green acres is the place to be

We're officially farmers. Never thought I'd say that or add that to my non-existent resume. I'm a farmer! Oh please help me now.


Actually, we were driven to it like most people I would imagine - not by a love of animals, but in desperation as four boys are consuming more than their fair share of the family grocery budget. It was time to start raising our own meat as we raise our own boys.

Today 25 chicks arrived at the farm store. I don't even know the name of the business, that's how hopeless a farmer I am. I got the job of picking up the teeny box of cheepers. (They'll cheep your eardrums off - I still hear a high chirp). I also had to pick up feed. Me. A farm girl by birth, but not by trade and definitely not by admission. The man behind the counter asked what I wanted and I, reading off the list in my hand, apparently didn't know there were at least two kinds of wild bird feed. So, in desperation and embarrassment, I simply told him - what my father-in-law got.

First, like he's going to know who my father-in-law is. Second, like he knows who I am. And third, like he's going to remember what FIL bought. But, apparently Buffalo still is a small town, because he did remember Rog and what he bought - wild bird seed with no chick mix and no medicine. (Trying to be as au naturale as possible.) I found out later - probably the reason he remembered Rog was because he had ordered 25 chicks and then after getting the okay from his wife, purchased 46 laying hen chicks. 46! I'd remember a guy like that too. :) I don't think we'll be buying eggs for the rest of our lives. Guess I shouldn't poke too much fun at him. They might start upping their price from free to something not free.


Anyway, the boys couldn't wait to get their grubby paws on the chicks. Number Three dropped one and then wouldn't try to pick them up again. Number Four picked up one like a baby kitten (by the fuzz on the back of the neck) and nearly broke the neck of another. He was cut off from holding after that - explaining the concept of petting to a two-year-old wasn't really working. He got his feelings hurt when he realized that he couldn't pick them up. A few tear drops fell on the top chicks in the heap.



We let the boys unload the box, fill up the waterers, pet the chicks and fill the feeding trough. The heat lamp got adjusted, the food placed strategically and then a few chicks got dunked into the water in an effort to demonstrate where the water was. The boys seemed to think that the chicks would either starve or dehydrate if they didn't learn where their meal was. One of them got named "Cheep." At last check, all 25 were still alive. We'll see what tomorrow brings.

For now, I'm humming: du dun du dun dun...the chores! Apparently Green Acres is the place to be, but I'm not so sure that farm livin' is the life for me. That stupid theme song that has now replaced the chirping in my ears.