The Minnesota Farm Woman

About six years ago, I was given a gift of a dozen chickens from the friend of a friend. These ladies were of questionable age, perhaps a year  old, perhaps older than that.  They had luckily escaped the guillotine because my friend had already butchered and didn’t want to do any more. Their coop was overcrowded, so they needed a new home, and my home, which sometimes seems like the local nursing home for hens, was as good as any.  Since there were so many in this group, I didn’t name them individually, but called them all “Mama”.  Over the years, they have succumbed one by one until I was left with only one of the original group. She is a nice chicken as chickens go, not picking on the others, not pushing and shoving when it is mealtime, and fairly tame. She has given me dozens of delicious big brown eggs.  Last year, the others started picking on her. One evening, I thought she was dead for sure, as I found her wedged between a straw bale and the wall, not moving. I was surprised to find that her body was warm when I pulled her out. I think she was playing possum so the others would leave her alone. This was just before winter,  so I needed to come up with something to keep her safe. Not wanting to keep Mama caged for the long winter I rigged up a divider in the large coop and kept her there, soon to be joined by a another hen who was also being picked on. Chickens can be bullies, and I always have a soft heart for those at the bottom of the pecking order.  The two became best friends, keeping each other company as well as keeping each other warm all winter. This spring, I open the door and let them outside with the others each afternoon, and everybody seems to be getting along fine. I have begun to suspect, however, that the Dowager Countess is not quite right in the head.  Perhaps she is suffering from dementia, if chickens can even get dementia.  Befuddled would be the best word to describe her. While the others return to the coop at sundown, she sometimes wanders around the yard looking confused.   I often have to pick her up and carry her  back to the coop and to her friend, who waits patiently, and they cluck quietly to each other. The last couple of days, Mama hasn’t had too much energy.  Today, I carried her outside for a little sunshine, and she  sat in one place.  Later, I saw that she had wandered to a spot underneath a tree in the front yard and she was sitting almost motionless, which is unusual for a chicken.  Since there are eagles and foxes or any number of predators in the area, I wanted to protect her from being dinner for another mother’s babies, so I carried her inside once again.  I figure Mama’s days and perhaps even hours are numbered, and I want them to be filled with kind words and deeds, and hopefully, a  big juicy worm or two.  Mother’s Day will be here soon.  There are many types of mothers in our world. There are mothers who raise their own children and mothers who foster other people’s children. There are mothers who place their children for adoption so someone else can fulfill her dream of becoming a  mother. There are mothers of fur and feathered babies, who raise animals and love them as their children.  There are mothers who have lost their children, and there are mothers who share their children with us, fighting wars that certainly weren’t started by anyone who has ever been a mother.  There are mothers who are elderly, confused, and who may be living their last days on this earth.  May they all be honored this Mother’s Day  and every day with kind words and deeds, and perhaps a big juicy worm…or a hug…  whichever they prefer.  You’d better not mix up the two, or you just might get grounded.  Happy Mother’s Day. Peace on earth.