Category Archives: Itsnotta farm

Understanding Chicken Integration: A Beginner’s Guide (or Not)

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It’s been a couple of years since we moved out to Itsnotta Farm from the big city. We haven’t done much except maintain the property to the best of our ability… and add a few creatures. We’ve learned a lot. A lot. Mostly through trial and error. You tube has helped. A few folks have helped as well. Still, I’m not sure we’ve totally adapted. The youngest has made a few more friends. She’s settled in, but still doesn’t want to go to school. Admittedly, I don’t think that has anything to do with the actual school and its people. More than likely, that’s because of the early pick up time of the school bus. We’re still commuting back to visit and “be entertained” with stuff with a greater population. We love the porch and the pool, but the hubby just can’t bring himself to spend holidays here. A stay-cation with building projects would never suffice. Oh, he’s got a riding tractor and work pants now (which he looks super cute in!) but he still needs an “out”. That’s okay, I guess.

My newest batch of chick birds are now a week and a half old. To me, they have grown faster than my last flock, and seem much more mature. Or is it that I am more relaxed? Like a second time mom, I worry less and have let them tough it out alone more. I am trying to “imprint” with them… treats and time. This group is shy though. Or maybe I am expecting too much? Newborns (newly hatched?) don’t really have a routine at a week and a half. Your barely surviving at that stage. Huh. Perhaps I am asking to much for them to be bonded already.

A week and a Half…. and still learning!

Bonded or not, the chicks will soon have to meet the other ladies. And then start the great “integration process”. I’m reading up on it. Chickens are harsh. They’ll pick on the little ones if they seem to be a threat. Heck, they still pick on each other! I’m afraid it’s going to be a challenge. One more thing to learn out here in the brutal countryside. LOL.

And so my muse of the week: How does true integration work? Time? A useless goal? Not worth the effort? Does it take generations for it to really work, or do we just learn to fake it enough to tolerate each other? Integration is defined as:

“the action or process of successfully joining or mixing with a different group of people”

I suppose inanimate objects can be successfully joined for a purpose, like co-ordinating a fabulous outfit properly, but I suspect we are talking about people here and not a string of pearls. I’d venture a guess people are even harder than chickens, too. And so here we are. Learning to integrate. Perhaps many of you have had way more experience in this practice than I have. Moving to a rural neighbourhood is not like moving countries, or learning new languages, foods, cultures or the like. Or sure, there are similarities. Country folk have their own “culture” and style. Co-op feed stores are a great place to see this. Aisles of feed and bags of fertilizer and crop stuff… let alone the horse stuff. It’s a whole new world and lingo. And frankly, it scares me. But, I’m learning. I know what I know now and can ask for that.

Photo by Thirdman on Pexels.com: It’s a fine science this “integration”!

Perhaps one of the biggest hurdles in “integration” is at church. And that’s sad, really. Church should be the one place where everyone feels welcome. Have you ever been to a service where you didn’t know when to stand, sit, speak, cry, laugh or eat? Why do we make up rules? Who makes the rules? I get it. There is a “culture”. You learn the lingo, you hang with like minded folks, you gravitate to people who think and act the same way as you. Our new church is big. Two services big. We’re finding it hard to connect. Our old, little church was like family. This is like going to an extended reunion. They are still family, but distant cousins, not brothers and sisters yet.

Furthermore, there is that part of the integrating definition that says “successfully joining” together. When does that happen? How do you know? Will it just “hit” someday that yup, we’ve made it? We have infiltrated the “enemy lines” and have become one of them. Then, like any good spy, you fall in love and compromise any mission of take down. You become part of the flock.

Like all good muses here on mittonmusings, very little gets solved. It’s just a thing I’ve been thinking about. There’s no 12 step program to being a part of a new community, a new job, a new church, a new school, or a new flock. It takes time, some squabbles, some apologies and some trying again. Do you think Jesus’ band of misfits were a well-oiled machine? Unlikely. He did say to try to get along with everyone (Romans 12) as much as you are able. And to leave all the judging to Him. That’s not part of the job! It won’t happen at a week and a half. It might not happen in a year. Or more. A pecking order will have to get sorted out, but soon everyone will be roosting together like birds of a feather. At least that’s the goal.

Sounds of a Silent Saturday

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Welcome back, my friends. Apologies for skipping out last week… just wasn’t there. It was Easter and I was certainly musing, but I didn’t get a chance to sit down at the computer to write about it. So it’s going to overflow into this week. It’s my blog, I’m allowed. It’s been an eventful week this week too … two words: baby chicks! Therefore, I am a little late in posting. But: it’s my blog, I’m allowed.

Okay. Here we go. I want to invite you in to the middle of the night at my old farmhouse. I have very few neighbours. It’s not the big city. We have one streetlight, so that permeates the absolute darkness of, let’s say, three o’clock in the morning. I’m lying in bed awake, as some women of my age do, listening. The chubby dog takes up half the space I have allocated myself and I pull the remaining covers up over my shoulders. It’s chilly, but that’s okay. The dog snorts. I hear myself and the hubby breathing. My eyes are closed and block out the streetlight. I listen again.

Photo by Kseniya Budko on Pexels.com

During the day, our old farmhouse creeks and we hear the wind outside. Our neighbouring cows are loud most of the time. The occasional car, truck or farm vehicle zoom past our front yard and kick up the dust – the dog barks at the slower traffic. Up until recently, Morris our rooster could be heard. (It’s a myth that roosters only crow in the mornings. That crazy bird yelled all the time at us!) However, I’m sad to report he’s been missing now for a few weeks. I’d like to think he was heroic and was “taken” fighting the whole time to protect his ladies. Even our buddy down the road commented he hadn’t heard him lately and kinda misses him. Enough about that sad event. Moving on.

Back to three o’clock in the morning and the snoring dog. Imagine you hear a gurgling like a giant belch emanating from some underwater jelly-bellied monster. That monster happens to be the sump pump located in the basement, directly underneath our master bedroom. It belches several times throughout the day and night. Earlier in the spring it followed a constant sound of rushing water as the spring melt emptied and got flushed back out by the sump pump. I’ve learned to appreciate the sound of the it, because it means my basement isn’t flooding. Like the sound of generators running constantly during our ice storm a few weeks ago. Thankfully, those have stopped now, and we are back to a general quiet.

Listen again. Hushed breathing. The cat jumps down from something upstairs with a soft thud. My new baby chick birds finally rustle. I listen to hear them as I’ve only had them a few days (yeah!) and I’m still at the new momma “please don’t die” stage. Somebody peeps very softly, and I say a prayer of thanks for signs of life in the middle of the night. They settle back down in their living room home with the soft red light of the heat lamp. Silence again. Gurgle belch. Hushed breathing. The furnace clicks on briefly, with a rush of pilot light flame. Otherwise it is pretty quiet here.

I’m a week behind in this muse, but I’ve been thinking about it since a comment I heard Easter weekend. You’ve heard of “good Friday”. You may have heard of “celebration Sunday” or “Easter Sunday” or even “resurrection day”, but this year, for the first time ever, I heard someone use the term “silent Saturday”. The day between Jesus’ death on “good Friday” and rising again on the third day… the day when all was absolutely silent. Apparently, I am late to the party on this concept, for google has lots to say about silent Saturday. Not so silent on the internet. Well fine. It was a new thought for me. And so, I share it with you!

One imagines Jesus, stone cold in a dark tomb. Obviously, corpses don’t say much. God the father did a lot of “talking” on Friday, but no signs and wonders happen to be recorded on the day in between. Jesus’ followers have probably gathered, but may be hiding out, keeping a low profile. It seems like it really was a “silent Saturday”. And it seems, with some reflection on my part, and the internet sparking my thoughts, a day of quiet reflection should totally be a part of the Easter story! Life is difficult. There will be hard days. Yet, life is also beautiful, and there will be many a day filled with joy and celebration. And we often need a few silent Saturdays, to balance it all out. To question why God seems to have abandoned us. Why He seems like He is not answering our prayers. Then to reflect on His faithfulness, and draw strength for the next step. Like me listening for signs of life at three in the morning, thankful that things are still “okay so far”.

So, thanks to that friend that happened to mention this phrase to me last week… it ignited a muse that’s spanned a week! Was it news to you? Even if it wasn’t and you knew this lingo way before me, I hope it’s been a good reminder to you, to appreciate a bit of silence. May you take the opportunity to hear the gurgle belch of a good sump pump and appreciate all you have. Be blessed, beloveds.

Exploring the Fascinating World of Palm Trees (Say Palm Fronds!)

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Welcome back to my little corner of the internet. Last Sunday was Palm Sunday (and the Sunday we dedicated our little grand baby to the Lord … but that was just a coincidence … and I just had to mention our little man because that’s what good grandma’s do … but it’s not my main point for this week). Palm Sunday. So called because the patrons of Jerusalem waved the branches of palm leaves during the triumphant entry of Jesus. Anyway, during a recent walk out in our local forest trail the youngest was commenting on Palm branches, Palm Sunday, and the like, and we laughed: “If Jesus had to come to Canada, wonder if we would have pelted Him with pine branches or something” was the comment. And so I muse…

Did you know that you can order exotic palm trees that are cold hardy enough to grow all winter in Canada? I guess they aren’t just for Palm Springs or Jerusalem! There are over 2500 species of Palm … and not all are classified as “trees”. The tallest one is about 200 feet high. But let’s face it, palm trees make you think of sandy beaches, coconut drinks and relaxing vacations. Or the strip at Vegas. Or that fancy place where people buy expensive clothes. Am I right? Maybe Jesus on a donkey is not your first thought when you hear “Palm trees”. Let’s think deeper. Those big fan-like leaves are called fronds. That’s a fun word to say: “Palm fronds”. I used to read a book to the kids about a little girl who made dolls out of palm fronds. It was a hard word to say then. Palm fronds. Go ahead; try and say it 10 times fast.

Anyway, fun fact: Palm fronds were built to withstand huge gusts of winds (think tropical rain storm hurricane) and once they do become separated from the tree, are not easily broken down. According to ABC news, Phoenix alone dumps roughly 34,000 tons of palm fronds from city streets into a landfill, costing over half a million dollars every year. That’s the mass equivalent of throwing out more than 4,500 African elephants. Yet, unlike our Canadian pile of mulchy leaf muck, palm fronds can easily be turned in other organic works of art: baskets, hats and even fencing or roof thatches. Reminds me of another Bible story of the friends who lowered the sick guy down through the roof. Can you imagine Jesus getting rained on by twigs and buggy leaf bits as they tear up the roof that must, at this point, be dried grassy brittle palm fronds. Say it again: palm fronds. Giggle. I hope it gets stuck in your head. Palm fronds. Palm fronds. Pond frogs. Pog Wands. Okay, enough about that.

One of the trees on our property after the ice storm

You’ve got to admit, trees are one of God’s most fascinating creations. Huge trunks, teeny buds. Our recent ice storm made me appreciate both the strength and fragility of trees. Mighty oaks and maples are littered on our streets now, and the huge cracks tell a story. If you look closely, there are almost holes where the branches grew out from the trunk. Even tonight, the hubby and I were surveying the forest on our property. It’s going to be a mess to clean up and process off the lawn. Unbreakable leaves notwithstanding, Canadian trees have many more branches to make a mess with than those tall palm tree trunks that only monkeys and very talented locals can climb. No tire swings, I guess, on Rodeo drive.

And that’s my little bit about the trees. Like Dr. Suess’ Lorax, I speak for the trees today… their uniqueness. Their symbolism. Their might. Their weaknesses. An object so abundant, we take it for granted. We cut them up. Toss them in the fire. Throw them on the ground, and pile up the leaves. Have you ever hugged one? Looked at and felt a tree trunk? Rubbed a soft maple leaf between your fingers? Or cut your fingers open on the sharp edge of those palm fronds they give out on Palm Sunday to the little kids to wave Hosannas with? Yup, God did a good job when He thought up all those green things that are out there in the woods. And in the streets of Jerusalem that day. Symbols that take a very long time to break down. I wonder if the streets left evidences weeks later of cloaks and leaves along the path. And if the locals remembered and pondered the events of that Holy Week. Did you know that “palm frond” in Hebrew is Lulav. Lu – to or unto, Lav, heart. In other words “We give to you our hearts.” 

Now, How about that for a cool thing to say? Lulav. Palm frond. It really is fun to say, isn’t it? You’re welcome.