We're all about sun again as each day the temps climb higher into the 60s. All snow disappeared, the apricot tree still hasn't blossomed so hope springs eternal. Years ago (many) there was a book I didn't read but we always referred to in a cynical sort of way called "Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm". None of us girls wanted to be a goody-good like her, but since we lived in the city, we liked the idea of farms. Until my husband and I drove cross-country in 1986, I'd never actually seen a farm or ranch. Things do change and this evening when I looked out from the deck, the new horse was muching away at a denuded chamisa bush.
Far beyond the horse's near presence, our 95 year old neighbor Manuel was irrigating the fields. His stooped figure, his wellies and shovel are well known to us and when we see him out there it seems like everything is balanced and right with the world.
His artist son created an iconic image of Manuel to represent his Des Montes Folk Art Gallery.
Okay, so that covers the irrigating and ranching parts of my day, but then came the chicks. A young woman from my Latin class came into the room a few minutes late because she'd been picking up a variety of chicks. They were in her truck in a cardboard box and when class was over we walked out together to see them. I couldn't resist taking a picture. Soft, tiny, fluffy, little cheeping things. Of course the moment I looked down into the box they all began climbing on top of each other and squeezing into the corners. I must have looked like a giant predatory monster to them. They were totally irresistible and I wanted to pick one up so badly - but didn't. Instead I remembered that when I was nine years old, my 22 year old brother came home one spring day with a half dozen ducklings - they were as tiny as these chicks and he and I took care of them in the attic until they were old enough to live outside in a specially built pen.
By that summer, I'm sorry to say, they were the main course at my tenth birthday party. My father eagerly accepted the task of beheading them. He sharpened his axe, prepared the block, and after the first blow, fainted. My brother's friend was called in to take over. Ross was a cook at a Bronx Zoo restaurant and he was the most qualified. He finished the job cleanly and quickly and my mother prepared the ducks for the feast. She wasn't sentimental and they were soon ready. During the birthday dinner (which I did not attend) aunts and uncles dove into their plates, licked their lips, complimented the cook for the sumptuous treat. I sulked until cake was served. My cousin Carlos, who sulked with me, planned a fowl funeral - but there were no bodies to bury. He stayed with us for a couple of weeks that summer and we created a memorial to the lost ducks. A crude cross made from branches, plastic flowers stolen from the dusty vase on top of the refrigerator. When Carl left for home, my mother undid the cross and reclaimed the flowers.
These chicks, however, are destined to become roosters and laying hens and won't end up on someone's plate. We talked about the art of building chicken coops (which I know nothing about) and I told Meg about my next door neighbor's chickens. Remember the green and brown eggs? and the heart stickers that their little girls stuck to the ones they sold to me? One middle of the night a month or so ago, coyotes got into the coop, killed all eight prize hens and left few traces. In our bedroom I heard some unusual squawking, but was too sleepy to get up and look out the window. I've felt a bit guilty since, but I'm not sure how you stop marauding coyotes. Rock throwing, shouting? Too late. Rebecca will stick to her books. They're much safer.
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