Sour Crop And 6,000 Roses!

Some spray roses and Asters that I brought home
from the florist  around Valentine's Day.

      Chickens are livening up my landscape.  I had high hopes when I awoke this morning.  I would take advantage of my first day off after working five long, grueling days at Chappell's Florist for the Valentine's Day holiday.  But my body isn't cooperating.  I'm sleepy and sluggish from working ten hour days filled with customer interaction and running non-stop.  However, just when I think it best to crawl back into bed, I look out various windows and see black and white movement.  Bare bottoms darting this way and that.  Heads bobbing, feet scratching and beaks busy at work.  It's the Chicken Hill ladies hard at play.

More flowers that made their way into our house
this February to brighten the gray days. 

      Perched in the distance on a old snag is a hawk that neighborhood crows are warning Biggie Fry and the gang about.  It catches my attention.  But I am too inept to work Rob's camera to capture the hawk.  It flies off into the scrub by the beaver pond and  my brother's vineyard.

     It's so gray and overcast that I really do want to pull the covers up over my head and sleep.  But I can't do it.  Instead I watch the playfulness abound in my chicken's antics.  Part of me wants to go see what they are up to.  I want to know what gives them such delight.  But the minute I step out to observe the moment will be lost and their attention will be diverted to me.  They will gather around my feet hoping for a tasty morsel.  Lilac will try to hop up onto my back or shoulders.  Biggie Fry will nudge Baby out of the way because she's bossy and terribly jealous.  And if I do go out there, no doubt I will sit down and chickens will pile onto my lap, snuggling in and I won't have the heart to push them off until they've all had a good pat and cuddle. 

A wooden box I built with a handle
crafted from a fallen tree branch and  
filled with flowers.

     No, I will sit inside and think myself into inaction.  The list will grow in my head with all my intentions for the day.  I will talk myself out of doing half the list.  And when I do get something done I will give it high praise, the kind in which you might give a small child for doing something, just to make them feel really great. No matter the importance of the task.  And that is okay, it's been a long five days. 


     One of my first jobs outside of garden centers in my late teens and early twenties was working at Chappell's Florist.  This is where I learned how to unpack flowers just arrived from South America.  Boxes piled high containing exoctics.  I would spend hours peeling layer after layer of newspaper from colorful blossoms.  Navigating the copious rubber bands, metal twist and elastics that held  the flowers in place.  A huge guillotine blade mounted to a wooden counter is how I would chop the ends from the long flower stems.  A fresh cut ensured that the flowers would take up water after their long journey.  Buckets were filled with floral solution and water.  And once this arduous task was finished I would then lug the heavy flower-laden buckets out to be displayed on the sales floor or into a large walk in cooler.  And just to make the process even more tedious a sign needed to be attached to each bucket with a price with  names like Lisianthus, Alstromeria, Liatris and Blupernum.  Customers would then point and say I will take the purple one, the blue one, that green stuff.

     In between shipments of flowers I would answer phone calls taking flower orders for delivery or pick up.  And when I wasn't doing that I was racing to the front counter to wait on customers.  And plants needed to be watered.  In this maelstrom knives flashed as I cut down flower stems, my mouth grew parched from talking incessantly and emotions would run high as EVERY order was of utmost importance to the consumer.  At the end of the day I would drag my aching, often cut up hands (coated with the smell of who knows what chemicals) and sore feet home and would want to cry.  

     You might ask why do I return to this crazy environment each year?  Rob says it is to remind me of how good my life has become.  I hate to admit it, but he is mostly right.  It is fun to walk into a business while it is booming, displaying a riot of colors from all over the world. This year I've helped clean over 6,000 roses and watched hundreds of orders go out the door.   For five days out of the year I get a glimpse into how others view the importance of a bouquet of flowers.  I'm thankful that this isn't my every day anymore.  As I've mentioned many times, we live a very scaled down lifestyle.  In my world a bouquet of flowers doesn't have a do or die message attached to it.  Although I'm happy to say our morning walks through our gardens come spring and summer, with coffee in hand, are the most beautiful, romantic and joyous experiences.  It is during this time that Rob and I talk about projects that we wish to achieve together.  Future goals, house additions and garden projects get discussed on these morning forays.  We might observe a blossom or even pick one.  However, it is our time spent together that means so much, the flowers are just there framing our existence. 

     My first day that I got ready to leave for work at the florist I noticed that Broody Hen was squatting low and not looking lively.  I swept her into the house where she waited out the day in our bathroom.  I quickly lined the floor with newspapers and gave her some food and water before I bit her adieu.  When I returned home I decided to really observe what might be wrong with her.  I picked her up and started to lose my balance.  The chicken leaned forward in my arms and when this happened  liquid started to pour from her beak.  I was able to stabilize without falling over but I continued to hold the chicken slightly forward and at a downward angle, liquid continuing to pour forth.  Rob quickly piled paper towels on the floor.  I was exhausted and grossly fascinated by what was happening.  An amber liquid flowed freely for quite some time giving me the impression that the entire contents of a chicken were emptying onto the paper towels and the chicken's life was fading away.    

Broody Hen this past spring enjoying
a walk in the gardens.

     I would periodically tip the chicken up as she started to look distressed as Rob quickly tapped away on the computer keyboard trying to figure out what was wrong. He told me to stop treating the chicken like a salt and pepper shaker, but I couldn't help myself.  It was wrong that so much stuff was coming out of her and she sounded like she was going to choke on the fluid build up.  We soon discovered that Broody had some sort of blockage that was filling her crop, the area that normally grinds down her food.  As the crop filled, liquid and food was collecting and putrifying.  In all honesty it's supposed to smell really foul but I didn't smell anything amiss.  There wasn't a total blockage because some fluid was still passing through the chicken.  Broody Hen has been given yogurt and cider vinegar in her water to help her build up good bacteria in her crop. The cause of her blockage is still unknown.  I have massaged her crop and we've supplemented her diet with poutltry grit.  I've also added a little food grade DE into her diet in mashed down feed pellets.  Because it has been so warm I have let Broody roam outside for a few hours whenever possible.  It's hard to say if we will make it through this bout of sour crop.  But in all honesty I can't justify taking a chicken to the vet anymore.  I remain hopeful that Broody Hen will be able to enjoy spring and summer here at Chicken Hill!