Home-made, Milk Jug Chicken Feeders

We've been feeding our chickens for four years on various pieces of wood with trays of all sorts. It was better than throwing it directly onto the ground, which would partially end up going to waste after the chickens had buried it with all their incessant scratching. I'd eyed those expensive, pricy metal feeders at the feed and animal stores for years, but either didn't have the money or didn't know how or where I'd hang or mount them.

On another brain wave, I'd thought about reusing my gallon milk jugs as bird houses- maybe hanging the handle in back on a suspended line between two trees and cutting a hole in front for bird entry. Well, before I acted upon that idea, an epiphany of sorts happened in my mind and I suddenly imagined that "hole" in the front of the jug being wide enough for a chicken to stick its head in and gobble up some feed resting in the bottom of the jug. That's when I grabbed an empty jug, a sharp knife and started transforming that jug into a chicken feeder! And wee-doggie, it worked!

Here's what you do, and I'll attach a picture to aid with the instructions. Hope it works for you and your chickens too!

Home-made Milk Jug Chicken Feeder

STEP ONE: First, poke sharp knife or scissors into front of jug and cut a square opening leaving enough band on the bottom to fill the jug substantially with feed.

STEP TWO: Second, slice through or cut the bottom part of jug handle in the back of jug creating a handle to slip over a fence wire and hang on fence. I even thought I may paint my jug for fun with colorful outdoor paint, but haven't gotten to that point yet. Have been too excited to just get them out there and use them!

STEP THREE: Hang jug to the desired height on your chicken fence (or on a wire attached to strung across chicken wire) at just the right height for your chickens to comfortably stick their neck in and feed.

STEP FOUR: Have a hoot watching your chickens go to town pecking with their head inside the opening! They absolutely love these feeders and compete for them so be sure to make enough for the whole flock to get their share! ( I have about ten for my 22 chickens, one per two or three chickens is good)

His Blood Shed For Me

It's Thanksgiving Day and I have so much to be thankful for- a loving, supportive husband, beautiful, sweet children. I've had a lot of burdens lately too, which I'm trying not to let cloud my gratitude: the kids being sick on and off for two solid months, a case of lice on my own head brought in probably from the public school (we have yet to find out if one of the kids has it), plus unresolved neck and lower back pain. There're also the feelings of loneliness and isolation from time to time, especially when the children are ill and we can't go anywhere or have anyone over. Such are the sacrifices of Motherhood.

Anyway, the point of this blog was not to complain, neither to spell out all the reasons I'm thankful on Thanksgiving Day. It is to express a sort of sudden epiphany (I think that's the right word to describe it) I had in my garden this morning. I was feeling saddened about not being with extended family on Thanksgiving Day, feeling rejected and alone, plus I was missing my Dad who passed away just early this year. As I was carrying around these heavy loads in my heart, I saw the bright blood-red petals of our Tropical Sage plants laying all over the ground. I had told a friend from church who had bought some of these latter plants that the petals could symbolize Christ's blood shed for us. I had said that knowing it would mean something to her, she being a Christian, but it didn't really touch my own heart- not until this morning. It sunk deep into my heart and brought tears to my eyes. I realized the only cure for my sadness and bitterness was to accept that Jesus loved me so much that he died for me. He knew that I would be down and depressed sometimes, and that I would need to know how much I was loved. As unloved and unworthy as I feel at times, I can be comforted to know that he loved me so much that he shed his blood for me!

This morning, I had tried comforting myself thinking, "Don't be sad. Think of all the things to be grateful for: husband, children, home, friends, etc.", but nothing worked. Only realizing the greatness and unimaginable love God has for me made the bitterness come out and let love flood in. Now my tears are of true Gratitude instead of sadness. In the end, maybe this was about what I'm thankful for on Thanksgiving Day: God's love for me.

A story of a Viceroy Butterfly

This morning, as my kids were darting out the door to get to school, I heard them lingering at the outdoor staircase with excited little comments about something to do with a butterfly. A hurt butterfly, or something? By the time I came to see what the commotion was about, they themselves had figured out what had happened by discovering an empty chrysalis dangling above the weak, struggling butterfly on one of the steps. As I was putting two and two together, I had to tell my youngest son not to handle the butterfly's wings. He thought it was hurt and was, in his own way, trying to pick it up and help it along. He got a smudge on one of its wings, so I thought it may not be able to ever fly. Well, it was time for the kids to run along, but I assured them I'd take good care of it.

After waving the children off, I carefully had the orange and black winged creature climb up on my finger. I had never handled a butterfly before, as they are so hard to catch, so this was like a sacred moment for me. It was a real treat of a morning for me. All of the children away that morning- just me and this wonderful butterfly. Which kind, I didn't know yet, but that didn't matter at this point. My first instinct was to put it on a hibiscus flower, as I'd seen butterflies drink from its nectar often in our garden. But it didn't want to get on it and kept crawling back onto my finger. I felt as though it were like a baby chick who claims the first thing it sees when it hatches for its Mom. I thought to myself, "This butterfly thinks I'm its Mama!" Then, I thought, maybe it would like the tropical sage flowers better, and I was right. It stayed clung onto a few firecracker red petals and moved its wings to dry and sun them. It stayed long enough for me to take pictures, then it stayed almost an hour after that on those same few petals. When I came to check on it later, it flew away, and I was so happy to see that the smudge on its wing didn't keep it from flying.

While it had been sunning and drying out its wings, I had gone inside to identify it in my favorite butterfly book, "The Life Cycles of Butterflies." Right away, I saw it was a Viceroy because of its distinctive horizontal black lines along the two bottom wings. It's often mistaken for the larger Monarch, but these lines give it away for a Viceroy instead. The black body also has pretty white dots on it, also like the Monarch. My book is so cool because it also shows what the butterfly's crysalis looks like, and it was a match for the one it had slipped out of. The only thing that didn't make sense was that the crysalis was not hanging from any host plant that this butterfly is supposed to attach itself to. Oh well, I guess when they're ready to transform, any staircase will do!

Well, that's the end of my butterfly story.

Hen with Bare Back

I couldn't figure out how to put two photos on my blog about George, our naughty, oversexed rooster, so here's another photo of one of our black sexlings hens who is recovering from oversexed bare back syndrome brought on by our now imprisoned George (view previous blog.) As you can see from the photo, and I'm overjoyed to see, her feathers are growing back and she's looking more and more like a happy, healthy hen now that her past abuser is locked up.

Update on George: my son reported to me that George threw up and that it was a big, slimy, stinky wad of something grouse. Maybe he's trying to act all pitiful so we'll let him out. No way, buddy! Won't work! Never in my life of raising chickens have I ever known a chicken to throw up. Maybe he's in despair seeing all the ladies walk past him all day not being able to do anything about it.

George is in prison

I don't have too much time to write. I have my "second wave" of kids coming in a half hour on the bus. My "first wave" is my oldest and youngest at home with me in the morning with my pre-schooler coming home at noon.

Anyway, I've been itchin' to tell the story about our rooster named "George." We received him way back when almost two years ago when we exchanged one of our hens for someone else's rooster, thinking we didn't have one single rooster in our bunch of chosen young chickens. Turns out, once they got a little older, we realized almost half of our chosen bunch had been roosters, so now we had the problem of having too many roosters! (We only needed one to cockle-doodle-doo and do the fun job of fertilizing all the eggs.) We held onto all the roosters for a while, but soon they became aggressive with one another- especially one that also became aggressive with us. He actually beat my husband with its big wings and flew up on the children. He was quite a mean, frightening fellow. The end of him is another blog, let me tell 'ya, but we're talking about George. OK. Back to George. Anyway, long story short, we ate one rooster, then gave away the rest, but carefully chose to keep George. He is an attractive Rhode Island Red rooster, a perfect mating pair for our lovely Rhode Island Red Hen, which a neighbor gave us. We wanted to have pure Rhode Island Red chicks, so we kept George. Thought it was a great decision, but later we regretted it. Turns out, George would end up having an overdose of chicken testosterone and his little pecker wound up a little too tight. He ended up doing his fertilizing job a bit too well, rubbing off the feathers of all our hens backs, especially our "Blondie" white hen, though he did spare his equal Rhode Island Red female counter-part. She, the latter, was too tough for him and wouldn't let him have a land on her. Blondie, on the other hand, was a total wet noodle for him and submitted to him to her own demise. She became scared of him, but instead of getting tough and pecking him away or running away, she would just crouch to the ground and let him have at it. She looked like a half grilled chicken walking around- especially in the hot summer months. You could have just smeared some marinade on her back and let her get nice and aromatic. I felt so horrible for her and tried everything to make her life better, but she wouldn't be saved. First, I tried putting her in a separate area, but the lady kept flying back over the fence to her abuser. She was like an abused woman who would keep going back to her abusive husband! Then I bought a pink dog outfit for her to cover her back and hiney, but her wings wouldn't fit in the leg holes! I gave up on helping her for a while, but then once when my Dad visited, he suggested either roasting George, as he said he wasn't a normal-acting rooster, or putting Blondie out in the yard outside the fenced-in area. Well, I didn't have the heart to roast George, as we're really only raising chickens for their eggs, so we put Blondie out "in the green." She did well for a couple of days, but unfortunately had no safe coop to go into at night. Long story short, she disappeared and that was that. I hate to say I felt relieved. I'd tried to do everything for that gal and nothing had worked.

Well, once Blondie was gone, George had to put his pecker in other places so he continued rubbing the feathers off the backs of other hens. A couple of weeks ago, I finally got so sick of having pitiful looking hens, I asked my daughter, S, to "put him in prison." We had a newly build up area all fenced in all the way up to 8 feet, so now he couldn't fly out. Yeah! My hens are liberated! And it is a joy to see their feathers growing back. Their backs look like ones of a porcupine, but hopefully they'll look normal soon. My son is excited about fattening up George for dinner. He's feeding him an extra portion every day and giggles over it.

George doesn't even know the fate that awaits him. Stay in tune...

In Waiting, Take Two

Today is Sept. 11. As much as I would like to have this baby as soon as possible, the Lord willing, today's date wouldn't be good. My father is visiting, and said if she came today, we'd have to name her "Disaster." Not good. I do feel more "raw" down there today, if I may say so. Yesterday, what I think may have been the "mucus plug" (the "plug" in the cervix during pregnancy) came unplugged while I went to the bathroom. Apparently, labor follows this unplugging within a day or two, which I'm hoping is the case. Let's just wait at least one minute after midnight, OK, baby? so it's Sept. 12.
Funny enough, my Mom just took apart a 2000 piece puzzle of the Twin Towers yesterday, which we'd been trying so hard to finish but gave up. I had taken it out to occupy us indoors during the week long "Fickle Fay" tropical storm, not knowing how impossibly hard it would be to complete it. After doing about 3/4 of it, we got so tired of not having our large round white table, especially having my Mom and Dad as guests, that I gave my Mom permission to pack it up. My nanny, M, who had also invested hours into it, gladly took it and wanted to tackle it on her own. I'm glad it's gone. I had hesitated if I'd wanted to meditate on a disaster just weeks prior to this baby's birth.
I've been trying to take action to speed up this birthing process. Last night, I jogged through the yard with the kids, if you could even call it jogging. It was more like strained walking with pitiful hops. My daughters kept telling me, "Mom, that's not jogging!" Maybe they'll understand one day.
My parents have been here all week anticipating the birth of their third grandaughter, but their time has run out. I've reassured them that their presence here has not been in vain and has been greatly appreciated. They've been so busy cooking, weeding my whole garden, mowing the lawn, playing with the children, and simply giving me nice company, which has been making the time pass by for me alot more quickly. I also simply feel more at ease when other adults are around and don't feel the pressure of full responsibility of the children. That has been a great blessing, especially now that I don't have as much energy as usual to do things with the kids. And quite frankly, the discomfort of my huge belly has made me a bit of a grump at times, so the kids have greatly benefited from having lively, cheery adults around.
Now I'll continue with "Labor Story" Number Two, when my second daughter, J, was born. Several months prior to her due date, we had moved out of our farming village outside of Bern, Switzerland, to a neighborhood closer into town. We were sad to leave our village, where we'd made so many dear friends, but having no car, I couldn't do the shopping on foot or by bike anymore being pregnant with a one year old. With only the first child, it was doable, pushing her three miles round-trip with a load of groceries in my back-pack on the way back, but being pregnant and anticipating another one...nope. We were somewhat settled in by the due date, but we still had boxes all around and certainly had not prepared a baby room. We had an old Swiss antique cradle passed down to us from my husband's family, and that was enough at first.
When I was about to pop and was gettting one new stretch mark a day (I only got them with J), I was examined by my OB, and, as my mid-wife had warned us, he "popped the plug," the "mucus plug," that is. Apparently, he was one of those doctors who liked to have timely births, so he did this to get it on with. I can't say he did it for sure, but that night, when going to the bathroom, I did see a big wad of mucus in the toilet. Is this too disgusting to write in a blog? Oh well, it's just the way it is in this world of having babies! Anyway, the next night, I did go into labor, and boy did I go into labor. Again, as I'd said about the first labor story, those were the days when my uterus was in good shape!
The labor hit hard from the very start at about 1 in the morning, but I just thought I had to go poop really bad. Three times, I got up to go do what I thought was a certain number, but nothing came out, at least not as much as I felt should come out. Then there was blood when I wiped, and then I realized the pressure wasn't a big poop, it was a head trying to come out! Since we still didn't have a car, we'd planned to call a taxi. But first, we had to call our friend from our old village, Julia, to come pick up our daughter, S. When I told her the contractions were already three minutes apart, she said, "WAS?!" (WHAT?!) and said she'd get there right away and take us to the hospital herself. As agonizing as that ride was, I remember the sweet, reassuring feeling it was to hold my daughter, S's, hand the whole ride there. She thought all my moans and groans during contractions were funny, and she giggled and sang and talked the whole way. We checked in, waited a few grueling minutes in the lobby, I got in a wheelchair, but then got out and walked because I couldn't sit down, went up a couple floors in the elevator, and then bent over in pain once out of the elevator. My mid-wife came out and greeted us and urged me to come straight to the birthing room. I told her no and said I couldn't walk, but then she said in a thick Bernese accent, "But Georgia, you don't want to give birth in the hall, do you?!" At that, I mustered all my strength together and walked what seemed a mile to the room. As soon as I arrived, I collapsed over a Pilates ball with my knees on the floor, pushed a couple of times and J was out! From that first onset of labor on the jon to this moment was one hour and 20 minutes! I have yet to beat that record, but don't intend on doing it! Not only had I had a good speedy record so far, I'd also gone all natural. Heck, there'd been no time to do anything else! It's ta ta for now!

"In Waiting"

Here I am in waiting just a day before the official Sept. 10 due date of my sixth child, a baby girl, name to be determined at birth. The German phrase "in Erwartung" (in waiting) so accurately describes what it's really like for a woman to be expecting; it's so much about anticipating, and especially in the last weeks, it just feels like a lot of waiting, waiting, waiting...That's how I feel now. When will my body get over these deceiving little "braxton hicks" (sp?) and finally kick into high gear? When will this greatly anticipated and sometimes dreaded labor begin? When will I be over this humongo belly and feel light as a feather again? When will these little heals stop plowing me up in the ribs? What will our labor story be this time? Where will I and my husband be when the moment comes and when?
As I ponder what this next "labor story" will be, I want to reflect back on our past labor stories with our other children. As I think about how God provided each time for a safe, timely and meaningful delivery, I feel comforted that He will do it again, and that I need not worry.
I remember with our first child, S, I had only had the mini contractions with the rising and hardening of the belly a day or two before the birth. I was all prepared for a romantic labor experience and had a baby journal at my bedside to entry the first feeling of being in labor. At 6 in the morning, I was awoken slowly by what felt to be increasingly painful period cramps. When they became regular, about 7 minutes apart, I picked up the journal and started writing, but as soon as I had a few words down, I tossed the journal down and could only moan and groan on the bed. That morning I learned that romantic writing and labor didn't go hand in hand.
We were living in Switzerland at this time, in a little Swiss farming village outside of the capital, Bern. We couldn't afford a car, especially because of gas prices, so we just prayed we'd have a quick means of transportation, either by our landlord or neighbors or, if nothing else, a taxi. Luckily, the labor had begun early enough in the morning to catch our landlord just before he was about to head off for work in his car. We took his car and he took his motorcycle instead. (So glad it wasn't the other way around!) By the time we were on our way to the hospital, the contractions were only several minutes apart. Three hours later, we had a baby girl! The mid-wife had wanted me to wait a bit longer until I reached full dialation, but at some point my body had shifted into pushing mode and it was like a huge locomotive on automatic that I couldn't stop. Those were the days when my uterus was in fine, strong working order. Now I think my mid-wife in Texas (with my fourth child) was right when she said, "Honey, your uterus is just worn out!") With my last pregnancy and this one, it just seems it won't kick into gear.
Well, that's all for now. The labor stories will continue next time. Just stay in tune! Maybe before then, we'll have our newest labor story, but 'til then, it's waiting, waiting, waiting...