My Million-Dollar Donkey (17 page)

Since I didn’t know what guineas looked like, I perused the Internet for a look-see, only to discover rather ugly birds with a vulture-like face, a huge shapeless round body, and a horn on the top of their head. Dark red
gills
make their white faces stand out with the same stark villainous appearance of the joker in
Batman
.

“What do you think?” Mark asked, looking over my shoulder at the game bird website.

“Did you know guineas make a weird sound, like a raspy flute, the female calling out in a two-syllable screech while the male makes a single toot?”

“I didn’t know that.”

“Guineas make a racket when danger comes around, so they’re considered ‘watch birds.’ Their eggs are smaller and pointier than chicken eggs. One drawback is they lay in the bushes, so I’ll have to hunt their eggs down if I want to cook them, but since I just want the birds to inspire my other chickens to lay, I don’t care if or where they lay eggs.”

“You’re a virtual encyclopedia of guinea knowledge.”

I nodded smugly. “You may now add ‘guinea expert’ to my ever-growing list of talents. I’ll have you know people who raise guineas don’t get Lyme disease, and dogs come home clean because these birds clear away all ticks for a mile. Fly control alone is reason enough to keep poultry.”

“Then go for it, dear.”

I found no reference to guineas being a natural encouragement to get chickens to lay. I also didn’t mention that guineas have been known to park themselves at the entrance of a hive and eat bees as they fly home from foraging pollen. The birds can gobble up a beekeeper’s entire bee population in a few days if given the chance. Uh-oh.

The next day we all went to the flea market and I bought three silver and three black speckled guineas. I also bought six game chickens. Game chickens are recognizable because their legs are green, and sure enough, these chickens looked as if they were wearing Grinch tights. The game chickens were lean and wiry, and in my opinion lacked personality.

I took the birds home and introduced them to the flock. The next day I found two eggs. I rushed to the worksite to tell Ronnie and Mark the guineas were doing their job. The boys were standing in front of a hole in the wall that would soon be the fireplace.

“Just wait. Once they get the chickens going, you’ll be overrun with eggs,” Ronnie promised.

Mark waved his hand in a distracted way, clearly wanting me to go away so he could get back to work. “They’ll come.”

And he was right. The next day, seven eggs were softly resting in the shavings. I showed them off proudly promising I’d make the boys egg salad for lunch.

The third day, I found 19 eggs and one chicken was in the henhouse laying right as I visited. She had an ornery look in her eye, so I left her alone, but I collected a basketful of perfect brown eggs, all the same size and shape, with one little white egg in the mix. I took them to the worksite to show off.

“How do you suppose you have 19 eggs when you only have 17 grown chickens?” Mark asked, taking a bite of his egg salad sandwich. “And why so many brown eggs? Aren’t some of your chickens green and white egg layers?”

“Well, sure, but I have one white egg,” I said, holding up the meager, oddball egg. “Obviously, my brown egg-layers are just overachievers. Must be the influence of the guineas.”

“It’s always the brown egg layers that respond to guineas first,” Ronnie said.

That night, I ordered a quiche recipe book on Amazon and made Eggs Benedict for dinner. I whipped up a meringue pie, because that was the only dessert I could think of that used lots of egg whites. If I was going to get another 19 eggs the next day and every day after that, I’d have to become a master at egg dishes. Perhaps I’d make lemon curd. I might even begin a lemon curd business and sell my product at the flea market on weekends!

“Eggs for dinner again?” my kids asked.

“Why not? I plan to take advantage of each and every egg I find. From here on, our dogs will have the dreamiest fur coats, everyone’s cholesterol will go through the roof, and I’m going to learn to use natural egg as face masks for vibrant skin.”

But the next morning when I went to do my morning rounds, there were only two little white eggs in the chicken house. I went to the house site to ask Ronnie what he thought had happened. He and Mark were talking about light fixtures, but they took a break to give me their full attention.

“Do you think the effect of the guineas wore off?”

“Might be,” Ronnie said with a chuckle. Then he laughed. He started laughing so hard he had to sit down. He laughed so hard that he had tears in his eyes. He pointed to Mark and laughed harder. “You didn’t tell her.”

Mark was fighting a smile. “I forgot my saw at the workshop. Be right back.”

“He didn’t tell me what?” I said, growing increasingly suspicious of Ronnie’s mirth and my husband’s guilty exit.

“I bought a flat of eggs at the flea market when we bought them guineas and I’ve been putting them under your chickens all week. I couldn’t resist. You didn’t really believe a game bird would make your domestic chickens lay, didja? That don’t make no sense a’tall.”

I stood there, blushing hot and red. “You say Mark knew about this?”

“It was his idea.”

“Hmmm”

“When he told me you went on and on about your eggs last night, bought an egg cookbook, and even talked about starting a lemon curd business, I told him he had to tell ya. That’s why today I stopped with the eggs. Honestly, I never dreamed you’d think all them eggs really came from such young chickens. Especially since the eggs are all uniform in shape and size. That can’t be when you have a mishmash of chicken breeds. Certainly a smart college girl like you knows that.”

“This is what I get for having an honest preacher as a friend.”

He hung his head. “You really mad?”

“Me mad? Over eggs? Couldn’t happen. But do be afraid, Ronnie.”

I looked at him out of the sides of my eyes. “Payback is a bitch.”

He took a bite of the quiche I’d made and smiled at my threat. “Miss Ginny, you’ve got more country in you than anyone would guess.”

A month later my eggs finally started coming for real, and as he predicted, the eggs came in a variety of sizes and colors, everything from little pale green and brown eggs to jumbo shades of off-white and tan. In time I figured out which birds were laying which eggs. When I found guinea eggs, I cooked them too, and as soon as I had more eggs than I could use or give away, I left them under a brooding chicken and hatched my own chicks.

I was amazed at how easy keeping chickens was now, considering how complex the project seemed in the beginning. The chicken experiment was like our entire life makeover; a process filled with hard life lessons. At least laughter took the sting out of the hardest lessons. I had to remember that as long as we didn’t take ourselves too seriously, we had a chance at happiness.

I often paused to watch my children interacting with our new world, constantly needing assurance that everyone and everything was well. Kent had started camping and learned to drive the four wheelers. He played soccer and drums. With a subtle tan, and a body changing from boy to man, he looked rugged and happier than I ever saw him before. Neva constantly had dirt on her hands as she wandered our land as my sidekick, helping me plant or care for animals. She was fearless, a tomboy, and quick to show empathy and care for anything living. My children’s broadening lives made every frustration bearable, because I loved them more than I cared for my own satisfaction. I still worried about Denver acclimating to the area, but a part of me saw her discontent as a gift too. I had huge hopes for my daughter, and Blue Ridge seemed too small a canvas upon which a woman like her could paint a life masterpiece. But I savored her time with us now nevertheless.

Mark had adapted to rural living with chameleon-like ease. Within a month of our moving, his car radio blasted country tunes. His wardrobe began filling up with plaid flannel shirts and he talked with a twang. His well-groomed beard grew bushy and he allowed his truck to grow an inch-thick layer of dust. He gained seventy pounds and became Dairy Queen’s best customer.

I continued to keep my acrylic nails, and colored my hair every six weeks. My wardrobe was up to date with fashionable clothes, at least if you include jeans and countryish sweaters. I may have moved to the country, but a style-less bumpkin I’d never be, or so I vowed. My car stereo still chimed jazz or classical music. I listened to NPR, determined to keep up with liberal world news and the latest literature. I may have moved to a different location, but I was still
me.
Just me enjoying and embracing the country lifestyle.

The problem was inside I felt more like a dancer on an extended vacation than a country girl. When no one was around, I’d thrust my leg up on a fence post to enjoy a deep stretch. I cranked up music in the cabin and dance steps oozed out from me as I cleaned. I couldn’t see a child pass by but I didn’t imagine her in a leotard and tights, her hair in a neat bun.

When the weather was fine, the lush trees swaying, and the birds making lazy circles in the sky, I was inspired to move.
Dances With Wolves
had nothing on me—I had dancing with Donkey down pat. After a lifetime of movement, I just wasn’t ready to stand still. So I danced in private. I danced because it felt good. I danced because I was happy. Sometimes, I danced because I was sad. I danced because moving made me feel alive at a time when my body and mind felt lulled to sleep by too many gentle country breezes.

Dance wasn’t all I missed. I longed for intellectual stimuli and a dash of pop culture. I missed feeling driven to achieve, to consume, to compete. Was I really such a slave to my cultural upbringing that I couldn’t slow down and be happy with less? There were so many good things about our life now. I had time to be a focused parent, an environmentalist, a reading mentor, a student in a challenging Master’s program. How could I possibly feel something was missing?

But something
was
missing—my husband. Lost in his obsession to build his dream log home and to fill up his ideal workshop with tools to indulge his creativity as a rustic interior designer, he was treating me as nothing more than an annoying obligation. He encouraged me to play with bees and plant a garden with a pat on the head, like when a parent plops a child in front of a TV set because they don’t want to deal with raising kids.

Sometimes, I was fine with the long hours of solitude. I’d be filled with such a deep sense of contentment I could feel my heart beating in a sure, healthy rhythm, my blood flowing with vitality and ease, as if the peace of this natural environment was removing the garbage that a lifetime of superficial struggling had packed inside. I’d stand in the driveway at night, awed by stars above shining bright enough to pierce the heart. The sound of the wind in the trees felt like God’s whisper.

I loved that my children were experiencing this connection to nature, too. One day Denver urged Mark and me into the car so she could drive us to a field to look at thousands of lightning bugs illuminating a huge pasture.

“Isn’t this the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen?” she said, her face soft and tender as she gazed at the sight before her.

“Yes,” I said, but I was looking at my daughter’s face, recognizing the depth of spirit I had prayed would someday be in my children. There it was, undeniable in her sensitivity, eye for beauty, and connection to the environment.

I tried to concentrate on that same depth of spirit in myself. Perhaps if I tapped into my talents to better the world in this corner of the universe I’d be happier. I volunteered to teach dance for free at a local dance studio, but they turned me down. I contacted every studio I could find within an hour’s drive. No takers. Proud of my new MFA, I volunteered to teach writing for free at the local art center.

“People around here really aren’t looking for the kind of teaching you do,” I was told, meaning a trained professional from the city was more an invader than a resource in their eyes. After a lifetime of being admired for my skills and experience, I couldn’t give my skills away. For the first time ever, I was treated as obsolete and valueless, so the best I could hope for was keeping busy with everyday things like laundry and cooking, things that seemed overly common and not much of a contribution to the world at large. Focusing solely on my personal growth felt a tad too self-serving to me. I always believed a good life began with selfless service, and compassion not just for yourself, but for others. To feel better, I wrote while Mark shopped.

Wal-Mart was the only store within casual driving distance (40 minutes) so we found ourselves making excuses to go almost every day. Need a rug for the new bathroom, a meat thermometer,

or some plastic containers to hold horse feed? Wal-Mart, Mark’s on the way. And I’d usually join him because I wanted to be with my husband whenever I could be. The life I invented for us ‘on paper’ just wasn’t enough.

While we were there, we’d throw unnecessary things into our cart, like clothes, new car mats, or DVDs, not because we needed them, but because they were on sale. Consuming was such an ingrained habit that we continued to shop even while lecturing to each other that consumerism was ruining the world. I bought books like
Aff
luenza
,
Simple Prosperity
, and
Your Money or Your Life
. Mark said they sounded good, and that he’d read them when I was done, but he never bothered.

Mark had built not one but two large workshops for himself on our land, and he purchased loads of tools and supplies. Unopened crates of woodworker paraphernalia littered the dysfunctional shop like an overturned hardware warehouse. He justified the glut by insisting he shopped the sales. Mark always proclaimed he was saving money as he spent. His newest windfall of tools was an investment, he claimed. He was going into the rustic furniture-making business.

The problem was, after all that shopping, he didn’t have the energy to tackle getting the workshop organized, much less make furniture. Instead, he made trips to more stores to buy another set of clamps, non-slip cushioning for the floor, or wood, wood, and more wood for future projects. He soon had enough supplies for years of woodworking, but he had yet to build a workbench on which to make a simple birdhouse. He justified the indulgence by insisting he was ‘preparing’ for the good life when we would once again spend some time together as promised. We both took classes at the John C. Campbell Folk School. I’d write about whatever craft I had explored and even won a literary contest for one essay. Mark believed every craft he made belonged in a gallery so he would make a deal to buy tons of supplies from each teacher he worked with, preparing for that fateful day when he would actually start producing crafts for a living. But the stock remained heaped in piles in his crowded workshop, untouched.

There’s always tomorrow to write the book or set up the workshop
, we said, hanging on to the thread that the better life that awaited us made our current circumstances somehow more acceptable. But the next day, we’d be busy again. After all, one of our daughters had a soccer game. I had to feed the animals in the morning. Mark was going to pick up some more wood slabs from a fellow with a saw mill who was offering wood at a good bargain.

We had always been achievement-oriented people, the kind of people who believe luck is really just the result of hard work and commitment. Our adopted town offered a prime opportunity for establishing ourselves in a new field, and yet we just couldn’t stay focused to make the vision of our new life manifest. We chalked our dysfunction up to our being burned out and exhausted from eighteen years of running a dance studio, telling ourselves we needed time to heal, but the truth was that living in the country alters a person’s inner time clock. The country was slow. Living here, we became slow too.

Perhaps ego, or social conditioning, made accomplishment paramount to feeling alive. Perhaps the money at our disposal drained us of motivation, because in the past, the need to pay bills and the desire for a more comfortable life kept us at the grindstone. Now the only motivation we had for anything other than marking time was a nagging sense that we were not living up to our potential. We had walked away from the one thing we were truly good at, and for what? A bunch of wood slabs collecting dust in a workshop that wasn’t even broken in? For a donkey? Our money wouldn’t last forever, and our inability to start our inner engines to begin something new gave us a sick sense that our life was like a train chugging along a track that would soon run out of rails.

They say six weeks of changed actions will break a habit, but for us, change took a year. Perhaps the reading material, when I finally got around to digesting the messages, helped. Perhaps the lack of shopping venues took the thrill off the shopping experience. Perhaps the failing economy was making frugal living trendy, or the country mentality was slowly seeping into our hearts and minds and we were shedding old behavior patterns as result regardless of our weak personalities. But one day, we were pushing the cart through Wal-Mart, and both of us suddenly realized there was really nothing we needed. We were tired of ‘stuff’ and deeply tired of our days being eaten up by driving to get that stuff. The idea of purchasing anything we didn’t really need seemed not only wasteful, but slightly gross.

We checked out with the one item we had come for, a bottle of Liquid Plumber. Then we drove through Starbucks to grab a cup of coffee, but instead of sighing into the steam, we both winced because the coffee tasted bitter and burnt. The high dose of caffeine no longer appealed to our taste buds because we had finally re-conditioned ourselves to enjoy a cup of smooth, homebrewed coffee. The drinks languished in our cup holders, growing colder, just as our connection to shopping had.

Were we really embracing simplicity, or had we spent so much that only when the sands of resource were running out could we in reality embrace the simpler lifestyle we claimed was so important to us?

No lifestyle is perfect. Knowing what will bring you contentment is like the little ball that hides under a cup, getting juggled and quick-changed by a swindler with sleight of hand. The fellow moves the cups so quickly you can’t figure out where the prize is, so you gamble and take a guess. Eventually, you just point to a cup and whatever is underneath is what you have to live with. But oh, how I wanted to make mindful choices rather than be a slave to circumstance as defined our history.

Denver was now twenty-one and she had spent the year enjoying family time, communing with nature, and taking pleasure in the simplicity of life in the country. She had developed a greater understanding of the environmental, educational, and emotional issues attached to a country lifestyle, so she was not sorry for having dropped out of college to join us. But enough was enough. She was done with the entire slow country thing. She was ready to venture to a place where life would be more stimulating.

“I gotta get out of this town,” she said, with no small amount of desperation in her voice.

“I understand completely. You still have a lot of living to do. You need to go places, meet people, and do things to stretch your awareness of the world. Someday, you may want to live in a place like this again, but for now, you need the energy and opportunity that comes with living in a city,” I said, inwardly applauding her revelation.

“Don’t think I don’t appreciate nature and the quaintness of this town. I’m just ready to have some fun,” she said. “Everyone my age around here is already married and divorced with two kids. I can’t stand this place anymore. I want to date someone with a decent vocabulary. A guy who doesn’t chew tobacco and have a gun under the front seat of his truck.”

“You should go,” I agreed.

The problem was, she had cashed in and spent her college fund as well as the seed money we gave her for establishing an alternate career. For a year, she had enjoyed independent living while only working a part time job. Now, she had aspirations to go to school for jewelry design in California, but the Bank of Mom and Dad had closed its doors for lack of capital. She’d have to work and save her own money if she wanted to escape.

“It’s impossible to make a decent living here. Every job is minimum wage,” she complained. “Even if I do want to get away and move somewhere with better work options, it’s hard.”

“Putting money away to build up your college plan during our leanest years was hard, too,” I said. “But we found a way. You left school, and now you have to live with your choice and figure out what you’re going to do next. Changing your life takes work, sacrifice, and planning.”