Going to Guatemala with an achin . . . . in my heeaarrt.

In about eight hours I will be on a plane flying south to Guatemala where the monsoons have already begun and the fact that something about any reasonable change to our country's attitude towards immigration has NOT taken place is felt in the tangible way that we passport wielding, English speaking, comfortable folks can't begin to comprehend. Seriously. But I am going to hop on down for a two and a half week jaunt to visit friends and relax a bit - ahhh the power of the dollar.... How conveeenient. To think that such a reality is entirely IMPOSSIBLE for most folks in Guatemala or almost any other country where the predominant human color scheme is other than pasty is a nearly insurmountable obstacle for the minds of us Citizens. In fact most of the time, when one hears that someone from Guatemala, Mexico, or any other country south of here would come to visit or work in the US of A, the assumptive fear that too often follows is that we should worry that they might stay. What if I stay in Guatemala? Anyone (besides my boss) worried about that? The double standard is a bit like an elephant giving us all a collective lap dance and we not only are unwilling to acknowledge the elephant is there, but that we don't even know what a lap dance is. Anyways, my soap box rant aside, what I really wanted to say was that I am going to Guatemala, where the chicken buses run wild and the chickens speak Spanish, so my entries will be a bit more sparse, but I hope to get you up to date on our travels and adventures.

In the mean time, here are some links on Guatemala in case you are interested:

Current Events
Photos
Human Rights work

The light.

Do you think this is the light that chickens see when they die?

Chicken down.

Let us please have a moment of silence for Chewbacca, whose chicken soul has went to be in the great free range feed lot in the sky. This morning I awoke good and early (for those of you that know me - gasp!) only to find the smallest of my hens in a not-so-chicken-comfortable-position, that is, stretched out on her side and D-E-D dead. I have recently wondered if she was sick as she was often sitting alone in unusual places and a bit slow to move when I would check on her. Luckily there was no fowl play such as dogs or hawks, though mysteriously there is a giant hole in my prickly pear cactus and large pieces that have obviously been eaten...leads one to wonder if she overdosed on prickly pear - a growing cause of fatality among young chickens these days. Evidently it is a hard-knock-life for chickens in the desert.

Chewbacca, we barely knew you as you scampered away from us on your chicken haunches, but still we loved you. You were a hen among chickens, a beauty among fowls, and a lousy egg layer - and we shall miss you.

R.I.P.
Chewbacca of the Desert
February 2007 - June 27 2007

Cray-zee.

So good...even chickens can get down to this - so why can't the rest of our country? For more info go here.

Inspiration.

Perhaps it is out of place to use a blog about chickens, that is at times self-deprecating and at least attempting to be amusing, to occasionally be somewhat introspective, but I will let you all in on a little secret that might explain the twists and turns that will inevitably exist on this blog. It is this: that like so many other things in life, I find the project of raising chickens and growing food in my backyard downright inspiring. The learning and changes that are apart of that work are some amazing gifts. The fact that I have a blog about it all is merely a bit of evidence to that reality. It really is that simple for me. And if in between my shared idiosyncrasies, attempts at humor, and pangs of seriousness, some inspiration makes it's way into the wide spaces that we inhabit, I will be oh so satisfied.

I think there are times in our lives that we need inspiration more than others. Today I was looking for some and was fortunate enough to find it in and around my house. For me they are more than photos, they represent opportunity creation passion life and much more. I won't try and explain them, but I wanted to share them. Wherever you are, I hope you are finding your own inspiration...

The cutting edge of chicken lingo.

I am going to start a new saying. This is what it is going to be: It's hotter than inside a live chicken!© And ladies and gentleman, that's HOT. Technically speaking that means it is more than 107 degrees, but just like any colloquial saying (which this will be quite soon I am sure) I feel that we can take some liberties even if it is not technically hotter than inside a live chicken. Besides, just like humans, 107 is just the average and each chicken varies of course. My hope is that it will be a regional specific saying with a global reach. SO, feel free to use this new saying as you please...in fact, why don't you say it with me: It's hotter than inside a live chicken!© Doesn't it just roll right off your tongue? It's catchy too. If you want to be on the cutting edge of chicken trendy this is your in. Don't hold back because you think others won't understand you - they will be dying to get on the it's-hotter-than-inside-a-live-chicken©-train too, so say it with abandon, and often. Very soon your friends will see you as the trend-setter that you are.

(Currently, it is NOT hotter than inside a live chicken© - it is only 101 degrees - but later on today it might be...)

One year house-aversary.

It's been nearly a year since I bought this house in Tucson (June 30 to be exact)....which is first and foremost cray-zee! and second of all, surreal and mostly unbelievable. In any case, I have been thinking a lot about the changes over the course of one year here in the bread basket of Tucson (as Menlo Park is sometimes thought of) and trying to remember exactly what it was that I saw in this house last year as I paraded my brother and friends around through the house and into the backyard, searching for some level of excitement close to mine to bolster the insanity that had found its nest in my brain leading me to go into greater debt than I had ever imagined. Needless to say, no one thought of it as much as I did, and to be honest it wasn't them that needed to, but me. So anyways, a year out, home ownership beginning to feel like something I indeed planned for and handle quite well, I have prepared a little montage of pictures showing the "before" (certifiable) and "after" (still crazy after just one year) that will hopefully show some semblance of change, if not even a bit of progress. As for which pictures are the before and after, they are a bit like those weight loss commercials that show the person looking drab and unsmiling for the first shot and then so obnoxiously smiling that they must be high on a whole slew of anti-depressants and steroids, so hopefully you should be able to figure it out. Anyways, here they are...

Rambling.

I am beginning to wonder if the desert is driving me mad. Not in the way that I don't enjoy, but in that way that has my head spinning in all sorts of directions keeping my thoughts significantly more random than usual and what comes out of my mouth drastically more quirky. Focusing is currently not my strong point (one could argue whether it ever was), and frequently I have this feeling that I am multi-tasking quite well, when really I am utterly distracted by 83 things at once. Perhaps there was a meltdown somewhere in my brain that has allowed normally isolated oddities to leak into other parts of my psyche leaving me prone to indecipherable ramblings...

Going on two years in Tucson now. Maybe I should have just expected it? The really interesting bit, is that I am totally amusing myself. People's quizzical looks only feed my enjoyment of the strange comments that spontaneously erupt during conversation. Is anyone else experiencing this? Am I alone in my rapid descent into Sonoran madness? Will I one day better understand the writings of Edward Abbey, or the rock art in the canyonlands of the Southwest? Maybe this is just what happens when you buy a house and has nothing to do with the desert. Perhaps the arugula was too strong...What's in that chicken feed anyways? Hello?

Here I am appearing to offer my cousins' son a margarita - his mom didn't even try and stop me either...

Desert fruition.

(First and last photos are by Mari. Middle pics by me. The cacti are in the front yard.)

Just another day on the US/Mexico border.

With a phone call everything can change so quickly. One minute you are chuckling to yourself over some private joke that you remembered from the evening before, and then the next minute your friend’s voice is over the phone from somewhere south of Tucson in the middle of the desert telling you they found the body of the woman they were looking for. She had been crossing the border and then the desert like so many thousands of others, looking for work. The body had already begun to decompose he tells me, and the hair on my arms stands up – I don’t know if it is from the air conditioning that just kicked back on or the gravity of his words that kicked me in the gut. There was a strain in his voice that was palpable and it wasn’t the static that from poor cell phone coverage. There are times when phones have this unnerving quality, like a massive car wreck between juxtaposition of events and interconnectedness of us all. Sitting in the shaded confines of my office, the picture of a woman’s body, decomposed and lonely, was never clearer, never more distinct, and yet miles if not worlds away from me. The very border that killed her made my reality possible. The insufferable heat she succumbed to was my privilege and my enjoyment. The car wreck of our circumstances is not easily cleaned up.

Somewhere, only an hour’s drive from where I write, more phone calls are being made to the necessary authorities, and surely prayers are being whispered on the dry burning wind of the desert. Water is touching the lips of those who endeavored to find this unnamed person, and sweat is being wiped from brows with the knowledge that the cars are not far off. A woman who died with nothing but courage, is now with companions she never knew. The family she was walking towards is certainly weeping at the news of her confirmed death, and yet sighing with the relief that she will not be one of the hundreds who simply evaporate into the oblivion of the desert. Close by, I am sure there are those who are sidestepping such an ending, walking a tightrope to survival and the possibility of work in the North. Meanwhile we jump from air conditioned cars to offices and back, our agendas tightly under our arms, and our destinations “legally” sanctioned by convenience of laws made on our behalf. As long as there are jobs here and US sponsored poverty elsewhere, women like this will die alone in the desert. As we are responsible for the policies of this country, we are then responsible for this woman's death.

Swamp coolers are great - Exxon Mobile is not.

While the heat index is on its way to 109 this week in Tucson and the collective groans rise from all the shaded spots far and wide, I am becoming increasingly thankful for the magical and refreshing powers of my swamp cooler. And while the the indications of climate change are everywhere, this unfortunately is just southern Arizona at its best in the summertime.

However that has not kept Exxon Mobile (or at least some pseudo-famos folks posing as them) from capitalizing on the negative outcomes of global climate change with their newest alternative to the growing energy crisis. So imagine this: You are one of about 300 oil industry representatives in Calgary, Alberta just last Friday, expecting to hear from Exxon Mobile execs regarding their new product, Vivoleum. The speaker begins to describe the process of utilizing the remains of all the vicitims of climate change as a source of energy, and among other things he says this:

"Vivoleum works in perfect synergy with the continued expansion of fossil fuel production. With more fossil fuels comes a greater chance of disaster, but that means more feedstock for Vivoleum. Fuel will continue to flow for those of us left."

As this big oil executive is speaking, candles are being handed out and you are asked to light yours and pass it along. After all the candles are passed out they play this video...

Ode to my brother.

Two weeks from today my brother, Chris will arrive in here in Tucson from the cold, frosty north of Minnesota where polar bears roam wild with icicles for teeth and caribou-pulling-sleighs are the only way to get around. Luckily, here in the Old Pueblo we have 100+ degree days cooking up to thaw out Chris' near frost-bitten digits and return the circulation to his jaw so he doesn't always look like this. Golly are we happy he will finally be back in town. I have many a hard-labor jobs for low pay to farm out to him in my yard, and every Thursday evening he is going to tell tall tales about the north pole around the agave plant for tips and free sunscreen samples. So I hope you are excited as I am.

Here we are back in the day before we knew we liked chickens.

Nothing quite like the desert when the rain drops melt into the dust. I spent this evening watching storm clouds dissipate with the sunset while creosote still lingered in the air. The infrequency of the rain makes its passing that much more stunning.

My weekend...

Chickens @ night.

This is what chickens look like at night.




















They aren't as scared as they look, I promise. They make beautiful cooing sounds and bob their heads up and down.

Residents of Menlo Park.

I have been told to put some non-poultry pictures up so here we are. Mari and I like chickens.






Riley also likes chickens. He won't like this picture, but he already left for DC this summer and this is the only photo I have of him so he will have to deal with it.


Oops, here is the one other photo I have with Riley playing with Amara's hair in that way that I don't quite understand.

It's Friday and I'm going to sneak into a pool...

One of many sunflowers in my backyard.

A future sunflower.

My backyard. Yes, it's dirt. That's what happens when you live in the desert.

Excitement.

This is my friend Evan doing a keg stand because he was so excited when I told him we had chickens. Right after this he ate some of that chicken that Dave cooked up. We were all very proud.

More introductions.

The last two chickens left to meet are Chewbaca and Cracker. You guess which one is Cracker. Cracker was an effort at diversity believe it or not. As a Buff Orpington breed from England (hence the pasty complexion) she will probably only lay half as many eggs as her friend Chewbaca, another Rhode Island Red, and those three indistinguishable Araucanas. But both Mari and I thought that we needed a bit of variation in our backyard hen population, so a we found us a Buff Orpington in the large caged chicken run of OK Feed and promptly did away with any cultural sensitivity by naming her Cracker at Riley's suggestion. Both of these two chickens are slightly smaller than all the others at this point and mostly flap around hiding or following the rest. Chewbaca screams much less than her namesake and fortunately Cracker is not picked on because she is different by all the other chickens. Here is another picture of Cracker racing past me, which is about the best I can get at this point.

And this is the chicken house which I have constructed for my six hens. The enclosed compartment on the right was intended for them to lay eggs. So far they have not laid any eggs, they just pile on top of each other and sleep there.

I know why he was an angry chicken...

This is Dave cooking up some cousins of my six chickens last weekend. They were not free range, organic or anything, but they were still very good. (Al Carbon watch out!) I am positive this is why that chicken was angry. Either that, or because it was being exploited in a Nike ad - just like all their workers in sweat shops far away where the laws do not protect them and companies get to make heaps of money to sell us US citizens the newest brand of this or that.

The Angry Chicken

If we aren't careful, we will one day all be chased by chickens...

Cactus flower.

Just because there are only pictures of chickens so far. And besides, chickens like flowers too.

Introductions x3.

I have three Araucana chickens. Araucanas are from South America, and I have been told specifically from Peru. They are especially adapted to the hot weather which is super helpful living in the desert as we do. So far we are unable to tell the difference between any of these three, but we still have three names for them - we just haven't assigned them to individual chickens. Their are names are these: Sally (for no particular reason, except that if we ever decide to try and have baby chickens and borrow a rooster from my neighbor, we have decided to film it and call it "When Harry met Sally"), Al Carbon (basically "barbecued" in Spanish though we have no immediate plans to eat any of them), and Maria Algo ("algo" means "something" in Spanish, and since they are Peruvian, Mari felt that they needed at least one of them needed to be called Maria something, so Riley said "why don't we call it Maria Algo?").

I'm not sure everyone finds those names as clever as we did at the time that we were standing around ogling the chickens for hours on end and coming up with names. But as we don't know which chicken is which, the names might actually change as time goes on. I mean, the chickens are only three months old or so.