but that's close enough.
He got so tired but he never got cranky. He went directly into hysterical-laughter phase and we must have played, "Where's Owen?" for at least three hours today, although not all in a row. He got to the point where when I'd "find" him, he'd break down in giggles. This game is never-ending fun. As in, the fun never ends when we play it.
Over and over and OVER again.
We watched Melmo on the computer. We ate yogurt and shared it with Bop. He brought me the toilet bowl cleaner. (Another Oh Lord! moment.) He swept, he dusted, he cleaned with a rag. We played going night-night. We put a sheet over a card table and played tent with a flashlight. We went for a walk.
And so on and so on and so on.
I think the boy will sleep good tonight and I hope so because I know his mama is tired.

Bop got out the Big Boy four-wheeler to take Owen for a ride.
Owen did not like that. Not one bit. Here's a picture of him sitting in front of Bop when the engine started up.


It got worse. Luckily, Bop is an understanding grandfather and after one short ride, he stopped and let the boy come to me. He wasn't crying, he just wasn't enjoying it.
Smart boy.

And I discovered where my hens have been laying today and I feel like a moron.
For awhile last summer the hens were laying in a nest outside of the hen house and for the past several months they have not touched the nest as far as I could see and so I quit checking it. Today, for no reason, I did and this is what I found:


I laughed so hard. Those sly birds!
I brought them all in and washed them off (the eggs, not the chickens) and all but one passed the float test. I think I have about six dozen eggs in my refrigerator now.

And the very best news- two of my oldest and dearest friends became the grandparents of a baby girl tonight. They have a grandson but this is the first granddaughter and she was born at a birth center and it would appear that all went perfectly and from pictures and report, she is a pure rosebud of a love of a girl.
A granddaughter! There was a picture of the grandmother holding that new baby and I have never seen her look so beautiful and so radiant. Seriously.
Blessings.

Well, that's the report here from Lloyd and tomorrow is New Year's Eve and oh boy on that one. Shall the Moons step out and join the glittery masses of humanity or shall they stay here and fall asleep before midnight? We have not decided yet and probably won't until late tomorrow afternoon, at least.

Stay tuned.

And don't expect any of those end-of-the-year wrap-ups here 'cause I'm so damn old that one year just blends into another and you go to bed and you wake up and forty years have passed and then you do it again.
Maybe.

Night, y'all. I'm falling asleep.

Love...Ms. Moon

Snake Spit Is Really Slick

If you find that image distasteful, DO NOT LOOK ANY FARTHER I MEAN IT AND YOU BETTER NOT SUE ME FOR EMOTIONAL DAMAGES BECAUSE I WARNED YOU!
Okay?

So I went out to check for eggs. I have not been getting my full bounty and I know it. I suspected our snake but I haven't seen hide nor scale of her lately since I saw her in the front yard, headed across the street.
But when I checked a nest this afternoon, that picture above is what I saw.
Okay. I was PISSED OFF!
DAMMIT!

Mr. Moon of course was not at home and even more importantly the new camera's batteries had JUST been put in the charger.
What to do?
I grabbed the old camera and a small ice chest. I was just about to pick up the pitchfork when I heard the family whistle. Do you have a family whistle? We do. There are two notes to it and it means "I'm here. Where are you?" My granddaddy used to whistle those two notes to announce his arrival at our house when I was a kid.
Anyway, it was like some sort of miracle to hear that whistle because I knew it was my knight in shining armor, my husband, the birthday boy himself, Mr. Moon!

"Get out here right now!" I shouted and he came and saw and said, "That's not the same snake. That's a baby."
"You're right," I said. "What are we going to do?"
We being a completely false use of the word as I knew that really, there was no way in hell I was going to do anything with a pitchfork and a snake. I swear I was going to try though, until he got home.

To make a long story short, he picked up the snake and chopped its damn head off and I don't feel bad about that either. Damn snakes can't be eating our eggs.

As soon as he picked up the snake, the egg got dropped. That egg was really too large for that snake but he sure was giving it a try.

I didn't want to touch a snake-spat-upon egg so I got it into an old can and took it into the house to wash. It was Miss Betty's egg, by the way.
I discovered, upon washing it, that snake spit, as the title of this little piece indicates, is extremely slick and slippery which I am sure aids the process of getting the snake's head and throat down over that egg. As with so many things in life, patience, determination and the proper lubrication will get the job done.

All right. Here's the picture. Don't sue me. I warned you.

That is an actual egg in an actual snake's mouth. The egg is now in my refrigerator and the snake is in two pieces and flung over the fence into the woods.

Mr. Moon is taking a bit of a nap before we go out.
Yeah. He's the coolest.
You should have seen him pulling that snake by the tail when it was trying to escape. I kept yelling, "You're so brave! You're so brave!"

And he is.
My hero. Mr. Moon.

Now to get that big son-of-a-bitching snake.

Life in Lloyd. It's never boring.

Blue, Blue, This Egg Is Blue

Up until today, my chickens have given me eggs of dark brown, light brown, gray-green and green.
Today, though, one of them gave me a blue egg.
Blue.

What? More Chickens You Say? No Problem

Miss Betty, sitting on the nest. My first time to see her there. And now I know her eggs are brown.


Miss Bob, thinking about sitting on a nest.


Sam. And I have no idea why he's with the hens near the nests. But he is. Keeping an eye on things, I suppose. Either that or he loves Miss Bob so much he can't bear to let her out of his sight.

******************************

And now I am as clean and scrubbed as if I were going to be the one examined on the table today myself. I actually have a bag packed with a book and a magazine, knitting, toothbrush, a spare dress, just in case we get into that hospital and stay there.
I am nervous, I have to tell you.

And I have to tell you this, too- as I have always said, my children have been my greatest teachers and I have a feeling I am about to learn one of the most important lessons of my life. Even if Owen doesn't come today or get started, even, on that path, I am about to learn it and soon.
And I feel so humbled.

Fresh Eggs From Happy Hens

I believe I just used up the last store-bought egg I will be using in a long, long time.
Eight of those eggs came just from yesterday and today's gathering.
Oh my. My hens are gettin' busy.

Bless Their Little Egg-Laying Hearts

Today's nest offerings.

Three. Three eggs. And none of them as big as the one from yesterday so I think I may have four hens laying.

See how they're all different colors? Aren't they beautiful?

Oh my.

Until Lily's baby is born, this is just about as much excitement as I can handle.

I'll Be Darned

Either Miss Red's eggs have suddenly and inexplicably doubled in size, or we have a brand new egg-layer in our midst.

Excellent!

I Am So Confused

Went out to feed my chickens some fruit and some scratch corn this morning and as always, it was just a joy although Sam will no longer eat out of my hand. He looks at whatever I'm holding out to him with his fierce rooster eye and will not take whatever I'm offering.

It is as if he is saying, "Human! I will not deign to take food from your hand! Don't you know? I am Rooster, all powerful and never humbled!"

Okay, dude, I tell him. No problem. Just more for the hens.
He's not mean or anything and he certainly likes to examine what I'm holding out up close and personal but he just can't bring himself to accept my charity.

Anyway, I checked the laying boxes where I found another egg. I have been getting approximately one egg a day and they all look just like each other. They are glorious eggs with whites as thick as glue. The meringues I will make when I have an abundance of eggs!

Anyway, as you know, I have decided that Miss Red is my one and only layer. I have seen her on the nest and then I have seen eggs there. I have not caught her in the act and don't really want to invade her privacy like that anyway.
But here's the thing- there was a lovely little tail downy feather (see above) along with my egg this morning. And there is not one shred of red in it. At all. I took it out to the coop and compared it with Red's feathers and I can't see anything on her little red body that resembles this feather in color.

So hmmmm.

Do I have two chickens laying on alternate days? Is Miss Red really not the deliverer of these eggs?

Gosh. So many questions arise in raising chickens.

It is, I have to say, just a fascinating experience.

For those easily fascinated, anyway.

Giving Credit Where Credit Is Due (The Chickens Have Fooled Me Again)

Yes. This picture is a repeat. But I must repeat it because not only is Miss Red the highest jumpin', grape snatchinest' chicken in the coop, she is also the one who has been laying those tiny green eggs! Four so far.

This morning we found her sitting in the laying box and we were so excited to see what HER eggs would look like.

Uh. Exactly the same as the other three we have found so far. And so although Miss Betty is still one fine chicken, we now have to look to Miss Red as the first to lay eggs and apologize to her for not giving her the credit. We stroked her and told her what a fine, lovely chicken she was. She looked at us with eyes that were far away. It really can't be that fun to lay an egg. We left in the nest instead of stealing it right away from her. We'll go back and retrieve it later when she's rejoined the flock after her efforts and recovery.

Bless her heart. No wonder she's always so hungry for those grapes and watermelon.