Lessons learned from chickens
 

I'm a very simple man. But I DO pay attention.
When I was eleven years old, I bought some Rhode Island reds, mixed batch (straight run).
It broke my heart to cull out the rooster chicks at eight weeks, but, as my Mom said, "You only need one."
Many delicious Sunday dinners followed. Lucky I didn't name them.
So, I ended up with twelve hens and one rooster.
When I fed them for a few months, I watched their behavior. The pullets seemed so aware before they became hens. The rooster was oblivious.
I'd feed them cracked corn and ground oyster shells, hoping for the first eggs.
After a while, they finally started laying. I put a sign at the end of the driveway..."Fresh brown eggs for sale- $1 a dozen".
I sold almost as much as their fed cost at the local Agway. I got to eat plenty of omlets too.
Through it all, I paid attention to their behavior.
I'd let them out of their coop in the early morning. They had been safe from the racoons, foxes, and weasels all night. Dad and I built their little house right. I'd gather the eggs.
They'd scratch around in the yard, pick at bugs and go to the stream for a drink at mid morning. If a shadow came across them, they'd run under the apple trees or thorn bushes. They didn't like hawks.
After lunch, I'd go out to check on them, toss them some corn in the driveway where they were picking grit for their crops.
In the afternoon, they'd rest and dust. They'd do a lot of cluckin' to each other...hen talk stuff.
Then at dusk, they'd go back to their coop. Just like clockwork, night after night.
Seems to me the thing that they taught me was that the "chickens always come home to roost". They always did.
So, this little metaphor has a point...the chickens have come home to roost, again, they always do:

http://www.commondreams.org/views06/1019-20.htm

DTS

Oh look,DTS, the sky is falling!!

Well, the sky has been falling for quite some time, funny how nobody notices until it's election time! The Iraqi war, which I agree is a horrible mess, has visited pain and suffering on a people who didn't deserve it...a crime, you bet! All war is a crime against humanity! But the issues that plague this country...racism, a deepening socio-economic caste system, drugs, crime, lack of respect for life, and a blatant self-absorbed selfish nature didn't arise the day we entered Iraq...they've been festering for decades...but I agree, as a guy who loves watching chickens myself...they do always come home to roost! The political parties are a cruel joke as are elections...would Gore have been better? Kerry? Hell no!! We need radical change in the politics of greed and self-perpetuation...a good start would be to defeat EVERY incumbent in the upcoming election! Throw the bums out and start over with folks who would understand that longevity is tied to performance not special interest money! But that won't happen...I often say we don't get more great horses cause we don't deserve them, well...same with government! More people voted for American Idol than vote for President! Most folks can't name their Senators let alone their Congressmen and try finding someone who can name Supreme Court Justices! The public sits back and complains but does nothing as the rich get obscenely richer, the poor get hopelessly poorer and the middle class is attacked daily! Experts have shown that a grade school kid can fix the new voting machines with a common key and a simple virus...opening up the possibility for voter fraud on a scale worthy of Cuban "elections", yet nothing is done as the election approaches...we are a nation of sheep! Baa Baa...vote Republican/Democrat and spew the party talking points! It's not George Bush's fault we have a royal clusterf-uck on our hands, it's our's!

John, I think he was making a quote from the movie Chicken Little. My 2 year old girl constantly watches it and others over and over.

Cluck, cluck, cluck...OHHH! Look up in the sky...is it a bird, is it a plane?
Naw..just a repub "chicken hawk"....moulting.
Where did all these feathers come from?

btw..."humor" is indeed a great "defense mechanism". Reality sux, right?

DTS: Humor is my best weapon against 'reality'! And yes, OUR current reality does!

Timm,
I didn't forget this thread.
Looks like the chickens found thier way back to the roost.
Cluck, cluck. Here comes the sky!

So, now the next chapter in the poultry story...

One day I went to the local pet shop about a week before Easter. There were plenty of cute ducklings, so my brother and I each bought one.
His duckling was named "Dicky". Unfortunately, it died withing a couple of days. Must have had a bad "ticker".
I named mine Dubby. This one lived, but after a few hours of watching this one, after I got back from the pet shop, I realized that one of its little webbed feet was completely malformed. It was a seriously lame duck.
Though it couldn't move around on land too well, I did my best for it.
Dubby even had trouble quacking. When it tried to say "quack-le-ar", it came out as "quack-u-lar".
It was very cute at first, but after a few days inside my house, mom made me take it outside so it could fend for itself. It just never really fit in.
It walked like a lame duck.
It quacked like a lame duck.
And it sure stunk like a lame duck. I don't know how all that stinky duck poop came from such a little lame duck.
Yup, it WAS a lame little duck.
One day, two Canada geese landed on the pond where Dubby was hanging out. They semed to tolerate him at the beginning but he just wanted to follow behind them all the time. The one goose (I named him Rummy) met an unfortunate demise when he went up on the bank and a raccoon got him.
The other goose (I named this one Rovie) saw what happened to "buddy Rummy" and flew off...never to be seen again. Go figure.
That left Dubby, the pathetic lame duck paddling around in endless circles in the pond. Poor thing couldn't swim in a straight line, with that crippled foot.
Before too long, a big fat raccoon was sitting on the bank of the pond, watching that lame Dubby going round and round... spinning in circles. Spinning.
Luckily, my dog scared off the raccoon.
Unfortunately, soon afterwards, a bolt of lightning came shooting out of the sky and hit the pond. It was electric!
Yup! Poor Dubby never even knew what hit him.
Mom cooked him in l'orange sauce.
If memory serves, he tasted a bit lame.
Quack! Quack!

Just putting this one back near the top so I can find it easier next time, and so that Timm doesn't have to go searching for it.
Next chapter will be about squirrels and nuts.
Then the skunk story. It really stinks.
Stay tuned.
DTS

Cancel my subscription,please! Content not worthy of my time. Constructive things I can and will listen to,but future editions look to be bleak!

Wow Timm,
I thought you'd enjoy this one.
Do you REALLY mean that you have no interest in reading about the poodle in a future chapter? The one after the squirrel and the skunk?
Man-o-man...You're a tough, tough editor.
Do you have any interest in the rat story?

Sorry...I'm not an animal guy,I've had enough pets, and I've definately had enough of the RATS!....they'll be all over the place for a couple of years

Naw Timm,
they've been around for about six years. Their names will be changed to protect the "innocent", but Delay, Abrahmoff, Lay, geesh ...this is going to be a long, long chapter.
Maybe you won't read it, plenty of others will.
Heck, some people even buy O'Reilly's book...go figure....people will read anything! Some people still even listen to Rush Limbaugh (or is that limburger)...smells like old cheese to me, but then again, RATS like to feed on it.

btw, I really do like animals. People could learn a lot from them.

Timm,
I forgot to tell you about a little bantam rooster that once strutted around the place like he owned it.
One day, I decided to do an experiment.
I carefully counted out exactly one hundred corn kernals.
I made sure no other cluckers were around and tossed them in his direction.
There and then, right on the bare asphalt driveway, that bantam rooster went to scratchin' and feedin'. Dang near wore of the claws at the ends of his spindly little feet trying to get 'em all.
Best he could do was 31% of them. Yup, only 31%.
Seems his crop got so blown up that he started chokin', right then and there.
Well, I could tell his struttin' days were over, but I didn't know what to do for him.
A few minutes later, the donkey got loose and with all the commotion going on from that bantam rooster, my guess is that the donkey was curious about what it could do too.
The whole thing came to a sudden halt when that donkey stepped on the bantam rooster's head. I don't think the donkey meant to but that little fluffy feathered guy didn't know what had hit him. Problem solved.
Anyway, I did an autopsy on that little bantam rooster before he found his tough little carcass in a big pot of boiling water.
You might have guessed it...inside that crop that he wanted to stuff full and choked on were exactly 31 kernals of corn. 31%.

The Tale of the Chicken Hawk

Long ago, in a tall white pine near the cluckers' coup came a chicken hawk.
More specifially, it was a goshawk. It was very fierce, very hungry.
I couldn't really blame him for sitting there, looking down on my tastey little pullets, and I certainly did my best to scare him away. I threw some rocks up at his high perch in that white pine, and he'd fly away for a little while, but he always came back.
I knew it would be a matter of time.
Sure, I knew that goshawks are "protected" raptors. My guess is that he did too. I just didn't want him to eat any of my little hens.
We actually got to know each other for a while. I named him Hally Burton.
He'd see me coming across the yard towards the coop and take off from the white pine before I could toss a rock in his direction.
That Hally Burton chicken hawk was one old smart bird.
Well, one day, while I was away at school, I guess ol' Hally couldn't stand it any longer. My dad told me that he watched the whole thing unfold.
He saw that rock dodger fly from his perch and go right through the open window of the little hen house. For sure he was waiting for the pullets to come inside to their nests, ready to pick one off for his dinner.
Anyway, my dad just walked over and closed the window. Hally guy was trapped.
Let me tell you, he tore up the inside of that place!
When I got off the school bus, my dad told me what was waiting and asked me what I wanted to do.
I just said that I'd like to let him go, but dad didn't expect that he'd be flying off too far, and the "problem" would come back to his perch.
So dad and I hashed it out for a while, and I finally did what I thought was the right thing. Yup, I just opened the door and hoped he would fly away and learn his lesson. Hoping he wouldn't come back...
As that chicken hawk came flapping out, dad reached for the rack in the rear window of his pickup, loaded a 12 guage shell, and dropped ol' Hally like a clay pigeon at the skeet range. "Problem" solved.
My dad has since passed on, so there's no use prosecuting him, and the goshawk won't be botherin' to any time soon.
Some lessons are harder learned than others, I guess.
RIP Hally Burton...and my dad, too. Thanks for teaching me about "enough is enough".

A Turkey is not a Duck

One of the memorable "poultry stories" comes to mind.
Spring was coming, and Dad, always a planner, was thinking ahead.
Sure, Thanksgiving was months away, but he had the ducks and not a lot of cash.
So, he sent away and bought a dozen turkey eggs from Murry McMurray.
The eggs came a few weeks later, and not having an incubator, he decided to put the eggs in the nest of one of the hen ducks. Female ducks, as you know, are not good sitters, but this one was broody and had already started a clutch, that he took away and ate for breakfast one day.
The turkey eggs would satisfy her "maternal needs".
She was quite diligent about her expected family. She sat there day after day waiting, waiting, and waiting some more. She must have had some patience bred into her fluffy little feathers.
Finally the day came and we all were amazed when those little poults pecked their way out of their shells. They were such cute little bundles of fluff!
Mommy duck took to them right away, and of course they imprinted.
She'd take her little family to the pond and try to teach them how to swim.
They didn't seem too interested in becoming Esther Williams, and would just stand at the edge of the water with the bull frogs while she did her aquatic ballet. Mommy, peep, peep, peep.
Mommy duck would try to teach them her language, though I don't think they really caught on.
Sad to say, one morning, only one baby turkey was found alive. A rat or weasel must have found them. Somehow, they always do.
Well, now that mommy duck was down to nurturing her only child, and still trying to make that little turkey into the image of herself, things went downhill fast.
She'd try to teach it to swim. It had no idea.
She'd quack, "Follow me! Quack, quack!" It didn't understand... refused to follow.
Well, the days got shorter and somehow that turkey found its feathers.
It grew to be Tom. Gooble and strut.
And, like every story, this one about the turkey came to an end.
It only took one ax, a decisive cut and run, a little plucking, and some cornbread stuffing. All that was needed beyond that was the lively "political disussion" that Uncle Jack would bring to the dining table. He did.
Sometimes, so do I. Thanks Uncle Jack. You never had difficulty speaking your mind.
Tom was delicious.
For sure, it is hoped that all little strutting turkeys end that way.
Happy Thanksgiving! Don't forget the cranberry sauce, and a good discussion with your family.
And please remember to give thanks.
DTS

"Misty" has a rider up.

Yesterday, I spent the afternoon at the farm. Some little boy scouts were coming by to work on their "knights and armor" merit badges.
Five bucks a piece for their hour "ride".
So, it took Sharon, April, and myself to tack up Christine (the polo pony), Sweet Harmony (retired quarter horse), Pearl ( old gal, polo also), and Misty, the black shetland, ribbon winner, in anticipation of the "knights".
I was to give them a tour of the barns before they climbed on the horses.
Told them not to wave their little hands in front of a horse's mouth if they didn't want to lose a finger or two. Told them that horses liked quiet.
Moms and dads followed the little guys, clicking away with their cameras.
Flashes in the horse's faces.
The boys were better behaved than the paperazzi.
Well, the kids were plenty excited, so I led them to the indoor arena where their mounts awaited.
After adjusting the sturrips and telling them to keep their heels down, the boys were boosted to the saddles.
Not to worry, a groom had each horse on a short lead as we walked around the indoor ring four times, did a reverse (wide), with another person walking beside (me) included, next to each boy...just to catch if they lost balance.
Moms and dads kept up the flashes everytime we came around in front of them. The old mares were as nice as could be.
So, back to Misty. A kid named Devon was on her. I was the "catcher".
He held a death grip on the saddle during most of his pony ride.
Finally, I told him how to hold the reins (even though the groom held the lead all the time). His confidence grew. Then the smile came. I can't exactly explain what that look was like. Just something very good when an old gal like Misty works her charm, lets you know that the fear you once had wasn't necessary in the first place.
After the "lesson" and we helped them climb down, each boy stood next to the one they "rode". Moms and dads took more pictures.
Devon looked like he'd just climbed Everest.
I took the boys for a walk through the shedrow while the grooms took the mares back to their stalls and untacked them.
They kept asking me if they could "pet" one. So I took them to Shot o' Bourbon, my filly, and they each gave her a gentle touch on her nose.
Shot was fine with that, but after the third kid, she'd had enough and went to the back of her stall. More pictures. "She's beautiful!"
Well, I just wanted to share this little story about Misty. She was the one that taught someone that "the only thing you have to fear is fear itself."
She went back to her hay. Nice job, Misty!
Devon went back to his doings...school, homework, and merit badges.
My guess is that his smile won't go away for about two months...maybe longer.
Interesting to me...once the fear is gone, the "terrible thoughts" confronted, smiles can really happen.
Thank you Misty. You taught another one.

Thunder...memory of "rolling thunder" and "shock and awe"

I got a call from Mac one day. He was the caretaker of a girls' camp down the road from my parent's summer place.
I was thirteen.
So, he asked me if I would come down the hill to ride Thunder.
Being a "good neighbor", eager to please my elders, I said sure.
Now Thunder was an angry Shetland pony. He'd been couped up in his little stall all winter. But the "fresh air fund" girls were coming up to spend their two weeks at camp from their homes in Harlem or Bed-Sty, or wherever they came from. They'd be dressing up in "Indian" costumes, toasting their marshmallows around the campfires, and doing the usual stuff...just like every summer.
All Mac wanted was that they have a "gentle" pony to ride.
I sure wish he'd told Thunder about his plan. My guess is that there wasn't one.
So I took the bit that was hanging on the wall of the pony's pathetic shed, and after a while, got it into his mouth.
Thunder wanted nothing to do with the saddle. What a bucker!
MF bucker!
I wasn't giving up on him. I had told Mac I'd try. If I failed, Thunder was headed to the butcher.
I took him out and before he knew what was going on, I was on him, bareback. He didn't like it and let me know.
I pulled on the reins, hoping the neglected leather wouldn't break.
He bucked. He danced. He spun around more times than I can recall.
I wasn't going to let him toss me.
Everytime he thought he had me tired, I just kicked him hard in the spot in front of his hind legs. The message wasn't for me.
It was for Thunder. "Do ya think you've had enough?"
"Are you tired of your nonsense, yet?"

Finally, he got the message that he didn't want to realize.
From that point on, I rode his sorry butt up and down trails all over the mountain, through beaver swamps (quagmire), and under the pines.
At the end of the day, I put him back in his shed. I'm sure he was tired.
I hope he was less tired than me. We both had experienced the "shock and awe" of it all.
The story ends when the girls came. The girls loved him all summer. They brought him clover and rode him everyday. Such a gentleman!
So, the point of this true story is that sometimes it takes some boldness to bring the ornery SOB's to the realization that they ain't gonna win.
Just hang on, and never let 'em buck ya off.

How I've spent Christmas Eve for the past five years.

Now that the "holiday season" is heavy on us all, and more so on those pieces of plastic that we carry around in our pockets and hope others don't gain access to, and all the plastic Santas are carefully placed on rooftops with the blinking icicle lights underneath, I just thought I'd share a special place that I've been going to for the past five Chrismas Eves.
It's quiet there, and it smells bad to those that aren't used to it. There's hay all around and the smell of manure, as always.
I usually just walk up and go in through a side door, so that the wind doesn't blow snow inside as it would if I opened the big doors.
Somehow, this place connects something special to me that I wish I could share with others. Too many people would disturb the serenity of it, but if you're ever out my way on Christmas Eve, I certainly be pleased to take you.
Anyway, after I enter through the side door and stamp the snow off my boots. The sun is showing orange as it sets outside and it makes beautiful purple shadows on the snow as it fades. It takes a few minutes for my eyes to adjust to the dimness inside.
The horses all poke their heads from their stalls to see who's coming. They must think I'm going to toss them a flake of hay or a scoop of grain, but that's not why I'm there. I'm there for me this time...so I can connect with something that helps me connect with two people that might have found a similar place so long ago. One was very pregnant, young, scared, rejected.
The other was older, shamed by not being the father of the one she carried, but loving her deeply, so much so, that he wanted to find her a place to deliver her baby, yet was turned away many times in his quest.
I'm guessing that all he wanted to do was pay his taxes, just like the rest of us, play by the rules.
As I walk down the shedrow each Christmas Eve, just the horses nickering, the chickens roosted, I can only imagine what it must have been like so long ago. The cold, the smells, the quiet, and the hope.
Sometimes I spend hours just sitting on a bale of hay thinking about it.
Then, after my silent prayer in the darkness of the barn, I realize that it's time to leave and let the horses have their home again.
So I open the side door and walk out into the snowy cold.
Is that a bright star that I see in the western sky?
Can it show the way again?
I sure hope so.
And to all that have taken the time to read this, I wish you PEACE! JOY! and the HOPE! of the promise of that in which you believe.
I'd love to share a Christmas Eve with just you, the horses, and me someday...but I trust this will suffice.
Merry Christmas!

Whatever...Merry Christmas to you anyway.
Now go piss on your Chrismas tree.

Baba,
Thanks for explaining. My guess was that your "PC" was about "politically correct".
I wished you and all the posters a Merry Christmas in a way that means something to me, and hopefully you and everyone else.
I don't know about "formatting".
Peace on Earth and good will to all men and women.
DTS

Well, Baba,
I'm glad we worked that out through the pm's.
Peace on Earth and goodwill to all.
DTS

Dts: nice story and sentiment! Back atcha! Timm

Thanks Timm,
It's true.
Merry Christmas.

So, you want to start a worm farm?

I must confess that I did want to have a worm farm. It was when I was first getting started in organic gardening, and in all honesty, I had no clue as to what was going on.
So I bought a subscription to Organic Gardening (Rodale Press), signed up for their book club, and read everything I could get my hands on.
It really didn't matter that I wasn't playing in the dirt and getting my hands all messy. At that point in time, I was looking to stay clean. Reading would do.
The second book that the book club sent me was "The Complete Book of Composting". I still have it after all these years. It's a huge book with many formulas.
Anyway, one of the first things I found in it was that to make good compost, I needed help. Only worms could do it. Red wigglers...to be specific.
So with dreams of free fertilizer for my garden, and plenty of bait to go fishing with...I embarked on my quest to find those wiggly things that would reduce all the garbage and make it into something useful.
In the "classifieds" at the back of Organic Gardening were a lot of ads, all competing to sell me the critters I desired. "Red wigglers", $7.50 a hundred, s+h extra. How could I resist? I was sold!
Since my hands weren't yet dirty, I wrote a check and mailed it out.
A few weeks later, they arrived by UPS.
I read the instructions, built a box for the "farm", and saved every carrot peel, broccoli scrap, banana skin, and coffee ground that came my way.
Visions of a beautiful garden danced through my head before I dozed off each night.
The plan was that they'd double in number each month. Heck, at that rate, there was no use even coming up with names for the wiggly guys, cause I knew I'd run out after the third month.
Happy to say, they did better than I thought they would.
Yes, I sacrificed Ol' Red, Squirmy, and a few more of their brothers and sisters on some trout fishing trips that spring. Hey, what's a few lives expended if you have higher hopes, right?
The trout they bought with their little lives were certainly appreciated.
Now, many years later, their great grandchildren live outside in my garden, and some in a box in my basement.
Deep under the soil. I still give them a big dose of manure (rotted) each spring, right before I bring out the roto-tiller. Sad if it chops a few up, but, they're expendable if it's for a good cause.
The lettuce will grow, maybe thank them for it. Green, green!
Today, as I tore up the morning newspaper and soaked some water on it to place on top of their box where they live in the corner of my basement, I noticed the headline, "Eleven More Dead".
For sure the worms will appreciate it, along with all the other garbage and manure.

Blood

Anyone that's ever spent time on a farm knows that there's a time when there's going to be blood. Sometimes, it's not very nice.
One of my first memories was about some pigs that came to live behind the hen house. There were four of them, and I was warned not to name them.
They were so cute when they first showed up, skampering around in their pen, roooting in the mud.
They grew quickly on all the corn, table scraps, and everything that was thrown in to their "room".
By fall, I was picking up wind fallen apples from beneath the apple trees in the orchard and giving them a bushel basket full each day. They sure loved those apples.
Came the day in early November when, despite my pleadings to let them live, a "hog scalding" had been arranged. For those that have never attended one, it starts with a fire under a 55 gallon drum filled with water. When it gets close to boiling, the hogs are brought near. A 22 to the forehead and a quick thrust to nick both juglars ends their earthly existance with out suffering. Then they are "gutted" and dipped in the 55 gallon drum to losen their hair so they can be scraped. Then the "cutting up", and then the smokehouse.
My job was as a "gutter". Not an especially nice job, but soon the thought of having blood up beyond your elbows goes away, to be replaced by the thought of "let's just get this done with".
When it was finished, the blood washed off, and all that remained was a lot of meat, and the memory...that I just shared.

Today, the Pentagon released the names of thirty-three military that had been killed in Iraq this past week. May they rest in peace, and may their families find comfort. May all of us pay hommage to the sacrifice they've made.
And may those that put them in that situation also note that their valiant blood is beyond their own elbows, and no amount of washing will ever remove it.

Lambs

I really like lambs.
Yes, they are very needy and love to follow, but they are indeed cute.
If you have chapped hands, just rub your fingers through their wool and the lanolin will make you feel a lot better.
Mom used to make some great sweaters from their shearings. Her ability with the knitting needles turned ivory yarn into Irish fisherman masterpieces for the whole family...matching caps as well.
In Luke 2:8-9 it says that "And there were shepherds living out in the fields nearby, keeping watch over their flocks at night. An angel of the Lord appeared to them, and the glory of the Lord shone around them, and they were terrified."
Some might not realize that the lambs that they camped in the fields to protect were destined to become blood sacrifices on the altar of the great temple in Jerusalem. Yes, Bethlehem was where the lambs came from.
Also the place where the "Lamb of God" came from, aka "the good shepherd".

Lambs have been very important for quite a while. Do you know what kind of blood was put on the doorposts with hysop so the Hebrew people would have the angel of death pass over their houses and spare their firstborns?

Anyway, enough of the history lesson and back to the story.
One day my brother showed up with four fleecy critters in the back of his van.
He had picked up the little Dorsets from Cornell on his way back from visiting his girlfriend at Alfred State.
They were cute beyond words. They bounced all over the place. Barbed wire had no effect as they bounced off of it. Woven wire, though expensive was the only way to contain them. So we worked hard to build them a nice pasture.
It was very nice to walk around with the little flock. They'd follow you anywhere, bah,bah, bah.
I'm not going to say much about what happened to them. I'll just say that they didn't find an altar, but they did go well with garlic and mint jelly.

So at this time when the shepherds were protecting, camping out in the fields and getting themselves terrified, I'd just like to tell you, if you're a lamb, be careful of the shepherd you follow.
One will lead you to overwhelming joy, while others will lead you to untold sacrifice and slaughter. Be careful, lambs.
"Do not be afraid. I bring you good news of great joy that will be for all the people." Luke 2:10

The Bull

This is not a little story about a "bull in a china shop" or pottery barn where the sign says, "You broke it, you own it."
This is a true story that includes my brother, Gary, two mountain farmers, and the hope of a veal calf.
The farmers, Calvin and Edsel called one day and said that one of their heifers had given birth to a calf in a high meadow, and if Gary and I could get there to catch it, we could have it.
Calvin and Edsel didn't mention how their father had been killed, trampled by a Jersey bull (we didn't find out until much later), sadly, they cried when they shared how he'd been stomped beyond recognition. RIP their dad.
Nor did Calvin nor Edsel mention that they had turned the heifer out in the high meadow with a Jersey bull to sevice any cows that hadn't been caught via AI. Nor did they mention that the calf was four days old.
Did you ever try to run down a deer?
For sure they got a good laugh at Gary's and my efforts. They were rolling on the floor when I told them that when I heard the bull bellow, instead of trying to become an olympic track star running down a very scared vealer, I headed for the six strands of barbed wire as fast as my worn out legs could get me there. To this day, I don't know how I made it over the barbed wire.
I didn't have a scratch. Could it have been a new high jump record?
I'll never know.
The Jersey bull almost came through it right after me, but by then, I was way high up in a tree.
Calvin and Edsel..."HA, HA, HA!!"
Afterwards, I met up with Gary. The bull had gone back to his "girlfriends" and I finally caught my breath.
Luckily, I didn't even have anything clinging to the bottom of my sneakers.
Plenty of that was to be found in that meadow. Luck is luck.
Well, Gary still wanted a calf. On the way back home we stopped at another farm. Sure enough, one of the old farmer's cows had "freshened" that day,
and since that's what cows have to do so the baby can be taken from the mommy for her to continue her lactation (that's how milk is gotten), and her milk would be given to the milking machine and the bulk truck hauler, the calf was something that wasn't needed anymore.
So, the old farmer said we could have it...free!
We thanked him very much and brought the little guy home. Being as it was July 4th, we named the bull calf "Independence".
We both took turns feeding him milk replacer, mucking his little pen, and making sure he had the finest life we could give him.
Well, about ten weeks later, he was made to be what he was meant to be.
As we sat at the dining room table when he was served up, Dad asked, "What do you think of Independence?"
No kidding...at the same time, Gary and I said with food still in our mouths,
"He's delicious!"
Anyway, be careful of the bulls. Watch where you step. And always remember, eat them before they trample you. Bulls want you to die.
Get them first!

The veal recipe is in the DT Cookbook. Enjoy!

Where the heck did all these rabbits come from?

For those that haven't tried rabbit, I'll just tell you that it's really pretty good "eats". I have a cottontail in my fridge that I intend to stew up in wine for tomorrow night's supper. No, it wasn't a "road kill" (though I've gained a few that way). My friend, Ken, dropped it off as it somehow stumbled into one of his beaver sets. No beaver (shucks), but a bunny is fine.

The rabbit story is about my brother, Gary. Somehow he got the great idea that he could make his fortune with rabbits. He must've read about it in the classifieds of "Boy's Life" when the Boy Scouts gave him a subscription.
He definitely took his business venture seriously.
Gary did lots of research to find the best breed, and settled on New Zealand whites. Let me tell you, those bunnies are beautiful, big, and...fertile.
So he somehow did a deal for two does and then found a buck from a different place, so as to avoid "inbreeding".
We worked together to build a nice hutch with a hardware-cloth bottom, water bowls, and nest boxes for the moms-to-be.
Before too long, there was a need to build a couple of more six room hutches for the does. This, despite all the rabbits the family could eat twice a week, different recipes, he was now up to fourteen does and the buck.
I'm not too sure he knew what he'd gotten himself into. The hay and rabbit pellets were looking to consume all of his available funds, so he did his best to find a market for the bouncy whites. Frantic phone calls to restaurants near and far, and selling them "ready to cook" for a very narrow "profit margin" gave him something to take up his time long enough for still more bunnies to show up. He supplied restaurants all along route 28 between Kingston and Arkville, some in New York City, people that came to the house, and still there were more rabbits.
I was getting tired of helping him build hutches, so we decided to buy mesh fencing and wall off a big circle in the middle of the barn.
The bouncy things filled that up too.
I'm telling you, it was becoming a "WAR on RABBITS".
They just kept coming despite everything we could do to get rid of them, kill them, eat them. Feeding them was bankrupting Gary.
Well, the story ends when he finally decided to fill the freezer with everything he'd invested, besides those that didn't fit that he gave away (about 100), and all those that had "escaped" to the apple orchard where Bugs, Peter, and their girlfriends lived on for two more years.
Well, many years later, we still get together and laugh about his "business venture". And we still both enjoy a nice rabbit dinner, though we should be sick of eating them by now.
So when he invited me over to his place for supper last week, and I pulled into his driveway, guess what was bouncing in the headlights...
Yup, two giant white long eared critters.
I laughed so hard that tears were coming down my face, He must have seen me sitting there trying to gain my "composure". He came out on to the porch and said, "Come on in!"
I said, "What are they?"
He said, "My new bucks, Sadr and Al Queda."..."I have four does in the shed too."
Shaking my head, I went inside his kitchen door.
Some people just never learn, especially where all these rabbits come from.
You'll never guess what we had for supper.

Manure

Seems to me that wherever there are animals roaming aroung, lots of manure gets spread.
All farms have a time of the day devoted to dealing with it.
Some days, there's more of it than others.
Actually, manure can be quite helpful. If put back on the fields, the crops grow nicely. But if it builds up, it makes a huge mess that needs special attention.
One spring I was working on a black angus farm. The cows and heifers had been cooped up all winter inside the barn, and the guy that was supposed to deal with it just let it build up. By the time I showed up for my first day on the job, those poor critters were deep into it. It was close to the top of my barn boots, and frankly, I didn't have the strength to do much more than turn them out and go back to the farmhouse and call a friend that had a bull dozer.
He came that afternoon and pushed it all out into a great big pile.
His bill was almost as huge as the pile.
Now don't get me wrong. Manure can be good. There's all kinds.
Chicken is nasty. Hog's isn't much better. Sheep's is hot. Rabbit's is ok but tends to take on ammonia smells if it's left too long.
Horse's is a lot easier to handle than cows.
Heck, there always seems to be more than enough manure. It's best to not let it build up. Watch where you step. And at all times, consider the source.
It's all different. Though somehow it tells my sniffer that it pretty much smells the same.

More Manure Musings

I must admit that I've long held a fascination with manure, and since I made an agreement with someone that I wouldn't post anything in response to threads of his creation, I find that this might be an appropriate place to recount where my fecal fascination originated.
It began with a "TEACHER"!
This one come into my fifth grade class with an amazing piece of rock. He placed it squarely on the table in front of me and asked the class to guess what it was. Many of my classmates made guesses...like "igneous", "metamorphic" or "sedimentary"...all wrong.
After a while, I timidly raised my hand. When I was called on, I stated that it looked like "dung".
The teacher's eyes lit up and told me I was correct. He went on to explain that it is called a coprolite, the petrified fecal matter from a dinosaur!
Then he GAVE it to me! I was launched as a paleontologist.
I've since passed it on to my son, who is now a PHD in genetic research, but he also started as a paleontologist. Now, he's a "mouse farmer", but that's another story. Suffice to say that coprolite has been used to launch interest in many scientists that came through my classroom.
So, now back to the musings about manure.
It always amazed me that similar herbivores could eat exactly the same food, but produce different forms of manure. After eating hay, a horse produces something that looks like a big chunk of tootsie roll, a cow makes a mushy pie, and a deer makes pellets that look like peanut M+M's. Fascinating fecal stuff.
Birds are even more amazing. Take the wild turkey for example. Gobblers and jakes make something that always comes in a "J" or backwards "J" shape while hens make something that looks like a hersy's kiss.
Of course I haven't mentiond humans yet, and you all probably have been waiting with baited breath (or held noses). Of course, behind the house we had a litle place called an "outhouse" (privy). Our's was a three holer, so of course I got to see plenty. There was no flushing at all.
Everyone's was different!
One day, a porcupine found it's way inside and after munching all around the openings, for the residual salt, it left some of its own, kind of like brown pencil pieces.
Then, in the kitchen I discovered little black rice like things. Yes, if you guessed mice, correct! Knowing when to set traps (and when to avoid them) taught me a lot. I could go on and on, and probably will at a future time.
To think it all started with a teacher and a coprolite, a hundred million year old chunk of dinosaur poop.
I end with a short tale about one of my first days at the track. Another guy, a teacher of sorts, told me that he heard something from the "horses mouth".
So, I bet on the horse, big time. The horse finished last.
My guess the guy that gave me the tip was listening to the wrong end of that horse. Some folks never learn, nor do they know which part is doing the speaking, yet they're quite eager for you to appreciate what they say. Just remember which end is talking.
Watch your step, but enjoy fecal matter for exactly what it is. You might learn something.

I saw Mike's Christmas poem, and the request for poetry, so I'll share this one.
It was written by a friend and myself. He had been going through a difficult time. He wrote the first part. I had just bought my first two horses and was looking at things a bit differently. Maybe those that are participating in the DT partnership will find something in this.

"Green and Gold"

Are all the farmers dead now?
Dead, dying, or waiting to die?

Subdivisions all around,
All brightly lit and empty
Stand where cows once fatted
Feasting on lush red clover, so pink and sweet.

Are there new farmers now?
Those with calloused hands and light minds,
Are they really gone?
Or are there others?
Those with light hands and heavy minds?

Those who knew not cow trodden toe
Nor long sun drenched days
Nor seeing fields just sown
Through sweat of their own,
Hoping for growth.
So long ago their toil.

Yet sons and daughters of farmers old
For reasons they do not know
Take long afternoon rides
Past fields of green and gold,
Under mountains of pink and skies of azure blue.

Do new farmers know of rain drenched days?
Or drought?
Or doubt?
Of planting with a horse drawn plow?
Of harvests? Births? Deaths?
Or waiting for the promise of a golden sunrise?

Yes!
There are new farmers now!
Those with thoroughbreds.
And clean fingernails and heavy minds.

High in these green hills,
See? As always...
Another golden sunrise!

See them ride through fields of green and gold,
Under an azure sky.

I'll stay with the poetry for a while.
Sometimes it says more with less.
I don't know the person that wrote this, but it spoke to me.
I know something about planting seeds and reaping the harvest.
Living in abundance requires work, and also sharing it, so that others may also feast, see, and then share. That's how it grows. That's exactly how it grows.
Enjoy this one. I did.
If I might add...sometimes poetry needs to be read twice. Once silently, and then again out loud, so you can hear the rhythm of the words. Each one counts.

"Where Can We See Him?"

His face was painted on cathedral domes.
It graced the gilded chapels of kings.
Each age portrayed it differently
On tapestries and glowing glass,
As pious, precious offerings.
Chanting monks proclaimed His glory.
Symphonies rang forth.
Ancient texts and learned tomes
Were writ to tell His story.
And yet I ponder in my heart
About this gentle man,
Who never owned an ermine robe
Nor smallest piece of land.
He spoke of love and tolerance.
He lived amongst the poor.
He fought no wars. He offered peace.
His message has endured.
Millions claim to follow Him,
With eyes that cannot see,
Unless they seek His face anew
In suffering humanity.

Peace,
Larkrise


Thank you Larkrise... your message of peace has been spread. Let it grow.
DTS

Rats

Most everyone knows about rats. Seems that once they find where the grain bin is, or the garbage pile, or the chickens, there's no getting rid of them.
Believe me, I've tried.
So have many in previous days. Pied Piper comes to mind. Heck, that was in the days of the "black death"...boubonic plague.
Rats come. There's no rid.

So, one winter afternoon on there came a soft knock on the side door off the kitchen. It was not easy to hear the first time it came, as the "mud room", the place we took off our muddy boots and hung our smelly jackets was between the kitchen and the knocking.
I heard it the second time and left my coffee to answer.
There stood a little old lady, wrinkled and grey.
It was too cold to hold the door open, so I invited her in.
She took off her tattered coat and black scarf and was invited to sit at the table with us, warm by the stove.
She told us that she was our neighbor, had the place about a thousand feet up the road from our place, and that her property bordered ours, divided by the stream we shared. We could look at the deed.
Dad told her there was no need to. It was just nice to meet our neighbor.
Well, she relaxed as she got warmer and told us about herself.
Her accent was thick, eastern European, and she lit one cirgarette off the next. The smoke hung thick. By the second cup of coffee, she had revealed her name and a bit of her history.
Her name was Betty Ludwig. She was 82 years old. Her husband had died 15 years before, and she had sold her candy store in Brooklyn to buy the place where she decided to "retire", have a garden, tend her chickens, feed her rabbits.
She asked if we'd had any problems with rats as she had lost a few of her chickens during the past week.
We assured her that we hadn't, but we'd be on the look out. Thanks for the warning, Betty.
By now, she was feeling comfortable, maybe a bit warm. As she reached for her Lucky Strikes to light up the 10th or 11th, she pushed up the sleeves of the old holey sweater she wore. Right past the elbows.
It was then that I saw the numbers tatooed on the inside of her forearms.
My guess is that Betty knew far more about rats than I ever will.
Thanks for the warning, Betty. You were a friend to our family from that day until the day you died five years later. May you rest in peace.
I'll never forget you, your warnings, and the baby chicks you gave me.
The rats never got them. I never liked rats either.

Andrew: The Imaginary Soldier Marching on the Historic Road to Battle

I've traveled many historic roads. One leads along the southern edge of Lake Champlain through a place called Whitehall. It was on this road that General Burgoyne marched his British troops down in September of 1777 to their anticipated victory against the insurgents. The Battle of Saratoga, which in reality was the battle of Stillwater (10 miles south), resulted in Burgoyne's surrender to General Gates at Saratoga in October. Maybe history textbooks should be revised to tell about the "surrender at Saratoga" and the "Battle of Stillwater". Too costly, methinks.
And I grew up near the River Road, that hugs the eastern shore of the Hackensack River, where Continentals marched past von Stueben's house at New Bridge to reinforce Washington's forces as he chased the British from Philadelphia, and his General Lee caught up with them at a place in Freehold.
When he was outflanked and retreated, Washington sent him to the rear and lead the forces himself, attacking twice during those hot June days, to bring the turning point so necessary in 1778. No matter that there was no clear victor in the Battle of Monmouth, and that both sides lost as many men to heatstroke as from the fighting. We gained a legendary lady that showed great courage when she replaced her husband who had fallen, putting down her water jugs and manning the cannon in his stead. But her name really wasn't Molly Pitcher, heck, let's not rewrite the legend.
So then there was Andrew one day, marching up and down the historic ridge road near North Settlement, a spur of the famous Susquehannah Turnpike that linked Catskill to Utica for the westward moving pioneers.
Andrew lived with his aged mother in a run down house that lacked indoor plumbing. He and his mom lived far from the prying eyes, scrutiny, and flapping lips of townfolk. Their nearest neighbors were a half mile away in either direction. Their isolation might have been for a reason.
Andrew was mentally retarded.
Oh, there were kids that would drive past him and hurl insults from their bicycle seats, though I don't think Andrew gave them much notice.
Andrew liked to march. He could always be seen, through hot summer sun, or cold winter snow, marching up county route 10 to the corner, then back down to the Sutton Hollow. Andrew always carried a stick. He frequently chewed its end with greenish-yellow teeth, but he'd hold it at "present arms" for any passing car that would slow down on the vacant road so he could go to the side.
One day, my friend gave Andrew some records and an old record player that he'd picked up at a flea market. All of the 45's were German marching music,
patriotic parade tunes. Andrew seemed to love his "chermin mar muse", as he marched back and forth near the blasting sounds coming from the porch of his ramshackled fortress. Back and forth, back and forth, present arms, march again, chew a bit. Onward to the battle of his imagination, to the victory he'd never know, nor a surrender sufferred...marching on the historic
road. Marching. Marching. Marching. Imagining. Marching....

Death and funerals

I must say, I don't like death. Nor do I relish the funerals.
Those of heros, those of lessers.
I thought to title this rant with "hanging", though I don't like that either unless it's a buck upside down on its way to becoming steaks and stew.

Two "heros" that come to mind are one held dear by the Sunnis (theirs, not mine), and one named Hunk-es-ni, also reviled. Both had counted many coup in their times. Hunk-es-ni was seen as an enemy by those that wished to take his lands. He was a great Sioux chief.
He had made many enemies, including the Crows. He earned his membership into the warrior's society, the Strong Hearts, when he allowed his Crow opponent to take the first shot, and it ripped through his buffalo hide shield to lodge in his left foot. Hunk-es-ni's shot found its mark, a heart, though he walked with a limp for the rest of his days.
And though he was held as a prisoner of war at Fort Randall for two years, upon his release in 1883,he never gave up the hopes of freedom for his people, nor his desire to return to Grand River.
After years of wise rule, his little cabin was surrounded by 38 "policemen" commanded by Lieutenant Henry Bull Head, at daybreak on December 15, 1890. When awakened from his slumber, he said twice that he was not going.
So, he was shot then and there. Hunk-es-ni, rider of the gray horse, leader of his people died. He has come to be know by the name the whitemen gave him, Sitting Bull. His memory remains within the hearts of those that hold to his courage and sacrifice. His people remember.

Today, I watched the funeral of an ex-president. His funeral reminded me of my father's. They both were alike in many ways.
Both were World War II veterans, both Episcopalians. The same prayers were said, "...and give him peace, through Jesus Christ our Lord. amen".
Both men went to their burials in black hearses, flags flying on the front bumpers. Though the ones on my dad's flew off on the way from the church to the cemetary, and Mac (who had been Eisenhower's driver in Europe) had to stop the procession to put them back in place, cussing while we laughed. Dad would have loved it.
The church's names were different, one was Grace, one was Trinity.
One of them will have an aircraft carrier named for him, with all the expected missions of war. The other will only have his spirit of honesty, truth, and freedom endure, as his message was about peace.
One had handsome soldiers provide a 21 gun salute. The other had two little grandsons fire their bb guns beside his grave in tribute. Each will get one of his purple hearts. Tri folded flags.
Oh the funerals, those of heros and those of lessers.
Funny in a way that they all end at the same place. As my dad once told me, it's over when the last mourner grabs the final handful of dirt, tosses it in the hole and walks away saying, "What a nice guy! What a nice guy!"

Heros and lessers..."and give them peace, and give them peace!" amen

Elephants

If you're reading this, you're probably scratching your head, looking at the title, and saying "Yeah, right! DTS, you never had an elephant on the farm."
I'd answer that you'd be correct on that. I never did.
Then you might be guessing, "Were there ever elephants roaming around the Catskill Mountains?"
To that I'd have to say yes. I'm not just talking about wolly mammoths about 20,000 years ago. I'm talking about real live Asian ones, big grey beauties, three of them. Their names were Dalia, Daisy, and Daffodill.
I got to know these elephants pretty well.
I'll back up for a moment to give you some background.
I've always loved the circus. There's something about the clowns, the trapeze, the highwire, the acrobats, the ringmaster, sideshows and midway that caught me at a young age. A circus is really what it's all about.
But the things I like the most about the circus are the animals...the dancing bears, the scarey lions and tigers, the prancing ponies, the jumping dogs, and especially the elephants.
Dalia, Daisy and Daffodill lived between tours with the Big Apple and other tent shows at a place called Siam Pony Farm, just up Mill St out of Windham, hang a left on Siam Rd. Their owners/trainers were the Vibdels, nice folks.
Their white ponies were famous, as were their three beautiful elephants, Dalia, Daisy and Daffodill.
As they neared retirement, the Vibdels took their critters to the famous Catskill Game Farm (now closed), near Purling, just outside of Cairo. There the elephants stood on their hind legs, took their bows, and gave rides to thrilled children after the show. The kids loved those elephants, as did I.
I spent many an afternoon just watching them run around their pasture, if it could be called that. They had grazed it down to bare dirt and stripped every tree of its bark to the height that trunks could reach. Elephants take a lot to satisfy their hunger, let me tell you.
One day, during deer season, Daisy decided to go in search of greener pastures, broke through the fence, and took off. Mr Vibdel was frantic. He put posters in the luncheonette and all over town, begging for her safe return.
Imagine a deer hunter sitting on a stand having a huge elephant walk up on you, while you're holding a loaded 30-06. Not a pretty picture.
Luckily, a few days after the deer season closed, Daisy was found about six miles away and returned to the safety of Mr Vibdels pasture. Whew! That was a close one! Elephants know how to make one worry!
Over several summers, I'd take my little boys to visit them. For those of you that know what it's like to walk up to a 16 hand thoroughbred stallion in a pasture, guess what it must have felt like to a four year old boy with a handful of grass in his outstretched hand. Both boys loved them too.
Well, as you might know, it takes a special trainer to take command of an elephant and make it do what you want it to do. Like horses, an ear twist sometimes is something that gets their attention. It doesn't make them listen better, just obey.
So, one day...unfortunately, Daffodill had had enough. I don't think she really meant to hurt anyone. She was being an elephant. She took Mr Vibdel around his waist with her trunk, slammed him to the ground, and stepped on him a couple of times. Luckily, Mr Vibdel lived, though he spent the next two years between the hospital and the physical therapy. I wish I could say the same for Daffodill. She was "humanely euthanized". The boys and I cried.
And so the elephant act was over, and they no longer roam the Catskills as they once did. I still love the circus, though as of now I'm really enjoying the clowns, lots of clowns.
Hurry! Hurry! Hurry! Step right up, the shows about to start! Get your ticket, come on in!!! It's a show ya don't want to miss!

Oh! I loved those elephants!

to be continued....

wow......