The egg (bad) came first... with a vengeance

And back to our regularly scheduled programing...

If you remember I mentioned a few posts ago that I took little comfort in that the "Chickens were legit." In actuality, this was just barely even the case and thus a VERY good thing. Apparently you can have chickens, just not "too" many. 4 per half acre to be exact. We being 1.25 acres JUST made the cut. Wait, did I mention that we now had 10 chickens? 

Sigh, its been a long month. So, after acquiring Laya, and quasi losing "the artist formerly known as Bess" due to the fact that she was now Brewster. I decided (split secondly of course) that we maybe needed 2 more hens. Partially because Laya's traumatizing introduction had made her a tad bit skittish, and thus she didn't exactly warm up to my son (or anyone) as intended. But mostly because I was at the local feed and seed for unrelated reasons and convinced that they were staring at me, just begging for a home. And so away we walked away with our new "Disney halloween lineup". Two beautiful and very young Americanas. Sally, named after the character from "The Nightmare Before Christmas"and Katrina, after Miss Van Tassel from the"Legend of sleepy hollow".  Both birds seemed at least happily curious about their new adventure. And away home it was for us in order to figure out just where we were going to nestle the new"hatchlings".

One thing was for sure, which we had learned first hand, we could NOT place them immediately with the already established flock. I just really wasn't up for another "into the woods" adventure (especially without comical musings and spontaneous musical numbers).

I built their very own, very private and very TEMPORARY roosting quarters in the manager of our second goat pen. Which currently (as well as conveniently) was not in use. As it was meant to only be sectioned off when the "mommy" needed privacy in order to nurse her babe(s). And since chickens and goats get along quite well, the chickens eat the bugs that bug the goats and the goats don't impale them, it was a good match. I soon discovered what WASN'T a good match though. My son.

I gave him the benefit of the doubt when the first 4 were "stand-offish" to say the least. I again afforded him that same benefit due to Laya's high adrenaline mishap introduction. With Sally and Katrina, it was becoming more of a pattern than a random obstacle to be jumped. Explaining to a 4 year old boy how he is to handle a chicken and how he is most DEFINITELY not to, was apparently more difficult than once thought. For example. How does one foresee the possibility that someone might stuff a chicken in their jacket while leaving to run errands, and then brandish it suddenly in a health food store whilst exclaiming, "EWWWWW IT POOPED ON ME!" Or, how about this treat, while you are busily cleaning the coop, someone (not naming any names) sitting a poor unsuspecting little one, on your monkey-swing (disc swing) and then, spinning it as fast as little 4 -year- old- arms can, sending it flying in order to, "test her Jedi skills." This was definitely a love- HATE relationship and I am pretty confidant you can guess who was hated. My son, even to me, was very reminiscent of this. Still, he wanted "pets".

Thankfully, things were going well with the new temp-setup that I had built, which afforded me time to establish a more permanent residence for them as a structural "add-on" with safety features, to our already existing coop. It worked so well, that there just might have been room for 2 more. Empty space is wasted space right? So we excitedly (some of us more excited than others)  scampered back to the feed and seed and procured 2 more very-very young Americana hens. Lacey and Daisy. Of which I had made a mental note that I would watch him interact with very closely.

He seemed partial to "Daisy". Poor, poor, Daisy. I am fairly certain that inside of 10 minutes, given the choice, she would have more than happily surrendered herself to be used as "nuggets" if only it meant that she didn't have to endure this kid's torment any longer. More than obviously, we had a long road ahead of us.

WE are currently still on said road. And while "Rome wasn't built in a day", IF this were in fact "Rome", my "builder" might need to be fired/beheaded. Which depends, and very much so, on the moment/situation as to which punishment fits that bill...

Getting my goat...(s)

We have always adhered to the "love thy neighbors as thyself" way of life. And thankfully so, because as this new challenge had presented itself, I was able to call upon the advice of one such neighbor who just so happened to be a retired state judge. He was just as shocked as I was to learn about the rezone and even more so that you had to be zoned to keep bees. I explained that while I knew I could just "quietly" keep the animals and that it wasn't likely anyone would say anything especially because, as it turned out, more than half the neighborhood was "in the same boat". I didn't want to be in the wrong, and not complying with the law. He was more than happy to oblige me and sent me off in the direction I needed to go saddled with a handful of names and phone numbers. And with that I got in the car and away I went. 45 minutes later, I was sat in the modest waiting area of the County department for planning and zoning waiting patiently to speak with "Mary".

A kind woman welcomed me to her cubicle and we began. I decided not to mention the bees as of yet, but instead focus on the goats. Upon listening to my predicament, and then reviewing the laws as stated, one thing became apparent. We were not going to get rezoned. She read for me verbatim from a freshly printed piece of paper, that to be rezoned for agricultural use, we needed to be on at LEAST 2.5 acres of land or back up to unfenced conservation property in order for the animals to graze. Her eyes then left the paper and met mine. "So, I'm sorry," she said. "You just can't keep goats." Then suddenly a smile erupted on her face as she excitedly added, "BUT, you CAN keep horses!"HOLD ON A MINUTE. What? You are telling me that on 1.25 acres of land I can keep an extremely large and hungry HORSE but NOT a Nigerian DWARF goat? She then informed me that I could not only keep A horse, but 4. Legally, on my small parcel of land I was allotted the right to house FOUR massive horses. My mind raced. For a brief moment, I entertained the thought of having magically discovered a new subclass of creature called the "Nigerian Dwarf horse" and then I toyed with the idea of just going ahead and getting the maximum number of horses allowed to me and making sure to pile their equally massive droppings in the very same corner of the yard that the bees had briefly once called home. However, that did not coincide with the, "love thy neighbor" mentality that I was accustomed to practicing.

This horse law had been addended after the fact. Obviously. Anyone else think it's a strange coincidence that you can keep a horse, thats's twice the size of any other hoofed animal, but that can't provide food or milk and not ones that can? So, I asked how one might addend to include goats. The lady's jovial expression quickly faded to a thin lipped frown which suggested that their might be a lot of paperwork needed from her end for that to happen. But I wasn't backing down. Sorry trees. She explained the process in great detail, how it would need to be brought before a board etc. And then, somewhat begrudgingly handed me the name and number of her "supervisor" whom I would need to get in contact with in order to start this very long, very paperwork ridden sordid ordeal. I thanked her and walked out of the office already punching the numbers into my phone and before the door even swung shut I had already hit "call."

Voicemail. Of course. I left a message, and then made use of the email address I had also been given. With that being all I could do for now. I drove home, and began looking over the laws pertaining to our current zoning restrictions. And one such law immediately leapt off the page and smacked me in the face. It stated, that one COULD keep farm animals on less than 2.5 acres IF, the animals were necessary to alleviate a "medical hardship". And in order to do so, one would need only to obtain written expression from a medical doctor licensed in the state as to why said animal(s) were needed. And then to disclose the number and type of farm animals being kept on site. It was like the heavens opened up and I SWEAR I could faintly hear the "hallelujah chorus" playing somewhere in the background. I called another neighbor, who graciously agreed to allow me to place my bees on their "AU" zoned un-pesticided farm land which just so happens to very legally be directly across the street from that other neighbor's driveway.

With that being done, I was now free to focus my efforts on my goats, and more importantly the documentation of the "medical hardship" that they were beautifully helping to alleviate (at least while we were working on the law)....

Make the "buzzing" stop

I did it. We pulled into the industrial stock yard (which may or may not have been reminiscent of a zombie priority setting. just sayin) . It was about 7:45 am, and I was ready and raring to go. I mean I did have 2 cups of coffee organically sweetened with a shot of pure adrenaline...After all, I was about to solely attempt to extract a random wild bee hive from within a camper, that no one knew the size of, much less how long it had been there. Did I mention It was just me? It was just me. My support group, consisting of my very tired husband and son who would wait at a safe distance away in all the warmth and comfort that a Mazda 6 has to offer. And occasionally snap a picture if and when one became disenchanted with the status updates that facebook boasted and remembered to do so.

The "gentlemen" that had sought me out and asked me if I would do this were a tad more adventurous, and opted to stay within speaking distance of the extraction. And with that, and both feet, in I went. The more I "chiseled" and removed, the larger the hive began to become. Gently cutting and prying, placing and praying, and all the while chanting, "Must get the queen, must get the queen". One thing I had not anticipated, was that the hive that I was relocating the bees to might in fact, not be BIG enough. This became a more dire concern with each and every "frame" of comb that I removed.

Thank-God-fully, I had brought cardboard file boxes, and then of course, the miraculous "bonus", that the "guys"had duck tape on hand. We then make shifted 2 "hives" within seconds only to discover we still came up short. They offered up a plastic storage bin as a last resort, and with THAT, we were saddled and sent forth. Mobile. Sure it meant riding home with a box full of wild angry bees on my lap. But, hey, small sacrifices. Right?  And home the bees went.

I nestled their hive into a small back corner of our farm, nearest to the garden. Seemed like the completely right thing to do. And all was right with the... I'm not even gonna leave you "cliff hanging" on this one. ALL was NOT right with the world.

The bees were settling, grieving, counting and then recovering from their losses. Not to mention the fact that they had quite LITERALLY just been ripped away from their established home. However, despite the circumstances, they remained calmly vigilant. Not only I took notice, but a neighbor, one who had raised bees "all his life" and had more than graciously, advised and sort of hand-held my "dream" from start until, present. Came by to see how things went. He was impressed with how "docile" (well, as docile as one can imagine a bee to be) the bees were. We talked in length about the weather, acquiring more hives, and the possibilities of building them by hand instead of buying and then he made his way home and I went back to work relocating the bees from within the various boxes. 

Fast forward several hours. The bees must have begun taking inventory and I noticed that they didn't seem as happy about their relocation as they had at first. They were flitting about angrily I'm sure trying to make sense of what had just happened. Once again, apparently I wasn't the only one who took notice. This time, the same neighbor and his son came strolling down the driveway and explained that the bees were throwing their little "bee-temper-tantrums" in their yard as well. I thought about it and immediately offered to relocate the newly relocated bees to another area of my property assuring them that they just needed some time to calm. The offering up of that as the solution was abruptly met with a completely unexpected curve ball of a reply. "You know you're not zoned for bees."

Zoned for BEES? Bees. The little wild flying insects that hop from flower to flower, tree to tree pollinating only the ENTIRE PLANET ensuring that we have the plants that create the oxygen that we are blessed to be inhaling right this instant, the very same oxygen subsequently, that had just allowed you to breath out that poised little threat in the form of a question. You have to be zoned for that? I quickly responded that we were zoned agricultural and shouldn't that cover it? To which I was combatively met with a, "No you're not" retort. Lets pause here for just a second, lest we have forgotten, the man who had encouraged me this entire venture, had single handedly convinced my husband to allow me to place the bees on our property against his better judgement. The same man who had entertained the idea of coming with me to help extract the hive, and who had come over the second we had arrived home to ask how much honey I thought I had gotten, this very same man was now standing in my driveway and telling me "we have a problem." Was this for real? I began to play an "alternate ending" scenario in my head wherein they started laughing hysterically and admitted that they were just kidding and we all had a good laugh while stuffing our faces with fresh honey. I quickly snapped out of that dream to begin to come to terms with the fact that this was a very real situation. I added that I had done my research and knew what our zoning was and with that bid them a good day.

A little disheartened, a little confused, I immediately began once again, moving the bees. First things first, and then I would go read up on this "bee-zoning". As it turned out, the sweet and generous neighbors saved me the trouble and hand delivered to my husband, a printed copy of the zoning map and a detailed rundown of just what we were allowed to (and not to) have within our current zoning classification. Which my husband then gave to me after I was finished resettling the colony. My eyes scanned the map, located our property and my heart sank a little, we had recently been re-zoned from AU (agricultural use) to RR1 (rural residential class 1). This had happened in 2011 When a certain parcel of "conservation land" had been rezoned and sold to make way for the building of a new house. Whose house you might ask? Theirs. My eyes then shifted from the map onto the paper containing our fate and fell instantly on the word "bees" but were quickly drawn to another word two doors down from that. GOATS.

We were also not allowed to farm goats on this property anymore. My husband, seeing my expression quickly added that the map and paper had come with a message. The neighbors (who at times kept hogs that were also apparently contra-ban) on their property had added that they didn't mind anything else being there, just not the bees. I took little comfort in the knowledge that the chickens were legit, my sorrow quickly turned to fury, and my fury to fuel. And suddenly, I was a woman on fire with a mission. 

When life hands you zoning restrictions... YOU MAKE THEM CHANGE.

God save the queen!

It is currently Saturday afternoon, the seconds are slipping into minutes, the minutes to hours and I am wide eye-idly awaiting what tomorrow morning will bring. As most of you know by now, I have begun dabbling in the art of keeping bees a privilege of which affords me the opportunity to offer their caramelistic amber deliciousness for a small fee. This I do in a variety of different ways, one of which is to utilize the advertising capabilities of craigslist. I posted my honey on the site, I let the site work its magic, and everyone is happy.

A few days later I was perusing the emails I had gotten in response. One particular piece of mail caught my eye. The title read, "bees in camper". What? First of all, I do not own a camper. And secondly, if I did it wouldn't be very cost effective for me to use it for bees (or organic for that matter). Curious, I clicked open the letter. A gentleman in the area had discovered a large hive of honey bees that had apparently commandeered the side box in his "tag-along camper". He guessed that they had been there 2 years or more, but the "squatters" were unwanted and being served their eviction notice effective immediately. Here is where I come in. He was contacting me to come and "extract the hive".

Let us rewind for just a second or two. I bought bees on line from SC, they are not here yet. Their hive is here, and all set up, but they are having happy little organic dreams somewhere at "The Z man's" farm until May. I searched high and low to find another organic hive with which to meet the needs of a few amazing clients. Some of this honey had already been harvested without me having to have a hand in doing so. Thus buying me a little more time to truly get the craft of extracting the honey down to a science. In layman's terms, and what all this is adding up to is that I HAVE NEVER EXTRACTED HONEY much less a feral hive of bees.

So I politely declined obviously right? Do you still not know me? I immediately started doing the research and watching the videos on how one might chase somewhere in the possible upwards of about 15,000 wild bees from within a confined space. I also sped up the delivery of the necessary gear essential to completing this task. It arrived yesterday. In order for me to make this work, I know one thing is for absolute certain. I HAVE to get the queen. 

You can have 16,000 worker bees in your hive, but all is for naught if you do not have their queen. They will simply, one by one return from whence they came. Studying bees has REALLY brought loyalty into perspective. To keep this hive, I MUST save the queen.

So, bright and early tomorrow morning, (the earlier the better, it's when the bees are least active) I will be making my way to a random camper somewhere on Florida's east coast with my bonnet, smoker and hive tool at the ready. And I will be darned if I do not come home without a hive full of swarming, honey-making little buzzing bundles of joy in the trunk of my car.

Wish me luck. And God save the queen! PLEASE!

I've mentioned the birds... now lets talk about the bees

I know it may seem like I'm jumping ahead in the story, when in actuality, I'm backing up just a tad. Somewhere after having acquired the chickens, but before having actually secured a goat, I decided that I also wanted to try my hand at bee keeping. Why? More like why not! I had decided that if we were indeed going to run a farm, I wanted the animals on it to "pull their own weight" so to speak. Give back what we put in. A friendship, harmoniously balanced with a give and take on both parts. Bees just sorta seemed to naturally fit in to the equation so very perfectly. Because I had extensive experience handling  them you ask? Absolutely not. What kind of fun would that be(e). I had stepped on several honey bees as a child and lived to tell the tale, what more did one REALLY need to know?

I began the obligatory search for bees on line which then lead me to a small organically raised bee farm out of South Carolina. And I was SOLD. The only "string" attached was that the bees, while an active colony, couldn't be transported down here until May. As "The Z man", (trust me, you'll just want to call him that as his full name can only be understood at a frequency which only dogs can hear) explained in detail in an extremely thick German accent, which I will simplify for you now. Bees "hibernate". Which really just means that they are dormant during the winter months, and live off the precious honey that they have painstakingly worked all the rest of the year to produce. So while an active producing colony, they need what they've got. I understood, we shook hands on the deal vicariously through modern technology and that was that.

I went about designing my website and making folks, "facebook aware" of our new venture, and the spoils that it would entail. I was very pleased, AND surprised to see that it was graciously widely received. Almost TOO widely. I was able to gain access to small amounts of our bee's honey via the United States Postal Service which might have been enough, maybe? Until we somehow caught the eye of an AMAZING fresh, as local as they can get and as organic as they're allowed, restaurant(S) home grown in the Orlando vicinity. RusTeak was interested in OUR honey. Please, can we all freak out about this just a little bit? Sigh. Thanks.

 8 pounds to be exact. Monthly. This is TOTALLY doable when your bees aren't asleep somewhere in South Carolina. However, at the moment,  I could easily produce month 1, the next 3...

This left me reeling, and trying desperately to locate local, organic and TRUSTWORTHY bees (the bees are pretty honest, it's their keepers you gotta wonder about). Eureka! In a very bittersweet form. An amazing man who loved his bees (and they had loved him) just "couldn't" any longer.  And, as it were, his children were left guarding one of the "sweetest" legacies any parent could offer. Of which they (after much conversing) had allowed me to adopt one small piece of over 200 hives. No pesticides, or dyes in at least 45 years had come within MILES of these amazing creatures. Wow. What a legacy.

Some of the seemingly "legendary" honey had already been extracted, Which made life just that much easier. And so, without a thought, or care, the story alone told itself, I went all in on one hive. Greatest, and at the same time, possibly the most insane chance I had ever taken. Still, I had all the honey needed to fit the requirements of the demand... and all was right with the...

Oh and then there was this...

Taking the "chick" outta CHICKen...

So Story and Eve ( named for the night that we found them, and the fact that picking them up on Christmas Day makes for a pretty good story), had rescued poor Sadie from her impending doom. It seemed that our little farm had come together quite nicely. To make it feel even more "official" I planted an organic fruit, vegetable and herb garden. Which the chickens of course found immediately.

Speaking of "chickens". I get asked a lot "how do you tell whether a chicken is a hen or rooster when they are still young." And I can safely say that I have mastered THE fool-proof answer. WAIT till they aren't young anymore. That's it. I could end this blog right here actually, but obviously there must be a story that goes hand in hand with how I discovered that "answer". And lucky for you there is.

The sun hadn't even graced the day with its warm smile yet as I stepped from the warmth of my house into the cool of the barnyard to begin the daily routine of menial "farm chores". By this point we had established somewhat of an "ok-ish" routine, wherein I would not let the chickens out to free range until it was light due to any lingering "creatures of the night" that may perhaps still be present. Yes, I know that Hawks, the obvious predator, only hunt during the day, but I'm not really worried about Hawks. It's the possums.

Possums? No it's not an autocorrect. I really meant possums. They are sneaky little ba$+@?&$ that have been fooling us into thinking that they were vegetarians for centuries. Not unlike the skinny girl in yoga pants who has "suddenly" and miraculously developed a gluten allergy right there in her seat at the restaurant just as the bread hits the table.

A farming friend of mine couldn't figure out what was stalking her chickens and picking them off one by one each night. She had considered a bobcat or coyote, and thus set a trap. The next morning, sure enough, the trap had gone off, and low and behold inside it was, wait for it... a 62 pound possum. And that was without the head on the scale. At any rate, that story was enough to wanna keep my 4 year old inside as long as I could, much less the chickens.

I went about the stall mucking and compost mulching until I was sure the sun was just about to peer over the horizon line and apparently that hunch was right, because as if on cue, something "crowed". Or at least made a sad attempt at doing so. And that "something" was most definitely in my roost. Remember when I had explicitly stated in an undeniably strongly worded, foot down kinda manner via the use of ALL CAPS (completely and universally legit) in a previous post my feeling on this subject? Well apparently Bess is not an avid follower of my blog.

This day that we are referencing shall hence forth be known as, "the day when our little Bess became Brewster the Rooster." What can I say? It's harder to give them away once you've named them.
I decided that there were a lot of things you could hear throughout the day that were way worse than a rooster's crow. For example a screaming goat. And hey, I'll even top that, your 4 year old son yelling, "Look mom, I'm riding Sadie like a horse!" (just to be clear she's a DWARF goat).

"Que Sera, Sera" Bess, Brewster was our Rooster now and that was that. And all was right with the world...

Part deux

Sadie was miserable. And vicariously so were we, and I think it is safe to assume so were the neighbors. Craigslist offered little hope. I was grasping at straws and even considering useless fainting goats. "Fainting goats?" You may have found yourself questionably repeating aloud. Yes. There are goats that have a Myotonic condition that causes them, when over excited, to appear to have fainted. They just fall over like a ton of bricks. And who says God doesn't have a sense of humor? At any rate, this is how desperate to find Sadie a buddy for the holidays I had become.

I was hours outta my zip code into the search. Scouring every abandoned and forgotten nook and cranny Craigslist had to offer. Until finally. I came upon a picture of an adorable tan and white Nigerian. Albeit she was an hour and a half away, and it was Christmas Eve as previously mentioned. I decided to try the number listed on the off chance someone would actually answer. Low and behold he did!

"Chuck" the ole,boy on the other end of the line said that he had just sold his last doelings (technical jargon meaning baby girl goats), but that he DID have 2 "exposed" ( technical jargon for pregnant) does that he would consider parting with. I was thrilled! Sweet baby Jesus on the eve of His birth had seen fit to intervene on Sadie's behalf which saved us all (over again)! Then "Chuck" smacked me with the "catch". This would have to be a package deal.

You see, these does we're "twins" and just simply could not be separated. He made it clear that he was in no rush to let them go, no skin off his teeth either way, and that the price on Craigslist would be times 2. Insert heavy sigh here. We had just shelled out a small fortune on building the pen, the essentials and of course Sadie herself. Not to mention the chickens, their coop and all that entails. Oh, and of course the entire rest of CHRISTMAS. I had led my poor and amazingly supportive husband blindly down the path this far, I was having a hard time justifying, much less "selling the dream" of this sudden added expense. I thanked "Chuck" for his time. Wished him a merry Christmas and hung up the phone. 2 more pregnant goats? As I was mulling it over, as if adding her own two cents, just to make sure we hadn't forgotton, Sadie screamed. Ok. I would run it by my husband.

Say what you will about that man. But he has a huge heart. When we first moved in he had found a field mouse living in our shed. He lifted up the shelving unit that she had found solace inside and discovered that she wasn't alone. A freshly birthed litter of baby mice rested warmly under her body. It was quite cold out, (yes, it does that even in Floirda sometimes). He came in the house to tell me about his find and then swore me to secrecy. He didn't have the heart to evict the little family. And instead, had placed a bit of bread in there near the nesting new mommy. Sorry babe. You had to be "outed"on this one for the greater good. When I told him about my findings and the conversation with Chuck, he didn't hesitate to say, "Ok, when are we picking them up?" I LOVE this man!

I called Chuck back and informed him that we would be taking his goats. His response was, "you haven't even seen em' yet?" He apparently didn't quite grasp the intensity of this dire situation. Regardless, he agreed that we could come and pick them up in the evening on Christmas Day! Which meant only one more loud and lonesome night for our Sadie girl.

As our Christmas celebration wound down, we geared up for the drive to secure the twins. For those of you who ever doubted what you can actually fit into a Mazda 6, let me just tell you that I have continually tested the boundaries and pushed the limits. We once had 6 bales of hay, myself and my son in that sucker. True story. Today it was being used to ferry goats. We happily paid Chuck his steep "ransom" that we watched as he counted dollar for dollar in front of us reminding us once again, just EXACTLY what this was costing, then we loaded the "girls" into the back of the car with my son in the middle and set out for home.

I really wish I had a picture other than the one burned in my mind, of the twins, sat on either side of the floor boards of the car, nose to nose shaking. In that moment I knew we had made the right decision, and as pricy as it was, so had Chuck, in not to separate them. Upon arriving home, it was already dark and so Sadie has settled in for the night. Getting the girls into the car we had had extra hands, getting them out, we were solo and they knew it. We ended up carrying in our arms 2 very pregnant and very stubborn dwarf goats (the bonus of that being we got to smell their "cheeses-ness" yummmm). And we presented Sadie with the best Christmas gift she'd ever had. A herd.