Questionable Blog

When I was first introduced to the world of blogging, I saw it as a promising place for a writer to public his ideas and interests, so with hardly a thought I jumped right in. Jumped in over my head. If I had given it even a little thought, I would have checked the depth of the water before diving in. I would have found that, more important than the depth, I needed to take note of the swiftness of the stream. I found that the blogosphere has a rapidly flowing current. On the other hand, I am slow. I move, write, think, and live in the slow lane. But blogging looked so full of possibilities that, without thinking, I jumped in and started ten or twelve blogs. I have a lot I want to say. Almost immediately I realized that, with such a load, I could not keep my head above water, could not catch my breath, so I eliminated all but about seven. I probably will be forced to change that in some future. Only thoughtless ignorance could have led me to call one of these blogs, “The Daily Chicken,” or “The Weekly Banty Chicken.” As it has worked out, “The Occasional Chicken,” or “The Whenever Bantam,” would be more accurate. Although I am hesitant to, I may eliminate this blog. But not until I post another handful of pictures or stories when I find time. _______________ Meanwhile, the photo at the top is Sally, an Americauna pullet. I ordered a few Americauna chicks last summer, not because they are a good-looking chicken, but because they and the Aricauna are the only breeds of chickens in the world that lay anything other than white or tan-brown eggs; their eggs are blue, blue-green, or green. One of my small joys is gathering Sally’s light blue-green eggs, and, when we have company, showing them a small pretty they have never seen before, and likely will never seen again. If you keep chickens, you might be want to order a few Americaunas from your favorite hatchery.

Owls, Hawks, and Grass

I said it couldn't happen to me. Rules are made for people, not people for rules. When the Happy Hen House Chicken Forum told me I couldn't, I responded, "I will," and fell just short of telling them that I knew better than they. As I posted recently, I know some rules must be obeyed, both for personal survival and well-being, and for social survival and well-being. I try to obey those sorts of rules. I have found, however, that if you understand the purpose of the rules, and the larger setting in which they are applied, you can serve yourself and society better by ignoring the rules, on the basis of more fundamental principles from which the rules are derived. I was told that my chickens would have to be shut up against predators, have clean, fresh water available always, be fed the proper commercial chicken feeds at least twice daily (available always the more common rule), and I forget what all else. I was told that I could either have chickens or grass, chickens or flowers, chickens or garden. If I kept chickens, they would destroy everything green, leaving everything scratched up and turned brown–looking like a chicken yard. Not me, I said to myself. I know better. Well, my chickens have thrived without commercial feed, and without fresh, clean water (a small pool of moss-covered water has served well. But. . . . Notice the grass in the photo. None remains. Well, less than five square feet. I believed I had such a large yard that there would always be places for them to scratch, and for the grass to grow. I have learned better. Notice the golden-penciled brown chicken; an owl got her one night as she roosted on top of a fence, safely covered–I thought–deep in the honeysuckle vines. When I blog, don’t take it for granted that I know what I am talking about. Sometimes I may not. It would be wise to check me out.

Princess

Princess is a Cochin (also called, especially in England, Pekins), a breed that, along with the Brahma was first imported (though not originally from0) from Shanghai. In the 19th and Early 20th centuries, both breeds were often called "Shanghai" chickens. In my mind, the "tall Shanghai rooster" in "Sweet Betsy from Pike," was a Brahma (originally, Brahmaputra). Brahmas are tall, and they stand tall, while Cochins are short and squat--legs almost not seen. The Brahma struts; the Cochin waddles--at least Princess does. As I have written earlier, I deeply regretted losing my three Brahmas, but they were all loud-crowing --and majestic--roosters and had to go. Princess (who lays brown eggs) is our slow one, but when she gets there, nobody bothers her. She is quietly, not aggressively, the head of the pecking order. Sally (the Americauna layer of green eggs) is the aggressive one, always running others away from the feed, but she leaves the little Princess alone. When I toss out bits of kitchen scraps, the others all make a run to see who can get it first, and if they can't, they often take it away from whichever one got it first. Meanwhile, Princess just ambles up and takes her position, waiting for me to throw something her way. She doesn't get involved in the races and chases. Patiently she waits, knowing that I will send some her way. I didn't like her at first, not her color, not her down-to-earth size and shape, not her feathery feet and legs. We got her a year ago yesterday, and across the months she has grown on me. I've had that experience with several people across the years. I could name several that I did not like at all when we first met. They were not my kind of people. I did not like their attitudes, their voice, even sometimes their looks, and sometimes it was like the old limerick: I do not like thee Dr. Fell The reason why I cannot tell But this I know and know quite well I do not like thee Dr. Fell Some of these became, and remain, among my best friends. Sometimes I am a bit hasty in my estimation of people; sometimes I am plain judgmental. Often I am wrong. With people and with chickens. Roark, withhold judgment until you have good ground for making a valid judgment.

Sleeping Outdoors

http://s97.photobucket.com/albums/l212/oldwriter/?action=view&current=Elevenp-1.jpg If I didn't get these chooks into the coop early, they always roosted high in the bushes. I liked this idyllic scene and let them all roost "in the wild" for a couple of weeks--until an owl began taking out one or two a night. That took the romance out of their free, wild, and adventurous life. I was disappointed, but didn't want to lose any more of my banties, so, ever since, I have been keeping them in the chicken coop at night. I think the chickens also were disappointed, and only grudgingly took to the artificial roosts I had fixed for them inside the coop. If I was at all late shutting them in, I had to look in the trees, bushes, and vines to find them. I wanted my chickens to live with as few constraints and restraints as possible because that is how I like to live. Across the years, I have been burned several times because I chose to "color outside the lines," or think "outside the cliched box” and acted on those thoughts. Certain boundaries and regulations are unavoidable if we are to maintain a healthy and stable human society. I know this. I want to be a good citizen. But, like the recalcitrant chickens, I judge some of the rules of social correctness to be inappropriate. I still try to avoid all possible constraints I can. Like the chickens and the owl, I haven’t always gotten away with it. All the same, I’ve managed to become a septuagenarian survivor, and a productive, if not respectable, citizen.

Many Chicken Changes

About four months ago, the doorbell rang. When I answered, the municipal animal control officer was at my door with the question: "Do you have a rooster?" I had five. One of the reasons I got my banties in the first place was so I could hear roosters crowing in my own back yard. Well, a neighbor, who from the time he moved in three years ago, for some reason, has never liked anything about me, called City Hall, claiming that a rooster of mine was keeping him awake all night (not exactly the truth, because, although they crowed a lot, there was none from dusk until about four in the morning. Which, I understand, could be disturbing, but that’s not the same as all night). So, five roos went to our local animal shelter. The same day, I discovered two hens brooding clutches of eggs. About twelve weeks ago, they hatched thirteen chicks, seven of which turned out to be roosters. One is the silver-head in the accompanying photo, taken two days ago. This morning, Silver Head, along with seven others, mostly roosters, went to bring the nourishment and the joy of fried chicken to a family I know. They are living on an inadequate income, and know how to slaughter, dress, and cook chicken. So, I am left with a total of eight bantams. I retained the best-looking young rooster. My reasoning went like this: This is twice the neighbor has called City Hall to complain about me (the first time, about my Native Plant Landscaping). I have no desire to deliberately offend or aggravate him. However, I do want to be able to see a rooster in the backyard, and hear him crow. While I don’t want to annoy the man across the street, neither will I let him rule my life. This time I have only one roo, not a chorus of five, so there should be much less crowing. What I hope is that the fellow will have grown tired of calling City Hall, and will tolerate Rooster Joe (Joseph, because of his coat of many colors [See the accompanying photo.]). If the AC officer comes calling on me again, Joe will have to provide my friends with another small meal of fried chicken. But until the officer shows up, I’m keeping and enjoying Joe. The AC officer is a real nice guy who understands, but must do his duty when a complaint comes in. I understand, and he understands. Please tell me if you think I have a social obligation to the neighborhood to establish a more socially acceptable lawn, and to drop the idea of keeping a rooster.

Mama Was a Colored Easter Egg

I wonder if these two chicks survive? They completely change appearance over the months, and I don't know which these two are. Are they two of the fifteen that were given away, or who were stolen by hawk and owl? Or are they two of the three that remain in my back yard. As of yesterday, I am down to three. Did have eight, but five turned out to be roosters, with only three pullets. Sexual abuse was so severe that something had to be done. Yesterday morning as I was deciding how to delete four of the roosters--all of whom I was much attached to--there came a good solid knocking at the front door. A man in a police uniform asked me if I had a rooster. I looked out at the pickup with a cage in back, and knew that my nine months of rooster joy was over. The fellow was quite congenial. We talked about farm life, swapped war stories, and discussed the nature of the city code. He helped me get them to a family in the country. He told me a neighbor had called in saying he could not sleep for roosters crowing all night. I understood. I knew the officer was only doing what city code required of him. I had known for some months that the wrong person was going to hear The Boss, Shanghai, Prince, Chanticleer, and Dunkle singing harmoniously--not "close harmony"--and I would lose one element of my retirement dream. One of several reasons for getting my chickens was to hear, every day, roosters crowing. Oh well, some of us like chocolate, some like vanilla, and some don't even like ice cream at all. Celie, Sally, and Princess. These three remain. Maybe they are pictured on this posting. Perhaps not. The fact is that their colors are richly varied. Celie is a white-penciled Sebright: white with each feather edged by a slender border of black. She looks like silver lace. Sally wears a coat of many colors, most of which I can't describe: fawn, gold, brown, cream, and on it goes. She is an Americauna and thus will soon begin laying pale green or blue eggs--Easter Eggs. Princess, the little white fluffy Cochin, the sexually abused one who has endured innumerable mountings daily by five different roosters, doesn't add much color. Maybe she is not one of those pictured above. The other two just might be. You never know.

Chanticleer

When I bought the two-day-old chicks last summer, This is what I had in mind: specifically, at least one banty rooster that looked just like Chanticleer, shown here with Anna--will look like when mature. Now, as a very young cockerel, he already is well on the way toward my ideal. The other thing I had in mind was that I was raising chickens merely for aesthetic reasons. I wanted to hear that music again, especially the crowing of roosters. Pure nostalgia. And just to enjoy watching them and being with them, as our youngest grandchild is doing in the picture. I am raising chickens just to enjoy, just for the out-and-out fun of it. Chanticleer is one of the smaller two of these little banties, and, you will not be surprised to learn, that he was the first to fly up and eat on my lap and from my hand. One day as I sat with the flock, cutting up an apple core to portion out to them, this little Ginger Red Old English Game Bantam rooster flew first onto my lap, then atop my head. My kind of fun. A few of us were gathered in Jean and Maxine’s home to eat dinner and visit. When during the course of conversation, I noted that only rarely did I attend ball games or watch television. Dallas Huston instantly asked, "If you don’t go to ball game or watch TV, what do you do for fun?" Now you know. One thing I do for fun is to sit in the back yard with a banty rooster on top of my head. Beats ball games or anything on the vidiot screen, at least for me. To each her own. At least three or four of these birds are cockerels. Now six-months-old, their voices have almost completed the adolescent "change of voice." Among these backyard voices, Chanticleer, the highest tenor, is the most frequent singer of the flock. I like them all; I favor this little fellow.