Spring and all of her lovely rituals are upon us. At our little adobe abode that means planting seedlings, adopting desert tortoises, weeding, renovating the chicken coop and thinking about new baby chickens. It is impossible for me to look at little pullets and not remember how all this chicken keeping began…
Loving Greta
The first time I walked into Sunny’s yard to meet my charges, I thought of you, “You’re bigger than I had expected.” Chickens had apparently shrunk in my memories of farms in Iowa. I didn’t realize when I thought that, how much bigger you were than expected. We took you home, we made you comfortable, we started watching you like children at a circus, and then I fell in love with you. With chickens. With all three of you, but mostly with you, Greta.
The day I gave you dried apricots because they were one of my favorite treats and I wanted to be generous, you responded to my generosity by promptly burying the apricots. Enough said. Your message seemed clear; we were much different than I had naively assumed. You were a chicken and you did not care for the things I cared for. The next day I watched you dig them back up and gobble down your now ant covered treat. Enjoying them far more than I ever could. That was the day I fell in love with you. The day I realized that you had so much more to teach me than a television or a newspaper and that I should spend my morning cup watching you.
I learned your voices and your personalities and your spirits. When we brought new smaller chickens home; I watched Betty intimidate them and keep them corralled, I watched Rita pick on them to maintain the all important pecking order, and I watched them run to you for shelter. I could hear your cluck become more gentle and easily imagined the words, “Ooooh, it’s okay, they’re only teasing, they’re not so bad and one day you’ll be bigger than those old bitties.” Which wasn’t entirely true for all the younger ones, but you were right about Hortence and Dottie. You were right about Myrtle. I think secretly you were happy that Esther stayed small and still needed your protection.
The day I saw her protecting you, my heart broke. It is hard enough to be the lunatics who take their chicken to the vet. It is much harder when the vet tells you there is nothing left he can do. I took you out to see one of the most beautiful sunsets I have ever seen, with tiny fragmented clouds each glowing a different color: orange, purple, cerulean, poppy red, bleeding yellow, dying violet, blooming bougainvillea. At some point I learned that chickens see more spectrums of color than humans and I can wonder for the rest of my life what that sunset looked like to you on your last day here.
I wonder a lot of things now that you are gone. I wonder if you like the chicken statues I painted and placed under St. Francis over your grave. I wonder if the other chickens are jealous that I still sometimes spend my morning cup with you. I wonder mostly about how ridiculous this world is. How we learn some of our biggest lessons from some of the smallest creatures. How truly tiny you felt the last time I held you, and still so much bigger than I ever expected.
