Anna Scott Graham's Blog

The rescue of Owl Chicken Part One

The wall on the other side of the chicken coop, from where Owl Chicken was rescued.

An unplanned allegory to what is happening in America via Owl Chicken's unexpected tumble between walls.

So yeah, two weeks ago today my husband and I trooped to the coop to feed the chickens. Nothing was amiss, although usually I have this task alone, but he was awake and it was lovely to have company. 

Lovely and necessary because upon opening the door and finding the chickens waiting on the wall, we only counted seven. Seven is NOT eight. Seven was a quiet siren that caused my heart to race and my feet to move, scouting the area for signs of a predator while my husband inspected the coop proper for any evidence of infiltration.

For those agonizing moments, I wanted to cry; Owl is my fave chicken. Owl was named for dots over her eyes when she was a tiny chick, but don't ask me why I chose Owl, it simply landed on her like destiny. And now, weeks later, what was her destiny? To have simply disappeared without a trace?

Returning to the coop, I heard a strange rustling behind the wall that butts up to the next stall; our coop is the last of three horse stalls, which the previous owner altered into a fine chicken coop! The noise made me shiver; it sounded like a very large rodent. Then a chirp emerged, followed by another. Somehow Owl Chicken had landed between the walls of the barn!

A little backstory; the roost my husband built butts up to a low wall, which at the top was a railing of sorts, and despite the very nice roost, the chickens decided to sleep on that railing. At the time we thought nothing of that gap, perhaps three inches wide. No chicken could fall between the railing and wall.

Before Owl fell, this was how it all appeared.

But we were wrong, as Owl Chicken continued to chirp. Now it became a matter of between which studs had she fallen, so my husband could cut a hole in the correct space. And was she injured???

For this post's sake, I'll reveal that 1) Owl was in PERFECT shape upon retrieval, other than her tail feathers were a little crooked and have since straighten out. And 2) My husband immediately screwed in boards all along that railing so no other chicken could fall. After ascertaining that Owl was indeed fine and had gotten herself a drink of water, we then ate a delayed breakfast, discussing how owning chickens was full of entertainment and excitement as well as the occasional bout of angst.

After my husband cleared crap from the wall and took his circular saw to it, I retrieved Owl from this spot, maybe four inches in depth between the walls. She was quiet and calm, as I had been crooning to her what a good chicken she was, that we loved her, and were coming for her.

I've been meaning to tell this story for two weeks, but publishing a novel intruded, then a niggly shoulder. And all I was going to say was that one of our chickens fell between walls, was rescued, and is fine. But yesterday afternoon I realized a deeper meaning. All those chickens having gone to the highest possible place for safety, a normal instinct for them, had inadvertently jostled one of their own down a dark, cloistered shaft. Then promptly forgot about her, for that morning not a single one of those chickens exhibited any sign that one of their flock was missing. We won't tell Owl, but I shall tell you, dear readers, how is that any different than what is happening not only here in America, but all over the planet, when people feeling under threat dismiss the responsibility of care toward one another, and push away or ignore the needs of those less fortunate.

Owl in the run, happy to be back with her sisters!

Again for brevity's sake, I'll wrap up Part One with that statement. My chickens are merely birds who cozy up to each other when the mood strikes, then puff out their feathers and attempt to cluck at one another when another mood emerges. Not a mood of thoughtfulness but of anger. Of wanting to bully. Of nothing that resembles the lovingkindness we humans have the great capacity to show each other. More about that in the next post....

Another excerpt about peace, love, and understanding

We went to France in 1999, but I can't find any pictures from the trip. Instead here's a 1999 shot from our British backyard.

Okay so spoiler alert, but I think this scene from Home and Far Away is worth it.

Meanwhile my right arm has been tingling for over twenty minutes; maybe the pinched nerve is better?

Enjoy and happy Monday!

 

Thatmorning it was only the women in the house, French spoken by two, butunderstood by all three. Chella also asked Sooz a few questions silently, butSooz didn’t reveal much, other than yes she loved Richard, and no, she wasn’tsure how, when, or what they would tell Gilly.

Soozwasn’t even certain if she would sleep with Richard that night, though she thensmirked inwardly, not wanting to be apart from him. She missed him greatly, butalso feared how this new element of their relationship would develop. Then shesighed, seated in the front room, a fire crackling. Chella had gone to theporch, talking in their native language to Max as though it being aware of thesituation was just as vital as Squee’s knowledge. Then Dominique cleared herthroat, entering the room with a basket of laundry. “Where’s Chella?” she askedin French.

Soozgestured to the window and Dominique laughed. “She is unique. Dardram oftenspoke of her as though she was his beloved little sister.”

Soozdidn’t wonder how she might have been considered, certainly not as a formerpartner, then she smiled. “I am so glad you met him. I, I….”

“Hetold me about Melor. Losing her nearly caused him to….” Dumping the basket’scontents onto the sofa, Dominique began folding clothes. “Your past with himwas long ago, yes?”

Sooznodded. “It was a brief relationship.”

Dominique smiled. “But now you have entered one far more lasting.”

Soozwanted to shrug, then she nodded. “We’ll see.”

“Icould tell from when I first met Richard that he loves you. Gilly does too. Shewill be very happy for you both.”

“I,I hope so,” Sooz stammered.

“Shewill. I hope you won’t….”

“Wewon’t what?”

Dominique sighed, then sat next to a stack of folded apparel. “That you won’t suffer fromothers' perceptions of what love enables.”

Soozblinked, then wished Richard had an actual multix. She wanted to ask if he hadgone to Ukiah for the condoms so no one here would know the alteration oftheir…. “I haven’t thought about it to be honest.”

“Youstrike me as a most unusual colored woman, in that you don’t see yourself thatway. In France colored women, men too, possess much of that essence, not likecolored people here.”

Soozsat on the other side of the unfolded clothes. “How are people of color viewedin France?”

“Mostlywith equality, though there are always those with biases, and those biasesrange from all possible manners of prejudice; ethnicity, religion, classdifferences.”

“Isthere a caste system in France?”

“Hardly.But there will always exist the divide between rich and poor.”

Sooznodded, she saw that here with nearly all her clients. “I don’t think of myselfas a…. A colored person,” she said stiffly. “I am a human being.”

Dominique smiled. “Yes, that was the first aspect of your character I noticed. Rare it isamong any person to fully embrace that, but especially one of your race.”

“Whatis my race?”

“Thatof a colored person.”

“Really?”

Dominiquetrembled, then folded a shirt. “Yes,” she said softly. “That is not adeclaration you make, but one made on your behalf.”

“Oh,”Sooz said, picking up a pair of trousers, folding them.

“WhatI mean is even though France is far ahead of America in treating peopleequally, I knew in coming here how colored people were considered. Seeing it inperson has been…hard.” Dominique sighed. “But educational, if only for myself.In meeting you, I wondered, ‘How did this woman defy the biases that havealways defined those of her race?’ What about you, Suze Noth, is so different?You do not see yourself as anything but human. You are not black, not Indian,nothing other than a woman, a doctor no less, deserving of joys and merits allpeople seek. I can see why Dardram married you, also why the relationship didnot last.”

“Andwhy is that,” Sooz asked, genuinely curious.

“Becausedespite Dardram’s permissive mood, he is hedged by pessimism. Perhaps that waswhy he chose Melor after you, needing to be with someone that didn’t threatenhim. What I mean is you are exceptional, unique, like Chella. You do not limityourself by others’ perceptions. Dardram, well, he does. He would like to shedthat aspect of his character, but I doubt he ever will.”

InwardlySooz trembled from the weights of these considerations. Then she spoke. “But heloves you, he’s changed so much!”

“Yes,and for that I am glad. But we are who we are, no matter how enlightened orloved we become. I will always be the daughter of France, of a father who ishaughty but compassionate, the child of his mistress who died when I was toolittle to know her, but raised by my Maman, Father’s wife, who loves me almostas much as she does her own. That in itself is a miracle, and I love her, andnever fault her for slights I’m sure she doesn’t realize she insinuates.Dardram will always, in some small way, seek the lesser side of life, even ifhe is happy and carefree. That is why I will not have a child with him, notthat he wants one, but if he ever did, I would not subject my offspring to aman who could not fully love them.”

Soozdidn’t respond, but suddenly much about this woman made sense, in her fondnessfor Gilly, how she had never spoken of her mother, and her love for a man soaltered, but inwardly perhaps Dardram would always be…. “Do you view Richardsimilarly, he too has lost much.”

“Richardis very different,” Dominique said. “Despite monumental losses, his heart wasnever damaged beyond repair. Like mine, perhaps,” she smiled. “I learned earlythat Maman wasn’t my real mother, but she wasmy mother, and as I said, I never regret the slights. She forgave Father’sindiscretions, allowing me to join the only family I have. Richard lost hisparents when he was young, yes?”

Sooznodded.

“AndGilly is the same. Yet you are her mother, and I don’t say that to harm you orfoist upon you more than is due. But Suze, I believe you too lost one dearlybeloved. And now all of you, Chella too, can regain wholeness. And I lookforward to becoming a part of that family, if you feel so willing to includeme.”

Tears poured down Sooz’s face, and she grabbed ashirt from the pile, wiping her cheeks. Dominique leaned over the clothes,grabbing Sooz, pulling her close. They wept hard while Chella continued tospeak to Max, telling the dog that the men would be back soon.

An uncomplicated afternoon of machine sewing

I've had this in mind for a while. Didn't anticipate making it quite yet, but....

So my shoulder remains fiddly. Har-rumph! Yesterday I eked out a truncated evening of handsewing, feeling a *wee bit guilty* about it, because if I was smart, I would do NO handsewing, but last night that notion made me feel twitchy. So I sewed. And I ached. And I went to bed, sleeping on my left side to coddle my right shoulder, but instead the odd position made my right knee twitchy, oi! Thankfully I slept in this morning, but have done no hand-stitching, nor will I this evening. Instead I'm gonna blather all about it, as well as remark on making a quilt top in an afternoon as if hand-sewing meant nothing to me.

(WAH WAH WAH!!! Insert crying face emoji HERE!)

What I noticed right off the sewing machine bat was how easily it was to slip back into machine sewing. With my earplugs firm in my ears. And noise cancelling headphones over my earplug-protected ears. Lol. I've used earplugs and headphones for several years, but I don't think I could machine-QUILT anymore, too dang loud even with all the accoutrements. Yet I can still sew with a machine, and as though it hadn't been nearly a year since making a quilt in that manner, I pressed open seams, nesting seams so corners would play nicely. I didn't use pins except in securing one row to another, I didn't use any steam while ironing. I merely laid squares print-sides together, sewed lots of straight lines, and about two and a half hours later, there's a quilt top.

Fabrics from bottom left: a random Aboriginal fabric that was in the 8.5" squares stack, Moda Grunge, Ruby Star Society poppies, a random Moda print, Art Gallery by Sharon Holland, and finally Alison Glass. The other mustard batiks are also by Glass, the other poppy prints RSS.

(I cut the fabric yesterday, throwing squares onto the design wall last night. Seems using the rotary cutter doesn't bother my shoulder as much as hand sewing, WHEW!)

The dark navy print is Speckled by Rashida Coleman-Hale. I was so glad to find the gray and copper poppy prints in the 8.5" squares stack. This could have used more of the raspberry Grunge, but I only had a smidge left. Still, I'm happy with it, if not curious what will be its eventual usage. Mysteries are for Future Me to ruminate upon, lol.

As I fashioned this quilt top (which at some point will be for yours truly, once I can do some hand sewing, because I have discovered my fave part of Kawandi is NOT NEEDING A BINDING STRIP. Huh, who knew?), I wondered why I was making it, because while I'd LOVE to ignore conventional wisdom and dive right into turning it into a cozy for myself, ahem, I truly need to figure out what's up with my shoulder. And finish projects WAY AHEAD of this quilt top in the quilt queue. So....why spend the afternoon making something with no immediate discernible purpose, other than to do something that doesn't hurt my shoulder, keeping me busy while my husband took a nap, lol. I wasn't sure about it as I photographed the quilt top, or as I answered my now conscious husband that I'd like cranberries in my gluten free scones. He's been on a baking tear lately, and has mastered using gluten free flour, WOO HOO!

Some pretty perfect looking scones, and yes they are GLUTEN FREE! Delicious too, hehehe.

I still wasn't certain about this quilt top's fate until after walking back from the chicken coop, having changed out the coop water and the run water. Or maybe it was even later, after eating a scone warm from the oven sans butter or jam, merely reveling in the perfection my husband has achieved with alternate flour. It could have been when I once again trooped to the coop, collecting the feeder for the night. I pondered all the fabric I've recently cut, and found in a tote already cut. I could make a heap of quilt tops for future Kawandi projects (as in the back of Kawandi-inspired quilts) and whatever else comes along in dire need of a quilt top.

Husband's scones on the right didn't come out as pretty as he wanted; his dough (regular flour) was too wet, and he added more flour, over which he fretted that by overworking the dough, they would be tough. While they didn't rise to his satisfaction, they were quite fluffy inside, and he's happy with them. And he'll use less milk next time.

I think it was after retrieving the feeder. Because I returned to the house, snagged a small piece of chocolate, started a cup of fruit tea, feeling very pleased with myself. Feeling like if I take a probable sabbatical from hand-sewing, machine sewing won't be the worst thing to fill my time.

Lol.

So yeah, I'm using my machine again. I really should oil it, maybe give it a proper cleaning. Maybe give my work table a proper tidying too, what with EPP stuff all over it, stacks of cut fabrics in 6.5 and 8.5 inch sizes. Do something with all the scraps I'd been collecting while cutting fabrics for various EPP projects, LOL! Today I hastily made a stack of them, placing them alongside my machine like this was a mere blip in my usual handsewing routine. But half an hour out of taking ibuprofen, my shoulder aches. Usually it only hurts once I've been sewing for an hour or more. Something's amiss, maybe a pinched nerve or.... Whatever is askew, a handsewing sabbatical is most likely in the cards. And, deep breath taken, that will be OKAY. I've done it before, the first time I had shingles in 2019. I didn't do any EPP for a month due to nerve pain and I survived FINE. I'll just read in the evenings. Or write blog posts, HAHAHAH! Or pray for peace, that would be a good thing.

Gratuitous shot of former houseplants that now live near the laundry line. The spider had truly DIED, but has returned with gusto, while the philodendron is struggling to reassert itself. I see more spider plants in my future, what with so many runners!

But I won't sew with my hands. Not even left-handed sewing because I found yesterday when I tried that I became frustrated and switched back to my right hand. I will make lots of machine-pieced quilt tops. And maybe write a book. Insert winking emoji HERE. 

Because sometimes you need an excerpt, especially when it's about peace, love, and understanding

Maybe how the moon appeared to Sooz. Photo from 2024.
Thank goodness that despite an achy shoulder, I can still manage revisions, lol. Was just reading Chapter 21 from Home and Far Away, and I had to put a paragraph here.

P.S.... If you want Sooz's backstory, get a copy of Far Away from Home: The Enran Chronicles Book Three. Don't worry about Books One and Two; Book Three concerns Noth in another galaxy, and as he doesn't recall his past, those earlier segments won't be missed (Though if you want the whole ball of wax, go for it!). One of the joys about writing this particular series is while the books connect, certain ones can be read as standalones. Far Away from Home and Home and Far Away are like that, just saying, hehehe.

Anyways, shameless plugs aside, more to matter is what Home and Far Away is truly about, that of love mattering more than anything, that people are worthy of said love regardless of their origins. Sooz is discovering that imminently, but will she be brave enough to act on her discoveries?

 

 

Twohours later, Sooz stood on Richard’s front porch, squinting into the darkness.Yet the Hernandezes’ home was well-lit and from where she stood, Sooz observeda crowd gathered at the back of the house, dogs barking and children shoutingalongside the live band. Max snoozed in his spot and Sooz trembled, the tunenot recognized but somehow so familiar. It was nothing like what The Other hadcrooned, nor was it akin to what Sooz listened to on the radio. It was festiveand bright, and she tapped one foot, then stopped herself. “I am not going overthere,” she said aloud, then inwardly, but Chella didn’t respond.

Theporch light shone, as did the moon’s glow, but that light came and went as thinclouds fluttered in the sky, obscuring the satellite. Faint shadows fell acrossthe yard from the workshop as Sooz stepped from the porch, merely to admire thenight sky, she told herself and Chella, if Chella was listening. But Chella hadstopped pestering Sooz shortly after mentioning the music, which now rang inSooz’s ears.

Shewalked to the middle of the yard, then gazed at the party; laughter nearlybested the music, then lively horns made her wince, the merry nature impossibleto ignore. Was Richard drinking a margarita, Sooz then wondered. Her mouthwatered slightly and she frowned, then sighed as a stiff wind made her shiver.She returned to the porch, but didn’t go inside, wishing for enough courage towalk away.

Yetnot permanently, as she had wanted to last week, or even yesterday. Againyesterday she had considered leaving this property with the firm intent neverto return. That was a foolish, mean-spirited notion, futile as well; shecouldn’t leave Chella or Gilly or…. Her heart ached profusely, but not overSquee or the dead steers. She didn’t care if she never got her driver’slicense; today had proved that patients would indeed visit Kevin’s office, forif Matty Shomberg could walk through those doors, anyone in need would learnthe young physician’s practice was a safe place. Nobody would be turned in forbeing illegal, no one would be refused treatment. Or Sooz hoped that Matty’svisit would relay that essential statement. She felt badly that he had walkedpart of the way there, not enough gas in his truck for him to have made thejourney on his own. Richard had put gas in the truck while Sooz had stayed withMatty, learning more of his history. He had fallen asleep by the time Richardreturned, Sooz covering the old man with a tattered blanket on the sofa wherehe had slumbered during Home and Far Away.

Shewould check on him next week, maybe driving illegally if necessary, but Richardwould probably insist on taking her. She frowned, then sighed, again her heartpounding. His affection for Matty was probably aligned to having lost hisgrandfather, but Richard wasn’t like most men. He was tender due to his latewife and raising their only daughter. He was thoughtful in part from thoseelderly beloveds who had instilled within him their vanishing values. Oftenduring the nightly news, Richard complained about war protestors, not that hethought the Vietnam conflict was worthy, but previous generations had lefttheir families, fighting valiantly or dying on foreign soil. It was a necessarysacrifice, he would say, no more, no less.

Sooztrembled, considering those she had known on Enran, then she blinked awaytears. Would Noth have fled to Canada or burned his draft card, probably not, shewanted to think. He had sacrificed as much as any American past or present, andagain she grasped his great desire to return. Not to this time, but his own,and what could that America be like if so much of the current youth was surly.Then Sooz clucked; Chella had called her surly in not wanting to join them. Howhad Chella managed to pass herself off as a human, Sooz then wondered. Maybe byunderstanding Spanish, but hopefully not by drinking alcohol. Sooz wondered ifmargaritas were being served, and again her mouth watered. She went in thehouse, shut the door, then stomped upstairs. But even in her room, with thedoor closed, the horns were sirens, pleading for her to….

Sheshook her head, then stepped to her dresser. Her curls had returned, the weathermore humid than in summer. She shook out her tresses, then swept them atop herhead, securing the bun with bobby pins. A few strands fell and she scowleddespite liking how those curls adorned her face. She gazed at her clothes, longtrousers and one of Richard’s shirts tailored to fit her. Then she peered atthe closet, where some of Celia’s outfits remained. Approaching the closet,Sooz closed her eyes, muttering a Parcathn prayer. Opening the door, she pulledthe string for the light. She rummaged through what hung on the rod, thensmiled, finding a dress not previously noticed. It was blue, with yellowstripes running diagonally, meeting in the middle. Would it fit, she wondered,and if so, would wearing tennis shoes with it look ridiculous?

She wished for her previous wardroom, one of herbright tunics would be more appropriate. But that life was her past and if shewas going to remain here, best that she integrated with Richard’s neighbors.She frowned briefly, then smirked, taking the dress from the hanger, thenfirmly closing the closet door.

The worth of perseverance

The short row of stitches directly under the lower safety pin are those done SLOWLY with my left hand.

In sewing, book publishing, and everyday life....

I considered this post a few days ago when I was happily appliqueing by hand Lucy Boston (LB) blocks. Since then my right shoulder has asserted its right to be cranky, and I don't know for how long this will be the case. Hence, perseverance now applies to waiting out troublesome joints, being fully aware that what will be most certainly will be.

Ahem. Anyways.... I pondered this post while hand-stitching a project I truly had no idea would come to fruition. Perhaps this entry is also about being faithful to one's inner spirit, or Spirit, depending on your beliefs. Either way, being faithful, obedient even (now there's an idea to spark blog post musings....) to what calls upon your heart is EXTREMELY VITAL. It's why I have books available for readers, why a Lucy Boston quilt in an altered form continues to evolve (as earlier today I did some hand-quilting with my LEFT hand, lol), why anything that matters to us that seems DAMN HARD even occurs. Being faithful to the calls upon our hearts and souls requires heaps of determination, at times sacrifices little and large, and certainly perseverance.

In Romans 5:3-5 Paul writes: ...because we know that suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope. Goodness knows we need hope, but how do we get to that stage? Because for many years I had no hope that my scrappy Lucy Boston blocks would do more than take up space in a tote as well as irritate my consciousness that all the work put into them, from choosing and prepping fabrics to basting and stitching said fabrics together, would amount to anything worthwhile. I began this project shortly after I got into EPP in 2018, so it's been hanging around, at times like a millstone breaking my neck, for YEARS. Why I started it, I have no freakin' idea, and it was with the honest intention of crafting a full-blown LB EPP quilt; I have the paper pieces for accompanying one-inch squares and rectangles to prove it.

I dug through my EPP papers tote, also finding some crown shapes that probably won't be used either.

Those papers, to Present Me's mind, will never be utilized by me, myself, and I, mostly because if I am able to complete the EPP projects already underway I would be THRILLED! My right shoulder barks at me, laughs at me, teases me: Maybe I'll heal. Maybe I'll let you sew. Maybe.... WHATEVER shoulder, jeez! My life isn't all about you, well, the part of my life that isn't about handsewing, lol. Yet I will attempt to do what I can with sewing, left or right handed, and be very grateful that Recently Past Me followed her heart to 1) Finish those LB blocks. 2) Plot out an appropriate project for them. And 3) Be smart enough to let our full-of-itself shoulder dictate what happens next. 

(And yes, I am including Past Me from less than two hours ago in her attempt to hand-quilt left handed. I see her nod appreciatively, a tiny smirk on her face.)

Because Future Me knew that Past Me's smirk-worthy actions would spur Current Me's ridiculously outta left field blog post. LOLOL! Where is the deep analysis of perseverance, huh?  Suffering produces determination, determination produces character, character produces hope blah blah blah.... Not that St. Paul deserves a blah blah blah attached to his writings, but yeah, this post has wound its way onto some other yellow brick road, maybe more about my shoulder than I meant to say, which probably pleases said shoulder, already feeling damn full of its painful self. Yet my life, creative and spiritual and practical, acknowledges that a wonky shoulder fits into the scheme in its own high-handed way, alongside all the rest that makes up my.... My wonky, creative, spiritual, practical life. Because life is made up of so many aspects, some of which require perseverance!

HAH! There is it, perseverance, wonky shoulder be darned!

Anyway, that's my take on why perseverance matters. Obedience is another force, maybe I'll write about it one day. First comes reviewing Draft2Digital's publishing operations, plus telling the story of Owl Chicken's rescue. Eventual tales for Future Me to tell when she's feeling chatty.

Morning chicken routine

Good morning my chickens! All photos from today.

Subject to change at the whim of said chickens and the lessening morning light....

Amid books and quilts and laundry, etc, are the chickens. These chickens were my husband's idea, to which I acquiesced after how many chicken videos, lol. Feeding them in the morning is my job, which blends easily for how early I get up, yet the mornings aren't as bright as previously. Consequently the chickens don't get their feeder in the coop until it's light enough for me to head outside and deliver it.

Yet they're not the wee babes of earlier in summer, HAH! They're quite, um, large. Eleven weeks old yesterday, they prance around the run like they've always had possession of it. They strut around the coop as if forever calling it home. They race to the wall above the roost in the evenings, jockeying for position along the boards my husband placed there so we'd not have to rescue another one of them the way we did Owl Chicken, FACEPALM. Yet that's a tale for another post. Today I'm yammering about what happens once a new day begins....

Everyone feasting on chick crumble. Nesting boxes to the left, covered for at least a few (or several, we'll how they go) more weeks.

Currently there's no pecking order, forcing a chicken or three onto the lower rungs. At eleven weeks old, all fit at the highest level which they can reach, that escape the predators instinct alive and well. For the last week or so, all of them crowd up there at bedtime, then in the mornings, they all have to figure out how to return to the floor in order to get breakfast. Watching them do that has been entertainment aplenty, because despite how grandly they march about, they are indeed chickens at heart in flying down.

Now having said that, I am immensely proud of Owl and Camilla, always the first two leaping from the rest. Today a Barnevelder was right on their heels, followed by Cami (short for Little Camilla) and another Barnevelder. That left three on the wall, one of which was Welsummer, who for the last few days has claimed her own manner of departure; she gamely hops onto the first level of the roost, then squats as though she's heading straight for the floor. Instead she plops down another rung, then scouts out the best spot to jump to the last rung. Today she immediately hopped onto the floor, as if realizing she didn't need to be so observant. Two Barnevelders remained, one flying down as soon as Welsummer reached the floor, leaving the last chicken pacing, trying to ascertain what to do.

Chickens in the run! My husband gave them the frisbee yesterday, filled at the time with rainwater. They also liked pecking the water off the rake, goombahs!

Quickly it decided breakfast mattered more than dithering, for she swooped down, joining her sisters. Which is a far cry from yesterday, assuming it's always the same chicken as the last one; one of the Barnevelders wandered for a couple of minutes before going down, while a few days ago it took one of those chickens FIVE MINUTES to get herself down for breakfast! I know this because I filmed them, and after the first minute only one remained and I kept filming and then I was committed to the task, dorky chickens! Back and forth and squatting, then standing, then more pacing while mildly chirping as the rest pecked through the chick crumble, peck peck peck! Finally that apprehensive hen-in-the-making made her way off what they have fashioned as the Top of the Roost, enabling me to stop filming and get on with MY LIFE.

Further down in the run, as they followed my crooning, lol. Sweet, if not goofy, chicken gals.

Ahem.... Which merely means I walk back to the house, take off the sweats and hoodie I wear over my PJ's, wash my hands, then refill my teacup, lol. After that I started handsewing the Lucy Boston quilt while my husband woke leisurely. After our breakfast, which he finished before me, he let out the chicks into the run; they SPRINTED out, he called to me as I joined them. I crooned my usual sing-song chatter, which goes, "Hey chickens, good morning chickens. Chick-o-linas, chick-a-listas, henny-penny's, etc, etc, etc...." He smiled and said they perked up at the sound of my voice, my chicken voice might I add, which is more high-pitched than my usual speaking voice. They've been hearing that chirpy tone for nearly eleven weeks now, at first from the brooder, which I'm sure they don't recall in any manner, and now from their coop and run.

And so begins another day in the life of a writing, quilting chicken keeper. How did this happen, and what's all this about an Owl Chicken rescue? Stay tuned for further chicken tales....

Early afternoon (via moonlight) musings

There's a full moon under all that glow. And yes, a little star to the left. Keep an eye on that star in the next picture!

It's been a longish day. I was up early, but I got to enjoy the moon, although snapping a decent picture of said moon is a crapshoot and today, well.... It's an okay shot, and a few minutes later I went outside again with a different phone that didn't give me anything better, lol. And now it's ten hours later, and I just finished formatting Home and Far Away: The Enran Chronicles Book Four, which might be one of my all times fave novels I have written. And not to get too distanced from Straight to the Heart, but man, I am one lucky writer to have crafted such tender yet witty tales.

That I considered myself lucky doesn't begin to explain how I feel about this craft. I'd say blessed is a far better adjective, as it's solely by God's grace that I write anything, including this post. But some people aren't comfortable with blessed, and as Paul said in one of his letters to abstain from this or that as not to offend or burden one's brother, I'll leave it as originally stated, and truthfully what I initially thought:

I am one lucky writer.

Why am I lucky, you ask? I'm lucky because I get to write heartwarming love stories that nearly always have a happy ending. Even in a saga, cliffhangers aren't always the end of someone's world. With The Enran Chronicles, each novel acts as a standalone, although the one directly after it proffers a deeper meaning. Home and Far Away doesn't require a reader to have digested Far Away from Home, but it will certainly benefit someone to have read that book previously. Conversely, a reader needs to have Books One and Two read to enjoy Straight to the Heart. But hey, you readers approach my novels however makes you smile.

Now the moon has slipped behind the trees, but that star remains, hehehe!

These books make me smile, springing from places in my heart I didn't know required such faffing around. Five years for The Hawk, and as for The Enran Chronicles (TEC).... The current four books were all written in 2023, but the first chapter of Home and Far Away was hastily scribbled in May 2022, then shunted aside. Yet when I needed a reason to pursue TEC, there was that singular chapter, screaming to be included. And from one random chapter emerged the pulse of a story that one of these days I hope to complete.

Yeah, um, yup. One of these days I'll finish writing this series, God willing.

In the meantime, there's The Hawk, all ten novels of it, LOL! A story teeming with joys, sorrows, surprises, magical realism, and hope. Lots of hope! Right now I need hope, maybe you do too. I need a sense of everything truly is going to be all right. As a Christian, that's often how I feel, but not every day. Some days are darker than others, and yesterday was one of those, where everything felt MEH: We live on a crappy planet where people treat one another like shite. How can anything carry worth when we still belittle each other, still maim and kill and disrespect and ignore and....

Yeah, yesterday was one of THOSE days. I mulled that over a lot as I observed the moon this morning, then gazed eastward, finding no marine layer. Instead the hills emanated this strange orange glow, as though the sunrise might actually appear! Which is truly ironic because rain was forecast for today, and the next couple, yet the morning began as though no rain was waiting, nothing bad could happen. I saw Venus and Jupiter, in addition to our beautiful moon, giving thanks to God that it was a new day, and for a brief time, a bright one.

I don't mean to again diss the marine layer, but JEEZ LOUISE I am tired of dark, gray mornings. And in returning to my main theme, I am thrilled to have formatted what will be my next release. Because it does have a marvelous conclusion, reminding me that yeah, life can be head-scratching, but love wins out, and not merely because I wrote it thusly. Nature might bat last, but nature is also that stunning moon, that golden eastern sky, the blessed rain falling, making the chickens race into their coop. They strutted around for a while while sprinkles fell, but actual PRECIPITATION sent them indoors. It's kept me glued to my computer chair for much of this day, but it's nearly three p.m., about time to find something else that needs accomplishing. Like making the bed, doing some dishes, giving the chicks new water, and reveling in how blessed is this life despite all that pains.

I was snug under my Kawandi quilt, this shot lit by the provided moonlight, assuring that indeed, everything is gonna be okay (nod to Future Me intended!).

Yes blessed, and yes pains. But as I try to relate in my stories, a broken heart that has healed is capable of much more love. I know this from experience, but sometimes I forget. Today I remember, and today I am grateful. I'm a writer of hopeful fiction, and I'm deeply loved by more than my husband and family. May you know that peace too.

Straight to the Heart

It's always a PLEASURE to announce a new release! Straight to the Heart: The Hawk Book Three continues the saga of Eric and Lynne Snyder, as well as their best friends Sam and Renee Ahern. Add Stanford Taylor, Laurie Abrams and newcomer Marek Jaworski to the mix and this women's fiction/magical realism/historical fiction drama proffers joy, intrigue, and heartbreak all in a tightly knit 90K. And best of all, it's FREE!

(Unless you get it on Amazon; then it's ninety-nine cents.)

Set in spring of 1962, Lynne and Eric are about to realize their biggest dream, as parenthood knocks on their door. This thrill isn't theirs alone; Renee and Sam share in their exuberance, until Sam's sister Frannie makes a startling announcement. Meanwhile, Seth's continuing status in Minnesota stirs concern in his cousin Laurie, who doesn't believe Seth is being fully honest. As Eric and Lynne draw closer to their new pastor Marek Jaworski, truths surface about that man's past in his home nation of Poland. Eric discerns some of that background, but as he does, the entire world is thrown into chaos when the Soviet Union places nuclear missiles in Cuba.

Certainly you will enjoy this tale if you've read the first two novels; Give Her My Love and Brave the Skies. The Hawk emerged over a decade ago, taking me five years to complete. In re-releasing it now, broken into ten novel-length books, I feel a circle is closing. Or nearly a third of a circle, lol. But yeah, it's good to have gone through this tale, giving it a proper send-off. Which opens the door for the next book on the block....

LOL! Always something up my sleeve. (PS: find more of my books here!) I'll talk more about that next week, as well as give a review of my first new release on Draft2Digital. (Heads-up: I submitted this book at eight a.m. Pacific Daylight Time on Friday, 5 September 2025. It went live to Smashwords and other outlets at 2 a.m. on Saturday 6 September and I have contacted D2D to ascertain if this is typical.)

With this novelistic success, which I hope you enjoy, here is the first chapter, albeit numbered fifty-four. This saga is an investment, yet its prevailing hopeful nature is a tonic to current events. And special thanks to my youngest, who took the cover photo.

 

 

Chapter 54

 

Earlyon Wednesday, St. Matthew’s secretary rang the Snyders, apologizing profuselyfor disturbing them at that hour. Pastor Jaworski had been called away onchurch business and wouldn’t make their appointment later that morning. Lynnewas pouring pie filling into the crust as Eric spoke to Mrs. Kenny, and he wasoff the phone as Lynne set the timer. “Well, no Lutheran pastor this morning,”Eric said. “Guess that pie’ll be just for us.”

“Ohwell, another time.” Lynne sighed, then gazed around the kitchen. The flowersfrom Monday were still fresh and Eric had swept last night, uncertain as towhere they would gather. Then Lynne smiled. “Actually, I was looking forward tomeeting him, but that does mean more pie for us.”

Ericstepped to where she stood, then stroked her face. “Well, it could. Or I couldcall Sam, see what he’s up to today.”

“Goon,” Lynne laughed. “I’ll make a pot of coffee and we can celebrate, oh, Idon’t know, an early St. Patrick’s Day.”

Ericchuckled, then kissed her cheek. “I think Sam’s already bought the corned beef.Do you remember if Renee has to work that day?”

“Ibarely remember my name, thank you.” Lynne started the coffee, then leanedagainst the counter, grinning. Then she caressed her belly. “Someone’s takenall my brain cells. I’m surprised I made pie without reaching for the recipe.”

“Theday you need a recipe for pie is the day I’ll start to worry.” Eric approachedthe phone. “Shall I tell him to come in an hour?”

“Hecan come over now if he’s free. I’m gonna sit on the sofa. You men can tend tothe rest.”

Ericchuckled as Lynne left the kitchen. By the time she reached the couch, sheheard her husband offering the invite, which seemed to be eagerly accepted.

 

Thatmorning Lynne didn’t do more than sip decaf, then nibble on pie. The mencarried the conversation, which centered on Eric’s introduction to the Lutheranpastor. Sam didn’t know him personally, but had seen him around town. MarekJaworski had been leading the Lutheran worship for nine months and even did aservice in German. Eric and Lynne were stunned by that, although Eric noted thepastor’s fluency in English, and not only American English. Sam laughed, thenwent for more pie. When he returned, he stared at Lynne. “What’s wrong? You’vehardly touched yours.”

Sheshrugged. “I don’t feel that hungry, though earlier I thought I’d make a pig ofmyself in front of the pastor, which wouldn’t have been a good firstimpression.”

Ericgrasped her hand. “Honey, you okay?”

Lynnenodded, then sighed. “I don’t know. I feel a little tired, well, more tiredthan usual. Maybe I’ll take a nap and leave you two to chat.”

Ericstood, then helped her from the sofa. “Well, that’s a good idea. You might’vebeen excited for our guest, but a nap now wouldn’t hurt either.”

“Andwhat am I?” Sam asked in mock indignation.

“Family,”Lynne smiled. “You know my kitchen as well as I do.”

Samchuckled as the couple took the stairs. Eric came down a few minutes later,then sat on the couch. He gazed at Lynne’s half-eaten pie, then collected herplate, finishing the slice. Sam smiled, then sighed. “She’s nearly due. She’sgot this look I’ve seen plenty of times. Frannie always seemed exhausted rightbefore and I always wondered how in the world she was gonna have enoughstrength to have the baby, but she always did.”

Ericnodded. “How’re they doing?”

“Ohfine, I mean, okay.” Sam sat up, then spoke quietly. “Between you and me, Iwouldn’t be surprised if Fran calls to tell us she’s, well….”

“Inthe family way,” Eric grinned.

Samrolled his eyes. “She’s in her mid-forties, bless her. But if God wants them tohave another baby, so be it. Louie won’t be able to complain because I’ll tellyou, one immaculate conception is all this world’s getting.”

“Wellif she does, tell her I’d be happy to do another painting. She was so beautifulthat day, I’ll never forget it.”

“Frannie’sthe best looking of us Aherns,” Sam smiled. “Sally’s grown two or three inchessince you saw her last, looks like she’s nineteen instead of fifteen. AndHelene, my goodness, she’s just like Fran, big wide eyes and….”

Samcleared his throat, gazing at his empty plate. He picked up his coffee cup, butit too was depleted. “More joe?” he asked Eric.

“Yeah,thanks.”

Samnodded, then stood, retrieving Eric’s mug as well as his own. Then Sam headedinto the kitchen, whistling a tune as he went.

 

Bythe time Lynne woke, Sam was gone. She was surprised he hadn’t taken pie withhim, but Eric said that while he had pressed, Sam had refused. The men had madeinnocuous small talk after Sam had returned with their refilled coffee cups, yetEric didn’t note to Lynne the conversation’s distinct change. As she got out ofbed, Eric only mentioned Renee did have Saturday off, Sunday too. The Ahernswould bring corned beef and cabbage for Saturday’s meal and maybe someshamrock-shaped sugar cookies. Eric laughed as Lynne used the bathroom. “Ithink Sam’s got a sweet tooth too, any excuse to make dessert.”

“We’llprobably still have pie then, did you mention that?” Lynne called.

“Idid and he didn’t seem bothered in the least.” Eric loitered outside the mostlyclosed bathroom door. It was just past one o’clock; Lynne had slept soundly,but he assumed she would now be hungry for lunch. “Shall I cut you anotherslice or do you want something more savory first?”

Shedidn’t answer, but the toilet was flushed, then the faucet ran. Eric steppedback from the door, but Lynne didn’t immediately come out. He waited a fewseconds, then approached the door. “Honey, you all right?”

“Eric,come in here please.”

Heopened the door, then looked at his wife, who stood trembling. Then he scannedthe floor, where a large puddle waited. “Lynne, are you….”

“Mywater just broke, right after I washed my hands. When I was peeing, I feltsomething, I think it was a contraction.” Lynne’s voice had quivered, but nowshe smiled, glancing at the floor, then back to Eric. “I think you better callDr. Salters, then Renee, then Sam.”

Avoidingthe puddle, Eric stepped close to his wife, stroking her face. “Oh Lynne, ohhoney!”

Shenodded, tears falling down her cheeks. “I think that’s why I wasn’t hungry thismorning. Or….” She giggled. “Maybe last night was our last time.”

Theyhad made a slow and gentle love right before falling asleep. Eric nodded, thensmiled. “Maybe it was. But it was very good. Hopefully it’ll last us till May.”

“Mygoodness, don’t say it that way.” She giggled, then winced. “Oh Eric, that onehurt!”

Nowhe laughed. “Well, you knew it wasn’t gonna be a walk in the park. Here, let’sget you back into bed and….”

Sheshook her head, but did step over the puddle. “I do not wanna get back in bed.That’s one of the reasons I wanted to have this baby here. As soon as a womancomes in the labor ward, she’s shaved, then made to lie in bed for hours onend. I wanna take a walk, it’s a beautiful day outside.”

“Awalk, are you crazy?”

Shesmiled, gripping his hand. “I’m having a baby, not dying. Let’s call Dr.Salters, then the Aherns. Then you take me for one last walk around the garden.I won’t be getting out there for a few days once this baby joins us.”

Ericnodded, then kissed her. Lynne responded with vigor, then she moved away,chuckling. “Too late for that now,” she whispered. “But Eric, I love you somuch, I love….”

Heset a finger to her lips, then nuzzled against her brow. Then he helped herinto dry clothes for one last walk for two around their garden.

 

Dr.Salters arrived a few hours later, by which time Lynne was having regularcontractions. She checked Lynne, finding she was a third of the way dilated,which pleased the Snyders, but also gave Eric pause. “Renee won’t be off tilleight tonight,” he said. “Will that be too late?”

“Probablynot,” the doctor smiled. “I wouldn’t expect this baby before tomorrow at theearliest. As long as Renee’s here the rest of the week, there shouldn’t be anytrouble.”

Thedoctor advised Lynne to remain in bed and that she would stop by in anothercouple of hours. Once Lynne’s contractions were five minutes apart, the doctorwould stay, but by then, Renee would in attendance as well. Eric wasn’t sosure, but Lynne smiled, patting his hand, or squeezing it if in the middle of acontraction. “It’ll be fine honey. My mother was in labor for two days with me.Hopefully this baby won’t take that long, but she’s not gonna be born beforeRenee gets here, I can assure you of that.”

Ericwalked the doctor to the kitchen door, then headed right back upstairs. “Hey,”he said to Lynne. “You’re supposed to be in bed!”

Lynnestood at her dresser, brushing her hair. “I am not gonna lie down the nextseveral hours. Labor’ll progress more quickly if I’m up and around.”

“Thedoctor said you needed to be in bed honey.”

Lynnesmirked. “Well, if she wants me in bed, she’ll have to tie me down. Now, I wantyou to help me downstairs. There were plenty of daffodils out there and I wanta vase of them where I can see them when I have this baby.”

Ericthrew up his hands. “For God’s sake Lynne, you need to take it easy!”

Sheapproached him, stroking his face. “Now what kind of bohemian are you? Don’tyou want your first child to enter this world to the scent of freshly cutdaffodils? Goodness Eric, we probably conceived this baby in the studio. Allthe more reason to bring some of the outdoors inside.”

“Whoare you and what’ve you done with my wife?” His voice was soft but teasing.

“I’mthe wife of a brilliant painter, if case you’ve forgotten. I may not be havingthis baby in our bed, but I’m gonna have spring as close as I can get it. Eric,this was why I didn’t wanna deliver in the hospital. I wanted as natural of asetting as possible.”

“You’recrazy, you know that?”

“Iget it from you,” Lynne giggled. “But don’t tell Renee or she’ll throw a fit.Now, downstairs we go. You cut the daffs while I get some pie.”

Theyhad reached the landing, but Eric stopped abruptly. “You want pie? I thoughtyou weren’t supposed to eat anything now that labor’s started.”

“There’ssome very healing properties in that pie, if I remember correctly,” Lynnesmiled. “Besides, I’ll probably be in labor for hours still. Sam’s bringingsoup, isn’t that what he told you?”

“Wellyeah, but….”

“Oncehe’s here, he’ll be spooning soup into me, which also has special propensities.But in the meantime, I’m craving pie. I knew I made it for a reason.”

Lynnestarted down the stairs, pausing as she reached the last step. Eric was rightbehind her as a contraction hit, but it was minor. After it was over, sheshooed him outside, telling him their baby was waiting on daffodils.

 

Samarrived at four, a steaming pot of vegetable beef soup in tow. He gentlychastised Lynne for being out of bed, then laughed as she had a longcontraction. After that, she was escorted upstairs by Eric, who returned towhere Sam stirred the soup. “Well, I think that one did it. She’s lying down inthe nursery, says she might take a little nap if she can.”

“Good.Babies should be born in hospitals if you ask me.” Sam adjusted the flame tolow, then put the lid on the pot. “Renee said she’d try to get someone to comein early. If she can, she’ll call. Otherwise I’ll go get her at eight.”

Ericnodded, glancing at the clock. “Dr. Salters said she’d be back around now, butif Lynne’s asleep, I’m not sure if she’ll be able to check her.”

AsEric said that, Sam coughed. Eric laughed. “What, too much information?”

“Alittle,” Sam said.

“Yougonna stay for the duration?”

“Iwas, but hmmm….” Sam gazed at the phone. “You called the New Yorkers, right?”

“Idid. Laurie said he’s gonna look into the next possible flight. Not sure ifStanford’ll be with him, but….”

“He’sgonna fly?” Sam had lifted the lid to stir the soup. Instead he placed the lidback on the pot, then stared at Eric. “Are you serious?”

“Heis and Lynne was happy to hear it,” Eric smiled. “Of course, I’m thinkingLaurie means the next available flight once she’s had the baby. But my guess is he’ll be here in time for corned beef,which might be his actual plan.”

Samrolled his eyes, then cracked his knuckles. “Eric, I don’t mind staying, Imean, you might need, well, you will need the extra body. But I dunno know, Imean, I’m just not sure.”

Ericstepped toward Sam, leaving a foot between them. “Lynne understands. She wantsyou here because you and Renee are family and we don’t have much of that.Which’s why she doesn’t mind if Laurie comes sooner rather than later. If he’swilling to brave the skies and a crying baby, what the hell?”

Ericlaughed, then patted Sam’s shoulder. “Lynne’s a little, well, wary, for you andRenee. We don’t wanna, you know, make this an imposition.”

Ericsaid that slowly, then cleared his throat. “Whatever you wanna do is fine withus. We both wanna share this as much as you and Renee wanna take part. Don’tfeel you have to be here continuously. You did that for me and I’ll neverforget it, I mean that. This with Lynne’s a little different and….”

SuddenlySam grasped Eric. The embrace was reciprocated, then Sam stepped back. “I’dlove to be here when that baby makes his or her appearance. I might be outside,unless it’s the middle of the night, but Eric, it’d be an honor.”

Ericsmiled, then pumped Sam’s outstretched hand. The men embraced again, but it washalted by a loud shriek. Eric tore up the stairs as Lynne let out anotherscream, making Sam chuckle. A knock on the kitchen door caught Sam’s attentionand he opened it to Dr. Salters. “You’re just in time,” Sam smiled as Lynne’sloud groan resonated throughout the house.

Still blocks to stitch

One finished side block, another underway.

Despite beginning to stitch edge pieces to Mandolin blocks, other edge pieces remain left to hew together. Sometimes it feels like hewing, lol, but I am grateful to have underway the joining process for said quilt!

Which, as these things occasionally go, might not take as long as I thought because when sewing blocks, be they half or quarter-sized, all those little and large pieces need to be attached in a whole, of sorts, half or quarter element notwithstanding. But drawing all those blocks into a WHOLE is merely stitching edges to one another. And yeah, that's some hefty handsewing, but not quite as much as I thought previously.

So that means this Mandolin quilt top *could* be completed before the end of the year. Which if you'd asked me a few days ago, I'd have shaken my head, smirking. Next year fer shure, I'd have smiled.

Future Me is smiling, I see her almost breaking into giggles. Not sure over what, but something has her in happy stitches. Dare I ask? What the hell? What's so funny, I query.

She calms, chortles, then smiles. Just how certain you are of yourself, then constantly finding how erroneous are your calculations.

Oh My Goodness, she has me (or rather us, lol) pegged perfectly! I am quite often assuming this or that about this or that, and quite often finding I am quite WRONG. Not in an I should have my arse kicked kind of way mistaken, but HOW MANY TIMES do I confidently think or state blah blah blah, then said blah blah blah falls to the wayside.

Don't beat yourself up over it, she smirks. We'll probably do it till we die.

I roll my eyes, then breathe deeply. How old is this version of Future Me, I immediately wonder. No gray hair, other than the few I currently possess right north of my ears. She wears glasses, which I do more and more, although I'm not wearing any in writing this while seated at my computer in the office.

She frowns at me, then crosses her arms over her chest. I might be in the future, she sighs, but I am not without fault.

For some reason that's a HUGE weight off my shoulders. Perhaps all this time I've thought of her as perfect. Perfect Future Me, now there's a LAUGHING OUT LOUD if ever there was one! I smile, then grow quiet. Will I always assume this or that, then change my mind as though all my previous considerations were those of someone else? I'm doing that right now, vacillating about how to quilt the Lucy Boston quilt. I'd tossed aside the Kawandi notion, then hauled it back from the depths, albeit hedged in partiality. Which is better explained in photos than in text, one of these days. Perhaps vacillate is better than assume. I choose one path, then swing wildly another direction, sometimes doing a one-eighty. Is this some genetic thing or nature or....

Future Me smirks HARD. I don't know any more than you do, all right?

Really? (Is she serious, or just yanking my chain?) Oh, uh, well, o-kay, I blurt.

Again she smirks, then tucks brown hair behind her ears. I see the same amount of white hairs as I own now, so maybe she's not that far ahead of me age-wise. Future Me from next week or November or....

I'm far enough ahead to let you know.... She grins, then drops her arms to her sides. Just keep doing what you're doing. Everything is gonna be okay.

Two side blocks DONE! And a third is half-completed, lol.

I nod, feeling a lightness in my chest, not merely due to quilting placement or edge blocks to hew together. The definition of hew is to chop or cut with an ax, pick, or other tool. Sewing needles seem a bit feeble, but I've poked my right middle digit enough lately that it feels more like I'm using an ax! I've been hewing away at this, that, and how many other stitchy projects, and I won't even bring novels into the fray. Yet even if Future Me is only from later today, all is well. Everything is going to be okay is what she said.

I said gonna be okay, she huffs.

Now I giggle, pleased as proverbial punch. Because she's absolutely right. Everything is gonna be okay.

Gonna, she smirks, walking away.

Going to, I whisper.

One of these days, she chirps, then chortles, stepping out of view. 

Summer of the marine layer

It's been a summer of chickens, of guests and revisions. And a summer of the marine layer.

I nearly added marine layer to the previous post of things which you never dream. Lol. I certainly didn't anticipate a marine layer figuring so significantly in my life. Mostly due to not realizing that living along the California coast would occur, nor how some summers that heavy cloud bank claims said coast without thought to those who call the coastal area home.

But yeah, the marine layer wins again this morning.

It's just about time to feed the chickens, 6.20 a.m. currently. If the marine layer wasn't so pushy, I'd get up from the sofa, put on sweats and a hoodie, then collect their feeder, walking to the coop, admiring planets still visible; Venus and Jupiter have decorated the morning sky most of the month, Mercury appearing along the eastern edge, thrilling me completely. Today the marine layer barged in before I spotted the smallest planet in our solar system, blotting out the beauty of larger worlds that shone brightly in a rare clear sky. Now it's 6.25, enough light for me to get off the couch, as those chickens are waiting....

Maybe this will also be a chicken post. It's now seven o'clock; my husband woke shortly after I came back inside and we've chatted, so he's off for a shower. Thick fog now conceals the eastern treeline, but the chickens don't care because once the motion sensor light is tripped as I approach the coop, they begin to not quite cluck, but definitely chirp and peep. I don't turn on their light until I've shoved the small stump away from the coop door, but despite their poor eyesight in the dark, once the light is on (and I've opened the door), I find them gathered right where I need to step inside, lol. The last two mornings Camilla stood on the blocks where the feeder rests, silly pullet. Today I had to shoo her off, then I could place the feeder in its spot and within seconds all had surrounded it, pecking at breakfast eagerly.

Owl looks up, recently disturbed by Little Camilla, on her left, getting huffy at the Barnevelder one over from Owl.

They don't care a whit about marine layers or fog. Only for being fed, and some momentary companionship as I croon good morning to them. Owl looked up, after Little Camilla on Owl's left reached over Owl and pecked at one of the Barnevelders, causing a brief commotion. Then Owl Chicken, who is a Welsummer, stepped away from the feeder, hopping onto the low perch, taking in the morning. She then rejoined her pullet sisters, but on the opposite side of the feeder from previously, perhaps not wanting to share her space with Little Camilla.

Owl is my fave chicken; I love how curious and thoughtful she is.

(Who is so named because she looks just like Camilla, both of those Welsummers a shade lighter than Owl. Little Camilla is the most independent of the group, and DETESTS being picked up for any reason at all.)

I'm getting pretty sick of the marine layer, might I say. Today is funny because not only did it muscle in like a certain chicken I know, but has gripped the landscape with an accompanying fog that acts like Little Camilla. Like the fog wants to peck us into submission, although I'm seated on the stitching sofa, snug under a Kawandi lap quilt, so TAKE THAT fog! A tall warm cup of tea proffers further shielding from the dang fog, alongside my memory of the Big Dipper, Jupiter, and Venus from two hours ago. I swear I saw them, I truly did. Yet the marine layer giggles like a truculent child or chicken, as though I've lost my ever-loving mind.

The kerfuffle of earlier now long forgotten as Owl is back with her crew.

Thankfully the chickens can't attempt such nefarious schemes. And honestly, I know the marine layer is merely the result of nature. Yet at times it feels sinister, obscuring the gorgeous late summer daybreak as though I won't view another. Today is the last day of August, is that possible? I guess so, as the chickens are pushing ten weeks old, dude! In another buncha weeks we'll transition them from chick crumble to layer feed, and while I'll still be getting those early morning steps to ensure they don't starve, no longer will a feeder remain available to them all day long. They were just these tiny puffballs, right? They peeped with impunity, now they attempt to cluck. They'll never outwit the marine layer, nor shall I. But one of these days summer will be past, and the sky will remain clear, though Jupiter won't be visible and Venus will have moved to a different area, the Big Dipper too. The chicks will be hens, laying eggs, CRAZY! And this summer of the ubiquitous marine layer will have altered to the autumn of....

Whatever it's supposed to be. Goodbye August. We'll see you again in eleven months, God willing.