Hard lessons in Farming

Genesis

Jack & I had talked about getting some backyard chickens for a while. Having pets that laid eggs sounded wonderful, and there were already several coops on the street.

This spring we had an opportunity to share in chicken ownership with some neighbours, a ‘coop co-op’ if you will. We’d get the birds as baby chicks that had graduated from incubation in an elementary school classroom, then we’d raise them in a coop in a neighbour’s yard across the street. Nothing ever goes quite as planned.

The farmer who graciously donated the eggs for the class, gave us 2 dozen fertilized eggs in a great assortment of colourful breeds. The incubator in the classroom, however, only had room for 18 of them. We tried and failed to find room in another incubator in the area, before deciding to do it ourselves. No, I didn’t strap 6 eggs into my bra for the 21 day incubation period, but maybe worse, stuck them in the oven. We fiddled with the temperature for a few days before putting the eggs in.

The setup

(To the chicken experts out there: no, we didn’t have the oven on, just the right combination of wattages of oven lights, and yes, we provided ventilation and proper humidity, and yes we tilted the eggs 5 times per day etc.)

We spent the next 3 weeks babysitting the oven to ensure that the above was monitored properly.

Birth

In the morning of June 1^st, the English Sparrows that crowd around another neighbour’s chicken coop were louder than normal. It took me a while to realize that the chirping was actually coming from the oven, from inside one of the still-intact eggs. Human babies scream after they come out, but apparently chickens do it to announce that they are about to arrive. 

'June' still wet

Within 30 minutes, “June” had arrived, sprawled out on the floor of the box we’d prepared. Two hours later, “Bug” joined him.  

'June' & 'Bug'

But the rest did nothing. After 48 hours, when all hope was lost, we removed the remaining 4 eggs. I opened one, to try to see what happened, and found a little chick who was perfect, beautiful and quite dead.

could not hatch

We fell in love with our 2 little ones. There was no way these birds were moving across the street. We wanted them to be OURS.  Two chicks, however, is not a flock, so we got 4 more from the same breeder. We then proceeded to brood them in our dining room. Jack frantically built a coop, but not before we had a real “Green Acres” situation inside the house.

'Ginger' Wallenda balances above her friends

Cuddle time

Free Ranging

build faster!

Dorian

 Dorian (so-named because he was grey, beautiful, and, while friendly to us, not particularly nice to the other chickens) was the one who liked to perch on me. If I lowered my head to clean out a cage, Dorian would be the one to jump up onto my head, or neck or perch on my shoulder.

He was a unique character, charming, adventurous, smart, and beautiful. He was my friend. Right up to the moment that I drew a sharp blade across his throat. Me sobbing.

'Dorian' 2:38 pm

'Dorian' 2:56 pm

 He was the first of 3 cockerels (so far) who had to go. It is illegal to have roosters in the city, and even if I could keep them, a ratio of 12 hens to 1 rooster is about the minimum.  About half of all chickens are born roosters. You do the math. The world is awash in unwanted roosters. In commercial operations that produce laying hens, the chicks that are hens are put on the conveyor that sends them to boxes that are sent to commercial egg producers. The baby roosters are put on another conveyor. No one wants to know where that one goes. Considering that hens naturally live 10-15 years or more, but are ‘good’ egg producers only for about 18 months, well, you don’t really want to know where the chicken in that noodle soup comes from either.

Epilogue

While we all say we want to know our food, and where it came from, I think few of us really want to know our food personally. Know their personalities, habits, charms and faults. But if I don’t love my chickens, don’t give them treats and names and observe their unique personalities, it doesn’t mean they are any less unique individuals and deserving of love. It just means I missed that opportunity.

Have a happy Thanksgiving. I know that this year we will be giving personal thanks to Dorian, June and Patience.  I hadn’t eaten chicken in years before this adventure, but today they will be given centre-stage on our table.

For Norah...

For Norah, a friend who may be going to Newfoundland,

The first rule of going to Newfoundland is never, never, never miss an opportunity to go to Newfoundland.

Because it's there.

The rest are just some of my thoughts about where to go in Newfoundland, starting near St. John’s, and only having a brief period of time. This is by no means an exhaustive list, only some places I enjoyed during my brief stay.  I think anyone would have good luck almost anywhere.

The Newfoundlanders are a different breed in terms of generosity and hospitality, so don’t be surprised when they invite you in for tea. Also don’t be surprised if there are no hotels or b&b’s in the very small places, they often don’t get a lot of drive-thru tourists.

Click on the map for a larger version

One caution: a driving tip we were given, "If you see a tree, there's a moose behind it." I think more moose kill people on the roads than Newfoundlanders kill moose during hunting season. Do your part: eat a mooseburger. (Yes, I know I'm normally vegetarian, but these guys are out of control.)

Don't end up here

Eat a moose

The Avalon Peninsula

First stops: Witless Bay & Ferryland
Witless Bay has a small roadside cafe called the Irish Loop Cafe that has a view to die for. There is also a B&B called Elaine's that looks lovely. We were still camping at this point, so I cannot vouch for it.

At Ferryland there is a beautiful short walk out to a picturesque lighthouse. There is a caterer at the lighthouse that lets you buy a gourmet picnic. (we were too cheap to do this, but here is the link: http://www.lighthousepicnics.ca/ .) There is also a B&B here, which I think is where you'll find the side by side Liar's & Gossip's benches.

Ferryland Lighthouse

They mean it

Are you a liar or a gossip?

Cape St. Mary's
Cape St. Mary’s bird sanctuary (not St. Mary’s – that’s a town). A beautiful bird sanctuary located on cliffs on the southwest corner of the Avalon peninsula. You hike right up to the cliff edge and watch the birds there. Because they are hanging out on great spires of rock, with cliffs between you and them, they feel quite safe and fly very close. I’m not sure what would be gathering there in June. Wikipedia has an entry that gives excellent information and more photos.

you don't want to fall

The Bonavista Peninsula
Bonavista is so beautiful and we almost passed it by.  We went to Terra Nova National Park and one of the park rangers there actually turned us around and said you must go back. The hiking on Bonavista is better than in the National Park which is really known for being a sanctuary for birds.

Cliff hiking

Skerwink trail – close to the town of Old Bonaventure is a hiking trail that takes you out to the coast and has views of rocky seastacks.  All the edge of Newfoundland is basically one big cliff, so you get some really thrilling views. Since June will probably be iceberg season, you’d likely have a good chance of seeing some off of here.

 

Trinity 

Beautiful and charming. Has a theatre, good restaurants and b&b’s. Don't expect to be the only tourist there

(just do an image search in google for ‘Trinity, Newfoundland’ and you’ll get a sense of it)

Elliston

Like most places in Newfoundland, we found Elliston by accident. It is near a puffin colony, but if you're not in puffin season, it's wonderfully quiet. We had a meal in an old converted heritage church. There is a B&B here as well. (There may be more).

The Puffin Colony

Cape Bonavista & the town of Bonavista
The cape is gorgeously rocky and would have great viewing of icebergs. The horses run freely and chase tourists since they know we carry treats and are suckers for charming beasts (the 'charismatic megafauna effect').

Cape Bonavista - cows & horses must be smart enough not to fall off cliffs

if you find this horse, bring her home for me

Bonavista itself has a rebuilt version of John Cabot's ship the Matthew and is worth seeing. (Wikipedia has contradictory entries that says both that the replica of the Matthew is housed here and was sailed back to Bristol for the Queen's diamond jubilee. You'll have to check for yourself.)  I had no idea that John Cabot was an Italian whose real name was  Geovanni Caboto. I think there is also a Marconi site at the Bonavista lighthouse, but I may be remembering that incorrectly. In any case the Italians seemed to figure prominently in Newfoundland history. And the lighthouse sites are wonderfully windy.

Fogo Island:
I could torture you with photos of Fogo Island & Twillingate, but I'm afraid these are a bit far afield for the amount of time you have. 

Remember, if you do take a wrong turn, it may be the highlight of your trip.

Books to read:
'The Shipping News' by Annie Proulx, 1993(?)
'Rare Birds', Edward Riche, 2001 (?)
Both of these show the wonderful Newfoundlander humour & both have been made into excellent movies.
'Random Passage', Bernice Morgan. Fictionalized account of some original Irish settlers & how difficult their lives were. (This unfortunately, was made into a terrifically terrible movie)

Link:
Iceberg tracker! Let's you know where they are now.

Food:
As I mentioned previously, if you love salads and fresh vegetables, there's lots of that when you get back to Vancouver Island. While you're there, Eat a moose.

On September 11th

I wrote the following 10 days after the attacks of September 11^th, 2001. It seems appropriate to share 10 years later. Bad grammar and all.

September 21, 2001:

The last grand movement that I can recall agreeing with was “Mothers Against Drunk Driving”. Before or since I’ve never been able to be swept away by the tide of public opinion. It is so much easier for an individual to just go along with the tide. Things get done, people feel purpose, politicians get elected. There is consensus. There is belief. People belong.

Now there is a tide like I have never seen before. All roads lead to war. A call for justice, revenge, weeding out the enemy. No one knows exactly who the enemy is. All we know is that they think differently, they look different, they believe different and they are wrong.

The enemy threatens a jihad, a “holy war”, but the president of the U.S. beat them to it. Last night in his speech to the senate he announced that, “God is on our side.” It has repeatedly been stated that this is a war against evil. That means that we are the good, and suddenly now everything that is us is good because it is not them.

Nothing is ever completely black and white

Now it’s 10 years on. The funny thing back then was, that on September 12^th (2001) I was hearing this wonderful thought-provoking question being asked everywhere. The question was, “Why do they hate us? Why do they hate us so much?” The question was introspective and open to dialogue. It showed vulnerability. People seemed open to listen, to try to understand other perspectives.

And now, I think that became the scariest part of 9/11. Letting ourselves see what is happening globally in order that (paraphrased) "the North-American way of life remains non-negotiable", is just too much for most of us. Going to war was easier. Until we once-again realized that all human flesh is allergic to bullets, regardless of what tribe that flesh calls it’s own.

Canada 2009 Best-of Photos

Of the over 18,000 photos I took during our 4 month cross-Canada adventure, I have managed to whittle them down to 70 of the best. It was a tough job, especially for one as indecisive as myself, to determine the so-called "best." Many were in the pages of the trip's blogs, so they may be familiar to you.

Enjoy!

Cross-Canada best-of photos

Flamenco and me

I was in the midst of writing about my 'attachments' for this blog when I got the horrible news from Veronica, my flamenco dance teacher:

"Words can't express what I am about to say. We have lost our beloved Harry, my husband ... my soulmate ... my partner ... father of our son Gareth. Harry will always be remembered for his kindness, compassion, his sincerity, his humour ......He was the life of everyone's party. He will be sadly missed. The school will be closed next week September 20th to 25th to mourn his sudden death."

Those of you, who know me well, know that I spend a fair bit of my time learning flamenco dancing. Okay, at 6 times per week maybe it's more like an obsession. It requires focus, physicality, passion, rhythm and pain. I can usually manage one of these, maybe two at one time. Last Friday we all got the dose of pain, in huge measure.

photo credit: Steve Switzer, Quadra Street Designs

You see, Harry was a flamenco contradiction. He had a special relationship with every student at the school. So much so that when another student mentioned this, I was actually, stupidly, surprised. I thought, "oh man, you too? I thought it was just me." We each had our own joke with Harry. The music that came out of his hands was deep, sensual, passionate, and could be quite dark. When he played, it was often with eyes closed, like some kind of somnambulant angel. But as soon as he opened his mouth, there was levity, often giggling with the students to the point of distraction. When I could, I would stand as close to Harry as possible, so that I could hear him over the clomping of our feet, but also just to hear him period. It was a double-edged sword, however. When I would make a mistake (and when you make a mistake in shoes that have a hardwood heel and nails in the heels and toes, it's obvious) I would see him wince, like I'd actually pained him in the midst of his reverie.

I don't feel comfortable describing his relationship with Veronica. It was too intimate. When we were in class, we would watch this... this, thing between them that involved a higher plain and a completely different language. She would say, "Do the dee dee dee dee duh duh one" and he would say, "But the dee dee dee dee duh duh one only works if you go boom buh duh duh duh duh." "Right do that." Jack said that when they were on stage he couldn't tell where Veronica ended and Harry began.

When he played with his son Gareth, again it was too intimate to describe. There were many moments on stage, however, when he wore an expression like any father has when he is so proud that you can hear him thinking the cliche, "That's my boy!"

The school they created, with such remarkable talent and passion, is also remarkably egoless. There isn't the prima-dona crap that can be found in some dance schools. Maybe the instructors know how vulnerable we are when we dance.
In the end, I am so grateful to have known Harry, and to be a part of the flamenco community that he helped to create here in Canada. I am grateful to know their familia flamenca, my instructors and the flamenco chicas, the other dancers, who I see all the time.

In the end, flamenco shows you to yourself. What you are, it comes out in flamenco. It limits you, expands you, and exposes you. It's better than therapy. There are no secrets that you can hide. That's why we make such close attachments. But bare souls are also deeply wounded. Maybe I should be grateful that I have a means to express this great loss.

The other attachments can wait.

photo credit: Steve Switzer, Quadra Street Designs

Mom Comes to Town or Who Needs Reality?

Groovin' on Vancouver Island

After being away last summer, Jack and I had been looking forward to taking advantage of all the summertime fun that southern Vancouver Island has to offer. So far we have: gone to the Vancouver Island Music festival, helped with and attended the Flamenco Juerga party, cycled around Bainbridge Island, had picnic dinners on the beach, sipped wine on patios with friends, kept up with hot yoga & running & dancing etc. It got to the point that I realized that I didn't have a free weekend until September. So I was REALLY looking forward to having my 82 year old mom come for a visit.

There is something wonderful about visiting with an elderly person, because you have to slow down and really be present. And because it was my mom, we had a chance to reminisce and learn more about each other, both knowing that these opportunities are no longer limitless. I enjoy those wonderful "Mom-isms" like: "Oh you've got some grey hair. It's so PRETTY!" (huh?) or "Yes, I'll have some wine" and then stopping my pouring once 1/4 inch is in the glass. "Jack particularly likes being called "kid."

Mom reconfirmed she still doesn't like raw oysters

When she first arrived, we spent the first day doing absolutely nothing other than fixing meals. On day two, we went to a play, "The Importance of Being Earnest", and after 2 1/2 hours of watching other people eat teacakes and cucumber sandwiches, I was famished. So off to a restaurant with a view of the water (Yes, for you non-Victorians, life is so hard here.) Unfortunately that's when Mom's blood pressure dropped, mine rose, Mom's lips turned blue, she started babbling, and I commanded Jack to dial 911.

Sorry no photos of this, I had other things on my mind.

While Mom stayed conscious and aware throughout the ordeal, my picture of reality became distorted. She remembered the names of the ambulance drivers. I did not. I moved into the black-hole of panic. They dispatched the slowest ambulance in history to us (their records showed 7 minutes). Our waitress was unconcerned. I told her, "MY MOM IS NOT WELL, MY HUSBAND HAS CALLED 911!!!" To which she replied, "Okay, I'll get your bill."

Distorted reality

In any case, to make a long story short, she had had what is called a transient ischemic attack (TIA) or mini-stroke. Her colour started coming back as soon as she was given oxygen, and she was back to normal within minutes, although we still got to hang around for 4 1/2 hours or so in the emergency room.

And no, she wasn't going goth

This is also when I discovered that they take both Visa and MasterCard at Victoria General Hospital. Who knew? Since she's from the United States, we had to plop down $750 before anyone would see her (post-ambulance) and this did not include the urine-analysis, blood-work or ECG. I could see this alone creating some blood-pressure related complications in myself. Fortunately, having 4 - 5 hours to hang around, we had lots of time to calm down, watch other people pad around in slippers and green, backless dresses, talk to the guy with the really cool spider bite that made his whole leg swell up, and generally avoid making eye contact with a lot of people who look like they regularly spend weekend evenings in the emergency room.

Reality is not an option

I have no great revelations other than the obvious. I remember thinking, is this it? Are the last words my Mom hears going to be "Jack, dial 911"? Are her last words going to be, "everything is turning white"?

Let's just say the remainder of her stay, while probably involving too much sugar, was delightfully uneventful. And we both really, REALLY appreciated our time together.

Go to a happy place in your mind

Slow blogging

Too many thoughts

The whole purpose of blogging is to share ideas that others may find interesting, and do it in a timely way. While I was away on our cross Canada trip it was a way to feel like I was still connected to my community while at the same time organizing my thoughts around my experiences. Since I've been home I've fallen into old routines and the blog has, well, bogged.


Ideas I meant to write on while they were happening, but haven't include:

• The Olympics & my experience in Vancouver during
• My 20th anniversary of coming to Canada
• The poor baby whale that washed ashore here
• The Salmon Are Sacred march - or "How to keep insects from eating my sushi"
  
• Las Vegas Blues/Desert light
• Flamenco - or "Why stomping your feet is better than therapy"
  
• Fibromyalgia (ongoing) - when your body divorces you
  
• Bike to Work Week - or "why does the vegetarian end up serving a thousand hamburgers"
• Etc.

Salmon are Sacred

At the Salmon are Sacred march I ran into Bruce Elkin, creativity coach (see: www.bruceelkin.com), and thought - "Oh man, Bruce is all about applying discipline to your creativity. I want to talk to him, but I really don't want to talk to him."

Yikes. Maybe my crazy "law of attraction" friends (what I call the "Jiminy Cricket philosophy." You know, "If you wish upon a star..."? Hmm, maybe another topic to add to the above list.) In any case, maybe these crazy people are right. Seeing Bruce was like a little guilty reminder of what I've been meaning to do.

The great thing was, being the soul that he is, he reminded me that creativity springs from a tension of where we are and where we want to be, and that people are inherently contradictory. So here's to using that tension as a spring forward. My thoughts are always contradictory, so this should be easy!

Except that that conversation took place in May.

Anyway, I'm thinking that just as 'slow food' is the healthy and thoughtful reaction to fast food, I'm going to start a 'slow blog': A healthy and thoughtful reaction to Facebook and Twitter. That means that next Christmas you may hear about the Olympics or other long past events.

Think of it like wine. No forget it, I drink wine way too fast. Think of it like the chocolate Easter egg that you find in September: A delightful surprise.



Excellent. I've talked my way into equating procrastination with fine vintages and ripening cheese. Yes!

Badass Flamencas