I hate to admit it, but there are some things about farming and the country life that I don’t like.
I don’t mind getting dirty. I don’t mind getting up early and doing chores. The cold doesn’t bother me too bad and I can deal with the heat, but then there are other things I just don’t care for.
I don’t like to back a trailer. Never really had to, thanks to a dad and brothers who figured it was much easier for them just to do it than to wait for me to try 20 times. My husband has the same philosophy.
I also don’t like raising a garden or canning. I had an unfortunate incident with a pressure cooker some years ago and that was all of that I wanted.
I do, however, like making jam and jelly and I did raise a killer crop of zucchini one year. My mom was pretty impressed when I took her several of my home-grown zucchini. She had kind of a puzzled look on her face and ask if I had put out a garden. I chuckled at the thought and told her that I just found a patch of zucchini vines growing in the horse lot.
Perhaps the thing I dislike the most about farming or the country way of life is chickens. Yes, chickens. I have the utmost respect for those who are in the industry, but it’s not something for me.
The reason goes back to my childhood. Just like many folks who live on a farm, we had a few chickens, and I really don’t remember the exact moment I began to dislike the birds, but there was always something that kind of made me leery of them.
In Turner family folklore, when I was pretty young there was a rooster that hated me. Mom said she grew tired of the daily battle, which left me in tears, and told my dad that it was time the rooster went into the pot. Problem solved.
I have simply kept my distance from chickens since then, but that all changed one fateful weekend.
A friend was going out of town and asked if I could come by and take care of her animals. It had been a while since I had been out to her place, but I knew she had a couple of horses and a calf or two, so I figured I would be in and out in no time. Well, I was wrong.
The first night I went to do the chores, I saw something dart in front of me as I weaved down the long, tree-lined driveway. Could it be? Was it? Yes, it was a chicken.
I thought to myself, “OK, it’s just one chicken. It might not even be her chicken. Might be one that escaped from a neighbor.” No such luck.
As I drove to the house and barn, chickens began to appear from everywhere. They just kept coming and soon surrounded my vehicle. I felt like Custer at Little Big Horn with nowhere to go and no reinforcements in sight.
Finally, I garnered up the courage to make a run for the house. With the chickens hot on my heels, I made it to safety and took a minute to regroup. Eventually the chickens went back to their scratching and pecking, so I grabbed my list of instructions and headed out to the barn. The chickens quickly followed, so I threw some feed into their pen and then locked them up for the night. Mission accomplished.
I fed the horses, watered the calves and other things, as my list indicated, and then I saw it – the word “over” on the bottom of the page.
As I flipped the page over I read, “Don’t forget to gather the eggs inside the chicken house and lock the geese up in one of the stalls in the barn. One of the geese is also trying to sit a nest so shoo her off and lock her up too.”
What and What?
I found the geese and there was one goose that was indeed trying to sit a nest. I tried to shoo her, as my friend had suggested. That didn’t work and by this time she and her goose and gander buddies were not real happy with me, but once they realized there was food involved they followed me back to the barn – except for that one stubborn, want-to-be mother goose.
As the weekend wore on, I finally got the eggs gathered, the goose off the nest and got all of the chores done, but it was tough with all of those chickens. To all those who do raise chickens, turkey, geese or other feathered livestock – you have my admiration, but I think I will just stick with cows.
Julie
