The Minnesota Farm Woman

Even though she had more chickens than I did, my friend always called me “Chicken Lady.” She had a silly nickname for everyone she liked, and a probably a few that were not-so-silly for those she didn’t. She started my flock nearly seven years ago with a gift of four small banty chickens. I faithfully promised her that they would not be dinner and that I would return them to her if I changed my mind about raising chickens. (We all know how that turned out.) I also promised to sing to them every once in a while, because she told me that singing to chickens makes them happy. Only one chicken remains of that original flock, a nice little hen named Old Mum, widowed many times over. One by one, her rooster husbands have died of old age or disease. Chickens are not known for living long lives. Unfortunately, sometimes people aren’t, either. My beautiful friend, so young and healthy, got sick. The type of cancer that chose her should have never happened, but there it was. She fought it, and fought hard. It might seem strange, but we didn’t talk much about the cancer. Instead, we talked about chickens. Chickens and life and our grandchildren to be. Old Mum lost her last husband last week. Although he was old and nearly blind, he was a loving little rooster who stayed close by and always made sure that she got to eat first. Last week, I found him in a corner of the coop, nearly lifeless. I laid him out in a bed of straw and said my goodbyes, knowing that he would be dead by morning. I was surprised to see him walking around the coop the next day. Old Mum had taken her favorite seat on the windowsill, where she loves to peck at the frost that covers the window when the temperature drops outside. He was looking for her, I could tell. It took him several tries to fly up to the window to join her. They moved together against the frosted window, almost appearing to snuggle like the comfortable old couple they were. For once, I was at the right place and the right time with my camera. I found him the next day in the nesting box, wings spread as if he were flying away. They got what so many of us wish for: Another minute…another hour…another day with someone we love. Although I think of my friend often, I don’t know just why this particular moment brought her to my thoughts. For a moment, I couldn’t even remember how long she had been gone. I felt guilty about that, but then realized that she would more want it to be remembered that she lived rather than that she died. And live she did, before earning her wings. She lived and she cried and she laughed and she held those grandbabies close to her heart. I don’t think Old Mum has that much time left. Not only due to her age, but she is developing a malformation of her beak, making it hard for her to eat and requiring that she be hand-fed more often than not. Somewhere in heaven, my friend is caring for a bevy of colorful roosters, waiting for Old Mum to join them. Here on earth, I mix her food with warm water and sing to her softly as she eats.