All city dwellers intrinsically feel disconnected from the land. We are separated to such an extent that the average person, in the main, has never been to any form of abattoir to watch their “food” being processed: it is not a pretty sight. In most cases, it would make you a lifetime vegetarian. This would be especially true if displayed at a tender age. That being said, a return to the farm could, perhaps in a single generation, remake the animal-food connection.
I kept hens to supply our family with fresh eggs. At twelve, I somehow “got it in my head” that I could also raise chickens for meat and, given the isolation of our village, “make a lot of money!” I convinced my best friend, Blake Childe, to join me in this “sure fire” money making scheme: new bicycles were dancing in our heads. Now, this was so long ago that there were still baby dinosaurs running up and down our local beaches: no Internet and a total lack of pervasive knowledge. Where were we going to find these day-old chicks to begin the rearing process? My parents were extremely solicitous. They phoned one of their friends in Vancouver, a megalopolis in my imagination, and sent for a newspaper, yes newspaper: real classifieds – page upon page. In about two weeks the paper arrived heavy with advertising, like a book. Under farm supplies – subsection poultry – I discovered Shaver Farms. (1) They sold new-born chicks. I never forgot the name. Now, you would think they would be selling Leghorn or Rhode Island Red chicks, or birds of another well-known breed, but no: the name — Starcross 288. This company, supposedly, was world famous in breeding all sorts of fowl for every market. In India at night, their birds could fly up into the trees so they would not be eaten by predators. In the Middle East, they could withstand the sun and needed less water. For the North American market they produced a “meat bird” that would mature in three month: three months!
The day arrived. In our area there was a disused military airport which was used for commercial aircraft. I remember that the runways seemed to extent into infinity. Eventually, a tiny speck emerged in the sky, finally appearing directly in front of us — propellers ablaze with life. Like a settling dragon, the machine finally quieted and disgorged its cargo: my chicks. They peeped and rustled softly inside a large cardboard box. My gosh they were small! We took these “little life forms” home and placed them in an incubator: they grew and grew. I had somehow failed to realize that these were “male” chickens. Soon, they were doing what all roosters do: crow. With the advent of summer in our part of the world coming at close to 5 AM, there was soon to be no sleep after this hour. The whole family was thus awakened and unhappy: it being just a little too early. This was just the beginning of a litany of strategic business errors.
I then got into a rather nasty argument with my business partner over whose chickens were larger. You do appreciate that they were blended together in one flock, the selection being somewhat subjective to say the least. With great fanfare, he came with his parents and took “his” chickens away: my first partnership breakup – very traumatic. Soon the animals were running around — digging and scratching in my mother’s flower plot. Where we lived, a pervasive amount of salt from the sea had made the soil quite alkaline (2) and unproductive. My mother had worked literally for years to improve the quality of the soil with seaweed, eggshells, coffee grounds, animal manure, etc. This was soil that my poultry were enjoying: not acceptable. A chicken run (3) was constructed some two meters high, the walls seemly insurmountable. Less than two weeks later, I was peacefully walking home from school. Our house was situated at the end of a long street. Suddenly I realized that the side of the house was engulfed in flames: what horror! I raced home only to discover that the conflagration was actually dust being thrown up in the air by my roosters dusting themselves in my mother’s “precious” rose garden: felled roses were everywhere — much like soldiers in a failed battle. The sentence was quickly pronounced. The fowl had to go. As any entrepreneur would do, I took “matters into my own hands.” “I would do the slaughtering,” I announced. A real live terrified chicken is something very unpleasant to kill. When you finally cut its head off, which I did, blood literally shoots everywhere: on you and on our very inquisitive dachshund. This cured “Daisy” of ever chasing chickens again. There were only forty-nine to go, but I couldn’t continue. My ever dutiful parents finished the extremely unsavory task. This was the end of my desire to become a farmer. I decided to leave that career to a different type of men, men who had stayed on the land. Marcus Tullius Cicero (106-43 BC) leaves us with a thought: For of all gainful professions, nothing is better, nothing more pleasing, nothing more delightful, nothing better becomes a well-bred man than agriculture.
A closing thought: The “villa life” that Cicero is referring to has given rise to the only discovery of real books from the Greco-Roman period. The papyri were recovered between 1752 and 1754 from the Villa of the Papyri, (4) in the buried community of Herculaneum near Naples, Italy. They were initially thought to be pieces of charcoal and over 500 were burnt as fuel. The villa at the Getty Museum is modeled on this villa. (5)
A small joke: A woman gets on a bus with her baby. The bus driver says shockingly: ”Ugh, that’s the ugliest baby I’ve ever seen!” The woman walks to the rear of the bus and sits down, extremely angry. She confides in the man next to her: ”The driver just insulted our family!” Feeling obliged to help, the man retorts: ”You go up there right now and tell him off! Go on, be strong. I’ll hold your monkey for you.”
This week, please ponder your own return to nature.
Every day look for something magical and beautiful.
Quote: When we find a way to blend the natural environment into our lives, we are more at peace. This includes flowers in our home or garden, a walk in the local park or an overnight trek in the forest
Footnotes:
2) Alkali soil
3) A chicken run is an enclosed area of natural soil that chickens flock in. In usually includes their chicken house.