Winter comes with a vengeance

Egg production is way up. We normally get 4 to 6 eggs a day. Yesterday, there were 7. I mentioned in my last post that there was more than expected variation in egg color for the Rhode Island Red. Here is evidence. All of the eggs in this picture are pullet eggs except the two at the upper left.

10 pullet eggs (aren't they cute?) and 2 full-sized eggs (upper left). Note variability in brown eggs from Rhode Island Reds

Based on brief observations of the scratch grains I throw out to the chickens each morning, it seemed to me that the pullets were sufficiently integrated into the flock to have shared access to treats. This video shows that my conclusion was wrong. After the initial rush for the carrot peels, the old girls chase the newbies away. The pullets must be content with dashing in, grabbing when they can, and carrying it off to privacy.

Just as there is variability in egg color in the Reds, so is there variation in plumage. Clair has developed black feathers in her tail and wings.

Clair has black feathers in her tail and wings

I dug up almost all of the Brussels sprouts Friday. The Big Snow was coming on Saturday, and I wanted to get the stalks out of the ground before it froze for the winter. I left two to give to Pat and Nancy after Thanksgiving. I planned to give them to Pat Monday but found out just as she was headed out the door last week that she was taking next week off. 

There were still 20 stalks of Brussels sprouts in the garden

A big stack of stalks, harvested and trimmed

Terry and I planned weeks ago to see HOT L BALTIMORE at MCC Friday night. Because it was 37°F, I assumed the precipitation I felt on my face was a misty rain starting to fall when we left to go out to dinner before the play at 5:15. As we drove, however, I noted that nothing was sticking on the windshield. The snow had started already in tiny flakes. There was visible accumulation when we were done eating.

All I knew in advance about the play was that it was about a quirky bunch of characters living in a fleabag hotel (“hot l” refers to “hotel” with the “e” burned out). The actors did a great job of being quirky characters, but the play had a lot of everyone yelling at each other all at once. At the end of the first act, I said to Terry, “Do you want to go home now, or do you think it’s going to get better?”

We stayed. It was a mistake. It was the sort of play that, when it is over, you think to yourself, “What was that about?” Not a single one of its several plotlines reached any sort of satisfying resolution.

The real mistake, however, was not the 2.5 hours that we will never have back. It was that at least 6” of snow had accumulated in the interim, and it was still coming down to beat all. Highway 14 had not, as far as we could tell, been plowed. We met one plow coming toward us about halfway home. Not helpful for our side. We poked along at 25 mph. There were rumble strips at the shoulder and down the middle. When I hit them, I couldn’t tell which one I was on, the center line being completely buried.  I moved one way and then the other until the noise stopped. I worried about getting down Maxon, and it turned out to be the only road on our route that had been plowed. Once again, it was the oncoming lane, but since the road was otherwise deserted, I drove like a Brit. It took an hour to get home, and we were very glad to be there. We’re not doing that again if we can help it.

Saturday morning dawned to a foot of snow, and it was still coming down.  We got 14” before all was said and done.

The snow gauge read 12" when I got up

The fifth oak in the snow

Snow on the deck

I shoveled a path to the road to get the paper and a path to the chicken coop. 

Before I shoveled the path to the coop

The snow on the driveway had an inch of slush beneath a few inches of wet snow beneath a thick layer of fluffy snow. When Terry got the snowblower going, he had to tip it up to move the fluffy snow without clogging up the chute with the wet snow. He worked on it all day. Until late in the afternoon, it blew in about as fast as he could get it clear. I helped minimally by shoveling the downstairs patio and a path around the house as well as opening up the path to the coop after it blew shut. As I was headed inside, I heard an unmistakable sound of sandhill cranes. I was delighted that they were flying beneath the low clouds. It was a big flock, perhaps a hundred, and they flew right over me. I would have thought they’d have cleared out of here long ago.

I took my camera out to capture the pullets’ first experience in the snow. They would have none of it. Even scratch grains would not entice them outside. Chloe stuck her head out, stretching to see if she could reach it. Eventually, she contented herself with pecking at the door sill. Inside the coop, snow is fascinating. Lizette (the white Araucana) and Kirsty (a tan Buff Orpington) eagerly attacked the snow on my boots. It took the pullets longer to catch on.

I have been waking up at 4:25 every since the time changed. This morning at that hour, I heard the house contract with a bang. Was it that cold? I opened my eyes enough to see the outside temperature projected on the ceiling. 2°F. Seriously? If I had known it was going to get that cold, I would not have left Pat’s Brussels sprouts in the garden. I hope they are not ruined.

There was no going back to sleep for me. I got up a little before 5:00 and started my Sunday routine. The morning was stunningly beautiful. Orion was bright in the southwest sky, and the ground was enshrouded in fog. The temperature continued to drop, getting to -2° just before sunrise. When I went out to do the chicken chores, I found that it was not all that unpleasant. There was no wind. I left the coop door shut anyway. I’m going to shovel out the run again and open the door in a little while here.

Winter. Bah.