Saturday, April 25, 2015

A fowl warning

I am writing about chickens again.
My two warring chickens have come to a truce. It may be temporary but a truce it is nonetheless.
When they first began to fight I had absolutely no idea what to do about it. I was frantic like a mother hen worrying that they were going to cause permanent damage to one another and I especially feared for the oldest chicken because, well because she is old. I sought advice and I was told by several chicken owners that there would be nothing I could do except to eliminate one of the hens. A man I trust from my book group commiserated with me as he told me sadly that he had had to chop the head off of one of his hens because she had been caught eating eggs and egg eating is an egregious act for which the only possible remedy is death. Another friend who lives on a farm where chickens are raised said oh that is too bad when I asked what to do with my fighting hens because the only thing to do was to get rid of the aggressive hen preferably to give her away to someone who had no other chickens she could attack. Apparently life in prison was the best that our Rosie could hope for.
I was unconvinced or perhaps I was just chicken but I could never chop the head off of a living creature and isolation was just so complicated. How could I give her away when she was the chicken that my granddaughter picked out and named at the farm store where we went to get some new pullets after another hen died and we thought that others were soon to go as well? I didn't want to disappoint anyone and so I intervened in a rather benign way stepping in between the fighting chickens like they were children and separating them from each other whenever I saw them begin to fight.
I remembered that there was an incident of egg eating that I had stumbled upon a few years ago. The egg was broken and a couple of hens were starting to peck at it when I arrived on the scene. I had not a clue about what to do but the hose was near by so I turned it on the egg to wash it away into a fenced area where the chickens could not get at it. The hens ran away of course since they didn't like the stream of water. I picked up the egg shells and as far as I know there has not been any more egg eating. We keep track, I should say my husband keeps track, of all the eggs that are gathered and so we know when egg numbers are down. This usually means a hen is hiding eggs which we eventually find. We would notice if egg eating was going on.    
But, back to the chicken war. When Princess went to brood over her bleeding comb and head, and apparently plan her next move, I stopped to pet her just to give her encouragement. Several times I would pick Rosie up gently since she was easier to catch and take her out of the fray asking do you girls have to fight and is hen pecking the only way to solve your problems? I also noticed that Rosie's comb was showing signs of wear and tear which means that Princess was not as old and frail as I might have imagined.
In the real world violence continues to be the quickest and easiest way to manage problems, especially problems that include violence of one sort or another. I wonder if other people get advice like I did and assume that the best thing to do is to get the problem taken care of right away and since no one wants to be called chicken or passive or unpatriotic they imprison or isolate or execute when really there might be other solutions if only one could be chicken enough to brood about what to do, which of course takes time.
Rosie and Princess have been seen hanging out together. Their verbal cluck cluck clucking that sounds like a fowl warning of impending chaos has come to an end and they are sharing from the same feeder once again.
I don't know. Maybe they are just waiting for the right moment to launch another assault.
But maybe, just maybe, they have resolved their issues without violent intervention from outsiders. 
(By the way, the picture was taken hours after this post was first written. I couldn't resist adding it. Rosie on the left, Princess to the right. The sign has been in the yard a long time.)



Thursday, April 23, 2015

another world

I had an appointment yesterday.
I got on the bus, transferred to the next one then walked a few blocks in the rain to a church office where I would meet my companion.
I walked through the door and knew instantly that I had walked into another world.
A friendly voice said hello can I help you and do you want something while you wait... you can sit there if you like.
The chair was soft and made of the same upholstery material as the couch that sat next to it at right angles. They were a matched set. In the corner was a table that fit correctly in the space and held up a lamp and some magazines that were current.
The rug was clean and without stains. There was trim at the edges of the room where the walls met the floor and all the walls were painted the same color. The ceiling was, well just a ceiling with tiles all alike in neat rows and not one of them looked as if it had any chance of falling down.
Outside the window I could see parents walking to their shiny cars with their children newly released from school. A woman walked by me with a young teen and I noted that they were talking in softly modulated indoor voices to one another. They nodded pleasantly as they passed by and the woman said hello to me as she headed for the door and they both went out. 
It was another world.
When I had arrived at work in the morning of that same day, long before I left for my appointment, I noted that there was fresh graffiti on the side of the building and I tried to make a mental note to let the maintenance person know. I flipped the switch and was grateful that at least one of the lights was still working in the part of the hall that shines on the steps that lead up to my office. The rug was newly vacuumed and for that I was grateful and I barely noticed that the thin spots where the foot traffic is heaviest are nearly down to the under flooring which is not real wood but only tiles from a long past era when tiles that looked like wood were popular.
A man came through the door I had unlocked just before I had gone into my office and he asked if he might have a bus ticket so he could make it to his parole officer on time and I said yes. Before I reached my desk there were two more people and they too had need of transportation and I asked are you an honored citizen or do you need a regular ticket? They took the tickets and went back out the door to the hallway as I took off my hat and hung my cape on the hook of an ancient coat rack before going to sit at my desk.
Out the window I could see there were several people waiting for the doors to the hall to open so they could get in to use bathrooms and other luxuries like that which are not readily available to those who live outdoors. I noted the time and went to unlock the back door which has access to a bathroom that people can use in the event that they need a bathroom in the morning before social services or the church hall are open at ten. It is often hard to get the back door to stay unlocked because it is old and the lock has been latched and unlatched perhaps a million times since the building was built over a hundred years ago.
The paint in the bathroom is wearing off around the places where people frequently touch the wall when coming in and out of the room and turning on the water or taking a paper towel or tissue from the holder but I didn't really see that. I can't remember the color that the tile was before it got so old that I just think of it as the floor and maybe it is brown or tan but I remember that there was toilet paper on the roll and the water wasn't dripping so the bathroom was ready for use.
Someone asks if there will be showers today or is it tomorrow and another asks when they can check their mail or will the volunteer that does that be in today? I get to my office just in time to take a call and discover that the office volunteer for the day is ill and that means no one will be around to answer the phone or check people's mail when I am too busy and I know that I have several appointments and at least one of them will take me away from the building.
From the weekend the mail has stacked up but luckily it is not the first of the month when everyone is anxious to get the checks that help them get through the month so it only takes thirty minutes to stamp and sort by name so that when people come and ask I can hand over the envelopes that are theirs. So often people come and ask but nothing has come for them so I joke at least you didn't get any bills but I think that some of them would be happy just to have a letter with their name on it.
The time raced by so quickly I almost didn't remember to go and catch the bus to my appointment.
On the way to the bus I see a man take a drink from a can that he places in his pocket and I have to go and ask if he wants to show me what he is drinking or does he just want to leave. And so he leaves and I start to jog to catch my bus while behind me I hear voices raised in anger but I don't have any time to spare so I text security just before I climb the steps into the bus.
I wondered at the end when my appointment time was over, as I left the space where I waited for my companion, a place where everyone seemed to have what they needed and know where they were going if anyone at all knew how close the other world was?

  
 

Saturday, April 18, 2015

Imports, Transplants and Natives

It was a lovely day down by Tilikum Crossing - the new bridge over the Willamette River. The name means Bridge of the People in the Chinuk language of people native to this valley. With my granddaughter and daughter in law I went to the ceremony that acknowledged several pieces of artwork placed at the foot of the bridge. The artist, Greg Robinson, is a member of the Confederated Tribes of the Grand Ronde, and the Tribes gifted the artwork to the City. Several members of the Tribes spoke. In the invocation a tribal member gave thanks for the land, the place, the beauty, for art, for all people gathered, for his people, especially for those who once lived in this place, who were forcibly taken away to a reservation, but who have by now returned. There was thanks given to the city leaders for working cooperatively with the Tribes to create the environment conducive to the artwork and the celebration. Honorary necklaces were given to the mayor and other government officials. The art is titled: We Have Always Lived Here.
Recently I read an article on nutrition written from an alternative, naturopathic perspective that advised against regularly consuming foods that come from outside of one's own bioregion and which are out of season as well. Humans live in particular places where, over time their bodies develop in tune with the natural forces including local enzymes, bacteria, and foods grown in the area where they are "planted." It seems that it is not the best for health and overall well being to jump from place to place or try to pretend that we are not part of the local scene along with all of the other wild creatures.
I find that native plants really do the best in my garden. Yes, I can get plants from other areas to grow if I work hard at it, but the native plants do their own work which I appreciate! Perennials take so much less effort because they are already in tune with the place where we exist together. Of course there are many imports which have adapted. Unfortunately there are other non-native plants and creatures that have no obvious local uses or predators to keep them under control. I constantly work to keep wandering English Ivy from taking over at the edges of the yard. A dear neighbor planted some many years ago but after she left the next occupants of the home let the ivy take over and now it is intent on spreading beyond the borders of the neighboring fence.
As a rule, I try not to be too hard on non-native plants since I too am an import, as are most Americans. My maternal ancestors traveled to the east coast several centuries ago from Northern Europe although my paternal ancestors from the Mediterranean can only claim a little over a hundred years. Like all transplants immigrants bring with them the various tastes in food, flowers, bugs and bees that they are accustomed too. Often the newly arrived attempt to recreate what was left back home by stamping out the native life. I understand the desire to make a new place seem more familiar especially knowing that so many leave home for reasons other than free choice. The wives of pioneer immigrants are an especially sad tale as so many left out of duty to their husbands and were lost in the vast plains of a new world without their sisters or mothers to accompany them through the days of their lives. Many died depressed and still dreaming of going home. A little English Ivy likely brought some comfort.
For some people a new place is an adventure to be explored and appreciated. They cannot help but bring some new life with them, but they don't demolish what already exists since then, the adventure would be over and nothing new could be learned. It is far too late to keep everyone, every bit of life in it's original place, but it is not too late for the native plants to come back either. We have learned that Echinacea with Oregon Grape Root is as effective in a tincture as Echinacea with Goldenseal - and it is cheaper and easier to obtain as well. We can plant old world summer annuals near the new world perennials and they can be good for each other.
I am glad that my grandchildren who have Native American ancestry are learning the ways of their Native American ancestors. I have no place to go back to since my ancestors were imported from so many different places, but through my grandchildren I believe that I am connected to this place, and through the wisdom of their people, and all first peoples, those of us who live here now, and pay attention, have the hope of growing stronger and wiser, and more firmly rooted over time.         
                                                    We Have Always Lived Here...

Monday, April 13, 2015

Conflict in Abnormal Situations

I write a lot about chickens. I find them interesting but I am also aware of the amount of 'chicken images' that humans use. To 'be chicken' is to be afraid. I suppose that is an image of how easily chickens will run if you clap your hands or raise your voice at them. Then of course there is 'nesting' and 'brooding' along with 'hen pecking', and 'clucking' one's tongue. All of these clearly reference everyday chicken life.
Having a little flock that consists of only hens is not really natural behavior for chickens but it is pretty common given the laws that regulate keeping chickens in semi urban areas. When I talk about the chickens as I see them I know that I begin with this rather unnatural situation and I really don't have any references for behavior in the wild, if such an arrangement exists anymore for the breeds of chickens that are now domesticated. I bring this up because two of our hens are fighting of late. The oldest hen, Princess, has always been dominant partially due to her advanced age and knowledge of living on this plot of land. A younger hen, Rosie, whose personality is more aggressive has decided to violently challenge the pecking order.
A couple of days ago I saw Rosie and Princess fighting for an extended time and stepped in between them trying to assert my own dominance to get the larger, Rosie to back off. I could not keep her from attacking after several tries so I picked her up and put her in the coop. The door wasn't locked so the others could get in if they needed to find a nesting box, but Rosie, the one inside, couldn't get out at least for a while. Some hours later they switched places with Princess brooding in a nesting box and Rosie out running around. The day went by and they all went inside for the night. This morning when I let them out I saw that Princess had been attacked and was bleeding on her head. She was clucking as was Rosie but they were clearly keeping their distance. I am hoping that the fight for dominance has ended and that Rosie will leave Princess alone in her elder years, but I don't know. I have a friend who keeps chickens and she told me I would probably need to give the aggressive chicken away. Another friend recently told me he had had to kill an aggressive chicken. Keeping chickens as we do is not natural given there are no roosters around and no chicks to train or even any predators to be wary of besides humans.
On the radio a day ago I was listening to a commentary about the situation in Iraq post Sadam Hussein, post transitional government, when Nouri Al-Maliki was first Prime Minister. During that time the men who had been in the Iraqi army were let go from the military but not given a pension to live on. There were about 400,000 ex-soldiers without work, pay or status who were not welcome to join the new Iraqi army. According to the story many of these men eventually became part of ISIS. One interviewer asked whether new leadership in Iraq would be able to reach out to these disenfranchised men and bring them back from ISIS into the mainstream. The answer was "no, it is too late. Their allegiance has been given".
There was a second commentary about Nigeria and the oil industry and the way that the land of the people was given over to oil corporations by a corrupt government. The people there do not even have electricity as a trade for their land and oil deposits. At one point there was a large non-violent movement led by young people demanding fair treatment and compensation but the movement was violently put down by the military. Now many of those same young people have given allegiance to Boko Haram.
It seems that when abnormal situations are set up by outside forces with an agenda of their own the consequences are not easily predicted nor can they be undone without more violent interference. The cycle is unending and those who are vulnerable are most likely to be hurt as others attempt to shift the balance of power or impose a new pecking order. It is interesting how those with power can look for solutions to difficult issues without really taking responsibility for understanding how the situation developed in the first place.
People are not to be compared in anyway with chickens though it does appear that those with power, money and desire too often act as if other people, especially those who are different or those who have valuable resources, have no more right to self determination than harmless chicks -- and then no one knows what to do when the people won't accept domestication.         
      

Saturday, April 11, 2015

Visions from the surface

I went walking past the new light rail station. From a car or from the bus it looks all new and shiny and oh so anticipatory of the trains and the people who will surely come when it opens for service this fall. But as I walked I saw that already there are marks of displeasure or inattentiveness or perhaps, and I regret to say this because I want things to be different, marks of disdain at something that looks so new and shiny and a little out of sync with people's lives. By the trail a box of paper litter dumped some weeks ago has now begun to creep outward exploring the space that is so nicely manicured and tempting for paper, and for an empty can and a bottle, and oh, the box itself that has moved some distance to explore a tree.
Artwork carved with the remnants of the trees that used to line this pathway into the city are imaginative and quickly grab the delighted attention of grandchildren and grandparents as they move down the trail but also draw the eye of graffiti artisans who are lightning fast in their strikes against unadulterated creativity. Crude carvings and words that should not be sounded out by beginning readers can only be discerned from close up. I take a picture and send a text "please attend to this, and this and this."
We go on our scheduled walk to buy tea and chocolate with a rambunctious three and a half year old holding not always as tightly as we would like to our hands. A pungent odor greets us as we move past the immigrant worker who stops and smiles before continuing to pump the unpleasant chemical onto the unsuspecting weeds merely poking through the ground where they always had before. I wonder "Will this harm the child as she breathes it in? What about us old people and the worker himself?" We notice that wherever he has passed the fledgling weeds, the out of place shoots of spring, are now painted in a not so natural blue green color. What is that stuff? Does it really take more time and money to pull the little green shoots out of the ground if they are not wanted?
Near the house we see a patch of dandelions and stop to pick them grateful that they are colored "dandelion green and yellow" with no residue of poison. The chickens love to eat them. In the not so distant past our ancestors ate them too, packed as they are with the spring's first edible vitamin C -- but that was long before someone somewhere decided that new and shiny means not very real.   

Wednesday, April 8, 2015

baby chicks

Some years ago when the first of our little flock of chickens came to live with us I was very excited even as I was kind of anxious at my lack of practical chicken knowledge. The three hens were beautiful Australorps who had just begun to lay eggs. They had previously been watched over by the neighbor of a friend of mine who had taken on the task of finding the three hens a new home because the neighbor who had kept them was fighting cancer.
I knew very little about chickens but was willing to learn, as was my husband. We enjoyed watching them interact with one another and behave as chickens behave. As time when on the hens became pets as well as egg providers and we gave them the run of the yard.  I never feel good about animals who are trapped in cages and trying constantly to get out. Our first coop was a refurbished garage that my friend said gave the hens about 30 times as much space as they had had before. Nonetheless they were always pecking around the edges so becoming yard chickens was the logical next step.
Zoning laws prevented us from having a rooster even if we had wanted one, which we didn't but only because it didn't seem practical. I think back now to how little I knew about domesticated birds, how little I even thought about how it was that we could have three hens and no roosters. It wasn't until I began to transition to a larger awareness of animals, earth and climate that I realized how unnatural it was to have only hens; like having only cows, or sows, or does.
The domestication of animals has made keeping male animals impractical except where neutering or breeding is practiced, and then only one male is needed or access to a sperm bank. Male chicks are generally killed right after hatching or perhaps after a few months if they are raised to eat. Which is why the numbers of male to female chickens is so unnatural. I just never gave it all much thought. Female animals on the other hand are kept in larger numbers and for long term due to their reproductive capacities, that is for milk and for eggs as well as for the next generation of kept animals. 
I know that our hens seem livelier, and more content when there are new pullets around to get into shape. Pullets are 4-6 month old hens not quite ready, or just beginning to lay eggs but old enough to live outdoors away from the protected environment of a hatchery. Older hens get right to the task of hen pecking and herding and letting the younger ones know just how domesticated hen society works. It is sometimes frustrating to watch. Occasionally we have stepped in to isolate a hen that is getting carried away with fierce parenting!   But having watched the process several times now, I know that the hens eventually shape a flock that works well together.
The younger chickens keep the older ones on their toes and seem to give them a purpose that they don't have without chicks of their own. I feel sad that they can't hatch their own but not only is having a rooster not permitted by zoning laws, if we had a nest of chicks we would be obligated to do something with the male chicks: either kill them or give them away to people who might kill them anyway. It is easier for us not to have to deal with that.
Today we were picking up corn and grit for the hens at the farm store when I walked by the baby chicks that were for sale.  I used to just think that they were so cute and fuzzy. Now I think they are cute and fuzzy, but I also think, "Where are their brothers?" and "I bet they miss their mother hen". Having domesticated birds is a responsibility. I want them to have a good life but I am also abundantly aware that just by having them, I am participating in an industry that prevents them from growing and living as they were created to do.

Tuesday, April 7, 2015

Gender Roles

When I was raising children I worked to make sure that both sons and daughters got used to helping around the house. I remember one time when I was on the phone talking to my mom and also trying to get my son to get on with his designated evening task for the day which was to wash the dishes. My mom was horrified when she heard me say "get out there and get starting on those dishes right now," horrified because I was saying it to one of my sons. When I was a girl my sister and I took turns doing the dishes every night of the week. Our brothers had to take out the garbage weekly, feed the dog sometimes and mow the lawn in the summer. It is just the way it was.

When I moved away to college and then was pressured to move home again by my parents to attend the local university, I agreed if I could also get a car. I wanted to have some freedom of movement. My dad agreed until I moved home and then I was told that I did not need a car whereas my younger brother did. (Presumably so he could transport girls who didn't have cars.) My response was to hitchhike around town, a response that was clearly more dangerous than driving a car. It was the 1960's and there were many students both driving and hitchhiking around town so I survived.

The message was always that I needed someone to support and protect me. It was aggravating but it was the way my parents had been raised and their parents before them. In the intervening years, since that time, gender roles have shifted around. For economic reasons, because many of the typically male oriented jobs have left the country and the cost of housing and insurance has risen beyond the affordability of a single paycheck, woman have had to pick up more of the support role inside families. I see my daughters and other young women of their age working longer hours and bringing in more of the family income. The men are picking up more of the homemaking role and childcare as well since they tend to have more flexible jobs, but not without some personal cost. The message that the culture gives to men still insists that they should be bringing in the larger paycheck, supporting and protecting their wives even though there are fewer and fewer jobs that would allow them to do that. I am aware that in communities of color this has been the situation for some years, but it is new for those who in the past were protected by white privilege.

Young women are struggling with multiple messages as well. Their mothers and others of my era can lapse into telling young people how they 'should' be able to make it on one paycheck. This is nonsense in light of the current cost of things. Can you imagine that when my husband brought home the minimum wage of $2.35/hour the cost of our housing was $95 a month for a two bedroom duplex and then $125 for a two bedroom house with a basement! Today the minimum wage is at $8.25/hour in my part of the country which is about three and a half times that of 40+ years ago. Yet, there are no apartments available for even four times what we paid for rent.  To pay $525 per month for two or more bedrooms would be a gift in this economy where $650 is not possible for a one bedroom in good condition but might be available with restrictions for people with case workers and low income status.

The other message women still receive is that their husbands should be the ones able to rescue and support them with a sufficient wage that allows them the choice of whether or not to stay home with the kids. This message spills over onto the men they love when the men can't find a job that will permit the old way to prevail. Men feel trapped in a role just as women felt trapped when they had to stay out of the job market. Caught in this struggle of what is and what should be and what used to be couples struggle and parents and grandparents say all the wrong things.

When I was in college I used to sit in the common room and dream along with my friends both male and female of a world where both parents worked part time to make up a single income that would include benefits for everyone and allow both parents to have free time and parenting time. What happened for most families was a twisted version of that dream where both parents work too much for too little, often without benefits, while neither has enough time to parent well and free time is just a dream for everyone. Its equal in a weird way.

I am venting. The world is not always what we wish for but there is wisdom in saying that most things work out okay in the end --- its getting to that end that takes courage, stamina, love and faith. Our culture is in transition and we haven't yet worked out the details.    


    

Thursday, April 2, 2015

Washing feet

In these few days before Easter my faith community invited friends from the low income and homeless population who eat with us on a regular basis to come and have their feet washed, massaged with lotion and then pick out new socks and shoes. I participated for the second year and found it deeply transforming as always.
Men don't usually get their feet washed and massaged by another person even when they are financially well off. Women are more likely to have experienced such care since having a pedicure once in a while seems pretty normal for many women. Most people never have the opportunity to wash the feet of strangers and through the washing to encounter holiness. It was a day of grace.
I found myself washing and talking and in the talking and the washing a lot of touching stories were shared. I like to ask people if they know why we are engaging in such an intimate experience and only two or three of the people I spoke with were aware of the story of Jesus washing the feet of his disciples. It is a story of love, tenderness and humility -- and the need to serve others across the usual boundaries of wealth, race and creed. Christians may know this story without really knowing the experience.
I listened to some amazing stories and felt a deep connection to the people who were willing to sit down at my station and let me wash and massage their feet; poor tired feet that walk a long ways in shoes that don't fit, with callouses that rub and socks that have holes where the feet need the most tender care.
I rejoiced with a woman I have known for 25 years and have rarely seen sober. She was clean and sober and had been so for six months. We hugged and laughed and she was genuinely happy for the shoes as well.
There was another woman who has had lots of troubles. Over the years I have had a number of less than optimal encounters with her because it is my task to keep the peace and sometimes peace can only be kept if someone leaves for a time. She said she was humbled I would wash her feet. I think she doesn't understand that it is I who was humbled because she let me.
And there was the lady who was so cheerful and sweet while she told me how hard it has been for her to find shoes that fit. We had some men's shoes that were wide enough and that was a gift. Her parents did not know until her feet were malformed that she really needed corrective shoes. Now she walks slowly and her feet and ankles need a gentle massage everyday, though that need is not attended to. 
A man from Guatemala shared the story of his father's death. He was murdered, pulled from a bus along with 47 other passengers who were also killed. Members of the military shot them all. The man was nine when this happened. He had slept too long and so missed being on that same bus. Later, he took another bus. He saw the body of his father's friend laying among other bodies, and so much blood... it was everywhere he told me. I shared that I had been to Guatemala once and that I thought it was a beautiful country. He would love to see it again one day but not now. It is dangerous he said. That is why he shared his story with me.
Another man told me how he had always loved to dance, in fact he had taught in a prestigious high school dance program and had danced on the stage. He had always wanted to dance but his father said no, worried that dance was not a man's career. When he graduated from high school he enrolled in dance classes through a friend's mother and discovered he was really talented, so much so that with the help of his dance teacher he received a full scholarship to a university dance program. That is how he became credentialed to teach in the schools. He especially loved tap as it was "like playing the drums with your feet, so many sounds and rhythms". We had a lovely conversation and a good connection. I love to dance and took lessons a long time. My mother was a dancer and a dance teacher, as is one of my daughters today.  I had to ask the man why he was no longer dancing. He had a physical problem that came out of nowhere. He thought if he could lie down and rest it would get better. He didn't go to the emergency room where early intervention might have helped. The event left him unable to teach or dance and his life changed dramatically.His feet were soft and strong.
Tonight at church we will ritually wash feet as we remember the last supper and the actions of Jesus.
I will bring in my heart the stories I heard today.