URSULA AND THE GOLDEN EGGS

IN BIRDLAND THE SAGA CONTINUES. We thought we hit upon a method, if not the perfect solution, then at least a stop gap measure to keep Ursula from eating all the eggs my chickens lay. My dog recently discovered the treasure trove of golden deliciousness hiding in the nesting boxes in the coop. Instead of finding eggs in the coop, I'd find empty shells near the kitchen door, just taunting me. In the morning, after letting the chickens out, we decided to lure them into the garden coop with a big scoop of pellets. They ran happily in and began scratching at what I spilled there, and I went out and shut the door. We originally built the garden coop to protect the garden from the chickens' beaks. It works well for tomatoes, cucumbers and greens, but after the frost, we encourage the chickens to spend some time there to cultivate the soil, eating grubs and bugs and scratching up any weeds that come after the last harvest. It's a great way to get a jump start on preparing the ground for spring planting, and to fertilize the soil. Well, I figured if we put the chickens in the garden coop for the day, they would lay their eggs in there, safe from the dog.

The first day everything was fine. They laid their eggs in the corner and Ursula looked sadly from the yard as I collected them in the afternoon and then let the chickens out to wander a little before chicken dark. The next day, I led them out there again, and all was well when I left, but when I arrived home after work, I was met with 2 half eggshells on the front walk, and another next to the walnut tree. How did Ursula get the eggs out of the garden coop? I went around the house to find the garden coop door was open, the chickens scratching in the spinney of woods nearby. Did Ellis open the door and let them out? He said no, maybe I forgot to latch the door.

The next day I arrived home to a repeat of the previous day—empty eggshells on the ground, garden coop open, chickens at large, dog fat and happy in the sun. Ursula had figured out how to open the door by pulling with her claws, despite a latch. Well, played, puppy. Well played; but the game is not over yet. We needed a new plan. I thought about making a dog excluder in the regular chicken coop. She can get into the coop through the door, so Michael screwed a bar across the opening, cutting the space in half. Still big enough for the chickens to get in and out, but too small for a silly black dog to squeeze through, especially one who has grown fat on rich egg yolks.

I got 3 brown eggs and a tan one that day. All was well. Problem solved. Or so we thought. Next morning was Saturday, and I slept in a little. I let Ursula out and went to make my coffee. When I stepped outside with a scoop of food to let the chickens out, I couldn't believe my eyes. They were about a hundred feet off, scratching in the beanfield. Did I forget to shut them up the night before? No. the door was still shut. I investigated to find that the whole back end of the coop had been peeled away, 2 layers of chicken wire and some fencewire. Did coyotes come in the night? No. They would have eaten not just the eggs, but the chickens. The chickens were all still with us. We stapled back the chicken wire and got out the big guns—our behavior modification system. We have a little device we call the “bad dog egg.” It is how we got Ursula to stop chasing the chickens. It emits a high pitched sound that we can't hear, but is apparently very unpleasant to Ursula. One beep from the bad dog egg and she stops whatever it is she is doing. The drawback is that it requires someone to constantly monitor her behavior. Luckily, it was the weekend, so we could devote some energy and attention to making sure Ursa stayed away from the coop. For now, it seems to be working out. Yesterday's egg count was Mary—3, Ursula—0.

Walk in Beauty; Work in Peace; Blessed Be

 

LIFE TAKES A SURPRISING TURN

On the road to Birdland.

THIS MORNING'S SILVER FOG HAS ME FEELING REFLECTIVE. In the distance I see the tree line and the highway with trucks carrying their loads, but everything is muffled: sound, light, color. In the distance I see the road curving up over the railroad tracks and up the hill. I have let the chickens out, and even they are subdued by the frost that sugars the still green grass. I stand for a moment and watch the last Auracana hen peep out of the coop. She is a little shy. I don't know what I am waiting for, really. I stand here and take a little time to reflect on the past several years. So often I write these letters about my daily activities. I don't often reveal the more personal parts of my life, but some pretty big things have happened in my life, in my marriage.

At first, I thought I would write about the separation, the difficult months leading up to the sudden sadness and loss, when both Michael and I were desperate to find the best path through the despair and loneliness we felt together. I thought, at the time, that I would find the courage to write about the sudden wrenching of our lives, and the decision to seek an answer in living separately. But there was the fall semester to prepare for, eggs to be gathered and a garden to tend. There were sons urging me to keep my chin up, and friends to talk to and many, many reasons to take note of the sun's rising and setting, and flowers' blooming and fading, and the wheel of the year turned and life went on.

 

 

Maybe we tossed one or two to the wind.

Maybe we dropped some in the river.

As my independence sprouted and and I began to relish my new life alone. I adopted a little black puppy. I thought I'd write about learning to live a life of singularity, of remapping my path, forging the way toward joy, of making decisions unfettered by another's opinion. But there was snow to shovel and fires to light, lessons to learn and bills to pay, and a boy to teach that he has the love of both parents, that even if they have to pass him back and forth like a volley ball, they won't let him drop. And the wheel of the year turned and life went on.

I adopted a little black puppy.

When Michael and I divorced I thought I would write about letting go of a loved one and trying ever to do it with grace and respect, of searching for and finding the surprising gifts of the divorce, silver linings in the heartbreak. But there were seeds to plant and sticks to throw and fires to build and trails to blaze, and a young man to teach to drive so he could visit each of his parents in turn. And the wheel of the year turned, and the river flowed, and the seeds sprouted, and life went on.

And then a funny thing happened.

Micheal and I met up again and began to see that we had each lost some of the burdens that had complicated and encumbered our marriage. Maybe we dropped some in the river and let them float away. Maybe we buried a few in the soft earth to mulch and decay. Maybe we tossed one or two to the wind to ride the jet stream. Maybe some burned to ashes in a bonfire and floated up with sparks to the sky. We didn't lose all of them, you understand, but enough that we could remember why we got together in the first place. We began keeping company, learning new things about each other and remembering the little ways that we worked well together. It hasn't always been easy or delightful, but somehow we have arrived back to love, ready to commit to each other again with a little more wisdom this time, and a lot more support. We are engaged to be married when the peonies bloom.

I notice that the sun has burned off some of the haze while I was thinking. The shy little hen has come out and joined her flock. I lift the lid of the coop and find one brown egg in the nest. I cradle it in my palm. It is warm and full of life. And the wheel of the year turns, and life goes on.

Ready for the next Chapter.

FOR JEFF, WHO SAYS THAT BIRDLAND IS "TOO HAPPY"

TODAY IN BIRDLAND THE SKY WAS CLOUDY AND THE YARD WAS FULL OF MUD. I new it was going to be a difficult day when I woke up before my alarm. Now, I like to sleep in as much as anyone, but this whole “fall back” business comes on rather suddenly. The sun had already been rising later and later, and it's been hard to get up in the dark, but now the sun comes in and wakes me before I have to get up. I stood up, blinking. The first thing that happened when I got out of bed was that I tripped over Ursula. My dog likes to lie right in everyone's path, with no consideration whatsoever for anyone. She was lying right at the foot of my bed. I could have broken my neck.

 Of course as soon as I'm up she wants to eat, and Shiva joins in with the nagging. I haven't even put on my glasses yet and I'm stumbling in my robe toward the basement with the cat twining herself between my feet, and Ursula nipping at the cat, like she can hurry us all up toward the only thing she cares about: food. Ursula and Shiva act like they're starving and I can't scoop out the food fast enough to please them. I scoop food for the cat first, then Ursula. She is barking, waking the house, and blistering my eardrum. I tell her to wait, and she does. Then I go back upstairs to get the big galvanized scoop for the chicken's food which I keep on the landing shelf. You'd think that one of these days I'd remember to grab it before I go down, but every morning it's the same thing. I remember when I'm scooping the dog's food and have to go back up and then down to where I keep the chicken pellets in the basement. I scoop the pellets and then tell Ursa “okay” as I go out the door while she's wolfing down her food. I want to get outside without her because even though she's stopped chasing the chickens, she still jumps up on the coop when I open it and snaps at the closest tail feathers she can find. Just one snap, and a mouthful of feathers and one startled hen jumps out of the way. Every Dang Morning.

 I go out with my scoop of chicken feed and open the coop. We're down to 9 hens and 2 roosters. At least the predators are getting fed. We were getting 2 or 3 eggs on most days, starting about a month ago, but this morning, like the past week, nothing. Those blamed chickens might be hiding their eggs where I'll never find them, probably in the barn. They make a beeline there every morning. I go back inside and Ursula is jumping to get out, and I let her go and turn to my morning chores. I make coffee and a smoothy for my breakfast. I pull some little slider rolls out of the freezer for sandwiches. I make them ahead, cut them in half and freeze them. That way, when I thaw them out they still taste fresh, though they might be almost a week old. But today they are stuck together, probably because I put them in the freezer while they were still warm. Wouldn't you know it? I struggle to pry the rolls open and I hear Ellis getting up. My youngest pretty much takes care of himself, does his laundry and gets himself out of bed and checks his own homework, but I still make his sandwiches most days. I've got the sandwiches out on the counter and I'm searching for tupperware to put them in, but, of course, I can't find any lids to match. Just my luck.

 Well, you can probably guess how the rest of my morning went: Ellis missed the bus and I had to take him. AGAIN. And I left my coffee on the counter and my office keys on the dresser. I almost tripped over the cat as I was rushing to the car and there on the front walk was the worst sign of all. Half of an eggshell. That means that Ursula has found out where the hens have been laying their eggs. She brought one to the front walk and licked it clean there, just to taunt me. One more problem in Birdland. If I don't put a stop to this, I'll never get another egg.

Grump in Beauty;
Grouse in Peace;
Blessed Be.

A BIRDLAND ALL HALLOWS EVE

GAMBOLING GOATS

IN BIRDLAND WE TAKE HALLOWEEN SERIOUSLY. Halloween morning I was driving to work, and when I got up to the cemetery, I couldn't believe my eyes. A herd of goats was having a party. They looked like kids, (the four footed kind) or, maybe miniature goats, but they were grazing and gamboling between the stones. I stopped the car and tried to take some pictures with my phone, but the goats were suspicious and started jumping around and heading for the woods. I couldn't get close enough for a good shot, so I called Aunt Jane, thinking she might be able to get ahold of the neighbor whose fence they must have escaped. I told her, "The cemetery is filled with goats!"

"Well, of course it's full of ghosts," she said. "It is Halloween."

WHAT KIND OF FACE
DOES IT WANT?

"No, goats!" I shouted. "They are gamboling amongst the stones."

"Gambling ghosts? Cards or dice?"
"Goats!” I shouted. “The kind that eat tin cans.”  I said this, although I know full well that goats don’t eat tin cans. They may nibble on the paper around the tin cans, but not the metal, itself. "Can you call the neighbors and tell them they got through the fence?"

Well, we finally got it sorted out and I went on to work, but not before calling Michael. He must have been in the shower and didn’t answer his phone, so I left a detailed message asking him to take pictures for me. When he got to work he texted me. "No goats." They must have found their way home by the time he went by.

 Halloween in Birdland is my favorite time. I had two pie pumpkins on my windowsill, but they have gone into the oven for pumpkin cheesecake. The big pumpkin awaits carving, and sits right outside the kitchen door. In days gone by I used to make costumes for the kids, but the kids are all grown and making their own costumes. My youngest came home and announced his intentions to trick or treat the neighbors. I was ready with the papier mache, but no. His costume, he said, would be a mustache.

"That's no costume!" I said, “It’s a disguise.”
"Yes," said Ellis. We're going as secret agents, and secret agents need a disguise." With those words, I knew it was the end of an era. No longer are my services required as maker of masks or of totally awesome swords and shields. No longer are my seamstress skills necessary. I’ll just put my sewing machine away up in the attic. No more capes or hoods or swashbuckling pantaloons. 

 I might have argued that since No-shave November was almost upon us, a mustache was not much of a disguise, either, but they also dyed their hair. Since it was probably the last year that they can get away with knocking on doors and demanding candy, I relented, and stayed home to comfort myself with pumpkin carving.

Treat in Beauty; Trick in Peace; Blessed Be.

The Pumpkin was big and round, but a little flat on one side. It spent the past several weeks silently greeting everyone who came in the kitchen door. It was a little flat on one side and that side still had a little mud caked on it, although it had kept its silent vigil through at least two rainstorms. I wiped it clean and patted its cheek, peering at it to see what kind of face it wanted. It didn’t want to be a zombie, so popular now, with stringy, orange “brains” spilling out of its mouth. I cut its cap and scooped out the seeds, putting them into a bowl to roast later. No, it just wanted a couple of triangular eyes and a lopsided, jagged smile. I found a candle and set it back outside to greet the trick or treaters. The yellow light shone bravely into the dark night.

WALKING WITH THE TREES

I HEARD IT WAS A "NAKED TREE WALK," BUT WE WERE BUNDLED IN GORTEX AND HEAVY WOOL AGAINST THE AUTUMN CHILL AND POSSIBLE SHOWERS. Actually it was the trees that were supposed to be naked, but only one was truly without leaves, and none of them were walking. Last Saturday I joined about 40 nature enthusiasts to stroll with Bill Vander Weit, retired City of Champaign forester, as he guided us through the urban forest of West University Avenue. Running late, as usual, I drove up to the corner of Victor and University to see a crowd converging on the sidewalk. I received a beautifully printed, green booklet with detailed descriptions and careful line drawings of each of the 45 trees we would visit. In the crowd were at least 3 News Gazette columnists and a Prairie blogger. Do we know how to PARTY or what?

Sycamore Leaves

Bill carried a pruning saw and would reach up into the tree to clip a sample twig to give us a close up of the leaves and sometimes the fruiting bodies, as he showed us the differences between the varieties of Maple or Oak. Sometimes these differences were subtle and I gained an appreciation for close examination of the world around me. For example, we may be acquainted with the general shape of the maple leaf. After all, it is on the Canadian flag. But that familiar red leaf is stylized, and Bill showed us how some leaves are very deeply lobed (Silver Maple) and others, like Norway Maple aren't. We are probably all familiar with the winged seeds—as kids, we called them “helicopters” but they are really called samaras—but how many of us have looked carefully enough to notice that before they fall, they are joined in pairs? I noticed later that that the shape of the pair can make a mustache if you hold it under your nose. Sandy Mason, of the UI Extension showed us one way to identify the variety of Maple through the seeds by checking to see if the two seeds were joined at a roughly straight line (a handlebar mustache) or more droopy, like Frank Zappa's mustache.

We saw some trees that were atypical—like the sassafras with only unlobed leaves. I'm used to seeing sassafras saplings in the understory, or at the edge of the woods. They are easy to recognize with their 3 varieties of leaves. Bill called these shapes the Ghost, the Mitten, and the Football. But here on the parkway, perhaps because it is not shaded by other, taller trees, this poor little tree was bereft of ghosts and mittens. Maybe because it is football season, it was showing its spirit. Bill told us about the aromatic roots (the roots of root beer) and the leaves used as filé in gumbo. I pulled one of the leaves from a low hanging branch and crumpled it to smell the fresh, lime scent.

As we walked, I began to contemplate the oxymoron, “urban forest.” I'm used to thinking of a forest as a wild and unkempt place. Or rather, the wildness is the keeper of the balance in the forest. Here, though, the “forest” was well-trimmed and even planned. Bill spoke about the merits of various trees, how a particular cultivar might be problematic in certain ways. It might be prone to a divided trunk, which could easily split in high winds, or it might have drooping limbs that could interfere with traffic on a busy street. It might be messy, dropping fruit that causes a litter problem. It might be prone to escape cultivation, pushing out native species in forests that are truly wild and don't have such a watchful caretaker.

Look carefully at the
leaves of Maple.

We walked on through the morning, enjoying the wind and the tree talk and the great variety in our urban forest. At one house we saw a stately ginkgo, its fan shaped leaves now a bright gold, fairly glittering in the wind. I stepped back to notice how the leaves hang off the branches almost like ferns. A few doors down one woman pointed to a stately golden tree in a backyard, the crown above the roofline. “Is that Ginkgo?” she asked. We all paused for a moment to admire the trees and the leaves, to contemplate the wisdom of caring for our urban forest.

Walk in Beauty
Cultivate Peace
Blessed Be

Ginkgo leaves hang off
the branches like ferns.

SCATTER PEACE

She's not a bad dog.

THIS MORNING URSULA ATE MY SANDWICHES. YES SHE DID.  I try to be careful about leaving my dog alone with sandwiches, but these were in my lunch bag and pushed to the back of the counter. I left the room for only a moment to grab my backpack, and when I came back, I saw an apple rolling across the floor. What's that doing there? I wondered. Then I saw Ursula, lying with her head on her paws, just as if she had been lying there all morning. She looked up at me and actually yawned. Then stretched. My eyes traced a line from the apple to the dog, to my poor lunch bag lying on the floor, to my sandwich container hidden way back in her puppy corner. Circumstantial evidence, but I knew what happened.

Ursula is not a bad dog. In fact, she can make herself very useful. She is affectionate and kind. When I feed her and her cat-friend, Shiva, she will nudge Shiva with her nose and bark excitedly, telling her, “Come on down to the basement! Hurry up! She's scooping our food! It's time to eat!” She waits patiently until I tell her, “Okay,” and then she makes quick work of her breakfast. Ursula is very amusing and congenial. She will happily play fetch all day with a ball or frisbee or a stick. She's not particular. If you can throw it, she will go and get for you and drop it at your feet. Ursula is also very protective. She has kept the chickens mostly safe from varmints for several months now. If she sees a predation threat, she will do her best to put the whole yard on high alert—running and barking and charging, until that fox or possum or hawk thinks chicken dinner doesn't sound so tasty after all. Yes, Ursula is a very good dog, but she's programmed to eat whatever food she can find. If I'm foolish enough to leave my sandwiches on the counter, they're really fair game, even if she's already eaten. If I think I can leave a big pile of food for the chickens, I'm sadly mistaken if I think Ursula will leave a few morsels for them. No such thing as trickle down doggy-nomics in Birdland.

Compost is another problem. The bucket fills quickly, and ideally I could just dump it in my outdoor compost pile. Chickens are omnivorous, and very happy to eat leftover crusts of bread, apple cores, wilted cabbage, all the while scratching and stirring the pile into a rich humus. But if Ursula sees me with the compost bucket, she will lie in wait and as soon as I turn my back, she is in the middle of the pile snapping up the best parts while the chickens wait from a hopeful circle for whatever she might leave. The problem is, she doesn't leave any, and doesn't do half so well at the real work of the compost pile, turning it over and letting the worms turn grass clippings, leaves and other debris left into soil. Ursula isn't really hungry; she just acts hungry because she is greedy, while the chickens spend their entire day with their tails in the air, scratching out a living, picking out bugs or greens to fill their bellies. 

Chickens do the real
work of the compost pile.

If I want to sit out in the yard on the Adirondack chair and toss treats to the chickens, I come prepared with doggy treats I can throw far away on one side to keep Ursula busy, while I lightly toss chicken treats on the other side of the chair. Even so, it doesn't work for long. Not only is my dog easily lured by what others seem to be enjoying even if she has plenty already, she is also intimidating. The chickens are nervous around her and run for the cover of the Jerusalem Artichokes as soon as she comes back looking for the next treat. Maybe tomorrow I'll just put her in the house first as I scatter the scraps of bread so that everybody gets some.  

Scatter Beauty
Vote for Peace
Blessed Be

WINTER TOMATOES ON THE VINE

Shaved Fields of Soybeans

IN BIRDLAND FALL HAS COME AND THE COMBINES HAVE SHAVED THE BEANS FROM OUR FIELDS SO THE STUBBLE IS CLOSE CROPPED LIKE A CREW CUT. The morning is crisp but I can't yet see my breath. Once in a while this Country Mouse likes to get in touch with her Urban, so this morning I took a detour on my bike to visit The Cracked Truck that parks near Uni High. They serve egg sandwiches and wraps, hot coffee on a cold morning. Also, I would get a chance to see Dylan. My middle boy works on the truck, frying eggs and chorizo, constructing sandwiches and pouring coffee. It was a brisk ride and a couple blocks out of my way, but well worth it. 

Dylan at the Cracked Truck

 It was my first trip to the truck, and as I was studying the menu, Dylan stepped lightly out of the door to give me a hug and take my order. I asked for the Plan B, and he said, “I knew you were going to order that.” It was a veggie wrap with fresh spinach and hummus. My boy knows me well. I stood on the sidewalk, balancing my bike in the breeze, smelling good smells and enjoying an easy camaraderie with the other people. We sipped coffee and smiled as we waited for our orders. Dylan handed me a warm little packet wrapped in foil, and I hurried to my office to enjoy my brunch. Deliciousness of spicy freshness! Oh, warm wrap of hummus-y delight! I don't often treat myself, but this could become a habit. Best of all, I felt like a big City Chick the entire morning.  

 But I can't stay long away from the country and this afternoon I called on my friend and neighbor, Barb, for a tomato raid. Barb and Dave plant a modest, but artful garden in their front yard. Each year has a different pattern, but always features tomatoes prominently in tall cages. This year, Dave made a circular bed bordered in bricks and planted a central column of sweet corn. Tall wire cages contain 4 tomato plants, set in 4 corners like the points on a compass. Their tomatoes are always plentiful, even in this drought year, and they generously share their bounty with pushy neighbors like me. After several years of their kindness, I now just take it upon myself to announce that I'm coming to raid their tomato patch. It is my excuse to visit and chat a little with Barb, and then we go out together to pick sun-ripened tomatoes. Each of the four cages holds a couple of varieties, so that both grape tomatoes and standard sized ones have adamantly intertwined and appear to grow on one plant.  

Now that winter approaches, Barb and I have been keeping an eye on the frost advisory. She called me to let me know that the light frost we got the other night didn't hit her tomatoes, but that it was time for me to come and pull up the plants. She lets me hang them upside-down in my basement where the leaves dry and crumble to dust, but the tomatoes themselves cling to the vine and slowly ripen over the winter. That's the way we'll have ripe tomatoes in January and February. No,they are not sun-ripened, and they do get a little bit wrinkly on the skin, but they are at least as tasty as grocery store tomatoes, picked green and ripened inside a box on a truck from who-knows-where. Barb and I chat as we pull the ripened fruit from the vines. The bushes are still heavy with green tomatoes, and we pull the plants up, cage and all, and stuff the bulky green column into the back of my car. I take it home and cut the plant out of the cage, stem by stem, to hang in bundles under the stairs in my basement. The sun is going down, and I'm carrying bundles back and forth, dreaming of fresh tomatoes in the depths of winter.

DREAM IN BEAUTY;
ENVISION PEACE;
BLESSED BE.