Miss Broody's Fate & The Ghosts of Christmas Past
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Miss Broody's Fate & The Ghosts of Christmas Past
Thanks so much for visiting during this busy holiday month! You'll find something for People Who are Afraid to Write Poetry and a bit of book news. But first, the continuing Saga of Miss Broody...
Miss Broody’s Fate
I knew it couldn’t last.
Our sole hen’s egg laying spree, that is. Miss Broody’s egg production this fall had been impressive: 19 eggs in 27 days! But as it turned out, the spree was very temporary.
The day the really bad smoke rolled in, she didn’t come out of the coop. Sure enough, when I went to check on her late in the afternoon, she was back on the nest—hours after she would have been there to actually get something done…i.e., lay an egg.
Our girl, which we had so recently renamed “Missy,” was once again Miss Broody.
The smoke might have had something to do with it—maybe she was laying low to escape the worst of it, just like the other birds and bees and bunnies around our place.
Still, broody was broody.
For some time, I’d been torn about Miss Broody’s future: a feeling growing stronger by the day, that it wasn’t right to try and keep her.
Chickens, like other farm critters, are herd animals. I wondered if Miss Broody’s enforced solitude was also making her more broody than she would have been otherwise—no other hens to hang out with.
And her being alone day after day, month after month—especially if she wasn’t eating properly—would almost certainly make her just pine away. The coming rain and cold would only make her solitary existence even more miserable.
Unless, despite all our precautions, a bobcat got her first.
After the other three big cat attacks on our flock, Miss Broody was constantly on high alert. And as the weeks passed, I think her anxiety had become entrenched in her muscle memory. Even many months after the previous attack that killed our hen Little Miss Britches, poor Broody still could hardly eat or drink.
Even when she was safe in her caged run, with me right there with her, she would continually cast nervous glances around.
I wondered if the neighborhood big cat was yet another reason she went broody so frequently—it was a hen’s instinct to be happily outdoors, scratching around and dust-bathing, but for Miss Broody, being outside the coop was too nerve-wracking.
And I had this sinking feeling that eventually, the bobcat would kill her somehow: either attack outright—or scare her to death.
I didn’t want to lose her—I’d grown quite fond of Miss Broody, especially after all she’d been through. And I’ve long felt that a little flock of hens are the heart of your homestead.
Still, more than ever, I was convinced that this scrappy little girl needed a much safer, and companion-filled place to live. But where could I possibly find a good home for a hen that wasn’t even laying?
Now that we were moving into November, I was growing increasingly anxious about Miss Broody making it through the winter.
Before last December’s extreme winter storm, John and I had invested in some new chicken equipment: improvements, I was sure, that would take our chicken-keeping to the next level.
Water availability for the girls in the cold was always a problem—their waterer would freeze solid. We’d bring a bucket of warm water from the house out every day, but that would freeze within hours too, even when we put the bucket in the coop.
So our first priority was keeping the girls hydrated. Off John went to the farmer’s supply store fifteen miles away. He sprung for an electric chicken waterer—it would keep the hens’ water thawed through the snappiest cold snap. While he was at it, he bought a new feeder too.
The design of this new one, made of light plastic, would twirl more freely as the hens fed, thus more evenly distributing the feed. The feeding tray also had little dividers, so multiple birds would have their own little slot of goodies.
Our old metal feeder worked by simple gravity, and invariably the feed would get hung up in the center instead of swishing into the feeding tray. Add more damp and cold, with the finer bits in a metal feeder would be more prone to freeze solid, the feed would likely get hung up even more where the hens couldn’t reach it.
Clearly, this new feeder was a big improvement. We were set.
Old Man Winter, bring it on!
Well, guess what. The waterer failed during the first northeaster—the electrical parts went bust. We tried a different extension cord, and John fiddled with the wiring to the best of his ability, but nothing doing.
We’d wasted our money: ending up with just a very expensive cheap plastic bowl.
And the new feeder?
It twirled so efficiently that the screw mechanism holding it together would unscrew, then the whole gizmo would fall on the ground. Then you’d have to sift through the grungy dirt to find the various bits and bobs to reassemble it.
John put the feeder back together numerous times, tried a new screw, and a new washer, but nope. Finally, he threw up his hands in frustration and we went back to using the old feeder.
In a very vague kind of way, I wondered if our failed improvements were trying to tell us something.
And Miss Broody’s fate was still up in the air…
Book News
I’ve been trying to be more adventuresome lately with my writing. And in the last couple of weeks, I’ve taken a leap into the unknown with auto-narrated audiobooks!
Google Play, which sells ebooks, also offers audiobooks created with AI voices. This digital narrating won’t be mistaken for a talented, human narrator—it is best utilized for non-fiction books—but the voices are actually pretty darn good.
An auto-narrated work is also an easy way to make an audiobook affordable, both for the author, and the reader. To that end, I’ve released my three Little Farm non-fiction books in audio: Little Farm in the Foothills, Little Farm Homegrown, and Little Farm in the Garden.
If you’d like a listen, here’s a link to the Little Farm in the Foothills audiobook!
For All the People Who Are Afraid to Write Poetry
True confessions: my experience with poetry is very sketchy. I’m pretty much a prose girl.
In my daily reading—a newspaper, magazine or website—if I come across a poem, I’ll give it a quick look. If it’s a poem that really speaks to me, I’ll carefully read through it, so I can ponder it for the rest of the day.
Yet that doesn’t happen often. Hence my sketchy history.
In my entire life, I’ve scribbled maybe a dozen poems. All forgotten, except for three.
My most recent foray into poetry was a limerick (does a limerick count as poetry? I have no idea) that I scrambled together to celebrate my mother and stepdad’s anniversary. I wasn’t present when they read my limerick aloud to their friends, but according to Mom, my goofy attempt had some entertainment value.
The second poem that comes to mind was eons ago. When I was in college, my Environmental Design professor—quite a quirky guy—tasked the class with writing haiku. At that time, I had already written a couple of novels. But poetry?
Having discovered that writing long is far easier than writing short, I was paralyzed with anxiety.
Sure, I only had to come up with 17 syllables for a haiku, but I knew less than nothing about writing haiku or any other kind of verse!
Still, being a very dedicated student, I took at stab at it, something that celebrated pink chestnut blossoms. Certain that was terrible, I turned it in. The poems weren’t graded, so I never knew what Professor Quirky thought of mine.
But I was even more convinced I was categorically unable to compose poetry.
Then a few years ago, my writing group made a collective decision that we should all write a Christmas piece. I cast about for a topic, but nothing was coming to mind—perhaps I’d simply had too many Christmases in my life that were too angsty to revisit.
Still, I could trust these three old friends with my life…and my bad writing. Surely I could come up with something.
I trolled deeper into the past, and suddenly, a handful of memories emerged, crystalline in their clarity.
Fond memories are like friendly spirits—you may not want them to constantly hover over you, but every once in a while, you might want to call up those spirits at those times you’re in the spirit-communing kind of mood.
Realizing I yearned to hold on to these dear old memories for the rest of my life, I also knew the only way to do it was to commit them to paper.
I still don’t think I can write poetry. However, I mentioned above that I’m trying new things with my writing, even when it takes a huge amount of nerve to do so. Like now. But here I am.
The Ghosts of Christmas Past
Five years young.
Speechless in wonder, gazing at the plate glass windows of Dayton’s department store in Minneapolis.
Behind the glass are no motionless mannequins in the latest fashions; these windows are filled with holiday scenes, like a living fairy tale
Dolls in Victorian dress, almost my size, who blink and lift their arms, nodding their heads like magic.
Despite the cold, I could’ve stayed there forever.
But it’s time to move along.
Dad has driven our whole family sixty-five miles with something else in mind: so we four kids could sit on Santa’s lap and have our picture taken. Now we have a new family tradition.
On the next visit to Dayton’s
It’s even more magical. To ride a mini-train through an indoor Christmas wonderland of “snow” and glitter
And fairy lights,
Elves half-hidden in the mounds of white. I can still see it, and feel the enchantment.
The years of believing blend together, scenes in my mind flowing one into the next.
At home. Christmas Eve. I’m curled up next to the grandmother I adore, on the old rec room couch,
Feeling utterly safe and loved, watching Mitch Miller and Lawrence Welk, Grandma’s favorite shows. The sweet contraltos of the Lennon Sisters blend together for “White Christmas,” when Mom and Dad call from upstairs.
“Come up! Santa’s been here!”
I race up the stairs to find a blond bride doll for me, about the size of the dolls in the store window. Oh, I believed!
I didn’t hear Santa come, but of course he did! How else would the doll in the lacy white gown
Appear under the tree?
Another Christmas. Aunt Marilyn in Toronto has sent a package:
Together we kids tear off the heavy brown paper and open the box: there’s a gigantic Christmas stocking for each of us, handmade of felt, trimmed with gold ribbon and
rick-rack. Mine is red, with “S-u-s-i-e” in green felt letters sewn across the top.
Imagine, my very own, specially-made Christmas stocking!
And that’s not all. My eyes widen to find an Advent calendar too, Christmas images adorned with sparkles, the first one I’ve ever seen.
I glow with pleasure, taking turns with my sisters and brother each day
Opening up a tiny window to reveal a magical Christmas scene.
Eight years old. The last Christmas I believed.
I awaken to find a small, slim doll with a perfect blond beehive hairdo
Next to my red “Susie” stocking.
My first Barbie!
Then my Christmas memories fade and disappear, like turning off a TV.
Leaving only a tiny dot of light in the middle of the screen.
Christmas Eve, a lifetime later. I’m sewing by lamplight
In a shabby mobile home next to a wind-swept cornfield. It’s past midnight,
But I’m staying up late to finish my baby’s red felt stocking before Christmas morning.
I take the last stitch, hold up the stocking to admire. It’s decorated with gold rick-rack and tiny bells
With a name, cut from green felt, sewn across the top. My baby girl’s name.
The dot expands to light. I sense the magic again. It’s her turn to believe.
Christmas Eve, two years later. I’m sewing by lamplight
In the chilly back bedroom of my in-laws’ home, next to a wind-swept cornfield. It’s past midnight,
But I’m staying up late to finish my baby’s red felt stocking before Christmas morning.
I take the last stitch, hold up the stocking to admire. It’s decorated with green sequins and tiny bells
With a name, cut from green felt, sewn across the top. My newborn baby girl’s name.
The dot expands to light. The magic returns. It’s her turn to believe.
“Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus. He exists as certainly as love and generosity and devotion exists, and you know that they abound and give to your life its highest beauty and joy….Not believe in Santa Claus! You might as well not believe in Fairies!”
Charles Dana, editor of the New York Sun, 1897
Cheers and Best Wishes for the Season—
Susan