…activities [in nature] can teach children patience and respect for the other creatures on the planet.  ~ Richard Louv

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When I was seven I went to spend part of the summer with my grandparents ‘up north’ on their subsistence farm on the Mesabi Iron Range in northern Minnesota. They had raised 10 children who all lived elsewhere now. My grandfather was an iron miner as well as a farmer. If he worked the graveyard shift (11 pm to 7 am), he would sleep a good part of the day. Grandma and I had to be quiet.

Previously, I had visited ‘the farm’ on many vacations and holidays but always with my parents and sister and in the company of many of Dad’s siblings, their spouses, and a multitude of cousins. During that first visit alone with Grandma and Grandpa, I felt both anxious and bored at the same time. It was SO quiet – and not just when Grandpa was sleeping. There were no other kids. There was no TV. Not even a radio that I remember. After I helped Grandma with her chores like washing Grandpa’s work clothes, weeding her enormous garden, separating the fresh milk, and churning butter, then what to do? I came from the city where, for starters, there were lots of other kids to play with. I felt lost.

At one point, Grandma told me to go outside and find something to do. “Like what?” I wondered to myself. I wandered down to the chicken coop. The chickens were out in their yard. As I went in through the gate, a couple of the hens clucked. “Funny,” I thought. I stomped my foot to see if I could instigate more of their clucking. It worked. I stomped harder. It worked. More clucking. And louder clucking. So then I started chasing them. Squawks. And more squawks. Feathers flying. Ah! Some noise and chaos at last. What a relief!

When I returned to the house Grandma told me that if the chickens are scared, they won’t lay eggs. I was shocked. “Wow! I didn’t know that!” Then she told me that for the duration of my visit I would be responsible for caring for the chickens. She said she would guide me on how to feed them, how to clean the coop, and how to collect their eggs.

The first day that I fed them by myself, they were quite wary of me. But when they understood that I was now their source of food, they relaxed and came close. Within a day or two, when I went into their yard, they all gathered around me. They made a sound that wasn’t exactly purring but it was close. I liked it even better than their clucks and squawks. I spent a lot of time with the chickens that summer. I drew pictures to hang in the coop. I sang songs to them. I told them stories about my life in the city.

That experience was pivotal in my life. Not only did it give me a glimpse of what it means to be of service to others, but it also helped me learn what it means to have a really important responsibility. And, on top of that, the first time I collected an egg I just sat down in awe right there in the coop. Where did it come from? How do they make that perfect shell? What do you mean the egg can become a chick? How does THAT happen? Miraculous!

Though I could not name it at the time, chasing the chickens was a way for me to feel that I had at least some small way of engaging with the world around me. When Grandma entrusted me with caring for the well-being of the chickens, she actually handed me much more power – and more satisfying power – than I’d had when I was chasing them. Equally, and perhaps even more importantly, by giving me this responsibility, she granted me the gift of experiencing a deep connection with and respect for other creatures on the planet. 

Everybody won! The chickens felt loved and cared for. I loved having the responsibility and, through the chickens, I learned that I truly love animals. And Grandma had a contented grandchild as well as happy chickens who were laying eggs. Brilliant!