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#1
10-19-2006, 04:58 PM
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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 
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#2
10-20-2006, 02:31 AM
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Oh look,DTS, the sky is falling!!
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#3
10-20-2006, 10:40 AM
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Quote:
__________________
"Always be yourself...unless you suck!" Last edited by somerfrost : 10-20-2006 at 10:42 AM.
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#4
10-20-2006, 11:22 AM
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Quote:
__________________
"I don't feel like that I am any better than anybody else" - Paul Newman
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#5
10-20-2006, 11:30 AM
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Quote:
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?
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#6
10-20-2006, 01:46 PM
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DTS: Humor is my best weapon against 'reality'! And yes, OUR current reality does!
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#7
11-08-2006, 08:45 PM
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Quote:
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!
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#8
11-09-2006, 04:56 PM
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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
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#9
11-09-2006, 05:03 PM
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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!
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#10
11-09-2006, 05:09 PM
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Quote:
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?
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#11
11-09-2006, 05:15 PM
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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
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#12
11-09-2006, 05:36 PM
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Quote:
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.
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#13
11-11-2006, 01:23 PM
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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%.
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#14
11-12-2006, 02:13 PM
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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". Last edited by Downthestretch55 : 11-12-2006 at 02:43 PM.
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#15
11-21-2006, 03:26 PM
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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
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#16
11-30-2006, 12:27 PM
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"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.
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#17
12-03-2006, 01:52 PM
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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.
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#18
12-05-2006, 12:25 PM
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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!
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#19
12-05-2006, 12:36 PM
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Now go piss on your Chrismas tree.
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#20
12-05-2006, 01:12 PM
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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
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