Pardon me while I state the obvious: Spring is finally here. Robins have been hopping around my yard for a month now (even in the snow), and the grass is growing again. It will need to be mowed soon, but not for a week or so yet. Besides, it’s pouring rain today, was yesterday, and looks to be the same tomorrow.
I’m not letting anything dampen my spirits, though. My last chemo treatment is scheduled for Friday morning (Yay!), so I’m looking forward to my next haircut. Yes, yes, I know it won’t be for a while, but I’m anticipating it anyway.
Spring always blindsides me, and I never seem ready for it. The back yard’s raised beds still need to be built for this year’s garden, plus I haven’t yet decided what I want to plant. There are trips that must be made to the local thrift store and transfer station to get rid of excess stuff, too. I always seem to have too much of that. No matter. It will get done a load at a time, somewhere down the road, and the garden will somehow happen.
This year is a banner year for the Miller household in one respect: chickens! The City of Kent revised its municipal codes in 2007 thereby allowing people to have small animals formerly relegated to farms, such as pygmy goats and potbellied pigs, in their back yards. A homeowner is now allowed to have 3 small animals on a 4,000 square foot lot, plus another one for each additional 1,000 square feet. You can have chickens or rabbits too—though roosters are verboten (they crow). The city farmer thing is taking off in a big way around here, as evidenced by the Seattle Tilth program and classes on growing vegetables, composting, and raising chickens at nearby Renton Technical College. With the economy tanking and the price of food going sky-high, raising as much of your own food as possible seems to be one realistic method of coping—not to mention the many satisfactions that come from such a project. I can remember eating the first tomato I grew myself, as well as the first egg laid by my own hens (many years ago when I still lived in Oregon), and there isn’t much that can beat that feeling.
Sam and I are fortunate that we grew up in families that grew big gardens every year and then canned and froze the produce. We always had chickens, cows, and oftentimes a few pigs after my parents bought their 160 acre farm (most of which was in timber). Yes, it was very hard work, but there were compensations. I was allowed to have a horse of my own and there were miles of trails I could ride whenever I wanted, as long as my chores were done. Our grandparents grew up in the Great Depression and our families were good at producing food, because they had to be—that was what we had to eat, and even though we went to the grocery store regularly, we still grew most of our food.
We’ve gotten spoiled through the years, but Sam and I wanted to get back to producing more of our own food since buying our home not quite two years ago. Gardening is something I love, and I have always loved chickens. Mind you, I mean the home-grown variety hand-raised from day-old chicks. Since I handle and pet my chickens, they like people, so they don’t scatter and run for cover whenever you come near them. They aren’t exactly pets but somewhere in between. They are very cute and picturesque too. My favorite breeds are Barred Plymouth Rocks and Rhode Island Reds (or New Hampshires, which are very hard to find these days). I also adore roosters, though sadly I cannot have any here. I love to watch their antics! They are so “cocky,” excuse the pun—the very essence of maleness with feathers. The hens are fun too, but they aren’t nearly as interesting, nor do they have as much personality.
Now begins the hard work of converting our storage shed to a chicken house and putting up a predator-proof wire run. We bought a baker’s dozen of Barred Rock pullet chicks this morning (the total number will be reduced to that allowed once they mature a bit), and they are happily scratching around in a large cardboard box lined with wood shavings under a warm lamp in the extra bedroom. They will be there for a few days and move into their own house next week, while I look forward to once again having chickens in my back yard. Too bad Chanticleer can’t be there. I will miss him.
I’m not letting anything dampen my spirits, though. My last chemo treatment is scheduled for Friday morning (Yay!), so I’m looking forward to my next haircut. Yes, yes, I know it won’t be for a while, but I’m anticipating it anyway.
Spring always blindsides me, and I never seem ready for it. The back yard’s raised beds still need to be built for this year’s garden, plus I haven’t yet decided what I want to plant. There are trips that must be made to the local thrift store and transfer station to get rid of excess stuff, too. I always seem to have too much of that. No matter. It will get done a load at a time, somewhere down the road, and the garden will somehow happen.
This year is a banner year for the Miller household in one respect: chickens! The City of Kent revised its municipal codes in 2007 thereby allowing people to have small animals formerly relegated to farms, such as pygmy goats and potbellied pigs, in their back yards. A homeowner is now allowed to have 3 small animals on a 4,000 square foot lot, plus another one for each additional 1,000 square feet. You can have chickens or rabbits too—though roosters are verboten (they crow). The city farmer thing is taking off in a big way around here, as evidenced by the Seattle Tilth program and classes on growing vegetables, composting, and raising chickens at nearby Renton Technical College. With the economy tanking and the price of food going sky-high, raising as much of your own food as possible seems to be one realistic method of coping—not to mention the many satisfactions that come from such a project. I can remember eating the first tomato I grew myself, as well as the first egg laid by my own hens (many years ago when I still lived in Oregon), and there isn’t much that can beat that feeling.
Sam and I are fortunate that we grew up in families that grew big gardens every year and then canned and froze the produce. We always had chickens, cows, and oftentimes a few pigs after my parents bought their 160 acre farm (most of which was in timber). Yes, it was very hard work, but there were compensations. I was allowed to have a horse of my own and there were miles of trails I could ride whenever I wanted, as long as my chores were done. Our grandparents grew up in the Great Depression and our families were good at producing food, because they had to be—that was what we had to eat, and even though we went to the grocery store regularly, we still grew most of our food.
We’ve gotten spoiled through the years, but Sam and I wanted to get back to producing more of our own food since buying our home not quite two years ago. Gardening is something I love, and I have always loved chickens. Mind you, I mean the home-grown variety hand-raised from day-old chicks. Since I handle and pet my chickens, they like people, so they don’t scatter and run for cover whenever you come near them. They aren’t exactly pets but somewhere in between. They are very cute and picturesque too. My favorite breeds are Barred Plymouth Rocks and Rhode Island Reds (or New Hampshires, which are very hard to find these days). I also adore roosters, though sadly I cannot have any here. I love to watch their antics! They are so “cocky,” excuse the pun—the very essence of maleness with feathers. The hens are fun too, but they aren’t nearly as interesting, nor do they have as much personality.
Now begins the hard work of converting our storage shed to a chicken house and putting up a predator-proof wire run. We bought a baker’s dozen of Barred Rock pullet chicks this morning (the total number will be reduced to that allowed once they mature a bit), and they are happily scratching around in a large cardboard box lined with wood shavings under a warm lamp in the extra bedroom. They will be there for a few days and move into their own house next week, while I look forward to once again having chickens in my back yard. Too bad Chanticleer can’t be there. I will miss him.
