A Rooster story

It was the night before Henry's 4th birthday that one of our favorite neighbors Beth presented us with this beautiful rooster.  We stuck him in the coop at night in his own separate cage so the hens could get to know him.  By morning they were happy to be together and the first time I heard him cock-a-doodle-do I felt like we were an official farm.

We couldn't decide on a name, half the family called him "Bob" while the other half called him "Enrique" and in the end we all called him "Enrique Bob".  He was a handsome fellow and everyone loved him except for Paul.

You see since Paul works in a remote office from home he tries very hard to maintain a sense of professionalism during his conference calls.  He's often conferencing with big city apartment brokers and investors so the constant cock-a-doodle-doing was disruptive.

Then there was the mating, it too was constant, and along the way we have learned to become very open and honest with our children about the facts of life, I suppose you have to be when you live on a farm.  The girls would run in the house and belt out, "guess what?! my hen Cupcake is getting mated right now".  They shared the news of mating chickens everywhere, the library, the grocery store, neighbors and church.  But after a few weeks Enrique Bob lost his manners and after one hen was badly injured was returned back home to our neighbor .

A few weeks later someone lost track of which eggs we were collecting and which ones were to be left under broody hens.  I was ready to make scrambled eggs one morning until I cracked open a half developed chick - we had hopes of chicks to hatching, and though I was startled by what I had mistakenly opened into a mixing bowl, it was confirmation that baby chicks were on their way.

Another neighbor showed me how to hold the eggs up to the light to determine what was inside but we were still cautious and held off on all eggs for a while, we waited and waited.  The morning that Paul was done waiting and announced it was time to start fresh and clean out the chicken coop William came running to the milking room to share the news:  "Mendori hatched two chicks"!

It was incredible to watch, she was a natural mother and knew just what to do.  She was also quite fierce with the other hens, ducks and children so we moved them temporarily to a small cage in the milking room.

A few days later another egg hatched  under Cupcake but sadly she did not know what to do,  She left the chick all alone.  William kept it warm until he was able to find another hen to care for it.  This chick did not survive and William was in tears when we buried it.

Since then 4 more chicks hatched.  Henry's hen that he calls "Michigan Football Player" and Cupcake have been co-parenting but only 2 of the 4 survived the first 48 hours.

The second batch are still growing their flight feathers but Mendori's chicks are big enough to free range along side her.  Watching them learn along side their mother is a joy and a mystery.  How is it that they come running to her at first call?  She leads them with confidence, makes it look kind of easy actually, and though it's hard to say what's really going on with a chicken and her chicks, I'll take what I can learn from anywhere.

And with this I also share my Mother's Day gift from Paul, this little essay was presented to me along side a miter saw.  He had me laughing out loud at both.  Enjoy!

Mothers, Earth

After a full day of planting progressively more crooked rows of kale and cabbage and turnips  - “a lot of food,” as Alison described it, “the kids will never eat” - and with a squirmy newborn finally asleep in my arm I prepared to sink deep into the couch like a tired, sweaty sack of grain.

I mentally scrolled through a broad assortment mindless entertainment options.  Deadliest Catch, Hoarders, Doomsday Preppers – nothing numbs the sting of your own problems more than watching the more acute ones of total strangers.  I opened the fridge, removed a tall, frosty bottle of root beer, pulled the top off, and took a long, creamy, impossibly refreshing sip.

But as I headed toward the sofa and my laptop I caught a glimpse of something far more entertaining.  Alison, out in the garden, now in a cool, early-May drizzle, surrounded by a cloud of kids.  Still planting.  A steady nucleus, encircled by five excited electrons in buzzy orbit.

I took a seat in the side-porch rocking chair, still cradling both my baby and my rapidly disappearing root beer, and propped my sooty, hairy legs up on the railing.  I closed my eyes and paused to take in the soothing pitter-patter soundtrack of the rain against the roof.  I quietly ditched my prior plans to instead watch this instant streaming classic of a show unfold.

A two-year-old boy, still wearing candy cane Hanna Anderson pajamas, clumsily danced around Alison in his still-two-sizes-too-big rubber boots, eager to help, but more likely to crush the fragile rows of just-planted lavender.  Another young boy marched up and down the tight rows of chest-high garlic, deploying his hoe like a musket, marching in formation along the rich soft strands of Mother Earth.

Meanwhile, the entire barnyard pulsed with activity.

The freshly sheared Merino ewes in the pasture beyond were tethered tightly to their lambs, taking advantage of the early evening coolness to continue their systematic mowing of the already-knee-high clover.  As they ate, the young mothers stole periodic glances to scan for would-be threats.

Over by the barn, the Nubian milkers paced in their pen - pendulous banana-peel ears bouncing comically in step, udders stretched taut as a snare drum as they quietly filled with rich milk - nervously watching over their charges who chattered and wrestled playfully like children at recess.

Swallows darted in and out of nests, bringing provisions to noisy chicks.  And in the hen house, up on their roosts, the broody hens, just barely a year removed from heat lamps of the hatchery, sat patiently on their eggs, in anticipation of a motherhood they had never experienced, even as tiny chicks.

The rooster perched on a fence post, his comb and hackles drooping under the weight of the rainfall, passionately crooning his tired old love ballads to an audience that had lost interest weeks ago.  No real responsibility, a womanizing drifter, another blowhard – in a world full of them – intent only on administering his own special breed of romance.

Meanwhile, Alison toiled with the herbs. Legs spaced, head down, hands outstretched – like a long snapper for the Green Bay Packers – arraying parsley and peppermint into the rich, coffee-ground soil.  Running on mere fumes - “moving in slow motion, but still moving,” as she puts it  - singing with the children, soliciting their help, teaching them the lessons she had learned in the wee hours, as she nursed the baby and read by the light of the bedside lamp.

There I sat, surrounded by all these wonderful mothers, all this beautiful Earth.  Awestruck and grateful.  Our oldest boy, 12, came and stood next to me.  We agreed that we’d have a lot to celebrate come the second Sunday in May.

“It’s sorta funny,” he said in a thoughtful voice, gesturing his arm across the garden and barn, “Mom shares her Mother’s Day with so many of these cool animals.”

He paused a moment, before continuing.

“But, Dad, you only share Father’s Day with the rooster.”