Saturday, February 23, 2008

I admire my son, Peace. Yesterday he came in from his early morning chores before school and explained to me he'd taken care of a dead hen in the chicken house. Being a city girl, I am squeamish about thinking or touching any hurt or dead animal. I mostly let my men handle the dirty work 'round the farm. Without telling me, Peace simply took out a plastic bag from the kitchen, suited up with gloves and coat, and placed the dead body into the bag and then into the trash can. Can't throw things like that into the woods because it attracts coyotes. Have to bury things deep and put rocks on the grave otherwise which we did with our goat for the same reason. When Peace was done, he threw his coat and gloves in the laundry. How many 14 year old boys do you know in America can take care of business like this without batting an eye?
I was touched by the solemn and matter of fact manner in which Peace dealt with the situation. We think it may have been Petunia, my garden digging buddy. Petunia followed behind every time I went outside to see if she could collect worms I'd uncover from flower beds or the garden. I thanked Peace for his care and teared up a bit. "Mom, it's just a chicken," he responded,"And by the way. When I die I'd prefer to be buried in a grave than put in a plastic bag in the garbage."

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