Plastic Buckets

12 Sunday May 2019

Posted by Jodi in Farm Improvements, Farm Life, Farm Produce, Gardening

I love using our big sturdy plastic yogurt buckets around the place. They’re endlessly useful for toting all sorts of things both solid and liquid. One in each hand, equally loaded, adds valuable equilibrium to any heavy carry. Sadly the cheap plastic handles get brittle and snap after a few years. A pity, when the buckets themselves still have years of life left.

So I have a hack for that. Putting together my 1970’s macrame skills (jute owl plant hanger anyone?), a broken-handled bucket and 15 pieces of baling twine, I can fit a new handle to an old bucket in about 20 minutes.

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My earliest prototype is a few years old now, left out in all sorts of weather, and still going strong. The baling twine won’t rot and the knots tighten with each use.

I choose nine lengths of twine with their ties near one end and trim those off. Then I knot them at the end and slip the other end through a one inch hole I drilled in the top side of the bucket, knotting on the inside. I divide the nine into three groups of three and tie the same simple macrame knot over and over again. This creates a fat corkscrew that’s comfy in the hand. You could instead use sets of two, or even one, to make a thinner handle. You could do a flat braid too but I think the corkscrew is prettier.

When the side strings get short I tie a new length on each and that is enough to create the handle you see here. You could go longer or shorter depending on your needs and your baling twine supply. When I am done knotting I push the ends through a second hole I drilled on the other side of my bucket and knot on the inside. I trim up any loose ends, and voila, a fully functional portable container.

Plus I guess I can cross “repurposing waste plastic into something useful” off my bucket list!

Yes I washed it before I put food in it lol!

My Dodecatheon is Blooming

04 Saturday May 2019

Posted by Jodi in Farm Life, Gardening, Seasons

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My Dodecatheon is Blooming

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It was always a race. Whose dodecatheon would bloom first? Mom’s? Or mine?

We had bought each other one on our annual just-before-Mother’s Day garden centre meet-up. Took them home and potted them up, a shooting star each to decorate our decks. And then for all the years we had them, until she died in 2012, we would compare bloom dates. She usually won since her’s basked on her south-facing back deck, and got more love than mine which was left to fend for itself in among the chives and tulips in a pot by my greenhouse door. Mine was always a more vivid purple, perhaps due to it having to fight a little harder for survival.

Thanks to Mom, I know exactly when we started this annual garden shopping trip, during which I would buy her a plant of her choice, and she would buy me one too, for Mother’s Day. It’s crystal clear, the picture in my mind. So sharp I feel the achy possibility I could scan it, print it, and hold it tenderly in my hands, placing it once again in front of, instead of behind, my misty eyes. May 12, 2002. Mom was 62 and I was 41.

Marigold Nurseries. Angle parking on the strip of gravel running between the chain link fence and the road. My slender, graceful Mom, monochromatically classy in her carefully chosen garden centre-ing outfit. Light blue high-waisted skinny jeans, a baby blue t shirt and an oversized faded blue Levi’s jean button down shirt. White purse and runners. A smoke in her hand. Walking towards me from her parking spot down the line. Heat squiggles rising from the pavement, distorting her figure slightly as if she were approaching through water. And her peculiar gait, listing a touch sideways though she was walking straight on. Dusty wind blowing, flaring her loose shirt tails. Our first time. She looked like a teenager until she got up close.

We’d had a fractious relationship when I was growing up, I frustrated her and she pissed me off. But we had learned to like each other (I mean really LIKE each other, aside from the deep abiding love that securely anchored our whole family) well before the turn of the century. Maturity and motherhood drew us closer I think. And it was her who first suggested we get together near Mother’s Day and shop for that year’s annuals to fill our deck planters. But, as she pointed out, not on the exact day because I should be able to just hang out at home and relax on actual Mother’s Day – not duty visit my mother – and besides, the garden centres are insane that weekend and who likes line-ups?

That first year, after we went through the checkout, she asked me to come to her car as she had a Mother’s Day gift for me. Opening her trunk, she presented me with a brand new shiny Sunset Western Gardening Book. THE book for serious gardeners. With a simple inscription inside the front cover. That I cherish.

You could have knocked me over with a feather. My frugal mother, splashing out on this wonderful book. When she died and no one wanted her Sunset Western Garden Book, I took it home and shelved it next to mine. I couldn’t bear to see it donated, full as it is with mom’s scratchy pencilled notes, plant tags and Helen Chestnut newspaper clippings. Maybe one of my kids will want it someday.

Every year thereafter we made the same trip, although soon it was a whole morning and afternoon and I’d pick her up so we weren’t juggling two cars, and we’d visit every garden centre on the peninsula. Pausing for a quick smoke in the parking lots before going in. Marigold, Elk Lake, the one near Pat Bay whose name escapes me, Brentwood, Cannor. Slowly piling my minivan, then my SUV, full of flowery fragrant flats. Heliotrope. Schizanthus. Petunia. Begonia. Impatiens. Alyssum. Lobelia. I would drop her off home, help her unload her flats, give her a big hug, and head home myself, to see what my family had all got up to that day. Then I would brew a cup of tea, put my feet up, and plan my potting up strategy for that year.

My dodecatheon is blooming, and I miss my mother. I think I will see if my daughters want to go to the garden centre one day soon. You know, just a quick trip, pick up a few annuals for the deck. The last couple years we’ve started going, and this year one of them brought it up before I did. ❤️

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September in Paris

16 Tuesday Apr 2019

Posted by Jodi in Farm Life, Seasons

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Early September 2017, and we were in Paris for four nights near the start of a European vacation. We’d rented a 300 year old bachelor apartment with laundry in the 4th arrondissement, on the Île Saint-Louis, within easy walking distance of Notre Dame.

Our compact 18th century neighbourhood of 4 and 5 storey apartment buildings boasted street level patisserie, wine, produce, meat and grocery shops, along with the obligatory touristy candy and trinket stores. A pharmacy, a bank, and a few restaurants rounded out the options. And above the shops, masses of tiny flats like the one we occupied. The setting made it easy for me to have a bit of fun by pretending to myself that I was an actual resident.

I had been warned about Paris, of the streets that smelled like pee and the rude Parisiens. People said “Paris is nice, but…” and I had floated the idea of skipping the city entirely, but DH wasn’t having it. “Come all the way to France, and not visit Paris?” he cried, amazed I was even suggesting it. He was right, I met no one rude, nor smelled smells I’d rather not, all the time we were there.

We had settled in, got our bearings, provisioned ourselves with the help of the white coated staff patiently manning the shops, and, because it was close, had walked down along the Seine and visited Notre Dame already, when poor DH got sick. His strategy for fighting colds is to sleep, so he went to bed after lunch and didn’t get up for two days.

And so there I was, at loose ends in Paris, and I sure wasn’t going to sit in the flat and watch him sleep.

I figured it made sense to visit the sites of least mutual interest, so I strolled over to Shakespeare’s bookshop where I spent a pleasurable quiet afternoon hanging out, reading. It was when I was walking back to the flat on the wide uneven walkways paralleling the river, feeling carefree in Paris and not looking where I was going, that I stepped off a curb, turned my ankle and went down hard on the cement. Immediately I was surrounded by kindly French speaking people, none of whom I could understand in the slightest, leaning over me, then helping me up and dusting me off and asking, I assumed, if I needed medical care. I was pretty banged up, but close to the flat, so I smiled, gestured that I was fine, gritted my teeth and limped home.

The next morning with DH still in bed nursing his bug, and me with a scraped leg and hand, and swollen sprained ankle, I dug out the cane/stool I had bought on Amazon before we left home in case I needed to sit and rest my knee in the lineups I knew I would be in all over Europe. I didn’t foresee that I would need the cane instead of the stool, and to support my ankle not my knee. I was pretty happy I had it anyway, because, dammit, I wasn’t going to sit around. I might not be here again and I had to make the most of this lovely city. Despite our setbacks, I was falling in love with Paris. So I wrapped up my ankle, popped a couple ibuprofen, said goodbye to a dozing DH, struggled down the winding wooden stairs, and headed back to Notre Dame.

My progress was slow but I knew that once there I would find plenty of seating in the warm, dim, glorious interior, no entrance fee and probably very little lineup, as on the first afternoon we had been there. It would be dry too, out of the pouring rain.

I spent much of that day inside the cathedral, soaking up the stately calm, the murmuring subdued voices a constant backdrop, staring back at the myriad of 12th, 13th, 14th century faces gazing solemnly out of the ornate frames encrusting the walls. I sat and took in the beautiful architecture and magnificent ceilings, the amazing stained glass, the priceless jewels, the precious statues, the holy relics; all the immense glory and riches of the Catholic Church evidencing the beneficence of their holy trinity.

I slowly circumnavigated the main interior walkway circling the perimeter several times that day, hobbling in the same direction as my fellow visitors, if at my own speed. I took frequent breaks to rest my ankle, settling into a pew here, and a bench there, feasting my eyes and enjoying my solitary sojourn in this magnificent space. Contemplating. I didn’t speak to a soul, I just rested mine.

That trip, we visited many churches and monuments and testaments to the power of the Church and other sundry dynasties. Of them all, Notre Dame is the one I remember the best. Seeing it aflame was heart breaking.

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A Noisy Surprise

08 Monday Apr 2019

Posted by Jodi in Chickens, Farm Life, Weather

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Staggering hatches can get a little tricky, and somehow a couple weeks ago I found myself with a single half-baked Silkie egg. Rather than dealing with the issue, I popped the egg into the closest warm incubator then promptly forgot all about it.

Fast forward to Friday night, when I was greeted in the incubator room by a little creature yelling at me from inside an incubator where no little creatures were scheduled to hatch for another few days! That’s when I remembered. Oops.

Wow, little fuzzybutt must have hatched all on her own! She had no lockdown, no increased humidity; pipping and zipping outta her shell all while riding in an actively turning turner. I had to admire her determination. Moving her to the brooder where she could wait safely for the other chicks to hatch, I set her up with a soft swiffer mama to snuggle (lacking a feather duster), some food, water and heat, and went on my way.

Based on the natural law that says if anything can possibly go wrong it will, Saturday morning at 10:43 we lost power.

DH hauled his 50 lb. backup battery into the inc room, and we plugged the ‘bators in, covered them with towels to reduce heat loss, crossed our fingers and hoped for the best.

But what to do with fuzzybutt? Her heat lamp was off, as she was so loudly reminding us. I considered putting her back in the inc, but worried she might snap a leg in the turner. I considered taking her out to my mama hen, but her chicks were a whole week older and twice fuzzybutt’s size. Plus it was full daylight. I usually sneak extra chicks under hens in the dark. So I fastidiously wrapped her bottom half in paper towel and put her inside my shirt. She wasn’t super happy about her new abode, but finally settled down and took a nap, while I sat in my chair knitting, listening to the wind howling through the trees and the rain thrumming on the skylight and praying for the power to come back on soon.

Any faint novelty around acting the part of mama hen wore off as the day wore on, with fuzzybutt either fitfully dozing or complaining loudly about her fate. I am slightly ashamed to admit that after a couple of hours with no power I had had enough. DH’s battery had run dry and I had two incubators full of rapidly cooling eggs on my hands and a whiny baby strapped to my chest. When BC Hydro posted online that the power was going to be out all day I decided that desperate times called for desperate measures. Marching outside and down to the hen hotel, I dug fuzzybutt out of her paper towel nest and presented her to my silver pencilled Plymouth Rock hen and chicks.

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“What the heck?” I could see Mama hen thinking, as she peered closely at this tiny, loudly caterwauling chick. She pecked at her once or twice, but not violently, and fuzzybutt just raised both her stubby winglets above her fuzzy head and yelled louder. In that moment I almost understood Chicken; I swear I could hear her demanding “WARM ME UP!”. Since I could see that mama likely wasn’t going to kill her, plus I had heard more than enough whining, I left them to get acquainted, and escaped back to the house.

Each time I went out to the barnyard on Saturday afternoon, I could hear little fuzzybutt yelling. At least she was still alive I thought. By the time the power came on again at 6 pm, it was quiet. Mama had put her children, including fuzzybutt, to bed. I was happy to leave the little complainer right where she was, and even happier on Sunday morning when I could still hear the complaining as I walked out to the barnyard to do morning chores.

Today, Monday, fuzzybutt is too busy running around keeping up with her big sisters and brothers to make much noise, and her patient Mama is having a bit of an easier time of it.

And the incubators full of eggs? DH and I have our fingers crossed still. I will just have to see what hatches and start over if needed. A minor setback, and all in a day’s work around here.

I think I will name my silver pencilled rock hen, as I do all my stand out flock members. She has earned it. Hmmmmmm. What to call her?

Holding Out for a Better Deal

03 Wednesday Apr 2019

Posted by Jodi in Chance

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A master manipulator with a clock in his head, Chance the dog proved today that he is also self-disciplined and aware enough to practice delayed gratification.

Maybe you’ve heard about the 1972 Marshmallow Experiment? Researchers gave 4 and 5 year old children a marshmallow, then offered them a deal. If the child didn’t eat the marshmallow when the researcher stepped out of the room, they would be rewarded with a second one. Then the researcher left the room for 15 minutes. As you might expect, some kids couldn’t wait while others held out and won that second marshmallow. Then the researchers followed the kids for the next 40 years. The study found that the children who could delay their gratification had more success in all facets of their lives.

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When I return to the house after feeding the barnyard crew lunch each day, if Chance has accompanied me (some days he chooses sleep), we stop at the closet at the bottom of the stairs so I can give him a dog bone cookie. Invariably, he grabs it excitedly, races up the stairs, finds a good hidey hole, and munches it down. Yesterday as usual I reached into the box, grabbed one, handed it to him, then walked around the corner to check on the laundry. When I came back a few minutes later, he was still sitting at the bottom of the stairs and so was his cookie, on the floor in front of him! That’s when I noticed I had given the poor little fellow 🙄 a broken one.

He stared pleadingly at me, and I more or less automatically reached back into the closet, grabbed another, whole cookie, and handed it to him. He accepted this one excitedly, and was off, racing up the stairs as usual to eat in private.

The little bugger had held out for the bigger snack and got me to deliver. I suppose I shouldn’t be too surprised. After all, Chance has managed to overcome:

Being stray in LA
Passing unscathed (!) through a high kill SoCal shelter despite resembling a stubby pit bull
Going on a long road trip, destined for an island off the coast of another country
Sojourning for several weeks with a bad cough at a USA border control health care facility
Immigrating, then accepting a temporary home at a dog rescue
Participating in saving a confused elderly dog on a busy country road
Lucking into an impulse adoption by a recently bereaved dog owner collecting daughter’s said elderly dog at the Gowland Todd trailhead
Having all his American medical bills paid by his new master
Ending up in his current comfy berth as much loved lap dog, master of his domain and noble chicken guardian.

And he’s only just turned five!

Dear Chance has had a pretty successful life so far. I guess he’s also been smart enough to make at least some of his own luck, as all truly capable folk do.

A Successful Hunt

24 Sunday Mar 2019

Posted by Jodi in Equipment, Farm Life

≈ 1 Comment

3528E1B4-C4CA-4466-BB0A-5CB181D6BBD0 I had to drive up island today to drop off birds and pick up eggs, and I went early to make time for a visit with my SIL who lives up that way. We had a great day secondhand store shopping and lunching in busy downtown Duncan, and to cap it all off, we both enjoyed a successful hunt!

Secondhand shopping demands an entirely different attitude than regular shopping. You can’t make a detailed list and expect to stick to it. Instead, you take pot luck! Our attitude is always something along the lines of “…sure would be nice to find a (desired item) today…”, and we brief each other at the start, because in among the jumble of other peoples’ discarded possessions, four eyes are much better than two. More often than not we fail to find what we seek, but when we succeed, victory is sweet. And often we find stuff we had no idea we needed, until we laid eyes on it. (This can be a problem, restraint is key.)

Secondhand shopping is both virtuous and rewarding. Where else can you reduce, reuse and recycle, support local charities, save your pocketbook and have an enjoyable time with friends, all while rejecting the consumer-driven economy that urges us to buy more and more brand new items, discarding repairable, gently worn or slightly out of style old ones that are often of better quality?

Today, SIL was hunting for a fondue set. Her partner, who is a good cook, had asked her to keep an eye out for one. Success would mean a pleased partner plus yummy fondue, so she was motivated! At the fourth and last store we hit, eureka – in the form of a brand new aluminum fondue set, still gleaming in its factory wrapping, for $10. Score!

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I was hunting for a nice little wood bowl, to make myself a yarn bowl. I’ve been knitting socks this winter, and whenever I split a skein into two, winding each half into a one-sock ball, I spend a fair bit of time chasing the bloody things.

No matter where in my lap I place them, as I tug my line to knit they tend to escape, jumping from my lap (banzai ball!), then hiding under my chair or rolling behind the side table, both scenarios that demand I set my knitting aside and get up to shift furniture and retrieve them.

I knew a yarn bowl would solve my problem, and I also knew I didn’t want to pay the ridiculous $30 or $40 for the nice wooden ones I had seen. I saw no reason why I couldn’t repurpose an old wood bowl. Also at store number four (my lucky number I might add) I discovered a sweet little hand -turned BC yew wood bowl for the princely sum of $3. Score!

I am lucky that my SIL has a talented brother, and when I got home and shared my vision he was eager to help. Off he bustled to his shop, bowl in hand, to wield his coping saw and press his drill into service.

An hour later…voila, my new one-of-a-kind yew-nique yarn bowl. ❤️ And it even says “Jo”.

Satisfying Sunny Saturday

17 Sunday Mar 2019

Posted by Jodi in Chickens, Equines, Farm Life, Seasons, Weather

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A warm sunny Saturday, our first since last year, and we all took full advantage. The dogs lounged in the winter field, sprawled in the sun on velvet grass, jumping up from time to time to escort another hungry, hopeful raptor out of barnyard airspace. Somnolent equines sunbathed, twitching an ear now and then. Feathery chicken metronomes ranged in formation across the short turf, clipping the fine new grass with sharp beaks, occasionally glancing longingly at K’s well protected kale patch.

That kale! A month ago they were poor frozen kale-sicles buried under two feet of snow. I was sure they would thaw to mush. Today though, plucky little kale trees stand tall, offering their purple green topknots to the sky, worshipping the warm rays. Lean, wrinkly garden gnomes with big hair.

Black Silkie has declared herself broody again. She just finished raising a crop of winter babies! I don’t think she laid more than a couple eggs before she decided it was once again time to set. Tonight I will move her and her eggs to the seclusion of the barn. Otherwise it will be mere days until the rest of the Silkie hens quit laying and join her. With Silkies, broodiness is contagious. And I have hatching egg customers waiting for eggs.

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Dear husband continued work on his shop exterior and from the barnyard I could faintly hear his power tools flare up from time to time, as another piece of metal siding got cut, or screw got sunk, or cedar shingle got stapled to a gable end.

K sowed seeds in the warmest parts of her south facing yard garden, early peas and sweet peas and other hardy annuals. Then hooked up the pump, preparing to easily water her new-sown plots throughout what they say will be a week of sun. A week of sun! If all goes according to plan, those seeds should fairly leap out of the ground.

At midday I drew the Wyandotte flock back into their pen with a handful of scratch, and freed the black chicken flock for the first time since moving my Marans in with my Barnevelders hens a week ago. The Barnie eggs I had hatched to provision my girls with a man or two had yielded a crop of bizarrely coloured cockerels, totally unsuited for breeding. Sigh. Back to the drawing board on the Barnie project. I wish people wouldn’t sell their experiments as purebred hatching eggs.

In the meantime, blending the Barnie and Marans flocks makes for one less coop to maintain, and gives the Marans a more pleasant abode for this time of year than their shady creekside pen. Fertility is poor with the Marans this year, and with fertile eggs in high demand, I am trying everything to make them more comfortable and thus promote happy chicken sex.

The Marans love their new home, with its sunnier aspect and roomier roosts. Egg production picked up immediately. The nestbox arrangement though, needed to be improved. Marans are not petite birds, and the four box diamond DH had built for me a couple years back was a little tight for birds of their size. I was tired of cramped birds staring reproachfully at me as they uncomfortably laid their eggs in those close quarters.

So I dug out a nestbox picture I had admired on the internet, consulted DH to ensure I started off on the right track, hauled out my tools, picked through the used lumber pile till I found what I needed, and got to work.

I was sure it would take me a couple days to finish my roomier nest box tower but much to my surprise and satisfaction, it was done in an afternoon. Good tools and a bit of experience, I reflected while admiring my creation, sure make the difference. There is honestly nothing better, in my opinion, than an idyllic afternoon in the barnyard, puttering. And a tangible goal met at the end is the icing on the cake!

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Last night when I went out late to lock up after my dear brother’s birthday dinner, there was a dark cinnamon marans egg in the bottom box, and a little Isbar hen installed at the back of the top box, brooding over a single sky blue egg. Nope little lady, you’re not taking over this box for the next 21 days. If you insist, I will move you to a broody box, and we’ll see how well you stick to your resolution.

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Rain Softly Falling

11 Monday Mar 2019

Posted by Jodi in Seasons, Weather

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Let out my birds at noon to free range and as usual my seven year old brahma ran straight to the nearest snow bank. She loves eating snow, the funny old thing. But if this rain keeps up, that might have been her last snow cone this winter.
I’ve missed rain’s silvery trails slicing through my headlamp beam at evening chore time, her gentle patter freckling my face. It has been too long since she last dropped in.
The dark velvety soft night enchants me and although as wet as always, the rain in no way dampens my enthusiasm for this weather change. Spring is in the neighbourhood for sure, I hope she stops by and stays a while!

Adventures In Chicken Keeping

28 Thursday Feb 2019

Posted by Jodi in Chickens

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Into my eighth year now keeping chickens and I have sampled LOTS of breeds since 2012, 44 to be exact.

In the early days I had one simple goal. I wanted all the colours. Who cared about productivity? or size? or feed efficiency? or temperament? Not me. I loved my colourful flock, lorded over by my Plymouth Barred Rock rooster Foghorn Leghorn.

Over the first few years, as my chicken-lady mantle settled around my shoulders, I started paying attention to breed characteristics. Much like dogs, chicken breeds come in all shapes and sizes, designed to meet a whole range of environmental conditions and purposes, from pugilist to docile companion to egg producer to Sunday dinner.

There are always special birds like BattleChicken, but generally speaking, brahmas behave like a brahma and australorps act like an australorp. (Birds of a feather really do flock together too, which is fascinating, but a whole other topic.)

Over the next few years I discovered I loved some breeds, while others really irritated me! Some are stupid, others are boring. Some eat a ton of food and their big butts take up half the available roost, but they only produce scrawny little eggs. Some are mean to their flock mates, or flighty to the point of being neurotic. I also learned that I especially can’t abide a whiny, demanding chicken.

There is nothing as effective as direct experience at helping one form an opinion. Therefore, my fellow chicken people, may I present, for a limited time only (until my tastes shift), my current favourites, and why. I hope my opinion helps you, even just a little bit, along on your own individual explorations through the universe of chicken keeping.

#1 – Wyandottes

I keep a mixed flock (all the colours!) of these pleasant, respectful birds. They lay like stink, are drop-dead-gorgeous with their delicately laced feathers and pleasingly rounded bodies, forage very well and not one of mine has ever gone broody. (Watch, now I’ve said that, tomorrow I will find a broody one out there). ⭐️ ⭐️ ⭐️ ⭐️ ⭐️

#2 – Cream Legbars

After a few false starts I have finally established a strong line here in our muddy valley. A good size for their type, mine lay prodigious numbers of big, round, blue blue eggs. Trim little birds, legbars don’t eat to excess and the roosters are handsome. They get along with everyone, the chicks practically leap from their shells and I can tell their sex at hatch. Way, way better blue egg layers than any Ameracauna lines I ever kept (and I tried several), except for the hardy, prolific hatchery version, who were in truth Easter Eggers sold as “Americanas”, not purebreds. ⭐️ ⭐️ ⭐️ ⭐️ ⭐️

#3 – Silkies

Ok, I know. Silkies are impractical, they lay small eggs, can’t fly, not much of a carcass (and it’s a funny colour), take forever to start laying and are IMPOSSIBLE to sex, but gosh I love my silkies. Silkies don’t count when I do my chicken census, they aren’t really chickens anyhow. They are little gentlemen in snowy trousers and little ladies in flouncy tulle gowns, sedately stepping out to take the barnyard air, with their blue earrings on and their parasols twirling in the breeze. They are powderpuff mamas, devoted to their cotton ball children. Silkies are by Monet. ⭐️ ⭐️ ⭐️ ⭐️ ⭐️

#4 – Alsteriers

A somewhat obscure old European breed, I got my Alsterier eggs a couple years ago from Briarwood in Mill Bay in a fun pack of breeder’s choice eggs. All four of my Alsterier eggs hatched, and all four were girls. With their jaunty crests and intelligent eyes, my Alsteriers get along with everyone. They lay incredible numbers of massive, pinky almost white eggs and fertility is spectacular. Almost every Alsterier X chick I hatch is a girl too! And Alsty the broody is one of my best mamas. Femininity is strong in my Alsteriers. ⭐️ ⭐️ ⭐️ ⭐️ ⭐️

#5 – Silverudd’s Blue Isbar

The person I got the eggs of this unusual breed from promised me I would love her isbars, and yup. Petite with big personalities, my three cheeky Isbar pullets have been popping out almost an egg a day apiece all winter long, decently sized green ones, some with brown or peachy spots. Exactly the same age as, and in the same flock with, my beautiful silver laced barnevelder pullets, my isbars lay twice as many eggs at least! I am so impressed with these gals that I may see if I can hatch them a man this year. ⭐️ ⭐️ ⭐️ ⭐️ ⭐️

6 – Black Copper Marans

Made the list for their egg colour of course. I’ve tried a few; blue, black copper and wheaten, and I like the black copper best. These super mellow birds lay huge cinnamon to chocolate coloured eggs. I just wish they laid more of them. My Marans usually take the winter off laying, lazy things. And I wish my dominant rooster would shut up. He yells a lot. I can only spare four stars for my Marans. If their eggs weren’t so cool, they’d be GONE. ⭐️ ⭐️ ⭐️ ⭐️

That’s my short list for 2019. I shall probably choose one or two new breeds to try this year. Right now I have no idea which, but I am looking forward to ruminating on my choices. Because with adventures in chicken keeping, just like so many of life’s other pleasures, half the fun is in the journey, isn’t it!

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Play Farmer

21 Thursday Feb 2019

Posted by Jodi in Farm Life, Farm Produce

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Living on a hobby farm gives me an inkling, just a hint, of what it must be like to be a subsistence farmer, a person who earns their living from the land. Holy cow what a challenging lifestyle.

Farmers get all my respect. It takes huge effort to wrest one’s living straight outta the earth. Our dabbling in raising plants and animals for the table gives me an idea of how hard it must be. It also makes me very grateful that I don’t have to earn my entire living from the soil and my own two hands.

Like so many early 20th century Canadians, my forebears were agrarians; Dad’s family farmed in northern Alberta and Mom’s ran a plant nursery in northern Manitoba. My grandpa loved the green valley his mother had settled, and lived there all his life. Not so my parents’ baby boomer generation, most of whom left the farm mid-century for the oil patch, suburban living or the big city. Because farming was exhausting work.

In the 60s and 70s we drove up from the coast to the family farm every summer and I fell in love with country life – at least the sanitized comfortable plentiful summertime version of it – and horses too. I think my folks inherited, and passed on, Grandpa’s “green valley” gene to me, because not only was my childhood spent on a hobby farm, we live on one today.

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We count ourselves lucky, my husband and I, to have raised our kids in our very own green valley. Ours is a muddier version than my parents’ but sure doesn’t beat Grandpa’s! My grandparents’ farm, much to my amazement as a small rubber-booted child stuck fast in grandma’s garden, had the muddiest mud of all – that northern Alberta gumbo is formidable stuff!

Grandpa’s green valley gene, that pull to the countryside, that need for space and wide open surroundings, lives strong in me and I see it in our children too. Some folks crave the action, the bright lights and high rises, the carefully curated city parks. We like all that stuff too, but we are always just a little relieved to get home to our muddy valley.

Most of all, I am grateful that I get to play farmer, and that I don’t have to be the real thing. I don’t know if I’d have the strength.