Unearthing the Chickens
On gardening, true inheritance, and the women who taught me how to claim (and tend) space.
Every spring when I clear the raised beds and get ready to finally tuck seedlings into the ground, beneath the jungle of year-old tomato and pumpkin vines I find the chickens.
I unearth them, clean them off, and place them back into a prominent spot in their respective beds. It takes all of about thirty seconds.
This year the ceremonial chicken restoration/season kick-off landed with extra weight.
These ceramic garden chickens were painted and gifted by my cousin Paula May. Paula May was technically my cousin, but she was of my grandmother's generation (the daughter of my grandmother's eldest sister, Thelma, aka “Pud”) and I always thought of her more as an aunt. She was one of the last of that generation in our family and after some ongoing health issues, she passed away last year.
“Several years ago Paula May painted two ceramic chickens and put them in a bag, handed them to my mother, who passed them to me for my garden. That’s the entire story.”
She was, and I say this with sincere affection, a unique soul. Opinionated, adventurous, with a very distinct voice. Extremely recognizable, very aware of all the goings on in her community and family. Occasionally, maybe the tiniest bit … stubborn. She would go to bat for any single one of us without a second thought, and everyone knew it. That was Paula May.
She was also, like most of the women in that generation of my family, a gardener. Practical and resourceful and creative in the way that people are when growing things is just a natural extension of life.
Lately, my mom has been sending me short funny videos of a chicken singing in an accent that sounds unmistakably like Paula’s. If you know, you know. It’s been a kind of running thread of her presence all spring in the best possible way.
And then, of course, the day came when I stuck my hands in the bed and there they were—the actual chickens.
My husband was helping me out with the prep and we'd been talking about the beds, the compost, the conversion to no-dig I’m doing this year. And then I looked down and there were the brightly painted wings, red comb, waiting to be placed in fresh, dark soil exactly where they belong.
Oh gosh. Paula May's chickens.
It wasn't sad, exactly. It was more like Oh! There’s Paula May! Right on schedule.
I learned to garden from the women in my family. Through proximity, watching, being in the same yard with people who just did this as a matter of course. That generation—Paula May's generation, my grandmother's generation—they kept things going. They grew things and preserved things and passed things along, and not always with any particular ceremony about it. Just with an eye toward putting food on the table and right-living in general.
Several years ago Paula May painted two ceramic chickens and put them in a bag, handed them to my mother, who passed them to me for my garden. That’s the entire story. And now every spring they come back, and every spring that's her, doing what she always did best—showing up without fail, claiming her space … colorful, reliable, time-tested, and unapologetically herself.
