Apprenticeship and learning to interact with customers.
I was talking to a friend who worked for a time as a mural artist and we got into a discussion about how people get their training in such things.
I served a five year apprenticeship as a painter and decorator back in the 1950s and remember it (mostly) with fondness. Back then it was usually working most of the time on jobs alongside time-served qualified tradesmen, But then there was either day-release or block-release at the local community college alongside that (either one day per week or one week per month).
Part of the training on the job with the tradesmen was what would now be called ‘life skills’ – how to conduct yourself in someone’s home. In other words simple things that have remained with me ever since – wipe your feet before entering – put dust sheets down – be polite – thanks for the morning cup of tea. Never, ever, take the last cookie on the plate!!
I had had a meteoric downward trajectory at High School and left with no qualifications at age fifteen. But my dad had a respected and busy painting company and I had helped for a couple of years during school breaks. So he took me on as an apprentice.
Three things happened in fairly quick succession. My mother took me to a local store where I was fitted out with my first set of white overalls, I signed my indenture papers and I suffered the indignity of the traditional induction. The induction consisted of being waylaid by the older apprentices who removed my trousers and painted my nether parts! At that time most trades had a similar tradition – –
We were painting a hospital ward at the time and a very kind nurse cleaned me up!
I hope my dad explained things to my mum when she saw the state of my underwear.
Don’t ask me how it happened. Last Sunday, I hear peeping in our yard. Not the chirping of loquacious English sparrows, which is nonstop this time of year.
Peeping, like baby chicken peeping
This was confirmed when Tom Tom the Tiler’s son arrived to put the final touches on our remodeled bathroom. As he came through the yard, he asked, “You get new chicks?”
(The first day Tom arrived, his bathtub removal was delayed by the fact that we had purchased two baby chicks who were residing in it overnight, until they could be introduced to our broody hen in the wee small hours of dawn.)
So I started looking, and yep, two yellow things were hanging out in the bushes. Of course, they didn’t know me, and they didn’t know I had good intentions, so the next few hours, I kept returning to the house with mudslide prints up my sweats and twigs in my hair.
It is very hard to rescue something that doesn’t trust yet. Let’s just leave it at that, and you can stretch it into any analogy you care to make regarding humans and doing good to others.
Meanwhile, back at what was increasingly looking like a chicken ranch, I was looking increasingly deranged, because turns out baby chicks are FAST. The ground was muddy, the trees were wet, and every time I dove for them, I got wetter and muddier.
And there were more storms coming. It was already drizzling by the time I caught the one. That only happened because she kept hiding in our lilac tree, and I learned to look carefully at the bottom of it for things that were feet, not branches. She was VERY good at hiding, but I had logic on my side. Lilac branches are not orange and do not have toes.
I also had a small net. Two chicks down, because when I caught her, her sister came out to rescue her. Relieved, I ensconced them in a safe, warm coop, headed toward the house—
–and saw a little black fuzzy thing on our woodpile, peeping loudly.
Am I about to rescue a baby starling? The thought crossed my mind, but I still had the net, and the woodpile has a solid back on the pallet that holds it, so she wasn’t that hard. Which was nice because the rain had started in earnest now. There was even a clap of thunder, for dramatic effect.
As I dropped her unceremoniously into the coop to meet the yellow ones, right next to the coop was a fourth fuzzball, looking longingly at the food, water, comfy cedar shavings, and the now-we-are-three baby chicks inside.
She was a willing capture. “Put me in with them” isn’t always a good instinct for vulnerable things, but in this case I was not the marauding monster of doom the first yellow chick had peeped–er pegged–me to be and that was a safe space. I promise, kids…
Four baby chicks in the coop, safe and warm despite the storm. I went in to take a hot bath in our newly remodeled tub–and realized Tom was still working on it.
Cursing, I scrubbed down with an alcohol wipe. Stupid baby chickens. It’s a good thing they’re cute.
Where did they come from? Chickens from heaven? Best guess–since they match the ones currently sold at Tractor Supply–is someone in our neighborhood got started, and a day into it realized they didn’t want to do this. And knew we had chickens, so hey, there you go.
We are still working on their association with human hands as friends not foes. They still do the panic peeping when we put our hands in the coop, but they will also peck corn from them. And they have gotten used to the sound of our voices and they even enjoy the occasional lullaby as we check on them before bed. Since our other chickens are wild, and that makes it hard to herd them into safe areas for their own protection, we are trying to convince these new kids that we are the source of help. It is hard to help what doesn’t trust you, so we are building those relationships now with a head stroke here, a hand out there.
Probably another metaphor in there, if you want to scratch for it.
Wendy Welch: Books, Yarn, Cats, Opioids 