Chicken Coax

Go out and play in the snow . . . don't be a chicken!

Warm Chicken

It particularly touches my heart when people find it in their own hearts to care for the very least of us:  the animals.

Some of the animals most in need of help are the battery hens. The ones who have probably made your breakfast a time or two . . . or twenty.  

A battery hen is a hen that has been kept in a large egg-production factory farm all her life.  Their quarters are so tight and the conditions are so poor for these poor dears, they are often deprived of darkness (and therefore valuable rest) and even room to move.  And once these hens fail to produce eggs at their maximum rate, they are typically destroyed.  Quite a sad little life. 

The good news is, there are incredible human beings out there who rescue and rehome these hens.

Little Hen Rescue in the U.K. is one such collection of awesome human beings.

They take these hens from the battery farms and organize to find new, happy homes for them.

If you have it in your heart, you might consider adopting a few ex-battery hens.  How rewarding it must be to watch them roam free in the sunshine for the very first time. 

Perhaps you would like to help in another way, .  The way I have chosen to help in the past is to knit up some little hen jumpers.  That's right, chicken sweaters!  It's not as silly as it sounds.  Most ex-battery hens suffer from some degree of featherlessness.  When they are removed from their tight conditions, they are bald and cold -- having become accustomed to sharing the body heat of their neighboring hens.  While they regrow their feathers, they are helped by wearing a little sweater to help keep warm and secure.

Now how cute is that . . . 

If you're interested, you can find patterns for knitters and seamstresses here.  Just whip one up and send it to the address they have listed on their page.  I bet you can't make just one!

Decency and good deeds abound . . . if you only look for them.

 

And The Clucks Have It!

WE WON!!

Chickens remain legal in my city!

It was a beautiful thing to watch. It was a unanimous decision. All five council members spoke and once they had finished, our argument had been reiterated and agreed with in total and our petty neighbors had been scolded.

The defeated neighbor left the meeting room in a huff before he could congratulate us.

 

Thanks to all who lent their support along the way.  It certainly helped propel us.

Chicken Fight: Final Round

Well, tonight's the night . . . but not in the way Rod Stewart meant.

Tonight is the night the City Council will debate and vote on the proposed chicken ban in our city. 

All letters have been filed.

Petitions have been foraged.  (okay, maybe not foraged, but I suspect the signors are not real)

Pleas have been made.

I have to tell you. . . we have really debated even going.  I don't know how much longer I can be nice and sit there and stand in line to pretend to beg humbly to do what I want on my own darned property. 

It is not against the law.

It is not hurting anyone.   

And who are these five people who may decide that it is anyway?! 

I feel a Norma Ray moment coming on if they don't knock it off soon.

Eggducation

As you know, my family has been in the middle of a neighborhood controversy over keeping our chickens.  (If you need background, please see Chicken Fight and Chicken Fights On.)  As our neighbor lobbies the City to disallow chickens in the city, we have been conducting our own charm offensive on behalf of chickens everywhere.

This past Friday, we ran a little lemonade stand in our front yard and, along with the free lemonade, we also gave away some eggs from our lovely hens.  We wanted to share with our neighbors the benefits of having such efficient and generous little beings amidst them.

We never realized the learning curve we would face.

We had several -- several! -- neighbors look quizzically at the eggs and ask us how to make them.  When we dismissed their silly question with a flippant answer, "like any eggs," the situation grew more alarming.  "But how?  I only know how to make the ones from the store."

"So I should boil them?" one said while holding the eggs with a fully-extended arm. 


I fought back my incredulity and explained that these are exactly like the eggs they buy at the store, except that they come from healthier, happier chickens.  I reminded them that they could bake with them or scramble them, poach them, whatever.  Still, at least 3 neighbors left holding the eggs at a distance from their bodies, not sure what they would do with them.

Others asked what flavor the green ones were. 

Really.  

It was then that we realized we had a long way to go on behalf of city chickens.

 

Chicken Fights On

The saga continues.

Last Monday, when we returned home after the city council meeting, there was a message on our answering machine from a reporter for the local paper. He had been watching the proceedings on television and now felt compelled to write a feature on it. He wanted to come out the next morning -- at dawn -- to get some pictures of the chickens, their coop, and our family.

Now. You chicken owners who are experiencing the end of winter know, things are not in tip-top shape out there right now. They are, of course, good enough to keep the chickens happy and healthy, but to someone with a critical eye, it might not be idyllic. So I, my husband, and my son were up and out there before dawn cleaning and sprucing up. The hens slept right through it. (Try that with a dog!)

The sun came up, the reporter came, and took many pictures and asked many questions. By the time he'd left, he'd been charmed, a bit, by the lovely little girls eating out of my kids' hands and seemingly posing for pictures. As he left, we teased and chided that he should write an opinion piece (in favor of city chickens). He explained that he just may do that, if and when the city would find against keeping chickens.

The paper arrived last evening. The front page sports a huge picture of my son feeding the chickens:

 Now, who can resent this?

As thrilling as it was to see our story on the front page, I can't believe how things are so quickly getting big and loud and out of control.  

Anyway, my next step is to research the impact of chicken keeping on property values of neighboring properties.  We have 10 days to submit additional items to be considered in this matter.  I intend to do just that.

But the thing that keeps ringing in my head is the right of the individual.  I am not breaking any laws, rules, or regulations.  There are no neighborhood rules against this.  I happen to have on obsessive neighbor who has been mad at me for years.  And so I am put in the position of having to beg and plead for the ability to do what I want on my property.  

My property.  

Chicken Fight

Do you realize I am intolerable?  Yes, yes.  And I am single-handedly wrecking home values and bringing disease to millions.  And I'm just generally icky.  Yes, you wouldn't believe the things I do.   

I . . . I . . . keep chickens. 

Last night, we attended a city council hearing on the keeping of chickens in my city. Currently, up to six hens are allowed, no roosters. Apparently, all it takes is one ridiculous citizen.  (No, not me.)  

My ridiculous, complaining neighbor found a couple of realtors to come to the hearing with her. They stood up and spoke about how backyard chickens will diminish home values and, therefore, should be banned. My neighbor, herself, waxed hysterical about salmonella run-off from our property, rabid animals being attracted, and just general "ickiness."

My husband and I sat there waiting to speak, feeling defeated and mischaracterized. Then, one by one, people began to file into the hearing room. First, a woman carrying an egg carton. Then someone with a basket full of eggs. Then a mother and son, both wearing bright yellow shirts saying: Poultry Club. Slowly, these people filled up the room. When it came time to speak, they formed a line behind the podium and took turns speaking for the next 90 minutes. We spoke as well. It was heartening to see so many people there to support us and the concept of pet chickens. The council will make their decision next month.

Either way, we will be able to keep our chickens due to a grandfathering clause. But that's not the point.

Whatever happened to "live and let live?" Whatever happened to neighborliness? How about kindness? What about tolerance? Or is that reserved only for the most violent among us?

One woman displayed a painting by her teenage son and read his accompanying poem. And then she expressed my sentiments perfectly. "We're all different. Of course we're going to step on each other's toes sometimes. Of course there is going to be something about me that may make your eyes roll. But we're all people. We live together and we live life together. Our differences are what make life interesting. Let's stop trying to make everyone the same."

I don't know what is becoming of the traditional individual. It seems to me we are all for diversity when it involves something very new, something never before tolerated, and that's great. But where is the tolerance for the more traditional among us? It seems those people are being asked to give over the things we most enjoy and hold dear and that ask far less of society in general.

Chickens? Chickens as pets? That's where we draw the line, I guess.

I would be discouraged, but for the amazing support of our local poultry club. They were prepared, eloquent, and impressive. Chicken keepers . . . articulate. Who'da thunk it?

She also regularly complains about laundry being hung out on the line.

Just try to take my clothespins, Honey!

Violet Escape

Darkness came suddenly last night.

It may have had something to do with the math homework my daughter insisted she did not have or her sudden amnesia on how to spell just about anything. It may have also had something to do with the report my son left until the last minute. We had to eat dinner on our laps last evening as the kitchen table was covered with his poster, glue, scissors, and other various paraphernalia that a fourth grader needs to make a poster about weather disasters.

Once we'd finished eating, it came to us: The Chickens!

When I opened the door to their run earlier that afternoon, they over-powered me. I was nearly trampled by four eager, sunlight-and-freedom-deprived chickens. They just came rolling out like bowling balls one after the other, not about to be turned around. There was no stopping them. When I saw how happy they were to be running sideways and scratching around the yard, I decided to leave them out to roam free for a while. I left the dog out with them to ward off any hawks.

At some point, somehow, the dog made it back inside without my consent. He is refusing to answer questions.

My husband went out to round up the chickens and found them asleep, in a heap, on the bench. The doors to their coop had blown shut. They looked so funny all piled up. We took a picture (which didn't turn out because it was dark) and then speculated that Violet, the littlest chicken, must be on the very bottom -- always her favorite spot.

We began dismantling the the feathery mound: First, Crocus; then, Daisy, and then Daffodil. They were all sound asleep, barely aware of being moved into their coop. But there was no Violet. The littlest chicken was not in her usual spot at the bottom of the pile, "under all the covers." Not good.

Soon, a full-fledged search was underway. Even the fourth grader was allowed to leave his post -- the kitchen table -- and take up a flashlight to join the search for our little bantam Seabright.

 Here's the little offender last fall (and the fourth grader, too).

Even Crocus, the queen chicken, was out in her enclosed run, watching, unsettled.  She's such a good "mama chicken."  

Violet is a character. She is a needy little girl while at the same time being of her own mind. When all the other girls run to catch the spillage when I feed my pigeons, Violet hangs back and waits -- the only one to realize that they get new food right after I feed the pigeons. She also knows where the winter bird feeders are and always cleans up under them for us. None of her sisters are on to this information. But come bedtime, Violet -- ever the dainty little girl -- makes her bed under big, fluffy, cochin Daisy. They agreed on this arrangement back when they were chicks. Violet always sleeps under Daisy. So when nightfall came and Violet was not with her sisters, we were extremely worried.

We looked everywhere. My husband turned over every bench, every table. My son checked through all the foliage, all the vines. My daughter was stripped of her Halloween flashlight that makes an evil laughing sound and sent in the house for repeatedly activating the sound-effect and impeding our listening for any sound from Violet. We all participated in our own way.

Nothing.

Eventually, we had to come back inside. My son had to finish his poster. My daughter had to go to bed. Once both kids were in bed, my husband went out to look again. Crocus was still out, keeping vigil.  But no Violet.  Eventually, we had to go to bed. We told ourselves she must have squeezed under the deck behind the lattice; she would be safe for the night. It took us over an hour to convince ourselves of this unlikelihood so that we could drift off to sleep.

My husband awoke before sunrise and convinced me to head back outside with him. He reasoned we should be out there when daylight broke so we could help her out of whatever situation she had gotten into before she panicked. I was not so optimistic, but I went with him.

We came outside.  Crocus was still out, but standing now and speaking in a quiet, unusual voice.   Then we heard a faint, distressed little chicken voice. Violet!

She had gotten herself up in the neighbor's tree! Poor little thing must have been 15 feet off the ground. The best we can figure, she hopped onto the bench, then to the potting bench, then to the fence, then onto the neighbor's playhouse (which is irksomely close to our fence!), and then a quick flutter into the tree. Poor little girl was out there all alone all night long.

We awoke our resident tree climber -- fourth graders come in awfully handy sometimes, as do fathers who can hoist them over the fence -- who got as close as he could in the tree and tried to coax her toward him. Poor, nervous Violet didn't seem to know what to do or how to get down. Eventually, she flew down in my husband's direction. He scooped her up and returned her to her sisters.

What a night. What a relief!

I had thought we'd lost little Violet for good. Now she's back with her sisters, eating and squawking . . . and SO grounded!

Green Eggs and . . . Chicken?

Did you know yesterday was Ted Geisel's birthday?  That he would have been 106??  I wouldn't have known either, had Sheila over at My Empty Nest is Full of Cat Hair (how can you not love that title?) not told me yesterday.

Still not ringing a bell?  Try this:

Ah, there we go!  Yes, Dr. Seuss, himself.  Upon reading Sheila's post, I reflected momentarily on reading The Cat in the Hat to my kids.  How they would laugh and laugh, and what pure joy it was to read aloud due to its brilliant rhythm.  I smiled inside and then . . .

I went about my busy day. . .

And you won't believe what came my way!

Did you know I have a hen who looks like The Cat in the Hat?

Well, except with a beak and without the big hat.

Here, have a look,

At this queer-looking chook:

 

Well, I went out to visit

This great little Wizzit,

And would you believe it?

That's when I spied it!

There it was all a'wash in a sheen,

The so-written-of egg that really is green!

This was her first one, this egg so, so keen.

My hen, Dr. Seuss, most surely did glean.

Wordless Wednesday (something quite new for me!)

Bless the Beasts

Today is the Feast of St. Francis, so all the little animals are front and center in my heart today.

I don't know about you, but I don't know what I would be without my pets.  Sure, I would still be a wife and a mother and a daughter and all that, but my pets, without fail, fulfill that certain little need in my heart to tend to something totally helpless, totally dependent upon me, without any expectations. 

I get so much satisfaction I out of caring for my pets -- and without expectation of anything in return.  It's different than raising children.  You slowly teach them to become more independent and self-sufficient and, without really realizing it, you are preparing them to live without you one day.  With pets, it's different.  I wil keep my pets with me until their dying day.  I don't teach them to strive for anything or expect really anything from them.  I can just accept them, and enjoy them, for who they are and revel in their uniqueness, their needs, and their care. 

I love to care and fuss over my sweet, little Lester.  She's the moodiest little bird, and some days I am her best buddy and other days she wants little to do with me . . . other than to be let her free of her nighttime cage and roam the house, bathing in the dog's water and perching on a sunny windowsill.  Here she is, perched just over my shoulder when I saw last sick.

And I love to tend to my pigeons outback.  My husband built them the loveliest coop and aviary this summer and when we moved them in, they behaved like giddy little honeymooners.  I can see them from my computer desk now and just a moment watching them restores my soul and brings me joy. 

And then there are the chickens.  I've written about them before.  Having them out back is like having four very eccentric little ladies living right in our backyard.  They have distinct personalities, but are equally interesting and fun.  And when they reward us with eggs, they seem especially proud.

My son has his little creepy-crawlies like the worm farm in the basement and his collection of land snails and a herd (decidedly not the scientific term) of Chinese fire-bellied newts, and, while I haven't bonded with them personally, I love them, too, for the joy and hours of entertainment they bring my son. 

We have a couple budgerigars who are pretty low key, low maintenance, and unto their own.  And we caught a parakeet who was flying wild when he shouldn't have been, and he has rewarded us with . . . well, hmmm . . . we're still looking for his redeeming quality.  To say he would serve as a good wood-chipper, the way he bites, is an understatement. 

(That's him on the right. . . no fingers in the cage!)

My son won a goldfish this year at the fair, as I wrote about previously.  Ferris is a happy little fish and easy to care for.  I have a betta who is beautiful and keeps me company on the kitchen windowsill.  Due to his location, I named him Olive Oil.  This galls my son because he is a male.  I enjoy that. 

And then there's the dog.  Our sweet little dog.  He is gentle and patient beyond all measure, and I should strive to be more like him.  He could use the help running off all the uppity cats in our neighborhood. 

So today was the blessing of the animals at our parish.  We rounded up a sampling of our menagerie and brought them for blessing.  How funny we must have looked with various cages, crates, and containers.  (Everyone else looked quite reasonable with one dog per family.)

How blessed I felt as we all drove home to the tune of a scratching chicken, a cooing dove, sloshing water, and a whining dog.  Such bounty.

Summer: Now You See It, Then You Won't

Well, it's almost here.

Labor Day Weekend.

For anyone who may not be familiar, it is the day the U.S. takes off of work to celebrate . . . well, work.  That's the official story.  The unofficial story:  This is the weekend when we all take one last look around, say goodbye to summer and welcome fall.  It is the weekend, in my house, at least, in which we literally morph from summer to fall.  No equinox business needed in this house; we go by the calendar.  Right now, Friday afternoon, it's still summer.  Come Monday evening, it will be fall.  Today, at the grocery store, watermelon seemed like a possibility.  Come Tuesday, watermelon will seem out of season and squash will be front and center.  It happens that fast, for me anyway. 

We never travel or have any big plans for Labor Day weekend.  It's just too close to school or, as is the case this year, school actually has begun.  So we'll kick around the house, cleaning up the yard, clearing the deck of all the little things that have accumulated there over the summer:  my son's portable greenhouse, my husband's outdoor extension cord, my decorative birdcage out there awaiting a hosing off, and my daughter's rock collection.  We'll put away the extra lawn furniture, leaving just enough for us -- visitors won't be sitting out back anymore this year.  We'll be dumping out containers of annuals and stopping my son from sneaking them all inside to be raised (so he thinks) as houseplants.

I'll get my husband to restring my laundry line.  It snapped the other day just as I got all the kids' school uniform slacks hung out.  Not a good morning.  Nothing more fun that going back out, not more than 5 minutes after hanging it all, to pick the currently wet and formerly clean laundry out of the mulch and bare dirt (yard renovations continue), and fire them right back in the wash machine.  No, not good.  

Then, hopefully, we'll finish the roof on the chicken coop.  Yes, it is possible, the coop -- the essentials of it, at least -- COULD maybe, MIGHT maybe, POSSIBLY hopefully be finished this weekend.  This is the very last of it other than little cutesy things that we will do as the spirit moves us.  I can't believe it will finally be finished.  It looks great.  I will share photos with you all when it's done.  That could be as early as Tuesday!

Let's see, what else . . .

Grilling.  We always grill a lot over Labor Day weekend.  I think we'll start out easy tonight and just do hamburgers and french fries.

So, reading this through, it strikes me as a lot of work for not working.  Hmmmm . . .

I guess it's a lot of work changing seasons all in one weekend.

The Girls in My Backyard

Fair Warning:  This is a long post . . . grab a cuppa; a glassa; a bowla; and hopefully you're in the mood for a read . . .

Due to this past weekend's hatchings . . . er, happenings, I thought it might be time to formally introduce you to the girls.  We got four chicks this past spring.  They came in the mail.  Well?  What's a city girl to do when her family decides to keep chickens as pets and one of us -- okay, me -- just HAS to have a cochin (You'll see why in a minute.)?  Order them online, of course!  Reason #714 why I love the internet.

So it was a late winter Sunday afternoon when the family grabbed a mug of hot chocolate and gathered 'round the ole laptop.  We clicked through pictures and descriptions of numerous chicken breeds.  After a few minutes, the 5 year old wandered off, finding her storybooks more interesting than selecting a chicken, so she lost her vote.  It made complete sense to me that I get her vote, so I chose two.  My husband chose one, and my son chose one.  That makes four precious little chicks, handpicked by us.

My husband, being the ever-practical male, chose a very plain, reliable, utilitarian chicken:  a hybrid black star.  My son, seduced by the name, selected an Easter egger -- he remains in utter suspense to find out what color eggs she will lay . . . it could be anything, he's hoping for pink.  I chose a cochin.  Cochins are the types with the feathers all the way down their legs, even covering their feet.  She is like a walking, clucking teddy bear.  And I used the forfeited vote to choose a little bantam (mini) chicken, a seabright, just for fun.  I thought the big chickens would like to have a little chicken of their own -- sort of a pet for the chickens themselves.

In anticipation of spring, we named them all after spring flowers:  Daisy, Daffodil, Violet, and Crocus.  We chose "Crocus" for my husband's chicken because she promised to be not quite as decorative as the others and we thought the word "Crocus" was much the same way, less pretty sounding.  My son claimed "Daffodil" for his chicken, and "Violet" seemed to fit the tiniest one.  Daisy, I'm afraid, got her name by default, but it turns out to fit her perfectly.

They arrived right on time -- the Monday after Easter -- and have been a large part of our family ever since.  They are only 4 months old, but they look almost like full-grown chickens now and they have quite distinct personalities.

Crocus is the typical "plain girl with a nice personality."  She is the most social and most tolerant (as tested by our ever-enthusiastic children).  She is the first one to volunteer to be picked up and is always willing to go for a ride in the wagon.  She seems to speak for the others -- letting us know when the food is low (or just not what they're in the mood for that day), when it's morning (I think she has rooster aspirations), and when there is simply a noise to be made.  The next complaint to the City will probably be about her noises.  She'll hand over her entire kingdom for a strand of spaghetti.
 ***

Daffodil was the naughty chick.  She was the bad influence.  The others were content to roam around the playpen; Daffodil was the one who realized they could hop out -- and nothing was ever the same for them (or us) after that.  Her comb is still growing in, but she has fluffy cheeks that make her unique.  Nowadays, she is the most "go about her business" of the chickens, never too keen to play or visit, but amiable.  She gets into trouble, but, fortunately, gets herself right back out.
***

Violet is the "fancy girl."  My son mocks her and remarks that "she's the pretty girl who secretly eats worms."  And she is.  She's the most likely to eat disgusting things.  She relishes a good worm and is the first one to try the latest insect they come upon.  However, she refuses to eat strawberries or anything pleasant like that.  She runs like the Road Runner, and she is the only one able to fly more than one hop -- she thinks nothing of hopping up onto the coop roof to escape our grasp.  Luckily, she is very much a follower and the key to getting her to do something is to get Daisy to do it first.  She views herself as the baby of the group and uses that to her full advantage in justifying why she should sleep under Daisy.  And she does.
***

Daisy is my favorite.  She always looks like she's dressed in her warmest jammies -- with feet.  She runs like she has pockets full of potatoes.  She is the biggest, yet the most timid.  And she's not the brightest -- it took her weeks to figure out how to get into the coop at night (must use ladder) after the others had it down pat.  But she is very maternal and tends to Violet as if she were her own chick.  She is the least likely to cause trouble, and on the occasion that she is in the mood to cuddle, you are in for a treat, because her feathers are soft as heaven.

So those are the girls who live in our backyard.

It's been a bit of a trial, so far, having these chickens.  It's taken my husband months to build the complicated coop and run -- but it will be magnificent when it is finished.  It has aggravated one of our neighbors to no end.  (On the bright side, I never liked those neighbors, anyway . . . and we've gained some great friends in the City's animal control and zoning departments.)  It takes time and effort to care for them properly.

Is it worth it?  Well, to date, I would have to admit, it's been a wash in my mind.  But I'm the only one.  Of course, my children would tell you it is totally worth it -- their responsibilities are light.  My husband, surprisingly, would tell you it's already worth it, too.  He has bonded with the chickens during his hours working on their coop -- they supervise and share their ideas (less pounding, more food dishes).  I think I will bond with them more once the coop is finished and the kids are back in school.  Then I'll be the one interacting with them more and by then they'll be producing eggs regularly.  I'm looking forward to it.

So that there you have it.  Thanks for bearing through this diatribe.  They are becoming a large part of our life, and I thought it would do us all well to know them a little better. 

Oh, and they have two neighbors who live in an aviary right next door.  They are pigeons.  They are bright white, they are rescues, they are beautiful, and they are my true loves.  I'll have to tell you about them someday.

And, when I know you better, maybe I'll tell you about Lester.

How Quickly They Grow Up

It seems like only yesterday we had four little chicks in a playpen, snoozing under the heat lamp.

Tell me, how does this:

 

Turns into this:

And produces these:

In only 4 months? 

Pretty amazing.

My girls have grown up.

Now, we city kids, have to work up to actually eating homegrown eggs.  It seems a bit strange, but I am assured we will get over that right quick.  

Saturday?

I only wish!

Actually, the ole








is requiring my help. The chicken coop is finally getting a roof, and I'm the designated shingle selector and painter. (You'll see.) Anyway, duty calls . . . Happy Saturday!

Neighbors, Tedious; Chickens, Charming

Tedious = Neighbors

So we got chickens this past spring.

Just four little chickens.

They are sweet, and they are our pets.

We raised them from day 1 and moved them outside when they were old enough, mid-June.

Enter: Angry, irrational neighbors.

Now, bear in mind, these are the neighbors that have regular screaming matches. The octaves and decibels reached move most of us to shut the windows. It used to scare my children. Now they're used to it. They are the neighbors whose dog barked herself hoarse nearly every day for years. The neighbors who left a pile of woodchips to grow weeds and take years to recede into the grass. Those neighbors.

Animal control came out upon their first complaint. The gentlemen was enchanted and left here wondering whether he could swing having a couple chickens of his own.

Then zoning was involved. At first, they sided with the neighbors . . . until they realized they were "those neighbors." They asked us to plant a couple of shrubs and sent "those neighbors" a letter telling them to get over it.

Today a new animal control officer was sent over upon their allegation that we have more chickens than we should. She left here telling me she wished we were her neighbors.

What's next, ya think?

Anyone else have "those neighbors?"

Btw, here is a picture of the offenders all grown up:

Aren't they menacing?

Charming = Chickens

But . . . the chickens are SO worth it.

When we alerted the post office that our chicks would be arriving at their post office, the kids and I took the Post Master a little Easter basket filled with yellow Peeps as a "thanks in advance" gift. It worked. Our once giant, gruff, impatient Post Master turned into an excited, giddy little boy before our eyes and promised to call the minute they got there. And he did. Charming.

Chicks feel as soft as they look. Rubbing their little heads along your upper lip feels like a little kiss from heaven. Their peeping sounds signal such fragility and sweetness, you can't hear it and not soften and smile. Charming.

Watching chicks makes your soul smile. I did not make this video, but I watch it often and it always brings me happiness. I dare you to watch it and give yourself a tune to hum.

They live outside now. The greet us when we go out back. They let the kids pull them in their wagon. They get any bugs out of the sandbox for my daughter. They keep the garden weeded, fertilized, and healthy. And when we call them, they come running like puppies. Charming.

Let the neighbors complain. Pity them the lack of joy and charm in their lives.