A First Time for Everything

My mom used to say that there is a first time for everything. Yesterday, was that day. I've fed ducks at the Broken Wheel Restaurant, at least that was what it used to be called, many years ago, when I took my sons to feed the ducks left over scraps of bread, on occasion. It was located past the golf course, on the way to Connecticut. I remember it fondly, but have not been there recently.

Old Sturbridge Village offers an opportunity to see many ducks in the pond which is fed by the Quinnebaug River, in Sturbridge. They also have chickens running around in the yard of one of my favorite exhibits, on the Freeman farm. Just last week, I took my grandson, Ryan, who is a year old, to see the animals penned there, and he was fascinated by the chickens who came right up to the carriage. While we were there, one of the inhabitants came out with old bread and fed the remnants to the chickens.

Friday night, a few of us went to hear story telling, in one of the barns. It was to be a spooky story, told by a woman who could hold her audience captive, just by her eyes. She also made some spooky sounds. Designed to give one a haunting experience, she was a professional at what she did. I left her with a few stories of my own, and something to think about. It was a great night, with wonderful music and good food. Even though the chickens were around, probably safely in their coop, we would not have been able to see them in the dark. Lanterns lined the dirt paved road which was muddy from the rain. We took shelter in the meeting house during the unexpected downpour and listened to wonderful romantic tunes played by two young and talented guys, dressed in period costumes.

Yesterday, I met Tikhon. He has had his picture all over face book recently, and what was captured on the photo, was even more beautiful in person. His tale feathers are a spectacular blend of the blue shades that I love, something like the colors of a peacock. He has red eyes to match the red on top of his head. A handsome bird, and protector of his seven hens.

I can't imagine what inspired me to feed him worms from my hand. The chickens were well received by many who ventured back behind the shed to see them. Life in its simplicity is hopefully, where we are headed. It may not feel the same on a cold winter's day, though. Fresh eggs have been a tradition here in New England in the past, and for many generations to come, as well as hardy chicken soup.

Although, after meeting Tikhon, and finding him so admirable, it would be hard to think of him in a chicken pot pie.

Father said a quick prayer for the new birds and for these feathered friends, well being and great egg production.