While there are tons of things I have learned over that past year, the most significant is to never say never.  I insisted I would breastfeed the entire year, that did not happen for a whole host of reasons. I insisted he would only have wooden, organic toys; do you know how expensive that is?  I insisted we did not need a gate at the bottom of the stairs if I watched him closely; babies crawl very fast and like stairs.  I insisted I would make all of my own babyfood; I made a lot of it but William preferred Sprouts.  I don’t think I need to go on.  .  .  .

His daddy and I love William tremendously, and wouldn’t trade one moment of the last year (or those to come!).

Two of the hats (William’s and mine) are handspun and they felted really nicely.  Ben’s however, was knitted using Lion brand wool yarn and it didn’t felt nearly as well.  I can’t process it another time because it will be too small for Ben’s head!  We’ll have to stuff it to make it stand up.  All hats were felted by washing in the washing machine on hot and then put in a hot dryer.  This was done three times.  For my hat I will needlefelt flowers into the brim because I must add flowers to everything!

I used a great, free pattern from Ravelry, and adjusted needle size and yarn weight to make the different sizes.  It was rather hit and miss but it turned out great.  If anyone is interested I can provide the link.

After Halloween I’ll post pictures of our little gnome family in the Mommyhood section.

Surprisingly, Madge’s leg healed quickly and completely.  She improved from hopping about on one foot, reminiscent of a flamingo, to favoring the injured leg with a limp, to barely a hobble, and finally she demonstrated no evidence of the injury at all, besides a bit of a lump where the bone mended.  Madge grew to enjoy her life with us humans but she pined for her friends.

Each day, when I let her out of the shed for a little exercise and fresh air, Madge would visit me in the garden before making her way down the steep hill into the gully, skirting the murky pond and hovering just outside the chicken tractor that is home to her four sisters.  A chicken tractor (called an ark in England) is a moveable coop which protects the girls from predators while allowing them to nibble on tender tidbits of gourmet greens and neatly fertilize the garden and surrounding area.  Madge would scratch and cluck near her friends until I would pick her up and carry her back to the shed for her own safety.

Finally her leg was mended to the point where I was comfortable returning the lonely Madge to the friends that were so fickle as to shun her when she needed them most.   I was aware that they would need to restablish their pecking order but I was sure Madge was up to the job.  Madge was reintroduced to the girls on a Monday afternoon.  Almost immediately, poor Madge was accosted by Martha, the Buff Orpington that previously was content to follow Madge’s lead.  Feathers flying like snow, Madge seemed to accept the onslaught without defending herself.  Occassionally the other girls would peck and scratch but eventually Madge found the safety of the laying house.  When I checked later, it seemed all was peaceful and I was sure things would calm down by the next day.

Unfortunately, I was terribly wrong. . .

When I returned home from work and eagerly traipsed down the hill to the coop, I saw the girls brutally pinning poor Madge to the ground and pecking her mercilessly.  It was clear she had literally been picked on all day while I was at work and had the bloody wounds to prove it.  Once a hen is bloodied in battle, the others are relentless to finish her off, and will do so if they are allowed.  When I opened the door of the coop, Madge saw her opportunity and flew for freedom, nevermind that my head was directly in her path. 

The mean hens were fed and watered and I slowly approached poor tormented Madge.  I thought she would be rattled and not allow me to pick her up, but she assertively walked toward me, clucking the whole time.  It was then I saw the extent of her wounds: around her eyes there were scratches and cuts from sharp claws and beaks, her comb was bloody and mangled, but the worst sight was the back of her poor little head.  Completely denuded of feathers and bleeding, Madge looked like a monk whose hairdo was cut with a kitchen knife. 

Back into the shed she went. . .

Madge

Madge’s story began when she was brutally injured and was not able to put weight on one leg.  Picked on (literally) by her roommates, she was losing feathers at an alarming rate.  The rain had matted her feathers, making her look even more bare than she truly was.  The mud coated her legs, belly, and side, evidence of her lack of mobility.  Forlorn, ugly and tired, her tail feathers slumped down and she hobbled along slowly.  

After careful analysis, we determined Madge had indeed broken her leg.  My husband, who in spite of himself is more sensitive than a first grader with a new puppy, suggested taping the injury.  He declared, “If I ran to the store and bought some athletic tape I could tape it so it could heal.”  And that is exactly what he did.  I washed the mud off in the laundry room sink and held the patient close while Ben made careful use of his coach’s training  intended for the world of adolescent sports.  I’m certain the instructor never imagined his knowledge would be applied to a feathered farm animal. 

Into the garden shed Madge went, so she could convalesce in peace, without the harassment from the other girls.

This is only the beginning of Madge’s tale. . .

Even though it was a lot of trouble, I am thankful the hens had to spend a bit of time in the greenhouse.  Ben and I had the opportunity to get to know them and their individual personalities a bit better.  Madge is definitely the friendliest and has to always be right there with you.  The three Rhode Island Reds are a bit stand-offish but Ester did lay an egg right in front of us one day!  Martha and Beth are quiet and non-descript; they don’t seem to mind us but clearly are more interested in humans who come bearing food (especially greens!).

The little slices of country heaven are meant to be used for dress up, crafting, protecting clothes and hearkening back to a simpler, more beautiful time!

A torrent of raging water.

Oh. My. Goodness.  Yesterday the town of Orting and the surrounding area was told to evacuate due to imminent threat from flood waters and/or the possibility of the three bridges leading to town being compromised due to the rising water. 

A new river channel is cut through pasture land.

We’ve had rising waters before.  When you live right on the Puyallup and Carbon Rivers, you get used to high water and threats of danger.  This time the rain was relentless, the weather in the mountains warm (melting the snowpak), and the threat real.  

Our house sits above the old Puyallup riverbed and not far from the current river.  While we are always able to see the levee holding back the waters, we have never before been able to see the waters reaching the top of the levee from our house.  This time, logs and debris floating toward the bridge at breakneck speed were eerily visible, yet the levee held.  Runoff has collected in our backyard (that old riverbed) and spilled over to the field next door.  Luckily, Ben got home in time to rescue the chickens, although they are irritated to be trapped in the greenhouse with nothing to scratch, and the task had to be accomplished in chest waders.  Our neighbors all are fine, as well but everyone was out in force documenting these events. 

The water has receded a bit from this minor levee breach.

There are several things that contribute to the unsettled elements of threatening water: the smell, the sound, and, obviously, the sight.  The smell is not foul, in and of itself; it is the smell of wet earth.  Strong and pungent, it is eerily out of place along the river yet the mud darkened waters carry it forward.  From our house we can hear the rushing water, reminiscent of the ocean’s crashing waves.  Finally, the sight of tremendous trees, uprooted upstream and traveling to the bay underscore the fury and anger that the water demonstrates.  Standing on the footbridge near our house last night, we were startled by the sound of especially large root balls slamming into the bottom of the bridge.  The water was close to the bottom of the decking but the flood crested before touching.

Power, devastation, nature, earth and luck all combined last night.  We are lucky; not everyone fared so well. 

Our Backyard

I do not abide by the “only send a card if we got one from them last year” rule.  I figure people get busy, forget, or maybe even don’t care and they are still just as entitled to this yearly update on the Smith household, such as it is and whether they want it or not.  I find if I somehow miss someone on the list, I definitely receive a card from them that year, asking about Ben’s letter.  It will be interesting to see what he comes up with this year!  No pressure of course!

Perhaps I’ll use these sleigh cards:

www.katiescottage.etsy.com

I guess it’s true. . .a watched pot never boils!