Life On The Farm…RIP Buck Buck :(

 

One of my favorite things to do as a resident of New York City is get the hell out of it when I can. Don’t get me wrong, I love NYC and have made a somewhat successful life for myself there so far. But after a while I will begin to experience brain-melt, like being overly exposed to a cranky toddler or Full House reruns. 

 

I’m lucky, because I have an idyllic paradise to which I can escape….my HOME. It’s really incredible, a small ocean town with picturesque New England beaches, craggy cliffs overlooking golden marshland, nineteenth century lighthouses, and PAPA GINO’S PIZZA, FAAAHHK YAHHHH! (Only Massachusetts natives are applauding the PG’s reference right now…outsiders usually hate it.) My younger sister Melissa and her husband bought our Nana’s farmhouse a few years ago after she passed away, where they have been hard at working with restoration projects, returning the property to it’s true farm glory. This was the house our mother and her syblings were raised in and it was a second home to us as children. Now in this same house, Melissa is raising her two brilliant boys (my nephews, geniuses) and we all get to live the farm dream all over again. 

 

Enter the chickens.

 

So the new fad sweeping the nation is raising your own chickens, which is acutally an old fad that went away and is now cool again, like playing records or composting. If Oprah was still on the air, she would have definitely devoted a show to this. Suddenly you’re seeing it everywhere, people building coops in their yards and raising little feathered friends for fresh, organic eggs. You reduce your carbon footprint, get a whole slew of new pets, and experience the buttery perfection that is a farm fresh egg on a daily basis. I’m telling you, it’sall the rage. Chickens are back, get into it. 

 

But it was only a matter of time before something went wrong. Terribly wrong. 

 

While I was home recently, on a little writing break/visit, we experienced our first hen house tragedy. I came home after running some errands to find my sister sitting at the kitchen table, looking solemn. She was also trying not to laugh. I was about to find out why.

 

“Buck Buck just got snatched by a coyote.” 

 

I gasped. So did she. Then we both tried to squash our sick sense of humor. We tried to remain serious. 

 

Buck Buck was definitely the favorite chicken. All the gals have wonderfully inventive names, like Lobster, Jean, Big Chicken, and Hen, named by my nephews (geniuses). But Buck Buck (named by Ben) was the most galant and glorious, a gigantic, white-plumed lady who ruled the roost.

 

“What happened?” I asked, in a low, serious tone. 

 

She said the girls had been out roaming the yard, free ranging style (so green!) for the first time in weeks. They had been kept in the pen due to excessive coyote sightings around town. Their hungry howls had been echoing through the woods in recent nights.These wild dogs are totally in the know about the chicken fad, and they’ve been staking out targets for a while, I’m sure. Melissa thought it would be fine to let the hens have a quick roam in the yard while she fixed the kids some lunch. Little did she know, the ladies were being watched. 

 

They had not even been out for 10 minutes when Ben started shouting from the kitchen bay window.

 

 “Hey ma, wook at dat! Wook at dat! Is doggie and Buck Buck!”

 

Oh to be innocent and two…he thought they were playing a friendly game, the coyote and his pal the chicken.

 

“The coyote was prancing like a happy puppy, wagging it’s TAIL, with my chicken in it’s mouth!” she said. We both let out quiet grunts of disgust, still somewhat attempting to hide our twisted smiles. I mean, it WAS kind of funny…

 

“Buck Buck was definitely dead. Her neck was, like-”

She made a quick gurgling noise at the back of her throat to sound like something snapping. “Maybe the coyote has babies to feed. She needs to feed her babies,” she said.

That made it less evil. I mean, we feed to chickens to OUR babies, so….circle of life?

 

The kids haven’t noticed that there’s one less chicken in the hen house. They are still too young to reazlie the true fate that Buck Buck came to meet a few weeks ago. One day, they shall know the truth. For now, life on the farm goes on.

 

 For days after the pillage, the remaining ladies cried in mourning for their beloved leader. All day, they just wandered aimlessly around their pen, sadly croaking, “Buuuuck, buk buk buk buk BUUUUUUUUUCK.”

LOTF Update

                 Things We Should Be Concerned About According to Daniel 

                                                          (age 4)

                        written by Melissa Guzek, contributor to LOTF

                                         (because she owns the place)

Being the lucky caretaker of the family homestead has it’s up and downs. From the inside out there are things to worry about, such as: 

Do we keep the old wall paper for nostalgia?

How many family members do we need to consult before moving a picture?

How many chickens does one family really need? What’s the protocol when a coyote eats your chicken right in front of you and your two year old? (RIP Buck Buck). Sigh…

 These issues are nishtkefelecht, according to my four year old. For him there are much more pressing matters. Take a dead worm for instance.  I’d like to personally thank my mother (Nana to the kinders. Yes, I love Yiddish) for telling Daniel that “the dead worm will make a really great snack for Mr. Blue Jay”.  

Well the jokes on you Nana. Blue Jays are nasty killing machines who prefer freshly laid baby bird eggs. But I digress….

For the rest of the day I had the pleasure of dealing inquiries like “Aaahhhh, mummy….I’m worry about that worm”.

“Mummy, why is that worm dead?” 

“Is the worm sick? “

“Who killed that worm??”  

“WHY DO WE HAVE TO DIE.”

 I fulfilled my motherly duty and answered each and every question to the best of my ability, with a few lies and a couple of I don’t knows…which is mostly true.

Life on the farm continues…