On a recent clothes shopping trip to France, you know, France of haute couture and all, I saw this on a t-shirt in the boys’ department. ???!!!
My Dad would be elated — Arby’s is his favorite restaurant.
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how ‘bout some Chickens?
Soon after we got our impulse bunnies, we invested in chickens. It was inevitable! Our garden shed here was already perfectly set up with a large fenced in chicken run, roost, laying boxes, feeding trough, and an adorable little chickeny door. Hey, presto, just add chickens! So we called the number in the ad in the paper that I’d been eyeing for months advertising “young laying hens.” It was a man at a chicken farm about 30 minutes away. (I should add that I had asked the Bunny Lady about hens because her ad had also mentioned them, but she was fresh out of young chickens that day, wouldn’t I like to come see a bunny instead?) So on a Tuesday afternoon when the kids didn’t have school, we went to the Chicken Man. I don’t know what I expected, but not quite what we found. A large building with lots and lots of chickens, chicks on one floor, slightly older pullets in a pen behind, and upstairs on a big, stinky, floor what must have been hundreds and hundreds of chickens. Only we couldn’t see because they were in the dark. I’ve never quite understood why they are kept in the dark, to keep them calm or something? Anyway, we didn’t like it, and while the Chicken Farmer (who seemed nice, despite keeping his chickens in the dark) had his back turned, the kids and I were happy together that we could rescue a few hens out of the darkness and confusion. He had three colors: white, brown and black, (I don’t even know the breeds – isn’t that ridiculous?), so we asked for two of each, for prettys. So while we waited just outside, Mr. Chicken Man went into the big, dark, fluttery room with a flashlight to, as he put it, “fish you some chickens!” Then when he had three, his cell phone rang. Calm as anything, he answered with three hens dangling from his left hand. There they dangled upside down, looking quite perplexed with this turn of events while he chatted on and on with someone else who wanted to get some hens. Suddenly they mustered a great squawking and struggle and Mr. Chicken Man had to tell the person on the line, “Ouai, j’ai des poules dans la main.” Yeah, I’ve got some chickens in my hand. 
(I surreptitiously took a photo.) We brought them home in Bella’s doggy crate and put them in their new home. Since there are six, we each got to christen one. (Mine is called Heidi since she is a Swiss hen.) They seemed rather stunned by the light and air for a bit and afraid to go outside. Soon enough however, their curiosity overcame their fear and they were exploring and pecking about the yard in a fine chickeny way. And to my delight, going in and out of their sweet little door. It’s all just so perfect. They have pretty much gone to chicken paradise. The whole thing made me feel philosophical. Out of all the hundreds that the Chicken Man had, why these six? Why did he fish out these particular six? While the rest of them would continue to live out their lives in dark smelly confusion or else become someone’s chicken dinner, these six were chosen to come live a life of rapturous natural chickeness: pecking in the morning, sun bath in the afternoon, more pecking, lay an egg, little more pecking and then roosting. I am willing to bet that they were no better or worse than the other chickens. There were plenty of other black, white and brown ones running around there. It seems to me that there is a deep metaphor there, but I am afraid that I might mess it up. The Chicken Man is not God and as far as I know, the chickens did not get themselves into the smelly room through their own sin, but in clumsy metaphor lies the truth that God does choose some people to draw to Himself, into His glorious light while others remain in darkness and confusion. I have no more intrinsic merit than one brown chicken had more than the next brown chicken. Yet, here I am, given the gift of His grace and a beautiful new home in His love and care, pecking and sunbathing away while He watches over me and gives me everything I need. Why He does that I cannot say. He has His reasons, and I have to learn to trust Him and let my heart dwell on the gratitude I have to be here. Perhaps the Chicken Man had his reasons too, that I couldn’t see, why this hen and not that one. A mystery. In the meantime, I am very pleased to have hens about again. Something so domesticated about them. And we’re enjoying the fresh eggs! I dislike waste, and one reason I love chickens is that they are marvelous recyclers: they take our old bread and carrot peels and turn them into fresh eggs. Which reminds me that it’s time to take them this morning’s leftover oatmeal. 
Discovering their new home. 
Hermes with hens and little roosting spot inside the coop. 
Trying out the new door and exploring the outside world for the first time. 
What is that? I think I’ll eat it!
How I love the look of a chicken in the grass. 
chicken heaven (with my $10 thrift store bench for chicken gazing) 
please, oh please, just one little nibble?
chicken gazing, much better than television 
I am a country girl at heart ~ this sight make me very happy. garden boxes, laundry drying on the line and chickens. sigh.
Five year old Hermes
Guest post by Athena 
Hermes turned five! We celebrated the Saturday before his birthday. He invited five of his school friends over. 
Welcome to the party! Apollo was the greeter. 
We played Duck Duck Goose, and the Clothespin Game, which involves dropping a clothespin into a jar while standing on a bench. They were both a hit. 
Then we blew up some balloon swords. 
Hermes requested a train cake, so we made an engine, and hooked it up with some train cars. 
Apollo and Hermes quickly started putting together all the presents that Hermes received. That evening we had a little family party, so we reloaded up the train with extra cars. 
Happy Birthday Hermes!
The Really Bad Guy is No More
This morning, after checking my iPhone about my alarm clock and email, I checked the news and saw the headline that had already set the world abuzz: Osama bin Laden is dead. Stunned, I read the stories: Osama Killed in Firefight outside Islamabad, President Obama makes Stunning Announcement to World, World Stocks Rally on News of bin Laden’s Death.
The kids were waking up by then, so I told them there was Big News. They could tell by my tone that this was important, but they couldn’t quite place him. “The leader of Al Quaeda. Remember the Towers in New York? Him.” Oh. Yes.
They don’t remember a time before there was an Al Quaeda. Apollo was born only a month before 9/11, and I recall gorgeous weather and quiet skies outside and watching the news while nursing a tiny baby in a world that had suddenly gotten more dangerous.
Later, I remember trying to explain Al Quaeda to my small children, especially before waiting in long airport security lines when visiting our overseas grandparents. Their eyes would get wide as my words sunk in. “They hate you because you are American. Their god is Destruction, and they would kill you, a little child, if they had the chance, just because you are American.”
“So it’s good news,” I told them this morning, “somber good news.” Then we turned on the television to see if it was really true. We saw Obama’s statement repeated about five times and saw the flag waving crowds jumping around victoriously at the White House. “They don’t seem very somber,” remarked Apollo. Hmmm, no they don’t!
The kids left for school, and my sadness at the necessity of killing of any kind gave way to relief that justice has finally been paid to that wicked man. I remembered the American flag that my daughter reminded me of a couple days ago. I got it out and hung it up in the kitchen. I didn’t hang it outside – I am a guest in a small foreign village, and it could be easily misconstrued. But at lunch my kids will see it, and we will talk about honoring all the people that died at 9/11 and since, fighting that man and his band of clear-headed lunatics.
I wondered what the local news media might be saying and turned on the radio pundits. Not surprisingly, they had a lot to say, and they said it in long, flowery French prose. Among other things:
We should be careful who we label ‘terrorist,’ as George Bush labeled bin Laden just after 9/11. Yes, the so-called “axis of evil” (laughter). After all, Nelson Mandela was once called a terrorist. Someday we may want to negotiate with terrorists. Blah blah blah blah blah.
It made me mad. Osama bin Laden lived to destroy, kill, taunt and incite fear around the world. If he can’t reasonably be called a terrorist, then I’m the President of the European Union. I switched off the radio.
My youngest son Hermes arrived downstairs in the kitchen. His sleepy eyes grew large and questioning. “Why is there a big flag?” At five, he is not yet so up on geo-political events. How to explain this, I thought.
“Well….a really bad guy who killed a whole lot of people finally got captured and killed.”
“Oh,” he said slowly. “So the really bad guy is dead?”
“Yes,” I said with finality.
“Good. Can I have some oatmeal?”
Comfort Me with Bunnies
It’s time to tell you that we are extending our Year of Living Swissly. There are various reasons involved, the primary one being that Zeus, who we fully expected to be milking cows all year to pay the rent, has got a job that is very interesting and resume-worthy and with which he has not yet finished. So we’ve officially decided to stay another year. There are lots of mixed feelings all around and lots of discussions on how to do schooling next year, but the most important thing to consider was this: If we’re gonna stay, it’s high time we got some LIVESTOCK! Because, really, when you are homesick and missing all your friends, nothing says "comfort" quite like a bunny. In fact, I am starting to think that all adolescent girls should routinely be issued one when they turn twelve. 
When I called the number in the classified ad to ask about bunnies the lady told me that if my daughter was interested, she had better come along to make sure there was “good bunny vibe” (or something like that) because she had lots of colors and lengths of hair to choose from. There was a sweet gray one in the first hutch she opened and so she found a bucket for Athena to sit on and put the bunny in her lap. Little Gray Bunny sort of stood up and leaned on Athena’s chest and then just gazed at her for, no joke, about 15 minutes. When the farmer lady came back she asked, “Well, have you chosen?” “Um…I think the bunny has chosen us.” Even the farmer lady was amazed! She was very happy that her bunny was going home to live with a girl she adored so much. So that she would not be lonely, we got her sister too, who wears a little black jacket. 
Line ‘em up, folks, and give ‘em a bunny! 
Little Bunnies are awaiting names. The kitchen whiteboard is full of ideas ranging from Jane Austen heroines to Darth Fluffy and Master Fuzzy, a la Star Wars. There’s a rumor that we’ve finally reached a settlement with Flopsy and Mopsy. Meanwhile they’ve settled into their lovely ready-to-go hutch out in the garden shed. It is all set up here beautifully because …{shhh….cover those long bunny ears} around here, rabbits are often raised for their meat. A few people have already asked me if I was raising them for “elevage”? to eat? “NO! For snuggles!” 