Tag: American West

The Adventures of Jane Wayne

On By Jennifer Mugrage2 Comments

Jane Wayne, the sole survivor of the Great Chicken Massacre of 2023, did not appear outwardly traumatized. She hung out in the cool darkness under the lilac bushes just as she used to do when her sisters were alive, taking a dust bath and watching the humans dash around cleaning up blood and feathers. She remained in the yard all day, making periodic forays to her usual haunts, scratching in the pile of grass clippings, hiding under the camper. But when night fell and it was time to put Jane in the coop (and make it secure this time!), she suddenly was nowhere to be found.

My son and I wandered all around looking for her: first our yard, then the farm and machine yard, then as far as the bridge over the irrigation canal. Our hearts were sinking. We figured that the predator had probably returned and dragged Jane off as well. We were still raw from the massacre, but had been taking comfort in the fact that we still had one chicken to care for. Now, with heavy hearts and against the background of a brilliant red Idaho sunset, we trudged home.

The next morning, clinging to some faint hope, we wandered to the back to see whether Jane had reappeared. And there she was! Roosting in the upper branches of the lilac bush by the wood pile! Jane had apparently spent the night in the bush. This is normal wild chicken behavior. We are not sure whether Jane found the coop too full of distressing memories, or whether, without the crowd to remind her, she has forgotten that her normal routine is to go into the coop at night and rest on its upper rafters. (Another theory is that she had already been spending the night in the lilac bushes, and this is what enabled her to survive the massacre. This theory is disfavored, because we would usually do a visual check that the Barred Rocks were in the coop, and there were always four black butts faintly visible, perched up in the peak of the structure.)

Since her newly acquired status as Only Chicken, Jane has continued retiring to the lilacs on a nightly basis. Ordinarily, the humans will pluck her down from there, put her in the coop, and close the doors. (The small human is particularly good at this.) We want her to get used to spending the night in the coop, so that she will lay eggs there when she starts laying, and as an example to the next batch of chickens we already plan to buy. Once or twice, she has evaded us of an evening. There was a second vanishing, and a second despairing walk to the bridge and back along the canal. She may have a hiding place that we still haven’t discovered. Jane has unexpected depths. But so far, she can still be counted on to show up when a human emerges from the house bearing something tempting, like yoghurt.

The Tragedy of the Chickens

On By Jennifer Mugrage9 Comments

So it was my fault.

Now that I no longer have to get up early to teach, I like to sleep in a little bit in the mornings. In the summertime, this means that I am getting up well after it is light outside.

I didn’t want the chickens to be trapped in their tiny run for two hours between 6 and 8 when I finally got out there.

I thought they would be overcrowded and start pecking each other.

So I left the door to the run open, allowing them to let themselves out in the morning.

*deep sigh*

That worked great for a few weeks. Then, disaster struck! A raccoon, a raider, a being of violence, came in the dark of the night, in the wee hours of the morning, probably around 5 a.m. He slaughtered my poor girls in their beds. I feel the worst about my three sweet silky bantams. Their heads were bitten off literally in the coop where they sleep. They were the only ones who had started laying, and who would crouch down when they saw a human, in case the human wanted to pick them up.

The Barred Rocks put up a fight. One, either Ginny Cash or Andrea, was dragged away without a trace (possibly she had been taken the day before). Another was found, partially eaten, near the lilac bushes.

But the rooster — ah, the rooster. Meriadoc Brandybuck. He seems to have fought the predator. His carcass was found, mostly eaten, in the small tunnel-like pass-through between house and garage. Damp raccoon tracks led away from it towards the front of the house. And … still alive, hiding under the lilac bushes, was the smallest of the Barred Rocks, Jane Wayne.

We don’t know, but we imagine that he gave his life for her. “You go! I’ll hold him off!” he cried, dashing into the gap while Jane, clucking and shedding feathers, fled. Merry, as we call him, had previously shown signs of behaving like a rooster in the sense of pushing the hens around a bit and being selfish about the food, but he had never yet displayed any protective behavior. But in the darkest hour, Meriadoc rose to the occasion – so we imagine – and showed his quality: the very best.

Tears were shed. Carcasses were gathered up. Blood was cleaned from the inside of the coop, which looked like a crime scene, which in fact it was. Certain members of the family wanted to give the chickens a “Viking” funeral, where we would put them on a small, flammable boat, push it out into the irrigation canal, and then shoot an arrow (this step was unclear) to set the boat on fire. This was felt to be impractical, so we settled for a pyre in the burn barrel that involved firewood and a little bit of gasoline. A funeral was held. Prayers were said. The brave deeds of Meriadoc were recited (this is how stories help us make sense of tragedy). We also recalled the endearing little habits of the dead, particularly Jasmine, the black bantam silky, who was our sweetest, the most reliable layer, and will always remain “the bestest of chaekens.”

And, lesson learned. Just because a predator hasn’t come so far, does not mean that one never will. I will make the coop more secure, and will lock it in the future.

I’m a Luddite, all right. A really, really bad one.

Small-Town America, 50 Years Ago

On By Jennifer Mugrage3 Comments

The sky was turning dark with clouds as they drove north. She put her foot on the brake and veered left onto the turnoff toward Lake Wobegone. The turnoff is just before a sharp bend in the highway and when you brake for the turn, you think of the speeding truck that might leap from the bend and roll you flat as a pancake. This turn might be your last. You brake and at the last moment you hit the gas and swerve left, as if crossing a forbidden border. Where the county road leaves the highway, there’s a dip in the road and a bump that lets you know you’re back in the land of where you come from. You hit the bump and see George Washington’s face on the schoolroom wall and hear the Nicene Creed, “I believe in one God the Father Almighty, Maker of heaven and earth, and of all things visible and invisible,” and smell tunafish casserole.

Leaving Home, by Garrison Keillor, (1987), p. 23

New Farmland Painting just dropped

On By Jennifer MugrageLeave a comment

I swear I am not making this up.

Some late Spring evenings really do look like this, from our house, looking north.

This is a view of Big Southern Butte at the moment long after sunset when the entire sky is pink and the ground is mostly too dark to see, other than that it is dark green.

Behind Big Southern Butte, you can see the beginnings of the Pioneer Mountains.

I did this quickly, using blocks of color, similar to my farm painting last year. That one portrayed a wheat field just beginning to turn yellow; this field is much younger, still green.

The road barely glimmers in the gloaming.

The green in the foreground is our front lawn.

Here it is, photographed in low light:

Guilty Pleasure: Stoneware

On By Jennifer MugrageLeave a comment

I got this fantastic mug at university. I bought it from a sale the Art Dept students were having. Back then, buying anything at all was a big decision that I had to justify. When my Japanese roommate saw it, she got all excited and said the mug looked Japanese. I probably should have given it to her (sorry, Makiko!), but I didn’t. I am still treasuring it all these years later.

Faithful OOB readers have seen this mug before, in my “I Like Bears” post. I think my husband got it for me during a trip to Yellowstone years ago, then it spent several years in storage, then I re-discovered it, with new appreciation, after our most recent move. I use it now because my book The Strange Land features a Bear of Justice.

This lovely thing was purchased at the Fantasy Faire, from a stonewear booth (advertising slogan: “Get Stoned”). I asked the potter, an older lady, about her process, and she said, “I take some clay. I throw it on the wheel. I make a cup. I glaze it, and then I fire it.”

Do you like stonewear?

Special Summer Event

On By Jennifer Mugrage2 Comments

https://mysticrealmsfantas.wixsite.com/mysticrealmsfair

That’s right, folks, on June 17 and 18, my son and I will be vendors at the Mystic Realms Fantasy Fair at the Bannock County Fairgrounds in Pocatello, Idaho! We’ll have a 10×10 booth, which we are working hard on making its appearance authentic.

Looks pretty modern still. Got a lot of work to do.

My son will sell the Galaxy Rabbit paintings that he has become known for, as well, as other night-sky-themed art:

I, of course, will sell hard copies of my trilogy

and the character art that you can see on my Art page.

I don’t own an authentic medieval or Renaissance period costume, but luckily, the organizers have dubbed it a “fantasy” fair rather than a “medieval” or “Renaissance” fair. This leaves wiggle room for vendors to dress as fae, mermaids, pirates, or … ahem … cave women …

Come if you can!