Four Chicks, a Busted Fence, and a Bundle of Onions
The rain finally let up sometime in the early morning hours, leaving behind a world dripping with dew and the earthy perfume of wet cedar and compost.
Everything shimmered under the early light. The garden beds wore a fine sheen of silver, and even the goats stood a little quieter, as if the whole world was catching its breath after a good, deep soak.
I pulled on my boots and walked the path to the coop before coffee. I couldn’t wait another minute.
Four Little Miracles
Hazel looked proud.
There’s no other way to put it—she sat tall in the nest box, chest puffed just slightly, and eyes watchful but calm. I squatted beside her and whispered her name. She shifted just enough to give me a peek under her wing.
And there they were.
Four fluffy chicks, tucked up against her breast like tiny suns. One yellow, one dark brown, one golden with black stripes on its back, and one a soft gray with white-tipped wings. All alert. All healthy.
I didn’t mean to cry, but I did. Quiet tears, the kind that slide down your cheek without warning when you’ve been hoping and praying and preparing and then, suddenly—it happens.
All four eggs hatched. Not one lost. That doesn’t happen often, not out here, not without incubators or backup plans. Just a good broody hen, a warm nest, and a little faith.
I stayed with them for a while, just watching. Hazel let one chick climb up her back and tumble down again. She didn’t flinch.
Motherhood suits her.
A Fence Line Surprise
After coffee and breakfast (farm-fresh eggs, of course), I made my rounds to check for storm damage. Most things held. The compost pile had shifted a little, the corner of the tarp peeled back, but nothing major.
Then I saw it—the east fence, right behind the goat pen.
One of the cedar posts had leaned hard to the side, probably loosened by yesterday’s saturated soil and strong winds. The wire was sagging low, low enough that Maple could almost step over it, and you’d better believe she noticed.
She was standing just inside the pen, nose in the air like she was considering her options.
I grabbed a handful of treats, distracted her long enough to shut the gate to the back pasture, and spent the next hour bracing the post with a rock pile and two t-posts. It’s not a permanent fix, but it’ll hold until the soil dries enough for me to reset it properly.
That’s half of homesteading right there—patches and prayers until you can make it right.
Garden Breathing Easy
With the fence secure, I did a quick walk through the garden. The spinach looks fuller already, and the lettuce seeds I sowed on the 24th are starting to germinate—tiny green arches lifting themselves toward the sky like stretchers after a long nap.
The peas are reaching for the trellis. The garlic looks taller. Even the sage has new growth pushing from its woody base.
It’s as if the garden exhaled, finally, after holding its breath through winter and wind and the uncertainty of March.
So did I.
A Knock on the Gate
Late afternoon, while I was hauling a bale of straw from the barn, I heard it—a knock at the front gate. Not a vehicle, just a gentle tap-tap of knuckles on wood.
It was Mrs. Harper, who lives two miles down the gravel road. She’s 78 years old, still drives her faded green Ford, and always smells faintly of rose water and peppermint.
She was carrying a bundle of onion slips, tied with twine, and wrapped in damp newspaper.
“Saw the forecast,” she said, holding them out. “Figured you’d want to get these in before next week’s heat sets in.”
I nearly hugged her. She just smiled.
We sat on the porch for a while, sipping lemonade and talking about chickens, the price of feed, and how this year feels different—lighter somehow, even though the world is still upside down in so many places.
Before she left, I promised her a dozen eggs and a jar of the blackberry jam I have tucked away from last summer. She waved it off, but I’ll send it anyway. It’s just how we do things out here.
Supper and Soft Chatter
Dinner tonight was slow:
- A skillet of potatoes and onions from storage
- A fried egg on top
- A few sprigs of parsley chopped and sprinkled over everything like confetti
I ate on the porch again, watching the clouds thin out and give way to stars. The chicks were quiet for the first time all day, Hazel keeping them close and content.
It was a good day. Not just because of what got done, but because of what arrived—new life, a neighbor’s kindness, the feeling that this land really is coming alive again.
Final Thoughts
It’s funny how the best days on the homestead are rarely the ones you plan.
Today was supposed to be for planting carrots and mulching the herb spiral. Instead, I held my breath beside a nest box, braced a fence, welcomed a neighbor, and gave thanks more times than I can count.
The list will still be there tomorrow. But today was a reminder that life unfolds on its own timeline, and our job isn’t always to control it—it’s to show up for it.
Until tomorrow—
Amanda @ Wister Creek