- It takes a village to raise a child - African saying
- Nature is our best teacher
- we are the world, we are the ones to make a brighter day!..

- Natural farming, food forest

- We dig our grave with our teeth

- Freedom of expression is my birth right

- Freedom of speech comes with great responsibility

- I become what I see in myself. All that thought suggests to me, I can do; All that thought reveals to me, I can become. This should be man’s unshakeable faith in himself, because God dwells in him.

- The Mother said - it is not this OR that, it is this AND that
- Life is for living not to understand
‎"Sometimes you can't see the forest through the trees."

Tuesday, May 24, 2011

Mr. Twitter

It began with a beautiful tragedy. Our gorgeous hen and her promising babies attacked by a cobra in the early evening; Mama using even her last breaths to defend her sole surviving chic.

When she passed, Martanda and I took the role of Mamma Hen, our pockets becoming for the chic the safe, warmth typically reserved for under a mother's wing. We hoped and prayed she was a hen. She was the last hope; the last female of a dying dynasty.

And we were thrilled by her. She became more than a pet -- a fragile baby who needed our love and protection, and a fantastic new playmate. She followed us everywhere, worked along side us killing centipedes and termites, kept on our heals as if we really were chickens. Thanks to Monica, we came to call her Twitter.

Slowly, slowly she grew… never quite fitting in with the other hens, enjoying special privileges (like living in a box in our kitchen). It became clear by her behavior -- the way she sat, the noises she made, the way the other chickens were with her, and even her modest crest -- that she was, in fact, a she! We paid no mind to her beautiful colors of the fact that she attacked everything -- including the cats. We celebrated and waited for months for her eggs, even as she became more and more independent.

Five months passed -- the time it takes for a baby to really mature. The lady who helps us around the house insisted that now that Twitter was an adult, there should be no more kitchen privileges. As the size of our babies turds grew, I had to agree.

And then it happened. A visitor called her and a him. We corrected the guest and told of Twitter's storied past.

Then more people came to the house, and they too thought our beloved hen was a cock. But it couldn't be true -- not after five months of being sure she was going to provide us with eggs and keep the country chicken line of Lumière in tact!

We showed her/him/it to everyone who passed by and asked: boy or girl? Without fail, they all said male. We started to look more closely.

Suddenly we noticed she was taller than the other hens… and the crest on her head, while a terrible way to judge hen from cock, was indeed longer than it used to be… and the nail in the coffin: her tail feathers were long, elegant, beautiful curves.

In fact, as I write this, I can hear her coughing out a squeaky, pre-pubescent "cock-a-doodle-do."

Just like a rooster.

So five months later we discover, SHE is, in fact, a HE.

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