Archive of Past News of the Farm:
The End of Summer, March 15, 2010 |
The End of Summer
Greetings Friends of the Farm,
We all grow old, IF we are
fortunate. I, like many folks, would not go back to my youth, unless I
could carry back what I’ve learned. Alas, however, reversing life is
impossible, so we might as well celebrate the years that determinedly go
by, and find pleasure and peace in it all playing itself out.....
Larry finds new comedy in the perhaps worn-phrase, “Life is like toilet paper; the nearer the roll is to the end, the faster it goes.”
It seems to be true. Now the seasons change from one to the other rapidly, yet I remember the languid days of the summers of my youth. Long days of heat and sun on the outskirts of San Antonio, days spent with board games on the cool concrete of the front porch, creating tiny civilizations in an occasional pile of “new” dirt, running along the ditch that became a creek during downpours, shooting marbles in a ring drawn in the caliche dust -- all of that daily fun -- yet dreading the inevitable end of summer as if it were the end of life itself.
And in a way it was. The girl running free, followed by her mutt dog, exploring unsettled land in an era before shopping malls and freeways, balancing sticks on rocks or stumps for hurdles to jump over, trampling paths through sunflower mazes. Racing down the new concrete driveway on scooters built of wood and old skates, navigating a bike on a caliche-rock road, outrunning the dogs before they could bite you in the back. The rock fights between the neighbor kids and the interlopers. The cops and robbers, the cowboys and Indians, and the wooden, handmade “guns” loaded with narrow strips of old inner tubes to fling at each other in the adrenaline of battle.
And then, depressingly, summer was over. Feet had to be restrained by shoes, and the five dresses bought or inherited were laid out on the bed, and given the names of days that they would be worn. Monday through Friday. A special treat one year, panties with the same names, embroidered on the material, so no mistake could be made....
Ah, the days of youth. I don’t know if it is so idyllic for today’s youth. If you listen, read, or watch the “news,” you likely think not.
However, it certainly is a fine time for Boss Chick and the Babes. Summer started a while back for them and they are enjoying their outings all day and everyday. Of course I hope they will be the happy hens who do grow old.
Many of our matron hens are beyond the age of eight years. Some of my favorites, like Mrs. Bentley, and the remarkable Aunt Penny, died at seven years of age. Too soon in my opinion, given that our oldest hen, Aunt Drop Tail will complete fifteen years old next month.
Unfortunately, both Mrs. Bentley and Aunt Penny died of freedom. They both were out of the Hen House every single day. And they both ingested worm eggs that hatched within them and eventually led to their demises. But that was the price they paid for a life worth living.
If they had been confined to the Hen House, and the Run, and let out only in the late afternoons, like the rest of my hens, perhaps they would have lived longer. Perhaps. Some hens fall off the perch in the middle of the night, presumably dead from a heart attack. Others suddenly take sick, from some unknown malady. They droop, they sit on the ground dejected, their heads lower like elevators, their wings drag. And, in a couple of days, they are buried beneath the pecan trees.
They say that, as lucky people age into the winters of their lives, genders become somewhat blurred. Men become more “docile” and women become more “assertive.” Men become softer; women grow hairs on their chins. (Dang it.)
(At least we human ladies don't grow spurs as old Myrtle, above.)
Like many parallels to human life, the chicken Sergeant is one of those “women,” although a rather extreme version.
She used to be a hen. She laid many a fine brown egg, until she hit “hen-o-pause.” She quit laying, understandably, but her next, incredible step was the almost total transformation to a “rooster!”
She has spurs, like many of our old hens, but also long wattles and the big red comb of a rooster. Her tail arches blue-green and the feathers on her now-broadened shoulders and back have the shiny gleam of a genuine rooster. Her attitude and comportment are also male. She walks with head held high. She stands guard, watching for hawks, as the hens keep their heads down searching for edible tidbits, or taking dust baths. She truly is the old sergeant to Rusty Roo’s younger general.
(Above, the hawk sizes up the flock....Sergeant and Rusty have already moved the hens to cover.)
Only, she is not aggressive, while he is. She is just content to be watchful and enjoy life until summer’s end. After all, the only difference really between the Hen House and a human house, is there is no roll of “hygienic paper” in the Hen House. This may be a good thing, as the chickens don’t have to worry about it running out....
Carol Ann
Larry finds new comedy in the perhaps worn-phrase, “Life is like toilet paper; the nearer the roll is to the end, the faster it goes.”
It seems to be true. Now the seasons change from one to the other rapidly, yet I remember the languid days of the summers of my youth. Long days of heat and sun on the outskirts of San Antonio, days spent with board games on the cool concrete of the front porch, creating tiny civilizations in an occasional pile of “new” dirt, running along the ditch that became a creek during downpours, shooting marbles in a ring drawn in the caliche dust -- all of that daily fun -- yet dreading the inevitable end of summer as if it were the end of life itself.
And in a way it was. The girl running free, followed by her mutt dog, exploring unsettled land in an era before shopping malls and freeways, balancing sticks on rocks or stumps for hurdles to jump over, trampling paths through sunflower mazes. Racing down the new concrete driveway on scooters built of wood and old skates, navigating a bike on a caliche-rock road, outrunning the dogs before they could bite you in the back. The rock fights between the neighbor kids and the interlopers. The cops and robbers, the cowboys and Indians, and the wooden, handmade “guns” loaded with narrow strips of old inner tubes to fling at each other in the adrenaline of battle.
And then, depressingly, summer was over. Feet had to be restrained by shoes, and the five dresses bought or inherited were laid out on the bed, and given the names of days that they would be worn. Monday through Friday. A special treat one year, panties with the same names, embroidered on the material, so no mistake could be made....
Ah, the days of youth. I don’t know if it is so idyllic for today’s youth. If you listen, read, or watch the “news,” you likely think not.
However, it certainly is a fine time for Boss Chick and the Babes. Summer started a while back for them and they are enjoying their outings all day and everyday. Of course I hope they will be the happy hens who do grow old.
(The only thing Boss
Chick worries over is a "bad feather day"!
Other than the wind, "summer" is grand!)
Other than the wind, "summer" is grand!)
Many of our matron hens are beyond the age of eight years. Some of my favorites, like Mrs. Bentley, and the remarkable Aunt Penny, died at seven years of age. Too soon in my opinion, given that our oldest hen, Aunt Drop Tail will complete fifteen years old next month.
Unfortunately, both Mrs. Bentley and Aunt Penny died of freedom. They both were out of the Hen House every single day. And they both ingested worm eggs that hatched within them and eventually led to their demises. But that was the price they paid for a life worth living.
If they had been confined to the Hen House, and the Run, and let out only in the late afternoons, like the rest of my hens, perhaps they would have lived longer. Perhaps. Some hens fall off the perch in the middle of the night, presumably dead from a heart attack. Others suddenly take sick, from some unknown malady. They droop, they sit on the ground dejected, their heads lower like elevators, their wings drag. And, in a couple of days, they are buried beneath the pecan trees.
They say that, as lucky people age into the winters of their lives, genders become somewhat blurred. Men become more “docile” and women become more “assertive.” Men become softer; women grow hairs on their chins. (Dang it.)
(At least we human ladies don't grow spurs as old Myrtle, above.)
Like many parallels to human life, the chicken Sergeant is one of those “women,” although a rather extreme version.
She used to be a hen. She laid many a fine brown egg, until she hit “hen-o-pause.” She quit laying, understandably, but her next, incredible step was the almost total transformation to a “rooster!”
(Compare Sergeant, above
front, to the new rooster Harry. She's ahead of him on tail feathers!)
She has spurs, like many of our old hens, but also long wattles and the big red comb of a rooster. Her tail arches blue-green and the feathers on her now-broadened shoulders and back have the shiny gleam of a genuine rooster. Her attitude and comportment are also male. She walks with head held high. She stands guard, watching for hawks, as the hens keep their heads down searching for edible tidbits, or taking dust baths. She truly is the old sergeant to Rusty Roo’s younger general.
(Above, the hawk sizes up the flock....Sergeant and Rusty have already moved the hens to cover.)
Only, she is not aggressive, while he is. She is just content to be watchful and enjoy life until summer’s end. After all, the only difference really between the Hen House and a human house, is there is no roll of “hygienic paper” in the Hen House. This may be a good thing, as the chickens don’t have to worry about it running out....
Carol Ann
PS:
Please put this date on your calendar: Sunday, April 11, 1PM to 5PM.
The East Austin Urban Farm Tour (EAUF) will feature tours of Springdale
Farm, Rain Lily Farm, HausBar Farm, and Boggy Creek Farm. Chef tastings
& beverages at each farm. Ticket sales ($35 advance; $40 gate)
benefit the Farm and Ranch Freedom Alliance, the org that is defending
citizens' rights to NOT have to chip their pets and farm animals (which
has resulted in USDA dropping the current NAIS proposal!), their rights
to obtain and drink raw milk, and their rights to buy "leafy greens"
from their family farmers. http://www.farmandranchfreedom.org.
More info and how to get tickets coming soon! This will be a great tour
of four very different farms located within a few blocks of each other
in the historic farming area of Austin, East Austin.
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