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Course, I’m into the “eating” part of instinctual, so I took to moving the conversation to chicken dumplin’s. Clou managed to turn that term right around, goin’ from it meaning “food” to “stuff,” kid stuff actually, the fun stuff (toys and games) a foraging farmgirl finds for her brood, her little clucks. And then, “chicken scratch” (my term for money) got to be “finding the best stuff” and pretty soon, before I could say chickadee three times, Clou was wondering if the Dixie Chicks would come to sing here at MaryJanesFarm, at a farmgirl event we’d put on, or maybe we’d put on a whole string of events. (I’m part and partial to Willie Nelson, but I’m an older farmgirl). Clou finally got serious and likened it to a growing up story of hers. Her gramma lived on a farm, but not her. Didn’t matter. Her mom went ahead and let her and her sister bring home some baby chicks. They didn’t have anyplace to put them but the basement. I know that’ll work for a while, but pretty soon they get big, and they did. “There was a window,” Clou assured me. By the time they could find a weekend to get them permanently moved to Gramma’s farm, they were full grown. Well, putting them together with Gramma’s chickens was a sight for sore eyes. Clou and Kathleen’s chickens didn’t even know how to walk up the ramp to the chicken coop. They didn’t know how to scratch and they didn’t know how to roost. BUT, (now here comes Clou’s serious ponderance), they knew how, deep inside. And that’s what makes us ALL farmgirls, no matter where you find yourself. |
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