there's a chicken in the house

It is inevitable that, come wintertime, a chicken or two opt to come into our house.  Perhaps opt is not the right word.  They are brought into the house only if there is an issue that threatens an individual or the entire flock. 


The first few winters we had chickens, I would fret about their unheated digs and sigh relief when the rooster would crow, sometimes as early at 4:30 am.  I didn't mind.  They were still alive. 


Last winter, when temps were predicted to go below 10 degrees F, I couldn't stand the thought of opening the coop in the morning to find a flock of frozen chickens stuck to the walls of their nest boxes.  We piled straw onto the solarium floor 6" thick and brought them in.  Ofcourse, we removed all furniture and plants, except the tall bamboo and a gigantic fern.  Not toxic, the plants could offer something for the chickens to hide under.   


Come spring, they were rehoused into their proper coop.  Come summer, I had the coop retrofitted with a heat pump. 


Most recently, Chickina presented me with an eye, slammed shut.  She still had interest in food and kept up with the flock, but I have learned that the wait and see attitude that I use with myself, as well as my dogs, cats and husband, doesn't work with birds.  It usually goes from bad to worse very quickly.


Fortunately we have a Veterinarian close by who will see an individual chicken.  Chickina was sent home with a course of eye drops and an oral antibiotic, to be administered twice a day for 11 days.  She needs to be kept separate from the flock until she gets better, so she is in the house.  


She's in an extra large dog crate on a table out of the sun, full of fluffy straw and her favorite foods.  She's good about the medicine and I think enjoys the extra attention.  Stay tuned!  

gardening by mind and mail

In the depths of winter I enjoy a different kind of gardening.  First by mind and then by mail.

Since the last bulb was placed in the ground, the beds tidied, the tools cleaned and tucked away, I have had some time to rest my garden-mind and think of other things. 

So now, throughout January and February, I will make time to envision the ‘garden to be’.  

A stack of catalogs has been growing beside a comfy chair on the plant porch. Oooo, I love contemplating plants and seeds!  Volumes of inspiration and resources, I look forward to studying their stunning pictures and relishing the promises of fragrance, colors and perfection.  

I am nearly ready to dive in, but before I gaze upon a single page, I want to assess my current winterscape, as well as review photos of this past year's display.  


I like to think of the garden as a series of events.  Like fireworks in slow motion, as one area of the garden flourishes, another area fades.  This succession goes on and on, through all seasons, even in winter.  


I plant winter vignettes close to the house so that I can gaze upon them from within several rooms.  Plummy pink hellebores, spiky mahonia bealei, purple flushed leucothoe scarletta, chartreuse mounds of chamaecyparis; all elbow to elbow, partially peaking through the snow.  Beautiful.


In reading the present landscape and reviewing the photos, I am searching for gaps in the succession of each season's display and solutions to creating more depth in the garden; are my evergreens planted in a pleasing rhythm throughout the garden?  Are there areas where I need bolder foliage to offset abundantly airy textures?  Specifically, what plants might be worked into next April's planting scheme?  


If I postpone this exercise until spring, I fear that opportunities to further embellish the garden, particularly in autumn and winter, may be overshadowed by the overwhelming spring and summer offerings.

So, before I consider any new plants or seeds, I will dig a little deeper, as it were, to contemplate.  Those ‘amazings’ and ‘never-befores’ are too distracting!  

Each year, my near-term goal is to artfully enhance the garden.  My life-long goal?  To create a garden that leaves one breathless in all seasons.