Of Angels and Eggs

If anything, my life has given me a wealth of stories to tell.  Or perhaps I've given life to the stories myself.  I'm still not sure which way it works.  But one will always stand out as a favorite; if I titled it, I might call it "Of Angels and Eggs."  In the past month, I've been working on some memoirish pieces for a mixed-genre collection I may never finish, and I was reminded of this sweet, sweet story:

Once upon a time when I was thirteen, I found myself walking, lost and alone, down residential streets in San Diego.  (How I ended up there is another, much longer, story.  If you're interested, you'll have to wait for me to get published.  Or just stop by my house one night with a block of good cheese, a bottle of cheap red wine, and the question on the tip of your tongue.) As I wandered the dusty roads, my face tear-streaked but my back already perpetually straight, I passed house after house of suburban California architecture: pink stucco and white gravel, tiled roofs and cacti.  But then I noticed an alley, an even dustier dirt road that cut between the back yards of two rows of homes.  Curious, not wanting to return to where I'd been, I turned down the lane and realized that I was now seeing the reality of working-class San Diego life.  People here might put up a good front, but their back yards told the truth: rusting old cars that only Southern rednecks might envy sat on blocks, abandoned plastic riding-toys littered overgrown lawns, and laundry flapped, forgotten in the evening breeze.  Somehow, it was all very comforting.  It was then that the angels appeared.  My angels.  A young couple sat in a mis-matched pair of woven vinyl lounge chairs, drinking canned beers and watching two small children chasing chickens in the dust.  I smiled my smallest smile, and the man walked over to lean his arms along the top of the chain-link fence as I walked by.

"Hey.  You okay?"  he asked.

"Yeah.  I'm fine," I lied.  And he knew it.

"You have some place to go?"

"Yeah."  I did.  I just didn't want to.  But I knew that when I was ready, I could find my way back.  I just wasn't ready yet.

"Anything I can do to help?"  The kindness in his eyes almost made me cry again.  Almost.

I shook my head.  "No.  I'm good."

He looked around his yard and then back at me.  "How about some eggs?"

Now, if you know me at all, you know that I'll eat almost anything except eggs and milk.  I blame my grandmother entirely for this.  I can still remember growing nauseous as she forced a glass of milk to my lips before bed, a fork full of scrambled egg down my throat at the breakfast table.  I felt sure at a very young age that my body was not meant to ingest aborted chicken fetuses or milk meant for baby cows.  But in that moment, tired and hungry and alone, I was overcome by his offer.  More than anything, he wanted to give me something and I wanted to take it.  I needed that connection, that care. 

So I said, "Sure."

He left the fence and wandered into the house.  The woman smiled at me from her repose, and the children eyed me curiously.  After reaching into the hen-house, the man returned with a brown paper lunch bag full of fresh eggs.

"Take good care of yourself," he said.

"Thank you."  I smiled and headed back to where I'd come from. 

Almost a month ago now, I moved myself and my two little loves into a house that I lived in once upon a time.  It's small and snug, quite worn and weathered from hard use and the general wear and tear of life.  But it feels like home.  In my mind I've been calling it my hobbit-hole and I've set to making it my own in a very hobbit-like way.  Right off, McLean and I climbed onto the roof and cleaned out the overburdened gutters.  Then Chloe and I buried "baby seeds" into clay pots and set them in the large, east-facing front window.  I've been working on rerouting the fence in the backyard around the raised beds my last tenants built in an attempt to save any future fruits of my labors from the return of Blade Beak and Star Baby (or perhaps two new chickens--since leaving our girls with my sister's flock out on a mountaintop in Leicester, she's afraid that the neighboring foxes and coyotes might have picked them off, but she has so many chickens, she's not entirely sure) as well as the dog my kids think we're getting.  Then yesterday, while McLean and Chloe played ninjas and dug for worms in the backyard, I turned the soil in the top bed, tossed out weeds and acorns and rocks, and planted some early spring crops.

Just as I was finishing, I heard a noise in the yard next to ours.  I knew that a young couple lived to our right, but I hadn't yet met them.  A man in a ball cap and flannel shirt held a beer in one hand and rummaged through a pile of wood scraps in a makeshift workshop with the other.

"Hey," I called, smiling. 

"Hey."  He turned and smiled back.

That was all of the encouragement my social children needed.  Before I could wipe the dirt off my hands and make it to the fence, McLean and Chloe had scurried over and had found out all about our new neighbor's chickens, big brown dog, and toddling little girl.  Before long, his wife and daughter had come out to meet us, and we stood chatting over beers while McLean chased and caught every single chicken, Chloe climbed and hung from the roosts, and their little one looked on in wide-eyed fascination. 

 

And of course, we went home with a sack full of fresh eggs.        
   

 

      

A Farewell

I don't live here anymore.  This perfect house on Blanton Street is no longer my home, and I have abandoned the garden that grows all around, in nooks and crannies, on top of the wall, in raised beds, and most recently out of the dirt next to the compost bin.  Shortly before I moved out, two plants I had dismissed as weeds blossomed into fullness producing cherry tomatoes and what looks like acorn squash in a patch of land I'd dismissed as too shady and uncultivated.  Without any human direction, these hardy crops grew and have thrived, one even out of season.  I have decided to view the miracle of their existence as reassurance that my own lovingly planted and tended fall crops might also survive on their own, that life is a powerful force, that all beings are resilient, and that beauty and strength can emerge even in battered, desolate stretches. 

I've never before packed the way I did when I left my husband.  The kids and I would need our clothes and personal items in the basement of my parents' house, but other than that, I was mostly concerned with creating the familiar, comfortable feeling of "home."  For the kids, that was fairly simple; I knew they'd want some of their toys to play with, stuffed animals and blankies to snuggle.  For me if was very different.  I've spent the past nine years creating a home for Hutch and myself, painting walls, hanging pictures, collecting furniture, but as I walked around our perfect house, I realized that there really wasn't much I needed, not much that would make another place feel like home.  I was content to use the dressers and bed and shelves that my mom had in storage.  I was relieved to take the old quilts and towels I'd bought in what seemed like a previous life.  It was so many little things that I felt the need to take with me, all the silly decorative pieces I'd vowed to clear out so many times in attempt to declutter, to achieve that bare minimalist look magazines tout as cleaner and healthier living.  I couldn't bear to leave my John Denver Aerie record, its cardboard cover curving with age and moisture from the nearby potted plant that Hutch always overwatered.  I had to pack the two black-and-white photos of my pregnant belly, one from our 2006 Christmas card and the other detailing the henna design from Chloe's blessing way.  I needed the bronze canteen a high school friend had brought back from her trip to Egypt, an urn and incense burner from the friend I'd travelled with in college, the hollowed purple candle an exboyfriend had given me, and an almost sacred art print from a mama friend.  Out of the attic I reclaimed the Waterhouse Hylas and the Nymphs print that my husband had found too provocative and reframed it on the spot.

And our little basement oasis is thriving.  It feels warm and cozy thanks to a plush but marred Pottery Barn rug a friend was getting rid of and an old oriental I found rolled up in my parent's garage.  On Sundays, when the kids first get here after being with their dad for three days, we have to plan time to stay in, to simply exist in this still new space, taking it all in and re-making it our own.  But it is a good space.  It is a peaceful retreat from school and work and the world.  It even feels like home: this is where I snuggle my babies to sleep, hold them on my lap as we read, and play with them on the floor. 

Two days ago, the kids and I spent the afternoon at Blanton Street.  I was pretty sure that the sweet potatoes I'd planted in June were ready to be harvested, but I've never grown potatoes before, and I hadn't been at the house to water or weed in almost a month.  Not knowing at all what to expect, I found two tiny shovels for the kids, grabbed a hoe, and started digging.  One by one, sweet jewels started to pop up from the earth.  McLean and Chloe were amazed, delighted to uncover such riches from beneath the tangled viney mess they'd grown so used to.  Gardening has taught me the miracle of each fruit and blossom, the blessing in that which we eat and take for granted every day.  But root vegetables may be the most magical of all, growing underground, out of sight as a child in the womb, always anticipated, yet a always a surprise.  While some gifts are expected, wanted and worked for, blooming right before our eyes; others rise up from deep below the surface, grounded and grounding and true. 



For Jaybird and Uncle Bo

It's been a rough week. I started at UNCA on Monday, McLean started kindergarten on Wednesday, and little Chloe has been with her Nona or Karis all week. By the time we get home in the afternoon, everyone is exhausted, and the only way I've been able to get my children to go outside is by asking if they want to hunt for eggs. One day we found three, the next day two, but it's always an adventure. Friday was especially difficult. I was at UNCA's convocation until dinnertime, and as soon as Doug and the kids joined me on campus for the picnic welcoming freshmen, I could tell McLean wasn't feeling well. The poor boy spent his first Saturday of kindergarten lying on the couch, feverish and dozing. Today, when his fever broke, I coaxed him outside with the prospect of helping me with a project: Operation Keep the Chickens Out of the Vegetable Beds.

Anyone who knows my son knows that he has loved to construct "projects" as he calls them since he was about eighteen months old. His constructions have consisted of everything from tying string all around my kitchen and then hanging kitchen utensils at various intervals to taping cardboard and legos and action figures together to simulate space travel. I'm sure my request today for him to help me unroll chicken wire and fasten it across the fencing that deters the dogs but has done nothing to phase the chickens was less than thrilling. He seemed intent, however, on barricading the sides I had neglected with sticks, and, indeed, one of our feathered rock stars did find her way into the wire mesh tunnel before the sides were completely patched. With Claxton's help, McLean delighted both in chasing her out and in letting me know that he had been right about the chickens' ability to infiltrate my barricade. McLean's sticks and my chicken wire now in place, I'm hoping that my second planting of fall greens will be able to prosper. I also bought beet, carrot, and broccoli seeds today, but my first weekend has already slipped away from me, and the rest of my beds will have to wait another week.

When I first started dating Doug, he lived in a lime green box of a house on a surprisingly beautiful third of an acre on Cherry Lane. Next door, his neighbors Bo and Jen were busy with their own young family: Bo taught second grade at a local elementary school, Jen was a full-time Trauma nurse at Mission, Alice was a precocious middle-schooler, and Will was a sweet and spirited seven-year-old. After I moved in and Bo, Jen, Alice, and Will became my neighbors, too, I came to witness their trials and tribulations as a family. They had their busy weeks, less-than-ideal parent-teacher conferences, heated disagreements, and the usual illnesses and injuries. Through it all, however, they maintained, and continue to maintain, an amazing sense of community and of home.

Cherry Lane was truly a magical place. A forgotten cul-de-sac off the end of Lakeshore, the last city street before the wilds of Woodfin, Cherry Lane held eight residences, and our friend and neighbor Bo was the self-appointed ambassador of our tiny community. He would stroll down the street after work while Will rode his bike or played with the neighborhood kids, stopping to chat with anyone who was pulling up the driveway or out working in the yard. He could and would detail the history of each home and family on the street as well as their breaking news stories. It was the kind of street where stopping by to say hello might very well lead to staying for a beer and perhaps dinner and maybe even drinks over a late-night game of cards . . . After all, home was never more than a quick stumble away.

Before long, Bo became more than just an ambassador. He became our close friend. So close, in fact, that one Saturday morning while Doug was still asleep and I still in my nightgown, I walked into the kitchen to check on the coffee to find that Bo had already poured himself a cup and was foraging our fridge for breakfast. So close that at least once a week, we would meet in one or the other's kitchen or back deck to share a meal. At first, Bo and Doug would grill and Jen and I would make sides. But as the wine flowed and we began plotting our next culinary adventure, the menus became more and more elaborate. We would plan a Moroccan meal, an Indian spread, a Cuban fiesta, a Thai night. When Doug and I were engaged and announced a honeymoon to Italy, Bo and Jen coordinated a Italian wine-tasting couple's shower for the entire street, led by a local connoisseur at a montage of borrowed tables on a neighbor's front lawn. After our return, Jen and I began to experiment with pasta-making with the hand-cranked, table-top roller I bought in Florence. Regardless of the cuisine, however, a good half of the food Bo and Jen contributed to these shared meals was grown in and around their home.

Now that we live in a larger house, closer to town and a whole ten minutes away from the family who will always feel like neighbors, our dinners together are less frequent. Not only are Doug and I still relatively new parents, but Alice has just graduated from college and comes home only occasionally, sometimes with her boyfriend, and Will is beginning his senior year in high school. Our old house has new inhabitants and a fence now encloses the property. Across the street is a young family we've met only once or twice. Bo and Jen have added an addition and remodeled their house, but the kitchen still feels like home. After pouring us both a glass of red, Jen will almost always take me out on a tour of the garden.

In England the word garden refers to what we call a yard. A garden is simply the land surrounding and belonging to a particular building. But, of course, the word garden also suggests that this land might yield any manner of flowers or fruits or vegetables. Bo and Jen's garden truly does. Their garden is not a singular bed, but a dynamic breadth of land. Raised beds make mowing in the front almost unnecessary, the earth below the hedges is covered with strawberry plants, blueberry bushes serve as a fence along the perimeter, and herbs line the driveway. An apple tree shades most of the back deck and drops her fruit right onto the wrought iron table. Not surprisingly, this garden has been the inspiration for my own. Not only because it expands and changes with every season or because it puts to use of what could have been merely a yard with manicured grass and ornamental blooms, but because it has become the centerpiece of a home. It has provided so much more than mere nourishment for its family: after years of cooking with the family, Alice decided to major in Nutrition, and Will is contemplating culinary school. Jen still prepares her sauces and soups from the goodness growing on her land, and Bo still seems to spend much of his spare time working outdoors, only in part so he can keep himself apprised of the neighbors.

I often say that Jen is my most quotable friend. Perhaps because she has an insatiable appetite for books, her words often take on the familiar quality of the famous but forgotten quotes that linger in the recesses of my mind. One night she set down her wine glass, eyes behind her glasses widening as she confessed in her Kentucky twang, "I remember the day that I woke up and realized that all this time I was supposed to be a Capitalist." She almost collapsed in a fit of giggles. After a few glasses of red, Jen will pontificate on everything from politics to relationships. Bo, on the other hand, is full of a more practical knowledge. I would never have remembered to plant my garlic that first year if it hadn't been for him calling me when he planted his. When I needed help determining why one of my hens was laying soft-shelled eggs, Bo helped me figure it out. He's the man who knows someone who knows someone who knows a lot about everything. And he can make those connections work. I have no doubt that I am a richer person because of both Bo and Jen's presence in my life. But if I learn nothing else from my friends, I hope I can learn how to allow my yard, my garden on Blanton Street, to provide for my home and community as they have.



Rock Stars

Blade Beak and Star Baby are rock stars.  No really, they are.  A couple of weeks ago I was finally convinced that our sweet pit bull Claxton had come to accept the fowl as family, and since then, dogs and chickens have roamed the backyard together in relative peace.  The only friction these days stems from the fact that these roosterless sisters have become just as confident as any cock.  They pick my tomatoes off the vine, climb into Claxton's bowl and try to eat his food when he's not looking, and have even started jumping on the trampoline.  But their brashness doesn't stop there.  This past Monday morning, Chloe and I found a small brown egg on the floor of the hen house, and on Wednesday, McLean found another one nestled in the hay that kids and dogs have strewn all over the floor of Doug's shed.  Our chickens have started laying!  Friday morning, however, when we went out on our daily egg hunt, we found runny yolks and cracked shells under the favorite roost.  Miraculously, there was no smashed TV in the sandbox beneath the girls' window. 



What I've learned is that nesting boxes shouldn't be on the floor.  It probably would have helped if I'd read beyond the introduction of the chicken book I borrowed from the library.  Luckily, my friend Katy shared her wealth of knowledge after a playdate this morning, so with a few minor adjustments, we should be able to curtail Blade Beak and Star Baby's wild nights of partying. 



My chickens' rebellious attitudes aren't the only manifestations of the past few weeks.  The kids and I planted our fall greens outside and started carrots, beets, and broccoli from seed in the kitchen window.  McLean learned how to swim this summer, and his enthusiasm for the water has landed him with a painful case of swimmer's ear.  Poor little Chloe appears to be suffering through the emergence of all four of her two-year molars.  Even Mama had some upsetting news this week.

Reconnecting with long lost friends always awakens half-forgotten memories.  A few weeks ago, I ran into a man I haven't seen in a decade, a man with whom I lived for almost two years.  The rush of unexpected familiarity was grounded, however, by sobering news: a mutual friend of ours took his life last year. 

One of the things I loved about living with my ex was that we never lived alone (a fact which may explain why we aren't still together . . . ).  I'll admit that the steady influx of temporarily homeless friends who would crash on our couches for days, weeks, and sometimes months was initially unsettling, but I came to relish Saturday morning coffee and conversation with strangers who had arrived after I had gone to bed the previous evening and weeknight dinners that lasted late into the night.  Most of the visitors came and went, but Jason was an almost permanent fixture in our home and hearts. 

Having grown up in Madison County, Jason had almost no sense of time.  He took time with his coffee, his smoke breaks, his Dewar's and Ginger, and every conversation or friendly grocery-store encounter.  He seemed to be always feeling his way through each interaction, and regardless of how awkward those social situations might have been for him, they were fresh and honest.  Jason took pride in both his work and his rebellion, whether he was fixing a friend's car, mixing a drink, or recalling his adventures with the local police department.  He taught me to wait tables like a professional and drink moonshine like a redneck.  He was a good man and a good friend.

I will never forget the day he called mid afternoon, asking me to meet him at a bar.  He had been dating a woman for only a few weeks, and as I listened to him, I was surprised to realize that this man who took his time with everything was considering a commitment.  I'm not exactly sure what I told him, but he and Amy left for Tennessee the next weekend.  I remember coming home from work three days later to find the two of them sitting and grinning on the back steps. 

"Guess what she went and did," Jason had smirked. 

"What?"

"She went and got married."  Amy wiggled the fingers of her left hand, showing off a band of gold. 

I was speechless.

"Guess what he went and did," Amy took over.

I still couldn't speak.

"He went and got married."  Jason, too, was wearing a ring.

Ten years and two children later, time finally caught up with my friend.  My ex and I had long since split, each of us now married to someone else, and I had lost touch with Jason.  I knew that he and Amy were raising her sweet boy from a previous marriage and had had a second child together.  I knew that they had moved to Cullowhee and then perhaps Saluda, but they had ceased to be a part of my life.  I didn't know when they separated. I didn't know when his rebelliousness cost him his job and his family.  I didn't know about the night he took too many pills, abandoned and alone in a hotel room.  I didn't know about his funeral.  I wasn't there to mourn or celebrate his short life.

So I'll do it now.  Here's to your rock-star spirit, Jason.  Free, finally, from all constraints, may you wander in timeless bliss and may your wife and children, family and friends be comforted by the memory of your honest love.
        

Season's End

So, Blade Beak and Star Baby are still not laying.  Of course, I am starting to wonder if this is merely their means of protesting the nomenclatures my children so lovingly bestowed upon them . . .  Regardless, I am still buying eggs at four dollars a dozen at City Market or, on the more hectic badly-planned weeks, the grocery store.  And lately, life often seems to be taking on a more frenzied quality.  My summer semester at A-B Tech is drawing to a close, my students submitting paper after paper while I grade at a furious pace, trying not to let the virtual stacks overwhelm my virtual deskspace.  And as hard as I try, I can't seem to forget how little time I have left to spend with my chicken-naming munchkins before I am expected to start acting and dressing like a grown up and return to work full-time for the first time in their existence.  Sometimes I feel overwhelmed.  But every afternoon, just as the wind starts to blow the tease of a storm,  I remember about dinner, and I walk outside to see what gifts my garden bears.

Today it wasn't much--lettuce, a few tomatoes, a handful of beans, two cucumbers (one of which Chloe snatched up for an impromptu snack)--but along with the chicken breasts I had defrosted and some golden-red beets from my mom's friend's garden, it was enough to inspire a lush salad, complete with mozzarella and toasted walnuts. For all this I love my garden.  It forces me to create from that which I have.  It reminds me to head outside for a moment and truly breathe.  It teaches me patience and expectancy and excitement.  But most of all, it speaks of change.  The tomatoes that were hard and pale yesterday are a plump, rich red, falling warm into my palm today. The cucumbers we watched emerge as tiny wrinkled fruits beneath their yellow petals now crunch crisp and wet in my little girl's mouth.

It's the magic of birth: the fact that a new life, an entire, perfect entity, can make itself known in a few short moments.  And then, of course, that entity begins to change and grow at an unfathomable speed, laughing at anyone over thirty who even tries to keep up.  Very few days go by that an older mama or papa doesn't stop to remind me to treasure this time when my children are young because it will pass so quickly.  And so, in spite of  the work and worry that piles up around me, I am trying to treasure it all.  Not just the intentional summer outings that I've meticulously orchestrated, but the spontaneous and true adventures as well.   The moment of madness when McLean turns the volume on his new favorite song way up and we forget ourselves and become pop stars.  The way Chloe's perfect, wiggling little body infects my own as I ditch my heavy mama-bag and dance barefoot downtown.

I feel a new season coming. I know that in just a few short weeks, McLean will start kindergarten, Chloe preschool, and I work.  Our lives will change drastically, and I have no idea how that change will feel.  All I can do is embrace what I have now.  The magical moments with my children as well as my periodic lapses in sanity.  Even my two impeccably named chickens who are still not laying.

Sunscreen: An Urban Ode to Summer

Confession: I really dislike sunscreen.  I dislike it the way I dislike closed-toe shoes that confine my feet, turtlenecks in winter, and sex with condoms. Of course, I dutifully apply it (sunscreen, not condoms) to my kids every time we go to the lake or the beach or the park in the summer, and I even rub some on my face and shoulders if I know I'm going to be out in the sun for an extended period of time.  But I still hate it.  Hate the way it feels on my body.  Hate that it keeps me from feeling, really feeling, the warmth of the sun on my skin.  I do realize that I am in the minority in this regard and that my views have become somewhat socially unacceptable.  But I've always loved the sun.  I've always loved the heat.  I've even always loved climbing into a car that's been sitting in the sun all day.  (Yes, I do realize that quite a few of you are questioning my sanity right now.)  Lately, though, I've developed a new appreciation for summer rays.  I find myself at Splashville with the kids, wondering not if the part of my back I couldn't reach is getting sunburned (it was, in case you're wondering), but whether the sun had worked it's magic enough to ripen my tomatoes that had so far remained a stubborn green.  Gathering blackberries on my sister's property for a pie, I find myself overwhelmed by a sudden summer breeze and begin scanning the sky for signs of a storm that might quench my thirsty greens.

These unexpected thrills are always the best.  I began cooking and baking because my brother and sisters and I were hungry and my mom otherwise engaged, but if I step out and reenter my house, the warmth of sauteed garlic, yeasty bread, or roasted root vegetables always amazes me.  I adopted Blade Beak and Star Baby because I wanted fresh eggs, but their antics will often catch my attention as I weed or water out back, and I'll have to stop to watch their earnest pecking and squawking.  I started planting vegetables and herbs because I wanted to make the most of my land and feed my family the best I could, but I have been surprised at how this simple, utilitarian act has heightened my awareness of the seasons in a very physical way.  Summer now permeates my being.  Not only when I play with my kids in the creek as the temperatures near a hundred or sip sangria on the porch with a mama friend as the fireflies begin to glow, but also when I catch the giggles with my thirteen-year-old niece while messing around on facebook or delight in the awed faces of my children, so much more worldly than I was at their ages, as they watch the city fireworks display for the first time.

And all this is a result of gardening?  Maybe not.  Maybe it has much more to do with maturing, becoming a mother, nearing forty . . .  But maybe not.  I know quite a few forty-year-olds who really seem to relish sunscreen.

For my sister . . .

I have an amazing little sister.  I actually have four amazing little sisters, but only one can wield power tools like nobody's business and can boast that she broke her foot building a teepee out of tree trunks.  It is this particular sister whose spirit I channelled a couple of days ago when I set out to add a floor to the hen house. 

I love projects.  As with cooking and even cleaning, I love the feeling of accomplishing something tangible with my own hands, of seeing concrete results.  But I have never had a ton of confidence in my carpentry skills.  What I do have is an intense drive to fix problems.  And every time it rained, we had a problem.  Water was seeping into the playhouse that Doug had originally thought would be a great shelter for the dogs (the dogs thought otherwise) and had ended up sitting unused in the corner or our yard (the kids were afraid of the spiders) until I decided that we needed backyard chickens.  That playhouse now holds two roosts, a laying box, feeder, and water dispenser and is attached to the largest chicken run our tiny backyard can afford.  But the morning after every one of these beautiful, sky-opening summer storms we've been having, I've had to relieve the floor of the coop of wet, poopy wood shavings.  The water didn't seem to be coming in through the windows or door, but seeping in from underneath.  So one hot sunny day, the kids and I went to Lowe's early in the morning and set about to add a raised floor.

McLean hammered in a couple of nails before deciding that a more effective use of his time would be to chronicle the chickens' antics with my camera while they explored the yard.  I now have sixty-some-odd pictures of Blade Beak and Star Baby on my phone, but I guess that's preferable to his usual subjects: my hand on my hip (to show people how I look when I'm mad), his sister's booty (probably because she loves to shake it so much), and his own penis (taken, I'm sure, for no other reason than to test my reaction time when I am flipping through pics with my grandmother).  Chloe, on the other hand, hammered away happily with me the entire time, hitting every nail, the walls, roosts, nesting box, and, just to make sure I was paying attention, me.

In the end, we somehow managed to secure a smooth wooden floor that has (so far!) kept our sweet chicks' bedding dry.  This one's for you, Tina :)