Stella or Stanley?

     It sounded easy. All I had to do was pick out what kinds of chickens my husband and I wanted and the hatchery would ship the baby chicks to me via the U.S. Postal Service. I did my research and ordered six females…all different breeds that would be winter hardy and lay lots of eggs. We knew we didn’t want a rooster because sometimes they are too protective of their hens. I called the post office to alert them of my delivery which was supposed to be early one Tuesday morning in May. By Tuesday afternoon, my impatience grew as I found out that they had not arrived. I knew baby chicks could survive about three days without food or water after they were hatched. They lived on the yolk that was inside them. Being that this was day two, I began to worry. In my head, I had already taken these little beings on as my own charges. I called the hatchery and they said that sometimes it takes two days for shipment, and that the chicks would be fine. Okay. Wednesday morning came and still no chicks. Where were my new babies? By noon that day and many, many phone calls, I managed to track them down. They were sitting in the mail distribution center in Madison. Whew. I drove an hour and found the loading dock and was greeted by a cheery mail manager who handed me a box with pieces of straw sticking out of it. I heard peeping, so I strapped the box in my front seat and headed home, talking to these babies the whole way.
     Our chick home was all ready…a cardboard box in our bathroom with wood shavings, chick feed, water, and the typical red heat lamp to keep them warm and alive. I carefully opened the box of peeping chicks and felt like I had suddenly been kicked in the chest. ONE peeping yellow chick stood there on top of all her friends who had died during shipping. I gently picked her up and held her as one tear rolled off my left cheek. “Oh, dear,” I told her, “You are a survivor. I’m so sorry about your friends.” As I set this chick down into her new home all by herself, the name “Stella” popped into my head loud and clear. Stella is not a name I am fond of, so I tried to push it away and call her Gloria or Mabel. No way. This girl was truly a “Stella.” I realized that Stella is the name of a tough chick, a survivor. You don’t mess with a Stella.
     Stella quickly imprinted onto me. When I put my hand into her box, she would crouch under it and preen herself, as though she were being protected by her mother’s wing. She would call to us every few hours and when we peeked into the bathroom, she would stretch her neck up tall, looking to see where we were. She would close her little chick eyes as I held her close into my neck, and she would sit on Pete’s lap. But Stella was all alone.
     The hatchery apologized and said they would “replace” the chicks in 3-4 weeks. What?? Are you kidding me? I realize that they ship out hundreds of chicks at at time, but they appeared to have no regard for these little lives that were lost. And four weeks was unacceptable for me and for lonely Stella.
     Five days later, I happened upon a “Chickens 101” class being held in someone’s back yard in the nearby town. What were the chances? After almost giving up locating the class that day, I eventually found it. When I walked into the kind hosts’ kitchen, they had a childrens swimming pool on their dining room table with about 15 baby chicks in it. They told me they needed to re-home about half of them! Again…what were the chances! Flooded with relief, I headed home that day with four friends for Stella. When I put the first one in the box with her, she chased her and pecked at her! Oh no! I worried that tough Stella had become too used to being alone. My worries were relieved as soon as I put the rest of the chicks in the box. Stella was kind to them but was clearly the boss. I guess that’s where the term “pecking order” came from. Stella was very happy and all was well in her world.
     Stella and associates are now over three months old, living outside in a chicken palace, and expected to lay eggs in a month or so. Recently a friend’s husband came over to meet the chickens. Somewhat of an expert, he took one look at Stella and said, “I’m pretty sure that’s a rooster.”
     “What? No. I ordered all females. She’s a hen.” After much discussion, my new friend thought I had better look online at Stella’s specific breed characteristics just to be sure. I did that, and I still don’t know. She looks like some of the hens and some of the roosters I found. I realized that we won’t know until we know. If by the end of September we don’t have any eggs from our dear Stella, we may need to call her Stanley. Time will tell.

Baby Stella

Stella or Stanley,  3 months

Be the Prayer

Be the Prayer
     I entered the barn yesterday to find a fledgling barn swallow sitting on the concrete floor next to the stacks of hay bales. Thankfully Roger and Tilly (our barn cats) were no where to be seen. All the relatives of this baby hurriedly flew in and out, whizzing by me, loudly asking me not to hurt their child. I knew I couldn’t put her back into the nest…it was way too high for me to reach. I couldn’t leave her there to be the next snack for Roger and Tilly. I didn’t know what to do…so I simply took a breath and asked for help. I spotted an old shirt and carefully arranged it nest-like in the wash stall brush rack. It was high enough that the cats couldn’t reach, and perhaps the baby's parents could still feed her. I calmly and gently picked up the little beauty and held her for a moment. She quietly looked into my eyes and I was mesmerized. She chose to trust me. Her body was the size of a ping pong ball. She displayed iridescent blue and black feathers interspersed with sprigs of fluff that are only found on baby birds. Her beak still looked like lips because of her immaturity. She was so cute I could hardly stand it. I spoke softly to her, “I’m going to help you.” I placed her into the shirt-nest and watched her settle in like it was home. Letting out a huge sigh, I stepped back and asked all of her worried relatives to please come and feed her here so she could perhaps try again the next day. Not knowing what else to do, I went in the house. I must have checked on her six times over the rest of the evening. I had done my part. The next day, the baby was gone. I do not know if she ended up in the belly of our cats. I hope that she tried her wings again after a night of rest and made it, gracing the world with her beauty and gentleness.
     This incident reminded me of a something I recently read about “being the prayer,” rather than just occasionally saying one. I realized that other species know how to be the prayer, to flow with nature’s rhythms instead of struggling against them like we humans often do as we rush through our lives. Prey animals in particular must be present every moment or they become someone’s lunch.
     Sometimes I feel that my life is small, filled with small acts. How is saving the life of one tiny, seemingly insignificant barn swallow impacting the larger scheme of the world? I must believe that it is. One compassionate act toward another holds a vibration. This vibration is felt by another and can’t help but be repeated, to be mirrored. Compassion, gratitude, and love, I believe, have a much larger ripple effect than their opposites of indifference and fear. I believe that in small acts of compassion live a powerful message, a song, a prayer that really does matter. Next time you see an animal in the road who has lost her life, please say a prayer for her. If a bird hits your living room window and is stunned, say a prayer for her too. Hold her in your hands with compassion. These “small” acts will be felt by others because they really do matter. Notice. Be present. Show gratitude. Be the prayer.