Genetics control a persons characteristics, hair, height, eye, etc. Simple biology everyone remembers from Bio I and Bio II. What genetics does not control is what I refer to as generational characteristics.  There is a current field of study called epigenetics, “a term used to describe inheritance by mechanisms other than through the DNA sequence of a gene” researching traits passed from parent to child that are not genetic.  In trying to better understand this research I stumbled upon this overly detailed, highly intelligent post written by the Britain Society for Cell Biology. Being I took Bio I and II over 20 years ago and this was way more than what was covered or remember from those classes, after attempting to process the information within this article, I came away understanding less than before I started. What I was trying to determine was if a trait tactic employed by a parent passes to the child unknowingly only to be used by the child years later as an adult unwillingly.

For example: Friday of Easter weekend while enjoying out favorite breakfast, the Kid was complaining about the upcoming five hour ride he had to endure. Understanding the Kid is just being a Kid and that while the drive really is five long hours, the ride is relatively easy.  He has his own seat, a pile of books to read, a phone to play on (if he doesn’t run his tween mouth), and the final destination is somewhere he wants to go: Great Grandmas. His complaints mostly unregistered on my irritation level, I was sitting there enjoying the moment when one my mothers most annoying tactics appeared. The tiny fiddle, playing his tiny sad song.  BAM!  Out of no where too.  Having not lived at home since I was 20, this tiny fiddle and all of its irritation has not been seen nor heard nor endured in more than 20 years.  Yet there it was.  A tactic so easily used on my fingers, one would think I used it daily. 

But I don’t. This irritating act caught me so off guard I started laughing.  The Planner who has been with me longer than without me found it funny, too.  For him it was novelty.  For me it was, it was, it was… Words cannot describe what it was.  After the laughs died I had to explain the tiny fiddle and its sad song, where it came from, and how it works.  As a child I would tell myself I would NEVER as an adult use the tiny fiddle.  It was a pity motion.  A poor woe is you motion.  Every time I saw that tiny fiddle, I repeated this mantra.  It must have worked because I can honestly say I have NOT ONCE since leaving home have ever thought of it.  So where did it come from? Epigenetics?  Don’t know.  What I do know, is that it is leaving.

Going to Great Grandmas is a treat.  She is a tiny little German who is and always has been frail thin, unlike my large stock German heritage.  At 84, she had lived more life than most.  Born and raised in Texas Hill Country, she spent many years starving as this is a dry brutal land unsuitable to make a living from, yet managed to raise seven kids and is blessed with hordes of grandchildren and great grandchildren who come to visit regularly.  In her spare time when she is not working at the local restaurant or is in town at one of her numerous daily activities, she is managing the house and all of its responsibilities, cutting the grass, feeding her hundreds of hummingbirds, crocheting on one of her various projects for friends, or tending to her fabulous garden.

And while those are just a few of the fabulous things she does, it is her garden that amazes me the most.  I cannot grow a pot plant in a pot and this woman grows Southern Living worthy plants in dry, parched, unforgiving dirt.  Seriously, just look at the ground.  Nothing should grow there, yet it does.  As if it the flowers were genetically modified for that dirt.

For all the beauty found in her garden, it was this little gem stealing the show.  Unlike the tropical milkweed in a bucket at Boxes in Fields, Great Grandma has real native Texas Milkweed with monarch caterpillars and ladybugs to boot too.  There were dozens of these fabulous little plants with dozens of little caterpillars happily chomping away.   It was a pity knowing the plant would never transfer to the coastal bend, I left hoping my tropical milkweed would spread and grow and then next year I too would have dozens of milkweeds with dozens of caterpillars who grow into dozens of butterflies.

Growing into butterflies has yet to happen as the only caterpillar that has been seen morphing into the next stage of life was eaten while gone.  Before leaving the Kid and I watched in fascination as the caterpillar was preparing itself for the next stage.  Preparing for the chrysalis stage, the caterpillar finds a safe place and does a type of wiggle dance.  Not having my phone there are not pictures of videos to show, Luckily for you, this is the day of the internet so you can watch one from the USFWS. Watching it jump, and swing, and vibrate we were prepared to watch the stage before our eyes.  But it didn’t.  And when we came back it was broken.  Bummer. Both the Kid and I were so let down.  I had a moment of pity as I should have protected the caterpillar from all the mean things in life.  Life is life and death is part of life too.

Later in the week, after another trip to the doctor for the Kid (he developed a rash to an antibiotic and was covered in head to toe rash) I stopped by the local mom and pop feed store for some happiness in fluff form.  Knowing they would have little peppers as it was just Easter, we swung in to review their newest collections.  Boy howdy, did they have a ton.  Some of the most plentiful in multi stages of age were bantams, Rhode Island reds, and Buff Orpingtons.  There were hundreds of little peepers all warm and toasty in their red light cages.  The Kid wanted one of every one.  While admiring the flock, the chicken man said there were some pullets around back if we wanted to see them too.  Pullets that were the same costs as chicks, oh by the way he quickly said.  What, the same cost!  Excuse me sir, you must have made a mistake as pullets are always more expensive.  He said wait till you see them.  Oh good grief, these pullets have been attacked. Some were almost completely featherless.  The Kid fell in love.

And I am a sucker.  I took pity on the poor Kid and the crappy week he was having.  We arrived home from the doctor with a new round of medication cream, an over the counter anti-histamine, and four new peepers.  Not having a clue as to how they were going to integrate into the old flock, the old flock was kicked out the coop, the new flock was moved into a dog kennel so they could see around, and immediately plans were developed for housing quarters.  Quarters had to be something quick and temporary as these flufferbottoms already six weeks in age and would double in size quickly.

• 

• 

Upon inspection of the birds in the box, the Planner (who had been warned of their state of affairs) just shook his head and looked at me with pity.  What! Like you could have resisted the Kid any more than me?  Please.  Besides, their issues are only cosmetic.  They will look better. Later.  Maybe…

Two walls of the coop are the actual run itself.  The third wall uses some of the remaining re-purposed outside decking from the shower project.  Spacing between the slats of the deck boards allowing the chickens to interact with each other but not enough room for escape was judged with the thickness of a 2×4.  The fourth wall was from the winter rye seeder.  This fourth wall was easily removed so water and pellet feeders could be replenished daily. Within less than an hour, a temporary 4×4 coop was built.  From start to finish, an hour.  Never has a project at Plan473 taken this little of time.  Guinness Books this project time line.  If all projects could be completed with this ease and within this time frame, there would be lots more projects completed.

Somewhere over the course of a year and half since last usage, the Gatorade Water bottle was lost.  What made the Gatorade bottle remarkable was the hefty handle system.  If this water bottle is going to have to be used for more than a few weeks, the handle will break as it bends and sags with the weight of just a half gallon.  After corralling and a quick adjustment to the pellet PVC feeder built during the original Chicken Boot, the new peepers were set in their temporary home.

Trying not to feel pity for their state of affairs, I had to be reminded they are just chickens and that this parched, bare housing is short lived.   No chicken swing, no brightly colored exterior color to bring happiness, no fresh grass to scratch.  Poor pitiful existence.  Funny thing about pity, it is a feeling.  Therefore pity only affects the person who feels it, not the person being pitied upon.  Guess the chickens don’t feel pity.  No pity party for them.