Saturday, November 20, 2004
Paul got his new chicks last Tuesday. All 224 of them, now 223 because one of them fell into the water feeder and died. He wanted me to come over to see them. They are so cute and fuzzy, with their little winglets, peeping and running around, others of them all piled up together. They seem to weigh nothing when you pick them up. Just little fuzzy yellow energy balls with tiny eyes and beaks.
And I watch Paul, how gently he picks them up, how careful he is with them, how slowly he moves his feet while he is in the brooder changing the feed pans. He gets up three times every night to put more charcoal in the burners that keep them warm. The chicks look so vulnerable and fragile. There are two that will be roosters – it seems that Paul knows them all, individually. He has already stockpiled the food they will need, and bought the medicine and arranged for the vaccinations that will keep them healthy.
I think of the investment Paul has made in them, and how much more they will cost to feed and how much care they will require before they start laying eggs six months from now. An illness, an animal break-in, or an attack by safari ants could end it all for him.
I guess this is the attachment, pride, and vulnerability that all farmers feel as they plant seeds or start their flocks or herds. They depend on the rain and the weather and must continually tend the health and growth of their produce until the successful harvest, no matter what. No wonder there are Thanksgiving Days, and Rain Dances and Harvest Dances. But somehow it seems more poignant here where people live so close to the abyss, where there is no safety net or other alternatives or room for failure.
And I watch Paul, how gently he picks them up, how careful he is with them, how slowly he moves his feet while he is in the brooder changing the feed pans. He gets up three times every night to put more charcoal in the burners that keep them warm. The chicks look so vulnerable and fragile. There are two that will be roosters – it seems that Paul knows them all, individually. He has already stockpiled the food they will need, and bought the medicine and arranged for the vaccinations that will keep them healthy.
I think of the investment Paul has made in them, and how much more they will cost to feed and how much care they will require before they start laying eggs six months from now. An illness, an animal break-in, or an attack by safari ants could end it all for him.
I guess this is the attachment, pride, and vulnerability that all farmers feel as they plant seeds or start their flocks or herds. They depend on the rain and the weather and must continually tend the health and growth of their produce until the successful harvest, no matter what. No wonder there are Thanksgiving Days, and Rain Dances and Harvest Dances. But somehow it seems more poignant here where people live so close to the abyss, where there is no safety net or other alternatives or room for failure.
