Posts Tagged ‘Shavings’
Hens eating their eggs? There is a reason.
One of the worst habits a hen can develop is eating eggs, whether your flock is for egg sales or just supplying your family. And, when she gets the taste of eggs it’s hard to stop her without persistence. But, don’t panic because it’s not always necessary to cull the offending egg eater.
Egg eating usually starts by accident, when a hen steps on or accidently cracks an egg. She pokes around, tasting something yummy inside and then goes hog wild breaking and eating eggs as soon as they’re laid. Many times the whole flock joins in the feast, leaving few whole eggs for family or farm.
The reasons behind eating eggs:
- Not Enough Calcium. When hens don’t get enough calcium their shells are not strong enough to withstand everyday life in the coop. Even minor bumps or knocks can cause an egg to crack. Commercial poultry feed don’t always give your girls enough of the mineral to produce a strong shell. Supplementing with crushed oyster shells or ground egg shells can help increase the calcium level. That’s right! Eggshells for the egg eater. But, make sure they are crushed or chopped fine so the hens won’t make the connection.
- Shallow Bedding. To give hens and eggs a good soft place to land make sure there is about 2” to 3” of bedding material, like shavings or straw, in each nesting box. Less bedding means hens are laying eggs on a hard surface, which can cause cracking. I have used both for years and prefer straw in the warmer months because it doesn’t pack down as much. But, in the winter I use a layer of shavings with straw on top, giving the girls added warmth in each box. Be sure to save or compost when you clean your boxes. All that dry matter and manure makes great compost material or side dressing for nitrogen loving plants.
- Not Enough Nesting Boxes. Your coop should have one nesting box for every four or five hens. They won’t hang a shingle out claiming a specific box as their own and you may find that they use a few of the same boxes, but more boxes gives them room spread out and can cut down on the skirmishes.
- Broody Hens. When a hen is broody or setting eggs she will stand her ground, trying to keep other hens off the nest. These tussles can cause broken eggs.
- Egg Collecting Times. Leaving eggs in the nest long after they are laid is an invitation to an egg eater. Eggs should be collected shortly after they are laid, if possible. This has always been a challenge on our farm because by the time hens lay we are off at work or school, leaving collecting until evening.
- Protein Deficient. Chickens require a high percentage of protein in their diet either from feed or other sources, and the lack of it can cause hens to crave eggs. So…give them what they want! Strange I know, but one source of protein can be eggs. That’s right, eggs. Adding a bit of scrambled eggs to their feed can help fill the protein gap.
- Lack of Privacy. Or, in this case “out of sight, out of mind”. If hens can’t see the eggs they are less likely to explore the nest. Draping the front of the nesting boxes can help.
A few other reasons hens will eat eggs is boredom and a lack of things to do. Give your hens a place to roost outside where they can watch the world, piles of leaves to scratch in provide hours of amusement, and hanging treats in a tree to occupy them.
Playing tricks on your hens can also help stop existing egg eaters.
Replace eggs with “fake” eggs like plastic, wood or ceramic, golf balls, or ping pong balls; anything small and round. When your hens go to peck these “eggs” they won’t break, nor will they find anything tasty inside.
Blow out a real chicken egg and refill it with something that won’t taste good like mustard or hot sauce. They’ll get the message that eggs are not good.
Hang curtains in front of nesting boxes to block the egg eater’s view. If they can’t see the eggs they won’t eat the eggs.
With a little creativity and trickery you can work your hens out of eating eggs instead of culling them.
The Duck Diaries
Counting Down
Well folks, the countdown is on. This time next week I’ll be packaging up twelve freshly processed ducks for the freezer. So far this has been a relatively easy meat project; just as simple as raising meat chickens, if you discount the water issue. But, I think the water would be a non-issue if I used an automatic water bowl similar to those used for dogs. That way the ducks could have an endless supply of water to drink and wash their faces in and I wouldn’t have to refill one-gallon water fonts four to five times a day. In reality the ducks use more water for washing themselves then they do for drinking. I have also decided that if I raise ducks again I will build a dedicated area that has more space and housing and figure out some way to manage the water splashing so the whole place doesn’t become a muddy mess. Right now they are in a corner of the barn. Although they have plenty of room there is no way for me to put together a set-up that allows them to go outside. I also think that more space will cut down on the manure build-up and I will use fewer bags of shavings for bedding.
I was asked if the ducks I raise will be less expensive than those you can buy in the stores. To be honest, I’m not sure. I haven’t calculated out all my expenses yet. But, what I do know is that I will have used 150 pounds of feed and about 6 bags of shavings by the time we butcher next weekend. I’m sharing the cost of the feed with sis and one bag of feed was free with a buy-one-get-one free coupon Brianne won at a sheep show. The cost of the ducklings was a trade with the hatchery for our Sebastopol gander that died shortly after we brought him home last year. The water is a big mystery because I don’t use a meter to track it. But, a rough idea of cost for someone thing of raising ducks would be:
$57.70 — 12 ducklings
$37.00 — 3 50# bags of feed
$40.50 — 6 bags of shavings
$135.20
Only our local gourmet stores and some ethnic stores carry duck meat. The gourmet stores charge almost $20 a pound for breast meat and slightly less for thigh and leg combos while the ethnic stores sell frozen packaged duck meat for about $16.00 for a package that is less than 3 pounds. This is one of the reasons we decided to raise our own. With the above numbers, our ducks will end up costing about $11.26 per duck. BUT…the big difference is our ducks will process out at about 5 pounds each—twice as heavy as anything in the markets.
For now though I’m keeping my eye on the ball and getting ready for butchering day.
Sandy and I are doing things a little differently this time. Instead of me packing up a load of birds and traveling to her farm she is coming to mine and bringing all the equipment with her—scalder, plucker, stainless steel table, cones, knives and scissors. I’ll supply the electricity for heating up the water in the scalder and an endless supply of water for rinsing and washing. We’ll set up on the patio where we will have easy access to electrical outlets and water, shade and the kitchen for ice and other necessities.
Should be interesting, folks.
Stay tuned. The whole process will be posted here next week.
Putting Pen to Paper
I just finished putting a pot of chicken soup on the stove, made from a simmered down homegrown chicken carcass cooked months ago and frozen waiting for such a day as this. An April storm rages outside; lightening illuminates the house and thunder crashes so loud it shakes the windows, making the cat run for cover. There is a warm fire crackling and popping near where I write; glowing hot with wood collected in the fall. It is still keeping us warm. My new dulcimer stands in the corner waiting for me to pick it up and strum the new cords I am teaching myself. We are happy and content to stay indoors and revel in simple pleasures on this wet spring morn.
What a life we have created for ourselves! A half finished flannel quilt sits patiently on a makeshift sewing table, made from scraps collected over time during shopping trips to thrift and second hand stores. There are lambs outside; the last vestiges of Brianne’s show career. A new batch of meat ducks huddle in a pen of wire, bedded down on a thick layer of shavings, keeping the chill of this stormy day at bay. Sophie, the Sebastopol goose, sits on a small clutch of eggs, ignorant of the fact they will never hatch…they are not fertile. But, she may be a mother yet. When I gently pulled back the warm covering of straw on top of the nest I found three chicken eggs. She must have gathered them from a wayward hen and made them her own. They have a better chance of hatching.
There are eggs in the fridge, laid by the hens who roam the yard. There is lamb and chicken in the freezer as well; all raised here on our suburban farm and butchered by the people who cared for them. Homemade sausage lays frozen in patties and links; taught to us by our friendly butcher Kent. Aside from the meat we have raised we’ve also baked bread from scratch, canned jams and relishes, peaches, made cheese from fresh goat’s milk. The honey we use comes from “the bee man” who pollinates a family farm. There are two trucks and a livestock trailer parked in the drive, waiting for the next farm chore or livestock show excursion.
We’ve held just hatch chicks in our hands, offspring from our little flock this time last year and watched as new born kits wriggle in the warmth of a soft fur bed. We’ve grown a garden full of vegetables and picked pumpkins that would make Cinderella weep with joy. We’ve fished for our supper and learned to shoot with both gun and bow. We’ve laid in bed on a cool summer morning and heard the songs of birds that call our farm home. We’ve stopped dead in our tracks as the cry of a coyote shatters the dark silence of our nightly rounds. We’ve built with lumber, sewn clothes, knitted scarves and quilted blankets to keep us warm in winter. And, we’ve captured it in a blog. We have customers that buy our products and seek our knowledge.
But there is still much left to do. We’d like to feel the biting cold on our face as a sled and dogs pulls us through the blue glow of a winter morning. We’d like to drive a carriage and use horse power instead of machine power to work a farm. And, we’d like to see dogs run the yard once more. We’d like to restart our sheep flock, long ago lost to a pack of feral dogs and feel the thrill of bringing a new crop of lambs into this world. We’d like to start a CSA of wool and meat and vegetables and fruit. And, we’d like to share what we’ve learned with others.
Tonight our plans are quiet. No hot dates or people to impress with shallow small talk of inconsequential matters. No…tonight is dedicated to this small suburban farm, plans for the future and life lived simply; a life that didn’t even exist a few years ago. Tonight I’ll help a new college student follow her dream and work on a few of my own. I’ll learn about raising and processing a pig, making plans for a new pig pen and I’ll read about heritage cattle to determine if this will be a new addition to our farm. This is normal, at least for us. This is everyday life for us.
I’ve been told by family and friends that I’m a fool to be wasting my time and energy on things that can be bought just a few miles from my home, that don’t require trudging out in the rain or sweating in the sun. I must be a fool then, to trade the shallow wasteful easy comforts of modern society to live this way, to do all this and dance at dusk to the sounds of sweet mournful instruments long past forgotten. They can say what they like. I wouldn’t change a thing, not for anyone. This is our life—sometimes messy, sometimes hard, sometimes sad. But, we like it. It suits us.
We may not have the riches of some and we certainly aren’t surrendering ourselves to the simpering, giggling, nauseatingly fake form of womanhood that so many feel necessary. But we are pretty dang happy tonight. We feel like the richest women in the world. Why you may ask, do we feel this way. Two simple reasons:
One: I always wanted this life and knew it could happen, not hoped but knew, and
Two: I wrote it down.
May sound strange, but it’s true. I believe this with every ounce of my being because I’ve seen it happen time-after-time. Years ago I was reading a piece written by a well-known motivational speaker. He had written about a “Dream Book”. A place to keep, write, draw and plan ALL the dreams you have for your life. He went on to state that 98% of people never plan or make goals for their lives, and even fewer take the time to write those dreams or plans down. Of the people to do take the time to put pen to paper 90% actually achieved their written goal. Amazing, right? There’s just something about making a written commitment to yourself. It makes the dream more real, more achievable. I strive to be part of the 90%
When I was going through my divorce I knew I wanted a place where we could have animals and gardens and trees. I wanted a REAL wood burning fireplace, a nice kitchen where I could make dinners from scratch, and most of all zoning that would allow us to do all the things we wanted without the prying eyes of a small minded HOA. So—I took pen to paper and wrote it all down. I drew out a barn to house the animals we would raise. I laid out cutting gardens, vegetable gardens, trellises, arbors, even a green house. I collected magazine clippings of flowers I would grow, recipes I would make and animals I would raise. All in anticipation that “one day” I would find what I was looking for. I carried my “dream book” with me everywhere so I could write down new ideas that came to mind. And I think because it was so much a part of me, so close to me at all time those ideas and dreams pushed me to never give up. But, time and trial can take its toll. I was discouraged, tired, pushed to my breaking point. Divorce is not easy folks. I WAS giving up, but trying not to. I was resigning myself to a life less than I wanted, but still holding out some hope that I would find what I was looking for.
Life is strange. It happens when you least expect it. I was sitting in a small café with my sister. It was Sunday. I had decided to take a break from the search for a home that would give us the life we so dearly wanted when the couple seated next to us got up and left. Lying on the table was the Sunday paper. I stared at it a while and then picked it up. I didn’t look through it for the longest time, just held it looking at the front page. I guess I was deciding whether or not to risk disappointment. But, I did open it. Thumbed through the housing section, reading about all the grandiose homes that were not only over my budget, but would not give me the life I wanted, until the bottom corner of the last page caught my eye. It was a barely noticeable ad for a house just outside of town. The ad said “small farm”. I looked at sis and she instinctively knew without me saying a word. She grabbed the paper and found the ad. We both sat there, silently staring at each other. We knew. We just knew.
We paid our bill and left. I was breathless driving to the address; excited, afraid, unsure. I had never bought a home before, never had a mortgage. I wasn’t even sure I could do it. We walked through the front door and my heart stopped. IT WAS A WREACK!! The house had been a rental for 12 years and it showed. But…it had a big wood burning fireplace, almost 3-feet wide, and land, enough for barns and gardens and greenhouses. The kitchen needed work, but it was roomy with lots of space. This wasn’t the little farm I wrote about in my dream book, but it had bones to build on and room to grow.
I say all this because I want you to know this doesn’t happen by magic. This farm didn’t just fall into my lap. It was thought of, conceived of and dreamed of. It wasn’t given to me either. I worked hard for it, scrimped and saved and did without to make it work. I had to be tough, wheel and deal and put people in their place when they tried to cheat me. But I pulled it off, paycheck to paycheck, a little at a time until it grew into something wonderful. There is a barn we build ourselves, fences, an orchard, berry patch, flower gardens, vegetable beds and grape vines; and—a new kitchen. Many hands have helped to make this farm possible and many hands have enjoyed the fruits of their labor. If a single mom raising a child alone can buy a home and build a farm out of a suburban lot so can you. I promise.
I guess the moral is…if you want your own land, want your own farm then please sit down and put pen to paper and write it all down. All the wants, all the dreams, all the crazy notions. Carry it with you and keep it close to your heart. It may take years before you can dance at dusk on your own land with chickens scratching in the background, but those years are coming anyway—why not have a farm at the end of them.
And keep dancing at dusk, folks. It couldn’t hurt.
The Duck Diaries
Movin’ On Up
In this case though, moving out instead of up, out into the barn. I fenced off a 4 x 8 foot corner of the barn using extra livestock panels. An old metal tray, the bottom of a rabbit hutch, serves to collect the water the ducks splash out of the water fonts. Or, at least it tries. One thing I have learned from our small duck operation is they love to splash in any amount of water which can dampen a good portion of their temporary home. It is logical when you think about it. They are waterfowl after all. Not all their water loving instincts have been bred out of them.
An old rubber feed tub holds their grower ration. They eat about 4 to 5 pounds each day, but honestly I haven’t been keeping track. Each time we walk into the barn the feeder is topped off so they never run out. What I can tell you is we have gone through almost 100 pounds of feed—50 of a chick starter ration and almost 50 of a grower mash. I have one bag left and that should hold out until the scheduled butchering date in May. What we use the most of is shavings, both as bedding and as an absorbent material for the water. Every few days the tray is cleaned out and refilled, and the rest of the pen is topped off to give them a dry unsoiled place to live. The shavings are used again as a weed barrier in garden paths or around the base of fruit trees. When all is done I may have more invested in shavings than in feed.
It’s amazing how much they have changed in a short period of time. Read the rest of the story »
3 Days to Food Security
On Friday, Brianne and I drove to a nearby horse farm to collect a load of aged manure to fill the raised beds I made back in January. It was a horrible day for working outside, another wind storm blew through our area, kicking up dust and dirt, making it hard to breathe let alone see. But, no progress could be made on the garden until the beds had been filled with a mixture of manure, compost and soil. We don’t produce enough compost so I always need to augment what we have, and given the chance I’d rather shovel for free than buy what I need. As the wind howled, we shoveled rich black composted manure, straw, shavings and hay into trash cans we loaded in the back of the truck.
When we returned home each can was unloaded and dumped into two 4×12-foot raised beds, 3 cans per bed. Afterwards, each manure pile was raked level and large clumps were broken up, then a layer of mixed compost and soil was added and the whole dirt, compost, manure pudding was mixed up and re-leveled.
By the time we finished the wind was blowing about 50mph. Brianne and I had so much dirt in our eyes, on our face and in our hair we could have planted seeds on ourselves instead of in the garden. We put our tools away, brushed off the dirt and headed into the house for a hot shower and a warm meal.
The next day I pulled out all my seeds to sort and organize. I’m usually not one for throwing seeds away, but this year I decided a good seed box cleaning was in order, so I sorted the seed packets by the year they were packaged for, finding several dating back to 2001; anything older than 2009 will go into my compost bin garden. Appropriately named because any time I throw seeds into the compost (which isn’t often), they end up growing, which is why I hate throwing out seeds. Read the rest of the story »
Wild Winds and Disaster Preparedness
The weatherman is calling for high winds, like 60 – 80 mile an hour gusts, and lower temperatures over the next few days. That can only mean one thing… damage… and lots of it. Anytime we hear news like this we immediately go into batten down mode. We’ve been through enough windstorms to know the damage they can cause and the discomfort we will feel if not properly prepared.
Several years ago, on a cold January night, a storm blew through our area with the force that can be described as a gale. Brianne and I were living on the ranch at the time and the fierce winds uprooted over 500 trees, which knocked down power lines, broke the well pump, smashed windows, tore the roof partially off the barn and damaged a corner of our house. One tree even fell, front to rear, over my truck crushing it 6-inches. Needless to say, it was totaled.
We were pretty well stocked and prepared though. Living in an earthquake zone is a constant reminder that Mother Nature can strike unexpectedly. But, it was this particular storm with its power outage that lasted for more than a week that convinced me even more that we should never be without stores, water, light and a source of heat.
With the weatherman’s prediction we set about preparing.
Wild Winds and Disaster Preparedness
The weatherman is calling for high winds, like 60 – 80 mile an hour gusts, and lower temperatures over the next few days. That can only mean one thing…damage…and lots of it. Anytime we hear news like this we immediately go into batten down mode. We’ve been through enough windstorms to know the damage they can cause and the discomfort we will feel if not properly prepared.
Several years ago, on a cold January night, a storm blew through our area with the force that can be described as a gale. Brianne and I were living on the ranch at the time and the fierce winds uprooted over 500 trees, which knocked down power lines, broke the well pump, smashed windows, tore the roof partially off the barn and damaged a corner of our house. One tree even fell, front to rear, over my truck crushing it 6-inches. Needless to say, it was totaled.
We were pretty well stocked and prepared though. Living in an earthquake zone is a constant reminder that Mother Nature can strike unexpectedly. But, it was this particular storm with its power outage that lasted for more than a week that convinced me even more that we should never be without stores, water, light and a source of heat.
With the weatherman’s prediction we set about preparing. Read the rest of the story »
Pitching Manure
The sheep pens and outside corral panels are down now. The tree branches that hung over the barn have been cut down, cut up and disposed of. They made me nervous that in a hard wind they would break causing damage the roof.
The composted sheep manure, hay, straw and bits of feed that makes up the sheep pen by season’s end will be removed to a new raised bed near the picket fence and bean arbors. It will heat up beautifully over the next few days and when the hotness and ammonia subside over the winter, it will be ready to transfer plants started in the house over the holidays.
They will be safe and warm with a layer of plastic over to protect them from frosty nights. This means I am back to pitching manure, a job usually reserved for August or September after the lambs are sold and the manure has aged in the barn for a few months.
As a younger woman, I reveled when front end loaders and Bobcat tractors did the job for me, relieving me from hours of manual labor. But nowadays there seems to be a solitary kind of meditation that goes on when I pitch manure by hand. It kind of inspires me. I don’t know why. The repetition of the task seems to empty my mind of all my worldly cares. I’m centered on the task at hand and less likely to flitter aimlessly from one thought to another. The concentration sends my mind to some far away peaceful place. The place I go when I do yoga, deep thought.
Or, maybe it’s just the fumes from the ammonia that sends me on some kind of chemical high that causes my mind swirl with impassioned thoughts. Slow melodic tunes will set me off the same way. At any rate, I enjoy forking manure. It keeps me in good physical shape and reminds me of the benefits of leverage. You can’t just stab a pitchfork deep into a pile of damp packed down manure and lift up a forkful without risking a slipped disc or a hernia.
The sheep have tramped down the manure and straw and shavings into a semi-solid mass. It’s easier to peel it back in thin layers. I start along one end of the raised part where the gate panel use to sit. It’s higher and lifts away easily. I slide my fork under a layer just a few inches, pushing with my foot to drive the fork into the mass, I lean down on the long handle of the fork; the curve of the tines act as a fulcrum to loosen it from the pack. Using my knees and my hands rather than just muscling it out of the pack I pitch a fork full into the garden cart for transport to the new bed.
Some of my fondest memories are of long talks while pitching manure. My simple life was conceived; my plans for a farm, to grow my own food and raise my own animals were made; and my decision to do it on my own was laid all while pitching manure. It’s funny how nature can speak to you and guide you to what is right for you if you let it.
photo credit: David T Jones
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Aenean nonummy hendrerit mauris. Phasellus porta.