Florence Walrath was an intensely creative person, a craftswoman, from the beautiful wallpaper she hung to her glass and horse collections to her lampshades and quilts. We found her box of scissors up stairs, and they fairly glowed with her spirit of creativity. Her home is evocative, her creativity infectious.
We spent the afternoon at the New Bedlam Farm. A crew came to find the septic and drain it, and an inspector came to prowl through the house. He loved what he saw (and we found the septic). The house is dry, solid and well maintained. The most serious issues were the electrical ones and the roof. He loved the house as much as we did, and he dated it from 1840 and showed us the old well, right below the kitchen, where the family dropped a bucket into a hole to get water.
Maria put one of Florence’s blue dishes up on the windowsill, knowing I would find it. I am crazy about that woman. Photo album going up on Facebook.
I went to the barn a few minutes ago to check on the chickens and saw Fran lying behind a door in the barn, huddled in a corner. She could not get up to the roost. Maria came out to say goodbye, and then I got the .22, loaded the clip, went through my safety checks and rules, and went out into the barn. Maria carried Fran out into the back pasture, away from wood or concrete or the other animals.
Fran, who always trusted both of us, just sat down alongside me. I shot her twice through the heart, and she died almost instantly. Chickens always twitch for a few seconds, then she was still. We took her out into the woods and left her for the coyotes, or perhaps even for the fox who injured her. There would be some justice in that.
In a sense, Fran never fully recovered from those wounds. It might have been better if the fox had gotten her in the first place. Fran was pretty beat up when we got her, we fattened her up and the best time of her life was when she was toodling around the farm with Meg. Those two had fun for awhile, led great chicken lives, jumping up on donkeys, eating out of Maria’s hand, waiting by the kitchen door for their feed. I remember when Fran popped up in the pasture, all torn up and ran to Maria. It was a powerful thing to see Maria bring Fran back to life – her recovery was a small miracle – and Maria had no doubt that it was time for her to go. Maria is a quick study, and she has learned some of the same lessons of the farm as I have learned. We do not believe in animals suffering so that people can feel good. They were connected to one another, and Fran struggled to exist and compete with the new, energetic and pushy hens. Maria always paused to put some feed in her hand and give it to Fran. I always threw some behind the others so Fran could eat it in peace.
One good person e-mailed me yesterday, pleading with me to bring a vet out to the farm to check on Fran. Any chance of that, she asked? No chance, I replied. I believe in treating chickens well, but I don’t take them to the vet and spend a lot of money on their health care. Time and love is different. On a farm, you have to make choices all the time or you will not have a farm long. I think of all the animals who have lived and died here, and I am humbled by what a farm teaches me about life. Such wonderful and valuable lessons, all the time in the real world of real animals. Lots of beginnings, lots of endings.
Sweet time. Every morning, Maria greets the donkeys with carrots, a brush, some love. It is as important to them as it is to her. And me.
Life with an artist. New peony in the blue vase this morning. Good morning. Never stop playing those beautiful love games.
