Two years ago today, I got divorced. April 1st. No, I didn’t choose the date. That was simply the day I was assigned to end a 24-year marriage. And yes, I am fully aware of the irony. I’ve had two years to sit with it. It was cold that day. Not just “a little chilly,” but the kind of cold that settles into your bones and makes everything feel heavier than it already is. It rained the entire time—steady, gray, unrelenting. And today, two years later, it is the same. Same cold.

Evening settles into the Red House gradually. The light shifts first — from bright to gold, from gold to dim — until the edges of everything soften and the day begins to close. Travis Stands Tall and Proud Then Travis decides it is time. It is not loud. No announcement. No display. Just a shift. And the hens respond. Movement redirects. What had been wandering becomes purposeful.What had been scattered begins to gather. One by one, they move toward the roost. For months now,

Something is happening at Cedar Paddock. No official announcement has been made, but construction has begun on the other side of the White House. Hardware cloth appeared on the ground, and weed barrier cloth was laid out on top. A structure arrived and was placed in the same spot. Activity around the site has increased in ways that have not gone unnoticed by the residents. Particularly by Beryl. Beryl making sure things are up to code. Beryl has taken it upon herself to condu

There was a time when there was only one house. The Red House It stood red against the yard, trimmed in black, solid and unapologetic. Larger than necessary. Older. Strong in its lines. It held everyone then — the bold, the careful, the relentless, the observant. It worked. Until the air inside it began to feel tight. Not fractured. Not hostile. Dense. Feathers pressed closer along the roost at dusk. Corrections came quicker. A shoulder shift meant something. A pause at the f

Last week, a smaller coop and run arrived on the farm. Not as large as the White House. Not as large as the Red House. Finished on the outside. Still empty inside. The floor is waiting for sand. Water lines are measured but not yet installed. The feeder will go in once placement is finalized. By spring, it will be fully operational. In practical terms, it is being prepared for the brooder council. When they feather out — no longer fragile, but still too small and too young to

Six new citizens have entered Cedar Paddock. Three future powerhouses. Three lavender enigmas. All under investigation. The brooder camera was installed for “gentle observation.” It has instead triggered organized resistance. The pecking began within minutes. This is not curiosity. This is structure forming. Let the record show the following mugshots. Mugshot #1 Minister of Infrastructure Breed: Black Copper Marans Charges: Aggressive coarse sand redistribution. Has already r

Winter does not end dramatically here. There is no cinematic moment where the snow collapses into green. It just… loosens. The Red House hens settle in on a winter evening. The roof drips. The run softens. The path to the Red House becomes a ribbon of mud instead of ice. The empty roost bars are still empty. And that is the part no one tells you about loss on a farm — the world does not pause long enough to match the shape of what’s missing. It keeps moving. But here, we do n

Loss did not arrive all at once at Cedar Paddock. It moved slowly. House by house. Name by name. The White House said goodbye to Todd — gentle and earnest to the end. To Kourtney. To Eliza. Todd, our handsome and stoic Brahma rooster. Across the yard, the Red House lost its own voices — Betty White, Barbara Bush, and Hannibal Pecker. Familiar presences. Big personalities. The kind of absence you notice even when the coop is still full. Hannibal was curious and kind. If you do

Cordelia joined our flock in October. Which is a bold time to enter a group project when everyone else has already decided they’re done participating. Cordelia enjoys afternoon snow snacks. She’s an Ameraucana—one of our newer hens—and she arrived just as the days shortened, egg production slowed, and the rest of the flock began their annual performance review titled “Absolutely Not, See You in Spring.” If Cordelia had plans to make a big debut, winter shut that down immediat

By the end of October, my hens began filing quiet, collective complaints. The days were shorter. The sun felt unreliable. And the egg basket—once dependable—started coming back lighter, as if someone had “accidentally” forgotten part of their job description. By Christmas, production had slowed to a dramatic near-halt. Veteran layers clocked out without notice. Younger pullets— technically  old enough—stood around pretending they didn’t know what an egg was. No one was sick.

Some hens wander into your life, steal a few eggs, peck a few fingers, and move along without shifting the atmosphere.Others—quietly, almost imperceptibly—reshape the rhythm of the entire coop. This winter, Cedar Paddock said goodbye to two  such hens: Betty White , our broody little chocolate Silkie who believed all eggs were her responsibility,and Barbara Bush , our steady Speckled Sussex whose presence made the Red House feel settled. These are their stories. Betty White T

Red House vs. White House at Cedar Paddock Hobby Farm Red House vs. White House Every autumn, the Cedar Paddock flock takes part in one of our favorite seasonal traditions — the Chicken Pumpkin Carving Contest. It’s the ultimate showdown between the Red House and the White House, and as always, the results were equal parts hilarious and heartwarming. This year’s competition began with two bright orange pumpkins placed in each coop yard — one for the Red House hens, home to Tr

Khloe Kardashihen Every coop has its stars, and at Cedar Paddock, the spotlight always seems to find the White House — home of the Kardashihens  and the Henners , a glamorous little sisterhood of feathers, fluffs, and pure personality. At the center of it all is Khloe Kardashihen , the sweet and silly Blue Ameraucana  whose twinkling eyes and gentle curiosity could melt anyone’s heart. Khloe isn’t shy, not even a little. If you walk into the run with something in your hands —

In the red house of Cedar Paddock, peace is never truly quiet — not with Gertie around. While Travis recovers indoors from his injured leg — a lingering reminder of the fierce fight with Ricky — the hens have settled into a rhythm all their own. But the rhythm has a voice: a low, throaty, unmistakable moooaaaaan that rolls across the run like a farmyard foghorn. That’s Gertie. She doesn’t cluck like the others. She moans — loudly, constantly, and unapologetically. It’s the so

The sun rose slow and golden over Cedar Paddock, painting the grass in warm light and stirring the White House flock into motion. It was a quiet morning — the kind that hums with calm after weeks of unrest. Across the yard, the red house stayed still. Inside, Travis, the wounded protector, was healing from the sparring match that had changed everything — the fierce battle when Ricky tried to seize the throne. Travis had held his ground, but the cost lingered in every careful

The sun rises over Cedar Paddock in soft, golden light — the first morning in two weeks without Ricky’s voice cutting through the air. For fourteen days, his crow had ruled the paddock from behind the wire, echoing from dawn to dusk, restless and relentless. His energy had filled every corner, every pause between Travis’s deep calls and Todd’s bold replies. And now… silence. It’s a silence that feels alive — heavy, warm, unfamiliar. The wind moves through the maples, scatteri

The night settles over Cedar Paddock like a slow exhale. Crickets hum in the grass, a few leaves drift from the oaks, and the air still holds the last warmth of autumn. From the red house comes only the faint rustle of feathers as the hens shift on the roost. Travis gives one soft cluck, then stills. But across the way, the White House glows faintly under its yard light. Ricky hasn’t slept. All through the dark hours, his shadow moves back and forth, wings catching flashes of

The paddock glows in late autumn warmth — sunlight soft as honey, the grass brittle beneath wandering feet. The hens in the red house scratch lazily through sand and straw, their days steady and sure under Travis’s quiet watch. But beyond their world, across fences and distance, another sound breaks the calm. Ricky. Ricky His crow rips through the air again and again, echoing over the hills like a storm that refuses to move on. The hens can’t see him — the White House stands

The sun still hangs hot over Cedar Paddock, the air thick with the smell of dust and dry leaves. It’s the kind of Missouri autumn that glows like summer but hums with change — and in the White House pen, that change has a name. Ricky. Rooberty has taken hold of him like wildfire. His feathers blaze with iridescent sheen, his comb burns crimson, and every crow rips through the air with wild conviction. He struts, he paces, he throws his weight against the wire just to hear it

Travis calling the kingdom. The sun still burns warm over Cedar Paddock, spilling gold across the turning leaves. It is fall in Marthasville — the kind of season that fools you into thinking summer might never end. From the red house, Travis greets the morning. His crow rolls low and steady through the air — not as strong as before the fight, but rich with certainty. His leg still stiffens when he walks, but the hens follow him anyway, trusting his quiet rhythm. Each step he