Hugh Hollowell

I was in my front yard this morning, looking for signs of life in my nearly dormant flower beds. And despite the freezing nights we are having these days, it was there!

I saw crocus (they are late, but this being their first year, I am willing to give them a pass). I am on my hands and knees, brushing the mulch off the sedum that is emerging.

“Hey Chicken Man!”

It was my friend and neighbor, Peanut. He is six years old, and he assures me that is his real name. I once asked him how he knows it’s his name, and he looked at me like I was an idiot.

“Well, ’cause my momma calls me Peanut.”

Welp.  In any event, Peanut had caught me in the front yard, and wanted to know if I would take him to my backyard to see the chickens. I have a standing deal with the neighborhood kids – they can see my chickens anytime, but they have to ask, and they can’t go in the backyard without me. And if the chickens have any eggs, I will give them some to take home.

After checking with his mom (who really does call him Peanut), we went to the backyard, stopping along the way to check on the crocus, the Iris that are coming through the mulch and to see if the impending Camilla blooms had made any progress. (They hadn’t.)

Peanut kept wanting to pick all the flowers, while also wanting to stand on the flower beds. Peanut’s horticultural sensibilities still need some work.

We walk up to the chicken run, and Peanut shouts to the hens, ‘Hey chickens! It’s me, Peanut!”, as if he believes they have been wondering where the noisy kid that loves to throw scratch for them to eat has been.

His two sisters, both under 12, showed up about then, yelling from the side yard to ask if they can come back and see the chickens, too.

Every time Peanut would want my attention, he would address me as Chicken Man. I would remind him my name is Hugh, and he would repeat it back to me. Then three minutes would pass, and he would call me Chicken Man again. Apparently, memory isn’t his strong suite, either.

The girls and Peanut always have lots of questions – most of which have to do with the sex lives of chickens.  Here is a sampling of today’s, with my answers in parentheses.

• Why don’t the eggs hatch? (We don’t have any roosters)
• What are roosters? (Boy chickens)
• Where do chicken eggs come from? (From momma chickens)
• Why was there chicken poop on some of the eggs? (Chickens are messy, and the eggs and the poop come out of the body at the same place.)
• Can I see where the eggs come out? (No)
• Why do you need boy chickens to get baby chickens? (That is just the way it works.)
• Why aren’t these eggs white, like real eggs? (Eggs come in all colors, just like people do. The three kids are all different shades of brown, and so we use this as an example. They got it, I think.)
• Can they have some eggs? (Yes)

They have to go now, and they ask if they can come back another day and check on the chickens. I tell them yes, as long as they ask me first. Peanut is beside me as we walk toward the house, when he turns and runs back.

“Bye chickens! I will be back soon!”

Then he runs back to where I am waiting, with his small brown hands full of eggs, and we walk to the front yard together.

I don’t know if this matters at all in the scheme of things. i don’t know if Peanut’s life will be different because he knows about the sex lives of chickens, or if he will even remember our trips to see them. He lives in a rental house in a neighborhood that is constantly changing. He has probably lived in five houses in his young life. The odds are really strong he won’t be my neighbor by the end of this year.

So why bother? Why take the time? Why let him feed the chickens? Why answer the endless questions?

I really don’t have a good answer for that, other than to say that while I am uncertain if it changes him, it surely changes me. And while I am pretty sure my sharing chicken time with Peanut won’t save the world, it will assuredly (as my friend David Lamotte likes to remind me) change it, and sometimes, that is enough. In fact, sometimes, that is all there is.