These past two weeks have been especially difficult for us all; the chaos of Covid coupled with the hurricane surrounding the election. We have had to find solace in the small, and be comforted by the familiar. For me that has meant the routine in doing farm chores. Each morning, the moment I close the front door of the house, the sheep begin calling for breakfast. Musicians are not early risers, we live the life of the vampire rather than the rooster. I put a little pep in my step so that they know I am on breakfast business. As I creak open the barn door I am immediately greeted by the head of Mrs. Chubbers, as she manages to wedge herself into the crack of the door the minute it opens. She begins snorting in a rather undignified, pig-like manner, rooting around my pockets for possible grain. Grain is the sugar cereal of the sheep world and I prefer not to give them grain as it adds extra pounds that they don't need. However, Mrs. Chubbers has needed some medication for joint stiffness and, like with kids, I hide it in her food. Once I had done that a few times, more elephant-like than pig, she did not forget and I did not have the heart not to continue our private morning ritual.
Once I have thrown hay from the loft into the barn and filled their feeders, they begin to eat and peace descends. Periodically they look up at me from their food, mouths stuffed with sweet hay, contentedly chewing. As they tug it out of the feeder they often get streamers of it on their heads making it look as if they have just attended the most raucous birthday party ever.
Suddenly there is the hen explosion. We have created a little chicken-door that allows them into the winter sheep paddock so there can be some neighborly mingling. The hens charge over after they have spent time in their own yard pecking the millet or cracked corn that I have spread. They've successfully chased out the resident bluejay and are now ready for ovine visitation.
I often stand, leaning on my pitchfork, and watch the scene. The barn windows are open, sunshine mingles with the cool November wind. The chickens often hop up onto the back of a ewe: sometimes pairs of them will balance as the sheep munches. She looks up at me as if to say, “are you the one responsible for this balance beam act?” And of course I am. The hens make soft clucking noises unless they have just laid an egg. We built two nesting boxes in the sheep barn out of politeness for the travel efforts of their neighbors. If an egg has been laid the whole neighborhood knows it: the laying hen begins to cluck as loudly as possible with distinct punctuations. I hear her, literally. I felt that same pride after birthing one of my own egglets.
In the barnyard everyone has their place. The symbiotic relationship between the animals is more than simply physical. In this space peace reigns. There is a leader (Mrs. C.. of course), who rules calmly and quietly. She leads her flock away from danger but is also willing to wait in line with them for her food. Her goals always for the good of the whole.
The hens are small but everyone, especially them, understand their importance. They poke in and out of the sheep's legs squawking should a ewe dare to mistakenly step near them. The fact that they are smaller than the others bothers them not at all. If they want a better view, they simply get a lift up from their taller friends.
In the barnyard there are many colors, shapes and sizes but nobody judges. Everybody is willing to share what they bring to the table and even leave an egg or two behind.
Is it any wonder that I want to spend time in their world?
Sometimes I will sneak out in the evening and sit with them under the stars. They stand close to me and I can feel their warm breath moving my hair. I look around and wonder if maybe we all need to create a paddock, physical or otherwise that creates for us the peace of the barnyard.
Melissa Perley