Coop Raising




Barbie's chickens that survived the coop fire. The rooster has a singed
comb and one of the ladies has a little burn on her saddle feathers.

        I read the news on face book while sipping my morning cup of coffee from a mug crafted by Monkton potter, Warren Dixon. My neighbor, Barbie Collette’s chicken coop had burned to the ground during the night. My immediate reaction was a sleepy sadness. I posted a comment about how sorry I was and watched while others did the same. The rooster had made it out safely and there was suspicion that one of the hens had burned in the coop. Later in the day when I checked back in-it was discovered that all the chickens had survived the fire.


Barbie and Mark working on the chicken door.

      Mention fire and chicken coops to anyone and brace yourself for the roasted chicken comments. I tried to crack a smile, because after all I do eat roasted chicken but inside I was cringing. I never knew that I had an affinity for feathered creatures until I started raising a small flock of chickens. Birds I knew of because I have a sister who is a serious birder and I took a VT Natural History course in college that had me trouncing through the woods observing wildlife. I also grew up surrounded by many flying critters. Who isn’t dazzled by the bright colors of male Cardinals, the cheery yellow of Goldfinches or the bright hues of blue on the ever present Blue Jay? 

Rob Hunter with his
carpentry talent!

      You might say, chickens though? And my response is YES, get a handful of these little fluffy critters under a heat lamp and start to observe them, you are sure to fall in love. Or at the very least you will find that great chunks of time have come and gone while you've watched their antics. It doesn’t stop at their youth either. As they grow into their odd teenage plumage they continue to display their individuality.  Once they become true hens, or at the point in which they start to lay eggs, their personality continues to grow. My chickens have different voices that express what is going on in their lives or around them on a daily basis. Happy chortles for a particularly desirable snack, warning sounds when danger is sensed, deep breaths for contentment, loud prideful bawking noises when an egg is laid. Don’t even get me started on the variety of chicken expressions. Point made, I’ve spent a LOT of time with my flock. I like birds.


Some of the crew that
helped with the
coop building.



Inside the chicken coop.
Feeder and waterer.


     By the end of the day, in which I’d learned that Barbie’s coop had burned, my mind had never left the thought of homeless chickens. Where would they spend the night? I looked back on our coop building days-it took all of our spare time to create a solid predator proof home for our girls.  I couldn’t imagine how Barbie, a mother of two young and energetic boys, who works full time, could find the time to create a new coop. I also thought of how cold February is. It’s during this time of the year that I have to slather my chicken’s combs with Vaseline to prevent them from getting frostbite. I looked at my husband Rob and we both knew immediately that we wanted to offer our help.

Ellen, Matt and George.

     In a quick email exchange with Barbie we learned that she would like our help. And so we began to think how we would go about rebuilding the coop. Rob loves to create outbuildings and garden structures and so our wood supply had dwindled. We didn’t have enough materials to even begin the project.


Nesting box that can be accessed
outside of the coop!

      Using face book, where I had learned about the coop burning down, is where I asked for donations of materials and in the process found that others would like to help with the rebuild process. Friends from Burlington offered materials, and we still are hearing from folks that wished they’d heard of the coop raising so that they could have leant a hand.

     The first to come to our aid was Kristen and Cyrus Patten, followed by Ellen Perry. They had materials and Ellen, a fire fighter, wanted to help with the building (she had rescued the chickens from their burned enclosure). Theresa Payea also invited us to stop by for any materials that she had on hand. Betsy McDonough contacted her father-in-law who dropped off materials. Kesta Perras drove me around, in her husband Tim’s truck, to collect materials.  My husband, Rob Hunter, oversaw the project coming up with a quick design for a new coop while Barbie’s partner, Mark Pelletier was there to lend a hand with the construction. Barbie’s sons, Foster and George were also present. George kept us well-supplied with smiles and giggles through the afternoon! Ellen’s friend Matt helped us finish up the day when Rob had to leave to help judge the Monkton Flag Contest.
 

Shooting through the nesting box
with Barbie inside the coop.


      All day Barbie rushed about making sure we had bagels, hot coffee and she made all the volunteers a hot lunch of seafood chowder with steaming corn bread. Welcomed by all because the temperature hovered a little below freezing.

     The chickens are still getting use to the coop. We stopped by just the other day to put a finishing touch on the door and a few chickens were inside eating. One chicken had laid an egg on the floor, not quite sure what to make of the new nesting boxes. As I walked out of the yard to climb into my car, a few white flurries floated about and a nearby chimney puffed out white plumes. Brrrr it was cold, but my heart was warmed by the thought of so many community members, that didn’t really know each other, coming together to work on a coop raising!




Barb inside the new coop!  WAIT, that's where the chickens are
supposed to be! 

  　
　
　

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!

Chicken Hill Ramblings



View at the top of Abbey Pond

       Hoop house experiments, chicken ponderings, hiking musings, chili cook-offs and relaxation have all been blog topics I’ve rambled on about. How am I faring with all those? 

       This year in Monkton we are in a holding pattern, winter is eluding us.  Many are wondering  do we skip winter and dare start thinking glorious spring-time thoughts? Wait just one second. Yes, rain is forecasted for the beginning of February with 40 degree temps. This is CRAZY. If this was a real winter I’d be low on firewood and accepted the extra pair of long johns as a second skin by now. Not this year.   

I picked kale, carrots and some
micro greens on February 1st!



      Recently I walked into my hoop house to find I was able to still pull carrots and I took a moment to taste the micro greens, they were still scrumptious.  Not long ago on a really cold night I neglected to cover up the greens in the hoop house.  When I realized my mistake, I said to my husband (while we were soaking in the hot tub)…“I’m done with this experiment.” And to be fair my goal had originally been to see if we could eat out of the hoop house until the end of December  We were well into January.

     The other day a friend and I took a walk down the hillside to see how the hoophouse was faring.  I was surprised to see the micro greens still alive and after discovering how good they tasted, decided to cover them with blankets in hopes to further extend the growing season.  Today, February 1st,  I wandered down to pick a container of greens for our evening meal.  Grandma’s hope chest, which some might remember as a late planting experiment earlier this past fall, is still filled with tiny micro greens, not big enough to  harvest but they are still hanging on. The heat sink or black barrel filled with water has only frozen solid a couple of times and on a warm day I can remove the lid and see glistening water.  Many people are talking about how this weird weather is going to affect the maple syrup industry and what will happen to our ornamental trees, shrubs and perennials due to inadequate snow cover and unpredictable rollercoaster temperatures. It sure has been an odd winter. 



Lilac enjoying a drink
of water.

     My chickens admittedly don't mind the warmer temperatures. I've found that Plymouth Barred Rocks are the hardiest members of my flock. About half of my original birds have returned back to the earth. The White Leghorns were my best egg-layers but also the weakest birds, followed by Rhode Island Reds. It is amusing that the chickens I have the deepest connection to and the least connection with are my survivors. Lilac, my sole surviving White Leghorn has multiple birth defects including a misshapen foot.  And Rob refers to it as her shovel foot.  She is one of the lowest birds in the pecking order and the friendliest. Always the first to greet guest and to jump up in a lap to steal some warmth. Comb-over (the bleeder) is one aloof bird, who has had multiple coats of Blu Kote applied to her series of wounds.  She looks at everyone with distrustful eyes.  Baby, Biggie Fry and Good Red all take turns to jump up on my lap and to enjoy a few pats and a bit of cuddling. These trusting souls will take a few moments to close their eyes emitting a snoring noise almost as if to say “Your lap is a peaceful place to visit.”

Looking out the top of the fire tower on
Spruce Mountain in Plainfield, VT

       I was out promoting the Monkton Community Coffeehouse's  annual Chili Cook-Off, hanging posters recently when  I stopped for a bowl of soup and picked up a newspaper, something I rarely do. Inside I found that a young, past co-worker had died while hiking. I was shocked as this young man was a super fit hiker and the last person I would expect to see a death notice for. I don’t know all the details and much is left to conjecture, but it seems he had an accident on the trail, was hiking alone and froze to death. After this I started to really question my winter hiking. My husband worked at trying to dissuade my fears sighting that we always hike as a couple or with at least one other person. We try to be careful with food, water and extra layers. But there have been times that we’ve pushed the envelope, getting late starts, not carrying flash lights, emergency blankets, etc. I struggled a short while aknowledging some fears and pondering about how fragile life is. But in the end I realized that if you live in fear of living you aren’t living. So we continue to hike.  Shortly after hearing of Levi’s passing our small hiking group was schelduled for  a hike.  It fell on one of the coldest days we’ve had this winter. A clear and somewhat sunny 7 degree day. I took great care in choosing what I wore and carried with me.  On the trail I thought about Levi and what a wonderful person he was.  And at the close of that 3 & ½ hour hike, when I started to lose feeling in my butt and parts of my face,  I was happy to be climbing into the car to head to a warmer environment and proud that I could continue to live.  You can’t let fear get in your way but do allow for it to influence you to make wiser choices then you might normally make.

      The tiny town of Monkton experienced an AMAZING evening on January 28^th.   I’m proud as it was a moment that I will always remember. The third annual Monkton Community Coffeehouse's Chili Cook-Off was a huge success. I headed up this event with countless others and it brought the town together all under one roof. Over 150 people seemingly enjoyed food, conversations and some dancing. I felt such pride for my community as 4-H, scouts, and many other volunteers came together to cook, clean, serve, problem solve and participate in an event that was just plain and simple fun! Kudos for EVERYONE involved in taking part in that evening. 

This photo taken by Buzz Kuhns, shows a sampling of the
crowd at the Chili Cook-Off.  It is estimated that 150-
175 people came together to eat chili! 



      Winter is at a standstill and I can breath a sigh of relief as I don’t have any big projects on the horizon.  I will enjoy some ME time.  I’ve stepped up my yoga practice to twice a week and sometimes make it to bone builder classes.

I've also started a Monkton book group and the latest read is a memoir by Melissa Coleman.  Daughter of Eliot Coleman, as in Eliot Coleman THE garden guru that I often speak of!  It's a story of back to the land living during the 70's and beyond that I can't tell you much because I've just picked it up.    

      Meanwhile, I dream of the scent of bark mulch and the feel of warm earth between my fingers. The Chicken Hill ladies probably wish for sunny peat dust baths and kicking up leaf litter to unearth tasty insects.