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This little black hen won’t stay off the porch lately. She found it and she loves it. I can’t blame her–I love the porch, too, and I have a soft spot for her. I call her the crooked chicken because her beak is crooked. (Can you see it?) It hasn’t hurt her–she’s popular with the boys and she’s a year and a half old now. She was hatched from my first incubator batch last year. (Her beak was crooked from the start.) She always seems to be stylin’ despite her homely appearance. Which makes me feel good about myself when I’m out there on the porch in my long johns…..

"It was a cold wintry day when I brought my children to live in rural West Virginia. The farmhouse was one hundred years old, there was already snow on the ground, and the heat was sparse-—as was the insulation. The floors weren’t even, either. My then-twelve-year-old son walked in the door and said, “You’ve brought us to this slanted little house to die." Keep reading our story....
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by Ruthmarie on September 5, 2010
by TeresaJM on September 5, 2010
by tinamanley on September 5, 2010
by Alanna on September 5, 2010
by Alanna on September 5, 2010
September 2010
"Drizzle, drizzle, hair will frizzle (if not hers, then surely his'll). Sunny, hot, hang out the linen; chilly and wet for fall's beginnin'. Air's crisp as a McIntosh, by gosh!"
"Cookies are good." Read my barnyard stories....
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