I just got back from a most wonderful two days and I have several people to thank.

On Friday I visited my BFF, Emily. Really forever, as we met when we were thirteen in 1973 (you do the math, I just count decades.) We were both horse-crazy girls at a riding camp in Vermont. The entire camp was filled with horse-crazy girls and I didn’t connect with all of them. But Emily was funny and brilliant. We both like words and writing and so were able to maintain a friendship when that was done with paper and pen, and it has continued with email. I haven’t seen Emily much. She lives several states away, and has a crazy-busy life of a college professor and mother. She’s also been battling cancer. “Going to war” against cancer is a cliche, but in Em’s case, she and her entire family donned virtual suits of armor and fought through chemo, radiation and a bone marrow transplant. She won against a rare cancer that is usually the victor.

So, there I was on Friday, on a gloriously sunny day, with the wind blowing the blossoms off of trees, at a farm in Connecticut, visiting with Emily and her good horse, Perry. Yes, we both remain horse-crazy girls. It would have been enough to stand in the indoor ring, smelling that smell of horse sweat and dust and manure, and watching Emily ride, but Emily asked, “will you coach me?” I haven’t taught for years. Emily and I went to that Vermont camp another year, and then to riding school in England, where we learned to be riding instructors, and then she studied Greek classics in college. But, I continued to study horses and got my BS in animal science. I rode and taught, mucked and cleaned tack into my mid-twenties, when I switched from riding breeches to chef whites. I continued to ride, off and on, and take dressage lessons (with some Grand Prix level instructors, I never do things half-way) until my back gave out and I had to stop.

Emily is a lovely rider but she’s always been a tad tense (Emily would say that “tad” is too generous a qualifier.) Perry is a nice horse, but he doesn’t know what to do to make Emily happy, so he moves reluctantly. They ride indoors because Em can’t risk a fall outside. They’re crooked and ring sour. I didn’t have to tell Emily how to ride, what buttons to push to ask for a canter, or where to put her hands. She knows all of that. I had to tell her where to put her heart. I pointed out each good stride. I made her imagine a window in the ring and had her ride through it. I had her recite nursery rhymes. You can’t be tense when saying something silly. I pointed out when to ask Perry for more and where to hold him together. I congratulated each good stride. Soon enough, Perry was carrying Emily with relaxed, confident energy, with, as we horse-people say, a beautiful rounded frame, and Emily was smiling and looking ahead.

So, I need to thank Emily for the chance to teach a lesson again. I’m loathe to put the jeans I wore into the wash. I do so love that smell of horses.

The next day, I headed further south to Westport, CT. Elizabeth Beller, a HenBlog reader from that area, had acted as matchmaker and connected me to Earthplace, which hired me to do a Tillie Lays an Egg story time and spend a few hours at their Green Fair talking about backyard chickens. Elizabeth and her daughter, Brie, brought three of their chickens. Brie is an animal-lover after my own heart, and spends hours with her hens. It shows. Her friendly and relaxed birds were the ideal chicken ambassadors. I talked about poultry for four hours, and then was treated to an early dinner by Elizabeth and talked about animals some more, which is just about my favorite way to spend a day. Thank you Elizabeth and Brie! (Click on their names and read their blogs.)

Here are Elizabeth, Lady Gaga and me.

Finally, did you notice that I spent much of my time in conversation? When I visited Emily a year ago, I had a hard time following her words. The visit was only a few hours and I was exhausted afterwards. This time, the visit lasted a day. We talked in the car, at the barn, and at the dinner table. I heard almost every word. At Earthplace, I heard the voices of little children and the voices of their parents. I heard. Thank you to Dr. Toh, my surgeon, and Nancy Cohen, my audiologist, for the incredible, life-expanding gift of the cochlear implant. And thank you to the scientists, everywhere, working on the devices and drugs that allow Emily and I to continue to be friends.

I usually bestow old-fashioned names on my hens, like Agnes and Prudence. There have been notable exceptions (Twinkydink, Snowball and Siouxsie come to mind) but as a rule I think the frilly names fit the girls (rather like hats are appropriate at a royal wedding!)

But, since I have a whole batch of chicks, I thought I’d do something different this time. I thought I’d name them after gemstones. Pearl, Ruby, Jet, Sapphire, Opal. Steve has a degree in geology so he likes this idea a lot.

Then my younger son suggested I name that after ice cream flavors. Peppermint, Pistachio, Blackberry Chip, Cherry, Vanilla.

Then my older son suggested that I name them after Transformers. He said I’d get more traffic to my site.

Or, he said, I could name them after the female characters in Harry Potter. I like the idea of a chicken named Hermione but do I want one named Moaning Myrtle?

What do you think?

Most hatcheries require a minimum of 25 chicks for an order. I wanted chicks, but not that many. Many of my old hens have stopped laying and I wanted young birds to fill the nesting boxes with eggs. My friend Ken, who lives a mile up the road, also wanted to replenish a flock that saw serious losses due to hawk predation (a problem now mostly solved with netting and restricted free-ranging.) So, we decided to share an order. Each of us have our favorite breeds, and we also wanted to try new ones. He wanted Dominiques. I don’t like rose combs. I wanted Delawares, he wanted Buff Chanteclers. We both wanted Speckled Sussex and Rhode Island Reds.

The box of twenty-five chicks arrived yesterday. Two little yellow chicks were dead on the bottom of the box. My guess is that the box tipped while in transit, the chicks piled up, and the two died. Sad, but it happens.

I had the pleasure of all 24 chicks (there was an un-asked for extra, and it better not be a roo!) for most of the day. Ken arrived after work. He still had on a white shirt and nice shoes. We don’t see clothes like that much around here. But, he’s a dirt under the fingers sort of guy and squatted next to the brooder without even a glance at the dust. This is why we’re friends.

It was time to sort the chicks. It was obvious which were the Speckled Sussex. They look like chipmunks. Ken was to have 3, I’d keep 2.

Look at those adorable fluffy butts. But, wait, what about that darker one? The sixth stripey chick with the solid brown head? What the heck is that? We decided to ignore it and divvy up the yellow chicks. According to the photos in the on-line catalog, my Delaware chicks were supposed to be yellow with faint dark markings on the head. There were a slew of peeping yellow chicks. Some had paler yellow heads. None had spots. Okay. So. Maybe it’d be easier to sort out the Buff Orpingtons from the Buff Chanteclers. Nope. All yellow.

Chicks should come in boxes like chocolates, kept separate in little dividers, with a diagram to the varieties.

We divided up the order as best we could. We’ll let the chicks grow for three weeks, at which time we should know how badly we messed up. We might trade them off again. Or not. If he has all the Rhode Island Reds that’s fine with me. Ken is adamant that he doesn’t want Buff Orpingtons. I’ll take those. But, if there’s a rooster, he’s keeping it!

(The breeds that I hope I have in my brooder are: 2 Delawares, 2 Welsummers, 2 NH Reds, 1 Rhode Island Red, 2 Buff Orpingtons and 2 Speckled Sussex.)

The phone rang at 6 am. The post office had a peeping package.

The post office isn’t even open at this hour.

But this is a small town and when I knocked on the door, I was greeted with a smiling face and handed a small box.

“Glad you’re here. It’s starting to smell.”

The chicks broke out of their shells Monday at Meyer Hatchery in Ohio. They can survive for two days, living off the yolk, but I was glad to get them home.

They need warmth, and so are shipped crowded 25 in a small box, their body heat doing the job. Unfortunately, two little cream-colored chicks were dead on the bottom of the box. The rest of the chicks were healthy and noisy. I dipped each bird’s beak into the water fountain to get their first drink. One sip and they knew what to do. They also knew what to do with the chick feed.

In the next four months, each chick will eat 10 pounds of chick feed. Which is an amazing number when you realize that right now they weigh about an ounce each.

I’m not keeping all 23 chicks. Ten are going to a neighbor. He already has a backyard flock, but a hawk got a number of his birds, so he’s replenishing his stock. Besides, he couldn’t resist trying out a few new breeds. He ordered Buff Chanteclers and Barnevelders, along with the familiar, like the Speckled Sussex.

Speaking of the Speckled Sussex, it’s obvious which ones they are – they’re striped like chipmunks. But, even if all the chicks had the same markings, I’d know. The Sussex are running roughshod over the other birds. Barging this way and that. Little Lulus.

Do let your friends know about the brooder cam. This oh too ridiculously cute stage won’t last long. Soon the chicks will lose their fluff and feather out.

More later, but right now I have to go to the barn. Just because.

They’re here! Click here to see the chicks!

The post office called at six am.

I’ll post more after I’ve had my coffee…. and can pull myself away from watching and listening to them. Chirp! Chirp!