What fresh shell is this?

Before I begin, this is important:

It is illegal to remove living creatures from a South Carolina beach. I know this. I would never do this knowingly.

I’m the mom who inspects every shell; returns every brown, fuzzy sanddollar to the deep; stands disapprovingly over other people’s children when it looks like they might be about to pocket a hermit crab or poke a stick in a jellyfish. It’s their home, not ours.

So, when Katherine found a beautiful, unusual shell on Sullivan’s Island recently, we inspected it carefully, even smelled it, before taking it from the beach. Nothing. Empty. Abandoned.

And it appeared that way for nearly eight hours, until we were almost back home in Boston and she reached in her backpack to pull a book out, and saw something scurry back into the shell.

If you lived anywhere near Fenway Park and had your windows open at that moment, you could have heard all of us screaming.

What is it with these animals that are always hitching a ride with this family?crab-042

After the screaming stopped, we were crushed with remorse. Not only had we kidnapped this crab from his home and stuffed him in a dark, crowded backpack, but he’d been X-rayed and flown on a plane. (Note to terrorists: You can’t get knives through airport security any more, but pack all the hermit crabs you want.)

This was not a land hermit crab, the kind that scuttle under foot in the sand. This was a marine crab – we have come to learn, a coastal hermit crab, with striped legs and a formal name: Clibanarius vittatus. It was miraculous that it was even still alive at this point. So when we got home, fresh out of seawater and not knowing what else to do, we put it in a pot on top of paper towels dampened with tap water mixed with salt.

Crueler people might have just cooked it.

But those people also wouldn’t move donkeys up and down the East Coast.

So, we immediately vowed – okay, I immediately vowed – that we would get this crab back to his home somehow. Even though it was a thousand miles away, and I had neither the money, time nor will to get him X-rayed by the TSA again. Or spend four days in a car to relocate a crab.

I felt guilty, but not that guilty.

And so.  One trip to the pet store and $100 later, we have a hermit crab staring reproachfully at us from his aquarium next to the kitchen sink. He lives in Pacific sea water that comes in a box (there is no Atlantic sea water for sale at the Milford PetCo, something some entrepreneur should correct right away), and eats krill (tiny shrimp) stored in the freezer. He waves his little claws and tentacles at us; I’d like to think he’s being friendly, but it’s most likely an array of crab obscenities that would shock even Donald Trump.

Since he’s stuck with us for a while, he needed a name. I wanted to call him Crabby Patty (because, actually, we have no idea whether it’s a he or a she), but Katherine chose Atlas because he’s a traveler, and so Atlas he is. And somehow, we are determined to get him back home, although I have to admit that my resolution is weakening a little, since we’re getting attached to the little fellow, as well as his daily fashion shows. His natural shell is gray, but sometimes he likes to strut about in royal blue or neon green.crab-035

Take-your-chicken-to-work day

So, I’m heading down the road to feed the donkeys. (Yes, I live on an 8-acre farm, but the donkeys live 10 minutes away, on another farm, in one of the many perplexities of my current life.)

From the backseat, I hear a rustling.

I keep driving.

On any given day, my vehicle is a stunt-double for the pickup Lamont drove on “Sanford and Son,” so there’s always trash congealing , grass growing through the carpet, or year-old French fries mutating into another life form. This can get noisy sometimes.

In another half mile, I hear movement again

All right. One of the kids decided to come along, and slipped into the backseat without me knowing. I turn around to let them know I’m in on the joke.

There, perched on the back seat, is a chicken.

She sits calmly, expectantly, and looks me boldly in the eye, like Jessica Tandy with feathers.

Hoke, I need to be at the beauty parlor in half an hour!

Hoke, could you please drive a little slower?

Hoke, eat more cattle!

It was take-your-chicken-to-work day, and I didn’t know it. chickpic

I slowed down, and started looking for a place that I could turn around,  drive home and deposit Miss Maizey in the driveway where she belonged.  Then I realized, with great alarm, that a large man in a small car had pulled over next to me.

I rolled down my window.  He smiled benevolently.

“Yes?” I said. “Can I help you?”

“You looked like you were lost and needed directions.”

“No,” I said. “I’m not lost. There’s just a chicken in my back seat.”

And with that, I turned around and took the hen home, more interested in keeping the back seat free of chicken manure than in seeing this kind man’s response.

I realized immediately, of course, what had happened.   Earlier, I had loaded a bale of hay in the back of the Jeep, and left the hatch open for a few minutes.  My passenger, showing extraordinary chutzpah for a chicken, had climbed in.  The back seat of my car is a good place for a chicken. Warm. Plenty of crumbs.

So  Meals on Wheels, the Donkey Edition, hit the road again.  Just another day in the life. No harm, no fowl.

Never own a chicken with better hair than you (and other farm lessons)

There’s a great video on the web called “The Hazards of Backyard Hens.”  It explains how chickens are a gateway livestock.

First, you get a few hens for the fresh eggs. Then you decide you need fresh feta, requiring a goat or two or four, then “one day, on your way home from work, you’ll stop and pick yourself up a cow.”

We can vouch for that, after more than a year of life on the Maxwell-Thompson Family Farm, home to goats, pigs, ducks,  the occasional cow, and more chickens than we can count.  (Thus, also the occasional coyote.)

Several of the chickens have better hair than I do, which can be tough on the ego some mornings.  Who knew that chickens can have ‘fros?puffjunk 001

 

And that backyard chickens mean Easter eggs all year long, no dye required?jan2016 024

We’ve learned other things.

The best garbage disposals aren’t in your sink. They’re pigs.

Footprints in the snow are much more interesting on a farm than in a city.jan2016 006

You can have roosters, or you can have friendly neighbors. Not both.

The best gift tags come from the feed store, not Hallmark.

goatbabes 002

Goats stink.  Literally. Which may be why there’s no video called “The Hazards of Backyard Goats.”

But they make adorable babies.

No Valentine’s Day delivery this year, but it’s twins!  Four hours old, below. Two more moms yet to deliver.

goatbabes 021

Saving the skunks, one slashed yogurt cup at a time

It’s probably unfair to single out Yoplait, since every single serving of yogurt comes in a plastic container that could get lodged on a small animal’s head. But watch this, and you may never buy Yoplait again.

It’s a police-cam video that could be heartwarming — policeman saves cute skunk from agonizing death! — but for the fact that you just know if it happened to this little guy on a city street, it’s happening to hundreds of others out of sight who won’t be rescued.

That cuts a dozen w’s off my awwwww.

I wrote about this, and other environmental atrocities,  in a column you can find here. Yup, you can be a conservative and still hate plastic and what it’s doing to the planet.

Here’s a Facebook page about the Yoplait cups, and here’s a petition asking for a redesign.

Here’s the sly, smart video about the majestic plastic bag’s inspiring journey to the sea. (“Our bag manages to escape the Yorkie’s talons!”)

Check your toothpaste for the microscrubbers.  Mine had them, as did some of my daughter’s exfoliating cleansers.   With all the natural grainy stuff available out there – sugar, ground nuts, cornmeal, grits for that matter — I still can’t wrap my mind around some capitalist deviant thinking, “Hey!  Here’s a great idea!  Let’s put tiny bits of plastic in our children’s toothpaste!”

So slash through your yogurt cups before you put them in the trash, please.  And because you can’t take the South out of the girl, here’s the greatest homemade scrub ever:  grits and honey.

The other Weiner

Newspapers usually verify the identity of people who write letters to the editor, but one today had me thinking the fact-checker had the day off.

Behold, in today’s Post and Courier (Charleston, SC), a slam on incumbent US Rep. Mark Sanford, signed by someone who claims to be the cousin of former US Rep. Anthony Weiner, and whose name is — wait for it — Smoky Weiner. Capturesmoky

He sounds like a character in a Dave Barry novel,  but apparently it’s true, and it gets better.  Mr. Weiner, a resident of Bowen’s Island, SC (a suburb of Folly Beach, as it were) is an electrician and also the leader of a band called Smoky Weiner and the Hot Links.

In military terms, this is a great example of “embracing the suck,” making the best of a bad situation, or in this case, a potentially troublesome name.

As for Anthony Weiner, Smoky (whose real name is apparently Andrew) wrote, “By the way, New York, that most hated state, at least had the brains to throw my infamous cousin out on his rump just for taking a couple of stupid pictures.”

Mr. Weiner, the musician, plays the harmonica, according to this profile of him in The Charleston City Paper. He suggests that South Carolinians write in Dimitri Cherny instead of voting for Sanford.  I suggest voting for Smoky instead.