I can still picture those six magnificent Rhode Island Reds, raised in my youth from hatchlings in the yard of the semi-rural home on the edge of suburbia – how those hens would lay blue eggs on account of eating too much fruit from the nearby mulberry bush. Such a contented clutch they were, sired by that one leghorn rooster. There they were, always scratching and pecking the ground while strutting about in that familiar fuddy-duddy way.
I can also see the bloody aftermath when a loose dog broke into their pen and summarily terminated that entire clucking/crowing community of seven. Life on the Serengeti.
That childhood memory came back in a flash after reading the focus piece by a one-time Brooklyn urbanite who followed her dream about going back to the land (Dreaming About Going Back To The Land? I did It). Her account opens the window to a world largely lost to those (of us) whose only contact with a farm is perhaps that annual visit to the pumpkin patch…
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