Sunshine, Seedlings, and the Chicken Tractor Blueprint
The sun came back today—bold and unashamed, as if it had no memory of yesterday’s rain. The land dried quickly under the spring warmth, and the entire homestead seemed to breathe a little deeper.
The goats kicked up their heels like they’d been cooped up for weeks instead of just one soggy day. The hens spread their wings wide in dusty corners of the run. And I? I put on my favorite work shirt, tied up my hair, and stepped into the day like it was a promise.
Because it was.
A Garden Come to Life
I started the morning walking the garden paths, checking the beds for signs of over-saturation. But the sandy loam drained just right, and everything looked grateful—not soggy or drowned, but refreshed and awakened.
The garlic was noticeably taller. The sugar snap peas had gripped another rung of their twine trellis. And best of all, the very first green bean sprout had broken through the soil in the north bed—tiny and curled like a sleeping comma, still wearing the seed coat like a hat.
It’s funny how something so small can shift your whole mood.
I paused right there, knelt down in the row, and whispered, “Welcome.” Because here, we speak to our plants. Here, everything hears.
Afternoon Plantings
The soil was too wet for heavy digging, but the raised beds were perfect for light transplanting, so I made the most of the good weather:
- Tucked in a dozen basil seedlings I started back in late February
- Added calendula between the cabbage rows to help with aphids (and because I love their bright cheer)
- Direct-sowed another patch of spinach in a semi-shaded corner near the fence line
There’s a kind of prayer in planting. Not the lofty kind, but the dirt-on-your-palms, hope-in-your-chest kind. Every seed is a little act of trust. Every root tucked into soil is a quiet agreement with the earth: I’ll care for you, and you’ll feed me. If the rains come, if the pests don’t, if the sun is kind.
Farming—gardening—isn’t just a job. It’s a relationship.
The Chicken Tractor Begins
With the broiler chicks expected to arrive soon, it was finally time to lay out the rough shape of this year’s chicken tractor. I’ve used a couple variations in the past—some too bulky, one too flimsy—but this year I’m aiming for mobile, breathable, and secure.
I spent a good hour dragging scrap lumber out of the barn and inventorying what I could reuse:
- Two 8-foot 2x4s still in good shape
- Chicken wire from last season, just enough for side panels
- A leftover roll of hardware cloth (hallelujah)
- Four old wheels from a broken garden cart—perfect for mobility
I sketched the new design in my homestead notebook right there on the tailgate, with Hazel clucking beside me like she had opinions. (She probably did.)
The frame will be low—just enough for broilers to move, eat, and get shade. I’ll add a tarp roof, one side that lifts for feeding, and a waterer that can be refilled without crawling inside (lesson learned from last time).
I’m hoping to have it finished in the next three days. That should give me enough time to test it before the birds arrive. I’ll work on it in the evenings after chores.
There’s a certain satisfaction in building something with your own two hands, especially when you know it’ll help feed your table.
Supper and Stillness
Tonight’s meal was humble but honest:
- Sautéed kale and garlic from the garden
- Leftover lentils with a squeeze of lemon
- A boiled egg, still warm from the henhouse
I ate it on the porch with the goats grazing nearby and the chickens settling into their roost. The wind had finally calmed. The trees were back to whispering instead of shouting. And the sky—oh, that sky—it turned the color of ripe apricots just before nightfall.
Sometimes, I think I could live off this view alone.
Final Thoughts
Today felt like a return. Not to routine, necessarily, but to energy. To possibility. The kind of day that makes you believe, deep down, that this life—hard and hands-dirty as it is—is worth every splinter and sunburn.
The land is stirring in earnest now. The garden is gaining speed. The chicks are nearly here. The pigs, too, before long.
And me? I’m doing what I always do: planting, building, watching, waiting. Living this life one bootstep at a time, with reverence and resolve.
Tomorrow, I’ll cut the frame boards for the tractor, weed the carrot rows, and maybe—if time allows—start prepping the corner by the shed for the summer herb bed.
But tonight, I’m content to sit with a full belly, a tired back, and a heart that knows the rhythm of enough.
Until tomorrow—
Amanda @ Wister Creek