Chicks Too.

Chicks 2 weeks 1

Chicks 2 weeks 2

Chicks 2 weeks 3

Tracking the progress of the chickies. At two weeks old the chicks already have wing feathers, and are learning to use them by fluttering up and perching on the edges of their universe – two big plastic tubs. After retrieving the ones that flew out and were huddled together in a corner of the mud room, I added a giant corrugated cardboard wall across the front of the tubs.

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20140411-164838.jpgChicks are so cool. They are eating, pooping machines. They run around chirping up a storm in their plastic tub, then fall down asleep, flopped into all kinds of ridiculous positions, as if they dropped dead.

This is how the chicken story begins, here at the farm. With adorable fluffballs.

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The Seeds of a New Generation – New York Times Article.

Here is an excellent article from the New York Times, discussing watershed changes in the farming community.

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More Snow. (Wordless Wednesday.)

snow cardinal tree

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The Darkness.

When I was a kid, I remembering it getting pretty dark at night. Dark enough for my sleepover friends and I to sneak out of the house and walk around in the middle of the night – as long as one avoided the streetlights. Someone that I dated used to complain about that darkness; he lived in an urban area where darkness and shadows were hiding places for muggers and such, and he never did get used to a black sky. The night sky by his home was a sort of glowing red color. You could see your shadow at night.

In my old town today there is “light pollution” – that same, pervasive sort of red glow that fills the sky. Its source is the multitude of strip malls, highway shopping centers, big-box retail parking lots, and ever-present landscape lighting (why does one need to shine lights up into trees, anyway?), etc. At the old house I could stand on my back deck and see stars, but really just the very big ones.

Now that we’ve moved further west and away from the city, it is a nice feeling to have darkness at night. While we do have a street light in the front yard to light the driveway, the minute you walk away from it’s light print you are again cloaked in the darkness. Because it is so much darker here in the country, one is afforded the opportunity to see thousands of stars twinkle in the night sky.

Whenever I look up at the winter sky, I try to find Orion. I’m not really well-versed in stargazeology, but I can find the belt of Orion and then work my way out from there to locate the Big Dipper. I know enough of mythology to know that Scorpio, Orion’s nemesis, was sent to the summer sky by the gods because he and Orion didn’t get along.

While looking at Orion, my eye catches the slow creep of a satellite working its way across the sky, low to the horizon, moving from south to north. We don’t see many jet planes at the farm because we most thankfully have moved away from the landing path of Newark Liberty Airport. (At the old house, a new jet would cross the horizon and work its way across the sky every 45 seconds. Clockwork.)

The other night I was standing quite still on the front porch, watching a couple of rabbits move across the yard, and listening to the tiny crunching sounds their paws made as they tentatively hopped through the snow. I glanced up to see a meteor streak across the sky, just over the barn. I was glad to be in that moment.

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Winter Views (Nearly Wordless Wednesday).

This gallery contains 3 photos.

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I now belong to a chicken coalition.

Three of us flocked together, put all out seed money into one cup, and placed a big order for day-old chicks.

We purchased Buff Orpingtons, a great dual-purpose, heavy breed that does well in cold and is relatively calm. Or so I’m told by my friend who has chickens. This is a first for me. I am diving head-first into the world of poultry. Despite Mat’s assertions of, “Chickens are easy. Taking care of them is a no brainer,” I am a little edgy about being responsible for the entire bunch all at once.

It’s easy to say something is easy when you know what you’re talking about (and I don’t). The 75 chicks are going to be staying at Silver Spring Farm throughout their chick-dom, as I have the biggest coop. It’s going to be interesting. I’m thinking of starting a “how many chicks will make it long enough to grow feathers” pool.

The countdown to chick day is on! I say… BRING IT! RAH!

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Quotable Sunday. Where Health Care Should Begin.

“Our primary health care should begin on the farm and in our hearts, and not in some laboratory of the biotech and pharmaceutical companies.”
― Gary Hopkins


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The Wood Stove. (Pioneer Woman)

This Lopi Liberty stove keeps our 2,094 SF toasty warm

This Lopi Liberty stove keeps our 2,094 SF toasty warm

In the 6th through 9th grades, I belonged to a scouting organization called Pioneer Girls. I still remember the theme song:

Pioneers who crossed the prairies
In the days of wagon trains
Pressing on with strength of purpose
Scaled the mountains, crossed the plains.

I used to think it funny that we were a flock of suburban girls in a club about pioneers, but didn’t realize at the time that I was really a pioneer woman in training. Pompton Plains, NJ, where I grew up, was at the edge of the ex-burbs back in the 1960′s and 70′s, and our suburban-sprawl-tract-home was situated right at the dividing line between civilization and country. We had curbs and streetlights and sewers on our street, but behind us were corn fields, horse farms and forests.

That rural-ish world was my playground. I would hike, bike, hide, and later kiss boys out there in the no-man’s-land of my town’s wilderness. We would have picnic lunches and campfires. I would dig up clay by a certain stream’s edge and try to make little pots with it. I had a copy of The Herbalist (yes, as a kid) and Storey’s Field Guide to Wild Plants in the basket of my blue Schwinn, and I would scour the woods and fields looking for, and learning to identify, medicinal and native perennials.

I was pocketing all this knowledge away so that I could become what I am today.

I never had any contact with wood stoves, however.

Fast forward to today. I had a big woodstove installed in the farm house. It heats the entire place – both floors – toasty warm, thanks to its large size and optional electric blower (worth every penny of the $250 extra it cost). The most appealing aspect of all this is that I can gather wood for free and turn it into heat. Of course, this year, being our first winter in the house, I purchased cord wood already seasoned and split. I am accumulating wood for next year’s use. Free. FREE!

I also quite like the ownership of the heat. When we were cold in the old house, we would flip a switch and the gas boiler would do all the work. PSE&G was responsible for my heat. Now it is my job. I make the heat happen. I own it. I am more self-sufficient today than I was before.

I’m finding that the seemingly useless information I tucked into my brain as a child is now quite beneficial. I can identify trees by their bark, their shape, their dormant leaf buds, and sometimes by the mosses and lichen and fungi that grow on their bark and roots. This is coming in very handy for identifying and choosing hardwoods for the stove.

The one thing I didn’t learn as a child was how to keep a wood stove lit. I learned the hard way one morning when we were most inconveniently out of fire starters and the mercury was hovering at -2F. Lighting a wood stove really is a pioneer skill – I remembered the Pioneer Girls song “pressing on with strength of purpose,” and got out the shovel, raked up the glowing embers hiding in the ashes, put in some kindling and puffed, puffed, puffed with the bellows until… TAA DAA!~~~~~ Fire.

I now start the stove that way every morning. Yes, it would be easier to stick in a kerosene-soaked fire starter and balled up newspaper and just light a match, but where is the challenge in that? It is much more fun to get on my Laura Ingalls Wilder persona and light it the pioneer way.

When the stove is fired up, finding the Hoover and Chloe is a cinch.

When the stove is fired up, finding the Hoover and Chloe is a cinch.

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Friday Poetry 2.

Bee flower 1Excerpt from “Bee-Master,” by Victoria Sackville-West

Forget not bees in winter, though they sleep.
For winter’s big with summer in her womb,
And when you plant your rose-trees, plant them deep,
Having regard to bushes all aflame,
And see the dusky promise of their bloom
In small red shoots, and let each redolent name-
Tuscany, Crested Cabbage, Cottage Maid-
Load with full June November’s dank repose,
See the kind cattle drowsing in the shade,
And hear the bee about his amorous trade
Brown in the gipsy crimson of the rose.

In February, if the days be clear,
The waking bee, still drowsy on the wing,
Will sense the opening of another year
And blunder out to seek another spring.
Crashing through winter sunlight’s pallid gold
His clumsiness sets catkins on the willow
Ashake like lambs’ tails in the early fold,
Dusting with pollen all his brown and yellow,
But when the rimy afternoon turns cold
And undern squalls buffet the chilly fellow,
He’ll seek the hive’s warm waxen welcoming
And set about the chambers’ classic mould.

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