If I Only Had a Brain

I would probably look something like this.

Honestly, with the weather getting colder and all the leaves turning color up here in the White Mountains, I have been more than ready to put up my fall decorations. It's not like I have a lot - I'm no Martha Stewart by any means - but I do have a few things I enjoy seeing each year, such as a collection of little stuffed cats wearing Halloween costumes. They are jointed and I can place them in different poses. Maybe that's kinda weird, but I love my Halloween kitties.

Anyway, I cannot for the life of me find my fall decorations. I have looked high and low, in closets, in sheds, in the spare bedroom - everywhere I can possible think of. But they are gone, simply gone.

I told my husband that someone must have broken into our house and took my autumn decor. This makes perfect sense, doesn't it?

To compensate for my lack of decorative items I decided to make a scarecrow with the straw I keep for lining the chickens' nesting box. I had a bag from flour, some old clothes I was going to give to charity, and a couple sticks, too. I put them all together and voila! a scarecrow was born.

Of course the only one who gets scared by Ms. Scarecrow is me, when I glance outside and seeing someone sitting in my front yard. Oh, if I only had a brain...

It's a Bird's Life

Lately, I can't help but humming "Birds to the left of me, chickens to the right, here I am, stuck in the middle with you" (thank you Stealers Wheel for that parody! - and why didn't you ever do another song?). Anyway...

Back here in the rural enclaves of the White Mountains, I seem to be destined to live an aviary life.

To the left of me, on the front porch, a momma bird decided to make a nest and lay her baby chicks. The little buggars are growing by leaps and bounds and they constantly cheep, cheep, cheep, asking momma to feed them. We keep the windows in the living room open to enjoy the breeze, but at times they raise such a cacophony I can barely hear myself think.

On the right of me I've got the hens and roosters. They're making a whole lot of noise now, too, as the roosters vie for the title of Cock o' the Walk and try using their charm and charisma to get lucky with the hens. And because we don't have the yard fenced off yet all the way, the chickens keep coming across that invisible line between their run and our grass and flower beds. We've tried training our dog, Colby Jack, to be a good chicken herder, but when we leave the house and return, it's to find piles of chicken poop all over our deck and all the leaves on the flowers mysteriously gone. As you can see from the picture on the left, they are not averse to going anywhere. Hey, who needs a coop for shelter from the weather, anyway?

I guess I asked for it, though. Just call me the Chicken Lady. Pfftt! Had a feather in my mouth.

Candy Land

I wonder when I changed from being “Candace” to “Candy”.

When I was growing up, I was always called Candy. In a bit of defiance, and to prove that I was different from everyone else, I decided to spell it different than the norm. From junior high to high school, I was “Candé”, as if all of a sudden I’d turned French.

Round about the time I started college, I decided that Candy was either too little-girlish or made me sound too much like the happy hooker. So I went back to going by my full name, Candace.

Nowadays, except for those few friends who have known me for decades, I am known as Candace.

Except here in my new home in Arizona’s White Mountains, that is.

For some reason, everyone here shortens my name to that childhood nickname of Candy. I introduce myself as Candace and at the end of an encounter, my new friends and acquaintances are saying “Nice to meet you, Candy.”

Even complete strangers do it. The propane delivery driver handed me a handwritten receipt for my tank fillup. It was made out to Candy Morehouse. My neighbors call me by my nickname, so do people at church, and even the checker at the grocery store.

I gave up trying to correct everyone a long time ago. I guess up here in the rural outskirts of town, I have gone back to living a simpler life, in every sense of the phrase. First it was my name, then it was the chickens I bought. I’ve got my eye on a goat to add to our farm animals but I just hope he doesn’t eat the vegetables I am growing in my garden with my own homemade mulch. What’s next? Riding a horse into town, grinding my own flour, and fermenting my own wine? Sounds good to me.

Until next time, yours truly, Candy

The Chickens Definitely Came Before the Eggs

Life out here on the farm is…well, farm-like.

Especially with our new addition, ten baby chicks. We’ve got five that are Rhode Island Red mixes and five that are black Leghorns. They’re pretty cute little cheepers right now that peck at the sides of their box home and fall asleep standing up. They are congregating in the corner beneath the heat lamp and sometimes they even pile up on top of each other.

Our hope is that the majority of these little fellows turn out to be hens (it’s nearly impossible to tell at this point). We’ll keep one rooster and eat, or sell, the rest. My husband is making them a fine coop to move into when they are old enough to put outside.

Since I didn’t grow up on a farm or even participate in 4-H, this is a new experience for me. I’ll let you know how it goes. I can’t help but remember the I Love Lucy episode where she and Ricky moved out to the country and started raising chickens. Lucy had to bring them indoors to keep them warm and Little Ricky lets them loose so they had little chicks running all over their house. And then there was the episode with the eggs, when Lucy decides to buy store bought eggs to convince Ricky her hens are good layers. She puts them down the front of her blouse and then does the tango – only to have them all break down the front of her chest.

If I encounter any Lucy-like episode with my chickens, I’ll let you know. After all, if you can’t laugh at yourself, who can you laugh at?