The Minnesota Farm Woman

Life is funny. When I wrote a few weeks ago about my failing, elderly and befuddled chicken, I wasn’t prepared for a revival. When she wasn’t in her corner of the coop, she would wander about the yard looking confused, and each evening, I would have to either point her in the right direction or carry her to her roost. I thought she was near the end, and who wouldn’t? Chickens are not known for their long lives, and after seven years, I figured her days were numbered. Until the babies came. Not her babies, of course, as she is in her henopause years, but eleven fluffy-bottomed baby chicks purchased from the farm store (my favorite place to shop) and raised for the first few weeks under a heat lamp in the laundry room.  I love baby chick time, but HE dislikes the peeping poopy little creatures and for some crazy reason, thinks poultry should be raised out in the coop and not in the house.  I must admit, though, that despite changing their bedding twice a day, they do start to smell after a couple of weeks.  At that point, I moved the babies into cages out in the coop, with a heat lamp on a timer hanging above, since springtime in Minnesota cannot ever be trusted.  The cages are merely to wean the babies into coop life and to keep the others away from their food and water.  Old Mama Hen started to perk up and snoop around the cages once they arrived. By the time the chicks were ready to be let loose, she was not even close to being confused.  She fusses and clucks and gathers those babies under her wings at night. She shoos the others away from their food and water. She is showing them how to scratch in the dirt for bugs and any other delicious morsels they might find.  She has adopted a family, and a rather large one at that. Every afternoon, when I open the door to the outside world,  all the chickens go outside to frolic and forage in the grass. ALMOST all the chickens, that is. Old Mama Hen and one of her helpers stay behind to watch the babies, who are growing fast. Despite the door being open, not one of the well-behaved youngsters ventures out to the grass. I guess Mama’s instincts will decide when the time is right. It just goes to show that we all need a purpose in life to make it worth living. After my own sweet mama turned 88, and with her vision and health deteriorating, she told me she was weary and ready to go. Although I wasn’t ready for her to leave, it was not something in my control. I told her that if she was ready, it was OK with me, but I gave her a gentle reminder that she would have her first great-grandchild born in the spring.  “Oh,” she said, “I guess I’ll stick around for that!”  Call it purpose, determination, or just plain old-fashioned gumption, we’re mighty glad that she did.  I think that Old Mama Hen is planning to stick around for a while, too. She has work to do.