Silence of the Ducks

It was raining.  In fact, it seemed that it was always raining.  In typical fashion, the chickens complained and the ducks thrived.  The Englishboy was visiting for Christmas and I asked him if he would put the ducks away for me.  I was tired of digging out my umbrella and struggling in and out of my wellies twice a day to trudge down the hill to the garden, the grass bubbling up with warm mud.  "They will probably be in their house already so it should be easy," I told him.

The Englishboy couldn't locate the ducks.  They weren't in the garden or their house.  They weren't on the pond.  They weren't in the neighbor's yard.  In fact, he couldn't even hear them which was unusual because they were constantly quacking to each other.  He feared the worst fate had happened to them.

I teetered precariously over my wellies and managed to get the hem of my pajama bottoms tucked neatly inside.  I clutched an old umbrella and grabbed my flashlight.  Carefully, I sloshed to the center of the back yard and called out "Ducks....".  Silence.  "Ducks?!" I yelled with less grace and certainty.  They answered me promptly with loud quacks and I could hear their feet slapping against the wet brick path.  Relieved, I rushed over to see them waddling into their house, all neatly in a row.  I closed their gate and bid them goodnight.  They had been hiding from The Englishboy, yet they still came when I called.  I supposed that they did appreciate me after all.

Hobby Farm: A Daily Commitment

I love my little backyard farm and it has become part of my daily routine.  Before I leave for work each morning, I make the rounds with my three-pack in tow.  First I walk down the hill to the pond and check on Richard.  My beautiful male duck greets me with quacks, tail quivers and quick circles in the icy water.  He thinks he is a wild duck but I know better.  He still eats his food from a ceramic bowl.

Next, I trudge back up the hill, glancing at the bee hives.  It's still too early for any activity.  The chickens already spotted me on my way down to the pond and are cackling loudly, lined up by the gate and hoping for a treat.  Berries?  Apples?  Bananas?  If the fountain has iced over into a beautiful fairyland sculpture, I have complaining chickens trying to herd me to the corner to get me to fix their water source.  They watch me break up the frozen water with a small garden trowel and they gobble up the bits of ice that land on the ground.

Finally, I check on my newest duck members.  Two female rouen ducks and three drakes are settled in  the enclosed duck area with my tiny mallard call duck.  They aren't sure of me yet and hide behind Puddle Duck Pub, heads peaking around the corner to see if I am giving them food. 

A similar routine occurs each evening when I return home.  This time, I collect the eggs, too and watch the bees make their final landing into the hive.  It doesn't matter if it's too hot, too cold, raining, sleeting, windy, or stormy.  Keeping a hobby farm is a responsibility as well as a source of happiness and a stress reliever.

I currently am fighting bronchitis and the last thing I really want to do at 6:45 in the morning is my routine.  It's draining.  I'm so tired.  Breathing is a challenge.  So I start a little earlier and take my time.  This morning, I opened the top latch on the duck fence and then stooped down to pull up the latch on the bottom that fits tightly in place.  The spring that The Englishman recently installed to bring the door back into place, creaked open as I entered.  I let the door go too quickly and it slammed into place, startling my fine feathered friends.  I quickly filled the feeder with grain and turned to leave.  The door wouldn't budge.  The top was fine but with dread, I realized that the problem was with the bottom.  I was positive that the bolt had fallen back into place, locking me inside.  I quickly checked my pocket to make sure that I had brought my cell phone with me.  I did not want to call my husband back from the start of his commute because I had stupidly locked myself into the duck compound.  I looked around at his craftsmanship and knew I couldn't escape easily.  Before making the call, I gave the bottom of the gate a little tap with my garden clog.  Nothing.  I was impatient, sick and had six cackling ducks peering around their house at me.  I gave the bottom of the gate the hardest kick I could muster.  The gate slammed open and I quickly leaped out, my thin shawl billowing around me like a super hero cape.  I secured the gate and retreated up to the house swinging my empty bucket.  As I placed it outside the garage, I thought better of that and placed it on the floor of my car to take on my long commute to work.  After all…I still am sick!

Duck Herding, Jedi Style

The ducks don’t want to sleep inside their safe and warm house at night.  They prefer to huddle in an appetizing pile of feathers right next to it.  I prefer not to feed the neighborhood’s nocturnal critters and perform the tedious task of herding the ducks into their home each evening.

In thrift shops I have seen vintage prints of small children herding a flock of ducks with a stick.  My ducks would cackle at such a sight.  If I approach them with a stick, they scatter, then reconvene and chatter about my failed efforts in a circle.  If I approach them at night with the two insanely long and metallic flashlights that the Englishman calls “torches”, I am a duck herding Jedi knight.

I walk straight toward the flock of feathers who stare at me in alarm.  They rise and move as one to the left.  I flash my left beam of light and block them.  Like Carol Ann in Poltergeist, they fear the light.  They make a move to the right.  My right arm rises with the flashlight beam.  They resort to moving in the only direction not dissected by a ray of light.  I am filled with a sense of accomplishment as they file reluctantly into their house within thirty seconds, loudly expressing their unhappiness.  I don’t care as I shut the door.  “You are sleepy” I tell them using my Jedi Mind Trick and I return to my house with the light sabers, errr… flashlights by my side.

Don’t be a chicken!

Donning my beekeeper’s veil and gloves, I headed out with the Englishman first thing in the morning for some hive chores.  On the way back to the house, I stopped by the chicken house to see if there were any eggs to collect.  I barely noticed the squawks as I approached the gate and pushed my way inside the chicken yard, awkwardly maneuvering in the large hat and veil.  I greeted the ladies with a cheerful “good morning!”  The chickens scattered to the far corners leaving a trail of feathers in their wake.  I was missing one chicken.  I opened the hen house and clumsily squeezed inside.  Rosie was sitting in a nesting box and looked terrified when she saw me.  I quickly backed out, realizing that the chickens did not recognize me.

I walked briskly up the hill to the garage, passing the ducks waddling for their lives in the opposite direction of my path.  I flung off the veil and gloves, gathered some treats, and returned to my flock looking less alien than before.  Not only did I get a great idea for a Halloween costume, a valuable lesson was learned:  what works for the bees does not always work for the birds.
 

Moving Day

Puddle Duck Pub was moved five feet to the side and two feet forward.  This allowed for more sunlight to reach the solar panel powered lights.  All five ducks watched the Englishman and me carry the house to the new location.  They tilted their heads and peered through one glittery eye each as I cleaned the inside and added new bedding.  They kept careful watch as the Englishman moved the green plastic turtle pool behind the house and filled it with clean water.  They splashed in the pool as we cleared weeds, vines and thorns.  They happily waddled in and out of their house, taking mouthfuls of food from their feed bowl.  They padded over to their drinking bucket and gorged on the lettuce I had placed on the water’s surface.  They raced around the house, chasing each other until they tired.  They slept behind the house on a mound of fall leaves, tucking their heads into their feathers in a warm patch of sun.

And when it was dark, all five huddled in a pile on the ground in front of the old duck house location.  Puddle Duck Pub was lit up like a beacon to their immediate right but they took no notice.  The ducks were confused and so were we as the Englishman and the English Boy cornered the ducks and carried them back to their shelter a stone’s throw away. 

Pearl of Wisdom

We were down to one duck and she was lonely.  Miss Pearl followed the Englishman around the yard.  She perked up when the dogs raced through the back garden.  She was a frequent visitor in the garage, stretching her neck and peering through the back door glass.  Her nighttime quarters in Puddle Duck Pub were cavernous and I imagined her quacks echoing through the space like an empty cathedral.

I did what any high-heeled wearing modern farm girl would do and fired up the I Pad to search Craigslist.  I found what I was looking for and only ten miles away.  Four ducks: two Crested Peking and two Blue Swedes.  Ten dollars per duck, two for twenty or all four for twenty.  I did the math and decided on four.  The Englishman and I headed out with one dog crate and very vague directions.  “After the four-way stop sign in Rutledge, go past three roads on the left and then we are directly across from the third road”. 

The Englishman and I argued over whether a dirt road counted as a road.  He proclaimed that the Romans would disagree.  We ended up in a cemetery and decided to call the woman for better directions.  This time she added more details including the name of the road that her residence faced and that she had the only fish mailbox for miles.  She also mentioned that it might be only two roads past the four-way stop sign.  I think she struggled with counting.

Armed with the new information, we zoomed past a road without a sign and a tacky fish mailbox.  It was a mile before I could turn around.  I drove down a narrow dirt path that was a driveway and cautiously approached the double-wide trailer.  We were greeted by a flip flop wearing woman with obviously natural maroon colored hair.  Random tattoos on her feet and ankles accessorized her tank top that was stretched tightly over her ample torso.  She led us to her chicken and duck pen.  Rusty tin cans littered the back yard and my five-inch wedge heels crunched across the dead grass.  Thirty or so tiny Bantam chickens darted about the area with crazy feathers sticking out from their legs like old-fashioned bloomers.  The Englishman and the woman’s husband entered the pallet and chicken-wired structure to retrieve the ducks.  Moments later, we settled up with a twenty-dollar bill and headed home listening to the quacks in the back of the car.

 

Miss Pearl was waiting in the driveway when we returned.  The Englishman carried the crate to the duck sanctuary and placed it on the grass.  Miss Pearl excitedly circled the crate, peering through the slits in the sides.  We opened the door but the ducks stayed inside.  Impatient, Miss Pearl dive-bombed the crate and pushed her way to the back, trying to force the other ducks out.  Frustrated, she emerged first and the others timidly followed. 

 

 

At first they noticed the food and happily gorged but then they saw the green turtle pool.  I don’t think they had been in water before and all four piled in bathing and diving and swimming in manic circles.  Their feathers hadn’t been waterproofed and they were wet and dripping and thoroughly happy.

 

 

The Englishman lit the tikki torches to fend off the mosquitoes and we tossed frozen corn and peas to our newest additions.  Miss Pearl established the pecking order with herself as the leader.  She was twice the size of the new flock and as I watched them empty the food bowl, I was sure they had been underfed. 

 

 

As the sun disappeared in the sky, the lights inside Puddle Duck Pub beckoned them to enter and Miss Pearl led her charges inside.  I closed the door and stayed behind for a few moments listening to the quacks.  “Don’t teach them all your bad habits, Miss Pearl,” I chided before retiring for the night.

Keep Calm and Carry On

Three beehives were not enough for the Englishman.  Five hives were perfect.  Five hives would make his life complete, so he drove two hours each way to pick up the last package bees of the season.

We weren’t ready for them.  So, the bees remained in their boxes while the Englishman built two bases.  Time was of the essence so it was decided to install the hives temporarily on the deck until the weekend.  We donned hats and gloves and within minutes the bees were buzzing about their new homes.  With great satisfaction, we put away our bee protective gear and grabbed a beer to share.

The Englishman sat in a nearby chair, sipping his lager and smugly admiring his efforts.  I took the second chair and watched him.  A lone bee aggressively flew about his head.  The Englishman put down his beer bottle and swatted at it.  Several more bees joined the first.  The Englishman continued swatting.  Backup arrived in the form of twelve angry bees.  The Englishman screamed, flailed his arms in the air and ran from the deck into the driveway and out of my view.  I picked up his abandoned bottle of beer but was unable to drink it as each shriek from the driveway made me laugh harder.  Soon the cries faded and I sat back to continue to observe our gentle Italian honeybees.

A tap at the window above my head beckoned me to the kitchen.  “There’s a stinger in me forehead!” he cried.  “Get it out!  Get it out!”  I scraped at it with a pair of scissors and assured him that bee stings were better than botox at removing wrinkles.  “I don’t have wrinkles in my forehead,” he protested.  “Not anymore,” I agreed and left him in the house while I checked on my ducks.

A few days later we removed the hives to their permanent home amongst the fruit trees.  The Englishman decided that it would be a good time to check the three established hives.  We smoked the hives, one at a time and removed the roof.  Using a hive tool to pry each frame from the “bee glue” that cemented it in place, we were able to lift the frames and inspect each side.

As I held a frame, heavy with honey and covered with bees, I felt a sting and a slow burning sensation under my arm where a sliver of skin was exposed between the glove and my short-sleeved shirt.  “I’ve been stung,” I told the Englishman, holding out my frame.  “Take it,” I ordered.  He slowly grasped the frame’s edges and I walked a few feet away.  I lifted my arm, scraped the stinger with my hive tool and returned to the hive to finish the job.  No screaming.  No crying.  No flailing.  Just keep calm and carry on.

The Englishman and I gathered the tools of our trade and trekked up the hill to the driveway.  “I’ve been stung through my pant leg,” he told me and then dropped his pants.  I looked on, horrified and fully aware of the neighbors, joggers, dog walkers and kids on bicycles.  He scraped the stinger with his hive tool and walked pant-less into the house.  No screaming.  No crying.  No flailing.  Just keep calm and carry on.