In the Hill Country, chickens aren’t just livestock, they’re part of the family. And among our feathery brood, none was more beloved than Blueberry. She wasn’t named for her color (she was as white as a cloud on a spring morning) but for the little girl who claimed her as her own. My daughter had that bird wrapped around her finger, or maybe it was the other way around.
Either way, Blueberry had a calm dignity about her. She was the kind of hen that made you think, “If chickens held Sunday school, she’d be teaching it.” One morning, my daughter ran out to the coop with her usual excitement. She peeked inside and came running back, eyes shining. “Daddy! Blueberry’s laying her egg! She looks so calm, so cool, just being a momma.” I strolled over, half-grinning, thinking I’d puff my chest and explain how this was the miracle of farm life. (Dad joke break: Why did the chicken go to the séance?
To talk to the other side.) But when I leaned in, my grin faded. Blueberry wasn’t just calm, she was still. She had passed on, quietly, laying among her eggs as if she was passing the baton to the next generation. It was as though she had chosen the most motherly way to go, watching over life even as hers ended. We didn’t just move on.
No, sir. This called for a Hill Country send-off. We dug a spot under the oak tree, said our prayers, and gave her the kind of funeral most folks don’t even give their dogs. My kids, bless them, each gave sermons, one short, one shorter, both sweeter than pie. Their words had more truth in them than a preacher’s three-point outline: life is a gift, death is part of it, and love doesn’t stop just because the clucking does.
It was one of those porch-sitting lessons you don’t forget. Joy can turn into sadness in a heartbeat, and sometimes the best way to honor both is to slow down, give thanks, and say a proper goodbye. Blueberry may be gone, but her eggs and the little hearts that loved her carry on. (And yes, in case you’re wondering, I did resist making the obvious “crossing the road” joke at the graveside.
Some moments deserve better than that.)
By Matthew Willis · From the October 2025 (archive attribution) issue.