The Minnesota Farm Woman

I often think that there can’t possibly be a person in this world who anticipates the coming spring more than I do. Even more than the spring peepers peeping and the marsh marigolds poking through the ground in the wetlands, there are baby chicks to nurture. Last year, due to construction in the brooder area, aka my laundry room, I couldn’t buy my usual handful of the cute little things. One of the mama hens thankfully hatched out two chicks, which even more thankfully were girls. Roosters tend to fight, and since I hate fights and drama, try to keep only one rooster. Sadly, my big roo passed away just before the winter snows arrived. As the days get longer, some of the hens get broody, which means they want to sit on a nest and raise some babies. Most of the broodies grudgingly allow me to reach underneath and collect the eggs each afternoon, but they sneakily change their laying spots frequently, hoping that the mean old Farm Woman won’t find their potential babies. Their latest hiding place is a well-hidden spot behind and between some stored straw bales. To collect these eggs, I had to kneel on the dirt floor (which is covered in chicken poo, I might add) and lean on a precarious bale (probably full of hidden mice and Lord-knows-what-else) to get to them. There is one hen in particular who pitches a hissy fit whenever I come near, squawking and pecking at me. She was determined to sit, puffing herself up at the opening of the nesting box like a palace guard, determined to protect those eggs. The nesting box, in my humble opinion, is too high off the ground and baby chicks, if she manages to hatch any, could fall out and conk their little heads or freeze to death. I decided to go ahead and let the mama sit, even though it was a little too early. She could keep the babies warm and I could move her and the eggs to a safer spot. I prepared an area with fresh straw and with my arms and hands protected, reached into the nesting box to gently lift the mama out. She screeched. She hollered. She held on to the edge of the box with her talons. I finally managed to get her out of the box and tucked under one arm so I could the other hand to get the eggs. There were three. I carefully moved them, then placed the mama on them. She screeched some more, but I left her to rediscover her nest. This has worked before, so I hoped it would work again. The next day, I found the nest abandoned and the eggs cold. Sadly, I threw them into the swamp, blaming myself for the poor, dead, yet-to-be-hatched chicks. As I tossed the last one, I started to laugh. No, I was not hysterical, but laughing because I remembered that the rooster died. Not that a dead rooster is a laughing matter, but without one, there can’t be any baby chicks. It’s a matter of simple biology. I would have slapped myself upside the head had I not been wearing my dirty coop gloves. I apparently don’t know much about biology. What I do know is that it has been a long, long winter. Once the snow has melted and the peepers peep, the marsh marigolds bloom, and the baby chicks arrive, what a wonderful world this will be.