The Myth of a Clean Slate

A couple of weeks ago, I locked my worries and “to-do” list in a steel box. I pumped up the tires on my road bike and pedaled out of town headed east - into a beautiful spring day which was filled with promise but devoid of an agenda. The first half mile of this route is tree-lined and takes me past mostly well-maintained houses that date back to the late nineteenth century. Beyond that, there’s a block or so worth of places where you can buy everything from ice cream, to Mexican food, to insurance and even proper trash disposal. Last but not least, there’s a stretch of manufacturing plants - those that keep our small town America gainfully employed.

Photo by MVL

And for good measure, there’s the open road. The pace of life slows there, but my pedal crank spins faster as I take in the fresh air. And fresh it usually is - except for the rare manure spreader or crop duster. But in mid-May, it’s too late for the earthy aroma and too early for the aerial artistry. Though the fields are mainly open vistas of rich brown soil, occasional green sprouts are starting to pop through. Like the small groves of leafed out hardwoods, they remind me of the amazing transition we get to witness over the next month.

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For added perspective, my wife and I lived in the same house in Upstate NY for thirty years and I was hard-pressed to discover anything new on my bicycle excursions. Such is not the case here or now. On this recent ride, I discovered new “detours,” hills, little traveled roads and even a gaited community only ten miles from our humble abode.

“Mathew, the Egg Guy,” and his son

As I was cycling a very long stretch of this rural asphalt, I noticed a well-made “Farm Fresh Eggs” sign. It stood perched in front of a small trailer with a nice shed roof and beneath that a lonely small frig. Its only neighbors were a half-dozen jars of homemade jelly on a nearby table.

Photo by MVL

Mathew, a dark-haired, partially toothless guy, was maybe thirty or so years old. He was working on an old kitchen refrigerator in the back of an even older box truck. As I drove up the dirt driveway, I explained that I lived in town (six miles away) and asked if I could meet his chickens. With a friendly gesture, he motioned toward a sizable old wooden chicken coup and his cute, red-headed son who took over as tour guide.

Maybe seven or eight years old, he carried an oversized rifle. I believe it was a pellet gun, but it was hard to tell as he stood tall and set his chin down, covering the muzzle, the rifle butt in the dirt below. He was obviously the guard of the chickens and quite proud of his charge. He pointed out a white hen, officially designated as “chicken bones,” meaning that it would be resting on their dining room table the following week. As he was starting to explain their code system, his father joined us.

We talked about the relatively new wire fence that surrounded his chickens, roughly a hundred in number. I asked about the attrition rate from coyotes and was pleased to hear that that hadn’t been an issue, but that a weasel and a hawk had been. Wildlife issues were relatively rare, and he explained that his guinea hen was earning her keep — being the first to warn if there was anything unusual. She’s probably the only one of the residents there that had job security.

Over the course of maybe fifteen minutes, I got the clear sense that his chickens had “the good life,” at least until they didn’t. It will be a great place to buy eggs and also a touchstone for me as I try to better understand people with a different story to tell.