Mosquito Madness

I think Mosquitoes and STDs have been running on a parallel keel for years now.  Besides STDs, those pesky little buzzing Anopheles seem to be the harbinger of everything else that's horribly wrong, bad and unpleasantly disgusting in the world today.  

Back in my youth, if you got your blood sucked by one of them little buggers you'd get a bump that would  itch like crazy for a couple days.  Then it'd be gone.  Now a days the same thing can happen, but you could also contract Maleria (fortunately not in California) or  West Nile Virus , which was first discovered in the United States in the summer of 1999 in New York, about the same time Zombies were found in Des Moines, Vampires in Fresno and Locusts in Detroit.  See what I mean?

Back in my youth, if  you contracted an STD a shot of Penicillin would usually make it go away.  Or in the case of the crabs, a little lighter fluid and a toothpick was a convenient, albeit hectic solution.  Hell, there were only two or three STD's worming around back in the 1960's that I was aware of.  Now there's so freaking many (STD's) modern science is having trouble coming up with pronounceable names, let alone trying to uncover the festering swamp beetle larvae fungus shit stuff that just might hold a clue for a cure for any one of them.  Chlamydia?  Papillomavirus? Trichomoniasis?  Molluscom Cotagiosum?  Help, you need an interpreter.  So do I.

And what are all these unpronounceable things?  The mind reels.

The point is, in the genesis of their timeline and the galaxy in general, there must be some sort of connection between the two.  I mean, mere coincidence?  To go from innocuously inconvenient to lethal in a matter of decades begs to be researched by some of the very best minds at an online university.  Or an electrician.  Whatever.

How does one keep these pesky and unpronounceable things away?

Well, one can wrap that riveting, rotund little rascal in a soupy silhouette of cellophane.  Or use a rubber.  Or get married.  Or both.  Either way. 

As far as them other pesky little critters are concerned, there appears to be a vast array of home solutions fluttering about the Internet, unfortunately most of them don't actually work.  Scientifically that is.  Some of them may work for a while, but they don't really repel mosquitoes for an extended period of time.   You got the Bounce fabric softener sheets, the Vicks Vaporub, the Avon Skin So Soft and pure Vanilla Extract to name a few.  Rub 'em all over your exposed body parts and supposedly the mosquitoes will stay away.  Snopes has a few insights into this vast array.  

There is one item on the Snopes list that I disagree with though.  Like Bob, the fisherman, I have been taking Vitamin B1 as a supplement for over a decade now and can honestly say I have only been bitten maybe once or twice by a mosquito during that time frame.  It could be my aging, leathery skin, but for the price ($5.00 for 200-which would cover a season) it's a hell of a lot cheaper than any Deet product on the market.  Probably a little safer too. 

How safe is Deet?  Well, according to Deet, very safe, and better than being bit by mosquitoes.  But there's a lot of information out there, good and bad.  Before you douse yourself or your kids with another dose, make sure you're well informed: Deet2

How safe is Vitamin B1, or Thiamine?  Well, it's water soluble, so you can't OD if that's what I mean.  And it shouldn't cause you to stutter...too much.  And if you get an erection lasting over four hours you can always call a plumber.  Or a hooker. 

And while we're on the subject of Citronella and the myriad of products thereof, how the heck does that size up?  The June/July 2012 issue of Mother Earth News, really the genesis of this post, is reporting that those lovely hybrid citronella geraniums that you read about everywhere don't really have any scientific evidence in support of their magical claims.  Acclaimed author Dr. Andrew Weil feels the same way about citronella, not only about the geraniums but the candles as well.

So if none of these popular deterrents actually work, why are we spending the money and what can we do?  In my noodling and research, I read some good reviews about the Dragon Fly System, which was developed under a Cooperative Research and Development Agreement with the Agricultural Research Service (ARS), the chief scientific research agency of the United States Department of Agriculture.  While this item is pricey, if you have a large mosquito problem it might offer a good solution.  These folks also have a couple other products available, one of which is a natural Catnip oil, an alternative to Deet products.

Catnip also showed up in the June/July 2012 issue of Mother Earth News as a great mosquito repellent.  As a matter of fact, they say Nepetalactone, the essential oil that gives Catnip its smell, is more effective than Deet.  According to Mother, some other plants that actually have mosquito repellent properties are Lantana Camara, Rose-scented Monarda, Lime Basil, Sacred Basil and Thyme.  Plant these around your patio for a relatively mosquito free environment, as well as having some fresh herbs available for your kitchen.  You can also rub the fresh leaves on your clothes and skin, which will help keep mosquitoes away but probably make you much more attractive to people like the Donner Party.  If you went back in time, for instance.  And were in the mountains, and it was snowing and stuff.

Mother Earth News also has a recipe for a homemade mosquito trap.  In recent research from West Africa and Israel, traps baited with sugar and fermented fruit juice reduced mosquito populations by 90 percent where deployed.  Here's how to make one at home (there's another design on the link above):

1/16 inch diameter nail
Quart sized plastic container with lid
3 t sugar
1/2 t boric acid
1 C smashed, fermented fruit with juice

Set the smashed up fruit in the sun for a day or two to speed up fermentation.  Punch 4-8 holes in the lid with the nail, depending on the size of the lid.  (The small holes let mosquitoes in but keeps beneficial insects like bees out.)  Mix the ingredients in the container.  Put the lid on the container and place the trap outside where it won't get rained on.  Mosquito's will feed on the fruit and the boric acid will kill them. 

I haven't personally used that system, and when the June/July 2012 issue went to press to the best of Mother's knowledge it has not been deployed here in the United States.  All these shenanigans won't make your yard totally mosquito free, but they should help.

While we're on the subject of pests, the following pictures are of a homemade, pesticide-free meat bee and fly trap I have deployed for many years.  It is simple to make and effective as well.  Well, effective if you have good bait.

You'll need a one quart glass or plastic jar with lid, a large sinker nail (or 1/4 drill bit), a small finishing nail (or teeny weeny drill bit), about 8 inches of fishing line and a safety pin.  I've found the quart sized plastic mayo jars are perfect for this, even though they now only contain 30 ounces.  Thank goodness there's no inflation, and this jar of mayo only costs more than $5.00 now.

First pop or drill one teeny, weeny hole in the center of the lid.  Then pop or drill four holes around the lid as shown below.

Next tie one end of the fish line to the round hole at end of the safety pin.  Then feed the fish line thru the bottom of the lid and then tie off on the top so that safety pin hangs down 2-3 inches from the bottom of the lid.

When you're ready to deploy, put about 2-3 inches of water in the jar with a couple drops of dish washing liquid.  Then get a small piece of  cooked meat (about human bite size) preferably with some bbq sauce on it.  Skewer it with the pin, close the lid and set it outside where you want.

Cooked meat seems to attract them more than raw, and some sort of sweet bbq type sauce always helps the lure.  

I typically have one out by the garbage cans and a couple discretely placed about the deck.  The meat bait is usually good for 3-4 days, and when ready for re-load simply unscrew the lid, pour out the contents and reload.  Here's a few days worth of flies that went after some apple wood smoked chicken, which ironically lured them to the area when smoking.  (BTW-this was not one of our girls!  They are layers, not eaters.)

If you're really got a fly situation, like a chicken coop for instance, I highly recommend the Rescue Fly Trap shown below.  You can find it at most hardware stores, at Home Depot it retails for around $5.00.  You cut a hole in the top of the plastic bag, pull out (carefully) the yellow top (which allows flies and water in), pour water in to the fill line and hang.  A hearty word of caution: when activated the bait smells like something dead.  Really dead.  It's foul.  So, make sure you hang it downwind from where ever you are or want to be.                                       

I am currently in the middle of my second bag. and there are hundreds of dead flies in it, maybe thousands.    The nice thing is you just throw the bag in the garbage when it's full.  No fuss or muss, and it really gets the job done! 

Chicken Update

The girls are doing well and we are now averaging six eggs a day.  As I may have mentioned, several girls were not utilizing the lovely second story nesting boxes and were laying willy nilly all over the place, like the wood pile and underneath our garden shack.  I confined them to their universe, but a couple were still making shallow nests in the dirt and laying their eggs there.   Since I thought access could be an issue for several of them, I made two nest boxes and placed them on the floor in the corner of their house.  Problem solved.  I'm getting a couple eggs a day in the lower nest (although one keeps dropping from the top of the frame-lower right in photo) and 3-5 a day in the upper.  As mentioned before, if any of you locals (and you know who you are) are in need of some fresh, organic, free range eggs we have them available.  $4.00/dozen

        

Florida, Ann Curry and the big's Midlife Crisis

I have a goal to spin these mindless yarns out quite a bit faster than it may seem to any of you who may be following my exploits thus far.  However, my first opportunity in five years at more than two days in a row of leisure time finally arrived when my lovely spouse and I took flight to the warm and enchanting state of Florida.  We have never been there, and the fact that my wife's sister and husband had recently moved to Tampa from Myrtle Beach, SC, gave us two reasons to take flight.  Myrtle Beach is the home town of Vanna White by the way.  Betcha didn't know that.

My wife had to just about drag me away from here, there is so much to do around this fledgling homestead.  And then there's the cats.  The chickens.  That rooster.  Plus there are a lot of fledgling plants that need quite a bit of attention during the hot summer months.  I have a lot of stuff on automatic drip systems, which helps immensely, but there are many odds and ends.  Like the greenhouse, and both the front and back decks, which are all sporting a vast array of flora and fauna this time of year.

Fortunately, a childhood friend of our daughter's has recently started her own house sitting business, "Pet, Plant and Home" and was available for our dates.  She took great care of all my concerns, all plants and animals were healthy and happy upon our return.  Well, all except for Tom Cat.  He always cops an attitude for a while after we return from a trip.  He cranks up a little Patti Smith and smokes cigarettes in the bathroom until he's good and ready to be friends again.

If you live in the Western Nevada County area and need a house or pet sitter I highly recommend Amber, she will assuage all your homey concerns as you prepare to set sail. She pays attention to detail, she spends time with your animals (as well as feeds them), knows plants, and has flexible rates and schedules.  Amber Boardman can be reached at: 530.913.4627 or petplantandhome@gmail.com.  Her website (above) is under construction but operational.


With the home front secure, we took a red eye east to Tampa from Sacramento, via Houston.  My wife and I had not seen our brother in law since 2007, when we hooked up with them for a week in Amsterdam.  That right there is a whole nother story, suffice it to say we had a dandy old time.  Nuff said.

Our sis manages to get out west just about almost annually, but he's an ER Doc and it's hard for him to get away.  He's a dedicated soul, dealing with the human condition at it's most macabre, most guests he sees are in sincere trauma and experiencing the worst day of their lives.  And others he sees have a hangnail or belly gas.  You name it, he's seen it.  He's seen stuff you couldn't even name.  Or imagine.  Or want to imagine.  What we humans do to ourselves and others.  He needs to write a book (or blog) and call it "Pus Stories".  He's a very smart and funny man, it'd be a great read.

He did manage to get some time off while we were there, and we did some grand exploring, both couples enjoying the same pursuits.  We'd explored together before, just on another continent.  No big difference.  Museums and hand-rolled cigars from Ybor City here.  Museums and hand rolled something or others from some cafe there.  It's all about the culture.

We discovered there are a lot of amusement parks in the state of Florida.  They got the Disney, they got the Epcot, they got the Universal, they got the Everglades.  We didn't make it to any of those, we were too busy visiting, and they were too busy with summer vacation.  We did, however, get to the Dali Museum, and that guy had an amusement park going on in his head.   He was constantly amused.  So we did make it to one.                              
Dali once said, "I don't need any drugs.  I am the drug!"  How can you argue with that?  Can I smoke some of his brain?

                       Here we are at the Dali Museum in St Pete.  I'm the tall one.   That's a mustache.

Here's a link to another website with information on Dali.  If you are so inclined.

We dined fabulously, laughed a lot and got caught up with life in general.  It's nice to have some family members where both couples get along famously.  We're already talking about our next excursion to see them in that tropical lullaby, maybe take a jaunt out to the Florida Keys.

Speaking of me, I've had a bit of a bout of a midlife crisis going on since we returned.  My wife and I have been Today show fans since the Tom Brokaw/Jane Pauley days, the early 1980's.  I had my own business at the time and found it beneficial to be relatively up to date on the current head lines while conversing throughout the day.  It was perfect for us, listening while we did our morning routine, stopping to view periodically when something piqued our interest.  There's been a number of personal changes in the show over the 32 years we have been watching, but we've been happy enough to keep viewing.  Well, until recently.

My wife and I have both enjoyed watching Ann Curry, the newest latest co-anchor of the morning news show.  We found her intelligent, charming, a good journalist and well dressed.  (My wife is a fashionista, and she enjoyed viewing what Ann was wearing each morning.)  Having been on vacation we were unawares of the brew ha ha that was brewing right thar at NBC, until Ann's announcement that she was being "reassigned."

WTF?  This woman is a respected journalist and has been a part of that show for years.  Shame on who the fuck ever that allowed her departure to be such a humiliating experience.  I don't care about the reasons, that's business.  I'm talking about respect, the only fucking rule there is as far as I'm concerned.

Since that debacle, we have been boycotting the Today show, out of respect for Ann.  But it's been hard.  We have been loyal viewers for 32 years, so trying out Good Morning America is kinda like trying out a new leather barcalounger.  Doesn't quite fit right but you just keep on adjusting and hoping it will fit so you can stay true to your word.  Or have some new fabric in the living room.  What's so wrong with moss velvet?

And then that dang new show brought my mid-life crisis to light.  They had this journalist named "Major" something or nother, and I got to thinking.  I've been getting called "shit for brains", among other monikers and sobriquets, for the past forty years.  I think I'm getting tired of that.  I think it's about time to change the current course of them appellations.  Or Appalachians.  Or Nebraskans.  I get confused.  I've known guys that changed their name from Larry to Lawrence for instance.  Or Bill to William.  Or Cathouse to Canary.

I think Major sounds too formal.  But I do like the sound of Kernel.  I think I'd like to be called Kernel.  My daughter thinks I should adopt a title too, she thinks I should be called Major Kernel.  But I don't want to be rank, so I think I should just be called Kernel.  Or big.  I've always been called "big", but that's usually followed by another colorful noun.  Like asshole.  Or shithead.  It all gets too confusing.  And complicated.  And life's too short.

That's why I prefer cruising the ambiguous nebuli, where everything is nothing, and life is absurd.  And I get to be the big nothing here, or kernel, whichever you or I prefer.

                                                                        

Rooster Update

It's been almost two months since we discovered our Rooster in the Hen House, and Goldie has grown on us immensely.  His voice has matured, and he now crows loud and clear.  He will generally start around 5:30 in the morning with a fifteen to twenty round chorus.  Then he'll quiet down for the most part for the remainder of the early morning hours.  He does crow periodically throughout the day, and he doesn't appear to have any reason.  Cock a doodle do.

We've started to grow accustom to his crow, much like one grows accustom to the chime of a Grandfather clock.  Both drive our guests crazy, so we turn off the chimes and will now make sure there is a fan in the guest room.  Our daughter informed us the white noise of the fan easily drowned out Goldie's roar.

He is very protective of his harem, and that has garnered him a lot of respect from me.  It seems we are both in the mode of protecting those hens.

I have built in several layers of protection for those birds.  They have a twenty square foot two story house, (a remodel of a goat pen) that will be the subject of another post very soon.  Attached to that is an outdoor forty square foot roofed cage with wire cemented a foot into the ground around the perimeter.  From there is a large six hundred fifty (or so) square foot fenced pen.  As I mentioned, the previous owner once had goats.  I essentially converted that space into a chicken kingdom.

I have recently been letting the harem roam and graze free and unabated around the house and yard while we are home.  It's been a hoot to watch, and they have been fertilizing and de-bugging as they go.  There is not a lot of landscape yet for them to destroy, as they will root around, destroy small plants and dig holes in the yard.  But right now our land is still not totally deer proof, so our unprotected landscaping is minimal.  Our battle with those flea ridden parasites (Yes, I said it.  I have grown to detest Bambi and her buddies.  Be gone I say!) will be the subject of yet another post.

But I digress.  Several weeks back I was in the house and the harem was roaming free.  I suddenly noticed the dark shadow of a large bird fly by our eastern bedroom window, the side of chicken world, and immediately raced downstairs to make a commotion.  I didn't need to.  Goldie was beside himself, flapping his wings and looking large, jumping around like crazed lunatic.  He was a major commotion!

It turned out to be a couple turkey vultures flying low to check out the scene.  They are generally not considered a threat to poultry, but you couldn't tell Goldie that.  It was clear the way to the girls was going to be through him, and he welcomed the opportunity.

While he certainly can exhibit explosive aggression, he has only blustered his form with us.  He still allows my wife to pick him up, and he has only pecked at her once, when she encroached upon his roosting hens in the early morning hours.  A learning experience for all.  

He is usually the last bird standing in the evening when I go up to lock them in for the night.  Most of the hens are already up and roosting by the time the sun goes down, but Goldie is still walking around.  They are a self-regulating bunch, whether roaming freely outside or within their fenced yard, when the sun goes down they retreat to their safe nestled world.

They have total access to the house, but during these warm months they prefer roosting on perches outside within the cage.  I have four perches of manzanita of varying length, and a few can also be found on the top of the open door to the hen house.  This will change when the weather turns colder, as that door will only be open fur human access. 

                                                   The Gold Man and a few of his girls.

The hens have also started laying eggs, and because of this, unfortunately, for a while, they're going to have to stay in their fenced-in universe.  I have built several lovely, elevated nesting boxes for them to lay comfortably.  There is also nice, soft rice hay all over the bottom of their house.  Some have obligingly decided to utilize the lovely, soft nesting boxes.  Others have chosen the nice, soft corners of the hen house.

There are other, much more challenging layers that have decided the wood pile is a good place to lay.  A couple others have chosen to lay underneath our garden shack.  Until they learn to lay in the soft lovely hay, to their dismay inside the fence they must stay.  There, I said it.  Again.

I have also found another alternative use for one of them handy dandy little litter grabbers: fetching eggs from tight quarters.  The other alternative use was fetching a rattlesnake from underneath the deck, but that's the subject of yet another blog, dare I bore you yet again to death. 

Fresh Egg Alert

For all you local folks, and you know who you are, we now have unpolluted and undiluted medium sized farm fresh free range ranch eggs available for $3.00 per dozen.  You know how to get a hold of me.

                                      

One-Eyed Tom and the Wily Sierra Fox

We have a black and white cat named Tom (Tom Cat) who is now sixteen years old.  Over the years Tom has earned benchmark status in our lives, the blue ribbon boy.  My wife and I have over 50 years experience owning many cats, and Tom, without question, is the smartest cat we have ever known. 

He was a garage sale kitty, and his formative years were spent on a relatively quiet neighborhood street in town.  However, there was a rather busy thoroughfare a block away with a state park on the other side.  With so much adventure (and danger) lurking on the other side, Tom ran regular excursions into the dark nether reaches of the miles and aisles of trails and dales.  Besides the wild animals that resided in the park that could pose a threat, he had some pretty wicked traffic to contend with just to get there.  We lived in that house for over six years and he never had a scratch.

He was also Top Cat of the neighborhood and was challenged routinely.  He didn't go out there looking for trouble, he just protected his turf.  Just a regular sized cat, smart, quick and fearless.  I don't think he lost one of those battles, I don't recall many if any wounds at all. 

In 2005 my wife and I began what turned out to be a two state five year walkabout.  The kids had graduated and were both off at college, and my wife got a helluva job offer in Monterey, CA.  We've always loved the coast, so we shrugged our shoulders, put the house on the market and set sail.  There's a bit more to that story, but that's not this story.

We were in Monterey for year, then moved to Capitola, CA, just south of Santa Cruz for two years.  After that we made a hop up to Portland, OR for just over a year.  In every one of these neighborhood locations Tom adapted quickly and never had an issue until a routine Vet visit up in Portland.

My wife had noticed a brown spot on his right eye and when the Vet examined it she referred us to a feline ophthalmologist.  Didn't even know that profession existed, and there were several to choose from just in the Portland area.  Go figure.

Well, he had cancer, and the prognosis for survival (and pain relief) was eye removal.  He still had some kitten moments in him and we figured he had a few more years left.  We decided the investment was worth the risk, and at the age of thirteen he became our one-eyed pirate cat.

We had an inkling things would be OK his first day back from the Vets office.  He had spent the night there after surgery and came home pretty whacked on pain medication.  Try though we might to keep him in, that boy loves the outdoors.  The next thing I knew he was across the street in the neighbor's tree stalking a bird.  He didn't get the bird, and he managed to clumsily climb down.  I corralled him and we got him back inside to recuperate properly.

I really don't think he has any idea his eye is gone.  He should be missing some peripheral vision as well as depth perception, but it seems as if he didn't miss a beat.  Maybe he can't hit some of those high notes like our aging rock stars used to, but he still listens to a lively beat.

     
                                        
                                                                            Tom Cat

You know, the grass always appears greener out there, but everywhere you go there is always some sort of compromise to be made.  We ended up moving back to Grass Valley after roughly five years out and about and on the road, on the coast in California and up in Portland, Oregon.  Fine locations by many standards, but we discovered we're more mountain than coastal people and we also had a lot of friends still living here. This had become home, only we didn't know it until we left.  Echoes of Joni Mitchell, speaking of aging rock stars.  It made the move back easy, and we've been extremely happy ever since.

Tom was happy to be back as well.  His first moments outside were spent rolling in dust and dry pine needles, soaking in the smells, knowing that he had returned to his home too. 

We rented a house here in Grass Valley for a little over a year, and then my wife found the homestead we are currently creating. We're on two and a half acres in the country now, definitely more rural than Tom has ever lived.  There's been a couple skirmishes here where he has come back wounded, but shit howdy he's sixteen years old and only has one eye!  Gimme a break!

There was this one adversary, a larger, younger grey cat that gave Tom a licking.  After that battle I had a conversation with Tom.  I told him he's already earned his stripes many times over, but I also knew he had to do his thing.  So, since he was past his prime and maybe had lost a couple of steps (and an eye for sure) I told him I'd back his play.  Any day.  

It was several days after this conversation with Tom that my wife and I were sitting in the living room.  Suddenly out of the corner of my eye I saw that bully gray cat streak by in a flash.  Or flash by in a streak.  I get confused.  Wondering what the heck was up, I immediately looked outside and saw Tom with his back towards me, standing on a retaining wall with his back arched like the Gateway in St Louis and snarling like a demon cat possessed.  Or a possessed demon cat.  Again, the confusion thing. 

Following his one-eyed steel glare, I saw a wily, cunning fox in the bush, not six feet away from our cat, in total stalk position, whatever that means.  Tom was fifteen years old at the time, getting a little frail, with only one eye, holding his ground.  We didn't have chickens then, so wily Mr. Fox must have been looking for a feline feast of sorts.  He ran by in a grey panic.  Tom was not going to be anybody's prey.

I was out the door in a heartbeat though, shouting and clapping my hands.  The fox turned and ran, and Tom gave a short chase with a couple snarls just to make sure he got the point.  Tom returned feeling quite triumphant!

One night after the fox incident Tom had another skirmish with a varmint and ended up with a puncture on his neck that came close to his trachea, amongst other wounds.  He had been holding his ground (all the wounds were on the front part of him), but he was tore up pretty good. 

He's kind of hoarse now, but he never spoke much anyway.  Otherwise, he's healed up fine.  After that incident he's been a little better about coming in at night.  It's as if he's finally realized he's lost a step or two and maybe needs to take it easier.  Maybe he's also figured out there's some larger, more dangerous foes in this locale.

He still does a little bird and rodent hunting, but most of the time he's in a chair on the front porch or back deck, hanging out and taking it easy.  Once in a while he'll still play kitten.  Grabbed by some sudden impulse, he'll  dart about the house or yard in a lunatic frenzy for a few minutes.  Then he'll calmly return to the leisure at hand.

It's as if a little of that Purple Double Dome you took forty years ago managed to flash back into your system for a brief moment or two and you find yourself dancing like a maniac to Surrealistic Pillow or Live Dead.  And then you regain consciousness and wonder where the hell you are and what you've been doing. And you hope you're not naked.  In public.  Again.  Especially at this age.

But Tom doesn't care.  He's a cat.  He listens to whatever he wants.  A little Bob Marley, a little Metallica.  A little Chet Atkins, a little Jimi Hendrix.  A little Burt Bacharach, a little Alice Cooper.  It must be a spontaneous cavalcade of tunes that constantly course through his little cat cranium.  He may be missing an eye, but he apparently still listens to quite a variety of music.  In stereo too.

                                        Tom listening to the Plastic Ono Band in Oregon.



                                                    

There's a Rooster in the Hen House

It was Mother's Day weekend, a couple years or so ago, I reckon.  My lovely wife and I were hosting a grand family weekend soiree, which is not to be confused with a weakened sorbet. That could be slightly less tasty, a little less filling and maybe kind of brain-freezing, depending on whether you were eating it or simply soaking in it with Madge. 

My lovely wife's parents were up from the South Bay Area, as was our daughter, her husband and our two incredibly wonderful grandchildren.  Our Grandson was going to be six that summer and our Granddaughter was going to be three.

Our daughter's family had just relocated to Oakland from San Diego, which made the drive to our house only about two and a half hours compared with the grueling eight before.  They were now much closer, for which we were all thrilled to the frayed ends of our orbits.

The move was made possible by our son-in-law, an aspiring rock star who also has a PhD in Chemistry, just in case.  He had just been hired by a firm in Emeryville, CA, after an intensive, two month and seven interview hiring process, a gauntlet that could stretch the mental and physical limitations of any able-bodied rubber band member.   Or rock band member.  Although he was hired by this firm for his scientific prowess, his impromptu death metal air guitar solos are quite an impressive diversion.

But I digress. 

Wait. Still digressing. 

OK.  

Sunday morning, around 7:00 AM, young Sophia and I were the only two souls awake in the house, and we were outside on the deck enjoying a highly existential conversation.  Somewhere in the middle of one of her oh-so-important yet completely unintelligible soliloquies, I heard a distant and muffled, "Er-a-er-a-errrrr." 

What the flock?

My keen senses immediately jumped into overdrive and my ears went parabolic, like a German Shepherd on kitten patrol.  With the sage wisdom of the ages, I said, "Uh-oh, a Rooster!"

And then, there it was again! 

Quick on the uptake, Sophia said, "Uh-oh, a Woostah!"

Yes, it’s true.  Like farm-fresh rubes from faraway Hootersville, we had recently purchased a house on a couple acres and decided to dabble in the fine art of poultry propagation.

How did this happen?  Well, the first task in the new venture was research and acquisition.  I began to hatch a plan.  Get it?   I had been perusing several hatcheries’ catalogs over the course of a year.  While extensive in their offerings they all seemed to stipulate a minimum order of twenty-five chickadees, and I simply didn't want that many birds.   I chose not to buy local because they didn’t have a large variety of chicks and they weren't available until early March.  I wanted to get the girls situated before that time frame.

I finally settled on an internet distributor called eFowl.com.  My choice was determined by a couple of reasons.  First of all, oh man, the name is a cackling hoot.  Get it?  Also, they offered a Heavy Breed Mix, which essentially gives you a blind opportunity to get as great a variety as possible -- depending on availability at the time.  They would all be good layers as well as cold-hardy, which was another requirement since we do get some snow up here in the often frosty Sierra Nevada Foothills of Northern California. 

eFowl also had minimum order requirements, but they were well within my reach. Their minimum order was fifteen, and when a friend said he'd take three, I knew we were freely in range.  Bam!  I wanted to start my flock with about a dozen fine feathered hens.

I ordered them online at eFowl.com and I was really quite impressed and amazed by the whole process.  I would highly recommend the site to anyone if they were going to invest likewise. If you’re not interested in the poultry business or uber fresh eggs, I would probably advise against it.  You know, like, why bother?  If you just want to look at naked chicks, why not go to a porn site instead?   Know what I mean?

eFowl notified us by email when they mailed the chicks, about six days after I placed the order.  The chick was in the mail.  And again, Bam!

Our brood arrived February 6, 2012 via the US Postal Service.  In fact, the post office called at 6:30 AM stating they had some chicks for me, and to come on in and pick them up.  Ironically, I never used to go to the post office to pick up chicks.  I’d usually go to a bar.  Or a bingo parlor.  Yeah, they may have been a little bit older but they sure were willing. 

When I arrived, you could hear a cacophony of chirping chicks throughout the entire building.  When the nice lady brought them to the counter I was surprised to see them all essentially in a small, heavy duty shoe box with holes.  And then, like getting hit with a bucket of fruit infused Jello upside the head, I discovered the reason they have those minimum shipping requirements.  To keep the chicks alive and warm on their trip!  You know, shared bodily warmth.

I ended up with a splendid diversity in the mix. Four of the birds were, in poultry-speak, Buff Orpingtons.  The Orpington is a breed of chicken named after its origins in Orpington, England, and Buff refers to its grand looking pale yellow, or gold color.   One of the Orpington’s turned out to be the Rooster – a dude!

Four of hens were Red Sex Links, a cross between a Rhode Island Red Rooster and a Delaware Hen. They are not quite as dark as the more familiar Rhode Island Red, and they have a little black in their tail feathers. 

Four more were Barred Plymouth Rocks, an All-American breed renowned for their black-and-white checkered plumage.  They were also not allowed to land onshore with the pilgrims, hence the “barred” in their name. 

The final four were Black Sex Links, another cross, bred between a Rhode Island Red Rooster and a Plymouth Barred Rock hen.  They are glossy black, with some brown on their chest and a greenish tint on their backs.  And yes, eFowl actually sent sixteen for the price of fifteen.  Nice touch!

I brought them to their new home, two large moving boxes taped together in the garage.  I put pine wood shavings on the bottom and then added two little round chick feeders and a one gallon waterer.  I also had a flood light on about eighteen inches above the floor of the brooder for warmth.  They had a good twelve square heated feet or more to start their little lives, which was just about the right amount of room. 

That would be their home for a couple months, primarily to keep them safe and warm.  In the meantime, I had been refurbishing an old, dilapidated goat pen out behind the house.   I mean, who needs goats?  George Clooney stares at them and they die.  The Rolling Stones put their heads in a soup.  They have devil eyes.  No thank you, sir!  The repurposed Poultry-a-go-go was just about ready to go-go and I was just about ready to be repurposed as the flocks’ fearless leader.

As per our arrangement, my old friend Tom chose a Red Sex Link, a Barred Rock and a Black Sex Link.  The flock was further reduced after I lost a Black Sex Link and a Barred Rock.  I'm pretty sure one of them died of thirst straight away.  I thought I had gotten all their little beaks into the water a couple times, but with all the commotion I could have missed her.  That is the one major important step when receiving fowl in the mail, making sure they get watered immediately after their journey.  The other fowl death remains a mystery.

I was actually concerned about a buff chick, which was looking rather lethargic, just like the black one that had already perished.  So I dabbed her beak in water several times over the course of a couple minutes and she was noticeably improved.  When I went back an hour later to check on her, she was fine, but a black one that had shown no outward obvious symptoms was dead. 

Go figure.

I had harbored some suspicions about "Boldie Goldie", the dang rooster, for a while.  But several sources I had read stated that aggressive or bossy behavior, large combs or wattles, body size, tail feathers and stance don't mean much of anything.  Some hens can be all that.  What really matters are the saddle feathers, which are the feathers that develop where the lower back meets the base of the tail.  In hens they are flat or rounded; in roosters they are pointy at the end.  And then, of course, the best indicator is a simple yet rousing "Cock-a-doodle-do"! 

Feathers, schmeathers.  Being an admitted novice at this, I waited for the "Cock-a-doodle-do" to be certain.  And it did finally come.

The process of sorting males from females happens immediately after hatching by somebody at the hatchery, who I imagine would have a rather large magnifying glass and knows exactly what they are looking for.  How big could it be?  But even they can make mistakes, averaging about a 90-95 percent accuracy rating.  So, this would mean that I would have had about a one in ten chance of getting a rooster, which apparently I did with my surviving flock of eleven.  

Why do roosters crow?  I dunno.  They crow all the time, at least Goldie does.  The legend that they simply crow at sunrise is a falsehood.  Trust me.  They'll also crow because they hear other roosters crowing, to show that a certain place in the barnyard is their territory, to assert their authority or for any other dang reason they want, known or not known to man.  As I previously mentioned, I dunno.  Apparently neither does anyone else.

Goldie will also crow when a vehicle comes up the drive.  He’s become a “watch” rooster.  He’ll also crow if he hears me fart in the middle of the night.  That bird has an amazing set of ears.  I mean, half the time my farts are silent.

Our flock of eleven is now just over four years old.  It’s actually a flock of eighteen now.  I think.  But there’s only three hens remaining of our original flock of eleven.  Yes, eight of those have died, including the original damn rooster.  And even after adding from two to four chicks every year, prior to this year’s addition of six we were just sitting at one over the original flock number.  Heat, predators and maladies all take their toll. 

We started with six new chicks last year.  Only four are still with us.  One turned out to be a rooster.  He was a big all white White Rock.  Like Foghorn Leghorn.  Fortunately I was able to re-home him to a couple that wants him to mate with their flock.  They plan on raising chickens to eat.  Fine by me.  At least my guy will be involved with the funnest part of that process.

The other, a sprite little Gold Lahenvelder, was probably the smallest of the “litter”.  She was kind of a light orange and black hen, a frisky and friendly little bird.  We had a short heat wave and when I was locking the flock up for the night I found her kind of gasping and wheezing.

Immediately sensing some sort of problem with the heat, I picked her up and got her beak in the water.  I made sure she swallowed several times, and she seemed to be a little better.  The next morning she was still in distress so I repeated what I had done the evening before.  I got her beak in the water; she swallowed once, immediately convulsed and died in my arms.  Sigh.

 That’s the first time I’ve had a heat related issue with the birds.  They normally have about three gallons of water available in two different containers.  I confirm they have water every morning, especially when it starts getting hot.  If that’s not enough, I also fill up Lake Capon every hot summer afternoon.

Lake Capon is about a 2x4 oval puddle inside their yard.  I’ll fill it with about four inches of water and they’ll get in it, stand around and gossip.  With the hard clay we have around here water slowly drains over the course of a couple hours.  Located under a majestic oak, this fowl recreation also helps that tree stay somewhat hydrated during the hot summer.

You’ll have to continue reading this book to find out what happened to all the birds.  A total of eleven have met their fate under my seeming cavalier care.  Drought, pestilence, quick sand, rap music.  Nasty, vicious assaults by hawks and Ringtails. 

What is a Ringtail?  Read on! 

These poultry tales amid many others are all part of the continuing saga of a 60-year old ex-executive trying to toss together a homestead in a small town in the Northern California Sierra Foothills. 

In the middle of it all.   A midwife crisis. 

And nobody’s even pregnant.

 

Harem Scarem