I found an egg in the garden
laid by one of the chicks. The golden egg was found near the driveway entrance in the corner under the cedar tree where the lilacs afford some shade. Leftover leaves from Spring clean up provided the scratch. I laughed because an egg under a lilac bush on a drive way looked out of context.
I S O lation
The Chicks give me purpose every morning as I pull myself from my slumber into morning chores. Producing golden eggs require specific attention because chicks have their own idiosyncratic ways of scratching through the farm to find their grubs.
We usually play a game. At least I do and maybe they just inherently know where to go?
I clean the coop once a week and pull all the chicken shit with hay into the fruitery. I have my routine, it's methodical, under the one tree it goes. I leave and inevitably the girls scratch through the hay looking for a kernel of corn or better yet, a worm or grub as they spread their shit and the hay.
The fruitery benefits and the cycle of life continues on. It's that simple. I clean they mess it up. Two steps forward and five steps back. It's the chicken dance.
The girls want out.
Below is the scene of the egg and the driveway to Dedham Street.
One day as I was admiring the front garden, a woman stopped on Dedham Street right in front of me. Dead stop. Above you can see there are no cars but in the time of covid Dedham Street is fast and furious. So, a dead stop is not what you want.
She pulled her bandana mask up, and motioned to me to come closer, the window came down and she yelled out,
"What type of chickens are those?"
Brain fart, old age, too much weeding and really just plain surprise that someone was actually engaging in a real life conversation.
"I can't remember."
But, I really do know that they are a combination of Rhode Island Reds, and Mary Ann as well as Kevin, the Curator reminded me of that as I recounted the moment. Still it pissed me off I couldn't remember that right away. And I filed it in my Covid memory book only to be forgotten again.
She continued, "They look so happy and your garden is beautiful."
Big smile, "Thank You"
A car slowed down behind her. She said, "I am a gardener. This....(pointing to front garden) is part of the Historical Society?"
"Yes, I weed the garden, but the women before me put the garden in. When the coast is clear come over and I'll show you the garden."
She waved and slowly crept by to view the colors and the splendor or the front garden. And to think there used to be a fence around it.
I often go out just at dusk because the birds are singing and the traffic isn't overpowering the song to document the beauty that surrounds me.
These are the moments I want to share.
Reality bites my ass as I move back into normalcy.
I voted on Monday in the local election. Sadly only 22 percent of the Dover voter population turned out. I just don't understand why people aren't using their vote considering some of us - the female population weren't afforded that privilege until a hundred years ago.
I don't get it! I really don't. And I don't consider myself a fuddy duddy insular adult. We are privileged and people can't take the time to go out and VOTE!
Get into the Game FOLKS...
YES IT'S CALLED THE GAME OF LIFE!
Now, wrap your head around...
RACE DISCRIMINATION PATRIARCHY POVERTY COVID19 DESPAIR I CAN'T BREATHE ELITISM ECONOMIC DEPRESSION MORALITY VALUES BASIC HUMAN RIGHTS
Let's pray for JUSTICE
and in the meantime
I hear voices and the barn door is open
The 1929 manure spreader is being brought back to life. I really didn't plan on talking about shit but maybe we can use this rehab as a metaphor to clean up the shit show of LIFE.
Mark is waxing so that the rust is contained.
A brief morning encounter talking about the 1929 manure spreader made this June 17th a good day.
The birds are singing
Smokey is sleeping
There's a lawn mower off in the distance
Someone is playing tennis with a partner
And I am here in my little paradise. I can't complain.