Birth Day ... Start to Finish

My 55th birthday (Thursday, December 3) began in moonlight and ended with chickens. What can I say? … It was fabulous.

The glowing full moon revealed herself to me—briefly—from behind a dark curtain of clouds. As soon as she peered out at me, shining through the bedroom window, I heard a voice in my head. It sang, “Happy Birthday to you….” Ah. Mother. When Mother was alive, her annual birthday ritual was to call me on the telephone early in the morning, awaken me, and sing me said song.

For years this habit was a source of conflict and aggravation. I asked Mother to call later in the day. She didn’t. I tried to feel more grateful and understanding. I couldn’t. Now, of course, four years after her death, I’m delighted to discover that she’s found a way to connect. It occurs to me that perhaps she called so early each year because the memory of my birth was the immediate thought that entered her head when she woke up. I was, after all, her first born. Over all those years why had this thought never occurred to me?

I taught two t’ai chi chih classes in Cornucopia first thing. They were wonderful, as usual. Many of my students shivered through class since it was the first cold spell of the season and our practice space had not yet warmed and would not warm enough throughout the entire three+ hours of class time.

Driving home I was gifted with a close-up view of an eagle. Directly ahead of me on the road I saw a huddle of ravens and I slowed. Drawing closer I saw one of the birds carry away something white. I continued to watch the bird as it rose to circle back over the road. Aha. The white wasn’t carrion. It was the coloring on the bird’s back. And when I looked at the bird’s head it, too, was white. A bald eagle!

After a quick lunch Frances and I drove to the Bayfield Carnegie Library for my favorite birthday ritual: reading time at the library. My sister laughed when I told her how I spent my day. I guess she found my form of entertainment a bit odd even as she recognized it to be “so me.”

This passion for words has to be innate. I grew up loving my time at the library and I continue, to this day, to be enamored with it. My father was a writer. I am a writer. Nothing thrills me more than a vivid image cast in words or a mind-altering phraseology. These days, though, I only manage one afternoon a year to read quietly in the library. My other ventures through its doors are intended to snatch up a few DVDs or an appealing book or two or to make copies for a friend. This day Frances and I spend three entire hours reading newspapers and magazines ... heavenly.

We enjoyed a late dinner at Maggie’s, probably Bayfield’s most popular restaurant. It was obvious that tourist season had ebbed away along with the sunshine and warmth as we sat at one of only three occupied tables.

The grand conclusion to my day was a movie the librarian asked us to watch. She knows Frances and I are animal lovers. Hence, she requested our review of the proffered DVD, The Natural History of the Chicken. It’s an hour-long PBS home video, copyright 2000.

Now Frances is the chicken lover in this family. When I first met her, she had two pet chickens: Little Guy and Sweetheart. Each night during the cold winter she brought her beloved chickens into the house, perched them on the railing at the head of the bed, laid down a few sheets of newspaper beneath them, and bid them goodnight. They, in turn, purred and clucked quietly as they gradually settled into a deep sleep. They turned into unlikely statues but, with the coming light, Little Guy promptly performed his unbidden duty: cock-a-doodle-doo. Our alarm clock was alive and well … our day begun.

The Natural History of the Chicken was sweetly charming. In one brief hour it covered the gamut of attitudes and behaviors surrounding life in these United chicken States. Producers visited and filmed factory farms where chickens were crowded into layer upon layer of small pens with barely room enough to drop one daily egg out of each body into a moving tray below. These farms had one and one goal only: to harvest eggs and/or to fatten chickens to butchering weight as speedily as possible.

A suburban neighborhood was highlighted after a new resident moved in 100 roosters. Surrounding neighbors complained of the constant intolerable sound of crowing along with the equally disturbing assumption that these animals were being raised for cock fighting. Legal action eventually resulted.

In other featured homes chickens were treated as honored members of the family. These locations varied widely: one family farm allowed their chickens to range freely as they provided eggs, relationships, and, ultimately, meat for the dinner table. In another home the pet chicken lived in the house with its owner. In one memorable scene this owner swam in her pool clutching the chicken to her breast. In another she lovingly clasped her chicken to her heart as she detailed the many endearing qualities of her chicken friend.

Still, the film gave a brief glimpse into what Frances believes is the unique way in which chickens communicate with each other and with their humans … through their emotions. One surprisingly sweet story told of a mother chicken who risked everything to save her chicks, rushing across the barnyard to shield their bodies with her own as an approaching hawk dived down to scoop up lunch. Thankfully, everyone survived.

The history of chickens brought my birthday celebration to the perfect conclusion. What better way to end my day than with a warm and grateful heart and an inspiring story of chicken love … a devoted mother willing to sacrifice everything for her children. On my day of birth I came full circle.