Chicken Talk

Most of our adult lives we have had chickens and like everybody who harbors the fury two legged velociraptors, they provide not only the tall eggs but the numerous poultry stories that can be exchanged over a few beers. Cindy had Densel, the big beautiful black rooster who loved to be held, if not affectionately coddled. He strutted. Unfortunately, Densel was not the cage fighter he needed to be to fend off Colorado's, Bloody Bad Bobcat who apparently fancied him for other purposes.


We had a nice pen of six at the start of the summer. They were most comfortable in their urban compound, very much away from the hustle and bustle of a more dangerous rural setting. The single most viscous predator was the gray squirrel that lived in the big maple. So we thought.

In one of our travels we received a call from the neighborly vegetarian that was looking out for the girls. It seems the coup had a new occupant, another bird that didn't have a seed-eating beak, nor claws for scratching the buggy earth, but rather a notorious raptor, commonly called a chicken hawk. The young, probably Rough Legged Hawk, had found he was capable of killing large chickens but didn't really know what to do with them other than hang out and dispatch them at random. Thus, three docile layers lost there privileged lives.

The wonderful vegetarian caretaker being true to her convictions gave them a nice Christian burial in the garden rather than having about two weeks of endless chicken fricassee and a nice selection of buffalo wings. I would have buried them in my gullet as a gesture of appreciation.



We presently are in the company of three fine surviving hens, two Barred Rocks and an Aricana. In the winter they hunker down and almost hibernate except to aggressively consume huge volumes of grain. The top of the coop is now wire covered, the miserable juvenile Hawk has moved to ravage other urban settings. I wish the bad boy raptors would just stick to miniature Poodles.

Wisconsin Winter Walk

In the afternoon, the stinking rain finally called it quits, but everything outside was soaked to saturation. Even the accumulated snow was nothing but a large slushy, in some cases a yellow slushy. None of it looked worth touching.

Last night the cold returned and in the morning the entire landscape was crispy and displayed a ridgidness. The slight dusting of snow at least removed the wear, hid dog deposits, disguised the dirt roused by the snow blower and shrouded the soggy gloom.


With the new winter feeling in the air, this evening we decided to walk the trail on the north end of the mill pond. The old berm has a packed surface but the rain had created a condition were there was a quarter inch of ice over the old, one inch of snow. The crust was capped by the dusting of light snow. In the woods the new thin ice was over six inches of residual snow, so venturing there was down-right hazardous but the trail passed as fair game. However, each step created a resounding crunch that would have made Dr Zhivago forget about the fur clad Tonya. It was deafening, but at least we had a walk and it wouldn't be across the steppes of Russia.

We passed over the bridge looking for the resident River Otter but apparently the river's gloom bound him to his bankside home. Not a ripple to be seen on the quiet, glassy, untouched, steam, not even a giant Brown Trout lurking. But on the other side of the river, on the edge of a thicket, we found a fresh track of an animal we have yet to identify. We have seen this track before. The beast, of say ten pounds, partially drags its body as it moves through the snow leaving a trough. Here and there a track does show itself. Tonight, I intend on identifying the fellow traveller.

Like us, I suspect he was happy to be out.

Ice on Lakes--A Thing of Beauty

On numerous occasions I have been belittled for ice fishing. Some individuals have referred to it derogatorily as ass-fishing because of the habit of fisherpersons sitting for log hours on a lonely bucket on some hazy, frozen lake in sub-zero weather. Flatly, they think it is stupid and mention the words "ice-fishing" in a not so quiet disdain. I have seem others hold their fingers to their heads indicating the letter "L" as if to subtlely imply loser.

However, ice fishing is a quiet, zen-like experience and is most fitting for those who are at peace with themselves. We see ourselves as enlightened, the ones filled with the simple pleasures of knowing our place in life, of feeling the intensity in waiting and patience.

But in addition to being so obviously spiritual, it also boasts the shear excitement of the catch. Yesterday, Jim Treb and I ventured out to Spring Lake to spend a pleasant afternoon savoring the crisp and wintry air, all the while listening to the wild goose frolic in the unfrozen river and watch the Bald Eagle peruse the lowlands for a delicate meal of dead rotting fish or dismembered possum.

Then it happened, Jim threw a momentary glance to his tip-up to the east, and as he did, the flag flashed skyward, indicating, that at that very moment, there had been a clash of aquatic life. A giant Northern Pike had eaten his struggling minnow. Jim slowly, but cautiously set down his Miller lite, and stealthfully worked his way to the now moving tip-up. It was a tense moment. His first steps were well thought out and deliberately not placed in rapid succession for fear of alerting the bite of the mighty fish. The reel spun with a deliberate intention. Jim, now gloveless, reached into sub-zero water and grabbed the line. In a flash he struck the fish. The fight was on.

He for a moment struggled to hold as the water wolf ripped out the line through his numbing fingers. But like the fisherman he is, he held and slowly worked the angry and viscious fish to the ice hole much like the Yu'pik Eskimos. In a last gallant moment, Jim brought the fish up into the frigid air. His hands were close to frost bite but on his face there was a certain satisfaction knowing he had carried the day. He was a fisherman.

Never, ever tell me ice-fishing is not exciting and at the same time introspective and enlightening. He measured the fish at 25 inches and returned it to the Lake unharmed. It was too small.

Wisconsin Contraptions

I am a fan of contraptions. The ones that really get my attentions are those of power and those of beauty and function combined.

Today, I will take the latter. In the picture you will notice the rather intricite device with the pully wheels. This contraption was used to move hay in a barn. It was mounted on a rail so it could be moved across the barn celing. From the attached ropes it was connected to the U shapped metal device that was dropped into the hay stack in the barn. When the rope was pulled up a tooth on each side of the U protruded in to the hay and made it possible to lift the bundle and then slide it across to the hay shoot which lead to hungry cows down below.

What I like most was the decorative roller and pully portion. It also swiveles and is down right ingenious. Mind you, this unit was used prior to bailed hay. The dried fodder was gathered from the field and plopped in the hay mow. If the hay was too green the chances of spontanious combustion did exist and the barn could be lost.

Mike the antique dealer tells me they sell nicely for a kitchen device to hold pots and pans---might need a little cleaning but hay? (I mean, like cool.)

Missionary's Position

Oh boy. Here is a new article I cut from the Madison paper. Now mind you these things are barely papers in the classic sense because the internet is far more comprehensive than these miserable rags they still call newspapers.

However, this is of note because of the topic. It seems China has passed the good old US of A as the biggest market of automobiles. At first thought, one might say, "Wow, that means there are all these new markets for the wheels of industry".

It stated that it was thought that this would not happen until 2025 but bingo--this year. In their judgement this dubious accolade would go back and for from the USA to China for a number of years with the 12-13 million units being sold in each country. As they used to say in Colorado, "I tell you what, I think we got a problem here. "

It would seem to me that fuel for these autos is a finite resource that, by many accounts, seems to have peaked in production back in May of 2005. Might there be a commodity availability issue on the horizon. Just where do they think they are going to get more and more fuel for all these vehicles? I mean, a year ago the 13 million Chinese that just bought their first car were walking or bicycling. There is just something here that doesn't add up---or is it me? Do you suppose this will impact emissions? Like, why should I cut back on my use of fossil fuel? Might as well just buy a big board and ride the wave. Then, in the end I suspect we may all have to cut back on consumption----voluntarily or by mandate.

Revolution Watch

Just today some official made the announcement that students at the U.of W in Point should make an effort to graduate early as a way of saving money and free up space for other students. On the surface that doesn't seem too bad but in my day one did everything one could to stay in school as long as possible to have fun. My bill at the end of 5 years was $500. This guy said by leaving a year earlier a student might save $15K. Man, it ain't the same.

Why go into the real world? By going fast you just have to work harder and then get out in the job market and not find one. Talk about a drop in the standard of living. Lose one more year of nonstop fun! Hell, in a couple of years they will be telling people not to come at all. Oops. That might be true.

In the Kitchen. A Reflection

Well, it got frigging cold. While I find this on one hand alarming, on the other hand it is an opportunity. I can sit around and feel sorry for myself, maybe wet my paints, maybe bitch, hide in the corner whimpering like a girly man or I can embrace the day----sorta of a sub-zero carpe diem thing. I still may wet my paints but there are drugs for that and there is also beer, which in a couple of hours I intend on embracing with gusto if not elan. What does that word mean?

Better yet, we decided to bring back the summer. To do this we rounded up fresh produce from the garden which we now have stored in buckets scattered around the house. They are scattered because we are trying to find the perfect cool spot. Some are up in the upstairs bedroom that is now down to about 42 degrees (according to Gayle), another is in the basement at 50 degrees and one more is in Ann's studio at 55 degrees. The carrots, beets, rutabagas and parsnips are tucked comfortably in maple leaves feeling like Russians on the tundra.

A nice assortment has been extracted from the studio and prepared by cleaning, scrapping and cutting. They might have been a little warm because they are sprouting just a touch. Still, they are looooking good. In addition, potatoes were added choosing smaller firm ones for Julia Childs style texture and appearance.

To top it all off, we included a nice cut of chopped venison that was secured last year when it was dispatched due to unanticipated, unintended vehicular contacted. With a pleasant ensemble of spices, the entire composition was plopped on the wood-burning cook stove and allowed to rest and work for a few hours. I love the cold because it makes the warm soooo good.

The Wood Pile--Providing Heat

Years ago when I was making my first wood pile, Billy Bandt told me that wood was particularly wonderful because it heated a person many times. It wasn't just the heat that came form the burning. Now, he was a man I truely admired, and he owned a saw mill, so I knew he had to be right even if he did have a twinkle in his eye.

He watched me hack away with the maul and then said, "See how warm you are getting." I'm sure I grinned and got his drift. Then in great western style he offered up more backwoods heat related information. "Now when you cut it down you also got warm, you hauled to the truck, and unloaded it here, the entire time getting warm from a little work." I'm sure knowing Billy and him thinking I was a hippy also was considering, and may have said, that in my case it may have not been "that" much work.

With more pondering, I also learned that I had to haul it into the house and get it in the fire. Then the ashes had to be trucked out to the garden all the while heating me up.

What I liked most was him enjoying the moment, standing there just watching and grinning, hands in his pocket thinking that we were young and stupid. He loved his wisdom and being able to share it. Such a simple thing but so wonderful.

I never forgot that day and still love the many forms of heat generated by wood. The pile of split is a reminder, it is a thing of beauty, that represents Billy and the effort that goes into it. Actually, Billy was another form of warmth.