There are certain tools that are essential for caring for your backyard flock of hens. There’s the fine-tined pitchfork to pick up manure, and the bucket to put it in. There’s the galvanized can for storing feed, and the scoop to dole it out with. There’s the scrub brush for keeping the waterers clean, and the rake for pen maintenance.

This is also essential for chicken keeping – a stool.

The more you spend time with your chickens, the more you’ll know them, and the better a chicken keeper you’ll be. Sit awhile in their midst. You might also find that your blood pressure lowers and your heart rate steadies. Chickens are calming like that.

A little, cheerful, easy to tote stool is just the thing. I keep this yellow stool in the barn, not in the pen, so that when I want to sit on it, it is clean of manure and chicken feet prints.

I know some people who like having their hens jump on their heads and their backs and their laps. I don’t. I want them to ask. Beatrice came right up to me chattering. Very polite.

I lifted her up and we had a nice conversation.

Owly also wanted one-on-one time. But she had a big plop of manure on her foot. That’s why I like them to ask. I said hello and put her back down.

I’m not much into holding my chickens. I certainly don’t want to hug the girls. I handle them so that I can better care for them.(Never kiss your chickens! There’s always salmonella around; with the usual handling and hand washing afterwards the risk is minimal. Kissing, though, is risky.) What I like is to watch them. And they like to watch me.

I grew up in suburban New Jersey, a land of small tidy mown lawns and clipped hedges. From the first that I can remember, I looked around and knew that something was missing. Our neighbor had one of those concrete lawn statues of a donkey. I recall how, when I was a very small girl of four years, that donkey called to me. I’d cross, what seemed like a vast stretch of grass, to sit on it. The summer before kindergarten, I went to day camp. There was a large swimming pool, which I was terrified of. There were horses, which I was told I was only to ride once a week. So I stood in the poison ivy patch in the woods and gave myself a weeping, itchy rash. I wasn’t allowed to swim with the poison ivy oozing, and so I was sent to the barn daily.

My parents had no interest in horses. They did not want me to ride. Horses, to them, meant that I’d have to join the country club set. I didn’t understand that. Horses to me, meant earthy smells, barn work and the physical challenge of riding. Riding was like being Dr. Doolittle without saying a word out loud. You talked to the horse and the horse talked back.

My parents let me ride once a week at a lesson stable. I’m sure it was expensive and an extravagance, but for me it was never enough. When I was fourteen I asked to go to sleep-away riding camp. They sent me. They didn’t understand my connection to horses, but they respected it. When I was sixteen I went to riding school in England for the summer. Still, my parents hoped that their friends were right when they said, she’ll find boys. I did, but I also went to UNH and got a BS degree in Animal Science, with a focus on horses.

I worked for awhile at barns; I rode dressage and trained with an FEI judge. I had a fancy young horse that I was schooling. But, she went lame and at the same time, I changed course and got into the food world, first cooking in restaurants, and then working as a food writer. Over the years, my riding life was sporadic. I didn’t, couldn’t, own another. There were times that I could lease a horse, but always there was an end to it. I stopped riding during pregnancies. I stopped riding because it’s too expensive. I stopped riding because I thought that my life was so full, and so good in other ways that I could live without the horses. The last time I stopped was six years ago when I had some physical issues that made riding painful. I thought my riding days were over.

Last year I was invited for a trail ride on a friend’s very steady and comfortable Tennessee Walker. It felt good. It didn’t hurt. I thought, Maybe I can ride again.

A friend here in town has a older horse with a myriad of soundness problems. He needs to get out and walk to keep from getting too stiff. I offered to help, and so I’ve been riding Mica, slowly at a walk, since July. Doing this gave me an excuse to talk with the horses. Oh, how I’ve missed those conversations.

I’ve also missed watching the horses talk to each other. Here is Mica and his buddy, Oliver.

I was feeling pretty good, up there on Mica’s back. The owner of another horse at the barn asked if I’d like to ride her gelding, Dune. He’s a good-natured dun. Look at that nice face.

Of course, I said yes. I’ve been riding him a couple of times a week now for the last two months. I do some ring work with him. How I’ve missed schooling a horse, getting to that relaxed, forward flowing movement! Dune and I went on a long trail ride. My body felt just fine. I could ride.

I love my dogs, my chickens, my rabbit, and oh, how the goats make me happy. But this is where I belong, the world framed by the ears of a horse.

I’ve put my name on the wait list at the wonderful barn where Mica and Dune live. I don’t know when a stall will open up. Meanwhile, I’m going to start looking for a horse of my own.

I’ve never understood why, what with all of the things to celebrate in this country, that we honor Columbus with his own day, and that we even shut down schools for this holiday. (It would shut down government offices, too, that is if the government were open.) Honesty, Columbus? But, whatever the excuse, a day off, in the middle of October, when the weather is perfect, is fine by me.

We had our first hard frost this morning, but the sky is bright blue, and it is cool but not cold sweater weather. It is so beautiful that the “my heart lurched up into my chest” cliche is exactly how I feel when I see the light come through the trees in that way, with the angle just right, that it’s like the leaves are made of stained glass.

So, into the woods Steve and I went with the dogs. Lily stayed on leash, or she’d be off after deer and coyotes.

Scooter doesn’t chase wild animals, and so I unsnapped his lead. He likes to go up ahead. He is perfectly camouflaged. Do you see him?

I don’t like Scooter to get too far away. When I call him, he comes hurtling back, little ears flapping.

The dogs think that every day should be Columbus Day.

I started this bread yesterday and baked it off today.

It’s my basic no-knead bread (the recipe is here) with the addition of a half cup of King Arthur Flour Harvest Grains Blend.

Now that the weather is turning towards winter, there will be a lot more of this bread baking going on in my kitchen.

This past August I was invited to visit the Ban Righ Center at Queen’s College in Kingston, Ontario. This was a chance to talk with college women about the history of women on farms and chicken keeping. Kingston is very far from home, but the drive included a ferry crossing on a small boat across dramatic Lake Ontario. I love ferries;  I said yes to the trip.

It was a long drive, well north of Toronto, where I learned that that city has the worst traffic in North America (and very dramatic lightening storms!) But, the women of the Ban Righ Center were worth the miles. We had an extended conversation about matters of life and death in the chicken yard, and how a backyard chicken keeper deals with decisions about illness and euthanasia.

After the talk I was interviewed by Catherine Isaacs for her local radio show. We talked for a half-hour all about chicken keeping. You can listen to the podcast here.

*Just a reminder about upcoming events – I’ll be on a writers’ panel in Concord, MA on October 19, and there’s still room in the PIe Baking Class here in my home kitchen on October 26. More information is on my events page. Also, if you would like me to come and speak to your group, please email me.