Emergence

Emergence

The diary lay abandoned on a chair in the passenger terminal of Southwest Airlines. Nadia Rasmussen noticed the leather-bound journal as she slumped down in the seat opposite and reached out reflexively but almost immediately thought better and pulled back. A year earlier almost to the day she had been returning home from another librarians’ conference in Seattle when she spied a shiny paperback – a perfect bound, Penguin Classic edition with the signature black spine and orange logo. This book, too, had been orphaned, deserted, cast off like a jilted lover by its anonymous owner. Nadia held the book up to the dim light. The First Circle by Alexander Solzhenitsyn - what a find! She had already read A Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich and Cancer Ward. Now this thick tome would keep her occupied for the better part of a week or more.

Strange though, how the cover appeared flawlessly immaculate without a single crease or physical blemish – not just pristinely clean, but unread. But then, perhaps the owner bought the novel for the flight out and promptly mislaid the book in the commotion as the plane began boarding. Nadia cracked the front cover, curling the spine stiffly back on itself. A coffin-like rectangle an inch deep had been carved out of the text block.
The previous owner was smuggling drugs!

Once through customs, the mutilated masterpiece had served its purpose and been promptly discarded. Looking over her shoulder to make sure no one was watching, Nadia replaced the disfigured book back where she originally found it and moved several rows away. After that unsettling experience, she resolved to ignore any similar serendipitous finds.

“Is this yours?” An elegantly-dressed, black woman with pearl drop earrings was leaning across the aisle waving the leather journal at Nadia.
“Yes, thank you,” she replied absently. Nadia took the book and concealed it in the side compartment of her carryon bag. Then she felt her face flush and heart racing out of control. What if the owner came rushing back to reclaim his property?

Did anyone see a coffee-colored, leather-bound journal with an ornate hand-tooled façade? Over the intercom a representative announced that the Southwest flight to Boston’s Logan Airport would be boarding momentarily. The black woman with the stunning earrings went and stood in line with other passengers queuing up in front of a small door leading to the plane. Nadia waited discretely a good a five minutes before collecting her carry-on luggage and joining the others.

An hour into the flight, Nadia settled on a plan of action. Without bothering to examine the content of the journal, she would locate the author’s name and address, which in all likelihood was recorded on either the inner flap or first few pages. Once home, she would mail the object to its rightful owner with a short note explaining how the diary came into her possession. No need to identify herself or provide return address. The simple, straightforward act of returning the journal – unread, of course - would rectify the earlier faux pas. However, an hour into the flight when she finally got around to opening the manuscript, Nadia discovered no address, not even a first or last name. Thumbing through to the back, the last few pages were utterly blank. The owner would remain forever anonymous, nameless and unidentified.

The ethical dilemma having yet taken another perverse detour, whatever personal obligation she originally felt to reunite the handwritten diary with its creator no longer existed. Nadia could discard it by dropping drop the journal in the trash at her earliest convenience once the plane touched down in Boston. Or she could leave it somewhere in Logan Airport – perhaps near the reservations counter or on an empty seat in one of the terminals for the next would-be passerby.

The fasten seatbelts sign was extinguished, and an hour later the stewardesses began serving a light lunch as the plane passed over the Rockies. Nadia sipped a V-8 vegetable juice cocktail while munching an oatmeal raisin cookie. The rather plump middle-aged gentleman sitting next to her in a pin-striped ordered a gin and tonic, which he polished off in short order. The man, who was rather short with a washed out, pallid complexion, suffered from male pattern baldness, the fine hair on the crown of his head receding in frizzy tufts to form an unflattering ‘M’. Nadia had read somewhere that the condition was induced by hormones and genetic predisposition. As the stewardess passed in the aisle, the fellow pulled her aside and ordered a second drink. Just a moment earlier, Nadia had caught him ogling her chest, although maybe it was just her imagination. “What are you reading?” He indicated the leather journal.

“It’s a diary of sorts,” Nadia replied obliquely. Even if the fellow, who was old enough to be her father, hadn’t been staring at her bosom, she wasn’t quite sure how she ought to answer the question.

“That’s nice.” His drink arrived, sparing Nadia from any additional small talk.

April 5th, 2010
The Tarahumara Indians here in the hill country of Northern Mexico are not well-liked by much of anyone outside their immediate clan. The mestizos - half-breeds with Indian and Spanish blood - view them as lazy, stupid, and totally unwilling to conform to conventional society. I’m not sure how the Mexicans define the term ‘conventional’. The Tarahumara regard the mestizos as evil and aggressive chavochis, or bearded ones, who have intruded on their land.
Yesterday I spotted a group of Tarahumara women sitting outside the community store in a tiny hamlet just south of Sisoguichic on the Rio Concho River. With few exceptions, they have no need for store-bought goods so they sat for hours on end - self-contained, impassive and perfectly at peace with the world around them, a world that views them as grossly inferior and unworthy.
As the civilized world encroaches on them, the Indians retreat deeper into the wilderness of the high plateau country of the Western Sierra Madre in the northern state of Chihuahua. At last count, seventy thousand remain. Clinging to their primitive culture, the Tarahumara want no part of progress as we define it. They exist in a parallel, non-contiguous universe, farming their rocky, inhospitable soil. They raise corn which is ground into meal and stored in small, water-tight sheds fashioned from rough-hewn logs which they harvest from nearby forests. Some Indians keep goats, sheep and cattle but eat little to no meat. They also grow squash and beans and collect oregano along with several other greens which they boil and eat as we do spinach. The dried corn can last upwards of a year. From the sheep, the woman weave elaborately designed blankets and cloth to protect themselves from the brutal winters.
Everything they need is supplied by Tata Dios, their animistic God. Many Tarahumara were converted to Catholicism by missionaries, but their Christian celebrations are quite bizarre and incomprehensible, even to the local, Christian clergy. By our twentieth-century standards, their aspirations are quite limited and circumspect. They have no need for money. Their agrarian lifestyle is Edenesque in its utter simplicity and disregard for modern convenience.

Nadia wasn’t being paranoid.

As soon as she lowered her head to the journal, her seatmate began undressing her with his eyes, but she was too engrossed in the narrative to make an issue of it. And, if she smart mouthed him, what good would that accomplish? For the duration of the flight, she would still be stuck sitting there next to the horny old fart and his endless parade of gin and tonics.

Reading on, Nadia learned that the diarist – she assumed he was male, although he never properly identified himself as such – was studying anthropology at Antioch College and had traveled to northern Mexico to live with the Indians for the summer. The author was hoping to write his doctoral thesis on the Tarahumara Indian culture, folkways, traditions and myths.

April 10th
I have learned two words today: Quiravi, which means ‘How are you?’ and Bearipache-va!, which translates ‘Until tomorrow!’ So now I can greet people both when coming and going. Not that it makes much difference. I understand no other Indian words and communicate in broken Spanish with the handful of Tarahumara who are bilingual and willing to accept me, the crazy white man, into their confidence.

“The Tarahumara in his native condition is better off, morally, mentally and economically than his civilized brother.”

The above quote, which I found in a moldy text squirreled away in the Antioch College library is from the Norwegian explorer, Carl Lumholtz, after he visited the region in the nineteen forties. I have no reason to doubt the accuracy of his observation.
One of the locals fixed me up with a family who have agreed to let me live with them for a few weeks, and I will be trekking up into the mountains to their small farm toward the end of the week. The beginning of a wonderful adventure is at hand!

The pilot’s voice came over the intercom. The plane, which had banked out over Boston Harbor, was starting its final descent into Logan Airport. Nadia stowed the journal in the bottom of her bag and, closing her eyes, leaned back in the seat. A strategic maneuver, she could hear the fellow next to her shifting about. For sure, he was giving her a thorough once over. Cheap thrill! She wasn’t even remotely interested in his midlife crisis.

  

Her first day back at the Brandenberg Public Library, Nadia waded through a listing of new titles recently published. The library had just received their budget for the new fiscal year. In September she was put in charge of new acquisitions. Like a child in a penny candy store, Nadia ultimately decided what hardcover books to buy among the multiple genres – romance, mystery, literary, detective, young adult as well as juvenile. And that didn’t even take into account nonfiction offerings.

“I’m doing a term paper on the Rhyme of the Ancient Mariner.” Nadia looked up from her desk on the second floor. A high school girl with blond hair tied back in French braids was leaning against the counter.

“Yes, I can find that for you.”

“CliffsNotes,” the girl interjected rather gruffly. “All I need are CliffsNotes.” The nasally voice was tinged with surly impatience.

“Yes, well, we have that, too.” Nadia led her to the section in the stacks where study materials were stored. “You’re a lucky girl.”

“How’s that?”

“There were only four copies available this morning. That’s the last one.” Clearly, Nadia mused, the churlish blonde had no intention of ever reading the poem in the original. When the girl was gone, Nadia returned to the stacks, pulled a slim book from a shelf and returned to the reference desk. She flipped through the pages randomly ignoring text until she found what she was looking for.

“Such a pretty flower!” Liam MacDonald, the library director, came up behind her and was squinting over her shoulder.

Nadia smiled faintly. The director, who was of Scottish background, reminded her of a medieval, Hassidic rabbi with his long, horse face, scraggily reddish-brown beard and prominent nose. The director's lanky body was soft and doughy. “It’s a flowering peyote,” Nadia explained. The cactus, she had just learned, grew in south Texas and Mexico in the high-elevation, desert thorn scrub. The flower pictured in the photo was sitting atop a diminutive, dark green cactus no larger than a bell pepper. A dozen or so delicate, purple petals shot out from the pastel golden nub.

“Peyote’s a hallucinogenic,” the director noted.

“Yes, but the local Indians also use the plant to treat toothaches, pain in childbirth, fever, breast discomfort, skin diseases, rheumatism, diabetes, colds, and even blindness.”

“As I recall,” the director added, “some of the New Age writers and ‘beat’ poets experimented with a peyote derivative, mescaline. Ken Kesey, the author of One Flew over the Cuckoo’s Nest, and Allen Ginsberg come to mind. But since the psychedelic sixties, the drug has fallen out of vogue.”

Ken Kesey. Allen Ginsberg. Liam had to be a few years shy of Medicare, which is to say, he was just coming of age when the flower power generation were experimenting with a smorgasbord of mind bending drugs. “The plant also has antibiotic properties,” Nadia said, shifting gears. “An extract from the peyote cactus has proven effective against eighteen strains of penicillin-resistant bacteria, and fungus.”

“Really!” The director went back downstairs to the circulation desk.

Nadia had no great interest in the plant’s medicinal properties. The nameless author of the leather-bound journal had chewed the disc-shaped peyote buttons, documenting in his journal that the plant was extremely bitter and nauseating. But he mentioned nothing of a personal nature in the text about his experience other than to report, in a rather dry, clinical reportage that, after ingesting five grams of peyote (i.e. approximately five hundred milligrams of mescaline), he experienced heightened states of introspection and insights of a mystical nature.

  

Later that night at supper Nadia asked, “Is our property still zoned agricultural?”

Mr. Rasmussen, who taught physics at the junior college, was spooning out a helping of mashed potatoes onto his plate. “From here west to the Seekonk line has always been considered farm country.” He passed the bowl to his wife. “This place was a working farm when you grandfather lived here, albeit they didn’t have that many animals. Why do you ask?”

“I was considering buying a few chickens to raise out in the back.”

Mrs. Rasmussen’s eyes narrowed. The big-boned woman shifted uncomfortably in her seat and compressed her lips in a tight line. “For what purpose?”

“I don’t know. So we could have fresh eggs whenever we wanted.”

“Eggs are still relatively cheap and when you consider upkeep, it may not be practical.”

Mr. Rasmussen smiled but when he spoke his tone was more inquisitive than argumentative. “You’d need a coop, not to mention both time and energy to manage the fowl. Have you considered the potential headaches?”

“The old shed could easily be converted into a coop,” Nadia parried the question, “and setting up a run for a half dozen birds is no more difficult then fencing off a vegetable garden.”
“Chickens?” Nadia’s mother began fidgeting again, this time more aggressively, in her seat and looked to her husband for moral support. “I really don’t know that - ”

“What’s the problem?” Mr. Rasmussen interjected, waving a hand dismissively in the air. “You buy fully grown birds, some grain and basic supplies. If the scheme doesn’t work out, it’s not the end of the world.” Nadia’s father grabbed a warm roll from a basket, tore it in half and reached for the butter. “If memory serves me right, free-roaming fowl are inexpensive to maintain, their eggs fresher than anything you could buy at the local market, and they manufacture the world’s best fertilizer.”

“You’re not quitting your job at the library, are you?” Mrs. Rasmussen asked frigidly.

“For God’s sake, of course not!” Nadia groaned. “It’s just a hobby …something to do in my spare time.”

“While you’re hunting around for chickens,” her mother added peevishly, “maybe you could scare up a husband or two.”

Since middle school, Nadia’s looks had been, at best, problematic. If the cheeks had been just a bit more sculpted, the features less dense, the effect might have proven modestly attractive. By her senior year in college Nadia Rasmussen had given up on the singles bars. A decade later, she pulled the plug on the internet dating services and lonely hearts section of the Brandenberg Gazette. By the age of thirty-five the woman had effectively thrown in the romantic towel – no mas! - resigning herself to a nether world of terminal spinsterhood. “Apparently nobody wants a homely wife.”

Mrs. Rasmussen’s bottom lip quivered and her eyes clouded over as though the remark was a malicious slight. “You’re not homely and don’t ever suggest such a thing!”

“Unfortunately,” Nadia countered, “nobody else shares your maternal bias.” A tense silence pervaded the room like a raw, early morning mist. “I found this weird journal at the airport in Seattle.” Nadia told her parents about the anonymous author and his experiences with the Indians of the Sierra Madre.

“So now you want to run off and join a tribe of God-forsaken, Stone Age heathens!” Mrs. Rasmussen, who was, by nature, both excitable and high-strung was becoming increasingly shrill.

“On the contrary,” Nadia replied. “I feel no great affinity to the Tarahumara, but reading about them does makes me want to connect in some small way with …” She didn’t quite know how to finish the sentence and, judging by the unforgiving expression in her mother’s eyes, didn’t see where a flurry of flowery speechifying would make a difference.

“My advice,” Mr. Rasmussen poured some iced tea from a carafe, “is that you check with the feed and grange store near the fire station in Rehoboth. They’re always advertising small critters of one sort or another and might be able to give you some practical advice if you’re serious about the venture.”

“You’re a reference librarian, not some hillbilly farmer’s daughter,” Mrs. Rasmussen sputtered under her breath. As the matter had been resolved in a thoroughly democratic fashion, no one seemed to be paying much attention, and mercifully, Mr. Rasmussen began discussing plans for a late summer vacation on Lake Winnipesaukee. Her father, if not wildly enthusiastic, remained relatively neutral. Raising chickens was little more than a venial sin, the sort of psychological aberration that, if things didn't pan out, could be set right quickly and with minimal, collateral damage.

Nadia showered, washed her hair and was in bed with the lights out by ten o’clock. A short time later, her father shuffled into the room. Mr. Rasmussen stood mutely by the headboard, waiting patiently for her to acknowledge his presence.

“What?” Nadia murmured. She was dozing off.

“Why did you say what you did earlier?”

“About the chickens?”

“No, not that. You’re no movie star, but you’re plenty pretty enough to get a husband without groveling or settling for second best.” When there was no reply, he retreated from the room. A minute later Mr. Rasmussen was back again, thumping Nadia insistently between the shoulder blades.

“Jesus, I was sound asleep! You went off and I thought - ”

Her father lit the light and sat down on the side of the bed, cradling a textbook heavier than most doorstops in his lap. Nadia draped her forearm over her eyes to block the light. “Emergence theory,” her father spoke rather softly in a deliberate, unhurried manner, “describes how complex patterns arise from relatively simple interactions. The concept has been around since the time of Aristotle.”

Nadia let out a muffled groan. "First thing in the morning, Liam MacDonald's scheduled a staff meeting at the library after which I'm meeting with a group of prospective senior volunteers." Mr. Rasmussen positioned the book in front of his daughter who was now sitting up in bed. On the right-hand page was a picture of a rather elaborate termite mound – more like an orangy cathedral - somewhere in the grasslands of Africa. “Very impressive but I don’t understand why you’re showing me this.”

“The termites have no idea that an architectural masterpiece will emerge from their collective efforts. Generations of insects go to their mindless graves without even an appreciative glance at the end product of their labors.” Clearly, Mr. Rasmussen was just getting up a head of steam and had no intentions of condensing or abbreviating his remarks. Regardless of the late hour, there would be no CliffsNotes version.

“I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about.”

“The termites had no conscious knowledge of what they are creating when they start hauling debris years earlier.” He jabbed at the photo emphatically. “In Emergence Theory, systems can have qualities not directly traceable to the original components, but rather to how those components interact.” Nadia’s father lowered his eyes and began reading directly from the accompanying text:

Emergence theory is uncomfortably like magic. How does an irreducible causal power arise, since by definition it can’t be due to the collection of things at a lesser level? It turns human reason and scientific methodology on its ear by giving you something for nothing. Nothing commands the system to form a pattern. Instead, the interaction of each part with its immediate surroundings causes a complex chain of processes leading to some order.

Flipping the page, Mr. Rasmussen pointed to several other examples: sand dunes in the Saharan Desert reconfigured and set in constant, undulating motion by a violent windstorm; a mosaic of kaleidoscopic crystals feathering across a pane of glass during a random ice storm.

Mr. Rasmussen shut the light but showed no inclination to leave. “Emergence Theory would suggest that there’s a reason – most probably beyond our limited comprehension - why you stumbled across that abandoned journal. It’s all part of the grand design.” Mr. Rasmussen suddenly reached out and stroked her face with the palm of his hand. “One last thing,” he added hoarsely as an afterthought, “Everything about you is an unimpeachable work of art.” Leaning forward, he kissed her once on the forehead and silently left the room.

May 5th
The Tarahumara are essentially a ‘stone age’ culture. Even today they want nothing to do with money. Material possessions are of no importance. They are a very shy, sensitive, bashful and isolated people, even within their households. Family members only speak to each other when absolutely necessary and woman are not allowed to be seen naked unless in the act of lovemaking.
These unusual – unusual by our Western standards – traits are reflected quite graphically in the way they handle conflict. The Tarahumara practice a Gandhi-like passive resistance characterized by physical withdrawal and avoidance. In recent years, when the Mexican government has been encroaching on their traditional homelands in search of minerals and logging interests, the Indians simply stand quietly and let it happen. Then they retreat even further into the Barranca del Cobra (i.e. the remote Copper Canyon) and even harsher environmental conditions.

Saturday morning Nadia Rasmussen drove to Hoxie’s Feed and Grange Store in Rehoboth. “I need some chickens.”

“Dual purpose or layers?” the owner, a portly man in farmer jeans asked.

The question caught her off guard. “All I want are the eggs.”

‘Would that be for a commercial venture or just recreational, family farming?”

“Family. All I want are a few birds.”

With a wave of the wrist he indicated a door at the far end of the building. “Go out back and see Jonathan. He’ll take care of you.” Just as abruptly, the man turned away to the next customer.

As she walked through the barnlike structure, Nadia saw bags of grain and feed for every manner of animal, four-legged and otherwise. There were gerbils and hamsters in metal cages with water bottles and circular tread mills. A pastel yellow cockatoo with a bunching of feathers sticking straight up from the crown of its delicate head was pecking away at a tray of seeds. Nadia generally didn't do well with animals, domestic or otherwise. They needed to be fed and groomed on a regular basis; they peed, defecated and infused every permeable object with a musky, unhygienic odor. Visiting the Hoxie Feed and Grange was, in a manner of speaking, like facing down her demons, like learning how to swim by pinching one's nose and belly flopping into the deep end of the pool. Just outside the rear door on the loading platform was a short, stocky man in his mid-thirties dressed in farmer jeans and a plaid shirt. “I need a few chickens.”

Dual purpose or layers?”

It was the same question the older man had put to her. “All I want is a handful of chicken so my family can have fresh eggs.”

The fellow pushed a pair of dark-framed glasses up on the bridge of his nose and massaged a scraggily beard with the palm of his hand. “We don’t keep mature fowl here on premises, but I can get whatever you want in a day or two.”

“Well that’s the problem,” Nadia confided. “I don’t know the first thing about raising chickens.”

Jonathan blinked several times and cleared his throat. “My father sent you back here?”

“Yes, he said you could get me situated.”

He continued to stare at her with a disconcertingly blank expression. “Food, water, space…”

. “Excuse me?” Jonathan Hoxie was proving to be about as much help as his tight-lipped father.

“A moment ago, you said you didn’t know the first thing about raising chickens. You just learned pretty much everything there is to know about the topic.” His laconic features dissolved in a whimsical smile. “Unlike most domestic animals, chickens don’t really need us for much of anything. As long as you set clean drinking water aside, a little nourishment and don’t crowd them together, they’ll look after their own needs.” Jonathan Hoxie led the way back into the building to a small office next to a hutch full of short-hair, Holland lop rabbits.

"Now this is what I would suggest…”

As Jonathan explained things, all Nadia needed were five or six chickens to produce a couple dozen eggs weekly – more than enough to feed the entire family with a few left over for breads and pastries. He sold her a fifty-pound bag of calcium for ten dollar and when she asked how long the bag would last, Jonathan replied, “You and all your feathered progeny will be dead and buried before the calcium runs out.” He sold her two each of Rhode Island Reds, Barred Plymouth Rocks and White Leghorns. “You’ll find the Plymouth Rocks are a bit more docile than the others.”

“I thought chickens were pretty much the same when it came to temperament.”

The bearded man’s eyebrows rose a good quarter inch before settling back down. “Each bird – even in the same breed – will display a different personality and temperament. And they're infinitely entertaining.” The Jonathan looked down pensively at his heavy work boots. “What do you do for a living, Miss Rasmussen?”

“I’m the reference librarian over at the Brandenberg Public Library.”

“If you traffic in poetry and prose, then you must know where the term ‘pecking order’ came from.” Nadia thought a moment. When no reply was forthcoming, he continued, “A social caste system always emerges among the dull-witted critters in chicken coops. Some birds are more aggressive and dominant while others, like the rock hens, tend to be more laid back, curious and easygoing.” He stroked his whiskers thoughtfully. “Do you remember back to high school with all the silly cliques - the geeks, valedictorians, mean girls, jocks, highfalutin homecoming queens and fashionistas?”

“Chickens move in their own social circles?”

“After a fashion, yes.”

Off to one corner in the cramped office, a stack of cardboard boxes labeled 'Merrick Gourmet Dog Food' teetered five feet off the rough-sawn floorboards. Burger Pie and Sweet Fries. Campfire Trout Feast, Harvest Moon. Love Potion #9. Did they really put succulent trout in the dog food, Nadia mused, or some dirt-cheap facsimile? And Love Potion #9 - what a goofy name for over-priced mush served in a stainless steel dog bowl!

"Wingaling," He whisked an orphaned can off the desk and held it just under Nadia's chin. "It's one of our biggest sellers. Features pressure-cooked chicken bones, sweet potatoes, carrots and peas."

Jonathan, who lived close by, agreed to deliver the hens directly to Nadia’s house later in the week along with a chicken tractor, a moveable screened pen that would protect the fowl from predators at night and when no one was around. Nadia, the reference librarian who had never even owned a cat much less a half dozen chickens, drove home with a profound sense of awe and trepidation.

May11th
The Tarahumara are best known as the “running Indians”. Running a twenty-six mile marathon is no great deal for these amazing people who have been known to cover distances of fifty to eighty miles on a regular basis and at a consistently fast pace. Endurance takes precedence over speed, and, in their hunting practices, the Indians have literally chased after deer, wild turkey and rabbits until the animals collapsed from sheer exhaustion. Their unusual hunting practices are common knowledge throughout the Southwest where ranchers have hired Indians to chase down wild horses.
A medical doctor, Dale Groom, who has studied the Tarahumara, writes: “Probably not since the days of the ancient Spartans have a people achieved such a high state of physical conditioning.”

From what I’ve observed in the relatively short period that I have boarded with the Indians, conditioning seems to explain their amazing endurance, rather than heredity or genetics. In one competitive race called the ‘rarajipari’ two teams must kick a baseball-shaped wooden ball as they run. Each man takes turns dribbling the ball, soccer-style, along a course that extends over very rocky, rugged terrain. Racers drink an alcoholic drink called tesguino, which is made from fermented corn, right up until the start of the race. Contestants often smoke a combination of tobacco mixed with dried bat’s blood to help them run faster and fend off the other team’s malicious spirits. It is not uncommon for runners to drop out of the race due to superstitious fear but never from exhaustion.

  

Driving a battered Chevy pickup with a blown muffler, Jonathan Hoxie rumbled into the Rasmussen’s back yard Thursday late in the afternoon. The six birds were packed away for safekeeping in the chicken trailer, which he deposited in the back yard next to a clump of silver birch trees. Nadia’s father, who had purposely come home early from work to welcome the new arrivals, stood off to one side wearing distracted expression.

Almost as soon as the chicken trailer arrived, one by one, the birds climbed down the slatted ramp to terra firma to inspect their new digs. Jonathan unlatched the door, reached in and grabbed a white leghorn, which he cradled against his barrel chest. “Meet the welcoming committee!” Without forewarning he handed the plump fowl to Nadia. The bird clucked and craned its neck but settled back down fairly quickly. “You can keep them in the wire coop or let them roam about the yard during the day. The choice is yours.” Jonathan pointed to the fifty pound bag in the rear of the truck. “Where do you want the calcium?”

Mr. Rasmussen was already waiting with a two-wheel hand truck to cart the dietary supplement off to the shed. “I threw in a bag of pine shavings. The carbon emitted from the wood chips will absorb any odor from the bird waste. Also, you can shift the chicken tractor about from one location to another to give the birds a new collection of weeds and insects to feast on.” All six birds were out of the coop now, foraging about the yard. “They’re nothing like dogs or cats,” Jonathan noted, anticipating her train of thought. “You don’t need to do much of anything except put out fresh water and collect the eggs each day.”

Mrs. Rasmussen came out on the back stoop and gawked at the new arrivals with a look of apocalyptic despair before retreating to the domestic safe haven of her kitchen. Meanwhile, Mr. Rasmussen had cornered Jonathan Hoxie down by the shed where he was haranguing the feed and grange man with an endless barrage of questions. Ten minutes later the man jumped back in the cab of his truck and sped away.

“What was that all about?”

Her father waved a hand distractedly in the air. “A private matter.” Mr. Rasmussen went off to inspect the chickens.

  

Two weeks had passed since the hens arrived. They started laying eggs almost immediately and truly required next to nothing from their human hosts. “Your father’s making me nervous,” Mrs. Rasmussen sputtered morosely.

Nadia, who had just returned home from work, was replenishing the plastic water tray. The birds seemed to be managing nicely on a steady diet of table scraps, grubs, worms, spiders, commercial chicken feed – twenty percent protein layer pellets mix with whole grain - and the oyster shell calcium Jonathan recommended. “And why is dad making you nervous?”

“When he comes home from the college in the late afternoon, he sits on the back porch staring at the chickens.”

“That’s a problem?”

“Your father’s up to something,” Mrs. Rasmussen fretted. “I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”

“Watching the birds is therapeutic.”

“Your father’s a physic teacher at the community college not some gentleman farmer.”

“I didn’t know the two were mutually exclusive.”

Her mother lumbered back to the house. As much as Mrs. Rasmussen bellyached about the hens, she, too, had grown attached. On more than one occasion, Nadia had caught her mother observing them with a transfixed expression as the birds, like an impromptu vaudeville act, went about their daily routine. The heavyset woman regularly brought baskets of surplus eggs over to the neighbors who reported how fresh and noticeably tastier they were.

Nadia’s father had begun studying each bird, identifying certain anomalies and predilections. “That feisty Rhode Island red hates one of the rock hens,” he observed earlier that morning. Mr. Rasmussen pointed out the troublesome bird in question. Sure enough, no sooner had he spoke when the Rhode Island Red could be seen chasing the terrified rock hen out from behind a clump of tulips past the gutter spout at the far end of the house. “Strange, though, how he leaves the other rock hen alone. It’s only that smaller one she torments.” Sure enough the second rock hen was pecking away in the dirt not three feet away, oblivious to the donnybrook.

The third week in June, Jonathan Hoxie visited the library. “I drove by your house but nobody was home. I’ve got a message for your father, but he’ll have to hurry or the opportunity could slip away.”

Nadia stared at the short, compact man. When they first met, Nadia originally thought Jonathan slightly dull-witted, but realized that she had misjudged the man. As comfortable and self-assured as he was around gerbils, hamsters and Holland lop rabbits, Jonathan was horribly hamstrung and socially inept – totally out of his element in social situations. In a word, the man was excruciatingly shy. “What opportunity are we talking about?”

“A dairy farmer just up the road in Seekonk is culling his herd. The owner's got a Jersey that’s only producing thirty pounds a day and is willing to let her go for a fraction -”

“My father approached you about a cow?”

Jonathan blinked and gawked at her queerly. “He’s been calling me at least twice a week since I dropped off the hens.” The man leaned forward and lowered his voice, assuming a confidential tone. “The Jersey’s a good deal because it’s on the small side – a tad under eight hundred pounds – and, even taking butter, cheeses, cream and yoghurt into account, what’s a family gonna do with more than thirty pounds of high-fat milk each week?”

Nadia sat for a full minute staring blankly toward the stacks at the far end of the room. Her pudgy hands were folded on the top of the reference desk in a prayerful attitude, as she recalled a peculiar incident from earlier in the week. Wednesday evening after bathing and combing out her hair, she decided to check her email on the internet. When the darkened computer screen came to life, she was staring at a website from Holly Lake Ranch in Hawkins Texas, featuring old-fashion, wooden butter churns. The tapered buckets were held tight by metal bands with the slender pole attached to the butter paddle sticking straight up from a hole in the center of the lid. Navigating out of the website so she could retrieve her mail, Nadia thought nothing of the queer incident. “Could I see this animal … this eight hundred pound Jersey cow?”

“Now?”

“Yes, right now.”

Jonathan rubbed the back of his neck with a broad, callused hand. “Well, I don’t see why not. The farm’s only twenty minutes away. We could shoot over there in my truck and be back in no time.”

Rising from her chair, Nadia followed him downstairs. At the front desk she cornered an elderly woman processing a pile of books in circulation. “There’s been a family emergency. Tell Liam I had to leave on short notice, but will be back in an hour or so.”

On the ride over to the dairy farm, Nadia noted, “What you told me was true.”

“Which was?”

“That chickens develop their own pecking order.”

Jonathan slowed for a family waiting at a crosswalk. “Always do.”

“Does their social system ever break down?”

Jonathan thought a moment. “Poultry can’t manage in flocks of more than twenty.”

“And why is that?”

They were already away from the congestion of the inner city on a two-lane road headed east with corn and vegetables planted in tidy rows on either side of the highway. “Chickens are social, class-conscious animals. Once every resident knows their place in the coop, the pecking order works fine but only up to a certain, fixed point. Add even one or two more birds to the mix, however, and their dim-witted, poor little brains can’t keep track of who belongs where in the fixed scheme of things. The result is pandemonium and a coop full of stressed-out, neurotic birds.” Directly up ahead the dairy farm with a series of barns and fenced off fields came into sight. Jonathan turned off the road onto a narrow muddy path and slowed the truck to a crawl as they negotiated the rutted driveway. “Twenty birds,” he repeated, “that’s the outer limit before the proverbial bird poop hits the fan.”

The cow in question, a tan Jersey with graceful legs and creamy white markings around her eyes and muzzle, was located in a field two hundred feet away from where they parked the truck. “It always pays to examine new cows firsthand to get a feel for the beasts’ qualities,” Jonathan noted. “I came by Tuesday and observed her during milking.”

“And what did you discover?”

“She’s a real classy lady. Calm, mellow… didn’t hardly give the dairy workers any grief.” “You could go with a Dutch Belted, Ayrshire, Guernsey or Dexter, but, to my mind, that Jersey’s a sensible choice.”

Jonathan gestured with a flick of his head at a grouping of much larger cows with patchwork black and white markings. “Take those Holsteins for example. They go upwards of twelve hundred pounds, consume a heck of a lot more fodder and the milk isn’t nearly as rich.” He stared thoughtfully at the cattle. “Now that chubby lady over by the rotted stump is carrying.”

An acrid smell, wet clay mixed with the sweeter more pungent odor of fresh dung suffused the air. “Carrying what?”

“She’s pregnant… probably four, five months gone.” He cracked a mischievous grin. “A two-for-one special.” Jonathan shifted thirty feet along the fence still eyeing the pregnant cow. “Do you notice how that bovine holds her head cocked slightly to the side?”

Nadia studied the pregnant cow, which was chewing her cud and staring absentmindedly in their general direction. “The back of a cow should be straight, with prominent hipbones; the neck and head ought to move freely without any stiffness. A cow that stands with her head always tilted to the side may have some visual or inner ear problems.” Jonathan picked up a small branch and hurled it to the right of where the cow was standing. Startled, the animal lumbered awkwardly several paces further away, then turned and stared dully at the humans one last time before wandering off. Again, the cow’s head was decidedly off center.

“Now that one over by the watering trough – you probably didn’t notice – is missing a teat, but that don’t matter just so long as she’s got three working teats and there’s no mastitis or udder, infectious diseases.” He quickly turned to Nadia, grinned foolishly and tapped her on the forearm “You get it? Udder... other diseases – it’s a farmer’s joke.” Jonathan began chuckling at his own cleverness.

The subject matter, which had taken an unexpected turn, left Nadia queasy, light-headed. One of the cows bellowed, a deep throaty bass sound that seemed to rile the other animals who joined in the improvised, atonal chorus. “You don’t want a cow with a nasty disposition, overly aggressive or intimidating. The opposite can be just as bad. If Bessie frightens easily, is shy or nervous, that could be a problem.”

“But you said that the Jersey was calm during milking,” Nadia replied.

“Yes, the cow that’s for sale seems quite docile.”

  

Returning home, Nadia found her father out on the back porch watching the chickens. The Rhode Island Red, who was pecking at a clump of dandelions, suddenly flew into a tizzy and, clucking like a banshee, chased her rock hen nemesis, to the opposite end of the yard. “How much time before the sun goes down?”

“Another hour and a half, maybe two.” Mr. Rasmussen replied. “Why do you ask?”

“I was wondering if you would you like to take a drive …go meet the latest edition to the family?” On the ride over to the dairy farm Nadia asked, “Buying a cow – is that another example of emergence theory?”

Mr. Rasmussen shook his head in the negative. “No, it’s just animal husbandry.”

June 29th
The Tarahumara consume huge amounts of an alcoholic beverage, tesguino, which is made from fermented corn. The Indians consider being intoxicated a matter of pride and are not ashamed to become drunk. Properly understood, it is an inextricable part of their tribal culture
These communal drinking festivals are important because they allow the Tarahumara to vent violent and aggressive emotions, something that would not be acceptable in ordinary, everyday life. It is said that ninety percent of all social infractions – fighting, adultery and occasionally murder - occur at the ‘tesguinado’. What is amazing, from our skewed, European point of view, is that a person who commits one of these crimes is unlikely to be punished or suffer any serious repercussions. The Tarahumara simply blame anything that happens during the tesguinado on the alcohol.
The roots of the Tarahumara beliefs and religion are very puzzling. In the middle 1600’s Franciscan missionaries arrived in the Copper Canyon and tried to instill Christianity as the Indian’s religion. The Tarahumara never fully accepted Christianity. They believed that their own views on religion were too important to just forget, and so, over time, the Tarahumara have assimilated bits and pieces of both religions. It is now impossible for people to find the roots of current Tarahumara beliefs. Their most important belief that has remained unchanged over the years is that God is the sun, his wife is the moon, and the Devil is the father of all non-Indians. This belief is an example of the Tarahumara extreme ethnocentrism; they believe that they are a superior race and that they are more important than other people.
The Tarahumara are not very hygienic. The washing of their clothes is usually either an annual or semiannual tradition. The Indians have no regular sleeping habits and simply go to sleep whenever and wherever they are tired and feel that they need rest. The practice of childbirth is also distinct to the Tarahumara. When a woman feels that it is about time for her to deliver the baby, she will go off by herself into the wilderness, brace herself between two small trees and attempt to have the baby safely. Infant mortality is very high. This fact is counterbalanced by the fact that the average Tarahumara woman gives birth to about ten babies hoping that three or four will survive. Adulthood is usually short for the Indians with the average life expectancy being forty-five.

Nadia, who was lying on the living room couch, flipped the page but discovered no more entries. It was the end of the journal but certainly not the final chapter in the saga of the Tarahumara. In an illustrated book, Indians of the Southwest, located in the history section of the library, she learned that the Mexican government had run train tracks through the isolated Copper Canyon opening the region up to tourists. A medical clinic, the first of its kind in the isolated area, had reduced infant mortality among the Indians by half, but the increased numbers inhabiting the region had put a strain on natural resources. There simply wasn’t enough open space and farmable land left to sustain the Indians’ traditional lifestyle.

  

In late October, two months after the Jersey arrived at the Rasmussen’s, Nadia stopped by the Rehoboth Feed and Grange. “I’m on my way to Logan Airport and was wondering if you would like to come along for the drive.”

“Going away?” Jonathan asked.

Nadia shook her head. “It’s a bit complicated,” she hedged, “but I can explain everything on the Southeast Expressway. When do you get off work?”

Three hours later as they were cruising north on route three into Boston, Nadia told Jonathan about the ornate, leather-bound journal. “Now that I’ve finished reading it, I’m leaving the diary at the airport for someone else to find.”

Directly ahead and slightly to the left, the Prudential Building loomed high above office buildings dotting the metropolitan skyline. Chinatown came into view and just as quickly disappeared as the car entered a tunnel under the city outskirts. “Sure wish you’d told me this earlier,” Jonathan muttered.

“And why’s that?”

“I'd sure like to read the journal.”

“Then we made the trip for nothing.”

Jonathan thought a moment. Up ahead a sliver of light indicated that they were exiting the tunnel heading in the direction of Faneuil Market and the Boston Aquarium. He pressed down on the directional, easing over into the far right-hand lane. “So the drive won’t be a complete loss, why don’t we double back to Chinatown and grab something to eat?”

Nadia rested a hand on Jonathan’s forearm. “That sure is sweet of you.” They were already winding through narrow, congested streets lined with oriental restaurants and exotic shops. Many of the signs on storefronts were lettered in Chinese characters. A young Asian woman with jet black hair fluttering about her waist hurried by. The woman wore a skintight dress fashioned from two-tone silk brocade with a Mandarin collar. The car inched up to a red light. “My father teaches physics at the community college.”

“Which makes him both a dairy farmer and a man of science,” Jonathan quipped. Reaching out with his free hand, he grabbed her palm and gave it an affectionate squeeze.

“Emergence theory… Are you familiar with the concept?”

Jonathan shook his head and turned sharply into an outdoor parking lot that bordered a string of glitzy Chinese eateries. “Never heard of it.”

Once settled in the restaurant, Nadia made a mental note to tell Jonathan about scaly termite mounds taller than most NBA basketball players; and ravishingly beautiful ice crystals as ephemeral and fleeting as a heartbeat; and desert sands whipped into frothy, undulating ribbons when caressed by the super-heated North African wind. Over pork chop suey, pan fried Peking dumplings, won-ton soup and endless cups of Oolong black tea, she would explain how seemingly random, meaningless and thoroughly unremarkable events might conspire to enchant and ultimately transform an otherwise drab universe.