This week we began letting the chickens out into the big pen that runs the length of the milkers’ pen, and then turns, extending all the way to the back pen.
We needed to wait until the new hens knew where we wanted them to lay their eggs before we started letting them out - otherwise they’d lay eggs out in the wilderness and only the skunk would get to eat them. But, we’ve been getting ten eggs a day in their laying boxes, so Jan said it was time to start letting them into the larger pen.
The hens who had spent previous years in that pen ran straight out - leading the rest of the flock.
The chickens dig in the ground, looking for grubs, and maybe dormant bugs. The chickens love being out in the wider chicken universe.
Jet, the cat who loves the chickens, often climbs the tree in this photo, sitting on a big branch, sunning herself and watching the chickens. They seem so happy to be busy.
Seeing the chickens in their wilderness reminds me of when I was a teenager, and my cousin, Carol, took me to see her Aunt and Uncle who lived on a farm their grandparents had gotten through the Homestead Act of 1862. Farmers are the original Greens. They reuse everything. Nothing goes to waste with farmers. And, they have the space to leave things until they might be repurposed, transformed to a new use.
On the homestead farm, there was a small forest, and this was where they took household items that were being replaced. Deep between the trees, we saw an old horse-hair sofa from the 1800s, a ruined velvet settee from the 1920s. An entire history of the family’s front parlor was scattered back there.
Carol’s Aunt and Uncle raised chickens and pigs, along with some feed crops and a vegetable garden. The pigs were allowed to wander into the forest, returning when it was feeding time.
On a lazy afternoon, Carol and I wandered past the forest, and, looking in, we saw a pig lounging on a davenport! We looked further, and there were other pigs, sitting in the wingbacks, rocking in derelict rockers. It was an enchanted pig forest! The pigs looked as if they owned this part of the forest, and all its furnishings. I was beyond delighted. Carol may dispute my memory, but this is the way I remember that day.
Anyway, that is what I think of when I see our chickens out among our trees.
Like the pigs, our chickens know when it’s feeding time. At 3:00, we deliver their scratch to the yard outside their coop, along with some feed. Their scratch is the ends of vegetables we’ve discarded. Potato peels, the parts of celery we cut off, ends of lettuce that weren’t quite good enough for our salads. If they aren’t already in the yard at 3:00, they come running when they hear Jan call out, “Chickens!”
They eat the scratch, and then go back out, making holes everywhere - creating new soil. And then they come home to roost. Which makes me wonder about that phrase.
It seems to me that when people talk about “chickens coming home to roost” they’re talking about “just desserts”. For instance, “he was nothing but mean to his children, and now the chickens have come home to roost.” (His children have put him in a nursing home, where they don’t visit).
But, I wonder if that phrase used to contain more of a sense of inevitability. Because, the chickens always come home to roost. Always. Well, always except once. Jan says that, very occasionally, a chicken will stay out in the bigger pen, and sometimes that chicken comes hurtling home just as we’re closing the door to the coop, frantically running back and forth, clucking on the other side of the closed gate until we let her in. Sometimes a chicken doesn't come back in time and ends up staying outside overnight. When that happens, they’re in danger of a predator carrying them away. We may find a scrap of that hen the next morning, or she may disappear without a trace. But, if the hen makes it through the night, she never stays out again. She always comes home to roost.
Speaking of farmers being green, a couple of mornings ago I stumbled out of bed at 3:00 a.m., led to the kitchen by my hungry cats. I gave them each some food, and started rinsing the can out for recycling. The recycling here is like it was following the very first Earth Day. Remember that? When the recycling center was just a bunch of dumpsters, arrayed in a parking lot with warning signs that they don’t accept cans that aren’t flattened, or jars that aren’t washed, labels removed?
Anyway, I was standing at the kitchen sink, washing the can out in a bowl that I had left to soak overnight - using grey water to wash out the can - when I noticed that my feet were not only cold, but wet. I looked down, and there was a pool of water covering the entire sink end of the kitchen.
Where was it coming from? I opened the doors under the sink and felt under the pipes - it was completely dry. I opened the dishwasher, and there was standing water in there. And it was not completely clear. It was green tinged. Ew. It looked as if I’d been washing spinach in there. Which I hadn’t!
I mopped up all the water, and set some towels at the base of the dishwasher - thinking I’d just see what happened. Jan’s dishwasher had died mid-December. It had spewed water all over the floor as it died.
Anyway, I went out to do chores, and forgot about the flood in my kitchen until much later in the day. I finally remembered while we were making dinner. I told Jan, and we talked about going to the store the next morning to buy another new dishwasher. Ugh.
But, neither of us slept well, and in the morning, we agreed that we really ought to call a plumber before we bought a new dishwasher, because, what if the dishwasher wasn’t the problem? Jan thought the septic system might be backing up into the house. I thought there could be an issue with the garbage disposal.
About the garbage disposal. Jan had told me that I had one when I moved in. But, it didn’t really register. I’ve never had one before. And, out here, I don’t understand why anyone would need one. We put all our coffee grounds on the garden beds. Vegetable scraps go to the chickens. We eat our leftovers. There’s nothing to go down the garbage disposal.
But, my kitchen drain (with the garbage disposal in it) had been getting slower and slower over the weeks that I’d been here. The slow-down seemed like a lovely opportunity for me to learn how to use less water. I have some bad water usage habits from living most of my life on the water-rich shore of Lake Michigan.
By the time of the flood, I could put about a quart of water down the drain, and then the sink would start to fill up.
So, Jan called the plumber. When the plumber arrived, he took one look at the situation, and very gently and kindly told me that I needed to run the garbage disposal once a week, just to clear it out. Apparently, the dishwasher drains through the garbage disposal. Who knew?
Still, I’ve formed some new, greener water usage habits. And, although I had to pay the plumber, what I bought from him was knowledge. What could be better than knowledge? Plus, we saved all kinds of money not having to buy a new dishwasher. So, good stuff all the way around!
And, here’s a photo of sunrise over the Monzanos out my bedroom window the next morning:
