Thank-you Note

Dear PBS:

I would be remiss if I did not write a note lauding a certain "documentary" I had the privilege to lose an hour of my life to the other night. After years and years of cut-rate productions ("A Night At The Metropolitan Opera?" "Josh Groban and Friends?" What kind of non-profit are you running here??), you finally hit gold with "The Natural History of the Chicken." I'd like to highlight a few favorite moments here, re-living and savoring every juicy- er, poignant moment.

Let me begin with Irma, the chicken farmer who saved a poor, frozen bird with her cat-like reflexes and quick thinking.

Irma lives a charmed life somewhere in the Midwest. Each morning she takes her headscarf- and apron-clad self outside to feed her brood of hens and give them some much-needed TLC. On one particularly cold, frozen and snowy morning, a normally obedient free-ranging hen wandered underneath the porch where she could not be seen by Irma. Concerned for her welfare, Irma sent her trusty hen dog (?) to locate the poor bird. When the hen was found, she was frozen solid; so solid, in fact, that you, PBS, chose to use an incredibly hilarious representation of a rock-solid hen in the reenactment. Good form. But I digress.

Irma's tender heart just couldn't take the thought of losing such a beloved bird, and so she brought it in her house and sat down to think about her options. She didn't have to think long, though: as she cradled the hen in her arms, she felt (could it be?) a faint heartbeat! Thinking quickly, she gathered blankets and started to rub the hen to increase blood circulation. The hen was not breathing, however, so Irma made a fateful decision and began mouth-to-beak resuscitation. That's right, PBS - you managed to capture the magic of bird-love with a poignant scene involving an anxious Irma attempting to revive a frozen hen by placing her mouth on its beak and blowing precious air into frozen lungs. Incredible. I held back tears as the hen jumped to life and spent the next week in a crib in Irma's living room, recovering and enjoying some quality television programming. Sure, I held back tears then, but I really had to break out the tissues when the hen was finally reunited with the other hens, and after clucking around for a few moments, Irma presented the following:

"She just ran right into the pen, telling all her friends about the experience. I'm just glad Valerie is doing okay. Yes, Valerie - that's what her name is. It just came to me and seemed to fit."

Here's to you, Valerie, and your headline-making story.

Honorable mention goes to Frances in Florida for this next story, whose house dresses and red velvet decor hinted that she might just have an alternative lifestyle. Her BFF, a white, fluffy chicken resembling a feather boa with legs and no beak nor eyes even visible, was more domesticated than my husband. He rode in the car with her on a raised, velvet pillow; she carried him around with a bejeweled collar and bathed him in her sink daily, and she showered kisses upon him that any grandchild would have been thanking his lucky stars to have avoided. But the clincher?

She kept the chicken in a modified diaper of sorts and just changed the diaper every so often. Not an outdoor pet.

(Important side note: "Irma" and "Frances" appear to be single old maids. No significant other was in sight.)

I loved these stories, PBS, but I just have to shout out loud about this last one.

Roy, a simple pastor and farmer, kept many free-ranging chickens on his small farm in rural Iowa. He watched and completely over-analyzed the behavior of one chicken in particular he called "Liza." The bird was smaller than the others and was unable to find a place in the hen house to nest because she was constantly kicked out by the larger hens. She seemed, according to Roy, just frantic to be able to participate in life's greatest blessing: motherhood.

Taking pity on poor Liza, Roy built a special house just for her. Liza was finally able to lay eggs and take great care of her six little chicks. PBS, I loved the close-up shots of Roy's weathered, contented face as he watched Liza fulfill her dream. I quote from what was apparently a memoir Roy had written about this incident:

"She was the epitome of motherhood. She showed her chicks the very best places to dig for bugs and how pick the juiciest berries. Motherhood looked wonderful on Liza."

But Roy's contented expression was about to change (to one of nearly imperceptible concern, I might add. Maybe using the actual people for the reenactment wasn't the best creative decision.).

A hawk, way off in the distance, suddenly caused the collective farm animals to freeze and then run for cover. Liza's little brood was too far away to run to the hen house, and when she noticed the hawk, Roy states that he saw her expression change "to one of anxious concern? Fear? What?"

Liza and her chicks ran for cover, but she knew it was too late. With one signal to her chicks, they all run underneath her and she sheltered them with her wings right as the hawk nose-dived. With a small explosion of feathers, the hawk flew back up and away.

Roy, watching from the window with a sad expression, reminisced: "I watched what is ordinarily referred to as a 'dumb animal' make an incredibly selfless and complex decision and sacrifice to protect her chicks." He slowly opened the door and walked over to the mound of white feathers lying in his yard.

As he squatted down to assess the situation, "Liza suddenly moved! The hawk had missed!"

I alternately cried with sorrow and then joy as I realized, PBS, that you hadn't taken Liza from me.

This story is far better told by my dear friend Erin, who had seen parts of this program years ago. I must admit that whenever she told the story, a small piece of me envied her for having seen such miraculous self-sacrifice in the form of poultry.

Yes, PBS, this story gets to the heart of all of us. I join my voice with Roy's when he states: "From now on, I will be honored when someone calls me 'chicken.'"

I hope to see more quality programming in the future, PBS, possibly about goats.

Sincerely,

BJ