Gertie - A Life Well Lived

It's never easy when a columnist passes. Those who have read their lives and followed along feel like they too have experienced a loss. In this case, this columnist was a chicken whose name was Gertie. 

Gertie, however, was not like any other chicken. She experienced more in her eight years on earth than some people do in a lifetime. She created art one year by dipping her toes in finger paint and trapesing across white paper to form a sketch (or was it scratch) which was framed and prominently displayed in the living room. 

She had her nails painted one year in Christmas colors of green and red and willingly allowed herself to be photographed with Santa Claus, though I'm sure said 'Claus' was less than amused for holding a bird. Perhaps she asked him that year for some of that mealworm tea. 

She made herself known throughout her eight years, having had many interactions with humans who had experienced her friendly demeanor by gently pecking treats from folk's hands or just coming up to the fence to say hello. Though she was friendly, she always displayed herself royally. Her feathers were always deep gold and always kept as neat and tidy as possible.  

Some of her funnier moments were when she played chase with the Boston Terrier, who has since gone to the other side, Luna at her first home in Columbus. Or, one afternoon, she even wore a small backpack that contained a mini first aid kit that was given from a hospital health event. It was the perfect size for a chicken and the CEO of the hospital even got a kick out of it. 

Gertie was the kind of chicken that ate up the attention and was always willing to say her piece. The barnyard will feel different without her keeping the rest of the hens in line and being first to strut up to whatever treat offerings were placed in the run. 

A chickens' average lifespan is 5 - 10 years so it feels incredibly lucky to have had her for so long. Of course, like all things that we love, I wish it could have been longer. She made it to her 8th birthday and I guess that's probably around 80 years old. She did not suffer and went very peacefully in her sleep. Oh that we all could be so blessed. 

Gertie's musings may have stopped, but I'm sure that another animal will find its voice in the future and keep the dialog going of the way it truly is on the farm. 

Rest in peace Gertie. 

Until next time... 

Gertie was just a chicken - but she was so much more

 I recently experienced the death of the matriarch in my large flock, Gertie. When I found her curled up peacefully under a nesting box, I instantly began to cry. It was as if the air had been let out of the big balloon that was the dream of creating this farm and where it had originated. 

I picked her up gently and cradled her, noticing how soft her feathers were as they always had been, as I carried her out of the coop and laid her atop the non-working freezer that is used to hold chicken feed - keeping pests out. I couldn’t process her death immediately. I didn’t want to bury her right away but I knew that time was not on my side and I needed to work out where I was going to bury her, when and how. Almost paralyzed, I managed to take an empty feed sack and place her in it and then walked back to the house, tears streaming down my face at the loss. I would work at burying her later in the day. 

I need to add, I don’t typically cry any longer at the loss of a chicken. Death on the farm happens. Chickens typically don’t live beyond 5 years and usually my method for disposing of them is to take them to the furthest corner of the property and place them in the field for some forager to carry the bird off and thus feed life from death. This was not going to happen with Gertie. 

Gertie was just a chicken, but what she was and what she represented was so much more. She was the sole survivor of the original flock that I had in Columbus when I first started my journey with chickens and then into farm life. 

Gertie arrived with three other chicks, which I purchased with my dear friend Mel, from a 4H poultry group fundraiser on February 5th, 2015. As they grew, I worried over them having enough heat, enough light, enough food. Then my attention turned to anticipating that first egg when they started to approach 8 months of age. Gertie was not the first of the 4 to lay an egg but when she did it was a moment of rejoicing. Three of the chicks in that first flock were named after my grandmothers’ middle names and one after an aunt; Mildred, Eleanor, Henrietta and Gertrude (or Gertie as I knew her). I loved them all, but Gertie was special as she was named after my maternal grandmother who I was very close to. 

In 2016, life became more complicated as I learned that I would not be able to keep chickens in town. I began to look for other living spots in and around Columbus but what I found was a farm that was located in the town I grew up in, Seymour. I wasn’t exactly thrilled about moving back, but it was close to Columbus and I could have my chickens and still be connected to my friends there. 

The end of October 2016 was very traumatic. I was busy creating a secure, cozy coop for the four chickens when I received a call on a Sunday morning. My dear friend Mel had passed through the night. I recall looking at the four birds thinking that at least I still had them as a memory with her. 

As I said before, death is common on the farm and that memory would not last long. In the following year I lost the first of the original four, Eleanor. I was devastated, but she was buried beside the barn and I vowed to keep the rest as healthy as I could. Then there would be two more deaths with Henrietta in 2018 and Mildred in 2019. Gertie was the one that kept going. 

She visited Santa Claus one holiday season, tolerated having her nails painted green and red, attempted chicken art by walking through finger paints and even got the attention of the CEO at Columbus Regional Hospital when she donned a small CRH branded backpack that contained a first aid kit. 

When 2020 happened, I noticed that Gertie was really ruling the flock. She always got the upper roost, kept the hens in line, didn’t seem to cater to the roosters’ advances and always had the most golden feathers and the fluffiest backside of any of the growing flock. I was concerned that she was “old” in chicken lore but at five years old she seemed to be thriving. 

Then I started writing a guest column for The Tribune and one day I thought, “hey, maybe Gertie could say her piece” and thus the voice of Gertie was born. I heard from readers constantly how they loved to hear her perspective on farm life and her sass (which was a real thing).

When visitors came to the farm, I always made sure to point her out as she would make herself seen - almost demanding to have the attention as the farm’s oldest chicken. She was approaching 8 years old and I was so hopeful that we would see her decade birthday in just two short years. 

Gertie celebrated her 8th birthday in February this year, but the season was rough on the chickens and I know that she was working through some gastrointestinal issues. I tried several remedies but her recovery was not to happen. She died peacefully through the night on August 20th and the last of the connection to my old life in Columbus was gone. 

Gertie was laid to rest beside the barn she lived in which will soon have a marker memorializing her resting spot. There are also plans to name the barn “Gertie’s House” and a plaque will be made stating such. Gertie’s legacy will continue for many years to come and beyond.

Gertie was just a chicken, but you see - she was so much more.

Rest in peace Gertie - you will be missed.

Gertie's Mealworm Tea

Hey all! Jackson County’s favorite hen columnist is back and boy do I have a lot to fill you all in on. It is July and things are sizzling.

I can’t say how much I would love to have a nice cold glass of mealworm tea under the shade of the crabapple tree that is located in our run, but the Mutha Clucka has ignored repeated requests from me and the other ladies to provide such a treat. 

Oh, I know she tries - giving us chilled watermelon and other assorted veggies from the fridge but gosh the tasty earthiness of crispy insects in some ice cold water would just make my afternoon perfect. 

I have been excited about the nice sandy area we have to take dust baths in each day. Nestling down in the coolness of the earth and giving a good shake to the feathers always leaves one feeling refreshed and ready to take on just about anything. I know I speak for my little chicken ladies group that we all enjoy good conversation and a solid nap on a hot July afternoon in the shade is just what we need. 

Cooper, the barn “cat”ken, who is a cat who thinks he’s a chicken, has been sneaking out at night by climbing through the open windows to the coop. Being a very responsible hen, I tried to tell him that this wasn’t proper behavior but he’s still young and thinks he knows better than all of us. He’s not ignorant though - he always returns to his bowl in our coop for breakfast and dinner each day.

The oinkers in the barn, Chester and Spike, have been begging more frequently for food and Mutha just doles out the goodies like it's Halloween. Does she not realize that we all need to watch our weight? She has said something about finishing the “run” for the pigs though so maybe soon we won’t be subject to their grunting all day. It’s so hot that their conversations can really grate on a hen’s nerves. 

I’m hearing the constant calling from the ducks and geese up on the hill and I often wonder what has them so excited. Maybe it’s that new giant kiddie pool that was brought home - why a bird would want to splash around in water is beyond me, but hey, to each his/her own. 

If you need me, I’ll be sitting under the shade of the crabapple, still dreaming about that mealworm tea. 

After all a hen can dream, right?

Until next time…

Fence Gate: A New Farm Scandal?

We’re in the heart of farmer’s market season and it’s been a lot of fun to interact with readers that look forward to these ramblings every other week. It’s always incredibly humbling to know that scratches that come out as random thoughts are entertaining and as many folks have heard - I never know what’s going to happen next out there on the farm. 

Recently, I was able to finish the pot belly pig run and what a joy that has been. The pigs now do their restroom business outside and I don’t have to put near as much work in to muck their pen. 

Getting that run completed though was quite an ordeal in itself. 

To start, I had around 9, 16 foot hog panels to deal with in creating a proper piggy paradise. These panels are relatively lightweight but definitely awkward to handle and have sharp edges where the wire has been welded. You’d think after almost 8 years of farming I would have learned my lesson to wear protective clothing but, no. I did wear gloves but when I was moving the panels, one slipped and put a nice little notch in my shin. Ignoring the ensuring trickle of red, I kept pressing on. I was farmer-tough and I could handle it. 

Yes, the fence panels could have been laid out straight without bending, but never being one to do something simple - I decided that I needed to create right angles for corners to save on the amount of panels I was using. 

A quick YouTube view and I was putting all of my weight onto a panel with a 4” x 4” square post at the point that needed bent. Well, that resulted in another nice scratch right above my knee. 

At this point I must have looked like something out of a Rambo movie with my hair completely mussed, blood running into my hiking sandals and a nice red scratch right above my knee. The panel did get bent however and I continued with the construction of the pen. 

It was a series of measure, sink t-post, pull panel to t-post, attach clips, and repeat. 

Three hours later I finished with a final panel and now had the daunting task of installing a 4 foot wire gate that had hardware that looked like something out of a medieval torture chamber. Should be no problem at all, I thought, as I quickly scanned YouTube again for instruction. The video was only three minutes long so I figured it would probably take me 10 and I could then retreat back inside to the air conditioning. 

I drilled a pilot hole into the fence post and inserted the hanging hardware. Then I started twisting it. I managed to get about 10 turns in before a loud squeaking sound started and the pot belly pigs started going berserk. What the heck - I thought. The video didn’t say anything about that and the bracket in the video twisted in really easily. 

I tried again and again the same sound. Not that it solved things but I thought - hey, I’ll call dear old Dad. He’ll have the answer. The first words out of his mouth when I explained my dilemma were “Did you use soap? If you didn’t use soap you’re going to have to untwist it and do it again.”

If I could have thrown a temper tantrum and gotten away with it, I probably would have at that point. I was tired, dirty, hot and frustrated. “Isn’t there another way?” I pleaded. Nope, that was going to be the only answer. 

I hung up the phone, grumbling, and tried to twist once more - full well knowing that the hardware was seized up and I was going to have to go back up to the house to get the bar of Dove soap, go back down to the barn, untwist the hardware from the post, soap it and try again. It felt like a scandal - why did twisting a piece of metal into a post of wood have to be so difficult?

Needless to say, I did just that and the hardware twisted in without much effort following. I didn’t, however, tell Dad he was right until the next day - I had to preserve some of my pride for a little while longer. I know that from a very young age he’s always told me to use soap for putting in screws, nails, etc. I should have known and I should have remembered. 

I guess I had to resign to that fact too. 

Until next time…

Farmer Goes to Iowa - Brings Back a Typewriter

It is a rare thing indeed to have any time away from the farm, let alone an overnight stay. Anything beyond that - well, that’s as rare as finding a free Taylor Swift ticket in your mailbox. 

However, funny things happen and recently I went spontaneous and set off on a road trip for a few days just to get away and renew myself. I sent a message to my best friend, Ellen, to say “hey, wanna go on a road trip? It’ll be inexpensive and not very far,” and I was thrilled when she responded - “sure!” 

There was just one problem. I didn’t have a clue where we were going to go that fit that description. My best friend lives in Northern Indiana so there are the usual spots such as Chicago or one of the beaches along the MIchigan state line, but we’d done those in years past and neither were inexpensive. 

I started searching sites for road trip ideas either near her home or mine and kept hitting roadblocks - either there weren’t rooms available, the cost was way above the budget or the drive was too far. 

Finally, in desperation I typed in “road trip ideas near Chicago that are inexpensive.” 

Iowa came up in the search.  

Iowa? I thought. You’ve got to be kidding me. There’s nothing but corn there! Why would I want to go somewhere that was away from the farm that was nothing but land with farms? 

After a Google search I found the German village known as the Amana Colonies, the John Deere Headquarters, the Iowa 80 World’s Largest Truckstop, a winery, a few breweries, a Czech Village and a huge farmer’s market and indoor city market all within driving reach from the hotel I had found. I had discovered Iowa was more than corn. 

I messaged Ellen and excitedly told her where we were going. No surprise, her response was “okaaaay???”

She and I set off on a Thursday morning and I was quick to realize the first 24 hours away from the farm can be a little rocky with the schedule changing so drastically. Suddenly I didn’t need to be up at 5am to feed and get things taken care of and the evening was relaxing without having to collect eggs, lock up animals and other chores. 

I also rediscovered my love of looking at old things and she and I found ourselves in an antique shop in Amana, Iowa, one afternoon. I was having great delight in reminiscing about the items on display when suddenly I noticed something that any writer would pause at. 

A vintage Underwood Universal typewriter. 

My best friend reminded me that I didn’t need it- it was more costly than the usual souvenir t-shirt or other such item but for some reason I felt drawn to the heavy hunk of steel. 

I gently pressed the keys- It moved wonderfully. The price was reasonable too. 

“Come on,” Ellen urged. I walked away reluctantly, thinking of the things I could write on such a piece of art. 

I didn’t get far though - before Ellen could stop me I had turned back and approached the typewriter again. Would I find another like it at the price this one was?  How amazing would it be to have a souvenir like this? What a great story this would make for the future! 

Without another moment’s hesitation, I gently closed the lid on the typewriter, latched it and carried it like the most prized possession I had ever had to the cashier. 

As the woman filled the sales slip, she shared that the typewriter had belonged to her husband’s mother who had owned it during WW II and had written many letters on it to those overseas. It added to its charm.

I haven’t found the perfect spot for it just yet, but it serves as a reminder every time I look at it or use it. Just like the slower pace of typing with a manual typewriter, sometimes you have to just be spontaneous and slow down. I know that farm work since I’ve returned seems less taxing. Perhaps I’ll write a novel someday on another break using that Underwood typewriter. In the meantime, I’m just going to work on restoring the machine and getting some new typewriter ribbons. 

Until next time…