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January 9, 2012 Worry Not
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January 9, 2012
Worry Not



Greetings Friends of the Farm,

On the second day of the year, I moved the makings of the new compost pile twenty feet to the south. It took me most of the morning. Perched atop the now-tooth-less Jaws -- alas, he had to sell his choppers to afford a hydraulic infusion/repair “last year” --  I missed his teeth.They were handy pulling leaves down from the top of the eight-foot tall pile. But most of all, I missed my compost buddy, Toesy.

The little brown hen, her short legs, ending in one perfect foot and one with a toe reduced to a bubble-nub, propelled her along like a tiny hover craft, scurrying after the tractor to the compost area. It was her favorite place to dine. Sometimes, I would scoop her up at the Hen House and set her on my lap so she could drive. She was a serious driver, even though she didn’t bother with steering. She was content to merely look intent.

But once we hopped off of Jaws, she went to work, trying to dismantle the huge mound of leaves all by herself. It took longer for me to do whatever had to be done, as Toesy was fearless around the tractor’s huge tires, and thus I had to be fearful and cautious for her. I would have hated to accidentally mash the Toe into the rich earth around the pile. With me on the job, however, the Toe worried not.

But today, the process was simpler, if lonelier. I had to look out only for myself. Once or twice Jaws tilted alarmingly to one side on the uneven ground with its piles of leaves, but I always keep in mind how I will jump from him if a turnover is inevitable. A compost pile would be the perfect landing, soft and warm. I will aim for that and worry not.

Friday night, I dreamed that out behind the farm stand barn, Jaws turned over on his side. I had jumped clear, and we all gathered around him trying to figure out how to turn him back onto his wheels. Suddenly he lifted off the ground, like a dragon in the throes of a violent death, twisted in mid air, and fell back down squarely on his head. Hydraulic hoses hissed, metal creaked, the roll bar and the plastic-clad seat collapsed, and diesel shot from his nose. We felt as doomed as he; not only could we not put him on his feet again, he was sighing his final sigh. Lillian would now have to turn the compost, and it would take longer because she is a daintier tractor than he.

Then I woke up. Jaws was OK, but as I was dreaming,Toesy fell dead from her perch and lay on the ground with her head tucked into her breast feathers. After living just over two years with one case of suffering after another (toe amputation, waxy log in her eye, bronchitis, abuse from all the other hens -- especially from Babette -- and finally some sort of recent injury to her good foot), her heart just could not begin a new year. So on the last day, in the wee hours of the morning, just before dawn, she died.

She would have loved this morning. The pile of leaves, donated one pick-up truck at a time by landscapers and yard men in the community, was already steaming. The only ingredients so far are leaves, air, and water from the rains. It is enough to start.

Over the next few days, we will clean out the poo de poulet from the Hen House, especially from the area under the nocturnal perches, and add it to the pile of leaves. For some reason, the hens are highly productive during the night, with many of them, like horses, sleeping standing up, a position which surely is anatomically beneficial to the production of manure.This secondary hen product, almost as desired as the eggs, gives our compost the valuable component of slow-release nitrogen, which feeds our crops from seed to harvest.

We distribute the mature compost by hand-held bucket, loading it from Jaw’s big front-end loader and Lillian’s smaller tractor bucket -- each tractor positioned at one end of the long beds -- and spread a layer of approximately half to one inch on the beds that Jaws has previously hilled up. Any amendments our soil test recommends are also sprinkled on the beds, like salt and pepper. Then Lillian and her tiller mix the compost and amendments into the soil peaks and flatten the bed for easy planting.


Toesy was of course a participant in the bed-making and tilling, cruising behind Jaws and then behind Lillian, picking up and consuming any grub worms that were flung from soil cascading down the peaks. Even with the competition from grackles, sometimes the Toe would nab twenty to thirty of the white worms in an outing. Satiated, she’d retire to a sunny spot and worry not.

We’ll continue with the compost making process over the next two months, and I’ll think of the Toe every time I see a juicy cockroach run out of the pile. But with Toesy at rest in the special graveyard that includes three Aunts (DropTail, Tootie J. Tootums and Penny), the tiniest animals in the compost pile can worry not.

And, as an aside, Toesy, contemplating her next life, is probably trying to decide between compost making and undertaking. Checking out new graves was one of her passions; shovels, like tractors, were tops with her. She’d see us carry out a departed hen and shovel and she’d run like a shot rocket to examine the grave during excavation for any bugs or worms....With the past year’s drought, however, she didn’t find many, and always registered disappointment at the scarcity. But now, with the soil moist enough for worms, Toesy, tucked in with compost, is probably in “heaven” in her very own grave. With both tractors parked nearby. YES!

Carol Ann(Toesy's stone, seen just beyond Lillian's tiller.)

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