Minerva CluckGonnagal

Minerva is a Plymouth Barred Rock. She had a spot like the moon on top of her head as a baby.
Now as a teenager (in development, though not yet even in weeks), the moon has set and she's flecked like city snow. From pics, I guess her stripes will get more pronounced as she reaches her egg-laying age this fall.

Being a bookish type, I've read a lot about chickens in the past few months. Learning a few things that apply to Minerva. Barred means stripy in chicken lingo. So M Cluck is actually a Plymouth Rock that happens to be barred.

My friend Emily (my oracle of all things chicken) told me that her barred Rocks were always really friendly, and Minerva seems to be no exception. She stretched her neck up as far as it could go to see what I was reading in the garden this afternoon. And yesterday, we had breakfast together. I'm not sure she's a fan of Stumptown...

harvest

meet the Ladies

I've grown vegetables for years. However I felt no compulsion to write about it until there were critters involved. This is really all about the chickens. So, it's time for a more detailed introduction I think.

Ruby
Ruby was supposed to be a gold-laced Wyandotte, but once I did a little research, it was clear this was not the case. She then became known as the Mystery Chicken. That first night I thought she would end up what Val termed "overage"-- the extra that didn't make it, bringing my flock down to the Portland-legal number of three. Luckily she perked right up and wasn't a Wyandotte (we'll get to those ladies later). She's the most inquisitive, and the friendliest. Though she squawks a bit, I still pick her up and carry her around every day. My little gem!

Me and Mr. Bernoulli

Daniel Bernoulli and I come from the same part of Holland. I studied his theories of fluid dynamics quite some time ago, and they help me to explain blood pressure and heart failure and how to hose down the dog runs and all sorts of things.

So setting up some tubes to water the plants shouldn't be so hard. Yet there were loud pops as covers were blown off, and founts of water gushed onto the sidewalk. Coils of tubing writhed like snakes through the foliage and refused to lay flat.

Today I think I have it, though I understand why Michael said he couldn't set up the drip system until after the plants were in. Much wiser to bring the plants to the water than the reverse, I've discovered. I've got all manner of little tubes and wide tubes and dripper thingies set up at random distances to water all the vegetables I dropped willy-nilly into the ground. Yep, I'm a city girl. Next I'll try to raise rabbits like Jean de Florette.

that kind of night

It's that kind of night. The kind that keeps me in Portland through the gray and the rain and the 4:30 sunsets. I ride my bike home through the warm dark streets. Watching red lanterns in front windows, breathing in the roses and the lavender. I turn the corner and for a moment the air is perfectly still, breeze and forward motion creating a space like water the exact temperature of my skin. That kind of night.

out of the kitchen!

At long last and with a cast of thousands, the chicken coop is complete! Here Mom models the Taj Mahen while the ladies go about their business. Thanks to all who contributed time, support and materials. Truly a neighborhood effort.

The gals spent their first night in the coop yesterday after frolicking in the pen during the first sunny afternoon we've had in a while. There was lots of loud worried cheeping as I closed them up, and four chicken faces looking very concerned at the window. The run is very secure, as I can attest after locking myself into it (with my cell phone perched just out of reach on the top). Luckily my cries for help were heard and I avoided a night in the barn.

Just before bed I crept out to make sure no varmints were afoot, and all was peaceful in the hendom. And there's a bowl of fruit on my kitchen table, once again.

Cheepdog

My rockrose has a single flower. It's hiding the papery white and maroon petals, turned away from the house (or maybe I should be more generous and say it's inviting the neighbors in). I would have seen it sooner, but I didn't do my usual walk around the block this morning...The farm has lost its cheepdog.

My beloved Jojo, older than the hills but still with plenty of wag in him, decided he was plain old done on Friday. Weak on his walk and not up for breakfast, he could hardly get up by afternoon and was gone by evening.

He came to me so late in his life, and was such an easygoing and loving dog, I looked on every day with him as a bonus for us both. Thanks Jo, you are missed.

Growing things

Growing, living, green, and feathered things. Flowers bees, earthworms and chickens. The first peas that are just starting to push outward from the white flowers. A space near my house where my friend Val and I can sit at dusk and listen to the world and watch the roses fade from pink to blue as twilight slides into dark.

The warm, soft, chickens as they're carried in for the night. I'm proud that they've learned the routine--into the recycling bin, into the house, peek, hop, then into their house for the night. They're out of their awkward stage, looking like little hens now.

The beans are preparing to twine up the trellis, the dahlias just breaking through the soil, the dogwood blossoms spent for another year.

I look to the growing things around me for some solace this week. Val's cough that was asthma last week, is now suddenly a tumor in her right lung. She makes a fist when she describes its size and placement. I make one to the sky.