THE
BLUE BOX (Recycled Ideas)
by Don Cox
Back to the index
Perhaps the biggest difference between urban living and
country living is the variety of skills necessary for successful
survival in the rural setting. I'm always amazed at how
many demands my old log house and 50 acres of field and
bush can make on me. Add to those the shelter and nourishment
for a few birds and animals and it's a full life indeed.
There are always challenging demands in country life, from
logging to gardening, and indoors there's the house itself
to look after. I'm a bit short on that skill, which is the
reason I live in abject squalor, and crushing poverty as
well, woe is me.
Up until a few weeks ago I thought I had mastered all
the tricks of country living. However, my neighbour Joan
wanted to hatch some chickens, and needed space for an incubator.
Being an obliging chap, I volunteered a spot in my living
room. "It will be a routine thing" I thought to myself,
"just three weeks and then the incubator can be returned,
and the chickens will go to a pen in Joan's barn." The incubator
was a bit more complex than I had anticipated, humidity
adjustments, and proportional feedback temperature control
with differential set point approach circuitry. The eggs
themselves were in trays which regularly rocked back and
forth to simulate the random movements a setting hen would
provide, but better. It was a fine instrument, with control
systems similar to those I was used to from my solid state
research days. I was full of confidence.
It took a while to stabilize the device, and then we loaded
the eggs, seventy-two of them. I kept a close eye on things,
added water when necessary, and tweaked the temperature
if needed. Every thing was under control. Three weeks less
a day later I heard a frantic cheeping and took out the
first chick, a robust little guy. I put him in a box under
the heat lamp. "This is going to be a cake walk", I thought.
Then they started coming thick and fast and not all were
as hardy and robust as the first. Some couldn't escape the
shell, others got caught in the mesh and couldn't get loose,
still others fell off the tray and got caught up on the
cross arms. It was bedlam. There I was in the midst of things,
acting my part as the all seeing all knowing midhen, saving
the new generation from their accidents and folly. I was
up at all hours tending the new comers. It was stressful.
After twenty-six chicks I was exhausted.
Yes, that was the final count, twenty-six chicks from
seventy-two eggs, a thirty-six percent yield. Not bad, all
things considered. Then I thought back to last year when
the old black hen had sat on the porch, the picture of dedication
and determination, and when her days were fulfilled, she
brought forth four chicks from six eggs. That's a sixty-six
percent yield. Suddenly I was humbled to the depths of my
being. Here was a silly old hen, with nothing but instinct
and determination, with hardly more than three brain cells
if she was lucky, and she had beat me hands down. The next
morning I looked at her with a new respect and made sure
she had a few extras for breakfast.
That's about all there is to tell, I am now the surrogate
father of twenty-six chicks who are all doing well, and
I have mastered a new skill. I am now a qualified midhen.
There were a few sad matters to finish before I could close
the book on this exciting episode. I had to empty the incubator
and dispose of the remaining eggs. Towards dark the next
evening I went to the garden, dug a deep trench, and disposed
of them in an unmarked mass grave. They will be fondly remembered.
Bluebox ©2001 Don Cox
Website ©2001 OttawaWEB
