Those of us who live somewhere north of the 44th parallel hardly dare say the word spring aloud. If it is to be spoken, it is stated in a gingerly manner so as not to jinx the uncertain arrival of such an event. Our winter was particularly vicious this year with sub-zero temperatures lingering into March and raw winds unleashing fearful punches upon man and beast. No one is sure whether spring weather will arrive tomorrow or the middle of June. Blessedly, spring doesn't always have to be ushered in by milder weather. Sometimes it is an event or a tradition that heralds the vernal equinox.
One such event for me was the arrival of baby chicks on the farm I grew up on. After a long winter of being cooped up with siblings and cold weather monotony, nothing was more anticipated than the sight of a jittery mass of yellow fluff balls. My sibs and I would hustle out to the brooder coop and breathe deeply of the warm, earthy smell of chicks, feed and feathers. The heat lamp glowed with a comforting warmth that felt a bit stifling during lengthy stays. Watching the little chicklets scurry from side to side in their enclosure was great entertainment. There was always a little drama as certain chicks struggled at the bottom of the pecking order and others aggressively took charge, not unlike life in a big family.
Most of all we enjoyed the incessant cheeping. I think such a sound would drive me mad now but to the ears of a youngster, it was what spring was all about. New sounds, new sights, new babies, a promise of winter's demise.
The future of our little chickie friends was about as certain as the exact arrival of a new season. Some would not survive life beyond the brooder coop. Some would graduate to another barn and join the ranks of the egg layers, supplying my family with a bounty of protein. Others would join us at the dinner table with their delicious drumsticks and gizzards.
Our little kid minds didn't dwell on the fate of the chicks. We lived in the moment and savored the fun of picking up a warm, soft, cheeping harbinger of spring. We watched them lose their little downy feathers and sprout leaner white feathers. Roly-poly shapes morphed and stretched into full grown chickens. Fascination gave way to annoyance as the chickens took over the yard and left behind sticky messes that were quite unpleasant on new shoes.
Spring, chicks, hope, equinox. Call it what you may. Seems like there is always something new around the bend. Sometimes it is best to embrace our little kid minds and savor the moment. Ice storms, raw winds, sleet and rain fade away when you have a little puff of yellow in your hands.
Happy Spring!
The future of our little chickie friends was about as certain as the exact arrival of a new season. Some would not survive life beyond the brooder coop. Some would graduate to another barn and join the ranks of the egg layers, supplying my family with a bounty of protein. Others would join us at the dinner table with their delicious drumsticks and gizzards.
Our little kid minds didn't dwell on the fate of the chicks. We lived in the moment and savored the fun of picking up a warm, soft, cheeping harbinger of spring. We watched them lose their little downy feathers and sprout leaner white feathers. Roly-poly shapes morphed and stretched into full grown chickens. Fascination gave way to annoyance as the chickens took over the yard and left behind sticky messes that were quite unpleasant on new shoes.
Spring, chicks, hope, equinox. Call it what you may. Seems like there is always something new around the bend. Sometimes it is best to embrace our little kid minds and savor the moment. Ice storms, raw winds, sleet and rain fade away when you have a little puff of yellow in your hands.
Happy Spring!
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