And Then There Were Eight

The Chicken Hill gal's coop and chicken court yard.

I'm actually writing this a little prematurely.  By eight, I'm referring to the hens that will remain at Chicken Hill, here in Monkton, VT.  My lovely ladies are dwindling down.  And I am starting to get numb to chicken losses.  This is hard for me as I'm very sweet on my gals.  When I started raising my flock, almost three years ago I made an oath to give the best life possible to the fluffy little chicks that I gathered from the feed store, a local neighbor and a elementary school hatch out program. 

Chris the would-be
rooster.

 In the beginning there were fifteen lovely ladies, uh-um, one was a boy.  I had a rule from the get go, no boys!  I'm not a morning person.  I didn't want the neighbors to hate me for raising chickens and from what I read you didn't need them and they could be a bit of a nuisance to the ladies with all their demands. I had no purpose for fertilized eggs.  I had also heard my fair share of rooster attack horror stories. 

When our little Americauna started his first attempts at crowing, I frowned.  When he started in with some pretty aggressive behavior, tearing the comb of a fellow coop-mate, I was angry.  Out came the hatchet and after drinking a beer, rather quickly to muster up the courage to do the deed, I offed that chicken's head.  Not really my idea of a good time---but I was trying my best farmer act.  I also didn't want to ask my husband to do something I wasn't prepared to do.   Afer all, the chickens were my idea.  Our first bird was buried deep because I didn't want to attract predators and it was just a teen, not really big enough to eat, all bone and feathers.

Even though I wielded a hatchet for the would be rooster, I'm really a softy.  I can't stand the sight of blood and killing things just doesn't come natural to me.  I know, I make a terrible farmer.  (And I eat meat).  But when my first hen showed signs of illness...I reached for the phone, madly dialing.  What?  No one sees chickens?  What was I to do?  These are my pets.  I stubbornly called around until I found an exoctic vet that would see my ladies.  Out he came with his assistant.  I set up a table in the chicken court yard and donning some fancy specs he examined my girls for mites, eggbinding and for over all health.  A stool sample was rushed off to a lab and sure enough, as I had already determined, my girls had worms. 


Nesting boxes with Big Girl Bottom left.


Per the vet's advice my husband and I bought a scale so we could weigh each chicken.  Weights were recorded, medicine prescribled for each chicken's body weight and my husband and I medicated 14 birds with a syringe specifically loaded for each hen.  At this point I hadn't had a chance to name all my ladies so a few birds were dotted with magic marker and referred to as one dot, no dot and so on.  When I drove to the vet's office to pick up the medication the prescription was for Pecker.  Not Baby or Good Red or One Dot, they had to choose my chicken named Pecker to fill the prescription under.  So I sheepishly paid for the medication while the glossy white bag containing all the syringes and worming medication read:  Pecker Boyer. 

The Chicken Hill ladies as I fondly call my hens, marched through their first summer popping out eggs like pop corn, leaving me an abundance of eggs to trade and gift to folks all the while feeding us beautiful golden-yolked eggs.  Every time I dug a hole chickens jumped in to feast on whatever I unearthed.  I would use the utmost care as I aimed shovel to sod not wanting to hit any precious chicken toes.  I gardened, they helped.  Or so they thought. 

Fall blew into the hill making things a beautiful bronze and rust color and chickens joyfully marched about catching slow moving frogs and worms while kicking up leaf debris.  And then a few white crystals started to fall from the sky.


 

Biggie Fry and me!

One of my flock, Speckled Head Red started to look a little worse for the wear.  Winter sunk her claws in deeper and ol' Speckled Head developed a cough.  She was swept into the house, segregated to the downstairs bathroom...she didn't look like she was going to make it.  I madly dialed.  This time I would have to drive in a snow storm over an hour and a half away to get her looked at.  So with my windshield wipers trying to brush away the icy crust speedily building onto my windshield I boxed my hen and drove.  I sang songs trying to sooth her, or me.  We arrived at the vet's office and Speckled  Head was prescribed medicine for a respiratory problem.  For two weeks, twice daily, we went through the painstaking routine of trying to get a needleless syringe perfectly aimed down the chicken's throat being careful not to fill her wind pipe with liquid.  A second chicken fell to the same illness and  as medicated her we aimed the medicine down the wrong area.  A great gurgling sound was heard for the following twenty-four hours.  Rob and I looked at each other, thinking we were villains aiding in this poor chicken's demise.  We were medicating two chickens and it was a pain.  But both chickens recovered and returned to their coop, one with a new name-Gurgly Girl.  Never turning back to say thank-you, back into the flock they walked, hopping onto their roost like they'd never visited the human's house.  Ungrateful, little.....



Speckled Head Red
just before she passed.

 Spring returned with her show of wonderous bulbs and the bright colors that blind us after the drab blahs of late winter.  Speckled Hed Red ambled about but her comb grew faded and a little deflated.  I watched realizing at some point I needed to let nature run its course.  I needed to let Speckled Head live out her remaining days without poking and prodding her.  Gradually Summer started to melt even the most hardy of Vermonters and Speckled Head succumbed to the inevitable.  Arriving home from a job interview my husband delivered me the news. 

Raising chickens has provided me with so much joy and sadness.  I've experienced the crueler side to nature, like the skunk that wandered in and started munching on one of my girls.  I came home to a chicken alive, in shock, wandering around with a massive hole chewed out of her.   How I cried as I realized my negligence, I'd left the gate closed to the chicken courtyard but the skunk must've been nimble enough to crawl under the fence.  All my flock was scattered about...some clinging to fences.  Others were terrified and stood on my doorstep pecking at my door.  Two I didn't find until the next morning, taking cover under some large hosta, not makng a peep as I searched through the night trying to gather up my girls.



Reese, the only bird that I lost due to a predator.

 Most will call me the crazy chicken lady.  And yes it is true that I sing to my chickens, albeit pretty poorly.  But they don't know the difference.  They just know that the human that gives them food and water makes some noises for them.  And dutifully as I sing they climb up to roost.  It's a comfortable routine.

Maybe living things should come with a tag, like the ones that hang on the neck of clothing.  Enjoy each day, repeat. Give the best that you can.  Handle with love and care.  Know when to let go. 

Tomorrow, I dread going out to the coop, where Gurgly Girl has squeezed herself under a nesting box, not having the strength to hop up to roost like the others.  I debated about putting her up to roost.  But I wanted to honor her wishes.  I will miss her little noises that sound like a car trying to turn over.  And I wonder if the ground will be soft enough to bury her. 

Getting Pitchy During The Holidays



A centerpiece created as a silent auction donation.



     And I disappeared.  Under piles of balsam, cedar and pine is where I've been spending my time.  For the past four weeks I've been harvesting greens, making kissing balls, custom wreaths, and holiday centerpieces.  What do I love about all this?  I work from my home and as my husband puts it--part of my job is walking in the woods.  How great is that?  It's pretty great! 

Hand tied wreaths made by
yours truly.

     The best part of all this?  I keep away from the normal hustle and bustle of holiday time.  I'm also creating ephemeral art work for many to enjoy during their holidays.  And I don't have time to think about what nonsensical gift I will get for someone I love with money I don't have.  No one will have to worry about recycling or regifting an unwanted item from me.  The word MALL never crosses my lips! 

       I merrily work away listening to favorite music, newscast, or pondering thoughts and life choices.  Every day isn't perfect eutopia.  I still have deadlines and worry about whether or not I've correctly interpreted what a client wants.  There is the mess of pine pitch and needles from conifers scattered everywhere.  My studio is our dining room table, that forces us to eat off our coffee table temporarily.  But with all that said--this is a small price to pay to do something I love. 

Over 30 kissing balls have found
homes this year!

      Of course I can't remember the last time I meandered down the hill to check in on the progress of the greens in the hoophouse. Or checked the mouse trap in there.  Ick.  The chickens don't get half as much of my attention.  However, I am home most of the time so they are let out daily to roam and peck at whatever might hold their interest for a nano-second.

      We lost another bird in the time since I last blogged.  My lovely chicken, Pecker, died in her sleep.  I found her with her face buried in the shavings that thickly line the bottom of the coop.  Leaving me to guess whether or not she was up on her roost when she left this world and plummetted down to the floor in her passing.  She was a regal, kind and loving bird in her adult life.  In her youth she would peck at my exposed skin every chance she got.  Whenever I would bend down to do something in the coop, my shirt would hike up, and bam--Pecker would strike.  And I would yell, Damn PECKER!  So the name Pecker stuck.  I never though she would grow up to be a cuddly bird that really just wanted attention.  She had bright, intelligent eyes and a comb that would make you guess that she was a he.  But alas, Pecker has been buried at Chicken Hill and I will keep fond memories of her.

Pecker is the white bird on my knee. 
Good Red looks on.

      My husband Rob and I always marvel about how lucky we our.  We love our lives here in Monkton, doing what we enjoy and spending time with each other.  I hope that many feel this way.

Peace to all during this busy time of the year!
-Kathy and the nine remaining ladies at Chicken Hill

Who Is The Pest?




Wild turkeys enjoying a stroll.



The ever intelligent
crow.

     It's been incredibly windy this fall.  I awoke surprisingly early because the wind was roaring through our valley.   As I landed my feet over the side of the bed I glanced out the window in time to watch eight wild turkeys march past the hoop house.  A reminder that Thanksgiving is fast approaching.   I marveled at the steadiness on their feet, no swaying, just a purposeful gait unaffected by the force of the wind.  A crow sat in perfect balance atop my bean tower, not swaying to and fro as the gust of wind assaulted the surrounding landscape.  And to the right of the perfectly balanced crow the hoop house plastic puffed in and out.  I started to fret  and questioned whether I'd make my goal of eating out of the hoop house into the month of December.  Last year, around this time, my neighbors had the plastic rip off their hoop houses. Leaving the denuded frames exposed to winter's harsh elements.




They seem innocent enough, but they sure can
eat!  They really like to dig up freshly
planted seeds.

       As I watched out my window my thoughts drifted to early Spring gardening, and a time when I was working on a garden project with my nephew.  He had agreed to help me plant seeds enabling me to get an early jump on the gardens with small vegetable starts.  I'd been battling chipmunks that were rooting through the seed trays forcing me to start a second batch.

      Entering the hoop house to get started on our seeding project, I recognized that I had a little issue on my hands and a moral dilemna at the same time.  I had caught a chipmunk in a havahart trap that I'd set earlier in the day.  Since I'd been battling chipmunks for a while, I decided I needed to take action against them.  They kept digging up my seeds and replanting them elsewhere or blatantly sat around the gardens eating the large squash seeds like popcorn at a movie.  And being terrible garden guest they left the trail of seed hulls on the ground. It made me irate.  The lost revenue was starting to add up and every crop that I planted and lost was setting me behind in my short growing season.   I looked at my nephew and knew that I had to make a decision.  My intention was to 'dispose' of the offender.  I decided my garden helper needed to know the score, so I quickly brought him up to speed on the chipmunk saga. With the aid of a havahart trap and a little bit of ruthlessness I was able to finish my gardening season unhampered by chipmunk activity.     

Cabbage worms have
quite the appetite!

     Weather grew warmer and crops started to mature.  My next battle was with the cabbage worm or Pieris rapae, a green caterpillar that has a voracious appetite for brassicas or anything in the cabbage family.  My brussel sprouts and kale were being chomped.  Last year I opted for hand picking the tiny green interlopers and that seemed to be futile.  As I cooked well-washed broccoli, only to have more tiny green worms float to the surface of the pot.  I almost ate as many cabbage worms as broccoli, cabbage and kale!  I started cooking casseroles to disguise the extra green protein.  This year I was a little more pro-active and I used  an organic spray of bacillus thuringenis to control my creepy crawly problem.  I've also thought about covering the brassicas with remay when transplanting them into 

the gardens.  Many gardeners have reported some success with this proactive measure. 

Isopods that are anthropods that breath
through gills.  They have many nick-names
like sow bug.

               There are no shortage of pest in the gardens.  Soon I discovered Isopods.  A two time offender, both in my raised bed gardens and  hoop house.  Although these ammonite looking creatures, with their grayish segmented bodies, look like insects they are anthropods-which means they breath through gills.  Some of their common names:  sow bug, pill bug and wood lice.  They tend to like moist places and have an appetite for decaying matter.  However, they will eat live plants too.  Which I've been witnessing in my newly seeded, winter-hardy greens.  The plants are being decapitated before they even get their first true leaves.  AND as if this affront isn't bad enough, while digging my potatoes I found several potatoes devistated by these pigs!  It almost looked like a mouse had been chewing, but the offenders were right there at work.  Thankfully it was only a small percentage of my potatoes that were munched.  I am making trails of diatomaceous earth (DE) to thwart the work of the Isopods within my hoophouse.   DE is a natural occuring substance and Wikepedia's definition of diatomaceous earth is: "...consist of fossilized remains of diatoms, a type of hard-shelled algae."  Although, this is a natural occuring subtance it's harmful to breath.  In its pulverized form it's a very fine powder and when applying I took precautions not to breath it in.  With a little hand picking of the Isopods within the hoophouse and the DE, I seem to have saved my greens!

     When I first witnessed the tops of my greens missing I assumed it was the work of a mouse so I quickly set traps--but wondered why I wasn't catching anything.  Then I saw the sow bugs (Isopods) at work.   Only a very small number of plants were affected, mice would have eaten much more.  But I was glad I had traps out, just in case.  As the weather grows colder mice are going to take refuge any where they can.  Within the past week I have caught five mice.  My husband, Rob, shakes his head at me because the hoop house is at the base of a large field that must be loaded with an infinite number of mice.  I will remain diligent. 

Deer mice sure look cute but they are
wicked pest.

     Anyone that has gardened knows the work is relentless and often times things don't go as planned.  Tomato blight, lack of rain, too much rain.  The list can go on and on.  Yet those that have the calling are right back at it year after year.   To me gardening is like fine music in that it can have beauty, upbeat tempos and an eerie yet satisfying quandary to it all.   When I think about it, I wonder about those wild turkeys bypassing the hoop house in their foraging, being forced to reroute their journey, past a structure that once wasn't there. And I think of the countless murders that I have on my hands thanks to natural subtances like BT, DE, or mechanical devices like mousetraps and havahart traps.  Makes me wonder, who is the pest? 

     But  as long as I need to eat and survive I'm forced to make decisions.  I recognize that in retrospect as long as I'm not trying to annihilate all the sow bug or mice population on my land, yet designate small areas where I garden,  'free' of those critters-I think I'm being reasonable.  It's when we carelessly set out to destroy an entire population that we can get ourselves into trouble.  And that's my take on it as I continue to grow greens into the waning part of November here at Chicken Hill Gardens. 

Grandma's Hope Chest Filled With Salad



My hero and husband, Rob Hunter who makes all my
 projects turn into possibilities.

      Doesn't everyone put salad in their hope chest?  I am from a generation that is re-learning about eating healthier.  Most have heard of Fast Food Nation, Super Size Me and Food Inc.  We are becoming more and more aware of the atrocities involved in mass producing monocultures.  In my time--it seems to have started with slow food, then the localvore movement.  I've watched farmer's markets grow exponentially in the past couple of years.  I recognize that there was a generation way before mine that subsisted on tofu, wheat germ and yogurt.  However, I was a product of the era of shake and bake and casseroles made with canned soups. 

Local goods purchased at a one
day farmer's market in Monkton



     A few years a go I  read Barbara Kingsolver's:  Animal, Vegetable, Miracle, where she talks about eating within a certain radius of where she lived for an entire year.  She gave up fruits and vegetables that were out of season or not from her geographic region.  And what she ate, she and her family raised, canned or procured from local farms.  Up until I read that book, I  hadn't thought much about where my food came from.

      I grew up in an apple orchard, my family planted a substantial garden, and dabbled in home canning.  But, like many others, my  family grabbed quick and easy things off the grocery store shelves.  We didn't pay close attention to how those foods came to us.  When I went to college the goal was to see how many cans of tuna or boxes of macaroni and cheese I could purchase for my dollar.  Maybe an occasional onion was obtained to add flavor to my otherwise devoid of vegetable diet.  I was all about eating cheap, money could then be spent on entertainment, fuel and other debaucheries. 

Pan seared scallops on a bed of home
grown spinach and our own potatoes.



    

     Fast forward to my sensible forties, where I recognize I don't want to spend all my waking hours traveling to and from a job that helps me pay for the car and fuel that gets me to said job.  I want to celebrate my freedom of choice and embrace it although that means downsizing, or maybe it means living within my means.  And it means living a more self-sustaining existence.  



Pies, bars and brownies I prepared

for a reception.

 
     I start to look at all parts of my life.  Food is pretty high up on my list of things that make me happy.  My husband grew up with a restaurant background and I was raised on a fruit and veggie farm, it's probably why I rank food so high on my list of priorities.  My husband and I are a lethal combination in the kitchen.  My facebook page has a photo album called "Awesome Things I Just Ate" and in it are photos of lobster salad served with pasta and brocolli, scallops on a bed of spinach,  mussels cooked with shallots and wine, glazed pork tenderloin, and an elaborate Indian meal.  My husband Rob is master of entrees and I love to bake breads, cookies, cakes and pies.  We both like high-quality, well-prepared food.  I spent my twenties drooling over Bon Appetit magazine. 

    

  And now that I'm obsessed with growing my own food, almost everything I look at becomes a means for me to grow high-quality food.  And yes, although I'm not physically attracted to Elliot Coleman (I'll leave that to his wife, Barbara Damrosch).  I am in LOVE with his knowledge of growing food, in cold climates without heat!  His book, Four-Season Harvest:  Organic Vegetables from Your Home Garden All Year Long is my bible for hoop house growing.



The fenced in veggie gardens and hoop house.



     During the early part of Spring I told my friend Amy Olmsted "I'm going to make a cold frame".  I had something sitting next to the fire pit, rectangular in shape and box like that would probably work.  Being frugal I salvaged it from the burn pile.  All the better, I woudn't have to ask Rob to help me build yet another garden structure.  Prior to making it's way to the fire pit this wooden box had had legs and a lid, and had been under our screened in porch.  It housed our garden essentials, like remay and pots.  Maybe we put kindling wood in it for a time.  Prior to that the it made a great prop for halloween, looking slightly like a coffin.  In the Spring I took it down to my fenced in garden.  Rob found a window that fit snuggly over the top and voila, I had a cold frame.  It didn't really work.  I worked away from home a lot and I wasn't diligent about walking down the hill to open and close it at the appropriate times.  Things got too cold or hot.  It was my human error that prevented the success of the cold frame. 



Grandma's hope chest, the stripped down version.


     I'm giving that cold frame a second chance.  This time, inside my hoop house.  It  is my grandmother's hope chest that had sat next to the burn pile during the Spring and now it is seeded with mixed greens and tatsoi.  It might seem a little silly to have disassembled my one remaining item that I have of my deceased grandmothers.  I think I can justify it.  The veneer was starting to peel and it had become a little wobbly.  I also don't feel the need to keep a hope chest. It served so many purposes in its sixty plus years for my grandmother and for me.  Instead of sending it up in flames, I've opted to give it one more life.  The cedar innards will be slightly rot-resistant, perfect for the high humidity environment of a hoop house.  I really do hope that grandma's hope chest will be filled with salad this winter!  Wouldn't she be happy to know that she was providing me with such happiness and the great gift of healthy food?  









The Perfect Gift For A Gardener, A Heat Sink

In front of my house a standard hydrangea  with my
rooster sculpture.

     I am happiest when I am in my gardens.  In my ornamental garden I am pleased with the variety of plants that I have accumulated over time.  They spell out who I am.  After all,  they are an acummulation of my personal choices, gifts by aquaintances and they represent a passion that I've followed for quite some time.  If you walk through my garden you are invited to get to know a part of me.  I can tell you what grower I got the Dendranthema "Sheffield Pink" from or where I purchased the tree-like, white-blooming, perennial Hibiscus.  I will show you the gifts that people have shared with me over the years and when plants get big enough, I will divide a piece off to share with my fellow gardening friends. 

Perennials line the walk down to
the hoop house.

      My family moved to Monkton when I was five years old.  My dad grew up on a dairy farm but went to work as an engineer for IBM.  When I was five he must of heard the call from the land, because he left IBM and moved our family to the country.  My parents purchased an apple orchard.  And along with the apples there were several acres of gardens to tend to.  They provided goods for sale at the apple orchard.  Squash, potatoes, corn and various other vegetable crops.  I can recall many summer days wielding a hoe to weed the orchard's large vegetable patches, it was hard work but really rewarding. 

Me holding a bucket of wild blueberries.
Some of the hardest working, common
perennials behind me.

      Once I entered the workforce I gravitated towards ornamental gardening.  The apple didn't fall far from the tree as they say.  But in choosing ornamental gardening, I was developing a passion that was mine---It wasn't apples and it wasn't vegetables.  That was what my family did.  I  struck out to define who I would become.  And I had a natural abiltiy to work in the soil.  I had been doing it from an early age and it made sense to me. 

     Once I reached adulthood and many years of gardening in the same spot at my home in Monkton, I discovered that you can only plant and rearrange so many ornamentals X number of times.  I was starting to get panicky that I was collecting more plants then I had time or desire to take care of.  I continunued to work in the nursery business and couldn't stop collecting plants.  I had an addiction.  It took all of my weekends to maintain the yard.  And I wasn't gardening on that large of a scale either.  Rob would want to hike and I'd say, "No I need to plant this plant, weed this, or water the gardens."

     And in a way that seems to be cyclical we tend to return to where we started.  Maybe I missed those childhood days of wielding a hoe?  Or perhaps I wanted to plant something I could eat and not just enjoy for its beauty.  My passion for perennial gardens has taken a backseat as I have a renewed  love for vegetable gardening.  In the past few years Rob and I have built a gorgeous fenced in veggie garden and small hoop house. We both agree that living a little bit off the land is important to us.  I still have lovely ornamental gardens but I don't let them rule me.  I love beautiful colors, textures and form, something that can be obtained in the ornamental garden and as I'm starting to discover can also happen in the vegetable garden!

Raised bed gardens with Rob's
hops trellis in the background.

     But ask me and I will tell you, my current obsession is the vegetable gardens, and more so, the hoop house and extending the growing season in our short, zone 4, growing season.  You've probably heard me talk about Elliot Coleman and it is through this Maine gardener that I've been inspired to extend my growing of crops into the winter months in a hoop house. 

Rob in the hoop house amidst the leafy greens.  Remay 
is the white cloth behind him to the left. 

               A hoop house is a greenhouse like structure that doesn't require heat.  And if you plan on gardening into the winter months like I do, you will soon learn that the hoop house doesn't stay much warmer then outside of it during non-daylight hours.  I will use garden blankets and remay (a garden fabric that allows some sunlight and air to pass through it while acting like a layer of insulation atop my plants).   I kept wondering how I could keep my indoor garden growing for as long as possible.  Because at some point without sufficient heat, the produce will stop growing.  No growth, no salad for me!  I wanted more heat but I want to avoid the added expense of using any form of electricty or heating implements.  My goal is to do this on the cheap. 

     I've been researching how to keep my hoop house a little warmer using a heat sink, basically a plastic barrel filled with water that you place inside your growing environment.  In theory the water will heat up during the day and at night it will release that heat back into the air.  It might help add a couple of degrees to the night time temperature, and although that may not seem significent, it might be all that is needed to eek a little bit extra out of my plantings.  It's time for another science experiment, after all this hoop house has become quite the entertainment source for me these days.  Lucky for me I was able to obtain a barrel from my neighbors.  It was blue, and for maximum heat absorbtion a better color would be black.

      My partner, Rob, handed me all the supplies to remedy that situation. And this is what I did to turn my blue plastic barrel into a black one:

•  Sanded the barrel to rough up the surface so paint would adhere
• Cleaned the sanding residue and any dirt off with ammonia
• Applied spray primer 



Heat sink in place and ready to go to work!

• Sprayed on a coat of black paint. 

     I now have a black barrel ready to fill with water.  Once I convince Rob to help me create a cover for it (to decrease evaporation) and build a wooden stand that it can sit on, it will be moved into place in the hoophouse.  This heat sink will be moved outside during the summer months to become a rain barrel.  I will refit it with a screened cover and collect rain to water my gardens.

     I'm not sure that the heat sink is the perfect gift for this gardener, but I will let you know the results once I've given it a fair trial here at Chicken Hill Gardens!   

Gearing Up For Greener Things



Fall in Monkton, Winona Lake in the background.

      We are experiencing a warmer then usual fall and its been so nice to clean up the yard and get last minute bulbs, perennials, garlic and seeds planted! 
      Tonight, I sat down to a delicous dinner prepared by my husband Rob.  A chicken stir fry using local garlic, onions and swiss chard from our garden.  We also savored roasted carrots, beets and parsnips that we grew!

My kale, parsnips and Swiss chard !



      When I left my 'regular' job I set out to grow some of our food.  And each year I get a little better at it.  I'm slowly learning about sucession planting and planting smaller rows so we are kept in a constant supply and not an over abundance all at once.  Here we are entering November and still we eat from our gardens, it's the best feeling!  I made a pledge that I would see if I could at least keep things going in the unheated hoop house until the end of December.  (Granted there won't be a lot of variety because I'm only using a small space, about four feet by twelve feet, to grow in this year).  AND I'm not in love with cold weather, I'm kind of a wimp that way.

  

Inisde the hoop house without the remay.

       A few weeks ago I transplanted curly kale, Russian kale, and Swiss chard from my raised bed gardens into the hoop house.  A few tiny beet seedlings I moved into the hoop house as well.  And although it's late in the season I seeded in some mixed greens and tatsoi.  There are a few carrots and herbs and a small patch of  spinach too.  It's a great small scale experiment  to see how our hoop house will hold up to snow and I can see just how diligent I am about racing down the hillside to dust off heavy snow falls and to time my harvesting of salad after the frost has lifted from the greens and before night fall (which will be coming earlier soon).  A layer of remay covers the crops and allows about seventy percent of available light to penetrate through the fabric as well as acts as a layer of insulation. 

 

Holiday wreath that I created.



            My next task is to start harvesting greens, not the edible type.  I  have a knack for floral design and I've worked at a florist supply wholesaler, florist shops and in the nursery business through out my career.  Come late fall and early winter I am delighted to keep my hands busy creating one of a kind wreaths and evergreen arrangements.  I'm not one to buy into the holiday season  because it wasn't how I was raised.  I love the warmth of the holiday season (shared meals, getting together) but I don't like the materialstic association that the holiday has.  Rob and I tend not to exchange gifts and if we do for family members we like to make our gifts.  Sometimes that can be a loaf of bread that I've baked, a hand made holiday ornament, canned goods that I've put up or a evergreen wreath that I've made.  It's fun to think of the person and create something especially for them, or to share a gift that has a lot of meaning, like my sweet chile sauce or cucumber relish that we grew the ingredients that it's made with.    

 

Holiday wreath for my chicken coop.

      And in an effort to work close to home (another one of my goals) I will begin harvesting greens and turning my porch into a workshop.  Kissing balls will be made, wreaths and centerpieces.  This year I will have some of these creations available at The Last Resort Farm on Tyler Bridge Road in Monkton starting the week before Thanksgiving and I will be selling at The Burlington Holiday Hop at Burlington Community Glass Studio, 416 Pine Street.(December ninth through the eleventh) This is where Stained Glass artist Terry Zigmund creates her amazing work.  I will also be offering a few make and take workshops this November and December for the Monkton Community Coffeehouse.  At these workshops I will supply all that is needed to create a wreath or centerpiece and provide instruction on how to make one.  If you'd like a little something beautiful and  green for the winter months please feel free to contact me, I do custom work as well. 
 

Centerpiece created using a chicken feeder.

As my gardens are mostly put to bed and my work in people's ornamental gardens is getting wrapped up I'm happy to think about my edible greens that I will harvest into the early winter months and about the greens that I will  selectively harvest from my property so that I can keep myself busy doing something I love!   



Kissing ball, a donation for the Monkton PTO silent auction last year.

Working At Relaxing!

"I popped a rib out" I tell the man that we are getting the hay from.  I take a moment to wrestle a bale into the back of his truck, that we are borrowing to transport the soft yellow-brown, slightly itchy material.  We are building another Elliot Coleman style compost bin, something we had huge success with last year.  My husband and I had a fall wedding and part of the decorations were multiple bales of hay stacked with pumpkins, gourds, mums...the typical New England fall decorations.  And being super frugal, we put our wedding decorations to work.  They helped us make about three yards of compost for our veggie gardens. And yes there is a picture of me jumping for joy atop the black gold that we made!  (I actually have compost listed as one of the most romantic gifts I've ever been given by my husband.)

I popped a rib out, uttered from my lips on several occasions in passing conversation.  The horror on people's faces.  I stop to digest what I've just said.  I popped a rib out.  I say it as if it happens to everyone and that this is as common of an occurrence as drinking a cup of coffee and hitting a bump.  I'm not sure how-it's the second time this has happened in the past few years.  No doubt it has something to do with me moving incorrectly.  And this seems to be just another notch that I've gained on the belt of 'I'm an ageing individual'.

However, my ageing, arthrictic body has been warning me to slow down.  And so I found myself attending a yoga class in an attempt to aknowledge it.  I've decided to work on me and learn about relaxation.  And almost like this was my destiny, to learn about relaxing-my partner and I were given a hot tub.  It needed a few minor repairs, but my husband is the resourceful type, and had it up and running in no-time.   Okay, so there was some time.  (Especially while Rob worked at his full time job, I cobbed several part time things together for work and we were helping organize the town's first garlic festival).  The part for the repair sat in a box.  Umm, for over a month.

So this past weekend while the leaves were still rustling in the trees,warning winter that it's up next, my husband and I remembered to go out and check out the foliage.  We climbed up some trails that we hadn't been up before or hadn't visited in a long time.  We did two hikes, one to Sterling Pond, a trail just outside of Stowe in Smugglers' Notch.  The other trail was Deer Leap in Bristol.  And with each step we took, we breathed in the crisp fall air.  Our eyes were dazzled with brightly colored fallen leaves, wet moss-covered rocks and we were reminded of what it feels like to let ourselves be still. 

I squeezed in getting a henna by Rebecca Freedner from Heartfire Henna.  I'm not sure how it was that I decided that I liked henna, because up until a year a go I didn't know much about it.  But when Rob and I decided to get married, I was pretty sure that if anything was going to make me happy-it would be henna.  There wasn't a wedding dress, a photographer or a ring-but we got henna.  And I was super happy.  You have to sit still to get henna and to me it's the most tranquil way to be pampered and bigger bonus you end up with a cool design to ponder for however long it takes for it to wear off.  It also helps if the person doing the henna is the pure embodiment of mother nature.  Or has the affect of warm chocolate chip cookies, a good night's rest and your favorite apertif all in one!  Rebecca has that magical henna touch.   

If you were wondering when I'd get back to the hot tub....well here it is.  Imagine the shock when I sat immersed in a bubbly mix of steaming water and I looked out onto the world my husband and I had worked so hard to create.  The flock of chicken retirees meandered about the yard gossiping.  I  looked down the hillside onto our hoophouse with fenced in gardens, still producing food into October!  The beautious chicken coop stared back at me with it's tidy flower gardens framing it, a few vibrant blue Aconitum (Monkshood) standing tall.  And I gazed at the small berry patches, still producing a berry here and there.  It was stunning!  And for a few moments, I allowed myself some deep breaths.  And I forgot  about the sore spot where my rib sits misallinged for the time being (it has worked itself back into place before) so I won't give up hope on it.

As I work harder to organize and make the most of my energy, I recognize relaxation to be just as important of a component of my daily life as anything .  Maybe that means that I periodically stop for a moment to stretch in the opposite direction while I'm weeding or that I take in my surroundings while I rush about feeding and watering the chickens during my morning routine.  It sounds wrong to use the words working at relaxing but I think it is definitely becoming part of the whole, at Chicken Hill.

Chickens Are Love

I was in  the chicken coop saying  good night to my hens and doing the normal head count. There was blood. Not a lot but just enough here and there to know something was amiss. This is my first batch of chickens and they are ageing at over two and  one half years old. I always hear chickens can live a long time. But I’ve lost three chickens of late, I’m getting squeamish and every ailment or abnormal behavior has me racing to the Gail Damerow poultry book. My girls are slowly slipping away---and I’m so attached it’s hard to accept that their passing is a normal process.

I was in the coop watching ten birds jostling for their evening places and they weren’t going to stop to point out who was ailing in the flock. So I quietly observed until I saw Combover, her backside had a scratch and for whatever reason, this overweight gal is a bleeder. I swear that the force of her mass keeps a constant pressure on her exterior that prevents her from clotting. In the past two months I’ve fretted whenever she has a sore or a cut, applying liquids, jellies and finally resorting to a horrible purple spray paint substance called Blu-Kote, which claims anti-microbial properties. I’m not a fan, but it’s the only thing that stays stuck to Combover and prevents her and her coop-mates from further agitating her injuries. And so I learn to live with a Plymouth Barred Rock chicken that happens to be black, white and the not so normal polk- a-dot purple.

My chicken rearing started on a whim. My husband Rob, (then boyfriend) had taken a job in Santa Monica, California but I opted to stay in Vermont. In the brief time that he was gone I decided that I was going to fulfill my dream of raising chickens. And I think it was just as much a shock to me as it was to him that I decided to get chickens in his absence.

Lucky for me and the girls, Rob decided that California wasn’t where he wanted to work and live and returned home. He returned to both our bathrooms filled with tubs of little, downy-soft chirping bodies, vying for the warmth of the brooder lights. And no chicken coop!

Rob couldn’t build a coop fast enough. He claimed that the incessant chirping kept him up at night. And the dust from their feed was another story. But how I loved those little chicks! I didn’t mind that we spent every moment hammering wood together, painting, attaching chicken wire, etc. to create a home for the new addition to our lives. Rob thought I was crazy. (And for the record still does).

I don’t regret for a moment the choice to incorporate chickens into our lives. They bring me such joy and happiness as I watch them on a daily basis. Each has her own personality. I have chickens that follow me around when I garden, hopping into holes that I dig, looking for earthworms. The highest on the pecking order is Biggie Fry who thinks she needs to oversee everything including when it comes to her humans. Guest are followed closely by her watchful eye to make sure she’s not missing out on any of the fun and to be sure that guest conduct themselves appropriately. Good Red jumps on my lap with the grace of a gymnast, earning her the nickname Mary Lou Retton. Baby will trot behind me and constantly cry. A recent guest asked what the name of the chicken was that kept following us that I would say “shhhh Baby” to. When I told her it was Baby she just looked at me dumbfounded. And Baby looked up at her and cried some more, obviously she wanted to be part of the conversation.

I undertook raising poultry because I wanted to raise animals that would provide us with food. We were also getting more serious with our vegetable gardens and had erected a small hoop house to extend our production season. We’ve even had multiple discussions about raising meat birds, something that has been put on hold for two seasons now. What I never would have guessed is how much chickens can be love. I have chickens that jump up on my lap for a snuggle. They show delightful curiosity and in general are impossible not to watch in utter fascination-because you just don’t know what their next move will be.

Tomorrow, my husband will hold Combover, my rather large hen, while I spray her with Blu-Kote. And at Chicken Hill Gardens, nine of the most spoiled, past their prime, egg-layers will look on for a moment until their attention is drawn elsewhere.

Tomatoes, for the record, are almost past but not my memories of them....

Tonight, in Monkton, Vermont- frost threatens and I'm happy that my lettuce and tender crops in the raised bed gardens are snuggly wrapped with blankets.  My hoop house is shut up tight, but will need more work before I deem it fit to grow suitable cold weather crops into the early winter months.  Lucky for us we will see a reprieve in weather by the weekend.  But I know it won't last for very long!

All summer, as I trod down to my hoop house, I had every intention of starting a blog.  Time is just what I had to think about it, since it takes me about an hour to water my 30+ tomato plants and other assorted  warm weather crops.  And during the heat of summer I would make that trip two to three times a week.  It's a small hoop house by industrial standards-but for a home-owner, whose desire is to feed my husband and I, it's a suitable size. 

I mentally took notes on what tomato plants seemed to be performing best.  And I had every intention to weigh each plant's yields and take detailed notes on what varieties tasted like-or how they were best used (salsas, sauces, or freshly eaten), we even dreamed up a tomato tasting, my husband and I.  Did any of this come to fruition?  Nope.  I lost count around 150 to 200 lbs of tomatoes.

What I can tell you is this, I ate fresh tomatoes from summer to fall.  I still have buckets to can and I am cursing when I will find the time to process them.  Yet, it seems like just yesterday I was lamenting for the taste of a fresh tomato.  Now I can't wait to rip out the lovely beast that tower to the top of my (kind of short hoop house at about 7-8'tall) and still dangle lovely green orbs. 

 

I have a lovely collection of home canned products put away for the chillier months and into the season before we hopefully see an abundance of this fruit again.  Ketchup, salsa, pasta sauce and a gem of a condiment that we refer to as sweet chili sauce (something passed down from my grandmother).  A concoction of tomatoes, onions, peppers and a few spices that boiled down with vinegar make the most delectable condiment on pork, eggs and just about anything!  All these canned goods line our shelves and make me smile with pride. 

So who cares if I don't quite recall how many tomatoes came off the Constuluto Genovese and why it took so long to put in the Purple Cherokee and Red Siberian tomatoes this year (our favorites from last year)-or even that the Brandywines just didn't do that great.  I was thrilled by varieties with great names like: Mater Sandwich and Giant Tree Tomato.  Jet Star was so super prolific, that while I was checking the hoop house this evening I picked a few more tomatoes that were ripening.   Through out the growing season I popped various cherry tomatoes into my mouth like candy.  I'm over-joyed with how our first year of raising tomatoes in a hoop house turned out.  And we were fortunate in that we escaped blight, something that many of my gardening friends had their entire crops wiped out by when tropical storm Irene blew it into their gardens. 

For now I dream of the seed catalogues arriving during the snowy months and what tomato varieties I will try next.  I have great memories of an exceptional tomato year and until I get out the yogurt cups and seed starter mix I will enjoy what I was able to preserve.