Five Green Acres Mary Jo + Andrew Borchardt Poynette, WI
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Checking in with the Chicks.

Checking in with the Chicks.
May 15, 2008 Mary Jo

Who are most definitely not chicks anymore, but rather cockerels (young roosters) and pullets (young hens). I had really intended to keep you all more up to date on their growth process, but, well… seems life got in the way again. So today I shall reintroduce you. Shown above in the rather poorly-focused image is one of our cockerels. This guy is one of the handful who’ve found their voices! About a week ago, we arrived home one night to be greeted by a sound not unlike a rusty hinge. Only two syllables for this first go at crowing; the next day saw much improvement.

Now we are routinely greeted with much more confident cock-a-doodle-do-s, especially from this guy – he’s one of our favorites. I had been looking forward to this crowing with much anticipation. Indeed, it’s one of the reasons I really want to add a rooster or two to our flock. A rooster, it seems, is an integral part of the Pastoral Idyll. We’re taught this at a young age, with barnyard puzzles, books, and toys, each with its own cock-a-doodle-do rooster. Hens and roosters are always paired up in these toys, which might contribute to the misconception that many people have: a hen produces eggs with or without a rooster.

While I’m not aiming to build a farm, with the plastic silos and pigs and cows and red-and-white barn, I do like the idea of the farmette. It’s more to our scale, since we’re not going to quit our day jobs and track the going rate for corn or hogs. But farmette, as an extension of our home and garden? Yes. And we must have crowing to join the chorus of Sandhill Cranes and soon-to-arrive Guinea Fowl.

Remember my little grey guy? Here he is, almost grown up.

Feeding frenzy. “Yes, do eat up, little ones,” said the Old Witch to Hansel and Gretel, while plotting her supper.

And to close, I’d like to issue a friendly reminder to the 3.8 million ticks residing here on Five Green Acres: Your days are numbered. Make your “bucket lists,” mend your bruised relationships, take that trip you’ve been meaning to for ages. The Guineas arrive on Monday. You’ll be granted a 4 week clemency while they get their wits about them; after this time, you’re toast. Unless, of course, you hitch a ride on me or my family, in which case, you’ll meet your end much sooner, with a public beheading. Consider yourselves warned.

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