Blueberry Hill Farm

OK, finally the promised news concerning Guinea, one of the newest additions to the chaos and bedlam here at the farm.  My chum, Bradley Fox, brought me two guineas the last time he was here delivering to me fifteen "point-of-lay" Leghorn hens.  Leghorns are white egg layers and I have missed not having enough white eggs to include a couple in each carton.  My favorite assortment of eggs in each carton is four brown, two blue/green, two white, four brown.  Is it obvious to everyone by now that there is some kind of issue going on here?

Anyway, I had told Bradley the last time I was at his farm that I'd like to have some guineas, so he brought me a male and female.  Alas, somehow in transport, the female's leg was broken, so Bradley was going to take her back with him and . . . The first night at the farm, Guinea marched into the back coop along with the new hens.  That was on Tuesday.  Wednesday morning when I went out to chore up, Guinea was on the outside of the 8' fence surrounding the back pasture trying frantically to get back in.  It has always been a conundrum to me that said birds that manage to fly over the fence to get out can never seem to remember how to fly back in.  So, being the loving and caring farmgirl that I am, I set out to rescue Guinea.  This is done with great sacrifice on my part, because it is a royal pain in the patooie to get outside and to the very back of the compound.  There is lots of poison ivy, briars, snake nests, etc, that one has to trudge through to get back there, but I did it and spent a good deal of time coaxing, begging, threatening, chasing, etc, that darn guinea, trying to catch him so he could be reunited with the other foul fowls.  To no avail.  Finally, I faced the fact that Guinea would be eaten before the day was done and I had just lost the ten bucks I paid for him.

Amazingly, Wednesday morning he was still alive and still trying to get back into the fortress.  I had to go out of town for the evening, so didn't have a great deal of time to fool with him, but I did go out and try to lure him into the compound.  After this second, and I might add, final attempt to be a loving and caring farmgirl, I finally said "Fine, you stupid bird.  Get eaten" and sadly accepted Guinea's probable fate. 

On Thursday, Guinea flew back over the fence and decided he would be the self appointed guardian of the broiler chicks.  Great!  For two weeks he watched over the five pens of broilers as if they were his own children, fretting each time I moved the pens, making sure everyone was well fed and sounding many alarms. 

Then, Guinea flew back out of the compound.  Why?  Was it boredom?  Was he overwhelmed by the task he had taken on for himself?  I had tried to express my gratitude for the fine job he was doing.  For the next two days he again tried frantically to get back in.  I did not try to rescue him.  On day three, he flew back over the fence and resumed his guard duties.  I wonder how he's going to handle it when three of the pens become empty this weekend?  Guess I'll find out.

The long and short of it is that I LIKE Guinea.  He's a cool dude.  I love the many different sounds he makes and he's just a comical character.  He's just another instrument to the orchestra, so to speak. I think I'd like to have a peacock or two . . .

Two events the past few days will go down in the "farm journal".  The first was "the driving of the hens from the barn."  There have been a group of "rogue" hens that decided several months ago they were going to roost in the barn, thank you very much.  It started with a few of the older hens and the number grew steadily when some of the younger girls saw it and thought it was cool.  So these hens were roosting on top of the storage cabinet, on stall panels, on wiring conduit and some on the very top of the "cage" into which we store hay and feed.  Doing as hens do, which has been previously discussed as to why you need to wear old shoes when you come out to the farm, they have done it all over the barn.  In short, the barn has been trashed by these "ne'er do well" hens.  While patience is still a virtue, I must confess that I ran completely out of it last Thursday when I was setting up brooder tanks in the barn in anticipation of the new broiler chicks that were coming on Friday.  Realizing that if those hens were still in the barn when the chicks were there, they would eat the chick feed and wreak general havoc, so I began the process of driving them out.  The more I drove, the more hysterical they became and the madder I got.  In the process I was reminded of the time when Jesus ran the moneychangers out of the temple and I swelled with righteous indignation.  Truthfully, I must confess my indignation was NOT righteous and became more unrighteous the more laps we went around the barn.  It was, unfortunately, one of those times I was angry and sinned!  At last, I finally got them all out of the barn and closed all the doors. 

Those hens became a pitiful, whimpering group, huddled outside the barn door at night, in the rain, shivering in the cold.  Was I moved with compassion?  NO.  There are four chicken coops into which they can go to get in out of the harsh, cruel world.  If they want to spend a miserable night in the rain or become dinner for an owl, so be it.

Sunday night when I came home from church, as I was on my way down to the barn to check on the chicks, I saw, to my horror, one of the top barn doors had blown open.  Were the hens?   Yep, they were.  Every last one of those blame hens was perched back on their favorite perches.  I even heard a few "na na nuh boom booms" when I entered the barn.  I was madder than a broody hen but as it was dark I knew there was nothing to be done until morning when "the driving of the hens from the barn" happened all over again.  The barn doors have been secured and a hurricane won't blow them open this time!  Farmgirl will have the last word.

Then, late yesterday afternoon, I was on the phone with my sister when I saw alpacas running around in the back yard.  MO was chasing a screaming Sal.  As a side note -- MO is a crazy male who's entire existence is consumed by getting to and killing Sal and that's what he was trying to do.  Sal was screaming, MO was chasing and snorting, the girls were running, and they were all disregarding my blueberry bushes.  SOME IDIOT had left a gate open from the back pasture into the yard.  This was the same idiot that had left the trailer door open that I cracked my head open on!  Do we realize that the entire running of this farm depends on this IDIOT??  Scary, isn't it!!  Do I need to try and describe the pitiful sight of this short, fat farmgirl chasing a herd of alpacas, who, when not supposed to be where they are, can run like a pack of gazelles???  The thought of getting my shotgun and using it was a thought that more than crossed my mind.  It was not a funny situation and I don't want anyone laughing about it!  After a very long time and a couple of destroyed blueberry bushes, I finally got the unruly mob separated and back where they were supposed to be. 

It's only Tuesday??  This has been a long week so far!  I don't even want to think about all the other things that can go wrong for fear they WILL!

Well, boys and girls, it's time for us to explore another chapter in the ongoing saga of the Farmgirl of Blueberry Hill.  When will this saga ever end?  Well, it almost did today . . .

I had a quite productive day today.  It began very early this morning with the routines of the day.  In the morning the chores begin with the broiler chicks in the garage and end with Mr. Knightly and Emma's coop.  The broilers are becoming very naughty as they have discovered that their little wings will actually propel them somewhere -- usually over the side of the broiler tank and onto the garage floor.  When I got out to take care of them this morning, there were quite a number of them out.  Anyway, that's another story and I spent quite a bit of time today trying to figure out what I was going to do with them.  I think I have it worked out in my mind now.  After the routine chores were finished, I began working on the cleanup of this farm, as the rains and general muck of the winter have done both a number on its cleanliness and my morale. 

I tore down and pulled up a defunked chicken lot that the chickens had destroyed beside the big coop; I took a load of trash to the dump; I picked up lumber scraps from a shed we had built; I cleaned out the tack room down at the llama barn and removed protective covering from around the stall.  I hauled feed up to the little blue coop and cleaned up around there.  While at the little blue coop I had to fend off, yet another attack, of Dandy the Rooster from Hell who insists on attacking and flogging me.  I hate that rooster.  One day he's going to flog me when I'm in just the right frame of mind, and I'm going to shoot his worthless hide. I've tried to explain to him that "farmer" trumps "rooster" but he refuses to follow my line of reasoning.  I am the "head honcho" around here because I am the only one with thumbs and therefore the only one who can remove the lid from the scratch tub.  The hens love me best, for when they are given the choice of scratch or being courted by a rooster, they will opt for scratch every time.  The roosters are quite jealous of the hens' loyalty toward me.  It is just a striking example that a hen can live without a rooster but she cannot live without a farmer.  I digress.

Anyway, around 3:30 this afternoon I was going to load up the old chicken lot I had pulled up with the intent of loading it onto the dump cart and hauling it off to the landfill when it happened. 

I had decided that, since there was a strong ammonia odor coming out of the big coop, mostly due to the last big rain that flooded that coop,  I would put the last bale of shavings I had in there to help with that problem.  Some idiot had left the top door of the horse trailer open.  I was deep in conversation with me and myself, carrying the shavings from around the back of the A-frame coop and not really looking where I was going.  All of a sudden WHAM!! I walked right into the corner of that opened trailer door.  I hit it with such force that I was knocked backwards and onto the ground.  The door corner had come in contact with my forehead up near my hair line and I was in such excruciating pain that I could only utter incomprehensible groans that have no definitions.  I don't know how long I lay on the ground but I was pretty sure I was dying.  I could not move, I could only groan.  Just as I was sure I was about dead, it occurred to me that I was not surrounded by a band of angels coming after me, but a flock of chickens standing over me.  One of the hens had a hold of my pants leg and was pulling it frantically saying "Farm girl, get up! Get up!" but I could not.  After laying there for what seemed like a very long time, I was able to roll over onto my belly and then after a few more minutes was able to push up onto my knees.  The bale of shavings was right there and I slumped over it.  I couldn't open my right eye and my head was throbbing.  I was debating whether or not to call 9-1-1.  Finally I was able to stand up.  This is dragging out to long. You get the picture.  I was very pitiful and I felt very pitiful.  My biggest concern was that I was going to keel over and I hadn't made out a list of what to do in the event that happened.  Dying becomes very complicated when the starving masses are relying on you.  I staggered up to the house, got a bag of ice, and called Ernest, my retired doctor Brother-in-law.  Anyway, drug out story shortened . . .  I am still alive, although I have a dozy of a goose egg on my forehead.  My head is very sore and I have a feeling that's not going to be better by morning.  I may have to call in sick tomorrow.

So, Farmgirl, what have we learned from this experience?  Close the *!!$@**&% trailer door!

The End.

We may be blown away today but thankfully it is NOT raining.  The sun shining down on the hoop houses heats things up nicely inside and gives the plants enclosed therein the courage to start growing a little.

I will tell you, though, that chickens HATE wind.  It makes things blow around that look like flying creatures.  It may just be a big leaf, but the roosters take no chances in sounding the alarms, just not being sure that the leaf in question might not be a hawk in disquise.  One never knows these days . . .

Yesterday everyone here  was border line nuts.  I have two alpacas who have discovered the joys of eating chicken feed and have discovered  the trick of getting into the large stall I've made into a chicken coop at the "llama barn".  Very annoying.  To top it off, yesterday morning, during my breakfast ritual of eating my cereal in front of the sliding glass door that overlooks the "kingdom", I noticed that the tack room door at the "llama  barn" was standing open.  Annoying again.  That would mean hens were in there laying eggs amongst the bales of hay that would not be discovered; alpacas would up in the tack room eating alfalfa hay, their favorite but available to them on a limited basis; etc., etc.  I went ahead and finished my cereal, then dressed and went down to see what the damage was. 

Instead of "all of the above" I discovered that SOMEBODY had drug out two feed bags that the hens had busily and happily shredded into millions of pieces.  Why?  Boredom?  Rain fever?  Because they could?  Another annoyance.  Oh well, such is life here on the farm . . .