puzzled

We had a little tragedy here at the farm. Due to a heater in the uphill barn house too much carbon monoxide built up and suddenly took out many of my ducks and chicks. Everybody up there is either a rabbit, a hospital patient, or too young or fragile or precious to be mixed in with the flock. I lost many. Too many to list.

I originally thought it was the food or water and in a panic removed it all, but when more birds began to die, that had been fed different food and different water, I knew it was not that. It happened too quickly if it was an illness, as they would have got sick at intervals. Not all drop at once. By the time I figured it out, more were going down hill. Rusty and I rushed to open windows and pump fresh air in. We desperately picked up ducks and brought then to the windows, attempted to keep them awake so they would keep breathing and cycle the carbon monoxide out. We worked on everybody. Talking to them, holding them. Trying to will them back, when they had no more will in them to come back. For many it was too late.

All I could do after the house aired out was to make them nice cozy nests and keep warming lights on. After being emotionally and physically exhausted, I said goodnight to them and tucked them all in.

This morning, as much as I had hoped for the best, it was somewhat expected to walk in and see that all the birds that were affected badly the night before, did not, in fact, make it through the night. I guess I went into shock, and systematically picked up dead birds and stacked them in a box. I then cared for all of the survivors and went outside with ice pick in hand to break the thick ice in the all of the water bins and pools. I broke the pick doing so.

It has been a tough week.

Last week, I found out the results of my thoracic MRI on my back. Basically, from discs 5-6 all the way to 10-11  are bad. That was just the middle back scan. I have yet to have them do a scan on the cervical or lumbar. The neurologist said it would likely get worse.

Also, I found out that my 24 hour heart holter showed "frequent PVCs" (nothing new just documented) and some sort of tachycardia event. I have an appointment at the cardiologist. I went through all of this in FL. Beta blockers make my blood pressure drop too low, and heart anti-arrhythmia medicine makes my heart go crazy.I was set to get a cardiac ablation in FL, but my heart specialist felt the need to tell me how I needed to find Jesus and gave me a bible at one of my appointments. He had obviously saw what I listed as my religion when I was in the cardiac unit at the hospital. A heart ablation is when they go in through your groin up the main artery to the heart and kill the misfiring cells. Imagine, me letting this doctor burn this witch's heart. I left and never went back to him. I refused to pay the copay too. (I am so tough.) My primary doctor was LIVID when he found out and called the specialist up while I waited in the exam room. The walls were thin. He was mad, swearing mad. I was supposed to go to another specialist, but I moved and I have been busy healing myself, and stuff here.

The weird thing is, I feel, as a whole person, much better than I ever had. I feel healthier, even though all hell  might be breaking loose around me. I feel more strong, satisfied and centered.

How is that?

Anyway, I was not happy hearing I was worse. I am better, damn it! I hated loosing the very little ones I had brought in or raised up, and had an obligation to protect. I do not like things happening that is beyond my control... because I would have to admit that there are things that are beyond my control. Ok. Fine I admit it. BUT. I do not have to succumb to it. I do have control of how I react to what life gives me and what I choose to do with it.

Not everything was tough this week.
I learned a whole bunch. I got many surprises.
An artisan crow necklace came from Nicky, my wonderful friend who when moving to Scotland gave me her ducks and geese to care for. I held the clay crow pendant in my hand today, thinking of her.
A card from my Mom and Stepfather that said they were proud of who I have grown to be.
A box of hospital supplies, from my dear bloggy friend. I mean everything. More about this later.
Same friend left a song for me... One of my very favorites that I haven't heard in a long, long time. It was spooky that she left this for me. Good spooky. I got the chills.

Today I received an awesome homesteading book from my brother with a live lizard that hopped out of the box when I opened it. (Spooky time) Immediately, I had to look up the Animal Medicine Card for the Lizard. I mean I had just got done stacking up dead birds, when I came inside and sat down to open the box. Here is what the lizard card says:

"Lizard medicine is the shadow side of reality where your dreams are reviewed
before you manifest them physically.

If you have a Lizard totem, listen to our own intuition above anyone else's.
Pay attention to your dreams for they show us
what we do not perceive when awake.
Dreams are shadows showing your fears and hopes.
Make a dream log and record your dreams.
Look for your symbolic and reoccurring dreams and study them carefully.

Lizard can also teach you to become more detached in life.
Sometimes it is necessary to separate yourself from others
to accomplish what is necessary.
Lizard helps you awaken the ability for objective detachment.
It can show you how to break from the past."

Just tonight and out of the blue, I got something back that I wrote to a friend when I first moved here. (He is a healer, a clergy man, and obviously a tad in tune with the flow.) Here is part of what I wrote:


I know the body is the last red flag that the ship will go down if you do not go down to the hull and see the hole. I have to tell my cells and organs that have lived so long in battle, that they/we have won. I have to go there, not for long, but I have to visit the core. I travel as not a victim, but as a victor.

I would say my ship is sailing despite the rough seas. More good spooky stuff.

Today, as I told my bird friends or (friends with birds) about my farm tragedy, I got messages of love and support. Offers to help, and loads of compassion. When something like this happens, what you need most is to feel loved. I do. Nobody judged me, as I tried very hard not to judge myself.Thank you all.

Perhaps in all of this is the answer to my question above:

How is that?

I guess I have to add it all up. All the pieces to the puzzle are always right there in front of us on the table of life. One just has to figure out how to put together all the pieces.Nothing like death to make you go back to the basics of puzzle solving.

I better stop rambling and get some sleep.

good night, or good morning-- good everything

~crow

do you think I can do it?

He wouldn't be a pet.

Well, you know he would be a pet. But he would not stay a pet. He would become food for my family.

Should I? Rusty thinks I am too mushy. I think I can do it. All I have to do is trade him for a goat. That's it. I eat beef. So, how would this be any different than buying a burger or going out for a steak dinner?

Do you all think I can do it?

 

He is cute.

update from the rehab and maternity ward

I thought you all might like to see how the patients are doing. First, the elephant in the room. Braveheart, who proudly juts out his three remaining tail feathers. He now makes noises at me like a drain pipe glugging. I was looking for where the sound was coming from for a week and it was following me. Braveheart also gobbles, of course, and has started stomping one foot with his wings out and cupped. I do Indian dances with him. I swear he dances just like he is at Powwow. I often think about how silly of a woman I would appear to be if there were hidden cameras up there. Fool woman.

Braveheart the turkey, growing back feathers and feeling his male-ness

I grabbed every duck egg I could when Rain, Happy and Crick (Indian Runners) were in the hospital. Crick died, Happy recovered, then one day just gave up and joined Crick. It hit me very hard. Rain's leg healed, then she took a flying leap down a story of stairs and started hobbling again. She now spends her days inside the uphill barn-house with a flock of teenage ducks who are growing out. I noticed yesterday, she is putting weight back on the foot. I am relieved.

Rain is getting better, again

Rain, silver indian runner

While all of that healing was happening, I had eggs in the incubator. I have to thank my Birds of a Feather Group for enabling suggesting to me to grab all the eggs I could in the event that I might have their bloodlines. Because I was not prepped for hatching in breeding pens, I got a nice little mix.

First came these two:

Jensen (don't be such a chicken) and Hendrie (grandmother of the flock) trying to find the fluff cycle button

Jensen and Hendrie are growing fast

Happy is gone, but we now have Jensen who is a white Indian Runner. Hendrie, a blue bibbed Indian Runner, could be from Rain. She did lay an egg the first day she was in the Hospital.

Jensen and Hendrie out-grow the chicks quickly

Hendrie and... ?

Jensen - not a chicken at all

Then came a few more ducklings...

this one might be related to Squint

actually, baby's daddy (Squint) might have fathered the two darker ones

this one is possibly an indian runner trout or mix

the bigger blue and white may be a indian runner pekin mix

Jensen and Hendrie are not nice to the new ducklings

but the newbies seem to be holding up fine

the black copper maran chicks love them

except this guy (RI Red), who was moved up to the teenager brooder

Marie the French hen, has been resting up from her prolasped oviduct. Luckily, I have not had to treat her a again. She has not laid an egg since, but her and her sister's egg have hatched. Somewhere in the duckling photos above are her children. She doesn't seem to care about them.

Marie Antoinette

I don't have a current picture of Knuckles the hen, but she is completely healed from her foot injury. She kicked off the last shoe and began placing her fool correctly on the ground. Now she is walking with ease. Knuckles is with the Delaware breeding group right now, but soon I will have to put her back with the flock, I need to make sure I am hatching Dels only. Yes, I will be hatching all the way though until Summer!

 

I lost a couple baby rabbits (it breaks my heart), but the rest are growing fast. I will do another baby in the basket photo shoot, and also I want to talk about...

 

*
*
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turning 49 and how I feel and don't feel about that. I think I will explore getting older from a tom-boy-ish woman's perspective. I hope to bring a mix of honesty, humor and humility to the table. Pre-Birthday activities include being sent to the cardiologist and the neurologist by my primary girl lady doctor. Which means heading out to the big city. I need to make sure I don't have crap on my shoes. Last time I tracked some in to my doctor's nice white and shiny office floor.

 

Today I am a mess, as well as-- a healer, a funeral director, a farmer, a therapist, a cook, a maid, a farmer, and a woman living wild and wonderfully here in WV.

fresh

FRESH

Guest Blog: The Mountains

Rusty again...

Crow has been busy - new goats, new baby bunnies, new school semester for the kids, and all the attendant changes and patterns and schedules and teenagers not saying what they are doing and not doing what they are saying... but she loves it.  On the other hand, I have been waiting for a new post.  So tonight, after a fairly lazy day (long afternoon nap) and a meal of breaded venison steaks (delicious, but absolutely NOT Crow's favorite), country green beans (Blue Lake beans cooked soft in the leftovers of Virginia cured ham trimmings and onion), and some macaroni and cheese (special request by Sophia), I cracked open a can of beer and sat down.

"Do you want your computer?" she asked and so I accepted.  She has her own, it just so happens that she left it on the floor beside the bed one night and then stepped on it the next morning, so the LCD screen is cracked.  I set it up on her desk with a wireless keyboard and external LCD, but its just not good enough for her anymore.  She needs mine, every time I set it down.

Various Incisions Across the Plateau

"Can you help me take some hay up the hill for the goats?" she asks  - "OK" I say and put down my laptop and take hay up the hill in my little pickup, and we count baby rabbits, and we trash talk the angry geese, and we hug Izzy, and we make the injured tom turkey gobble, and somehow, on the way back into the house, I find myself puttering, doing this or that, and I walk back to the living room to finish whatever nonsense I was browsing online, and there she is, Crow, with my laptop.  It happens nearly every time...

When we first met I had no plans of ever leaving the mountains.  When I say the mountains, I am talking about the Appalachian Mountains, which are not really mountains so much as they are the old fuzzy and rounded ridges left as part of an ancient incised plateau.  But to me they were mountains.

Where the Intermittent becomes Perennial

As soon as I was old enough to wander the woods alone, I did.  By my sixth birthday I was a regular traveler, leaving the old clapboard house we lived in, on a land lease, and making my down a hillside, through brushy regrowth of hillside pasture, to a small spring-fed stream that harbored bight red salamanders and raucous springtime frogs.  Over time, I followed the stream further and further to the perennial reaches, where darters and creek chubs overwintered is icy pools.  I went up the adjacent slopes, on some days, especially early in Sping when the wildflowers and spicy herbs covered the forest floor, and the canopy of the forest was hardly more than a whisper of tight, green buds beneath their brown overwintering scales.

Young black cohosh, squirrel corn, anenome minimas, under sleeping Tulip Poplars.

If you climbed to the top, in the Spring, you could see the green and yellow dots where the most ambitious of the poplar trees had broken bud, accompanied by a handful of witch-hazel and silver bells in the bottomlands.

Bottomlands were not an area unto themselves, so much as they were a feeling.  If you slid-hopped your way to the bottom of a particular slope, where you met the stream or the stream-in-formation, then you were in the bottomlands.  Two steps, sometimes as many as ten or eleven, across, and suddenly you were no longer in the bottomlands but headed upslope again.  Such was the incision.  You could sit in the bottomlands, where the paw-paws and hackberry trees held the hillside from slipping into the stream, and if you looked up you could not see the top of either ridge.  The hillsides shot up and away from you, rounded and full and covered in trees waking from a long winter nap.  Near the bottom were Hemlocks, small striped-needle relatives of the balsam fir, with moose maples and mountain maples and sugar maples and red maples and sometimes silver maples all mixed in.  Tulip poplars, the fastest growers, sent out their mittened leaves the earliest.  In March you were lucky to see one leaf breaking bud; by the end of April some of them were larger than your hand.  In the bottomlands the feeling was isolation and freedom, a fresh place of privacy and discovery where you were held close in the cleavage of the mountains like a small child, and allowed to explore Great and Unknown mysteries while resting safely against the soft curves of the Earth.

If you had the perseverance to climb either slope to the top, your rewards were physical, visual, and spiritual.  Slopes average 40%, so going from bottom to top meant using both hands and feet, although cliffs were not common.  Even when stopping the climb to catch your breath, you exert yourself to stop from sliding back down in the deep leaf litter, or hold onto a musclewood or laurel shrub to stay upright.  Always, at the top, the ability to stand upright and balance, unassisted, with your head free of branches and brambles, high in the sky - that is a physical comfort.  The air is a bit thinner, elevational changes are not dramatic but a climb from 1500ft to 2000ft above sea level to well over 3500ft above sea level is not uncommon.  From there you can see the moisture rise up from the bottomlands, hollows, and valleys, and collect at the daily inversion layers.  As a child, it was like watching God awken the earth in the mornings.  As and adult, it is like watching God remind you that the details --  like ghosts --  are the things that are important.  The present and the mundane, the intangible and the fleeting, the inaudible ticks and tocks of the way you count time in your head.  You can watch, from this location, until it is done.  Or you can watch, fom this location, and it will All Stop.  It all depends on what you need when you get here, and that depends on where you have been and how you got there.  And there are no secret formulas or answers, only the reliable mechanism with a heart that beats for your happiness and a complimentary sky that guarantees you, at any time, from any perspective, of Freedom...

So, you understand, in some small way, why I call them Mountains.  It is a place that I grew in, a place that I left for Florida and Crow, and a place that, one evening, from our bougainvillea-shaded patio in Florida, Crow and I briefly left one day in September to stand in, landing on a mountain airstrip and leading a wedding party to the falls of Meig's Creek, to stand in front of those that held us close, and that we held close, and to say to each other and all those present, that we knew we were intended to spend our time on earth together.  Because we chose it, and because it was destiny.  As our old Souls guided our lives, and as we became more attuned to listening, it was a simple and magical reality.

 

No gators in the mountains, although I learned to love them.

The 'new' bottomlands - shrubby marshes.  This buttonbuh,
 Cephalanthus occidentalis, was an old friend.  I cherished
 those connections to the past.

Years later, as we sat on another patio, beneath a bougainvillea I had planted a few weeks before Sophia was born, I once again invoked those Mountains.  We are going back I said.  She agreed, quietly.  We had always had a dream of going back.  There was little there in the way of economy and opportunity, there was little there in the way of the things you normally associate with a comfortable life.  But there was something there calling us.  Crow had a box, one of those huge seafaring luggage chests, solid black with snaps and buckles.  It was her Mountain Box.  On the best of days, in Florida, I could review the contents and additions with her and laugh at the magical possibility of going back.  On the worst of days, my heart went blacker than the black of the chest itself at the thought of saving a box of  various linens and folk art from Appalachia while I was fighting with all my physical and mental strength to continue in my government position as a Project Scientist, monitoring and restoring forests that were flat and steamy, bottomlands that had no trees or cool water.  I grew to love and appreciate it, over time, but it was not my Mountains.  A co-worker gave me an antique postcard of a mountain switchback that I knew so well, and I thumbtacked it to my corkboard and cried.  And cried.  I needed to go.

I moved back in April of 2008, living out of a motel on US Route 460 whilst Crow readied our Florida bundalow for its debut in the crashing housing market.  I woke up my first day of work to an ice storm; the bottomland trees coated in a thick rime and the higher elevation trees holding a thick blanket of ice and wet snow frozen to their branches and north-facing trunks.  I breathed deep in the icy air as the sun came up, and the corner of my nostrils caught a faint whiff of destiny.  I was charged from toe to head with an energy and a realization that cannot but put to words, other than to say I was Home.

View from Bolt 'Mountain'

It wasn't long until the house sold, and Crow was able to bring Sophia and the rest of our belongings up to the rental house I had secured.

The roads were not laid out in blocks, and the garden was only starting to grow.  I saw her pause, I saw her wonder, I saw her compare the view of the mountains to the seething and barely alive heap of garbage that was the overwintered city below us.

As spring came on full, we developed a tradition of going to a small local diner late on Sunday mornings for breakfast - she would have blueberry pancakes and bacon and eggs, and I would have sausage and biscuits and sausage gravy and eggs and more sausage and fresh coffee.  We would read the local paper and wonder what the future held - Me, at home and at ease, loving each day at work in my old Home, and Crow, uprooted and venturing, trying to make sense of this different place, trying to understand what exactly was her place here.

She pointed to an ad for a farmhouse and a couple of acres, off the Bluestone River.  "Have you looked at this one?" she asked.  "You don't want to live there" I assured her, and told the reasons why.  There were no restaurants closer than 20 or 30 minutes drive.  The 'towns' on the map had been replaced by poverty and decay, and the streets were empty except for the occasional staggering pillhead, I told her.  And if you are far enough from the paved road, you can completely forget about a police response to an emergency call.  You would have to learn how to shoot a gun, for your own safety, I told her, and you would be alone.

Those are all things I said to my wife, a slender, dark-skinned girl who handed me the world, on a regular basis, and slipped to me her broken dreams in the dark of night so I could hold her close and glue back the pieces I could recognize.  But the person that heard those things, that day, was not her.  It was Crow, the old soul that had felt her toes in the soil of the tomato patch behind the rental house, it was Crow, who had shoveled snow from our rental porch and painted a giant Star on our front door.  It was Crow, who had pushed me to get in the old Saturn Wagon and drive her out Black Oak Road, to the place I knew she would hate.

We rounded a bend in the road and I said, that is it up ahead.  She was transfixed.  She jumped out and read the realtor's sign - "Let call her, now!" she said, and we did.  Three hundred dollars US (all I had to spare) secured the purchase contract until the arrangements could be made.  And in April 2009, we moved in.

The house is beautiful, the work is neverending; this wallpaper seems
 to have beenapplied with staples over  base of rough sawn
 lumber and coal dust.

Tonight, after dinner, I wanted another beer.  I drove along SR71, following that same Bluestone River as it further incised the Plateau.  I caught the corner store/gas station as it was closing, and bought a few beers and some chocolate to bring home.  As I drove back along the river, my old truck kept pace with the current, lazily laying into the turns and relying only on gravity for the drops and riffles.  I cracked the window and lit a cigarette, following a road in the bottomlands, sensing, in the night, the shoulders of the earth hovering to my side.  A beagle's hollow call welcomed me as I turned off of Black Oak onto our drive, and she jumped at my lap as I climbed out of the truck.  The sky was crisp and clear, and Orion was over my left shoulder.  A wind blew woodsmoke off the ridge, and the goats called from their stalls.  A silence hung in the air, a peacefulness that spoke of centuries of rounding of the plateau, of countless nights like this.  And, like a freshly unwrapped present, I pulled the door of our farmhouse open and walked into the yellow glow of the kitchen light.

The kids were on their way to bed.  Crow was reading about goats and ducks.  My beer was cold, and my beagle had followed me in, pressing her head against my hand.  I sat down and wrote this.

inventory

7 mini lop

6 english angora

5 american tan

crow

the hospital

The hello's and goodbye's continue on here.

Update at the Crow Hospital:

Patient One:
Happy, the white Indian runner duck, recovered from her gander attack, and was returned to the flock after a few weeks in the hospital. She had recovered beautifully and has been out for a awhile now. Today, Happy passed away from an unknown cause. I found her lagging behind the flock. I brought her in and gave her a warm bath and vitamins. She ate and drank and sat in front of the heater. She got sleepy. I held her and could tell I was loosing her. I begged her not to die yet, but she did in my arms looking up at me. I cried, more like sobbed. I asked Rusty to open her up and see if he could find out how or why she died. I needed to know if she had a parasite overload, or if she had swallowed something. I worried for the rest of the flock. Rusty came in and gave me the report. She appeared normal on the inside. He also marveled at the anatomy of a runner duck and shared his amazement of how much they differ from other bird. Rusty was impressed with the muscle of the Indian Runner gizzard. He told me about the crece, inside the digestive track and how it operates. I guess chickens have them too. Nothing was inflamed or enlarged, nothing looked out of order with her insides. However, he could not tell me why she died. I wasn't stuck on the why. I just was stuck on losing her. We had "saved" her before. All that energy poured into that beat up girl and tonight she just slipped away in my arms. A white feathered beauty wrapped in a white fluffy towel. She was there, and then she was gone. My kids were nervous seeing my red face and puffy eyes. I am usually the person who accepts death, and comforts myself and others with a certain amount of ease. Not this time. I am still tearing up. Deep breath.

Patient Two:
I broke Rain, the silver Indian runner duck's leg by opening the barn door with her leg under it. Snapped the femur in half. We gave her injections, set the bone, splinted the leg, wrapped her, and immobilized her. She has been in the house for at least a month. She recovered, began standing on the leg, so I moved her to the nursery area at the top floor of my barn. She leaped/flew/escaped somehow down to the lower floor. I found her hobbling but making good time with the flock outside. I snatched her up and now she is in the new brooder room. I have yet to assess the damage, but she is not putting weight on that leg anymore. I am kind of mad at her right now.

Patient Three:
Squint, the penciled colored Indian runner duck. Bitten or mouthed by Lady Gaga the pig. He was the perfect patient. He took his medicine, ate, drank and hung out with Rain, but he fell asleep one night and did not wake up. Rain continued on healing without him. We all miss Squint. I think Rain did the most. Maybe that is why she was so desperate to get out. The nursery will now be getting an overhaul. Floor to ceiling wire. Just in the event that I have to keep another a duck that supposed doesn't fly. RIP Crickmeister. RIP Lady Gaga.

Patient Four:
Marie Antoinette, the BC Maran hen who suffered a prolasped oviduct aka, blown vent. I think from the size of her eggs. She lay some giant eggs for a young hen. She was washed in warm water in the vent area, and given an injection. I used local honey and pushed all her insides back in and held it there until I could feel the muscle contract. Marie continues her recovery in the house up the hill. Her sister had the same problem, but I did not make it to her in time. She died on the way to the house. Too much blood loss. Marie is going to be fine though. I am not sue if she will be able to lay again without a re-occurrence.

Patient Five:
Braveheart, the Tom Turkey and his lady friend were "played" with by my dog Tonka. I have no idea why Tonka decided to dig his way into the turkey pen. There are ducks and chickens everywhere! But I caught him in the act. He got in trouble and was shunned for several hours. Tom was plucked and had some broken skin so he got an injection, was blue-koted, and now resides inside the house up the hill with his lady friend. She lost a few feathers, but was more in shock than anything else. The turkeys are doing well, and are visiting all the residents up on the hill. They are so sweet.

Patient Six:
Knuckles, the adopted mixed breed hen was walking on one of her knuckles. Upon further inspection of her foot was wrapped in fishing line, so much so, it was embedded in her leg. We pulled the line out, and she got an injection and a shoe to help promote her foot to lay correctly. She kicks off her shoe and the foot looks like it i back to normal, then it pops back to the knuckle walking. Yesterday I made a shoe of super strength! She still has it on, and i happy as can be hanging out with Marie.

The maternity unit at Crow's Hospital has been busy. Tonight, both Marie's and her sister's eggs are hatching in the incubator. We have a litter of American Tan rabbits and a litter of American Chinchilla rabbits on their way. Hopefully. The American Chinchillas are listed as critically endangered by the ALBC.

new brooder room, built by Rusty

Rain with the young ducklings and chicks

knuckles

marie and knuckles

blackie, braveheart and his lady fiend, crash the call duck pad

hospital security

Hot chick photos are on their way. Stay tuned.

~crow