Chickens and other old/new hobbies

I’m not sure what happened to suddenly make backyard chickens so popular. Maybe it’s the economy – a handful of chickens cost less to buy than a nice dinner out. Maybe it’s the next step for those of us who have been recycling and buying second-hand for a while… we look around for the next challenge. Maybe it’s just a hipster thing. But if you hang out on Pinterest or read a shelter magazine, or pretty much just talk to anyone under the age of 50, you’ll end up hearing about their plans, desire to have plans, or how they executed their plans to build a chicken coop and welcome a little flock of fluffy ladies into their family.

When I was a girl my grandparents had a great chicken house built out in the woods, between their house and their enormous garden that provided countless jars of fresh-picked delicousness throughout the year. The memory of gathering those eggs has always stayed with me. The soft clucking of the hens as I unlatched the gate, the warm nest and feathers of the broody ones that only chided me a little as I took their eggs out from under them and put them in my basket. Later, sitting on the ground in the run digging hundreds of earthworms out of the ground when the chickens were gone.

I guess I’m joining the trendy urbanites who have decided to build a little coop and start collecting eggs. I’ve reserved six baby chickens to be delivered on April 28th. I’ve been reading about the care and feeding of chickens, and researching coop plans, and – just as important – trying to figure out what to name them.

The breeds I’ve chosen are Cherry Egger, Production Black, Gold Sex Link, Black Australorp, Partridge Rock and Ameraucana. One of each. They’re being hatched by a local farm, so they’re already proven in the climate and environmental pros and cons of the Ozark Mountains.

Usually, when I latch onto a new project like this, the hubster looks at me sideways and goes about his business just trying to stay out of my way. This time, however, he’s all about getting those chickens. He’d love to get ducks too, in fact. The biggest drawback there is that we have no water in the backyard. Kind of a big deal, that.

He went by the local Tractor Supply Company yesterday and picked up a little baby chicken kit with a feeder and waterer and mobile fencing… none of which we really need, but I’m happy that he’s going to join me in this adventure. We drew out a plan for the coop and run today, and it looks like he won’t get too crazy… he tends to overbuild, overplan, overspend on almost every project he undertakes. I love him dearly, but he’s a little impractical. From discussions I have with girlfriends, I don’t think he’s the only man like this.

But chickens are only one thing I’m going to do to try to make our family a little more conscious of our impact and responsibility to our home planet. In addition to harvesting some yummy fresh eggs I’m also planning to can my own veggies this year… I am joining a CSA and will be frequenting the local farmers’ market, since I can’t seem to make any tomato plants put on more than 3 fruits. I also want to put up some laundry line to cut down (a little) on the time we spend using the electric dryer. We already have a composter, but it’s been pretty lonely. I’ll be utilizing it more often – while I’m heading out to check on the chickens and take the sheets off the line…

Here are some of my favorite ideas for chicken names, thanks to my friends on Facebook:

Twilight females – Victoria, Rosalie, Bella, Renee, Esme and Alice

Grease (is the word) – Frenchy, Sandy, Rizzo, Marty, Vi and Blanche

Happy Days & Laverne and Shirley – Laverne, Shirley, Pinky, Joanie, Marion and Leather (remember her??)

Harry Potter - Hermione, Luna, Bellatrix, Lily, Minerva and Ginny

Musicians – Carly, Joy, Babs, Whitney, Florence, Adele

Hollywood – Kate, Audrey, Marilyn, Lauren, Ava, Rita

So, tell me… are you raising chickens? Composting? Canning your own veggies? Planning any of those? And please, feel free to chime in on name ideas. I have a few weeks to decide.

Cowgirl boots.

My son kind of marches to his own drummer. As a former drama club vice president and general artsy-fartsy person, this fact makes me very proud most of the time. I am not a mother who winces or begs for forgiveness with her eyes when my son walks out to the car for a trip to the market wearing snow boots, a cape, and one glove with the fingers (but not the thumb) cut off. Some of you may have felt this way when your children were, say… 3 years old. When they’re 3 it’s cute if they dress themselves in two pair of pants and a Thomas the Train Engine bathrobe… My son is 7.

I know there are moms out there who are with me. I see other kids out in public flying their “I’m a Bit Odd” flag proudly, and I give their moms a knowing look as we pass each other, judging our awesomeness based on the level of odd our children have achieved. But while I may be okay with a kid who dresses like he just finished playing an old party game involving a stopwatch and a box full of clothes, HE is certainly old enough to know when something he wears may invite some criticism from his peers. Such was the case with the “cowgirl boots”.

We found the boots on a treasure-hunting day-trip a month or so ago. My husband and son agreed to indulge my desire to go look at stores full of old stuff, and we all had a little Christmas money to spend. As we wandered through a flea market, G spotted them. He immediately had to try them on, and was thrilled to find they fit. The price, $14, was not outrageous, and after confirming several times that he did, indeed want to spend some of his money on them, he was allowed to carry them through the rest of the store. He didn’t even make it to the cashier before begging to put them on.

The boots didn’t come off his feet for a full 48 hours after purchase, and he had to wear them to school the next Monday. He was so proud! “Ka-lomp, Ka-lomp, Ka-lomp…” out to the car he went. When I asked him that afternoon how everyone liked his boots, he said the other kids all thought they were cool. That night, he had some shin pain that we decided was probably due to the boot-love. They have a little heel on them, which I’m assuming most 7 year-old-boys aren’t used to. We put the boots in the closet and suggested he not wear them for a little bit to give his legs time to recover.

A month went by, and I noticed the boots in the closet one evening before bed. I asked if he was going to wear his boots again soon. He said no. Surprised, I asked why, and he responded that the other kids said they are cowGIRL boots. Uh-oh. Let me state for the record – they are NOT cowgirl boots. I appreciate a creative fashion sense, but I’m not setting my kid up for certain social rejection.

I tried to make it better: “They were just teasing you…” I said. He opened his eyes wide and said “No, they had serious faces.” Then I suggested it wasn’t everyone who thought they were cowgirl boots. This idea was rejected as well. “Everyone” told him so. But he LOVED those boots!!! I was not going to let a bunch of un-imaginative, ignorant, bully-children (or even a few teasing friends) steal my child’s creative spark!!

So, I had to just get all authoritative. I simply stated – with as much Mommies-Know-All voice as I could muster- that they are, in fact, not cowgirl boots. It’s hard to explain exactly how boots are not cowgirl boots to a boy who has probably only seen two pair of cowboy boots in his life, but I gave it my best shot.

“The stitching is brown, not pink.”

“Girl boots don’t look like snake skin.”

“They’re Durango brand, and I think they only make cowBOY boots.”

He finally capitulated a little, and decided he might wear them again. In fact, he pulled them on over his skull and crossbones footy pajamas (he found them at a thrift store… I wasn’t kidding about that flag!) and wore them to bed.

The next day, he wore the boots to school, and afterward reported that not a single person said anything about them. Success!! My son was free again to be the spirited young man he is, and hopefully he learned a little about persevering when the voices around him are not speaking the same language he hears in his head.

That night his feet hurt, so we’ve put the boots away for a little while. But I’m confident that they’ll be seen again soon.

The After Times

When my mother died I was devastated for myself. I lost a business partner, a confidant, and the biggest cheerleader for me… for everything I did in my life… that I would ever have. I lost the person I went to with any frustration or life-question. I lost my best “girlfriend”… the person I went to when my spouse drove me nuts, when my children left me speechless, when I had a life-decision to make and wasn’t sure which road to take.

I have a wonderful husband who has picked up the slack in some areas. I have had to learn to go to him when I am frustrated or confused, and he does a great job, but he doesn’t fill the entire void. My sister covers a lot of ground in other areas, because she has become my road-trip partner and let me rant to her when I am going nuts at home and just need to feel sorry for myself.

But the biggest source of sadness I have is actually not about me. It’s about her. My sister. She was, in many ways, an only child from late elementary school through college. Even though my mom remarried, they were kind of a dynamic duo. Mom was able to share many experiences with my sister that she couldn’t with her older kids. When mom died, one of my first feelings of sadness was for the many, many experiences that my sister was still going to have that our mom wouldn’t share with her. My brothers and I had had weddings, children, career successes, and hobby successes that my sister had only started to set goals for when she died… I hated that my sister would not have our mother here to share these things as I and my brothers did.

Last week, my sister lost one of her close childhood friends to an untimely death. Mom knew the young man’s family (I say “young man”… he was 31, so I guess he was actually a Man) so her number should have been the first my sister called. They could have shared a common history as they discussed the news. They would have been able to remember some great moments together. Mom would have offered to go with my sister to Dallas for the funeral. Instead, I got the phone call. I am sympathetic, of course. I even cried as my sister told me what she knew about what happened. I remember her friend, and met him once or twice, but it’s not the same. Not even close.

I knew when mom died that I would be taking mom’s place for my sister in many ways. But it doesn’t mean it’s easy when it has to happen. I am happy to do it, of course! But I hate with every cell of my body that I have to.

Some things get easier with time, but I don’t think this will. Ever.

So, here it is.

I suppose I need to address the new year…

“Hello, New Year.”

That sounded kind of Seinfeld-ey, didn’t it?? Kind of snide… a little dismissive. Not my intention, really. I’m feeling pretty good about 2012. Excited, even. I started to come out of a strange kind of fog last fall and and am pretty confident that the months ahead are going to be full of awesomesauce.

I’ll try again…

“Hello, New Year, you sexy beast!!!”

Well…

I have never been much of a goal-setter. Which would explain the astounding number of cool things I wanted to do when I was younger but never quite managed to accomplish. But this year, this dreamer is going to become a PLANNER!! That’s right, people! I’ll be putting together some action-steps to make some of the things I want to do actually get done, and I’ll start my list right here.

1. Get one home project done each month.
2. Make a plan for Punkinhead that will improve inventory creation and sales.
3. Hone Junque Rethunque’s brand and focus to build business opportunities.
4. Create time to focus on writing portfolio.
5. Spend more time communicating with the divine.

So those are the Big Ones. Those are the game changers that will make 2012 the Year of Change for me. But there are some smaller things, or at least some more daily-life kinds of things, that I’m also going to do to make some changes. Not for me, personally (because frankly, a couple of these will be pretty challenging) – but for my community, my planet, and my children.

1. Carry reusable bags to the store every time.
2. Use my composter.
3. Sign up with a CSA.
4. Buy second-hand.
5. Plan meals and cook at home at least 4 times each week.

I’ve done a lot of numbers 1 and 4 in the past couple of years, but haven’t been as diligent as I plan to be this year. I’ve started out pretty well so far. I think the hardest will be the plan to buy everything I need or want second-hand. I shop at thrift stores often already, primarily looking for treasures for my vintage flea market booth and to use in my hobby business, but I haven’t made a real effort to purchase EVERYTHING I need throughout the year at thrift stores, online, or at yard sales.

Today I caved on the second-hand plan, going to Walmart to buy some Rubbermaid totes when I hit a couple of thrift stores and didn’t find any. I rationalize it because I have to get them filled with fabric to get my organization plan completed in my sewing room. In order to make number 2 happen, I had to go to Walmart. Not sure I can get by with that very often if I want to be successful. I think I’ll keep a list of purchases to compare what I pay second-hand against what I would pay new. At least, that’s a great idea… we’ll see if I can stick to it.

So, what are your plans for the new year?

What do you want to be when you grow up?

The other day my son asked what I want to be when I grow up. He then clarified that he did, in fact, know that I am already grown up. I assume that means that it looks like I am on the outside, but I have to wonder if he is tapped into the fact that mommy really doesn’t feel like she’s achieved any particular goal that she set for herself. Oh, wait… mommy has never really gone to the trouble of setting any goals for herself.

Hrmmm…

So what DO I want to be when I grow up?

When I attended the Pre-K graduation ceremony last year and watched my son shyly state that he wants to be a Monster Truck Driver, I thought – as many other parents did that day – (especially the one whose son said he wants to be a fish) “Awww, that’s so cute!” And then I thought “I wonder what he’ll really be someday?”

But perhaps I shouldn’t dismiss the dreams of a six-year-old so easily. My mother didn’t dismiss our dreams when we were kids. Mom didn’t doubt my ability in anything I was interested in. She encouraged me to move to New York to pursue my dream of the stage when I was performing in little theater productions in Dallas. She encouraged me to be a designer when I was creating my own holiday cards. She kept everything I ever wrote and told me I should take my humor on the road as a comic. She encouraged me to start a business called Junque Rethunque when I was picking junk up off the curb and talking about redesigning and repurposing.

So why am I still wondering what I am going to be when I grow up?? I think it has something to do with the number of dreams I’m trying to sort out. It’s hard to narrow down the things I want to spend my time on. What ends up happening is that I never move forward very much in any one direction. I collect notes in journals but don’t start writing any stories, I  buy the supplies to create  greeting cards but they sit in a cabinet unused, I fill my garage with “projects”,  and auditions come and go…

So, I am going to have to make some choices. Maybe I’ll get to keep a couple of dreams… maybe some dreams can become to occasional hobbies. But I seriously have to focus so that I can start making some headway and stop feeling so ineffective. So un-grownup.

I’m pretty sure the world doesn’t need another actor, so I’ll just toss that one out right off the top. I can look back fondly on my days on the stage and be okay with that. I am more and more drawn to design and creating, and I still feel compelled to write. So I am going to focus on two main goals: First, building Junque Rethunque into a viable business that I can eventually take from a flea market booth to a brick & mortar shop featuring vintage finds, repurposed “junque”, and local art and crafts. I wouldn’t mind if that went on to blossom into a part-time interior design business either… Second, I’m going to carve out time to write. Write my blogs, write short stories and essays, and perhaps write articles and guest blogs that involve the design and vintage interests I have.

So, for the record… When I grow up I want to be a shop owner and writer. What a relief that I have an answer for my son next time he delves into the depths of my unfocused soul.

Stuff that I love

There are a lot of things I love. Some things I don’t love so much, and interestingly – those are listed in BIG LETTERS in my tag cloud over there —->  Guess we don’t always write about what we love. Sometimes a blog gets populated by a whole lot of stuff that pisses us off.

But in the case of CANCER, the thing I love so little that I might actually use four-letter words when I refer to it in conversation, that thing has actually brought a wonderful thing along… a really strong relationship with my sister. Don’t worry, this isn’t going down the two-hankie-blog-post path. I’m just saying… I mean, get over it. Just briefly: our mom was diagnosed with brain cancer in September 2008 and passed away in August 2009. In those 11 months my sister and I developed a bond that can only be understood fully by other people who have shared in the work of caring for a dying loved-one and then spent another year and a half figuring out what to do with all their stuff including a house that was built by their grandfather and which ended up in foreclosure. And also including three beloved cats. Yeah… THAT kind of bond. I have a tattoo to prove it.

So, back to the stuff I love… one of those things would be Dave Matthews Band. Another, understandably, is my sister. Another is road trips. And finally, another (the actual list, which includes this photo of my brothers, would be ridiculously long…) is junking/thrifting/scrounging/treasure-hunting. This week the stars are aligning just as they do in super-cool documentaries about the Mayan Calendar and the future of the Universe and things like that, and my sister and I are taking a road trip to see Dave Matthews Band at one of their summer Caravan festivals – as well as a crapload of other awesome bands. On our way, we are certain to be lured to the roadside by junky buildings overflowing with stuff other people would throw in a dumpster or on a burn pile. And we

CAN

HARDLY

WAIT!!!

Okay, I’m not skilled on WordPress and can’t make that centered text look as intense as the waiting actually feels.

The aforementioned sister has been putting together a mix tape (shut up – if I want to call it a mix tape I will!!!) of a bunch of the bands we’ll see over the three day festival. We have been doing stupid little wiggly dances for at least the last two weeks every time we are together and one of us mentions the trip … we have saved our pennies and are making lists of the things we need to take and have a cheap ass hotel room in the ghetto reserved in our name. The countdown is on and this time tomorrow we’ll be lying in our beds unable to go to sleep.

We will be posting pics. We will be slapping on the sunscreen and using our refillable water bottles. We will also be eating cheap food in Chicago that quite possibly will taste better than anything we’ve ever eaten in our LIVES simply because we’re on a road trip.

And that, my friends, will be something to love.

The Boy-child entertains again!

All kids say hilarious stuff. Some moms write it in journals. I share my son’s witticisms with you. Are you lucky or WHAT??

Today, we have TWO moments of hilarity:

On the way home from soccer this evening Enter Sandman by Metallica came on the radio. I told the Boy-child that it is a classic song, and turned it up a bit. I then instructed him in the proper way to “head-bang” along with the beat…  He attempted the move for an 8-count or so, then he announced that he doesn’t like it, because it made his head hurt. I guess his future is in folk or bluegrass instead of metal and prog rock. Hope daddy’s not too disappointed…

Then, tonight as we were watching Glee on Netflix (haters, move along!) they sang You Can’t Always Get What You Want. The Boy-child said “That’s just like me.” He likes to sing, so I asked “Do you sing like that?” “No.”  He likes to dance, so I asked “Do you think you dance like that?” “No.”  Out of ideas, I asked “What part of it do you think is like you?”

“Because I can’t always get what I want.”

Preach it, son.

The end of an era.

In 1966 my grandfather built a house on some property that my grandmother inherited. My mother had already married and moved away, but my siblings and I spent most Christmases and weeks every summer there.  We explored the woods, climbed on limestone bluffs full of fossils, picked blackberries, helped plant the vegetable garden, harvested the produce, learned to paint with my grandmother, rode in the back of grandpa’s pick up to feed the cattle, gathered eggs, fished in the river, roasted marshmallows in the fireplace… so many of our favorite, formative memories and experiences were created there.

On the eve of the property being sold on the courthouse steps to the highest bidder, I thought I’d put down a few of my favorite memories…

My grandmother was an artist. She took lessons from one of the leading tole-paint artists in the 1970s and sold her beautiful items at craft fairs throughout the Ozarks for years.  She had a room in the house dedicated to her painting. It was a delightful room full of paint, brushes, bookshelves full of books, and had a large bay window. I loved to watch grandma paint, and have a few things that she let me paint alongside her. One day she invited my brother and I to gather flat river rocks from the gravel driveway and let us paint little faces on them. I was impressed and a little jealous that my brother’s rock faces had better eyes than mine did. No wonder he went on to be a brilliant illustrator.

Walking through the woods in the spring looking for fern fiddleheads and wild violets.

During the summers before central air was installed it was seriously warm at night upstairs where the bedrooms were located. A box fan was placed at each end of the hallway outside the bedroom doors and the windows were opened to allow air to circulate through the house. The fans created a hum that harmonized perfectly with the raucous noise of the cicadas that started up at sundown each evening.  I will always enjoy the sound of tree frogs and cicadas at night – it’s not just a memory but a sensory feeling of peace and security that settles within me when I hear those noises. It’s a sign, to me, that all is right with the world.

Christmases at the farm, when we were there before the 25th, involved scouting out the perfect tree. Very often, grandpa had already located a contender and we would trek with him through the woods or ride in the back of his pick up to the bottom pastures to offer our approval and beg him to let us help with the sawing (the answer was always – appropriately – no). Cedar trees often grow along fence lines on farms in the south, and the aroma of fresh-cut cedar will always be a favorite of mine.

Fresh tomatoes, still warm from the vine, sprinkled with sugar. Mmmmmm….

Another scent that stays with me is a combination: fresh sawdust and cigarette smoke. My grandpa was a Marine in the South Pacific during World War II. Along with all the other GIs, he was provided with free cigarettes on a regular basis. I’m not sure what the reasoning behind that was, but the result was that he started smoking. I don’t actually remember seeing him smoking often, but I know he did while worked in his woodworking shop on the farm. When I went to see him in the shop there was always a specific smell that permeated the air. It was also in his shirt when I hugged him goodnight. It doesn’t sound like a smell that would be pleasant, but I love it.

Helping grandma hang clothes on the line outside the pump house/laundry room.

My grandmother made fantastic home-cooked meals that included a huge selection of vegetables from the garden, canned tomatoes, and beef that was probably raised on the farm. Whenever she made pie crust she cut the scraps of pastry into little strips and sprinkled them with sugar and cinnamon. The pies were wonderful, but the little strips of baked pasty were perfect.

Grandma used to put on rubber boots at dusk and beat the bushes around the patio with a hoe to chase out the copperhead snakes so she could mangle them.

Helping grandma hang clothes on the line outside the pump house/laundry room.

It’s ironic, I think, that on the day that the property will leave our family the trees are bright green from the recent rain, the iris are blooming and the woods smell fresh and musky. It’s one of my favorite times of year there, and every spring I’ll wish I could go back.

Boxes

I’m not going to pretend that I don’t have a lot of boxes to go through, because I do. Well, maybe not a LOT, but let’s say more than 3… less than 12. But the boxes I’m going through this week belong to my grandmother, and the stuff in them belonged to her family, the Wilsons of Habberton, Arkansas. There are documents of land ownership, death certificates, wedding notices, obituaries, photos, books, a TON of postcards – most from the early part of the 20th century.

When my mom became sick in 2008 my aunt came up from Texas to gather their mom and transplanted her to a nursing facility near her (mom had been her caregiver before that time). These boxes were left behind in mom’s care, but now that she’s gone I need to get them to my aunt. But before they go… I’m making sure I look at it all. My hubby and I enjoy geneology, and he has done a lot of research on our family trees and such. Many of the pieces of ephemera in the boxes would be great things to attach to some of my ancestors’ records online, so I’ve been scanning like crazy.

One of my favorite finds was a pile of folders full of my grandmother’s writing. She wanted to be a writer, and sent things off to different contests and even had a professional writer critiquing her work at one point. It was something that she didn’t find time to make a career out of, what with raising five kids, managing a household, raising and putting up a huge garden each year, helping with the livestock… you get the drift. I hope that eventually I can have those things to put in my own keepsake box – since I’m the one in the family with a degree in creative writing. My aunt pulled aside my grandmother’s wedding dress and such because her daughter has a degree in fashion design, so it seems only fair…

So, a box at a time all of this stuff will be put in the mail to Texas, and I’ll start going through my own boxes. I doubt there are as many things in mine that my descendants will be interested in keeping, so I plan to be weeding out some stuff.

What things are you keeping in your “treasure” box(es)?

Hard, but not impossible.

Having now celebrated two Christmases without my mother I am convinced that, contrary to what well-intentioned people have told me, it will never get any easier. 2009 was very difficult because I spent both Thanksgiving and Christmas that year away from home and my family and the traditions that are comfortable for me, but this most recent holiday season I got to spend both of those days with my siblings and it was still hard. Not sobbing-in-bed-for-hours hard… there was no crying or reminiscing aside from a comment at Thanksgiving about the day also being her birthday… the difficulty was less intrusive, but just as painful.

One particularly tough moment came at a craft fair my sister and I were selling at in October. As I was browsing the other booths I discovered something that would have been a perfect gift for my Mom and was hit by the stunning realization that I would never buy her another gift. My mother was a joy to buy for. She and I had similar taste in many things – decor, clothing, hobbies. Perhaps that’s why I now have so much of her stuff in my garage? I felt I knew her so well that when I found The Perfect Gift it was a thrill just to anticipate her opening it, let alone seeing her reaction post-reveal.

Another wrinkle this year was the grand-baby in our house. She looks so much like my mother did as a baby – she has her chin and her smile and her red hair!! – and I know Mom would have loved to have a new baby to buy for. I hope I can measure up to Mom’s stellar Nana talents as I learn to be a Nonnie for my little one.

But being with my brothers at Thanksgiving and my sister for Christmas helped somewhat as we move forward “sans mere”. I’m confident we will make new traditions as we learn to share our own homes with each other instead of relying on mom to always be the hub of our family wheel.

Losing a parent in 2009, and gaining a grandchild in 2010 kind of trumped any list of goals I made those years. I’ll give 2011 some thought and get back to you on that.

Until then – I’ll share my mantra for the new year:

Do or do not… there is no try.   — Yoda