Four Brown Eggs! Yaay, Space Nuts!

Four Brown Eggs! Yaay, Space Nuts!*

The Chicken Chronicles

© 2009 by Alice Walker

Chapter Four

So I strolled down the hill to see the girls; as I try to do every day. It’s been raining a lot, with wind, and I’ve spent more than a little time sleeping. Glorious. I called out to them, as I do: Hi, Girls, it’s Mommy. They rushed to the fence, as they always do, and I counted them, as I always do; then I informed them, which they’ve heard before, that I was going to get a special treat for them. Today it was apples. I went over to a tree, shook it, and brought the apples back in my basket and tossed them across their straw littered and scratched up yard. I picked some outrageously healthy kale that seems about to swallow its bed, and tossed that in too. I then took up the rusty metal spatula that I use to scrape away poop: from food cans and water dispenser and especially from the “porches” to their nests inside, and I opened the people size door that leads into their dwelling. Their house smells sweet; which amazes me every time. It smells sweet because of the hay that covers the washable concrete floor and fills the nests, and because of the lumber used to build everything, and because their poop is basically from fruit and vegetable matter. I treasure the poop and always praise and thank them for it. In the spring, after winter composting (maybe two winters because chicken poop is so hot) it will go on the vegetable beds. We have a working team here, I often tell them.

Well, yes, ok. I imagine them responding. But what’s with the tasteless worms you’ve got crawling out of your shoes? It is incredible to me that they’ve never seen a worm, yet because my shoelaces resemble worms they will peck at them until they occasionally untie both my shoes.

So there I am with my rusty spatula, scraping their poop off their porches, and from inside their nests as well, when what do I see: four small light brown eggs. I can’t believe it. Perfectly formed, clean as a whistle. A bit of straw and a tiny wispy feather stuck to one egg, but that was it. Yaay, Space Nuts! I cried. They all crowded around the door as if to witness my response. Thank you, thank you, thank you! I said, letting a favorite feeling, astonishment, wash over me. This is the best gift of all. You have given us these four beautiful eggs. What wonderful people you are. Chicken people, I stressed, to discourage any thought of human arrogance. They seemed pleased.

But who was responsible? Not the Ameraucanas, because the eggs were not green or blue. Maybe the Barred Rocks, Rufus and Agnes, whom I took to be roosters? Or maybe the youngish looking Rhode Island Reds?

But we are getting ahead of ourselves.

Back on the green stool in the corner of the chicken yard, earlier in the summer, I am noticing what chickens, with plenty of space and good food and fresh air, like to do.

--

*“Space Nuts.” I coined this expression – and use it a lot - to apply to the human race. Here we are hurtling through space so fast we’re not even aware of it, and doing some extraordinarily unhelpful things. Fighting each other, murdering the planet, eating extremely bad food, lying about everything, and so on. Then there are the good things: We try to stop war, we take care of Mother Earth as best we can, we pay attention to what goes into our precious, once in this lifetime, bodies. We honor Truth. Yaay, Space Nuts!

Or sometimes instead of Yaay Space Nuts! One would say Aw, Space Nuts. Or simply “Space Nuts” and the intonation of the voice would do the work. Former President Bush was a Space Nut. One would not say Yaay. Just: Space Nut. Aung San Suu Kyi, the Dalai Lama, Amma, Jesus, Buddha, John Lewis, Rudolph Byrd, Beverly and Valerie, Garrett and Che would be Space Nuts and we would say “Yaay.” Etc. Etc. Maybe this expression replaces the earlier much used “My people, my people!”

***

What Do Chickens Like To Do?

The Chicken Chronicles

©2009 by Alice Walker

Chapter Three

They like to take naps! I would not have believed it if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes. Not only do they like to take naps, they like to take naps together. They especially like to take naps in the afternoon when the weather is hot. This summer there were many very hot days: one hundred and five to a hundred and ten. I’ve learned the trick of jumping in the pond with my clothes on and leaving them on to dry. Cheap air conditioning. Or, I will lie in a hammock in the shade with a wet towel for a sheet. Or lie in the bathtub filled with cold water, reading. The chickens, though, burrow into the earth as far as they can, kicking aside the straw, and they will make a circle of their special friends, and they will slowly nod off. It is enchanting to watch them do this. There will be the most sumptuous quiet; as if the whole world feels drowsy. It would be difficult to imagine war and terror anywhere on earth. It is too hot, in any case, to think of it.

They also like to preen themselves; for this they will fluff out their feathers and peck around under them, shaking out loose feathers, dust and vermin as they go.

I placed our chicken house on a slight slope, facing east so that sunlight floods the upper ventilation windows in the morning and splashes across their ascending and descending ladder and their tiny front door. A maple I planted fifteen years ago gives shade over their dining area; when it is very hot, they congregate here; filling up the roosting sticks and slipping and sliding each other around the slippery tops of the garbage (food storage) cans. Sometimes pecking at a bit of mash, or scratching for bugs around the water dispenser. They love to scratch, and they have powerful legs. If you’ve ever seen or done the dance called “the funky chicken” you can easily visualize the movement. It is no-nonsense, serious, and has a rhythm. I love the way our dances used to imitate the creatures we were obviously fascinated by: chickens, dogs, fish, and of course a long time ago, jitterbugs, among others. Jitterbugs must have been thrilling to watch! Scratching with an intense authority that I find wonderful, chickens’ eyes are so sharp they see dozens of edible critters where I see none at all. And gobble them up.

They like to sit on my arm. But they have no sense of what their hard feet and claws feel like, consequently I’ve received more than a few scratches. What happens is they’re comfy for a moment, maybe two, but then they see a bug, way off at the other end of the yard, and they’re off, launched from my arm without any kind of good-bye. I had never understood well enough the use of the gauntlets that falconers wear. But until I can find a pair I will endeavor to wear denim sleeves. But what would throwing down the gauntlet mean, in this context, I wonder?

They like to eat and their favorite thing may be fresh corn, which I give them chilled and on the cob. I tell them it’s chicken popsicle. But they also like grapes. And they especially like Chardonnay grapes, much more than Pinot Noir. I So agree with them. There’s no comparison, really. Where we live the landscape is overrun with vineyards, with every kind of grape imaginable, but overwhelmingly Chardonnay and Pinot Noir. Twenty-five years ago when I moved to this valley there were three small vineyards and many pastures full of sheep. I miss the sheep and the pastures. My land is deliberately under-graped. The chickens and I make do with three grape vines, two of Chardonnay and one Pinot Noir. I pick the grapes, smell and admire them, and fling them through the fence, eating a few before doing so. They also love pears and apples, collards and kale, lettuce and eggplant, but not figs. Here we disagree. I love figs. They remind me of my father, who, with his rich color and slow to ripen sweetness resembled a fig himself. Soon there will be persimmons. I’m excited but a bit edgy. They may not like them. But how could they not like persimmons? Persimmons are orange, a fabulous color. I love persimmons. The mushier the better. They are the American mango. And how about the pumpkin left over from Halloween?

***