Babies do tend to come early. When the feed store called and said that two of the eleven chicks were in, I panicked a little as we were not ready! Hastily Doug and I set up the baby nursery in the garage. We brought home the small package of two ridiculously loud Polish Rock chickens (aka: Top Hats). They are about three inches tall with a high poof on their heads resembling a fabulous fur hat. It will grow into a plume of wild white feathers atop a black body. Very stylish, very comical. We placed them in the plastic bin beneath the light and watched them shiver….watched our breath cloud the darkened air of the garage. Then we picked up the whole thing and moved it into Emily’s room.
One of them we have deemed to be a diva. She sings many decibels louder than her tiny frame…constantly. She is so loud that the cats are disoriented. Thankfully, she slept through the night. Her sidekick, a slightly smaller version of herself, runs around after her, mimicking her every move. She sings sweetly. While Aretha jumps off of the food bowl, Ginger (as in Rogers, and her great hats) is quietly behind her ready to do the same. Aretha (yes, as in Franklin) thinks she should fly the coop already. So, another Ethel is in the works. She looks carefully with her pin point squinty eyes at the top of the bin and with all her little power propels her wings and runs into the side of the plastic bin, three inches higher than she started. I try not to laugh, her will is inspiring, but brain damage is imminent if she doesn’t stay grounded!
Doug and I enjoy their antics so much, babies and grown chickens alike. Shyanne came tearing into the house, boyfriend and friend in tow, squealing with delight (so that’s how you get teenagers home!) over the little fluff bundles. Andy is disappointed he is house sitting because he wants to cuddle and see them as well. I imagine next year with new chickens, the tiny hands of a one year old being carefully provoked to pet the new chickie. Nice chickie. For her to grow up and be excited to go to Grammie and Papa’s house…to the fun farm. (As opposed to the funny farm…or perhaps, well never mind.) Where our future grandkids can be can be a wild children in the wilderness of grain fields and corn stalks. To walk around with tomato juice strewn down their little chins. To hold a newborn goat, to pick up eggs and help make breakfast, where they can go for a ride on the tractor with Papa. Where they can lie in the grass with a thermos of hot chocolate and watch the stars. Where they can be loved and snuggled and on Grammie and Papa vacation…away from the confines of homework, where literature and art are fun, where poetry is written naturally by the lake. Where the farm is school. Farmgirl school will change over the years into an all inclusive resort for little ones. Our first arriving early.
Maryjane has stopped growing and is having trouble finishing up. So, tonight Emily will be induced. Tomorrow, folks, my next farmgirl will be born. I ask your prayers for Emily and Maryjane (and the sanity of Grammie among doctors) and I will post pictures of our new little arrival when she gets here….hopefully kicking and ready to play hard on our farm!