OUR FIRST YEAR ON JACKSON RUN
The following article was published in the February issue of the
New Mat Top Hat.
A year ago we arrived at our new home in the woods at Jackson Run.
We'd endured five long days caravan-ing across the country in the
middle of winter, with everything we owned packed into a U-Haul
truck, a utility trailer, and my husband's travel trailer (that we couldn't persuade anybody to buy before we left). He and I and the
dog were sandwiched into a sardine can of a car, our Chevy
Cavalier, with barely enough room for the concentrator that he'd
wired up to the car's electrical system, so he could breathe his
oxygen for 2,000 miles.
The trip would not have been possible except for those two angels,
my stepsons, who came out to Colorado in mid-January and packed us
up to move us East. The high altitude wasn't helping my ill
husband, who could do little more than sleep. Getting him to a
lower altitude and closer to his relatives and sons was my
motivation for being uprooted from the home I'd come to love for
nearly three decades.
A lot of people have asked, "But why New Matamoras?" Well, for
years I'd been hearing how beautiful Wayne National Forest was,
and how it might be nice to return to the old hunting grounds the
Miller clan visited each year around Thanksgiving time. When I
started scouting for homes for sale on the World Wide Web, the
place on Jackson Run popped up on my computer screen. As soon as
he heard "Jackson Run," my husband's ears perked up.
Late in September 2006, we headed for Ohio -- he, the dog and I --
sandwiched in the same sardine can of a Chevy -- with the wired-in
oxygen concentrator hissing and buzzing away in the back seat. The
trunk was filled with a dozen E-tanks (those cylindrical O2
containers that resemble bombs).
We looked at the place on October 1st, and didn't bother to look
at any other property. When we returned to Colorado, we
immediately put our mountain retreat up for sale, but it was a
declining market and we were concerned that time would run out on
the contract we d signed for the new home. However, by early
December we had hooked a buyer, and by the end of January, I said
goodbye to my mountains, my friends, and my job at the
environmental newspaper.
The journey in January was grueling. Temperatures plunged to
subzero by the time we reached Missouri (that's Mizz-err-yy!),
and I was grateful at that point that I had been forced to leave
eight of my chickens behind, because I think they would have
frozen to death in the back of that truck. As it turned out, the
friend I gave my chickens to had the misfortune of her barn
catching fire that same weekend... and my chickens were history.
Doomed! I don't know which is worse... freezing to death, or
turning into fried chicken. It's a good thing I gave all my
beautiful plants away, too. I had selfishly stowed a treasured
Christmas cactus in the travel trailer, but it did not survive the
harsh cold.
My husband's 1986 F-250 truck, which was pulling the travel
trailer, died on I-70 outside Indianapolis that last morning. Our
caravan was forced to a halt. For two hours we waited in the
frigid morning rush-hour for the tow truck. I remember I had to
keep revving the Chevy's motor, to keep the oxygen concentrator
from going into "Red Alert," which translates into this
terrorizing shriek of an alarm that goes off every time the power
fails. After two hours, that really got on my nerves.
By noon, the tow company had agreed to haul both truck and travel
trailer all of 300 miles to New Matamoras. The kids followed them,
and the three of us in the sardine can made it to Marietta right
before the title company closed its doors, just in time to sign
the new house papers.
Jackson Run was a welcome destination when we finally got here.
The woods were gorgeous with the new snow, and I was delighted
with our new home and the resident male cardinal, who made his
introduction by pecking at my hexagonal bathroom window. It wasn't
long before I had my bird feeder unpacked and suspended on the
front porch to attract those wintry feathered folks. I knew I was
in for an unimaginable spring of birding pleasure. I had lost my
million-dollar mountain vista, but in its place were dozens of
bird species I was looking forward to getting reacquainted with.
When I had left the Midwest in 1978, the thing I regretted most
was leaving behind the diversity of Eastern songbirds. In the West
you just don't have the birds that you have here.
Fast-forward several months... We were now well into springtime,
with summer right around the corner. I was reminded about the
thing in my past called "Humidity"! Recollections from childhood
of sweltering days and humid, uncomfortable July nights, trying to
sleep without air conditioning... Suddenly, I was changing clothes
three or four times a day, and doing my Jazzercise early, before
the house got unbearable. We were afraid to turn on the AC,
because we d heard that electric bills shoot up faster than
fireworks as soon as you turn that dial. The heat made those
chilly February mornings suddenly desirable memories.
No longer having a job, I craved something to be responsible for
once again. I decided to order baby chicks and start a flock of
chickens on Jackson Run. For one thing, we really missed those
delicious farm fresh eggs we had back in Colorado. Once you've had
a taste of a free-range egg, you turn into a regular "egg snob"
and poo-poo those sorry white factory eggs sold in the grocery
stores. Not only are they tastier and fresher, but the yolks are a
deeper orange in color than mass-produced eggs.
But before I could have chicks, that meant we had to build a
chicken house, and when it comes to construction, pounding a nail
into a piece of wood is sort of like my husband trying to use the
keyboard on my computer. In other words... well, never mind... you
get the picture. I once made the mistake of letting my husband get
on my computer to surf the Internet, and when I came back into the
room, he had clicked on every icon and opened every single
dialogue box that beckoned to him. My whole screen had changed and
my hard drive was begging for mercy! He has not been allowed near
the computer since.
In mid-June, one of the angel stepsons had several days of work
off and volunteered to build the chicken house for us. He spent
several days, in the hottest part of June, putting up some shed
kit we had bought on sale at the lumber yard. I don't know how he
ever managed to figure out how to put that blasted thing together,
because the manual was about as worthless as a pair of sunglasses
on a moonless night. But he was out there every morning, at sun
up, working on the chicken house, and he'd work until it got dark.
Within five days we had a structure with a roof... and just in
time, because the hatchlings arrived the last week in June.
One advantage to having new chicks in the heat of summer is that
you don't need to keep a heat lamp running over the brooder except
at night. The babies thrived and grew into cute and fluffy
pullets. I had specifically ordered and paid for one Araucana
rooster. The hatchery must have had a sense of humor, because I
found myself with not one, but five cockerels. This usually doesn't
become apparent until the birds are several weeks old, and by then
I'd started pinning names on them and gotten attached, animal
lover that I am. My husband told me five roosters were too many.
We'd have to eat four of them. "Eat!" Did he say EAT them? Oh, no
way!
Autumn came and I allowed the chickens to free range, but not
without trepidation. Since our property is surrounded by woods, I
expected predators to come in droves. We d had many predators in
Colorado, mostly bobcats, coyotes, hawks and stray dogs. However,
nothing came around to bother these chickens. I lock them into
their house at night, and most the time they voluntarily go in
when it starts getting late. Our dog loves to herd them, and if
there's a stray hen who's past "curfew," Ranger's right on her,
prodding her with his nose toward the chicken house door.
By Thanksgiving time we had our first eggs from the chickens, with
the Araucanas laying in early December. It was also time to deal
with the rooster problem. The males had the ladies in a constant
state of alarm. The roosters would gang up on the females, and
when one hen got "caught," they'd all have to have a turn with
her. It became a blood battle, to the point where I was afraid I
would have to do battle myself. Our kind neighbor, Fred Miller,
was concerned about the problem I had and found another neighbor
willing to take the roosters I didn't want.
Oh, it was a happy day for the ladies when Mr. Valentine
arrived with his pickup truck and the cage. I had been
deliberating as to which rooster to keep. I loved them all. Sir
Charles was so princely with his golden mane of feathers, but he
was the roughest on the hens. The Araucana I had "purchased" was a wuss. I finally decided to keep
"Model T," the Spotted Sussex. His
name is "Model T" because when I first heard him crow, it was a
very poor imitation of the old Ford Model T's horn... you know,
the "Ah-ooo-ga!" I had to laugh when I heard it. I probably
gave that rooster an inferiority complex. Model T is a big
rooster, but he's dark red, beautiful and well-mannered, and the
ladies respect him. The day after his buddies left, though, his
head was hanging low. He probably wondered what had gotten those
pals of his... and now, what was he going to do with all these
girls to himself? He was one humbled bird.
Now that we've celebrated our first anniversary in our new home,
I'm glad to have chickens again, and happy to be contributing to
the community by providing several dozen of the eggs each week to
Matamoras Hardware. My girls are happy birds, from what I can see.
They love getting out in the sunshine and scratching at the ground
and dead leaves in the woods. Whenever they see me, they come
running to see what "treats" I've brought from the kitchen scraps.
Some of them even let me pet them. I only wish there was a better
way to keep them off the front porch. They'd come inside if we let
them. But, oh well... the world would be a sorry place without
animals and woods and birds... which reminds me, spring is coming
and bird fever is about to hit Jackson Run! Stay tuned...
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