It's hard to imagine that today--a gorgeous day on Hell Mountain with the sun shining, a breeze gently blowing, and toasty summertime temperatures--is preceding the touch down of Hurricane Irene in New England. Reports are saying that, at this rate, when Irene hits Vermont, she'll still be a cat-1 storm. Sure, not a big deal but considering the fact that she'll have come all the way from the southern Caribbean, up the coast, and this far inland, I'm more than a little concerned about the wallop she could potentially pack.
In addition to the impending doom that this lovely day is trying hard to hide (but slightly failing at, I'm a worrier), summer up here is already so criminally short and it feels like it's being cut even shorter now. Taking down garden ornaments, stowing the Adirondack chairs from around the fire pit, finding places for my plants to hang out inside, securing storm windows... Is it October already?
Surprisingly enough, we don't have a generator (yet) up here. In the seven-and-a-half years that I've been here, I bet we've lost power fewer than 10 times and it's typically in the winter. Despite the age of our home and the repairs that we do need to get done (we all have 'em!), we're set up okay for power outages. We swore off the furnace last year, so heat comes from the wood stove. Our cook stove uses propane and our water comes from a gravity-fed spring. Andy's going to check and clear the culverts tonight when he gets home so that the driveway doesn't flood or washout. I'll dig out the land line phone, like I always do in bad weather, and we'll probably end up wiling away the power outage with a good book and some cold beers.
Likewise, I got out into the coop today to make sure that the chickens had plenty of food and water. I'm not sure whether or not the fence to the peeperie (my affectionately mock-French nickname for our chicken run) will hold up, but we'll just have to wait and see. My sense is that the girls, the roos, and the duck will hunker down just like us, though I hope they don't camp out for too long on the porch that leads to the shed where the coop is. That's their rainy day hang out space and it's covered in poop!
What the storm ultimately does for me is call to mind what's in store for us this winter and all of the preparing that has to start while the sun is still beating down on us. Firewood is at the top of the list, of course. We also have to find someone or something (hopefully Andy and a new quad) to plow the driveway. Winters are tough up here and they add a layer of complication that's highly stressful and pretty gosh darn unpredictable.
So, with that said, I guess I'll go huck a few more logs from the pile into the shed... But maybe save a few for one last bonfire, even if it means hauling the Adirondack chairs back out to the pit.
That's it for now!
~Kate
Friday, August 26, 2011
Sunday, August 21, 2011
A new year
Today is our first wedding anniversary. I like milestones because they lend themselves easily to reflection. To me, August 21, 2010 was the first of many days to look at where my husband and I are as a couple and also where we have come in our quest toward a real, live homestead.
Last spring and summer were all about the wedding, so we really didn't have too much time to think about the house and yard. However, after securing subscriptions to Grit, Mother Earth News, Natural Home and Garden, The Herb Companion, and Backyard Poultry (I'm a bit of a mag hag), a winter spent reading Storey's guides, Jenna Woginrich's "Chick Days", and "The Backyard Homestead", and a season of The Fabulous Beekman Boys, I feel like a totally different person than I was a year ago. To me, homesteading is a vocation, meaning it calls you. Not everyone hears the cry, either. And some folks think they do, but it's just another voice. I think Andy and I heard it loud and clear!
Two years ago in mid-to-late August, we had been dating for about eight months; he had just moved in to our 1896 farmhouse on 15 acres in the middle of nowhere (aka, "Hell Mountain"). Last year in mid-to-late August, we were getting hitched. This mid-to-late August? A rooster woke us up, I'm in an apron making a bunch of dishes from the latest issue of Vegetarian Times (the vegetarianism happened in March of this year) and Country Living, and he is so tied to the place that he's exploring a home-based business. Who knew?
And yesterday, I snagged a copy of Sue Weaver's "The Backyard Goat" at our (new) local Tractor Supply. So, who knows where we'll be next year! I can't wait to find out.
Last spring and summer were all about the wedding, so we really didn't have too much time to think about the house and yard. However, after securing subscriptions to Grit, Mother Earth News, Natural Home and Garden, The Herb Companion, and Backyard Poultry (I'm a bit of a mag hag), a winter spent reading Storey's guides, Jenna Woginrich's "Chick Days", and "The Backyard Homestead", and a season of The Fabulous Beekman Boys, I feel like a totally different person than I was a year ago. To me, homesteading is a vocation, meaning it calls you. Not everyone hears the cry, either. And some folks think they do, but it's just another voice. I think Andy and I heard it loud and clear!
Two years ago in mid-to-late August, we had been dating for about eight months; he had just moved in to our 1896 farmhouse on 15 acres in the middle of nowhere (aka, "Hell Mountain"). Last year in mid-to-late August, we were getting hitched. This mid-to-late August? A rooster woke us up, I'm in an apron making a bunch of dishes from the latest issue of Vegetarian Times (the vegetarianism happened in March of this year) and Country Living, and he is so tied to the place that he's exploring a home-based business. Who knew?
And yesterday, I snagged a copy of Sue Weaver's "The Backyard Goat" at our (new) local Tractor Supply. So, who knows where we'll be next year! I can't wait to find out.
Thursday, August 18, 2011
Montaroos and Capullets
Let's get one thing straight before we go any deeper into our relationship: this ain't a griping blog, it's a reality blog. It's going to sound a whole lot like a griping blog at times, but the point of it is more to capture our first few years trying to get the homesteading thing down than to sob out a "poor me" laundry list. No one reads those. My goal is to give information and, in doing so, try to at least make my reality-list-of-quasi-gripes-observations-and-mere-truths-of-fact as fun to read as I possibly can.
The chickens have hit puberty. Who would have thought this? The oddest part might be that chickuberty occurs at about three months of age. Thank goodness the same cannot be said for humans, though the lack of vocabulary and reliance on diapers might make things a lot easier. A few facts remain the same though, and I can speak to this not only because I went through the scourge of puberty myself, but also because I work with young people who, by fifth or sixth grade, are evidencing some of the very same behaviors as my three-month-old pullets are.
The females are incredibly skittish and won't go anywhere unless all of them go together (school dance bathroom trips, anyone?). This is fine when it's two or three chickens, but when you're talking about 10 confused, angsty chickitas, things can get pretty hairy. The other peculiar, but strangely familiar, observation I have made about my girls is that they could be grazing and foraging, digging in the dirt for worms and grass and all the good stuff the backyard has to offer, but as soon as one of them gets sketchy, she tweaks and they all follow suite. If that isn't 'tween groupthink, I don't know what is. And talk! Do they ever talk. I feel like my dad shouting down through the heat vent during one of my sleepovers. "Keep it down!" I find myself saying when I am trying to get in, get the food and water stocked up, throw down some extra pine shavings, stack wood, or just potter around the coop in general. They are the Pickalittle Talkalittle Girls if I ever saw them and I'm pretty sure they're talking about me, which only makes it worse.
This is all remarkably cute and quaint, sure. But the males are a roobescent breed all their own. As I mentioned, we have two of the fellas. Don (formerly Donna, named after my favorite aunt until we realized differently) is a roo I would equate to the sensitive New Age guy on your college's quad/green/student center lawn. Let's just say, if he could hold an old acoustic guitar and strum Smashing Pumpkins tunes 'neath the shade of an ancient oak, he would. The girls love him. He's big and ruddy and fairly quiet. He likes to snuggle. MAnn (formerly Ann, named after a wonderful friend) is that same college quad's aggro, football-tossing jock who, as he is walking to the gym (legs today, tomorrow chest and back), steps on the book of 13th century Italian poetry that Don had propped up against his fair trade organic hemp backpack. He doesn't say "Sorry bro" or even look back. MAnn is a JErk and an evil one at that. One night, I was trolling a Mag-Lite beam across the shed to get a head count before bed and, when the light hit MAnn, it was as if Alex DeLarge had taken up residency inside my chicken coop.
In my Facebook profile, I call myself a "chicken chaperone" because I really couldn't think of a better name for what I do than that. Today, however, I realized that I can't keep chasing them around and trying to keep MAnn and Don away from the ladies. At least not for a few days. It causes so much stress (for me or them, I can't decide who gets it more) and they just can't stand to be apart. Tonight, I finally had the [French breakfast] radish and let them all bunk up together again, after two nights of keeping them separated. MAnn and Don took a perch on the roofline of the coop and the girls all clamored to get next to each. (The fact that they totally ignored the nesting boxes I installed this afternoon was more than hurtful.) I can't compete with that, so I guess I won't.
That's it for now!
~Kate
The chickens have hit puberty. Who would have thought this? The oddest part might be that chickuberty occurs at about three months of age. Thank goodness the same cannot be said for humans, though the lack of vocabulary and reliance on diapers might make things a lot easier. A few facts remain the same though, and I can speak to this not only because I went through the scourge of puberty myself, but also because I work with young people who, by fifth or sixth grade, are evidencing some of the very same behaviors as my three-month-old pullets are.
The females are incredibly skittish and won't go anywhere unless all of them go together (school dance bathroom trips, anyone?). This is fine when it's two or three chickens, but when you're talking about 10 confused, angsty chickitas, things can get pretty hairy. The other peculiar, but strangely familiar, observation I have made about my girls is that they could be grazing and foraging, digging in the dirt for worms and grass and all the good stuff the backyard has to offer, but as soon as one of them gets sketchy, she tweaks and they all follow suite. If that isn't 'tween groupthink, I don't know what is. And talk! Do they ever talk. I feel like my dad shouting down through the heat vent during one of my sleepovers. "Keep it down!" I find myself saying when I am trying to get in, get the food and water stocked up, throw down some extra pine shavings, stack wood, or just potter around the coop in general. They are the Pickalittle Talkalittle Girls if I ever saw them and I'm pretty sure they're talking about me, which only makes it worse.
This is all remarkably cute and quaint, sure. But the males are a roobescent breed all their own. As I mentioned, we have two of the fellas. Don (formerly Donna, named after my favorite aunt until we realized differently) is a roo I would equate to the sensitive New Age guy on your college's quad/green/student center lawn. Let's just say, if he could hold an old acoustic guitar and strum Smashing Pumpkins tunes 'neath the shade of an ancient oak, he would. The girls love him. He's big and ruddy and fairly quiet. He likes to snuggle. MAnn (formerly Ann, named after a wonderful friend) is that same college quad's aggro, football-tossing jock who, as he is walking to the gym (legs today, tomorrow chest and back), steps on the book of 13th century Italian poetry that Don had propped up against his fair trade organic hemp backpack. He doesn't say "Sorry bro" or even look back. MAnn is a JErk and an evil one at that. One night, I was trolling a Mag-Lite beam across the shed to get a head count before bed and, when the light hit MAnn, it was as if Alex DeLarge had taken up residency inside my chicken coop.
In my Facebook profile, I call myself a "chicken chaperone" because I really couldn't think of a better name for what I do than that. Today, however, I realized that I can't keep chasing them around and trying to keep MAnn and Don away from the ladies. At least not for a few days. It causes so much stress (for me or them, I can't decide who gets it more) and they just can't stand to be apart. Tonight, I finally had the [French breakfast] radish and let them all bunk up together again, after two nights of keeping them separated. MAnn and Don took a perch on the roofline of the coop and the girls all clamored to get next to each. (The fact that they totally ignored the nesting boxes I installed this afternoon was more than hurtful.) I can't compete with that, so I guess I won't.
That's it for now!
~Kate
Here we go...
Lots of folks are blogging these days. Lots of those folks have chickens, make zucchini pickles, enjoy sharing information and opinions, live somewhere you've never heard of, and can make a fairly ordinary life seem decently entertaining.
Hey, I do all of those things. Does that mean I should blog? I think you'll be the judge of that. But I'd like to give it a try.
Now for the Q&A portion of the inaugural post. It'll help you get to know me and decide if you want to keep reading.
Q: What's the story with "Hell Mountain"? Is that really where you live?
A: No, we live on Norton Mountain in Starksboro, Vermont, a small town somewhere between Burlington and Montpelier. It's quite lovely up here now, in mid-August, but by January you'll know why my husband (who was born in Connecticut but would never admit it) dubbed it Hell Mountain.
Q: You're on the chicken bandwagon (with every other American yuppie). Did you do it for love or money?
A: I did it for eggs, which I don't currently eat both due to textural issues and the fact that I am a cheegan.
Q: Cheegan?
A: A vegan who can't give up eating cheese. It's my dairy crutch and the addiction is shameful. I made the word "cheegan" up. It's apropos, but I also worked in advertising for almost 10 years. You can't shut that stuff off.
Q: Back to the chickens.
A: My dream plan, after a winter's worth of research to find the cold-hardiest, egg-layingest breeds, led me to carefully select a dozen day old chicks and two ducklings from a mail order operation in Middlebury. I am not going to name it because I am not particularly happy with how my order on paper translated to what I actually am raising right now. My intention was two Buff Orpingtons, two Buff Brahmas, two Araucanas, two Jersey Giants, two Black Australorps, two Rhode Island Reds, and two Khaki Campbells (the ducks).
Q: I am not sure I like where this is going.
A: Agreed. But let's press on. They were all cute as buttons, but as they grew I realized that the ducklings (which were three in number due to a processing mishap) were looking awful mallard-y, the Brahmas were white, the black chicks (Australorps and J.G.s) appeared to be all the same, and a R.I.R. and Araucana were shaking some pretty roosterish tail feathers. So my order and winter's worth of research were flat-out botched by the aforementioned, yet unnamed, peep vendor. One of the ducklings got out and was snagged by our Jack Russell, Douglas. The other one flew away. The R.I.R. roo is okay-fine and will probably make a good protector of the flock, but my suspicion is that the Araucana roo is going to be reinvented as coq au vin. He's loud and rough with the ladies. There's no place for that, not even in a place called Hell Mountain.
Q: Is that all you do? Complain about chickens?
A: No, I'm actually an elementary school teacher. I complain about kids too.
Q: Interesting dichotomy.
A: There are a few parallels. My non-chicken-based job is to run the after school program at Bristol Elementary School. I also recently gave myself a job teaching there because I know how talented I am as an educator and how valuable I am as an employee.
Q: When can we chat again?
A: As soon as I have more to say which, knowing me, will be fairly soon.
Hey, I do all of those things. Does that mean I should blog? I think you'll be the judge of that. But I'd like to give it a try.
Now for the Q&A portion of the inaugural post. It'll help you get to know me and decide if you want to keep reading.
Q: What's the story with "Hell Mountain"? Is that really where you live?
A: No, we live on Norton Mountain in Starksboro, Vermont, a small town somewhere between Burlington and Montpelier. It's quite lovely up here now, in mid-August, but by January you'll know why my husband (who was born in Connecticut but would never admit it) dubbed it Hell Mountain.
Q: You're on the chicken bandwagon (with every other American yuppie). Did you do it for love or money?
A: I did it for eggs, which I don't currently eat both due to textural issues and the fact that I am a cheegan.
Q: Cheegan?
A: A vegan who can't give up eating cheese. It's my dairy crutch and the addiction is shameful. I made the word "cheegan" up. It's apropos, but I also worked in advertising for almost 10 years. You can't shut that stuff off.
Q: Back to the chickens.
A: My dream plan, after a winter's worth of research to find the cold-hardiest, egg-layingest breeds, led me to carefully select a dozen day old chicks and two ducklings from a mail order operation in Middlebury. I am not going to name it because I am not particularly happy with how my order on paper translated to what I actually am raising right now. My intention was two Buff Orpingtons, two Buff Brahmas, two Araucanas, two Jersey Giants, two Black Australorps, two Rhode Island Reds, and two Khaki Campbells (the ducks).
Q: I am not sure I like where this is going.
A: Agreed. But let's press on. They were all cute as buttons, but as they grew I realized that the ducklings (which were three in number due to a processing mishap) were looking awful mallard-y, the Brahmas were white, the black chicks (Australorps and J.G.s) appeared to be all the same, and a R.I.R. and Araucana were shaking some pretty roosterish tail feathers. So my order and winter's worth of research were flat-out botched by the aforementioned, yet unnamed, peep vendor. One of the ducklings got out and was snagged by our Jack Russell, Douglas. The other one flew away. The R.I.R. roo is okay-fine and will probably make a good protector of the flock, but my suspicion is that the Araucana roo is going to be reinvented as coq au vin. He's loud and rough with the ladies. There's no place for that, not even in a place called Hell Mountain.
Q: Is that all you do? Complain about chickens?
A: No, I'm actually an elementary school teacher. I complain about kids too.
Q: Interesting dichotomy.
A: There are a few parallels. My non-chicken-based job is to run the after school program at Bristol Elementary School. I also recently gave myself a job teaching there because I know how talented I am as an educator and how valuable I am as an employee.
Q: When can we chat again?
A: As soon as I have more to say which, knowing me, will be fairly soon.
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