Spending a lot of time going up and down the hill to the garden. The tomato wagon has plants bursting with tomatoes leaning precariously off its wooden edges. We have cherries, heirlooms, Old Germans, Early Boys and a couple of new varieties. Tender new kale leaves push forward as soon as I snip larger leaves off. I’ve planted a second run of late peas and hericot beans and they are up and lifting themselves toward the August sunshine. Garlic has been harvested and hangs, drying, in lumpy bundles swaying in the summer breeze. The potato greens are dying off indicating that it is time to dig for treasure. I’ve dug up a few new red potatoes for dinners but have not had time for the big dig yet. I’ve had my eye on a spaghetti squash the size of a newborn. Squash enjoy hiding under the leaves of their plants to keep somewhat shaded and, perhaps, away from prying vegetable pickers. I decided if I didn’t harvest it for dinner last night I would have to use a wheelbarrow to haul it up the hill, so I cut it free and brought it up to the house. After washing it I attempted to split it lengthwise for baking but could not get even the beefiest of our kitchen knives through it. I called out to Paul and he took it to our band saw and went at it like a stubborn piece of lumber. I baked it, delighted in the shredding of the “spaghetti,” and covered it in the tomato sauce that had bubbled in the crockpot all day filling the house with a tangy, garlic-y smell.
We decided that it was time to release the new chicks from their brooder box into the big-girl coops. Fully feathered they were, technically ready to be there. But the question loomed: was I ready to let them go?
New chicks come to us as small, yellow cotton balls on sticks. Their gentle peeps call for mothering, regardless of breed. Fussing over them several times a day included changing the shavings for their bedding and putting in clean water and food. Each time I would appear at the top of the box they would suddenly stand completely still, turn their heads to the side and peek up at me, recognizing my voice. They were completely dependent on my care and this made it even more difficult to take them from the safety of that box and place them into the bigger world.
We moved their feeders into the coop with the oldest of our chicks which is exactly what the chicken book says not to do. The problem is that our second coop still houses ten one-year- olds from last year’s group so, unless we were prepared to cull the older chickens, this seemed the best option as it has the most space. I went back and forth between brooder and coop with each chick cradled in my hand until they had all been moved into their new home.
At first they simply stood, as if frozen in place. There was no warmth from an overhead heatlamp, no mother leaning over the box to check on them. They were on their own,except for me, standing and peering at them through the glass door. Reluctantly I turned and went into our own brooder with all fingers crossed. In all of farming there is risk and I understood that risk and reluctantly accepted it as part of raising chickens up from chicks.
Checking in later I found that they had traveled down the chicken stairs to the fenced paddock and were pecking happily at invisible bugs. A few of the hens could hear their peeping and were standing, head’s cocked watching, like mother’s on a playground. That first night we did not get a single egg from the nests: disruption in routine often causes a hen halt. Unionized, they express their dissent.
When I went out that evening at twilight to close everybody in for the night, Muir ran over to the fence and peered into a darkened corner, looked up at me, and leaned forward again. I followed his lead, knelt down onto the gravel and saw two of the new chicks huddled together outside next to a small bucket of grit. I opened the gate, lifted each of them tucking them against me. In the coop I placed them next to their siblings who were content to add two more to the warmth of the pig pile in the corner. Sometimes it takes a minute to know where your new home is.
Today they were outside sooner, still respectfully waiting for the older kids to lead the way. But knowing where they were headed they waddled down the gateway more happy than apprehensive.
They are still small. I feel the risk but I know that part of my job, even understanding all of these risks, is to let them leave the nest. Maybe even with a little nudge if needed.
In this, the time of year when all of our chicks leave the nest, I feel you.