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Muddy Valley Farm

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Muddy Valley Farm

Monthly Archives: April 2019

September in Paris

16 Tuesday Apr 2019

Posted by Jodi in Farm Life, Seasons

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Early September 2017, and we were in Paris for four nights near the start of a European vacation. We’d rented a 300 year old bachelor apartment with laundry in the 4th arrondissement, on the Île Saint-Louis, within easy walking distance of Notre Dame.

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Our compact 18th century neighbourhood of 4 and 5 storey apartment buildings boasted street level patisserie, wine, produce, meat and grocery shops, along with the obligatory touristy candy and trinket stores. A pharmacy, a bank, and a few restaurants rounded out the options. And above the shops, masses of tiny flats like the one we occupied. The setting made it easy for me to have a bit of fun by pretending to myself that I was an actual resident.

I had been warned about Paris, of the streets that smelled like pee and the rude Parisiens. People said “Paris is nice, but…” and I had floated the idea of skipping the city entirely, but DH wasn’t having it. “Come all the way to France, and not visit Paris?” he cried, amazed I was even suggesting it. He was right, I met no one rude, nor smelled smells I’d rather not, all the time we were there.

We had settled in, got our bearings, provisioned ourselves with the help of the white coated staff patiently manning the shops, and, because it was close, had walked down along the Seine and visited Notre Dame already, when poor DH got sick. His strategy for fighting colds is to sleep, so he went to bed after lunch and didn’t get up for two days. 

And so there I was, at loose ends in Paris, and I sure wasn’t going to sit in the flat and watch him sleep.

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I figured it made sense to visit the sites of least mutual interest, so I strolled over to Shakespeare’s bookshop where I spent a pleasurable quiet afternoon hanging out, reading. It was when I was walking back to the flat on the wide uneven walkways paralleling the river, feeling carefree in Paris and not looking where I was going, that I stepped off a curb, turned my ankle and went down hard on the cement. Immediately I was surrounded by kindly French speaking people, none of whom I could understand in the slightest, leaning over me, then helping me up and dusting me off and asking, I assumed, if I needed medical care. I was pretty banged up, but close to the flat, so I smiled, gestured that I was fine, gritted my teeth and limped home.

The next morning with DH still in bed nursing his bug, and me with a scraped leg and hand, and swollen sprained ankle, I dug out the cane/stool I had bought on Amazon before we left home in case I needed to sit and rest my knee in the lineups I knew I would be in all over Europe. I didn’t foresee that I would need the cane instead of the stool, and to support my ankle not my knee. I was pretty happy I had it anyway, because, dammit, I wasn’t going to sit around. I might not be here again and I had to make the most of this lovely city. Despite our setbacks, I was falling in love with Paris. So I wrapped up my ankle, popped a couple ibuprofen, said goodbye to a dozing DH, struggled down the winding wooden stairs, and headed back to Notre Dame.

My progress was slow but I knew that once there I would find plenty of seating in the warm, dim, glorious interior, no entrance fee and probably very little lineup, as on the first afternoon we had been there. It would be dry too, out of the pouring rain.

I spent much of that day inside the cathedral, soaking up the stately calm, the murmuring subdued voices a constant backdrop, staring back at the myriad of 12th, 13th, 14th century faces gazing solemnly out of the ornate frames encrusting the walls. I sat and took in the beautiful architecture and magnificent ceilings, the amazing stained glass, the priceless jewels, the precious statues, the holy relics; all the immense glory and riches of the Catholic Church evidencing the beneficence of their holy trinity.

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I slowly circumnavigated the main interior walkway circling the perimeter several times that day, hobbling in the same direction as my fellow visitors, if at my own speed. I took frequent breaks to rest my ankle, settling into a pew here, and a bench there, feasting my eyes and enjoying my solitary sojourn in this magnificent space. Contemplating. I didn’t speak to a soul, I just rested mine.

That trip, we visited many churches and monuments and testaments to the power of the Church and other sundry dynasties. Of them all, Notre Dame is the one I remember the best. Seeing it aflame was heart breaking.

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A Noisy Surprise

08 Monday Apr 2019

Posted by Jodi in Chickens, Farm Life, Weather

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Staggering hatches can get a little tricky, and somehow a couple weeks ago I found myself with a single half-baked Silkie egg. Rather than dealing with the issue, I popped the egg into the closest warm incubator then promptly forgot all about it. 

Fast forward to Friday night, when I was greeted in the incubator room by a little creature yelling at me from inside an incubator where no little creatures were scheduled to hatch for another few days! That’s when I remembered. Oops. 

Wow, little fuzzybutt must have hatched all on her own! She had no lockdown, no increased humidity; pipping and zipping outta her shell all while riding in an actively turning turner. I had to admire her determination. Moving her to the brooder where she could wait safely for the other chicks to hatch, I set her up with a soft swiffer mama to snuggle (lacking a feather duster), some food, water and heat, and went on my way.

Based on the natural law that says if anything can possibly go wrong it will, Saturday morning at 10:43 we lost power. 

DH hauled his 50 lb. backup battery into the inc room, and we plugged the ‘bators in, covered them with towels to reduce heat loss, crossed our fingers and hoped for the best.

But what to do with fuzzybutt? Her heat lamp was off, as she was so loudly reminding us. I considered putting her back in the inc, but worried she might snap a leg in the turner. I considered taking her out to my mama hen, but her chicks were a whole week older and twice fuzzybutt’s size. Plus it was full daylight. I usually sneak extra chicks under hens in the dark. So I fastidiously wrapped her bottom half in paper towel and put her inside my shirt. She wasn’t super happy about her new abode, but finally settled down and took a nap, while I sat in my chair knitting, listening to the wind howling through the trees and the rain thrumming on the skylight and praying for the power to come back on soon.

Any faint novelty around acting the part of mama hen wore off as the day wore on, with fuzzybutt either fitfully dozing or complaining loudly about her fate. I am slightly ashamed to admit that after a couple of hours with no power I had had enough. DH’s battery had run dry and I had two incubators full of rapidly cooling eggs on my hands and a whiny baby strapped to my chest. When BC Hydro posted online that the power was going to be out all day I decided that desperate times called for desperate measures. Marching outside and down to the hen hotel, I dug fuzzybutt out of her paper towel nest and presented her to my silver pencilled Plymouth Rock hen and chicks. 

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“What the heck?” I could see Mama hen thinking, as she peered closely at this tiny, loudly caterwauling chick. She pecked at her once or twice, but not violently, and fuzzybutt just raised both her stubby winglets above her fuzzy head and yelled louder. In that moment I almost understood Chicken; I swear I could hear her demanding “WARM ME UP!”. Since I could see that mama likely wasn’t going to kill her, plus I had heard more than enough whining, I left them to get acquainted, and escaped back to the house.

Each time I went out to the barnyard on Saturday afternoon, I could hear little fuzzybutt yelling. At least she was still alive I thought. By the time the power came on again at 6 pm, it was quiet. Mama had put her children, including fuzzybutt, to bed. I was happy to leave the little complainer right where she was, and even happier on Sunday morning when I could still hear the complaining as I walked out to the barnyard to do morning chores.

 

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Today, Monday, fuzzybutt is too busy running around keeping up with her big sisters and brothers to make much noise, and her patient Mama is having a bit of an easier time of it.

And the incubators full of eggs? DH and I have our fingers crossed still. I will just have to see what hatches and start over if needed. A minor setback, and all in a day’s work around here.

I think I will name my silver pencilled rock hen, as I do all my stand out flock members. She has earned it. Hmmmmmm. What to call her?

Holding Out for a Better Deal

03 Wednesday Apr 2019

Posted by Jodi in Chance

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A master manipulator with a clock in his head, Chance the dog proved today that he is also self-disciplined and aware enough to practice delayed gratification.

Maybe you’ve heard about the 1972 Marshmallow Experiment? Researchers gave 4 and 5 year old children a marshmallow, then offered them a deal. If the child didn’t eat the marshmallow when the researcher stepped out of the room, they would be rewarded with a second one. Then the researcher left the room for 15 minutes. As you might expect, some kids couldn’t wait while others held out and won that second marshmallow. Then the researchers followed the kids for the next 40 years. The study found that the children who could delay their gratification had more success in all facets of their lives.

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When I return to the house after feeding the barnyard crew lunch each day, if Chance has accompanied me (some days he chooses sleep), we stop at the closet at the bottom of the stairs so I can give him a dog bone cookie. Invariably, he grabs it excitedly, races up the stairs, finds a good hidey hole, and munches it down. Yesterday as usual I reached into the box, grabbed one, handed it to him, then walked around the corner to check on the laundry. When I came back a few minutes later, he was still sitting at the bottom of the stairs and so was his cookie, on the floor in front of him! That’s when I noticed I had given the poor little fellow 🙄 a broken one.

He stared pleadingly at me, and I more or less automatically reached back into the closet, grabbed another, whole cookie, and handed it to him. He accepted this one excitedly, and was off, racing up the stairs as usual to eat in private.

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The little bugger had held out for the bigger snack and got me to deliver.  I suppose I shouldn’t be too surprised. After all, Chance has managed to overcome:

  • Being stray in LA
  • Passing unscathed (!) through a high kill SoCal shelter despite resembling a stubby pit bull
  • Going on a long road trip, destined for an island off the coast of another country
  • Sojourning for several weeks with a bad cough at a USA border control health care facility
  • Immigrating, then accepting a temporary home at a dog rescue
  • Participating in saving a confused elderly dog on a busy country road
  • Lucking into an impulse adoption by a recently bereaved dog owner collecting daughter’s said elderly dog at the Gowland Todd trailhead
  • Having all his American medical bills paid by his new master
  • Ending up in his current comfy berth as much loved lap dog, master of his domain and noble chicken guardian.

And he’s only just turned five!

Dear Chance has had a pretty successful life so far. I guess he’s also been smart enough to make at least some of his own luck, as all truly capable folk do.

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