How to Load Pigs

In retrospect, there were things we could have done to make it easier on ourselves.

Most notably, we could have started yesterday.

Today was the day to bring the pigs to market. I awoke several times in the night, and prayed for wisdom as we needed to get two 200+ pound pigs out of an enclosed electric pen, while leaving their sister and friend behind. Then we somehow had to get those two pigs into the back of the pickup truck, and although the goats can trip easily up a pallet into the back, I questioned whether heavy feeders, on their tiptoes (as pigs walk) would be so amenable to a situation.

The best I came up with was that Phil could back the pickup right to the edge of the electric line, put a pallet from the ground to the tailgate, and entice them up with food.

It's a good thing Phil is here. His way required more effort than simply backing up and setting up a pallet, but it actually worked. The midnight plans I made in worry weren't any good.

First, Phil backed the truck up to a cutaway edge of the driveway. (Above you can see the truck as he finished it out: higher sides, cattle panels above and around.)

Well, actually, first he had to get the truck started. He had had a passing thought yesterday, "I should make sure the truck is ready to go." I don't know why he thought that, since I think the truck always starts, but the truck didn't start this time. So he jumped it until it went well.

He then was able to set up a few boards as a chute from the hillside to the truck, a gentle incline instead of a mountain climb. He put cattle panels all along the chute (yes, pounding in t-posts for support every eight feet), and then we made a cattle panel corral from the truck, across the field of clover behind our trailer, and up to the edge of the electric wire.

It took some quick on-off fingers with the electric panel, as Phil adjusted the electric wire high enough for the pigs to walk underneath into the corral. We expected they would charge on in, since we lured them with food and slops. However, the little adjustment we made to the perimeter satisfied them with a few extra feet of earth to turn over, and they weren't terribly eager to leave the new source of worms (?) and greens for the larger unknown.

Eventually, though, curiosity and appetite won out, and the two boys pushed ahead. This was a bit of grace! We had expected all three pigs to charge ahead and have to somehow cut out Buttercup. Instead, the boy pigs were in the corral, and Buttercup was in her pen. Phil switched the fence around again, and she was again in her electric walled home.

Next we needed to get the boys up to the chute. Phil had prudently made the corral about 16 feet wide, so we each took an end of a cattle panel and drove the boys to one end.

The first time we did that, I took a split second too long to decide whether to bend the panel around the little apricot tree or to lift it over the tree. By the time I lifted it over, Socks squirted out underneath, and so we had to begin again.

That was a good practice run, though, because we realized that some of my connections were not tight enough, so Phil tightened some, and added others. That way, if the pigs spooked, they wouldn't break the fence.

The second time, Phil took the tricky end by the little tree. He's stronger and can bend it around the little tree, and we had the pigs well cornered, when Fox went between Phil's legs, lifting him right off the ground. Phil had held his ground, and held the two parts of the fence, but when Fox was determined, he went away.

The third time, though all went well. Phil wired the cattle panel into a teardrop shape, where the only out was up the chute into the truck.

The pigs were pretty content to stay where they were, eating clover. Socks made a little motion to go up the chute, but I think it was a bit too odd looking, so he turned back.

Phil jumped into their little pen and tried to push them up the chute. They just shot behind him. He bent down to look bigger at their level, but that didn't work well.

I had to stop taking photos at that point, because life got a bit more tense. First we found a large piece of plywood, and Phil pushed them right up to the chute. We threaded a piece of wood into the cattle panel behind it to keep the plywood in place. Then we tried everything we could think of to get those stubborn pigs up the chute.

Unfortunately, Fox had backed halfway up the chute, and he wasn't going further. Socks wanted to go up ahead, especially since I kept prodding his hiney, but Fox was large enough, the way was blocked, and we were at a standstill.

We tried little boards, to step Fox backwards a step at a time. That didn't work: he just stepped over. (Desperation made him quite agile.) We tried talking; we tried gentle prodding; we tried luring with water and food. Nothing.

Finally, Phil just hopped up and over, and pushed Fox backwards. It took about five seconds, and Socks followed happily. They drank and ate while we put the tailgate up, and the pigs were trapped, right where we wanted.


It was now 1:15pm, and we had done nothing today but work with the pigs, but there were still four hours until the abattoir closed, so we were doing pretty well.

The truck wouldn't start. After a few minutes of battery boosting, though, the truck roared to life, all the way to the top of the driveway.

Then, for some reason he still doesn't understand, Phil cut the engine. I think he was concerned about what would happen if he shut off the truck while on the road.

And that was the end of that truck for the next couple of hours. We tried boosting it with the van, and after a half hour, nothing happened. Phil went looking for a few extension cords to use his industrial booster, and, a second grace, the two cords he found fit: with about two feet to spare. Thankfully, Phil hadn't cut the engine three feet further forward.

After much prayer, and fiddling with the battery, the truck finally resurrected, and Phil drove off, now after 3pm. He reached the abattoir around closing time, but the owner was still there and came and helped Phil unload.

The truck was "driving funny," so I was much relieved when, nearing 7pm, Phil roared back down the driveway.

Farming isn't for cowards, that's for sure!

Clearing, in Action

The boys and I went to visit Phil's clearing efforts today. Very neat to see what he does.

First, he goes around with the chainsaw and cuts down everything small or yucky in about a 200 square foot section. Most of these are dense thin saplings, too large to cut through with a scythe. Some are clumped, some have thorns, some are larger trees that are crooked or otherwise unpleasant.

He also sections the larger trees for easy moving later. The oak he puts aside into a good firewood pile. (And he can use the bucket of the tractor to move quantities of the oak sections.

That takes almost no time, even though he's using a dull chain. He cuts right at ground level, so hits dirt sometimes, and so using the duller chain is worth the little extra cutting time. He's not dulling a nice new blade.

Then he stacks into piles, roughly, and then compresses a few of the piles together to make a bigger pile. He needs to make stacks because while the tractor can move piles, the single saplings are so flush with the ground, he can't move those very well. They need the bulk of the combined group.

And it's worth it to have the piles because that way, he has the "mess" somewhat contained: safer to work in, more encouraging to view the progress.

He started on Monday with the path to the creek. Above you can see the part he cleared (the creek, with some bushes fallen into it, is hidden on the left of the photo; the center is the path for the fence). Below you can see the part he hasn't cleared, just to the right of the cleared path.

When I first saw what he'd been working on, I was a bit disappointed. He has so much to clear! The section completed is nice, but I wanted four times that amount done! Ten times the amount!

But then I realized that what he has cleared in a day or two is probably about equal to what he spent all last winter clearing, where our stonefruit orchard is now. The chainsaw and tractor have helped a lot, leaving me free to homeschool the boys and work. The above photo shows what he's done. The below photo shows the next section he has to work on (and, really, all sections in the lower pasture that remain).

It's an amazing amount of overgrowth.

It was cold enough last night that, midafternoon when the boys and I went to visit Phil, there was ice on Hog Creek. I was surprised that ice could remain so long on a fairly robust little stream, but, well, it is cold.

As we hiked back, Abraham discovered what we think is the jawbone of a fox. He wasn't sure he wanted to touch it, but he did for posterity (this photo).

My household work took an odd turn today. Lately the pump in the motor home has been freezing overnight, but by midday gets thawed enough that we can run the water. We tried putting a pilot light in with the water last night, but that turned out to be totally counter-productive. The door wouldn't close all the way with the light in there, and with weather in the teens overnight, we think that the water in the storage tank froze solid. To have no running hot water is too bad; to have no running water at all is astonishingly difficult.

I had no recollection of how we managed water issues last winter. I do know I did the dishes in plastic tubs in the barn (and made the family eat bread two meals a day so I didn't have to do many dishes. But I had forgotten the Berkey we set up in the bathroom so we had (thawed) water to drink. And the plastic camping bag so I had a way to wash my hands. It's probably time to break those out again.

Phil's Character Growth

On Monday, Phil was all set to go down to finish raking our little field and then seed it. He drove over with the tractor, but the ground was a little too wet. He figured it would be okay to seed, and then clear, so he drove back, took off the rake, and went to put the backhoe on the back.

Superman Phil, though, couldn't get the hydraulic lines connected. He told me later that he was about to get really frustrated and blow his stack, when he suddenly thought, "Maybe this is the Lord's way of telling me I'm just not supposed to do this today."

What character growth for Phil!

So instead he spent the day building up the sides of the truck, and bending a cattle panel over the top, so we'll be able to bring our Fox and Socks pigs to the abattoir on Thursday. I am excited to see them go. The three pigs together are getting through about 50 pounds of feed a day, and at $22.50 a day, that gets pricey quickly.

Phil tried to get the hydraulic lines connected at the end of the day, and they went together without any trouble.

For myself, like the boys, I, too, am tired of looking at the same picture books. I climbed over mountains of stuff in the storage area, and found a box of children's books. It was one of the highlights of my month to find the forgotten treasures. And some I have no connection to anymore: it felt good to put those in the giveaway pile. I packed up a collection of books we've read enough this year, and decided I would do the same thing every day.

Sadly, today I tried to find another box, but apparently Phil and I stacked our myriad boxes without much consideration: the classics (Homer, Shakespeare) and the engineering books are on the top, and all the favorite children's books so far buried I cannot reach them. Bummer.

Phil spent today clearing the lower pasture. He's cleared the whole line along the creek, and started swaths of land. He's figuring out how to use the tractor to best effect. He even got a dense patch of underbrush cleared, so dense he wondered (before we got the tractor) if he should just ignite it. But neither of us trust our abilities to prevent larger forest fires, once ignited, so I'm happy he was able to cut and knock down the brush.

I had a disappointing calculation about the chickens and eggs. I know that our broilers were about $20 apiece to raise; I had hoped that, at $5/dozen, we were almost breaking even with the eggs. But, at the end of the year, I have perspective on how much the chickens actually lay, and how much the feed costs. Sadly, at $5/dozen, we aren't even covering current costs, let alone the $1000 it cost to raise the chicks to full-sized birds.

Which leaves us with several unpleasant options: switch to potentially GM feed (non organic), or add soy (which does transfer: folks allergic to soy cannot handle soy-fed meat or eggs, and I really don't want soy) in order to reduce feed costs. Or stop selling eggs, which is not a happy option since we actually have a few persistent customers. Somehow, I don't think raising the price of eggs to $8/dozen, even though that's what I think would be a true break-even price, is doable for most folks.

The economics of farming frustrates me. I feel like it should be possible to produce food that I would want to eat for a reasonable price, even if I don't pay myself, but that isn't happening.

In happier news, though, Phil and I are talking again about housing options, and that is fun. Even 1000 square feet, well designed, would be a great living space!

For now, though, when I turn on the motor home tap and warm water comes out, I truly rejoice. What a treat!

Snow! (Poor Tennessee Cows: What a Shock)

While Phil went to get a new hydraulic line, I had the good task of cleaning up my perpetually messy work area. I actually got just about all the way through all the papers on my "desk" (Phil's dresser) which is a wonderful, mind-clearing feeling.

On his return, Phil toughed out the chilly weather and borrowed Butch's rake (attached to the back of the tractor). We have a few fingers of cleared land jutting off the neighbor's clearing that he and Butch weren't able to seed: the area was so overgrown with small pines that, though Butch could bush-hog the area, the seeder could not handle the ground debris. So Phil worked on that until dusk, though he did stop to consider then why he was bothering: if we're planning to seed by hand broadcast, surely we could just step over any downed saplings. Hmm.

I was pleased to hear Bianca mooing at lunch. Unexplained moos can mean heat! She wasn't standing in her normal spot, either. I went to watch and saw her try to mount Fern, who moved away in annoyance. So Fern wasn't in standing heat, apparently, but that was the closest thing to heat I've seen from Bianca, and it is close to 90 days since she calved. Semen straws ship next week, so, should she behave oddly again December 26, hopefully we'll be ready (and Giovanni won't be out of town).

Good news, that, on all fronts. The month-long block from getting straws released finally cleared, at what appears to be just the right time. (We seriously considered getting a bull, but the $80/month in additional feed costs, the danger in having a heavy, testosterone-laden beast nearby, and the fact that then you have only one bull, one genetic line to use decided against it. I am hoping that it's better to have a bit longer than a year between calvings than to have a bull. But really I'm hoping and praying both cows will successfully breed with AI in the next month.)

The boys and I had a great time indoors. While I continued to wade through the pile of detritus on the dresser, Jadon went through an entire book of paper crafts that I had done as a child, diligently tracing each pattern so that I could someday pass it on to my children. Abraham said, "You copied the pages for Jadon. That was a good idea!" (Abraham makes me laugh without necessarily meaning to. Today he said that he would like "fried rice and pudding for lunch. Not mixed together.")

Then I went to the toy storage area and brought the boys long forgotten tops, Memory, a little wooden snow village that Phil had as a child (Joe liked that), and the greatly missed dominoes. Isaiah made elaborate Irish-like huts, and then asked to take photos "from all sides." I gave him the camera and sometime later looked up from the paper I was perusing to find him taking stop-action photos of his stationary tower.

"Isaiah! Do you know how long it will take me to delete hundreds of identical photos! Ack!"

He hadn't thought of that and was very apologetic. I laughed, though, when I looked later. Joe had, apparently, pushed a little bean or something into the corner of the photo while Isaiah was shooting, so a little dark object rolls up the frame and then back down. There was motion after all.

About 4pm, it began to snow, and Jadon waited as long as he could before suiting up and going outside to pack together large swaths of 1/10 of an inch snow into a snowball.

I doubt our Tennessee cows have ever seen snow before. Poor Bianca. I went to get her for milking and she practically danced away from me. She put her head down to lick up some molasses and snow fell on her nose and she snorted and immediately her milk dried up. I got two cups, and the rest of the rich milk, which I could feel through the bag, stayed high and dry.

And, finally, for something completely different.

After we had the motor home here a few months, it took longer and longer to fill up the 40 gallon water tank. The last time we tried, it took 13 hours. When the repair man came out, he found the line clogged with sediment, and since then, we've used filters to keep the motor home's water running freely.

Today was the time to install a new filter. Above you can see what the clean, new one looked like. Below you can see the one in use the last three months: tiny grey silt, packed around, with several tablespoons of silt frozen at the bottom. No wonder the water wasn't flowing easily!

The Egg from Beyond the Grave

Thursday morning Phil and I finished processing the last eight chickens as soon as morning chores and breakfast were done. I hit my groove, and so was surprised to find that, when I finished up, it was 1pm!

One bird gave me a really hard time when I tried extracting the innards. I kept trying and trying, but the opening felt too small; something was wrong.

When I finally got out the innards, yes, something was wrong: a fully formed egg was inside the body cavity. I was not expecting that!

(Maybe the egg isn't quite from "beyond the grave," since the hen will go into the pot, not a tomb, but it has a dramatic sound anyway.)

So out of 26 birds processed, three birds were currently in production. That's not a terribly efficient way to run a farm, and I am happy to put those birds in the freezer.

The chickens averaged about two pounds less than the laying hens, coming in in the mid two pound range (except for the smallest, that weighed 1 pound, 2 ounces dressed out: that one went in the stock pot, since there was pretty much no meat on the poor thing).

I had pulled the yellow fat off the internal organs of the fattest birds. I figured I should at least try to render the fat, and it went incredibly quickly. Within about 10 minutes, I had well over a quart of bright yellow rendered fat. (The cracklings were pretty gross, so I gave those to the pigs. I don't think regular pork cracklings are very good plain, either, but they do help refried beans taste yummy.) Below you can see the difference between the rendered pork fat and the yellow rendered chicken fat.

I made stock with the necks and smallest bird, put the feet and livers in the freezer for future processing, and was happy to be done with this project.

Phil sealed up the door to the bedroom: it doesn't close quite all the way, and the 1/8" gap all the way around lets in a lot of cold air. He had sealed it last year, but one son (who shall remain nameless) picked it all off the door sometime this summer.

Phil also tried to clear some of the lower pasture. The brambles looked so easy to take out, so he went down with machete and scythe.

They weren't easy to take out. They resisted, and he opted against lugging the chainsaw down the hill.

Just as well, since he had to dig a big hole. Then he went up to town to have dinner with one of our pastors: the one hour that he wasn't actively working today was spent on a sober task. But he had that hour: something he doesn't have every day. (And if Chloe had died while he was at dinner: what would I have done? Somehow tried to get her outside, I think, and then just hoped that no wild animal got her in the night? God was very gracious.)

While we were processing the birds, I had a striking realization: we could make it here. For the last month, we've been waiting to hear from the pig farmer about whether the way is open for us to purchase it. We continue not to hear anything, but, for the first time today, I realized I could be content either way. Either way will be a good option; either way, we'll have an adventure and gain experience. It was the first time either option actually looked appealing to me: for the last six weeks, my main hope has been to move to the pig farm. Only that would make life seem manageable. But no more. Whether we stay or go, it'll be great!

I have been experimenting with one of the final frontiers of the Nourishing Traditions cookbook. I already do grass-fed meat and organic poultry, top quality eggs and raw milk. I take my cod liver oil and make bone broths. I never buy salad dressing, ferment kefir, cook with only coconut oil, butter, or lard (though I use olive oil, too, in lower heat applications), and soak nuts before eating.

But lacto-fermented vegetables have eluded me, until now.

For my fifth year anniversary at my company, I requested a sauerkraut crock. I used the amazing thing one time, and didn't fully understand how I was supposed to store it. The top grew moldy (I'm ashamed to say, probably after a few months), and I threw it all away and never tried again.

Right now, though, I have fermenting in my house some gingered carrots, some kimchi, and some beet kvass, a fermented drink that has good digestive enzymes, or so I'm told. (Below: kefir from our milk, beet kvass, and kimchi, with the carrots in front: so pretty!)

I've been taking a spoonful of a (store bought) fermented vegetable with every meal, and I will be curious to see if I feel dramatically better. Or even a little better. Better digestion never hurt anyone, I suppose.

On Friday, Phil shot the last bird. We had hoped it would be happy just to eat bugs, but when I entered the barn first thing to find it eating the cat food, we knew it had to go.

Rather than fire up the scald water for a single bird, Phil plucked it by hand (excluding the tiny wings: I cut those off and fed them to the pigs). He was surprised by how not difficult the project was: to do only one to three birds, he figured it would be very doable to pluck, so long as the plucking commenced right after killing.

We had lent out the chainsaw, and Phil spent some time fixing it; he also spent several hours clearing along the creek on the neighbor's land, preparing to get fencing put up for grazing next year. He was pleased with the progress he made with chainsaw, and tractor to push the brush out of the way.

I think he's still figuring out the tractor's dimensions; he backed into a tree and tore one of the hydraulic hoses. I think that happened right before dark, and he intended to drive up to Tractor Supply to get a replacement, but by the time he had researched this new purchase, he wouldn't be able to get there before closing.

I've shelled all the peanuts we grew this year. The ones that weren't too shrunken filled a quart-sized jar. Yay!

Along where the chicken pen went, we have a new plant growing up: something in their feed, since the patches of new growth are precisely where the feeder has been, at about 10 foot intervals.

My garden is fairly dormant, but the daikons, mustard greens, kale, turnips, and some radishes came up well before the cold days came upon us.

All the "empty" beds hold garlic, well mulched with hay and waiting for the spring.

Chloe the Dog: Rest in Peace

This is a retelling of our dog's life. I've heard that speaking for the dead is cathartic. If lengthy dog stories aren't your thing, it's okay. This post is more for me than for you.

After an unexpected and painful breakup in 1997, Phil bought a yellow labrador puppy. Named Chloe, for the respected woman in the early church (we must have Bible names always, after all!), she became his constant companion.

She was also very accident prone. Before her second birthday, she had a tumor between her scalp and her skull, which Phil had removed. That was one of my first memories of Phil: going to see Star Wars, Episode I, and caring for Chloe's surgical incision. Even then, Phil had squeamish issues.

A bit after that, she tore out her toenail in his workplace's elevator, fell out of a moving truck, and cut her paw pad on a piece of garden edging, which required stitches—in one week!

Phil got insurance for her. Pet insurance seemed ridiculous to me, but it did prevent any more accidents. About five years into marriage, though, I was ready to stop paying in case she might get injured. I didn't get right on it, though, and two weeks after I made the decision, Chloe went in for a hip replacement, which effectively paid back all that we had spent on pet insurance. Then I cancelled the policy, and haven't regretted it.

Before we were married, Phil mentioned that his coworkers asked, "If Amy said, 'It's Chloe or me,' who would you choose?" Phil replied, "If Amy asked that, she wouldn't be Amy, so it's a moot point." I think that made me feel special, but later on, I wasn't so sure.

Our first year of marriage, I was still in school, and, hence, home much more often than Phil. I superseded him as Chloe's companion of choice. The three of us would jog in the evenings, and we would throw a tennis ball where Chloe the retriever ran with all her heart, over and over.

As I look over Chloe photos, I'm struck that something so essentially Chloe is nowhere captured. Her speed, her joy—perhaps a split-second image wouldn't be sufficient anyway.

She was unfailingly gentle and patient with the four boys, who tugged at her, chased her, grabbed her fur.

When she was happy, her tail would wag so hard, it would be like a helicopter blade, and feel like a whip.

She did not jump up on people, and respected boundaries. For a time, Phil would put a folding chair across the doorway, and she would not jump over, even though, folded up and on its side, her head and shoulders easily poked above it. She would bark to let us know that the mailman came (the mailbox was attached to the house, right next to the door), and the mailman loved her.

She loved Phil's Dad, who gave her treats every chance he could. Once, we were talking on Skype and she heard him, and ran around looking for him, whining. That was maybe a bit mean, but it made us laugh and laugh.

A chick magnet, our unmarried friends would sometimes borrow her for a hike. Once, our friend let her off leash and she found something ripe to roll in. I don't think that friend ever borrowed her again.

As a lab, she was always around when food was present. Our first roommate called her "Hoover," and told her, after Jadon was born, that she was coming in to the "glory years."

We had our less happy moments, too. As part of our twice-a-week entertaining we managed early in our marriage, Chloe ate all the homemade tortillas I had faithfully rolled out: right before the guests arrived. Another time, I had made bran muffins to eat on a camping trip. She managed to eat the whole bag, and the stick of butter that went with it.

She was very regular there for a while.

After I had two boys, she felt a bit neglected, I think, and would snatch food as often as possible. A loaf of homemade bread here; some chicken off the table there. I felt like I was under assault, and looked forward to the day she would die. (Since I remembered I couldn't ask Phil to get rid of her, lest he choose the Amy option to be rid of instead!) At the time, I said I felt like I was in a war, and Chloe would always, always win because she only had to think about how to steal food, whereas I had so many other things on my mind.

The worst moment came when, a few months after we moved into our new home in Boulder, the neighbor's daughter came outside in a pink snowsuit. We had no fence between our yards, and Chloe must have thought the oversized pink rabbit-like thing looked a bit threatening, or at least unusual. She charged this little girl, and circled her, barking. Understandably, the girl was very scared, and Phil and I were so embarrassed. Although Chloe did no physical damage, the girl's mother was concerned about the psychological trauma, and from that time on, as long as we lived in Boulder, she was forced to be always in our small side yard.

I took her on walks almost daily, with first one son, then two, three, and even, a few times, four, but four plus a dog felt a bit much for me alone. Sometimes Phil came, too.

We didn't expect she'd live long enough to make it to the land, so the fact that she not only survived long enough, but was happy and healthy for well over a year is so pleasing to remember. She walked with us on hikes, followed Phil when he worked, and went everywhere with us, barring about three trips, the entire time we've lived here.

On November first this year, after she had eaten part of a chicken unknown to Phil and me, she seemed to suddenly decline. I was a bit concerned that a piece of chicken bone stuck in her digestive track somewhere, but I prayed about it, and she perked up.

However, the last month, every few days Phil would say, "Chloe just stumbled as she walked" or, "Chloe didn't want to get up when she heard the car start up." She was dying. We would help lift her in to the trailer at night so she could be warm.

In retrospect, I'm not sure we made the right choice about her death. We considered taking her to the vet to be put down, but it seemed so cold, to put her in a sterile environment to be poisoned and cremated.

Having read the book Sunsets, about hospice care, I knew that the natural process of death involves the body gradually shutting down. The dying refuses food and water, as the organs shut down. Hospice tries to relieve pain, but allows the natural process to happen, hopefully in the home.

That's the kind of death I want, and we opted for that for Chloe, too. If that was the wrong choice, I am stricken. If she had been in obvious pain, Phil says he would have shot her, but she didn't appear to be in pain, and the stress of actually shooting her (for both man and dog) made us decide against it.

So today, on her third day refusing all food and water, she passed away in her sleep, sometime around 3:45pm. The younger boys and I were in the room with her, going about our life, when her life on earth ended.

God is so gracious. She hadn't been able to stand up since Monday (so we've dealt with her bodily functions as we would deal with a baby, though the diaper we put under her were not attached). I have pleaded with the Lord to take her, but it took longer than I would have thought.

Then, when Phil's work was done, when the chickens were processed, when the ground had sufficiently firmed after the rain, when a few smaller tasks were done and larger tasks were postponed until tomorrow, when we were fed and no chores were needed, suddenly she died.

And death is so unexpected, even when expected, that when I asked Phil if he could dig a hole, he asked, "Why?"

We are thankful for our new-to-us tractor, that allowed him to dig the hole right away.

Goodbye, Chloe. You were a good dog.

June 13, 1997 to December 2, 2010

Farewell to the Feral (Chickens)

After a night of hard rain (1.6" by dawn), the lingering clouds cleared and the weather reached the mid-50s! A heat wave!

Phil ran up to Esmont to deliver some invoices (whoo whoo!), and when he came back, we decided to process the feral chickens. Yesterday evening Phil had captured the remaining birds outside the pen (they get really slow, both thinking and moving, after dark), so we were ready.

First, he transformed our garden cart into a handy carrying pen (above and below, in action). This was brilliant: last time we processed chickens, Isaiah and I spent probably an hour running back and forth from their pen to the killing cones. This way, Phil had a way to transport them all at one fell swoop.

Joe watched Phil's progress, holding the last eggs these chickens will lay. He held them carefully until he needed to climb some stairs: he needs his hands for that, so he relinquished them at last.

Phil managed to get most of the chickens on his own; he even sustained minor lacerations by an assertive rooster. Then I tried to help, by climbing in the pen with him. The cagey caged birds knew a lot of tricks (one even managed to escape by flying past Phil's shoulder!), but of the 25 penned up, only three got out during the capture. One Phil snagged as it walked by (he has amazing fast-twitch muscles, I tell you).

One he plinked with the .22 (and I rejoiced when I heard the sound!).

And one remains on the lam.

While I worked inside, Phil methodically killed them all and hung them to age a bit while he ate lunch. Many of them feel small and light, but a few feel fairly good-sized. We aren't sure, but maybe six of the 25 are original laying hens that weren't content to stay in their pen; the rest are the offspring of the broody hens.

We've been having some trouble keeping our camp stove lit, which turned out to be the regulator. Incredibly, Phil had a spare regulator, and after a small delay, our "redneck scalder" was ready for action.

Sadly, our super expensive plucker is not working well, either. So Phil spent nearly as much time plucking feathers as I spent processing chickens. Below, you can see the first bird (the one killed with the .22) as it reached me.

I take off the heads and feet, cut out the oil gland on the tail, remove the windpipe and esophagus (and crop, filled with grain because they ate this morning), cut off the neck, and then open up the bird and remove the innards. Being very careful to watch the vent to make sure no "femat" (fecal material) comes out with the extra pressure on the colon, very careful not to burst the gallbladder, and especially making sure not to puncture the intestines.

For those who know that I fainted when I lost a tooth, the fact that I can write so factually about blood and guts is almost miraculous. (I took a photo of the bucket when I was done, but it's pretty nasty, so be thankful I don't post EVERYTHING).

Nevertheless, we both really dislike such work. It's smelly, it's a bit depressing, it's physically demanding. I'm extremely thankful we don't need to do it every day.

There were some surprises for me, having just done three batches of eight week old meat birds in the past. First, on opening the body cavity, the color of fat (and the quantity!) was surprising: so yellow!

I'm assuming that's from all the bugs and grass these birds ate as they grew up, unlike the lazy Cornish Cross that do little but sit and eat.

The membranes, too, seemed a bit different; the length of the neck a bit different; the size of the birds overall: much smaller; the quantity of popular white meat: almost nil. The Cornish Cross, having seen the alternative, are really the ideal meat bird: easy to process (some birds had such tough tendons on their feet I could hardly get them off!), fast growing, very meaty. Not very natural (since they cannot breed, but must have chicken AI), but still: they provide a lot of chicken for a comparatively low cost.

As I reached into one especially fatty bird, I was amazed to find my hand covered in what appeared to be egg yolk. We've had about one egg a day lately from the penned birds (so one out of 25 is laying consistently), and I had found that one. Too bad, like the goose that laid the golden eggs, in order to discover which chickens are productive, they have to die. Too bad the rest were so lazy.

Anyway, I was amazed to find a few gelatinous eggs still intact. How these egg yolk sized orbs become hard-shelled, yolk and white eggs is a miracle, I think.

The last chicken I did today also had eggs in it, so maybe the two birds had traded days. I think one egg was ready to be laid tomorrow: notice the one that is larger and whiter.

We finished processing after 17 birds: Phil had lost feeling in his toes. I, thankfully, had chosen to work in the motor home today. Despite the promise of weather in the 50s early on, the temperature dropped quickly, and was in the low 40s when Phil started his plucking, dropping several more degrees before he was finished. By the time I had finished my 17th bird, it was time to milk.

Dear Bianca today returned to her 11+ pounds of milk. I am so grateful. She is a good, good cow. I realized recently that she probably kicked so much in the beginning because I pressed my head into her flank, to see if she was going to kick. So she did. I try not to touch her, except her udder, and I don't speak to her while milking (though I praise her before and after), and I think she prefers that. I am very other, after all.

The boys, happily, played all day. Several hours were spent, surprisingly, with the Duplos. The older boys made this "Man with a Top Hat," and felt quite proud.

It is so, so nice to have Phil back to farm work.