Let me tell you about my morning

We stir around 5:30. That’s when Sofia comes up for her ritual batting around of things on my desk and general noise making. I get up, take her in my arms – she’s particularly seductive and purry at this time of day – and after a few caresses, I dispatch her PLOP into the attic. Back to bed, her muffled cries falling on deaf, sleepy ears. At 6:20 I’m up again, this time for good, even though I tell Richard I’ll be right back. I’m up to let all the birds out and let Richard sleep a little bit more. (He needs his rest; he’s off to judge Bar-b-que pork at the North Haverhill Whole Hog Festival today. We’re both very proud.) I put on my flannels because it’s been a bit cool mornings, in the high 40’s during the night. There’s a faint protest from the “No, No, not yet” voice inside of me pleading that “We’ve barely had any summer, we can’t have cool weather already!!” But this morning the cool feels comforting and right. I let Sofia out of the attic on my way down the stairs to the kitchen where all our cats congregate and begin a slow swim back and forth in front of the sink and refridgerator, waiting for their food to be dished out. I get it out of the fridge and set it on the counter to warm a bit while I head outside for the freeing.

At the front door, I shimmy into my Wellingtons and slam out the front screen door expecting to hear the goose girls honk out to me, but they’re quiet this morning. It’s a fine day – quiet, clear, fresh. As I pass Stony Coop that Richard’s just painted a fine red to match our barn I hear Mumble Stump and all the hens stirring, ready to be let loose to the world. And I can hear Ginger and Mary Ann nibbling on their wire mesh front door; when I round the corner of the coop they kick into excited chatter. They’re soon out, flapping their wings, stretching, having a good long drink while I open up the back of the the chicken coop, Stony Coop, as well as the back fence door, and the front. They scatter out. All but one and that’s our new broody hen, a Barred Rock like Nanna, but this one’s mean. This one will peck you when you reach your hand to pet her or check the eggs beneath and she pecks hard. She’s a big grump. We’ve decided to call her “Grace” in honor of both of our grandmothers, not that they’d peck at us or that they were particularly grumpy, but the name “Grace” just seems to fit.

Off uphill to the next coop, with chickens and the geese girls parading all around me. The girls veer off to the kiddie pool for a swim and wash. I can hear jays screaming up in the trees. They’ve been like bands of bandits lately, swarming down to feast on chicken feed when no one’s about. The garden looks fine. Our tomato plants have so far avoided the blight that’s been plaguing everyone around here. That’s – knock on wood – good because if it does hit, it takes the plants quickly, ruining all the fruit and turning the stalk and leaves black. You’re then instructed to burn the plants and not plant nightshade plants there for 3 years! Other plants are fine and can be planted in that ground without fear of disease, but not tomatoes or eggplant. Our tomatoes still have a ways to go before they’re ripe. One woman at a dinner we attended last night wryly opined that because of the soggy weather setback, her tomatoes should be ripe “by mid-November.”

I set the second coop free and discover there had been a sleep-over last night, some of the hens that usually roost in Stony Coop came over here, maybe because of Grumpy Grace and her pecking. The sleep over crowd flocks out and the morning predictables begin, namely Mumble Stump humping every hen in sight. He races, darts, flies, grabs, muscles his way to the “woman” of the moment. There’s no cajoling, no sweet talk, not even a little foreplay, no, not in Mumble Stump’s barnyard. There’s no time. There are other hens to hump. Don’t worry girls. Once he gets this all out of his system, peace will be restored. (The name Mumble Stump has been inspired by a combination of “Harry Potter” and a friend’s son’s pithy naming of their own chicken.)

I’m on the front porch now, writing. Peace has been restored. Every once and awhile I can hear a flutter from the back yard and a loud crow - Mumble Stump is an acoustical genius, he knows exactly where to place himself for prime resounding echo effect. And now one of the hens is squawking an egg out in Stony Coop and one of the goose girls is honking in commiseration. Oh, I’m spoiled. I love it. I love the absence of artificial noise - no radio, no television, sometimes music on the i-pod player, but not this morning. Right this moment the sounds surrounding me are an assortment of bird song from the forest, clucks and squawks from the coop, and a little mysterious nibbling from the girls. That’s how they experience most of the world, through nibbling. Morning’s are potent to me, they set the day off on a meditative tone. I find myself more in the moment than I’ve ever been in my life. More present, instead of thinking about what the day holds, what’s next, what am I not doing that I should. And I find myself smiling a lot, inside. There’s a stillness there that I’m enjoying more and more. It’s good. It sparks appreciation. Wow. Dusk and sunset used to be my favorite times of day, the time where I would get back on track, back into myself if I had wandered off, like Peter Pan stepping back into his shadow, a coming home. I still love that time of day, but mornings are edging evenings out. Starting the day out well. Taking time to see and be. Being home. I like that.

It’s just passed 10 and Richard calls from the fairgrounds to say that he’s judging 3 whole hogs at 11:15 and should be free by 12:30 for lunch. So Mike – Richard’s brother who’s visiting us for a week, in from Las Vegas – and I will meet at the ATM truck and venture off for a good pork gnaw. Until then, I’ll enjoy the time remaining here.

This is my life right now. This is my morning. I hope yours is fine.