A Frozen Chicken Ranch

Ten below zero wind chill here at the Chicken Ranch this winters morn. The ground is frozen and unyielding as I hobble out to feed today. A recent attack of gout/arthritis has put a hitch in my giddy-up.  My ankle has swelled up like a hammered thumb. The uneven and hardened surface makes the trip to the critter pens less than joyful, as each step sends daggers of pain shooting up my leg. It’s been a long time since I’ve had an attack this severe. Drinking tart cherry juice each morning has proven very effective in keeping the Scottish Curse away. But I changed to another brand of cherry juice recently, and I am now paying for trying to save a few dollars. Going back to the original pure tart brand.

As I go to provide water and food to the domesticated creatures here, I ready myself for breaking the ice, draggy wooden gates, and putting out extra feed. The winter conditions are stressful on livestock, poultry, and for that matter, chicken ranchers. The bitter cold nighttime temperatures have made life a bit hard for the wild animals too.

Some days, slaking their thirst is a major challenge for the deer, turkey, and waterfowl that live in abundance around us. Most creeks, ponds, and rivers are frozen over. The nearby Sangamon River is a frozen stack of white dominoes. Three foot square blocks of eight inch thick ice are in a frozen scalloped state, one block riding the back of another. The animals walk the banks looking for a thin layer that might yield and provide a frigid drink. And that can prove dangerous to them. Last year, my grandson, Kirkland and I found a good size buck in a creek during one of our walks in the woods; it may well have broken through the ice and drowned.

 I pour water into the chickens containers. Songbirds that have braved the winter, flock in as I leave, and guzzle the life sustaining liquid with gusto. They prod and crowd one another for a chance to drink. The cardinals and blue jays scatter the smaller birds as they fly in. The doves, though the biggest of all, come in quietly, and seem not to want to create a fuss. The hens too are taking advantage of the warm water before it freezes over. Our hens are hearty Plymouth Rocks and Rhode Island Reds. They can handle the cold as long as they are out of the wind at night. They walk through the snow in the hen yard, even when the breeze ruffles their feathers, and a white dusting lies upon their backs.

The wood pile has depleted significantly in recent days. The crackling fire and dancing flames warms us inside and out,  on these long frigid nights. The wood stove brings the work shop to a comfortable temperature, making necessary projects easier to accomplish. Something cozy about a wood stove on a snowy winters day. There is a nice contrast of the warmth of the stove and the snowflakes drumming the window pane.

When there is no snow, farming country has a sepia tone look in the winter.The houses and barns sit on an island, surrounded by a sea of brown dirt and guarded by stark black trees. The pastures of ranches and farms are a faded, barely green; nothing like the deep lush color that a wet spring would produce. It makes a body look forward to spring . That being said, I do like the seasonal changes.
 
The heat and humidity of summer are replaced by the milder temperatures and drier air of autumn. Winter brings snow to cover the colorless surface, indoor pleasantries, and snug warm coats. Spring brings renewed life, a sea of color, and the promise of summer, with its long days and short sleeve weather. If variety is the spice of life,  Midwest weather is definitely lively.

While it's frigid here now, the weather man says a high of 60 degrees may be ours in a few days. As it is said often here, "If you don't like the weather in our part, just wait a few hours, it'll change." As I limp back to the house, with my collar high on my neck, and my cowboy hat riding tight to my skull, I'm thinking of a line from an old song, " ...and change gonna do me good."

A long Last Look

He placed his hand on the tree and stood for a few seconds to give his legs a rest. The hill was steep, but hadn’t posed this much of a challenge when he was young, and climbed this and the other surrounding hills routinely. The top was only another thirty or forty feet away, so he pushed on. Reaching the end of the hardwoods, he stepped out onto the relatively flat limestone surface.

The flat, silver-gray rock on the top of the hill, formed a nearly three acre plateau. In between the limestone slabs were patches of grass, and tiny saplings that had the misfortune of being born in a piece of ground that could not long support it. The fertile area around the plateau was  inhabited by hickory, oak, cedar and pine trees that shaded some areas, and allowed the blue green reindeer moss to creep over the rock. The evergreens would bend and whisper as the warm and cool winds traded places from the top of the hills to the valley floor several hundred feet below.

He walked along a worn path that intermingled with the stone. Many decades of cutting wood here had worn a road of sorts across the dirt and over the flat rock. Horses and wagons had started the road when the land was first settled by his ancestors. Pick up trucks followed years later. Load after load of firewood and building lumber had been hauled from this ridge. He had hunted here. He had helped his great-grandfather and grandpa cut and load wood here at times, but he had most often come here alone. He had preferred the peace and solitude of riding horseback or climbing. But,  above all, he had enjoyed the view.

He walked to his favorite spot where a rock overhang opened the wall of trees. There the valley spread out before him. Lesser hills stretched out for miles. Here and there, smoke rose from behind trees to indicate a house or workshop that had its wood stove lit. That smoke, and a couple of barns below, was all there was to reveal that the valley was inhabited by humans. All else was a patchwork of fields and wood lots as far as you could see, down to the winding river. It was a picture of Gods handiwork, it was the essence of peace. That is why he had come here so often as a boy, peace was often elusive while he was growing up.

He had been born in the early 1950’s, a time when World War Two was still fresh on the minds of so many of his family who had lived through it. The Korean war had ended one month before he was born. As a little boy he was surrounded by veterans who spoke little of the wars, but often wore their experiences on their faces. “He was part of Patton’s infantry and saw the liberation of concentration camps,” some would say in a hushed manner. “He doesn’t talk about it, but he has horrible nightmares sometimes” or “He was a cook..” was what the people that loved them would discuss when they weren't around. Little snippets of info that the older men would allow to filter through the wall of resistance; sometimes with the persuasion of a little Kentucky bourbon, he remembered.

The 1960’s years brought their own troubles. The Cold War began in earnest. He remembered being so frightened as a child when, over and over again,TV programs showed how to build bomb shelters and wear gas masks, in the event of a nuclear war with Russia. The Cuban Missile Crisis brought America closer to the brink than anyone would really know... until many years later. America held it’s collective breath, and prayed for 13 days until Russia finally blinked. It was a frightening time for children and adults alike.

John F Kennedy was assassinated in 1963, followed by his brother Bobby in ‘68. Martin Luther King after that. And Vietnam turned from an advisory campaign to a full scale operation where many of his  high school friends and relatives wound up spending a year or more, fighting in a war no that one liked… or understood. Many years later he had become a  war veteran himself.

Yes, it had seemed to him back then that the whole world had gone mad. But, here on this rocky ridge he had found comfort. Here he had looked down on the hawks as they circled the valley below. Muffled sounds of farm equipment would float up the hill at times, but mostly it was the wind in the cedars, the call of the blue jay, or the squawk of the crow, that fell upon his ears. Perched on this plateau, like the Indians had done before the white man came, he saw what God saw when He looked down on the valley that He had crafted. A valley like no other. A glorious gift to those who would come here.

He had come here alone from the time he was eight years old until he had started a family of his own, and moved to another state. Even then he would come up here sometimes when he came back to visit. When he had come to this place as a boy the chaos of the world had stood still. Here, there was no war. There was no killing or crying. No fighting or worrying. There was only the beauty of the valley, and the music of creation that rode upon the wind.

He had made a promise to  one day build himself a home here, on this plateau at the top of the hills. A cabin of wood from nearby trees, with a chimney of stone from the rocky hillside. Here, he would live far above the noise and tumult, and look down at the world below. It was a dream that he had expressed to his grandparents, and that had been blessed by his wonderful, loving grandmother. It was a dream, a desperate longing, that had stayed with him nearly fifty years… until today.

They were home from the funeral now, and while others talked, cried, laughed together, and mourned for her, he had decided that he must climb this hill one more time. So he had gone out the back door, crossed the wooden bridge behind his grandmothers house, and made his way  to this hilltop one more time. The place his ancestors had settled would be parted out among his relatives soon and be sold.

To some folks money means more than history or ancestry. What price do you put on Paradise? When is money worth more than the blood and sweat mingled in the soil of the land your forefathers settled. And of the farm that perseverance built? What price can be put on a sanctuary, where a boy found peace in a world that had little?

As he stood on the hilltop now, he was angry beyond words. Not at his relatives, but at himself. He was saddened to tears. He had broken a promise to himself. He wasn’t in the financial position it required to purchase the hill top his grandmother had wanted him to have. He would have to watch it go. He felt the weight of the reality that his dream would never be. There would be no cabin of wood and stone. And it was no ones fault but his own.

His head was bowed when he heard the cry of the hawk. He raised his eyes and watched the beautiful predator with its outstretched wings, as it glided on the wind, and circled  down, down to the valley below.

The sun was setting in the west, and ribbons of color were stretching across the sky. The evening breeze whispered in the trees as he surveyed the valley one last time. He drew in a deep breath and smelled the earthy scents around him. He soaked up all his eyes could absorb. He burned the view deep into his memory.

He faintly smiled, and felt a small measure of peace as he thought of his humble little grandmother. He said aloud, “Mamaw, I guess now you have an even better view of this valley than I do ." Then, after a silent moment, he said "Well… at least it was ours for a little while.”

He took one last look, sighed deeply, then turned and started back to the house; several hundred feet and one creek crossing down below.