Living on a
small farm with farm animals means there is life, but along with life there can
be death. This past week the Midwest has experienced extremely cold
temperatures, with some days in the single digits. Winds have been blowing the
temps below zero, as far as wind chill factor.
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| Golden Laced Wyandotte Hen Photo by Tracey R. Simmons 2016 |
Rolling the big
door closed so the girls wouldn’t get too chilled, I looked under the Inn,
since it is up on legs that are up on blocks. This design allowed me to put a
rectangular sandbox underneath with dusting materials in it – dry sand, dirt,
and some wood ashes. In the summer, this area allows the girls to get out of
the sun. When there is snow on the ground, this is a snow free zone for the
girls to walk around in.
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| "The Hens Nest Inn" (Chicken House) Photo by Tracey R. Simmons 2016 |
When I looked,
there in the dusting box laid my hen. She was gone. This caused me to remember an
event that occurred when I was eight or nine and lived on a small farm for three
years. Our farm was surrounded by a couple of housing editions and an apartment
complex, all of which had been pastures just a few years before. For me it was paradise.
Our farm was a
place for horses and a multitude of cats that found their way to our barn. Grandpa got
us a Holstein (black and white) calf, which had to be fed from a big bottle. I
remember trying to hanging onto that bottle with both hands and arms wrapped
around it as “Duke” sucked away, nearly pulling me off my feet and the bottle away from me.
Grandpa had gotten us another calf – a brown and white one. I don’t remember
the breed type, but he was mean, and we didn’t mess with him. My siblings and I
did fall in love with Duke, though.
As time past and
Duke grew, he was so tame that we could stick a thumb into his mouth and he
would follow us around. One day, both calves got out, but we didn’t know it.
With Dad’s business on the main level of our house, he was home when a deputy
sheriff came to ask if we owned some calves, which were down the road tromping
through the large cemetery.
Dad left, taking
one lead line with him to the cemetery. It went around the brown and white calf’s
neck to lead him home. It was easier to bring Duke home. He didn’t need a lead
line. He walked home following Dad while sucking his “pacifier” – Dad’s thumb.
As time past,
the calves were taken to the butcher to be made into meat. Our family’s
finances were not great, so we didn’t have steaks – a luxury food item, prior
to having the calves. After the calves left, any kind of beef that was sat on
the table in front of my siblings and I for supper – be it hamburgers, chuck
roasts, and now steaks, was refused. We didn’t care about the brown and white -
nameless calf, but we had loved our Duke and we sure weren’t going to take the
chance of eating him!
We just hadn’t
been raised from the beginning of our lives to take care of farm animals and
then send them off to be made into meat for our meals. We never raised any
other animals for meat, nor did farm life last for us, although I wanted it too
as a child.
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| Silver Lace Wyandotte Hen Photo by Tracey R. Simmons 2016 |
Fast forward to the
present day and back on a small farm, not as grand, and without a huge wooden barn, but it's a place in the country - a dream come true. It's a "Little Bit of Paradise." There’s still the dead
chicken situation. Since this is not a typical farm where farm animals are
raised for meat, I was not going to make chicken noodle soup out of her or homemade chiken nuggets. She
was a pet who gave great eggs. She needed to be buried, but how can that be done when the ground is frozen? Well for now, she is frozen by Mother Earth and
laying in the "Chick Condo" - the small summer chicken house where predators can’t get to her. Hopefullty, she can be
buried soon.
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