White Rock

Every morning I walk down to the foot of the hill with the dogs and stand at the top of the cliff looking at the water. During the winter that spot is ravaged by the weather. The snow is pushed there by the plows, along with rocks and pieces of pavement that have been torn up by water running down the hill. There was a great mound of dirt and debris there until a few days ago. Now it is flat amd smooth again, spread out by the city's trucks. I meant to get a picture of it as the snow was melting, as an example of how nature so blithely takes over what humans try to alter. Before I got a chance, though, humans reigned it in. Next winter the snow and water will tear it up again.

A few days ago I picked up a white rock I noticed on the ground and carried it back up to the house. When I got there, I threw it in the garden. I wondered why I had taken it. I was attracted to it because it was white, and stood out amongst its less flashy volcanic cousins. I wondered why I needed to possess it, to interfere with its natural place, to change the course of its history. I was exerting my power over it, or so I thought. I realized, though, that my moving it was natural, too. I am as much part of nature as the rock, and I moved it the same way an insect might push a blade of grass out of its way.

Then I entertained myself thinking about how many thousands or millions of years it will take for the wind and rain and snow to put it back in the place I found it, and where it will go after that.

Happy Chickens

I finished expanding the chicken yard and the girls really seemed to appreciate it. As soon as I took the old fence down, they ran into the new space and began gobbling up the bird seed under the feeder. It was always so tantalizingly near, yet unreachable, just on the other side of the fence. Now the feeder is inside the pen, creating, I thought, a rather symbiotic relationship between songbird and foul. I tried to get a more spontaneous picture of them, but they were too interested in having their picture taken. They clustered in front of me, curious, and wouldn't go back to their own business.

Resurrection

This rug has been rolled up and stashed beside the house since a few months after I moved in here. I kept planning to put it out for the trash men, but never got around to it. As it emerged from the melting snow, frozen to the ground, I resolved again to throw it out. Then, after painting the floor upstairs, I asked my landlady if I could paint other floors in the house. She refused me, nicely, and I began thinking about painting floor cloths to brighten the place up.

Walking past the filthy rug day after day on my way to the chicken house, an idea started to form. Recently I bought a spray on line that is guaranteed to remove pet odors from any surface. I was amazed to find that it is true. I had thrown the rug out because the dogs had peed on it so many times, but with the miracle spray, it dawned on me that I could revive the rug.

The upshot was, I bought rug cleaner and a heavy brush, unrolled the rug on the ground, and scrubbed it. After a night in the fresh air, I brought it in and scrubbed it again. And that is how I got my oriental carpet.

Week-end Project

I decided to expand the chicken yard and make a new gate on the other side of the house. Right now it is a gate to nowhere, since I did the gate before the fence. It is hinged to the corner of the house, waiting to fulfill it's purpose. I used left-over chicken wire and scrap lumber from the cellar, and constructed it a little differently from the first one I made. Now that I know the ways of chickens, I was better able to anticipate their escape strategies. I hope this one is tall enough to discourage them from flying up to sit on it, then going down the other side. They are clumsy fliers, so they don't go over the chicken wire fence, but the top of a gate is hard to resist. I'm contemplating shrinking their space on the other side so that I can make a small place to put my outside table and a chair. I don't spend much time sitting outside, but I do like it once in awhile. I can see the water from there and contemplate my good fortune to be living by the ocean.

Earlier in the day I filled the bird feeders, including the one outside the dining room window. I have to open the window and reach out for it, and there is no screen in order to make the job easier. As soon as the window was open, Patrick was through it in a flash. He ran out on the roof of the chicken house, barking furiously at the girls below. They started squawking and running around frantically. Patrick looked as if he were going to jump to the ground, repeatedly approaching the edge of the roof and then backing off. I had to climb out, grab him by the tail, and pull him back through the window. I think in another minute he would have built up his courage enough to jump. He wanted those chickens bad.

I feel lucky that I have managed to keep all six of these chickens alive and present after my bad luck with their predecessors. I've had them about a year now with no catastrophes, though there have been a lot of close calls. Several times the dogs have gotten out and tried to get at them. I am always right on their heels, frantic that they will get into the pen before I can stop them. So far, though, the fence has held, even with them jumping on it. I think I finally got it right.