How Did I Get to This!?

 Panama Farm Life October 19, 2024

I awake to silence...before any taps on the door.  Codi still asleep on the new leather sofa in the main room.  Of course.  I open the front door and he trots out into the damp dawn.  Turning to the coffee maker, I begin the ritual... grind the beans, fill the water tank, insert the unbleached coffee filter, count out the scoops and hit the brew button.  The flock of noisy resident green parrots flap past the terrace in search of their breakfast and white egrets silently swirl overhead. The morning sun turns Baru golden and I watch the rays play on the peak.  All is right... for a moment. Porky grunts in the distance and the grain buckets are banging. The front door now open, the girls scramble outside in pursuit of Codi.  The morning rituals shift into full chorus.

Alex mentioned that the hens were no longer producing many eggs.  Old chickens.  And they were roasters not laying hens.  The decision is to thin the flock and to replace the slaughtered hens with the correct type of chicken.  This morning Alex delivers to my order three of the ten death row hens freshly slaughtered and stripped of feathers. Thankfully, the head and feet are also missing from the bag of heavy bodies.  Still, this is not how I am used to receiving chickens.  The supermarket packaging of clean, bloodless shrink wrapped pieces is not this.  Three more birds are delivered to Amanda who later describes that her delivery includes feathers, the head and the feet.  Alex knows what each of his bosses will tolerate.  

Old chickens.  No more eggs. I amuse myself with how certain words send my mind in random directions.  Old chickens.  In an odd way, I can relate.  At 65 years of age (about 7 years ago) I had aged out of the tech industry.  Employees were now more than half my age.  My flock looked to me as...coop mother.  Time for the soup pot.

Old chickens are not good to eat. I find this out by accident.  The meat and bones boiled for hours produces a rich broth... with shoe-leather tough meat.  Perfect dog food. I send a message to a friend. His chickens, ducks and geese are sitting on eggs.  Is he interested in selling me some of the chicks...providing they are laying hens, not roasters?  I learn fast.

A red truck arrives and guns the motor to climb the hill to the stables.  Caliche (Ca lee chay) has arrived.  The ferrier is a week late but I don't get twisted up about that. If I ask, the answer will be either car problems or family problems.  He is here. And he is needed. We chat for a few moments...he with rapid fire spanish, me with the halting vernacular of a toddler. All is understood. 

With the rain, the ground is now a sucking muck that removes and swallows horse shoes with efficiency.  The moisture softens the horse's hooves and the nails can no longer grip well.  Another ritual. It comes with the rainy season.  Caliche sets to work and I ply him and his younger assistant with our farm grown coffee and energy bars from PriceSmart.  Kindness keeps my horses at the top of Caliche's list of good clients.  The horse's feet are trimmed about every six weeks and new shoes applied. It is necessary. The rocky terrain serves up damage finished off by the mud.

Three of our horses enjoy the mud as evidenced by the condition of their coats.  The hair is dark and stiff.  A clear sign that rolling sessions have taken place.  No reason to bathe them until the ground dries out.  They will just roll again the minute the tether in the bath stall releases them.  I don't even consider a muddy pig spa day.

Turning elsewhere, I slip on a pair of leather gloves and pull weeds, divide plants for landscaping and do general clean up around the not-yet-completed rental villa.  The rain has swollen the nearby seasonal stream and I hear it rushing into the underground tunnel constructed last dry season.  The 600 foot tunnel empties over a small cliff creating a 50 foot waterfall. Below, the downhill flow resumes.  This coming dry season we have more water management construction to do.  Atop the tunnel, the dirt has been contoured and we reclaim 1.5 acres for pasture and other purpose. After coffee harvest, we plant and fence.  And paint. And build. And landscape.  5 months of dry weather and not a moment to waste. 

The afternoon deluge begins and I retreat to the house.  A big lunch and a few minutes of rest is welcome.  Tea is brewing and the view from the terrace is sheets of rain. No, blankets of rain.  The rain chains channel the water from the roof and dance under the weight and rapid flow of the downpour. The treetops disappear and  the valley view blots out. Clouds advance toward the farm and lower as if gathering form to aim.  A blinding spear of lightning slices the sky and is quickly followed by thunder so loud it shakes the patio doors behind me.   I step back from the railing.  All seems ok.  Nothing toasted.  Not this time.  

Tomorrow, friends return from Canada and retrieve their horse from our farm.  Their horse has suffered a leg injury by stepping through an exposed concrete pipe during a ride a few days before their planned departure. Concrete pipe sunk into gravel and dirt roads is common here.  Rainwater passes under the road to minimize erosion.  After some years erosion occurs regardless and the top of the concrete pipe, exposed to the elements, turns thin and brittle.  Typically a horse hops over the exposed pipe and avoids problems.  This time she stepped through, came down on her side and struggled causing the sharp concrete edges to scrape skin off of the leg bone.  She has been boarded with us for treatment and care.  It could have been worse...much worse.  Her rider is fine and now so is she.

Each month we celebrate a Monthday...now 5 months of age for Pilar. Amanda dressed her in one of the outfits I brought back from our August visit to the states.  Monthday celebrations!  A joyful new ritual.  Shopping for baby girl goodies...priceless!

Pictured left to right, Carlos, me, Gary, Amanda and Pilar. Carlos' dad, John, and his sister Anna are taking the photos.