My inner Chicken Whisperer keeps bugging my alter ego, Blackthumb, who loves the winter season hibernation period and the respite from agricultural responsibilities that it provides. Nevertheless, pesky CW wants an update posted on our shared blog about the fact that, for a week or two now, and despite the return of winter weather, we have been getting four (!) eggs a day. Blackthumb thinks big deal! pointing out that they are still the most expensive eggs in the country. CW retorts that such materialistic thinking is exactly what is wrong with this world. These are socially, politically, biologically, environmentally, organically and animal husbandry-ily correct eggs from happy chickens! Blackthumb responds: “Do these chickens look happy to you?!? Look at those soggy feathers! Look at those cold feet!!”
Having photographic evidence, Blackthumb wins the argument.
“I just gave Frau R. (aka ‘Mean Neighbor Lady’) some eggs.”
On hearing this, my daughter laughed out loud and added “Kill ‘em with kindness, hey?”
She is much too smart. (I’m not sure where I went wrong while raising her). What she was referring to was one of our often-retold family stories from her wee childhood . . .
It began when we received a hand-written letter from the elderly man who delivered our newspaper every morning. He was complaining about a flower box in front of our house that is partly in the street. He found it very difficult to drive past. The letter was full of indignation, unnecessary rudeness, and basic spelling mistakes. My husband was irked and wanted to write back, asking him where he got off. I said – what’s the point? This is an old guy who – instead of enjoying his retirement – has to get up at four in the morning to deliver papers – he can’t be in very good shape financially or have a particularly nice life. And he clearly didn’t understand that he was in a position of absolute zero authority. Let’s not pursue a fight. Let’s kill this with kindness.
We ended up writing a really nice letter apologizing for the inconvenience and explaining that the box was there to slow cars down and to stop our young kids from running out of the house straight into the road. We attached the letter to a bottle of wine and left it out for him.
We became his favorite people after that. Our newspaper was lying on the welcome mat each morning as if placed there carefully.
Of course, Mean Neighbor Lady was a much more complicated situation than Newspaper Guy. For the first 10 years or so of our . . . neighborliness . . . she simply scared the crap out of me. She lived way downhill in the valley below us, and yet she was omnipresent. She walked past our house regularly to spy and inspect things. I began to call it the “Daily Disapproval Tour”.
Once she rang the bell. She told me that my Dog One had jumped up on her and torn her apron. She wanted ten dollars from me to replace it. She hadn’t bothered to bring the apron to show me. I paid.
Fifteen years ago, her daughter built a new house for both of them halfway down the hill between us and MNL’s old farmhouse in the valley. Not only did the DDT’s increase in frequency, but the new house was right along the path where I take my daily walk. I kept my dogs on leashes whenever we passed the house. Sometimes I whistled.
MNL once told my daughters that she wouldn’t allow her grandson to play with them in our yard because it was an “Urwald” (= jungle).
She also clearly had a crush on my husband. Whenever I ran into her, she sometimes grunted at best. But when my husband was there too, she smiled (at him) and engaged in pleasant banter.
So, now Mrs. R. and I have been neighbors for thirty years. And except for the fact that I am a lousy gardener, she has little or no clue about who I am. She seems to know almost nothing about America or even that I come from there. I doubt she knows much at all about English literature, Economics, Business Administration, Maria Montessori, blog writing or Constitutional crises.
But she does know about chickens, so, for the first time, we have something to talk about.
I not only gave her eggs this morning, but I also made an effort to give her five different eggs from five different chickens. She seemed a bit confused, even flustered. Her contorted facial expression was hard to discern, but it was definitely reminiscent of something smile-like. She kind of ran away from me after I handed them over.
Blackthumb may have won the argument on the happiness of my flock this morning, but Chicken Whisperer definitely wins the day.