Category Archives: Ginny’s Ark

“Better Safe than Sorry”
“Always be prepare for the worse.”
I’m not talking about dance school management. I’m talking about bees.

Today, I went to check on my bees for the first time. It was to be a maintenance check to be sure the bees are still there, building up their home appropriately. I figured I’d go out there in jeans and long sleeve shirt, maybe with my gloves and veil, because I was planning only a quick peek. I ordered a few additional things from the bee company after my class, and they arrived yesterday, so this morning, I spent an hour putting together a cedar hive stand and preparing another style of feeder with sugar syrup “just in case”. I would set these up too.

I put on shorts this morning, but didn’t feel comfortable dressing that lightly. As I go to change, I think it’ll be just as easy to slip on the bee suit. While this makes me seem like a nervous weenie, I figure it can’t hurt to suit up and pretend I’m a big time beekeeper (not as if anyone was around to make fun of me.)

I load up the car with the stuff I need, because the beehive is far from the house. I bring a second hive box with ten wax frames to expand living quarters. I also bring my bee brush to sweep bees out of the way, my hive tool to open the box just in case it is sealed shut with sticky goo, and my smoker, thinking I might as well light ‘er up just to practice. I’m convinced none of this is necessary, but it is fun to play with new toys.

I’m disappointed that no one is around so I can shout, “I’m going in . . .” like they did in the movie Tornado when the heroes bravely ventured into the path of danger.
I’m feeling like Rambo.

However, I’m also feeling silly; because I know I will probably do a spot check for five minutes, throw the new hive box on top, and be good to go. No big deal.

I light up the smoker using pine needles for fuel. It is oozing smoke rapidly, and I laugh because I feel like this is true overkill. I mean, I only have a few bees to peek in on this early in the game. No need to act so concerned about controlling them.

When I pick up the hive top feeder (remember, it had ants in it last week and was full of syrup) I see only dead ants and not a spec of sugar water. That’s good. My bees have eaten my entire starter snack. Sure didn’t take long.

I’m surprised because I actually do have to pry the top unit off. Wow, they’ve already begun sealing things shut. Good work. This almost feels like a real beehive check.

I lift up the top.

Holly Shit! There are about a million bees inside and every one of them stops what they are doing to turn around to stare at me with distain and an expression that reveals their intent to do me in.  (Well, that is what it felt like to this beginner.)

I slam the lid back on and reach for the smoker. I puff little whiffs of smoke inside under the lid and stand back to wait a few seconds the way my teacher demonstrated. When I go back in, the bees have all crawled down into the hive, making it easy for me to maneuver about the top. OK. Smoke is good. I love smoke.

I see that Aunt Bea has been making lots of babies and they are growing fast and working hard, because many of the inner frames are filled with comb. I want to lift one up, but can’t figure out how to wedge it out, especially since every inch of the surface is swarming with bees. I grab my trusty hive tool and use the edge to pry up a corner, then gingerly lift the piece. It has about 2000 bees on it, and thankfully, they are busy working and eating their honey (which is a natural reaction to smoke). The frame is heavy, dripping with honey. Remarkable! I wish I could dip a finger in and get a taste, but now is not the time for sampling. I set it aside carefully. Now, with the space made by removing one frame, I can shift things about to look at the others. Each frame is filled with a gazillion bees. I know I should lift each one to inspect it, and look for the queen, but decide not to, because I’m concerned I’ll crush her like many dopey inexperienced beginners do.

I then remember I came to put the new hive stand under the box, so I move the entire unit to the ground, crushing a handful of bees. Opps. Sorry. Then, when I try to set up the stand, it doesn’t fit on the concrete blocks supporting the hive. Mark promised to build me a stable, outdoor table for the hive, but he was called to Sarasota unexpectedly the day after I set up the hive, and face it, hobby projects are very low on our priority list right now.  I decide to wait for another day to set up the stand and put the box back the way it was, crushed bees and all. I next try to put the new feeder in place. It leaks all over making a huge mess. It will be empty in a few minutes at this rate. For the first time, I notice my hive is on a slant, and clearly, this feeder only works when balanced straight. Crap. So I pour the sugar water (which I can tell is unnecessary anyway, but what the heck, I have it with me now) into the hive top feeder. I’ve been in here about ten minutes now, and opening a hive for fifteen minutes is the suggested max. I’m clumsy and slow.

Lastly, I want to put an entrance block in the front of the hive to keep out hive robbers, since now it is now clear my bee family is making something worth robbing. However, the entrance is swarming with active, annoyed bees. I try to put the device in place, but two bees land on me and try to sting my arm (love that bee suit and I’m glad I wore it now!) Then, I remember the smoke. I grab the smoker and puff at it, but it has burned out. Eeek. I can hear the bees buzzing, as if they are spreading the word that I am without my weapon. Quickly, I bend down and stuff some pine straw inside, squeeze the air vent and smoke rears up. OK, now I’ve learned to keep on top of the smoker status and keep it full of fuel “just in case”.

Finally, I get the hive put back in order and I load my car with my tools. I take off my veil and gloves, pausing to say good-by to the bees. They are swarming all over in the air now, obviously agitated over my tampering with their home. They are probably evaluating the new changes and this puts them in a bad mood. Sorry, friends.

I am not afraid, but only because I’m standing ten feet away now and out of their flying path. It is comforting having some textbook knowledge of bee behavior, but at the same time, I imagine how I will soon have two boxes stacked together and both will be filled with bees outnumbering me by the thousands. It is intimidating and I think perhaps I’ll do some more reading. Clearly, this bee project is going to get harder and more involved as things progress.

Wildflowers have been blooming all week. Usually I pick them for my centerpieces, but this year, I’ve let them be, thinking the bees will make better use of them than I. Glancing around, I see blackberry bushes in bloom, daisies, dandelion, and some other colorful wild blooms. I imagine my bees flying in a two-mile range, returning to this very box to do their dance to communicate where each flower is. Those that were out foraging today will come home to a taller house and hear the gossip about the big redhead who moved things around for no reason and how everybody is hoping she won’t be back. She will be, of course, but not for a few weeks.  You can bet, when she comes, she will be fully suited with a full smoker blasting. She learns fast.

Today, while I wasn’t too graceful or brave about it, I was a beekeeper.  It was exhilarating. Fascinating. And most importantly, it made me feel like I can do anything if I am willing to face my fears. Last but not least, it never hurts to go into something new prepared for the worse. 

Important revelation.   
    
Now, I must go get ready for orientation at the Campbell school. This weekend is my home wine making course. Gee, I hope we get lots of samples. I could use a glass of wine after my harrowing bee adventure. With my first glass, you can bet I’ll make a silent toast. . . “Here’s to the fact that grapes don’t sting!”

I know. Too much of a good thing is too much. Nevertheless . . . Lookie at what joined us today!

Our chicken, Toodie began laying eggs in the same place everyday, and Neva and I thought we’d just leave them alone to see what happens. But another chicken kept going into the nest and laying eggs too, and before we knew it there were 21 eggs under this little chicken. (They average about 7 eggs for a one time hatching.) But dang if we didn’t keep forgetting a pencil to mark which ones that were there first, which would allow us to remove the new eggs. Since we didn’t know which ones were old and which ones were new, we ended up leaving them all – then, when it was obvious this egg explosion was never going to cease, we moved the chicken to her own pen to brood so no other eggs would be added. Now, we had eggs of different incubation timing in process. Ee-gad. 

Three weeks went by. Nothing was hatching. I worried that perhaps these eggs were not fertilized. One of my roosters was still convalescing from the dog attack, and the other is rather young. Perhaps they are not getting it on with the girls with gusto, as roosters are supposed to do. But, after the duck episode, there was no way I was going to toss possibly soon-to-hatch eggs into oblivion. Still, I worried that poor Toodie was wasting her time, hour after hour turning her eggs and sitting there with barely enough food to keep up her strength. Then, yesterday, I heard  peeping. Sure enough there was something under our chicken. I lifted her up. No babies, but I did see some hatched empty shells. Where the heck were the chicks? Then I moved Toodie’s wing, and out dropped the chicks, tucked underneath to keep warm. Talk about cute. Five eggs hatched the first day, and one the next. Only, this late-comer seems awfully tiny and weak, so it may not survive. The problem is, Toodie is now going about business caring for the five robust chicks and the newbie isn’t getting the gentle care and warmth it needs. I thought about bringing it inside to put under a heat lamp, but in the end, I’ve decided to let nature take it’s course. I am a bit overrun with birds at the moment, and fun is fun, but too much is too much. Frankly, I don’t need this many chickens. I already have more eggs than I need. The act of hatching has been remarkably cool, but the idea of being tied down to chicken maintenance isn’t exactly my idea of the good life.

There are still eggs under Toodie, but they are taking space and making it harder for the chicks to fit under Mom. I guess tomorrow I’ll toss those eggs that haven’t hatched. It will take inner strength and a stiff upper lip, but I will do the awful deed. They are being ignored anyway now, so it is unlikely they will survive. Toodie will raise her young, which is a no-brainer for me, thank God. I am finishing up my MFA and preparing to take a trip to Boston in a month, and there is only so much animal care I can thrust on poor Denver, good sport though she is. 

Our chicks are sure cute, all mottled gray and tan fuzz. They are half silkie and half cochen hen, so they will be fat and round and, when their feathers come in, probably shades of black and white. Nevertheless, I am at my Chicken max now (I hope.) It’s been fun, but there is more to life than poultry, even if Neva would disagree.

I am reading a book called, Hen and the Art of Chicken Maintenance – a funny memoir by a British man who enjoyed trying his hand at raising chickens too. Makes me laugh – at myself and his story. There are universal truths in this entire chicken raising thing. Everyone should try it once. 

Anyway, Neva is delighted. We are discussing names now. We name everything. When I got the bees I said to Mark, “Gee, it’s going to be hard remembering all 40 thousand names.” He said, “Well, I just want to name the queen. Call her Aunt Bee. We do live in Mayberry, after all.” So that is the one bee we named. 

So, this closes my chicken report for this season. I am ready to move onto different subjects (huge sigh of relief from the blog galaxy.) Of course, this doesn’t mean I won’t share a peacock report or two along the way. The point is, me and my wonderful partner in poultry crime (Neva) are having a grand ole time. It is nice to share something so simple with a little girl who reminds you what a miracle life is.


 

 

This is Early. She (or he) was (as the name implies) early. It was one of the coveted white peacock eggs I ordered on line on e-bay. Actually, I think this is the egg my dog carried around (I write on the shells to track the history of the egg so I can learn from mistakes etc…)
 
For one month I have been hovering over my incubator, turning eggs four times a day. About a week ago, I went to turn a duck egg and it exploded in my hand. All this yucky goo came out, and I’m told the smell of rotten eggs was enough to make a person toss their cookies. Oops. I figured it was one bad egg. Then, this weekend, while I was trying to show off to my parents who were visiting, I went into the incubator and when I lifted the lid, another duck egg had exploded and there was this horrible black gunk all over the place. And again, the smell was hideous. Needlesstosay, my family shook their head at this proof of my inadequacy as a farmer in training. 
I got rather embarrassed, and I started thinking all my eggs were probably bad – at least the duck eggs.  The peacock eggs looked good, but I noticed several of the duck eggs were turning gray. The duck egg seller took her time shipping them, and didn’t lable the package correctly so I started wondering if maybe this package was x-rayed during delivery thus killing the embryos, or I over heated the eggs and they died during incubation, or they weren’t fertilized from the beginning. And I had visions of them going off like firecrackers, exploding everyday, until they definitely ruined my peacock eggs (which I was holding out hope for.)

So, I cleaned out the incubator and I made an executive decision to throw out the gray duck eggs. One wasn’t even that gray, but was so messy with rotten gunk I didn’t know how to clean it. Not like you can run it under water at this stage. So I tossed them into the woods. I noticed the weight of the one non-gray egg and that bothered me, but still, I was pretty convinced that this egg hatching thing was a failure. I thought I might try again with something easier. I kept the six, better looking duck eggs just in case.

I continued turning the eggs I had. The peacocks are due to hatch this Friday. I turned the eggs at 6am yesterday, but when I went to turn them at 1:00, I was shocked to see a little bird staring up at me through the window. I was out of my mind excited. I ran upstairs, calling to Mark as if I’d won the lottery. Together we went downstairs and watched through the window, trying to figure out what hatched. I couldn’t be sure, since I have no experience with either bird breed, but after a bit, I reached in to get the shell and confirmed that it was a white peacock. 

It was a special day. Neva was ecstatic. Then, we heard peeping inside the incubator from other eggs. About two hours later, a duckling hatched. The difference was obvious, and I felt really dumb. A duck looks nothing like a peacock, ya know – well NOW I know.  

Kent said, “Wow, Mom. You really did it. I didn’t think you were doing anything but cooking rotten eggs down here.”
Love how my family has confidence in me.
I was feeling like quite the incubator queen, but I felt that was probably it. No other sounds were coming from the incubator. But I was grateful for a bit of life from the experiment. We went to bed.

At five I went to check Early and the new duckling, and there was another duck hatched sitting up in the warmth of the incubator . Throughout the afternoon, all the other duck eggs hatched. We have six ducks. Don’t’ ya know, every egg hatched that hadn’t been tossed into the woods. That’s when the horrible guilt set in. Did I kill the others? Were there little baby ducks curled inside, only one day from entering the world, as I hurled them to their demise? This is, as you might guess, killing me. But I’ve decided to focus on the fact that those eggs were gray. Except the one that was gooey. That is the one I will lose sleep over.
Anyway, it is a happy ending for six adorable baby ducks. And I have learned from the process a bit about patience and having faith and that a month of commitement does pay off in the end.
Here are my new friends as they first entered the world. 




So, now I have one very lonely peacock baby who cheeps all day and runs around anxiously, following us when we enter the room. She sticks her beak out of the cage towards the incubator every time she hears a peep. She needs a flock, and I fear she needs buddies for body warmth too. A single chick is not a healthy situation. I put her with the ducks as an experiment, but they were aggressive, so I took her back out not wanting to risk it. The other peacock eggs are lying still. One has a small crack, but no further action. I am hoping that Early was simply early and her buddies will join her soon, arriving on their due date. In the meantime, Early has this crusty black hard thing sticking out of her backside. With regular chicks (hens), this often means they have a digestion problem and they die in a few days. I’ve tried to gently remove it, but no luck so far.  Do I have to mention how upset I will be if Early doesn’t make it? Perhaps she has problems because she is a preemie. Yet she is perky and full of energy, so who knows. I can only hope for the best. One thing is for sure, this baby peacock has imprinted on us and is remarkably friendly. I sure would love to add her to my collection of animal pals. She is very, very special considering she is our first home hatched bird, our first peacock, and a symbol that if you try something new, you may actually be successful.

I had a ball watching her those first hours. She could barely stand and her wobbly legs reminded me of  April (our horse) the first day she was born. One of Early’s clawed feet was also curved inward, and we wondered if she had a deformity (again, we are newbies at this) but in a few hours she straightened out and looked as healthy as can be. She has a loud peep – sort of a teaser of the outrageous bellowing call to come. People tell me that when peacocks cry it sounds like someone calling “help me.” Cool.
Anyway, here is Early all fluffed up and in her new temporary home. Hope she is entertaining friends soon. In the meantime, I go downstairs and stare at that incubator every half hour, praying to hear more peeping or see an egg start to rock and roll. Wish me (and Early) luck with the other five eggs.
Here’s my girl (or boy as the case may be). Made her myself from scratch. The only way I could have gotten closer was to have her inside of me, and well, that obviously wasn’t an option. This is as close to being a peacock mom as a gal can get. Sure is fun.
. 
 
 

    

I’m graduating up to the big guns – or the big birds as the case may be. Here’s a hint: I’m gonna be proud as a (fill in the blank.) I guess it was only a matter of time till I pushed the envelope.

On my birthday (as a present to myself), I placed an e-bay bid on two blue, peafowl eggs for incubation. (That’s the traditional colorful peacock, mostly green and blue, for those of you who are not poultry savvy like me.) 
Then, when it looked like I might win, I got excited, so I went browsing to establish just what a good deal I was getting, and low and behold, another seller was offering two pure white, peafowl incubator eggs and she was going to throw in two of the more common blue peafowl eggs too. Therefore, naturally, I had to place another bid. The only thing more striking than a beautiful green peacock is a snow-white one.

(The actual parents of the eggs in question are pictured above. These pictures came from the farms selling the eggs.) 

For those of you wondering, a fully-grown peacock costs about 100-200 dollars depending on its gender. However, because you purchase them as adults, they are rarely very friendly and they don’t always stick around. An aloof bird is the price of getting a ready-made, pretty-as-a-peacock peacock. You need to be a part of  the imprinting stage for warm peacock report. They also need to know where “home” is from the beginning if you want them to stick around. A baby peafowl chick is 50.00, and they are cute, but you have no idea what gender you are getting. (Remember, the girls grow up to be just big, grey birds. The boys become the beautiful, striking peacocks that become the logo for TV stations and typical decoration for oriental art.)

So, you may be thinking, what does a peacock egg go for? I’ll tell you. I got my two blue peafowl eggs for 28 smackers. Of course, I won the second bid as well (and in case you are laughing at me because you think no one else would be dumb enough to bid on “maybe” fertile peafowl eggs, I’ll have you know I was pitted against 9 other peafowl enthusiasts. Ha. I won. Better than buying the Brooklyn Bridge, I’ll tell you. ) My two, white peacock bird eggs (with the two bonus blue bird eggs) went for 48.00.  Shipping adds about 20.00 to each order. So all told, I have six peacock eggs (two of a rare white breed) for only 102.00. Happy Birthday to me!

Now, you might be asking, Will they hatch? Hell if I know. However, I’m told the odds are good. At least my rare white eggs are guaranteed fertilized because the owner candled them in advance. (Surprisingly enough, I know how to do this now myself. Gosh, it is fun to learn new stuff that has absolutely no practical value in a normal world.)

Sellers cannot guarantee eggs bought on the internet will hatch, because they cannot control what happens after they are shipped. For example, if the post office ex-rays the package, it can kill the embryo. In addition, no one will take responsibility for someone else’s incubation activities, because success requires commitment and attention to the project. You must turn the eggs three times a day, watch the temperature and humidity etc… so if the eggs don’t hatch, who’s to say the failure is due to a bad egg? 

E-bay has a rule that all incubator eggs must be shipped one day within purchase, and sent next day air. As such, I’ll have my eggs by Tuesday. This is not the case with the Welsh duck eggs we won, because those haven’t been laid. That seller offered pre-sale eggs that will be shipped the moment they are laid, nice and fresh. Fascinating.

Now, you might be asking, what does Ginny know about peacocks? Um.. . . . Nothing. 
Why does she want them? Um . . . . . cause they’re pretty and I’ve never had one.
How much work and effort will raising them be? Um . . . . I dunno.
Next, you may say, Hey Ginny, considering you know nothing, like Shultz from Hogan’s Heroes, what were you thinking!?! Um . . . I wasn’t thinking. I just thought a world with peacocks hanging around my back door would be mighty interesting.

Therefore, since I’m now into peacock performance knee deep, I went to Amazon and bought a book on peacocks. I have 39 days to learn about these birds while I await the hatching. If there will be a hatching. One can only hang around, stare eagerly into that little incubator window, and hope.

If all goes well, I’ll build a peacock pen next to my chicken coup. A section of our property has turned out to be devoted to my animals now – out where the barn will eventually be, where I feed the horses, donkey and llama and rear the angora bunnies. So it isn’t as if I have to be concerned with space for additional critters. It is more a matter of planning. I simply must consider what I need for long-term convenience for me, the caretaker, and for the health and well-being of my flock(s).

I must assume Lady, the killer-dog, will lust for a peacock snack as well as she craves live chicken nuggets and a rooster appetizer. Damn dog. So a cage will be required, more for protection than to contain the birds . I will allow them roam during the day to free graze as long as I’m around, just as I do with the chickens. Perhaps, when the barn is built, the peacocks will nest there, free and safe up on perches. That would be fun as well as decorative. If Lady someday disappears, all my animals will be able to roam naturally. That is only fair. What the heck is the point of 50 acres if you can’t have some privacy to let a chicken out now and again?

Last night, I told our friend, country-boy Ronnie, that I won some peacock eggs. He said he always wanted peacocks. Love’s ’em. He especially loves that deaf defying loud, shriek they make.
Um…. they make a deft defying shriek? Ahem..
Mark just lifts his eyebrows at me.  He’s getting very good at that “I married a moron but it is only now coming out,” look.
At that moment, I thought about mentioning how good a few peacock feathers would look weaved into his antler baskets – just to hint at the creative possibility for him, which might diffuse any peacock concerns he might have – but I thought my blatant stretch would be too obvious. I just reminded him that the coup is so far away we can’t hear the roosters so it is unlikely peacock calls will be an issue. He gave a “that will suffice for now” sort of nod.

I am constantly amazed and shocked that my husband doesn’t pitch a fit when I pursue a new interest that involves something alive. He takes it all in with this eerie calm. I mean, I guess I haven’t done anything that will interfere with our quality of life. We have animals already, so in order to travel we are going to pay somebody to feed the livestock anyway, and what is a few more cups of grain tossed into one additional cage?  I do the care and maintenance of the animals so that assures my getting pets doesn’t mean more work for him – except when I ask for help to build new housing or need him to get me hay with the tractor. Nevertheless, I always feel tentative about confessing a new livestock interest and I expect steam to come out of his ears. Perhaps he is saving it all up for one big meltdown – or he has some secret huge thing that he wants and he is going to hit me with one of these days, and there won’t be a dang thing I can say because I’ve been shown all this consideration over and over again regarding animals. Gee, perhaps I should worry about that.

Anyway, this week, I will receive six peacock eggs to hover over in Neva’s incubator. They will come bubble wrapped, nestled in foam peanuts. I don’t know what to expect in regards to size or color. Are peacock eggs blue like pheasants, or red like some ducks? Maybe they are white like geese. Or green like mallard duck eggs. Hummm…….. Will they be as big as a fist? Bigger? Will I know the difference between the albino peafowl eggs and the others? And when the birds hatch, will the white and blue birds look differently or will they all be covered in yellow fuzz like ducklings or swans. How long will it take until they lose the down and start getting feathers so I will know which are boys and which are girls – who will be white and who will be blue? Will the boys fight like roosters so I can only keep one?  I have to wait to see! The suspense is killing me. I need my book!

At least I do know that when the eggs arrive, I must sit them at room temperature, big end up, for about 8 hours so they can rest and adjust after their journey. Then, I put them in the incubator at 100 degrees with light humidity for 39 days.

You see, all fowls lay eggs but usually they lay one a day or less. They don’t sit the moment they lay an egg as you imagine. They wait until they have several eggs, and then the brooding instinct kicks in. If the eggs disappear, they don’t give it another thought. But if the eggs remain and start to gather, the mothering gene kicks in. In fact, some people put fake eggs under a bird to get her “broody” so she’ll sit. It takes time for a collection of eggs to gather, so an egg stays “fresh” for about 6 days, thanks to the protective coating nature provides for this duration. Only when the hen begins sitting and warmth sets in, does the fertilized egg begin to grow. This is how people can sell fertilized eggs, transport them etc… because they have a week after the eggs are laid to set up for the process of developing. Amazing, don’t ya think?

We have one little bantam chicken egg in our incubator now. It is brown and tiny and it has a cute smiley face drawn on with magic market. Neva turns it about four times a day, talking to it as if it is her best friend. Do I dare mention how I want to just toss that dang thing into the trash so we can make room for the super eggs. Well, considering I don’t particularly want to scar my daughter for life, I will just have to share incubator quarters for two more weeks. Then, our one baby chicken (maybe) will come into the world. I will have to quickly clean the incubator so no fluff or debris contaminates the environment, a minor risk to my expensive peacock eggs, but only fair. While this chicken egg was a freebie and we could have dozens more anytime we want ( it happened to be the first we picked up in our coup) and it won’t become any special sort of chicken, it IS our first experiment, and the fact is, it IS Neva’s incubator. Of course, Neva has bargained for compensation for allowing me to hatch my peacocks in her machine. She gets to help me name the potential peacocks, and one bird will be totally “hers” if we have several in the end. She will also get first dibs over all the pretty tail feathers that will fall on occasion.

Anyway, stay tuned for more peacock news. I will post a picture of the eggs and the chicks if and when they hatch. Then I will take you on a journey of what it is like to live with peacocks right outside your back door.

I think of the entire hatching a peacock thing is one more metaphor for life. Liife, like a peacock, is fragile and fascinating, beautiful and you can learn alot from it  but take care ’cause it also packs an ear-splitting screech and can peck you to death if you aren’t careful and don’t treat it well.

I am aware that this experiment may end in dissapointment and in 40 or so days, I’ll just have a bunch of lifeless eggs taking up space, rotting in our incubator. But that is a risk I am all for taking. Life isn’t about the rewards, as much as enjoying the experience – trying something new and focusing on the promise it holds.  Happiness is a matter of whether you see the peacock glass as half-full or half empty. I, for one, just count myself lucky to even have a glass. The peacock juice inside is a marvelous bonus. And frankly, I won’t waste energy considering what might go wrong. I am too busy celebrating everything that may go right.

Not a bad attitude to adopt for every area of life.

Two bees ran into each other. One asked the other how things were going.
“Really bad,” said the second bee. “The weather has been really wet and damp. There aren’t any flowers or pollen, so I can’t make any honey.”
“No problem,” said the first bee. “Just fly down five blocks and turn left and keep going until you see all the cars. There’s a Bar Mitzvah going on. There are all kinds of fresh flowers and fresh fruit.”
“Thanks for the tip,” said the second bee and flew away.

A few hours later the two bees ran into each other again and the first bee asked, “How’d it go?”
“Fine,” said the second bee, “It was everything you said it would be.”
“Uh, what’s that thing on your head?” asked the first bee.
“That’s my yarmulke,” said the second bee. “I didn’t want them to think I was a wasp.”

That’s a beekeeper joke, don’t ya know.

Today, I spent the morning avoiding my homework by browsing the internet. I shouldn’t, but some days, I just need a warm-up before I can focus. I was thinking of my upcoming beekeeping class in May. Yesterday, I purchased a big jar of locally produced honey at the supermarket and had a nice conversation with the elderly checkout man about it. He said he’d been to the farm where this honey was made, and recommended I visit.  I told him I thought this would be the last jar of honey I’d be buying, because I was going to grow my own. I also shared that my family wasn’t too keen on the entire idea, but since I had 50 acres I thought I could stick my hives off somewhere where they wouldn’t be intrusive.

The fellow said, “You may want those hives close to the house. Around here, beehives get torn apart by bears. Happened to my neighbor just last year.”

Now, that isn’t something I considered. We did have a bear tear apart my rabbit cage last spring. However, that bear was captured and released in Tennessee, or so we believe. I guess the bear threat will be something I have to prepare for. Frankly, I like bears as much as I like bees (or more) and I would kinda find it cool to think one was pigging out on my honey. Of course, I might feel very differently after I invest in equipment and spend a few months nurturing a hive.

I got my confirmation for the class in the mail this week. They say that if you think you really will want to raise bees after the class, you should consider investing in a beginner hive so they can help you set it up. They sell for around 125.00, but of course when I went shopping on the internet, I found a more modern, high tech version that produces more eggs from the queen (and sustains the bees better through the winter) made of a new, duraplastic (less cumbersome yearly maintenance than wood) for 210.00. This doesn’t count the bees, of course. Wonder what your standard queen bee goes for nowadays?
Ee-gad, living simply is expensive (at least the set up).
So, here I go. I have to do the justification calculation.

Honey sells for about 7 bucks a jar, and we go through a jar every two months (put it in tea, don’t ya know, and I often cook with it too). On that principal, it would take 30 months to break even on my investment. Dang – that’s no good.
Too long. Let’s see – I go to the movies for entertainment and spend about 20 dollars a pop. Keeping Bees is entertainment in a way, so perhaps I can consider savings in that format. Then there is the wax and the fact that I can make candles and soap from it – which I think would be fun to try.  I will reap 100 pounds of honey a year. More than I will use for sure. So, I’ll give some away as gifts to teachers and such, and maybe sell some in my coffee shop when I get around to opening one someday. Yep – it’ a stretch, but I can contrive an explanation that will eek by as reason why beekeeping is a good financial investment for the family. Over ten years, we’ll have come out way ahead ….

I have a better idea.  I’ll just write an article or story about bees and sell it, and that will justify the entire investment in one fell swoop! Yep, you can’t put a price on life experience and all it can lead to. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

Considering I have spent money on a spinning wheel, chickens, a donkey ,llama, fruit trees, and the garden we are putting in – not to mention that I am looking at wine making equipment now –   I may have to consider my set up hive as a Birthday present to myself. The rest of the year is filled with guilt when I dare ask for something no one else values. April is my one month for selfish indulgences. Thankfully, it falls just before the beekeeping month. Lucky timing.

I bought a lovely, classy shirt on the internet today to wear to my class. It says, “Beekeepers like to eat their honey.” Ha. People will know I’m enthusiastic. I also subscribed to Beekeeper magazine. There is no turning back now. Not like I can go around wearing that bee shirt and reading that bee magazine and NOT have a single bee to call my own. That would be false advertising.

The other day, we were talking about my keeping bees and Denver said, “I don’t know how you can stand the thought of working with bees.”

I said, “You might think this is odd, but I have this image of myself, standing naked, like Eve, in the middle of the bees, just stretching my arms out, throwing my head back, and allowing them to swarm all over me, like light or energy from heaven. I know it won’t happen, but that is the romanticized ideal for me. I’m not afraid of bees. I think of them as nature’s soldiers, and I feel connected to them. They are just another animal. Only smaller.”

She narrowed her eyes and said, “That isn’t normal, Mom. Bee’s swarming all over you?  Sometimes, you worry me.”

Mark said, “Don’t worry. The first time she gets stung, she’ll snap out of it. She’ll change her tune quick, and probably kick over the hive, cursing up a storm. Then, I wouldn’t put it past her to drown the varmints forevermore.”

Well, thanks for the vote of confidence and your belief that I am Mother Nature’s sidekick, Honey.

One day we saw a commercial for a TV show that featured beekeeping as a test of the businessperson’s mettle. (The Associate?)  It was portrayed as some scary, awful thing these poor, inexperienced people had to try if they wanted to stay in the game with Donald Trump. I blew a big raspberry at the clip.
Mark laughed and said, “THAT  is what beekeeping is really like. See their bee suits? You’ll have to wear one of those. Hard to look sexy in that.”

Humm…. just because you can resist my charms . . . .
Nevertheless, I still like to imagine myself walking up to the hive, sans the suit, bees swarming all about me, all of us together at peace. However, I’ll be buying one of those dumb masks and a pair of gloves because the material list calls for it, and I’m always practical in the end. Frankly, for all my bravado, honestly, I don’t want to be stung if I can help it. I know  that might interfere with my love affair with these new creatures. 
 I’ll be quite a fashion statement – me in my classy, “eat your honey” shirt, a mask and gloves … and a pretty clay necklace, of course.
 
OK warm-up over. I have to work on my thesis. Gotta buz.

Chosterole aside, you MUST admit, this is very, very cool.
Made ’em myself . . . well, with the help of a chicken, of course.
 
Worth all the work and study!

Admit it. You’re jealous!

It was a joint decision. Neva and I decided it is time to start cheating.

We were chicken shopping, and needless to say, the babies were irresistable. We chose six various sorts which birds. Neva determined she would name them after the greek gods. I only remember Venus, but she remembers other female goddesses with splendor to match that of our new puff ball chicks.  Meanwhile, outside they had three full grown fat, speckled black and white Brahams that were raised by a little old lady who sat on the porch rocking with her chickens (this sounds like a used car salesman tactic, but I believe the lady at the Chicken store, and I honestly think some old gal really did rock these happy little birds. They certainly seem tame.) Best of all, I’m told these girls are already laying one egg a day.

That’s enough for me. SOLD!

So we just brought home some full grown egg layers. We think. I put them in the pen and the boys went crazy. They kept jumping on the girls, pecking at them. I think the birds were fighting to establishing pecking order because new birds are entering an already established kingdom, afterall. But Neva said “I think the boys are trying to mount them, don’t you?”

I stood there a minute trying to determine how I felt about my daughter using the word “mount” She accepted what was (maybe) going on, awfully matter of factly. Ah well, she is a country girl now. What did I expect?
 
We watched a few minutes, but had to get to the house to set up the little chicks under a heat lamp. They are only a few days old and so they are delicate. We now have chickens in various stages to observe and raise. We have the three mid-sized Lucy’s (a few weeks old). The greek goddesses, only days old. Full grown hens having a wild time out with the boys….. we hope. Now that I think of it, it’s a fine FLEX replacement. I have my Mini movement chicks, my dance combo chicks and my program chicks. All in different stages of nurturing as I wait for the day they will come into their own.

The store also had some rare japaneese adult girl chickens that lay an egg a day, but they were small, strange looking birds. I don’t mind strange, but  little eggs? I’ll skip that. 

Anyway, tonight I’m wondering if tomorrow I’ll find eggs in one of the nests. Maybe it will take a few days for the new girls to get comfortable enough to leave us a gift – they might need time to adjust –  or maybe it needs to be warmer before they start laying again. But then again, they may just start laying right away and tomorrow Neva and I might be eating a very special breakfast. Yehaw, I can’t wait to see what happens.

So, I guess you can say we cheated and fast forwarded things to get immediate egg-gratification. Will we get lucky? Tonight I will dream of eggs. The question is, will I be eating them tomorrow . . . or simply ploting yet another way to get birds ready to do their duty? 

Country dilemma, number 268 (or is that number 200068?)

Yesterday morning, Mark and I were down at the pasture. A man was delivering my new 12 X10 wooden shed. This is going to serve as a tack room for the horse saddles, blankets and paraphernalia until the day comes when we can put up a real barn. I’m thrilled to have it, so much so that I was giddy as it came lumbering through our gate on a huge flatbed. While the deliveryman was setting it up, making sure it was level (this shed is on a wooden sled-rail base, so you can drag it with a tractor – a great convenience. When I actually can get a barn, I’ll be able to move it next to the garden and I’ll have an instant garden shed) I decided to see what would happen if I let the chickens out. Eventually, I want them to be free-range chickens so they’ll eat the ticks and whathaveyou around the pasture. They moseyed out of the pen, sticking close to home. Perfect! Our big dog, Teddy, came bounding up and I waited to see what mayhem would erupt. I told the dog to behave, not expecting much, but although he was mighty curious about the chickens, he trotted up and sat at my feet.

The man setting up the shed said, “Wow, that is one well behaved dog.”

“News to me.” I said, marveling at how well the dog was behaving. We have worked to train him, but it’s only now taking effect. Better late than never. I was delighted to think my chickens will be safe from at least the family dogs. It was going to be a good day.

I then spied our black bunny hopping around the chicken house. This is one of Neva’s bunny’s that had run a way a week ago. Apparently, he is alive and well and living under the chicken house. Since the chicken pen was open, he hopped in, visited a bit, then hopped out again. I put some food for him under the house, thinking there was no reason not to let him remain in his new digs. He must be mighty happy with the new combination of freedom and ongoing care. I knew Neva would be OK with leaving him be, considering her main concern is his wellbeing.

Yep – it was still a good day.

I went to go feed the horses while we waited for the new tack room to be finished. This is when the day went south.

I walk over and see my llama. He is foaming at the mouth! There is some kind of strange hay/dirt/ice thing hanging from his lips. It doesn’t look good. Mostly, I’m concerned with the foam. I stand there a minute wondering, “Is there such a thing as a mad llama?”

I rack my mind trying to remember everything I know about llamas (this takes about 30 seconds). I know they can get tooth problems, that they have digestive needs. I gave Dalai a wormer last month so it isn’t that. I do give my horses a tetanus shot every year, but I don’t think this is necessary for a llama. Does he have rabies?

I go back to where Mark is writing the check for the shed. I ask the man if he knows anything about llamas. He chuckles and says, “Nope.”

I figured that.

I turned to Mark and said, “So, do you want to know what the trauma de jour today is going to be?”

He sighed. “Hit me.”

“The llama is going mad. He is foaming at the mouth. I’m concerned.”

“Call the vet.”

“I will, but for now, will you come look at him?”

“I don’t know anything about llamas, he says calmly. Call the vet.”

“Please.”

Now, I know it is true that Mark knows even less about llamas than I (only because I read about them in various livestock journals and books) but I somehow think his opinion is necessary. I need validation regarding my opinion that this is a sick llama, and I guess I’m hoping Mark might see something I don’t see, like a bar of soap hanging out of the animals cheek, which would explain the foam.

We go to investigate together. He says, “Yep, the llama is foaming at the mouth. We’d better call the vet.”

“What is that stuff hanging out of his mouth?”

“I don’t know.”

“I think I should get that stuff out of his mouth. What do you think?”

“I don’t know.”

“I’m going to get it out of his mouth. Do you think I should?”

“I don’t know.”

I stare at my husband. He stares back.

“I can’t catch him without your help.”

“I know.”

Mark sighs again. He is a good soul, so he will help me, but I think he is also considering what a mad llama might do when he is chased. Nevertheless, Mark gave me this llama, and I love the dang thing, so he feels honor bound to lend a hand. Besides which, if the animal up and dies, he doesn’t want me to blame him for not caring enough to try to do something when we could.

Tentatively we go into the pasture and with the help of our dog, we corral the llama into a corner and get him tied up. He is a bit sluggish (the llama, not Mark) which makes this easier than some days. This worries me too.

Llama’s hate to have their face touched, so slowly, I reach up to his head to yank a big wad of gunk hanging from his mouth. His eyes look into mine sadly (the llama’s eyes, not Mark’s). He is trusting, definitely under the weather. I remove as much of the debris as I can but I can see there is plenty more in his mouth.

“Give me a stick,” I say to Mark.

He hands me a stick.

I start digging the stick into Dalai’s cheek and what looks like wads of chewed hay, bark and mud starts coming out. It is really gross. Dalai is like some kind of llama chipmunk with stuff stored deep into a side pocket – only llama’s don’t have side pockets. Not only is his mouth full of debris, but there is still all this foam and saliva spilling out. This is not an attractive llama today.

Eventually I get the bulk of the stuff removed, and suddenly, the llama grinds his teeth together like he is eating rock candy. He swallows and blinks. Now, his mouth closes and I can’t get it opened for anything. I think this is a good sign, so I tell Mark maybe we should feed him and see if he eats.

He chows down (The llama, not Mark).

I believe we have solved the dilemma, and I’m feeling quite the savvy country gal now. It’s not every girl that knows how to save a llama, ya know.

We go about our day, checking the llama every time we pass to see if he is foaming again. He looks great, then at around four, we see he has more stuff hanging from his mouth. And is that foam? Damn. I feel betrayed by the gods of livestock.

So today, we decide to call the vet. Mark wants to call our favorite vet, Dr. Mitchell, but this man is a cat and dog guy. He doesn’t handle large animals. Mark says Dr. Mitchell owns a llama however, so he must know something about them.

We call. Mark says to the secretary, “I know Dr. Mitchell doesn’t handle large animals, but he owns a llama, doesn’t he?”

The secretary says, “He did. But it died.”

This makes me swoon. I don’t exactly have confidence in a vet whose llama died on his watch.

We describe the foam.

“This is very , very, very bad,” says Dr. Mitchell. “You better call Ocoee right away (that is the animal clinic that does handle large animals.)

Now, I have visions of my mad llama lying in the field belly up, with four legs sticking up like a stiff in a bad cartoon. We call Ocoee and they make an appointment for tomorrow morning. The person on the phone said that sometimes llamas get things stuck in their throat, and it was good we removed the debris. We should do that again if we see more of the same. They will sedate the animal in the morning to give him a good check.

I go down to take a look at Dalai again, thinking we will have to catch him and do whatever we have to do. But now, Dalai is happy, healthy and behaving his normal perky self. No foam. No gunk. Nothing. I fed him. He eats like a pig, then goes to the baby horse’s bucket to bully more food. Of course, now that I called the expensive vet, it turns out to be a false call. This big faker llama is NOT sick. The only one mad now is me. Tomorrow, I’ll have to pay dearly for a home visit for a llama who is perfectly fine.

I asked Mark if we should cancel the vet visit but he says the horses need their yearly tetanus, and we might as well see if Dalai needs something too. Just in case. I know he is right and I appreciate that he is willing to spend money on vet care for animals he doesn’t exactly adore in the way I do.

So, all’s well that ends well.

The llama isn’t mad. The dog isn’t going to kill my chickens when I let them out permanently. The bunny is alive and well living under the chicken house. I have a new tack room.   Best of all, I discovered a new talent. I can dig shit out of a llama’s mouth without flinching. I may have left a dance empire behind, but look at all I’ve learned in the process. 

Personal growth comes camouflaged in many things. Today, it was covered in foam.

I went chicken shopping yesterday. Dianne came over to workout with me in the morning (with those tapes I bought at the Big Chicken Pawn Shop – started a thematic day), after which we went downtown to gorge on sesame chicken at the Chinese restaurant. (God forbid we let the benefits of working out last for more than an hour.) Before we went home, I said I wanted to stop by Browns, the feed store, to talk to Linda, the owner, about my rooster windfall. Dianne was still too dazed by the workout to argue.

Linda is a warm and funny person, who lights up whenever the talk turns to all things chicken. She has pet chickens walking around the store, as tame as a dog or parrot. Linda likes me, because I am a poultry enthusiast – I ask lots of questions about chickens, peacocks and the like. I especially like ducks, but I have to wait for a pond to get them. (sigh) I visit Browns often for advice and to purchase new birds. I tend to buy everything except my horse feed there, to support the shop. (I buy my horse feed at an even smaller place near my house, owned by a man named Rabbit.) There’s a new, fancy, state-of-the-art, feed and tack franchise in town, but I like giving my business to the struggling independents.

Anyway, when I saw Linda, I said, “What are the chances that I would buy unsexed chickens and six out of seven would turn out to be male? Just my luck.”

Her eyes grew round and she said, “You better bring some of those Roosters here. I’ll get rid of them for you. I’ll swap them out for some girls. Do it soon. They’re just now reaching puberty. It’s only a matter of time till you have big trouble.”

Well, I don’t want big rooster trouble, that’s for sure. So, I am in mourning over my soon-to-be-lost boys. I don’t know who I can bare to give up. I love my crowing boys all for different reasons. I have to keep Joe, because he is my loudest and the classic rooster of a girl’s dreams. I like Dylan because he has such an exotic look, and he crows the most. I can’t give up Yang, the black silkie, because that is Neva’s best-friend bird. If I kept only one bird, it would have to be that one. I can give up Ying, the white silkie -this bird was the final holdout in showing his true colors, so I consider him a traitor anyway. How dare “she” be a “he” and kill any hope I had for eggs?  I certainly can’t give up my little bannie, Pot Pie, because the only girl I have is the other bannie, Drumstick, and they roost together every night in this cozy, romantic way. I can’t break up a couple and sleep nights myself.  So, as you can see, I’m feeling very torn.

Mark says, “Get rid of the mean one with the crazy head. And what is the point of two silkies? And that little Bannie is a joke. He can go.”

The man has no heart.

While at the store, I decided it was time to start chicken shopping- the spring chicks are just now arriving. I know it’s still cold, but preparations for spring are everywhere in the country. It’s time to start digging up gardens and planting starter seeds. I’m getting this self-sufficient country thing down now, and I’ve got big plans for produce. Subject for a future veggie blog, ya know.

Chicks must stay indoors under a heat lamp for a few months, so the sooner I get them the sooner they will be out in the chicken house, laying. I’m told in four months, I’ll be collecting eggs. I am spending the big bucks to make sure I WILL have eggs this time. This means I’m shelling out four bucks a head, a fair investment for something that will provide me with two years of egg laying. At an egg a day, that means I’m spending $4 for 730 eggs. That is .005 cents an egg.  Bet you are thinking of getting a chicken or two yourself when you see those kinds of amazing returns!

The first batch of spring chickens that came in this week was Americanos. They are big, fat, traditional chickens, brown and white, that lay big, pale blue-green eggs.

I said, “What do you think?”

Dianne said, “I wouldn’t eat a blue egg. Yuck. Don’t think for a minute you’ll be giving me any of those.”

I pointed out that the eggs all taste the same inside.

Linda laughs and says, “Haven’t you heard of green eggs and ham? Americanos are the best.”

But Dianne wrinkles up her nose and insists she won’t accept any gift eggs that do not look like those you purchase at the grocery store. Unless, maybe at Easter because then she can avoid having to dye them (What kind of holiday slacker attitude is that?)

I ask you, what is it about Grocery store food that makes people feel secure? If you’ve seen it before, you trust it? Ee-gad. As far as I’m concerned, most of the offerings at commercial grocery stores are scary. They fill the products with preservatives for shelf life extension. Many of these items have often been transported and stored for days. Heck, I’m afraid of the tricks used to keep this food looking appealing sometimes too. The more I learn about what is involved with growing and raising food, the more appalled I am at what I’ve eaten in my lifetime.

For example, I buy my hay from a fellow who runs a Tyson farm a few blocks from our home, and he has over 20K chickens. He let us visit the open pens in a huge warehouse one day – talk about chicken madness! He runs the factory that gathers the eggs that quickly (unnaturally)become the chickens we eat.  He explained how this works. These birds walk around in shit all day, are force-fed, slaughtered before they are six weeks old, the carcasses filled with dye, and then plunked into the supermarket case with nary a kind word spoken to them. (That is why he likes being on the egg end of the process.) He even sends the broken or rotting eggs to the Tyson factory because they are used in other products. Fresh eggs are hatched. The soiled eggs are those we eat in “stuff”. All I know is this doesn’t inspire supermarket product confidence for me.

I asked Dianne if she would eat brown eggs. She wavered a minute and then said, “I guess.” So, I turned my attentions to the Rhode Island Reds -huge red chickens that lay extra large brown eggs. I like the idea of redheaded chickens. They all look the same, so individual names might be hard to assign, but  I can call them all Lucy.

I ended up buying two blue egg laying Americanos with different markings (so I can name them) and three brown egg laying Rhode Island Reds (My Lucy trio). Next week I’ll buy some white egg layers too. I want a colorful arrangement of different breeds. They’ll lay different sorts of eggs, which will help me know who is laying what. The different breeds also help me have an individual chicken relationship with each bird. Gotta keep it personal, ya know.  I plan to keep about a dozen chickens, knowing that when I let them out to free range, it is likely a hawk or dog might pick off one or two.

Dianne leaned down and peered into the cage filled with chicks and said, “One egg a day sure doesn’t seem like much. It will take you forever to get a dozen.”

I laughed and pointed out that if I have twelve chickens, I will have a dozen eggs a day. That is plenty. Some days, I easily use a dozen eggs. I make egg casseroles or deviled eggs. Mark has been known to eat six fried eggs for breakfast. I use eggs for baking and such, and sometimes when we are dieting, I only use the whites, so I use twice as many eggs for half as much egg additive. But some days, I don’t use eggs at all. We go out to breakfast, or have pancakes, or we spend a day in Atlanta, so I don’t cook at all. In a case like that, I’ll have twenty-four eggs the next day. And what if I go two days without cooking or leave town for several days? I’ll have 36 eggs waiting for me. And what about when we go to Europe next summer for a few weeks? I’ll be leaving an egg explosion behind me. Seems to me very likely that unless your entire existence is about staying home eating eggs, your egg-stock might build up pretty quickly. I have an extra fridge in the garage, but I wasn’t counting on it becoming an egg facility alone. This is why I asked Dianne if she’d eat blue eggs. I’m planning to supply the family, my neighbors, strangers on the street… whomever, with the excess.

“I didn’t think of it that way,” Dianne said. “I guess one a day is enough. But remember, you can keep the blue eggs.”

“Except on Easter,” I reminded her, because, heck, I have big plans to dye eggs with natural ingredients this year – flowers and such. I’ll need white eggs for that. We can trade then, when our egg appreciation situations reverse.

When I was sharing this conversation with Mark, he said, “Maybe you should just stick to six chickens, and the egg dilemma won’t ever be an issue. Not like you can’t buy extra eggs for 1.78 a dozen when need be.”

That won’t work. First of all, you must wait four months for chickens to start laying, so if something attacks my flock and kills several birds, my enterprise would be easily wiped out. That would mean waiting a long time to get back in egg service. Second of all, I still have to contend with how many beloved roosters I can keep. The more girls I have strutting around, the more boys I can keep. Then, there is the fact that I’d have a fit if I had a guest over and was planning one of my grand, exquisite breakfasts, and found I had to actually buy extra eggs to fulfill my cooking plans. Once I begin doing the homegrown egg thing, I never plan to buy eggs again. It’s the principal of the thing. Seems like I’d be letting down mother nature, and I have every intention of making my guests walk down to the henhouse and collect the eggs before I cook them. Certain life experiences are so much fun to witness city dwellers wrestle with, that I can’t risk losing out on the laugh. All told, I’d rather have too many eggs, rather than too few. It isn’t like extra chickens cost anything to feed or care for. It is only a matter of the tiny, upfront investment, and raising chicks is more fun than work.  

As such, I’ll only be comfortable with a dozen chickens. I’ll get replacements chicks along the way when (if) something happens to the original stock. So, I probably will have a dozen birds, but not necessarily a dozen egg-layers at a time anyway.

Wow, this sounds complicated. It’s not.

The point is, I have begun repairing my chicken problems. I have to fill that expensive hen house with something productive to justify my folly. I have five girls now, peeping downstairs in the pool table room (a good place since we have no pool table as yet). Next week, I’ll add some white egg layers too. I’ll have the house ringing with peeps before the month is out.

Ever see that episode of Lucy where she has a farmhouse filled with baby chicks? Ha. That will be me.