All Who Wander Are Not Lost: Chickens!

When I started working on the farm this summer I was not surprised to see movable chicken “tractors” on my initial visit to the farm. Each of the four handcrafted movable hutches had about a dozen four week old chicks aimlessly pecking around and staring at me with little beady chicken eyes. When I first peered in at the chickens and exclaimed, “Oh, Barred Rocks,” I think my soon to be boss was a little surprised. His immediate response was, “So you know about chickens?” I smiled politely, shook my head yes, and said, “Yes, I know a little about chickens.”

Quite frankly, I have a history with chickens. As far back as I can remember we had a small flock of chickens and a rooster (mostly Rhode Island Reds for you chicken folk out there). I think my mom just liked them for being, well, chickens. The fresh eggs were a nice added bonus. In fact, I vaguely remember seeing a white egg for the first time and asking my mom if it had been bleached. I think I was at least twelve.

Somehow the chickens my mom enjoyed so much became my job– I guess she thought feeding and watering them everyday would teach me responsibility.

Instead, it taught me to despise chickens with a passion.

I’m not really sure what went wrong. I think it was some combination of one very mean rooster and the fact that I loved to run barefoot through the yard, something that didn’t mix well with our “free range” chickens intent on also fertilizing the yard. I still clearly remember the little squish and slip of chicken poop between my toes – yack! It’s probably a good thing I didn’t know any curse words at the time or I’m sure my mom would still be washing my mouth out with soap.

The roosters added an extra element of adventure to the chickens. We had one beautiful mostly white rooster for a long time named Lucky (I think my parents named him, I didn’t get it until a few years ago – oh, the innocence). Lucky was really very friendly for a rooster, he just milled around his hens and did general rooster business. I think he eventually died of old age, or maybe was killed by a fox, I don’t really remember. In fact, I don’t really remember how any of the chickens died. Hmmm, I’ll have to ask my parents about that. Anyway, when Lucky died we replaced him with Ernie. To say Ernie was mean is to put it lightly - Ernie was evil, and I’m still convinced he was out to get me. My dad gave me a cane to carry for a while when Ernie was out in the yard “just in case.” Well, that didn’t last long, and neither did Ernie. I do know how he died, and it wasn’t from old age.

Despite my rocky past with chickens, I somehow became a member of the poultry judging team for my FFA club in high school after we moved to Arkansas. I think it was mostly because I was new to the school, they didn’t have enough people on the team, and I at least knew a beak from a tail feather. Judging involved everything from grading eggs to looking at chicken carcasses to determine if they were “plump” enough. Fairly needless to say, I wasn’t very good at poultry judging. I’m pretty certain the team probably would have done better without my score tallied in the total. For whatever reason, though, I stayed on the team for at least two years and looked at a LOT of chickens.

So here I am again, my life intersecting with chickens. I only occasionally feed and water the chickens on the farm if it hasn’t been done before I get there in the morning. Sometimes I collect eggs, sometimes I move pens and fencing, and sometimes I chase and catch the ones that get out, but other than that, mostly I just get to watch the chickens be chickens. It looks like a decent life – eat chicken food, wander around, look for bugs, eat bugs, drink water, dust yourself, lay an egg when you feel like it, repeat.

There is one chicken, though, that has a much more interesting life – Queenie. She’s the only chicken on the farm with a name, and the only chicken consistently allowed to roam wherever she wants. She gets her food and water out of dishes especially for her, finds her own worms in the compost pile, and lays her eggs behind an old truck door leaning against the garage. All the chickens on the farm have a pretty good life – plenty of space to run around, organic feed, and shelters, but Queenie really does live like royalty.

Well, I think that’s enough chicken talk for one night. I’ll try to keep you updated on the chickens at the farm and tell a little more about Queenie at some point. I’ll just leave you with one last chicken thought:

You know that brown spot on top of chicken shit?

Yeah, that’s chicken shit too.