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December 22, 2009 Tippy Toes
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Greetings Friends of the Farm,

The problem with dressing up and going someplace in a civilized fashion is this.

The minute I step out onto the back porch in my “nice attire” and tango-dancing shoes, there in front of me is Harriet, the Black Australorp grown-up grand daughter of the dearly departed Mrs. Bentley (adoptive mom of the Nine Harriets, in the farm book, Stories from the Hen House.)  Harriet has recently found a secret exit out of the hen run and daily enjoys herself in a conspicuous manner outside, with the other hens and Rusty Roo the Rooster watching enviously and disapprovingly.

But of course, as day light wanes, she is suddenly very intent on getting back inside, and not seeing me out and about (as I’m inside, trying to figure out what in the world I can wear that doesn’t have a stain on it, a rip, or whatever, so as not to make of me a social catastrophe in the critical eyes of non-farming folks who are used to going out all dressed up spic and span), she sprints to the farm house the minute the back door opens, as she knows I live inside. Hens have excellent memories; they forget nothing.

She fixes me with both shiny black eyes, one at a time, to see if she can discern any helpful attitudes on my part. But all I do is moan to Larry about how treacherous the trip to the car can be for snappy shoes, and now this!  Alas, it’s up to me, as Larry has on his fanciest shoes too. And the chickens are ultimately my responsibility. So Harriet and I hurry on our tip toes, I trying not to fall down flat on my duds and my face as I attempt to not let my “heels” touch ground, she so glad I am responding to her plight, that she hurries on tip toes too.

To let Harriet into her side of the Hen House requires easing her through the first gate into the chicks’ area, while pretending that I don’t see her going in -- it helps to position my own eyes behind the open gate’s edge so she won’t see me looking at her.  If she knows I’m looking at her, she will become obstinate. To complicate this delicate posturing, I have to hope the chick that is exploring the little entry area won’t suddenly make a dash for adventure outside the Hen House, which will require more tip-toeing exertion on my part.

Finally Harriet goes in, terrifying the chick who dives under the little encircling wire fence. I step inside and lift the fence for Harriet and she scoots in fast. Of course she knows she doesn’t sleep in this side of the Hen House as she is a matron and belongs with Rusty Roo, so what will I do about that?

But, sorry madame, I am not about to tippy toe through the sludge of feed, poop, escarole knots, broccoli leaf stems, poop, straw and rain water liquid that surrounds the feeding area, not to mention having to dodge multitudes of chicks zipping this way and that way, not minding a bit if their own tippy toes get slimy.

Nope. She has to stay where she is, even though she is at the interconnecting gate, pacing back and forth, eyeing the nocturnal perches and the grown-up food, and me, the recalcitrant party girl, at the same time with her two opposed eyes.

I tip toe back around the house, drag my shoes through what green grass there is, trying to dislodge whatever is possibly stuck to them, and on to the car, where I sit and crane my head down to see if there is anything offensive on them, but it is now too dark for a good inspection.

Once inside the restaurant (FINO) where the party takes place, all I can think about is, do my tango shoes harbor anything that will smell? But we are seated and I tuck them under the chair and get on with a fun evening.  And no one is the wiser it appears. But if someone comments on a strange despicable odor, I will feign horror, never letting them know....

Carol Ann

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