The Importance of Not Doing Something: Part I: The Resolution

Writing is hard sometimes. I mean, not right now. Right now, my keyboarding skills can barely keep up with my usual verbosity, and writing is like uninterrupted talking. That's blogging, I guess: Think something, try not to oversay it, mash it all out on the laptop keyboard, publish, and wait to see if it made sense to anyone but me. Easy.

But when the prompt is official and external, writing is like trying to do origami, using nothing but my elbows and big toes. The result is an excruciatingly clumsy facsimile of something other people seem able to do with ease, or fingers.

That's how it was when I had to write a teaching philosophy for one of the classes I took last year. Working on my Elementary Education degree, I was zooming through an assignment until I got to "What is your teaching philosophy?"

I could have done a better job if I had taken the 15 most frequently-used words in my courses thus far, put them on magnetic refrigerator poetry tiles, donned a blindfold, picked words off my fridge randomly, thrown them on the floor, removed my blindfold, and read them aloud. The first draft was something like, MY TEACHING PHILOSOPHY IS MEANINGFUL SUPPORT STUDENT LEARNING ENGAGEMENT HUNDRED PERCENT PIAGET ACCURACY VERY LONG TIME.

Maybe not quite that bad, but none of it meant anything to me. And it was supposed to be why I do what I do for the foreseeable future of my career as an educator.

Hm, maybe I could do this thing better. I tried a trick I use sometimes, when hitting a writing block. I imagined the statement I wanted to write, in this case my teaching philosophy, as something that already existed, pre-defined. It didn't have to be a lofty goal. It could be what I've already been doing, or why I've already been doing it. The trick worked. All the jargon faded away and my real intentions stood there, clear as they always are.

My teaching philosophy is based on the assumption that the student is always my best partner in the endeavor to educate them.

Yes, it's basically "You can lead a horse to water, but you can't make 'em drink." in school form. You can compel, cajole, threaten, and bribe a child to sit, and hold a pencil and paper or book, but you can't make 'em think.  They have to be down wit it, to some degree. We go together, or not at all.

Many who tried our hand at huh?-schooling our own kids read John Holt at some point in our studies. (Or, unstudies, as the case may be.) He was no fan of school, insisting that the expectations imposed by a formal learning environment destroy a kid's natural tendency to be voracious learn-o-matics. Kind of a downer if you plan to work in public education, but a real punk rocker if you've declared your home a hands-on exploration zone of anything goes.

Holtism may have gotten a little out of hand, here at the BU, during the years the kids and critters were trashing the place. I mean "discovering knowledge."

My li'l "partners" in "education," were free range freight trains at times.

 But I guess that was kind of the point.

Pro Tip: If pseudo-feral un-raising kids in a backyard petting zoo is your idea of school, prepare to live in a world of undone housework and a bramble of untamed habits. Watch out, because behaviors that soothe, in absence of other obligations, can get out of hand. Like our raging case of invasive backyard bindweed.

You know if it's true if there's a garden metaphor for it.

Maybe we had to figure it out for ourselves to really get it, but all of that unfettered freedom taught us to love limits. Seeking balance actually makes us happier than seeking happiness, but balance is a moment-by-moment accomplishment. One year, thirty minute increments of screen time are exchanged for chores, followed by an afternoon of tree-climbing. Before you know it, it's a year later and you're taking all day to write a teaching philosophy while your tree-climber spends way too much of her morning in headphones, mouth-breathing over her Kitty Kats RPG.

After an informal formative assessment, I decided to propose a New Year's Resolution.

But, but, resolutions, man. Who cares? Live your best now now, man. You don't need some stupid white man's holiday, right? Do chickens wait for an arbitrary date on the calendar to start being better chickens, man? No, they just peck the calendar to pieces. Maybe eat some of it.

Be like chickens, man.

Okay, so what if saying, On ___ Day, I'll Stop Shoulding and Start Doing is just a human construct? Man? I do happen to be a human, and kind of a constructivst, I have discovered. If we build our own reason for doing, or not doing something, then we really might do or not do it.

In that spirit, four weeks ago, we began a concerted effort to limit everyone's screen time. It has been surprisingly popular among the alums, as was the idea that I Shall Be The Enforcer Of It. For now.

Since beginning, we have had a rough aim, accomplished through my rough act of putting everybody's cell phones in a shoe box and declaring how long the break will be each week.

And sure, I can keep doing that. But, as usual, I have ulterior motives, I mean "learning objectives." Pesky ole' John Holt won't let me rest at merely training them to do less phone-staring.

      A life worth living, and work worth doing: that is what I want for children (and all people), not just, or not even, something called 'a better education.' 
         -John Holt Instead of Education:Ways to Help People Do Things Better

We can toss the cell phones in a box, do origami with our fingers for a rainy Sunday afternoon, and blog about it later. But, by the power of Bloom's Taxonomy, how can I really make this engagement more meaningful? Holt help us, how can we all learn to do life better? And then blog about that? Stay tuned.

A Farewell to Wings

Warring factions, cold beady eyes, narrowing pupils, showy displays of aggressive territorialism, inability to see that what should bring them together is far greater than that which divides them: No, I'm not talking about last Thanksgiving, or even next Thanksgiving. I am talking about something I am calling BirdMerge.

That is the the name for the bringing together of our two groups of pullets, formerly the new chicks we bought, and then the other new chicks we bought a month later. By the way, "pullet" is the official term for those chicks you bought four or five months ago, who nobody wants to see pictures of anymore.

The babies are all growed up now and need to go live with the adult hens. Only thing is, chickens aren't the most welcoming to newcomers. A new bird introduced into an existing flock is definitely going to be challenged, will have to be assertive in order to get any food, and faces risk of being attacked to death by the other hens. We have our tricks for that get-to-know you phase, but this time around, we have an additional peace treaty to eggotiate. We need to get our two sets of three pullets to think of themselves as one set of six pullets before they all move in together with the older girls.

Only, again with the hostility toward newcomers. The first coming together quickly became a coop d' etat. There is a month age difference between the two sets of birds, and the older, bigger, black and white ones knew it. When we checked the birds after their initial fighting died down, all of the younger golden pullets were huddled in the corner, their heads sticking through the bars of their cage, out of pecking reach.

So, the two separate groups went back into two separate cages, but those cages were scooted right up against each other in the hoop house. For a month, they lived side by side, face to face, with only an inch of space and some lines obscuring their view of each other.

Time passed, as it does, and that became normal to their little chicken brains, to look into each other's eyes, hear each other's breath, view one another through lines that almost seemed not to be there at times. The sameness of their experience came to dominate their other thoughts. Together, they wondered when those distracted primates would return to refresh their water? Or, what was that barking sound? Isn't this hoop house too warm today? Someone should come and open the door. Oh, here's that cat who can crawl under the door again. Say, those radish leaves are getting so big, I think I can reach one through the cage!

Chaucer once said, "Familiarity breeds contempt," but chickens don't read, so they don't know that. To them, familiarity breeds, "I will not try to end you." A month of adjacent captivity made them nice and familiar, so the stage was set. For BirdMerge, take two.

Factors I've noticed that make a difference when trying to broker a peace treaty:

Abundance: Trying to convince opposing parties to be peaceful and generous cannot happen in a deprivation situation. There needs to be plenty. Plenty of space, plenty of water, plenty of food, in this case.

Neutral Ground: Neither side wants to feel like it gave up its space to the other, even if they end up actually doing that. This cage set up is open, and includes a neutral space that neither set of birds considers its territory. They both ended up in each other's cages eventually, but not one group exclusively taking over the other's space.

Conflict Processing Space: Instincts matter here. When new flockmates meet each other for the first time, they're probably going to have to fight it out a bit. Usually it's mostly fluffed-up feathers, hopping, wing-beating, and a minimum of pecking. Concerns would be excessive pecking and denying the newbies access to food and water. 

To a degree, it has to play itself out, so that the more vulnerable one can prove itself. Those more vulnerable ones will stand a better chance if they are old enough, have numbers on their side, and are given enough overhead space to show how high they can hop.

Last Saturday saw the great merging. I put their cages on a seriously neglected part of our backyard, facing each other, doors open, with pieces of an old baby crib creating a connecting tunnel.

Slowly, each set of birds left their respective residences and ventured into that unknown patch of jungle between them.

Once again, they saw each other, faces only slightly obscured by lines; but these lines could be trampled and eaten.

This was normal, only better! The two trios grazed and ambled into each other's spaces (mostly) peacefully, and have been a content sextet ever since.

Happily Feather After. The End.

All About That Space, and Sexing Chicks

Leaving this place was the beginning of our journey home, eight months ago.

Here, Thomas and I had been welcomed graciously. to live for a month.

Here, my friends and I incubated an idea. In these spaces, so well suited to teaching garden and kitchen basics, we had done just that, with the always impressive residents and students of Fundación Niños de los Andes.

As we left to catch a taxi to the bus station, to begin the long trek back home from Manizales, Colombia, I turned and took these photos, in a moment of reverence for the role this place, and its specific attributes, played in realizing a dream.

Call it an eternal soft spot for the unsung hero, but I think thinking about the silent stoic spot in which something is supposed to happen is also pragmatic.

You have to plan the void, it's step one in most projects. So goes it with a workshop, a blog, a home, a garden, a brooding box, you know, your average wannabe backyard farmer's usual domains.

Back home, and a whole fall and winter later, we are now entering year eight of domestic hen management, and have decided to bring some new little ladies onto the team.

Sure, it's fun to shop breeds and dream up cute office lady names (I WILL HAVE MY BRENDA!) but before hitting the feed store to pick up the li'l peepers, we must make sure they have a place to stay that meets all of their itty bitty cute wittle needs. As adorably fluffy as they are, their body temperature still can't sustain a long time away from a heat lamp, so their spot must be ready for them immediately. Commence: void planning.

We start with the box.

You can go different ways with this, depending on what you have handy, but I like something high-walled and sturdy. Over the years, this part of an old tool trunk has been home to not only chicks, but ducks, puppies, and kittens.

For chicks, we use a couple of inches of shredded pine bedding to keep them warm and cleanish. I change it out weekly when they're a couple of weeks old.

For the feeder and water dispenser, it's a good idea to create a sturdy base first, with a heavy plate. This minimizes the amount of bedding that invariably finds its way into the food and water.

Slap a heat lamp on that bad boy and you're done! 

The heat lamp is essential, and is usually easy to purchase wherever chicks are sold. Baby chickens cannot keep themselves warm enough without one. 

But here's the equally important spot, far from the warmth of the heat lamp.

Why does this cool zone matter so much to the health of young hatchlings?

Because they must be able to move across a spectrum of temperatures, as the larger ambient temperature fluctuates throughout the day. Warm, cool, and all points in between: they need the range and freedom so that they adjust their location and stay healthy. It's also not a bad idea to park the food and water in the middle, so it doesn't get bacteria-nurturingly warm, nor tummy-chilling cold.

Oh yeah,  if you have any curious critters sharing the space, be sure to get something sturdy to cover it, that doesn't trap the heat or air inside the box.

"What? I only want to play with them! (with my claws and teeth)"

So, it was off to the farm store to buy some babies. Only this time, while we love and care for them fully, we are also holding them at arm's length for the first time, and here's why. And how. 

Why: These chicks were bought "straight run," which means their sex has not yet been determined. Seven years ago, our first flock ended up being 50% failure, despite having been "sexed." Our backyard farm is an arcane example of gender inequality: Hens Only. So, when we heard cockadoodledoodling, we had to send two of our beloved babies packing . 

This year, when we found out the only chicks available immediately were straight run, it should have meant no chicks for us, for another month or so. But, we took to the internet and discovered that with some breeds, you can compare chicks and look for several physical traits and try to buy only females. 

Thomas was tasked with making the cheat sheet, on sexing Barred Rock chicks, for us to take with us to the farm store. It was a meeting of the minds, down at the co-op, as Geza, Thomas, and I compared foot color and head spots, gently extended tiny wings, and generally bored the good staff of the store. We made our best guess and brought home these three.

"Did you just assume my gender?"

How: The plan this year was to acquire five chicks total. However, instead of buying five straight run chicks, we only bought three. This leaves room for some losses, and gives us a chance to buy a few more chicks later, when sex-link breeds (chicks whose markings indicate their sex) will be available.

The cold fact is, any and all of these baby birds may only spend a few months here before crowing one day and moving out the next.  That'd be sad, but here's an old farm trick for keeping baby animals you want to cuddle, despite the fact that one day you might turn on them and kick them out or cut their heads off: No names, office lady or otherwise.

Seven years of doing this, okay? We're not brooding little babies, we're fully feathered flocksters! We can be tough and zen and grown-up about things. We will give this time more space, wait, and only name the ones we are sure are staying. 

Except you, Brenda, even if you are a rooster.

Tails and Tidings: Chicken In

You might be familiar with the ups and downs in our chicken-keeping saga. A lot has happened on that front lately, so I think we're due for a little update.

We started with four chicks, two of whom were roosters, so we had to part ways. That left us with Lenore and Hot Sauce, and we immediately welcomed Pippi, the Barred Rock.

At this time, we also pre-ordered three started pullets of rare breeds. That's right, fancy chickens.

It was only a matter of time. We picked them up a couple of weeks ago, and have been getting acquainted.

From left to right, they are a Gold-Laced Wyandotte, a Dark Rhode Island Red, and a Blue Wyandotte; Priscilla, Cholula, and Vilma, respectively. So far, they look girly, but I have said that in the past. I'm trying to get better at spotting rooster saddle feathers and quickly-developing combs. Until we're sure they're staying, we're holding on loosely. That is to say, with love, If you crow, you gots to go.*

*I just now made that up, and it will be one of the BU mottos until we move to enough land where crowing will not be a deal-breaker.

Right now, they live under what used to be our kitchen table. Cozy! They spend their days in a little cage on the lawn, and their nights under the new coop, which brings me to my next little update: Please imagine a tall lovely lady in an evening gown, flashing a smile as she walks backward, gracefully lifting her arms and splaying bejeweled, manicured, jazz-hands.

A Brand New Coop! Fully insulated! Ventilated! Made from scrap materials, without a plan! With a removable floor, for easy cleaning! Let's hear it for Geza! Can you spot the kitchen table in that marvel of Hungarian Design and Engineering? It's in there! I attached wire mesh to the bottom, and Geza outfitted it with a door, so there's a lower level for Cholula, Vilma and Priscilla. We thought it best to keep them separated from the big hens*, who might get mean.

*From left to right, Lenore, Pippi, and Hot Sauce.

And maybe they're allowed to be mean, as they are delivering big hard eggs on a daily basis. I'll overlook a little crankiness in exchange for this.

That's right. Double Yolker, all the way. This is what it's all about. And there have been several of these. The single yolkers are pretty awe-inspiring too.

While we were waiting for eggs, our chickens gave us something else, a little lesson in "behavior loops"; working with others is all about those little functions of our attention spans in which we all operate. It's hard to explain, but easy to illustrate. You know, it's not all smug smiles and egg cups here at the BU. Sometimes, things go awry.

Say your goat prys your chicken gate open with her face, and your chickens end up in your barn, where they find an open door, and wander into your neighbor's yard. You know, just for an example. What do you do?

Well, if you were me, several months ago, you would break into a cold sweat and start yelling for people to come help you. This, just before launching into a panicked toddle, with out-stretched arms. You would notice that chickens possess a magical ability to glide just out of reach every time you swoop your big primate paws into the surrounding bushes. Did I mention the mocking laughter of the neighbor children? You hear that.

This is why I am glad I married a Chicken Whisperer.

Geza does a lot of the daily chicken duties and is learning, and teaching all of us (me), to chill out. Just calm down. If you chase the chicken, it starts running and you can do that all day, stupid.

Sorry, but you are stupid if a chicken is leading you around in circles in your yard.

If you stay cool, and wait for a second, the chicken kind of forgets that it was locked in an Eternal Struggle for Freedom, and goes back to looking for something shiny to peck at. Sometimes, at this moment, it is possible to catch the chicken. Other times, a person might be surprised to find the chicken walks back to them and sometimes struts right into the place it is expected to go. Once the battle dynamic is no more, they can go any which way. The chickens end up where they need to be, to be safe, without cursing injured humans and squawking birds.

I've decided that this is a valuable lesson, even if you never see a chicken for the rest of your life. Sometimes a struggle can take on a life of its own, and it won't be resolved unless one of the creatures involved can understand that and maybe even relinquish the moment. Let go. The end result becomes an open situation, with a greater number of possible outcomes. Success might become so much more likely that it just happens on its own, or maybe you have to wait that loop out and try again a little later. Even if it takes a while for things to happen as you planned, at least the neighbor children aren't laughing at you, and isn't that a good thing? Let them go back to their cable television.

Tails and Tidings: Twisted again, try to keep up.

I was going to write an introduction of the all the animals we keep and clean up after, but the spirit of the holiday has overcome me. Besides, we're down one chicken. Hot Sauce started talking smack and I said to myself, "You know what? Maybe a little chicken tetrazzini would be just the thing for dinner tonight."
Oh, look at that, Hot Sauce! Somebody just cut off your head and feet! Whatcha got to say about that?

AprilFoolzJKLOL?

Not bloody likely! You may not eat chickens, but I feast greedily on meal worms and losers!

And, scene*

*No chickens were beheaded in the making of this blog post. They were, however, humiliated, and reminded that their owner is a dork. Maybe tetrazzini isn't a worse fate than that.

Tomorrow marks six weeks with our lovelies. They have gone from silky puffs of cheeping sweetness to big scratchy mottled pullets whose cheeps turn to hoarse clucks when they're startled, or thirsty, or peevish. We got them from the Urban Farm Store, in Portland, Oregon.

Here they are, waiting for me to finish cleaning their "cage". It's more of an "area", but I'm afraid that makes me sound like a "total slob", so let's go back to "cage". I've got tarps enclosing part of our laundry room. It contains them somewhat, but they could get out if they were really determined to do so; say, if someone forgot to dump and refill their water bowl after they meticulously packed it with shavings and feces. They'd cross the barrier, fashioned from crates, buckets, and a bag of goat feed, to find said owner, and cluck at her hoarsely.

So let's do a pullet line-up. Pullet is what you call a female chick when she's not cute anymore. That's just science.
Lenore is a Black Star, or Black Sex-Link. She is so-named because her gender is linked to her color. Males of her breed are brown. This is a great chicken for us because we knew from the get-go that she was a she. We're beginners in the world of chicken-keeping, and we have neighbors to think of. No roosters allowed. They are rumored to be prolific layers, so we have high expectations for Lenore. No pressure, girl. Just crank out enough high quality organic eggs to feed me and my enormous family. Think ovulatory thoughts.

You may remember Hot Sauce, from our prankery earlier. She's a Rhode Island Red and she's feeling much better than she looks. Not everyone has to be cute in the face, you know.

Candy is a Buff Orpington. She is starting to seek work as a model. She just looks so ideal. So chickeny.

I was saving the best for last. Cora, rocking the cheek puffs. She's an Ameraucana, has dark bluish gray feet, and will hopefully grace us with blue eggs. Most of the time, she can be found playing their drum (an overturned empty humus container) and touching up her eyeliner.

These girls will move outside in a month or so. I'm planting seeds for their outdoor yard: flax, vetch, clover and buckwheat. Geza is designing a two story coop/in-door yard out of an old kitchen table. Enticing, eh? Old kitchen table? What? You want to know more, don't you? You want to see pictures and squint at your screen and whisper "wow" to yourself, right? I know! Stay tuned!