The Truest Sign of Spring
Did you see the babies, the h asked. He was up early, jet lagged after returning Friday afternoon from three weeks of travel in the US. He walked around the property getting re-acquainted with all the things that need to be done, from turning the compost pile to harvesting the garlic and onions to weed trimming - it rained nonstop while he was gone and the weeds in places are as tall as me.
But in the middle of it all - in the middle of the courtyard of the main house - a hen (Goldie Hawn) sat with serene pride, looking like a fluffy canoe. From under her feathers came the unmistakable cheeping of chicks. They bobbled out, like fuzzy ping pong balls with stick legs, wearing little baseball caps. I set our a jar with baby food. The hen put her neck in and pecked, but the babies didn’t follow right away, as the big hoggy roosters crowded around to also stick their heads in and peck, as if they weren’t fed twice a day by yours truly. The chicks stumbled around in the forest of careless rooster feet. I chased them roosters off, scolding them for being como os porcos.
We have a chick warmer but lack a galvanized tub. And anyway that won’t do - we’ve had a rat or too wander inside the house, and though we’ve always caught them, leaving chicks in an open tub seems like it might be asking for trouble. Maybe we can cover it with chicken wire; otherwise, I’ll have the men haul the rabbit hutch down from the chicken coop, it might just be the perfect brooker.
I will have to move quickly if I want to save these babies - the weather is warming but the forecast shows a return to the cold nights ahead, and though there is no rain in the forecast I do not trust that at all, as rain has been our constant companion throughout the month, with possibly only two days completely rain free.
“Won’t the mama be sad if you take her babies?” my guest Linda asks.
“She’ll be a whole lot sadder when all of her babies die of cold,” I say, though I think it is as much my own sadness I am talking about as the hen’s.
On morning number two I am relieved to see the hen sitting canoe-like in the spot she seems to be claiming as her own. I place the peep jar near and I leave a trail of the food coming over the lip of the jar and the hen samples it, but before the chicks can tumble in to eat safely at the back of the jar where no rooster can get them, the roosters gather like it’s a tray of hor d’oeuvres at a bachelor party. The hen spreads her wings and tilts her tail up, tripling in size and menace. The roosters keep eating the chick food so I just bring out another jar, this time with the food deep inside and a narrower throat. Later when I pass by I see the babies in the new jar, mama sitting nearby on the warm tiles of the courtyard. Hilariously, the babies stand ankle deep in their baby food and scratch their tiny feet sideways like they’ve seen mama do, slipping a little on the slippery round surface of the inside of the jar.
Walking Jake we noticed that overnight wisteria has bloomed like crazy, draped on ancient walls like flower stolls on aging celebrities. They float purple confetti at my feet. It’s another thing I miss about San Francisco, the way the wisteria burst forth in the spring, and the naked ladies suddenly standing talk and pink on the hillsides. I have a line of twelve ladies in the garden, standing all in a row like cancan dancers, waiting for their cue.
After two days of no rain I was able to start weeding again. There are at least 3 days of hard work ahead in that department. One good thing about the rain - it has kept the roosters and hens from scratching and pecking my new plants out of existence. Last fall the hydrangea was completely denuded, just a series of sticks - now it is thick with leaves. The plants from Alberto that I transplated in built-in planters that line the courtyard are starting to flower and fill out, adding to the outward signs, small but growing - a painted wall here, a replaced window there, new raised beds over there, the weeds in the driveway mowed flat.
I took Jake to the vet today to get his annual shots - this was the first time this was done in Portugal. He had a blood draw, two shots and one medication administered nasally. The vet kept exclaiming what a very good boy he was and giving him multiple treats. We walked home, admiring the balmy weather. At home, the new mama hen sat in the courtyard, her babies peeping at me through the feather curtains of her breast. One of the trumpet bushes boasts yellow flowers. The trees are noisy with songbirds who seem to be in agreement that spring is finally here.