Chicken delivery/performance art

Next year, we will be finding a different way to distribute our chicken. This year, we had drop-off points, much like a vegetable CSA, except we had to sit there with our frozen chickens in a cooler and wait for people. Sometimes people forgot to meet us, and even when they remembered, the experience was often unusual.

One of our drop-off sites was in the public boulevard of Franklin Avenue, right next to Seward Co-op. On a Sunday in August, I drove up from Northfield with a bunch of chickens in a cooler and my late father's ornate cowboy hat. It is woven from straw and has a huge brim, a wild spray of feathers in front, and a slightly more subdued collection of feathers encircling it like a hat band. Co-op shoppers in Minneapolis rarely wear this kind of thing, so my husband thought it would be a good way for our customers to identify us. We sent out an e-mail telling our customers that we would be there at the appointed time, wearing the magnificent hat.

I lugged our cooler out of our car and plopped down in the skimpy shade of a little boulevard tree. There I sat as though my cooler were a little bench. Some pedestrians on the sidewalk glanced at me with curious expressions on their faces, and others kept their gaze resolutely forward. I began to become very self-conscious about my posture because I sense that people were analyzing it as they tried to decide whether I was a threat or not. I rummaged around my purse, found a small notebook and started to write in it, both to pass the time and because I thought it might be a comfort to uncertain bypassers.

Finally someone called out to me. It was our dear friend’s partner Chris, who was there to pick up four chickens, but did not have a bag for them. Because her dog was in her car, we decided that she should don the cowboy hat and stand between the cooler and her dog while I jogged half a block down and around the corner to fetch a bag from my car. That way, we could have a bag for the chickens, a calm dog, and someone with a fabulous hat standing by the cooler in case another customer came.

It did not fully occur to me what I had asked this woman to do until I returned with a bag sometime later. There she stood, looking slightly outlandish on the boulevard of Franklin Avenue. She assured me that she had looked meaningfully at every person who passed, but none of them seemed to be my customers.

We have been told over and over that to market our chicken, we need to sell more than the meat; we have to sell stories, values, and a lifestyle. Apparently we are all so selling opportunities for guerrilla performance art in the streets of Minneapolis. As unique and exciting as that opportunity may be, and as gracefully Chris executed it, I decided at that moment that I do not want to offer that opportunity to anyone else ever again.

After Chris left with her chickens, I sat on the boulevard waiting for a couple of people who never showed. One woman slowed on the sidewalk near me, looking very indecisive, so I asked her if she was there to pick up a chicken, but this only added to her confusion. A lean, wide-shouldered man stared at me with pale blue eyes as piercing as lasers, but mercifully kept walking.

Finally a buddy from worship group strolled out of the co-op and came to chat with me. As he sat on the grass, he remembered that while he was in the co-op, he heard some employees debating about whether they should call the police on the people who were outside. At the time he was assuming that they were talking about some panhandlers, but now he wondered if they might have been talking about me. We had a lovely visit about some worship group business, and no police arrived.

Harvest time

I finally got my new voice recognition working today! It seems to be going fairly well. I am sending a huge thanks to my mom for helping with this.

The soybeans around here have been replaced by fields shorn so clean that the stubble reminds me of shag rug. The corn is going down now, field by field. Combines bulldoze into forests of corn stalks, which fall down before them and are shredded. Big clouds of dust rise up behind the machines like smoke, and once when my children and I were driving past, we could see that the cloud of dust from a combine was drifting over the road just ahead of us, and it glowed golden in the sun. It looked as though we would be driving to some kind of magic spell. When we finally entered the plume of gold, gritty particles swept into my truck, and when we breathed, it smiled like dry autumn leaves. It reminded me of jumping into leaf piles as a child.

Businesses in the Faribault area sponsor maternal sounding public service announcement on the radio, urging people to get enough rest during harvest, or to be careful and stay safe. They do not do this at other times of year. On Saturday, a combine caught on fire just up the road from us – we could see it from our house. If we had lived here longer, I expect that we would know the whole story, but we know nothing. Our next-door neighbor was out today harvesting, and I scanned his combine for scorch marks but didn't find any.

A radio announcer man with the most delicious, homey Minnesotan way of talking discusses the international grain market on the local station. When he talks about how farmers in South America have been low on rain and plan to start planting soon, it sounds as though he were gossiping about families who live just down the road. As I delight in his turns of phrase, I slowly get an inkling for this scale of the global commodities harvest. I am awed by the enormity of it. In my mind it assumes the sound of machinery roaring and rumbling over swaths of land too large for me even to imagine.

Death

Still no voice recognition, and I know this is not polished, but I so much wanted to share these thoughts ...

During the process of childbirth, I became willing to lay down absolutely everything in my life and hurl myself forward into the mystery. Something within me knows that death will be like this, and that it will not be the end. St. Francis of Asisi saw death as a rather insignificant event in the life of the faithful and apparently embraced his own death. Even my father, who would be the first to admit he wasn't a saint, seems more present to me in some ways after his death. He is more diffuse, but vibrant, and often with me.

St Francis also saw all living creatures (and other natural things) as siblings because we share God as a common parent. This matches my experience so perfectly, and it makes me hope that death is not the end of the road for any part of creation. I am holding onto this hope as I wade in an ocean of grief and guilt for the beautiful things that are coming to an end all around us through environmental destruction. I stand on the edge of this sea and pray that the coming generations will be given the guidance to navigate it. And as I stand here, I am aware of an illogical joy, a peace that surpasses understanding. My eyes are shocked by sparks of light.

borage flowers

The borage plant in our garden is almost otherworldly. It is has a misty look to it because it is covered in a light fur, and its pointed flowers, like stars, are a deeper blue than the sky. It has always startled me to pass it, as though I had wandered into a lovely elvin presence. Today my son picked borage flowers for me and held them out in his still round six-year old hand. I was lying down, so I looked up at him with deepest indigo in his hand, and light blue in his eyes, and the whole wide blue sky framing him. I ate the flowers, which were cool and pleasant as cucumbers, and felt blessed beyond my ability to understand it.




PS. Still no voice recognition here, but it will be soon!

technical troubles

I use voice recognition software because of repetitive stress injuries. Mine started working poorly and finally totally crashed a couple of weeks ago. We're hoping to get a new computer today to support it better. I am hoping I'll be blogging more in 1-2 weeks. I have so much to say. It is beautiful here.

Carried Home

If you always wanted to farm, but never did, you would not need to decide what to do with a baby chick that limped and dragged its wing but lived for weeks.

You would not weigh the possibility of contagion against the possibility of recovery.

You would not finger your lumpy purse of obligations, considering how much time you might lose.

You would not lift the golden bird from its hospital pen to watch it nestle down next to the earth and cock its head sideways to study you with suspicion.

You would not stand in a field of clover rustling in the sweet wind and shoulder the weight of the job before you.

You would not kneel in the clover when the job was done.

You would not feel yourself drift beyond your tumbling fence lines into a glittering ocean of corn, which would receive you completely and close over your head.

You would not discover that you could breathe under this sea, but that words all drown.

You would not allow your body to lift you like a competent mother and carry you to the garage where the shovels hang.

You would not live without words for a while, swaying to rhythms you knew before you were born.

You would not know if you were really home.

We have an unusually collegial batch of chickens. The other night, one of them stood by Ian and pecked at his boots. Ian stooped over and to stroke the chicken, and it just stood there calmly. They stayed that way for a long time. I have been troubled by the birds’ friendliness because I have taken to wearing some plastic flip-flops when I step into their yard to take care of them, and they all rush over to step on my feet with their sharp toenails.

The ducks are fully feathered out, and they look magnificent. When I let them out of their pen in the morning, they all run across the driveway, flapping their white wings. My yard is filled with the sound of air moving under many strong feathers. We have granted the ducks a week of reprieve before they go to the processors because we want them to be able to attend our potluck on Saturday. It is at 5 PM. Can you come?