the domestics' tranquility

Most of the feed is eaten by the squirrels, but we still call it a bird feeder. It sits on a stout pole under an aging maple tree, which threatens to obliterate it by randomly showering down rotten branches.

It does attract birds in addition to squirrels, and in our early chicken-years, it was a favorite hangout of the hens.  Every morning they would pour out of the keep en masse, round the garden shed & waddle up the front steps to get to the black sunflower seed spilled beneath it by the squirrels & jays.

Now that they are cut off from the feeder, the hens appear to remember the generosity of their wild kin.  I scatter their measure of scratch each morning & head down to the cul-de-sac for the newspaper.  By the time I return, band-tailed pigeons and blue jays have doubled the population on the ground.

The hens are always chasing each other away from the feed, but no heed is paid to this new crowd that only shows up for breakfast.  As I approach, the jays back off in an untrustworthy manner, but the skittish pigeons head for the tree tops where I can hear their heavy wingbeats as they move from branch to branch.  The hens don’t look up, pigeons, what pigeons?

Coo, coo, ca choo.

the chick or the eggs?

Cosmolopsically speaking, I vote for the chicken, but for me personally, it was the eggs.

For several decades before encountering an actual chicken in the wild, I had to learn how to cope with eggs.  Swallowing them with a bite of toast got me through breakfast.  Afternoon eggs, deviled or hard boiled, weren’t so egg-like, or could be rendered edible by the extravagant application of salt.

Then, in the winter of 1978, having developed an interest in woodworking, I began making daily trips to my grandparents' house, first to refinish a delicate writing desk my grandfather had made as a young man, and then to build a cabinet for my parents.  I worked with my grandfather’s tools in his dark garage which was lined with shelves of narrow cedar boxes filled with salvaged fastenings.  A little door next to the vice opened so a long board could extend outside through the wall.


My grandparents enjoyed the return of their prodigal grandson, so long as I left each evening with the garage as orderly & clean as on the morning I first arrived.  One day, my grandmother offered to make me lunch, and when I sat down, placed before me a plate of scrambled eggs like I had never seen before, which no amount of salt or toast could have improved.


Several years later, when it was too late to ask, and remembering only that she had added some parmesan cheese, I set myself the task of recreating her eggs.  Failing repeatedly, I chanced upon an article on egg scrambling methods and, so found in my skillet one morning a passable resemblance to my culinary grail.

I make my grandmother’s eggs by adding a touch of milk to a couple eggs, which I whip energetically with a fork, to mix in air.  I cook them quickly in butter, stirring all the while so they will cook uniformly, removing them from the pan as the last runniness disappears.  If all goes well, a soft, yellow cloud of eggs graces the plate.

They may not be my grandmother’s eggs exactly, but they are as close to them, and to heaven, as I will ever be.


Coo, coo, ca choo.

the old man & the hen

The hen is not young, but she is many years younger than him.

Of all the hens in the flock, only she seeks him out, asking for attention.  He feels a special bond with her because of this, though he knows she shares her affections with anyone who enters the run.

Does she want to be stroked, or is she hoping he will let her peck at the cans of feed before he scatters their contents under the cedar?  He would prefer not to know.

Her loyalty is fleeting.  He knows that as soon as he turns his back, she’ll try to slip around him to get to the open gate. 

She is a pragmatist.  She never dreams of storms or flight.

He is sentimental.  He wants to protect her.  He watches for cats in the dusk.

Coo, coo, ca choo.

oval argument

Life has been uneventful in the chicken run, making it more difficult to generate a story every Monday morning.  None of the hens are running for president, and so, are not in sync with the daily, or even weekly, news cycle. Someday, a female will be elected to the highest office in the land, but she will probably be a species of mammal, not a bird, and definitely not a chicken.

Performance during the debates will be a major obstacle for any bird aspiring to higher office, but the achilles heel for chickens specifically is national defense.  Defense is a thorn in the side of many human politicians, but “chicken" is an especially loaded term in this regard, and unlikely to be overcome the political advantages of having been raised on a family farm.

Coo, coo, ca choo

the keep

I spent all day Sunday on my knees, replacing the wire on the roost, the chickens' inner sanctum.  I was thankful that I discovered how rust had set it free from it’s earthly bonds (staples) before raccoons swung down in a chariot of fire and not-so-sweetly carried the hens away.

I’ve struggled with my chicken-architecture terminology.  I thought I had settled on coop, roost & yard to describe the homey trinity we have cobbled together with our humble carpentry skills, but as I labored in the unseen light of the waning paschal full moon, I realized I was fortifying the hens’ keep, employing a medieval strategy dating back 1000 years.

Mary & I entered the ancient keep of Marvao as we honeymooned in Portugal 25 years ago, though we thought naught of chickens at the time.  The perfectly-preserved castle rises from one end of a fortified mountaintop village, unprotected by ticket-takers or docents.  We walked through a manicured garden, entering through a narrow slit optimized for defending with lances, and mounted the walls on a narrow stone staircase.  It was a sunny weekday morning, the castle was unoccupied, all we could hear was the wind.  We followed the parapet along the perimeter to a squat tower with a dark doorway.  Through the doorway was a square windowless room, perfect for storing wine, or a desperate last stand.

The hens' keep sits next to a lovely garden. You access it through a gate, though without fear of being lanced.  So it’s a lot like Marvao, except for the medieval village, stone stairway, underground cistern, mountaintop ringed by castle wall, and 360˚ view.

Coo, coo, ca choo.

what almost happened

Our flock started twelve years ago with 8 chicks.  We named each hen, and surprisingly, they all lived long lives, except for Joe, Rex’s favorite, a white crested black polish, who was killed by a hawk one Saturday morning.

Now we have a secure roost, a big, fenced enclosure, and the experience to know that we’re doing well if half the new chicks in any one year live out their natural lives.  We added 6 chicks who would develop into sturdy hens last spring, and just two remain.

We’re getting lots of eggs this year, and with 14 hens, the flock is about average.  Unfortunately, we recently learned about marans, a breed that lays dark brown (“chocolate" eggs), so, of course, we wanted some.  Marans are a new breed, or a breed that’s new in the U.S., so they’re not easy to find.  After sorting through search results that started with Oklahoma, Kansas & Dhangadhi, we located some nearby in Brownsville.

Murray McMurray Hatchery Egg Photo Contest 3rd Place

The farm had a lot of chicks available, so we had a lively discussion about how many to buy.  Somehow, we decided that if we wanted a few chocolate egg layers, we needed a dozen new chicks, despite Rex wanting more chickens like Joe, and 8 being the most chicks we had ever added in one year.  We called, emailed & texted the sellers to let them know we were moderately interested in stopping by and quickly had an appointment for the next morning.

Luckily, our giddy buyers’ high wore off after a good night’s sleep.  Doubling the size of the flock no longer seemed like the great idea it had been 24 hours earlier.  We decided against the drive to Brownsville & texted our regrets.

So there are no chocolate eggs in your future yet, but stay posted.  There will be chicks for sale in the feed stores until June...

Coo, coo, ca choo.

egg hunt

We’ve all heard stories about skunks & racoons getting into chicken coops, or of chickens escaping from them.  It’s not that it’s hard to build a predator-tight refuge,  but it’s expensive. Eggs are cheap, baby chicks cost about $1, and you have already invested in fences & coops, so if you’re getting by, it’s a lot easier just to keep getting by.

A few summers ago, we rebuilt the fence around the chicken yard, so for a few days, the hens ran free, and laid their eggs where ever they pleased.  We found nests all around the house, in ivy, in tall grass, anywhere the ground cover provided a little privacy.

The coop where the hens roost up at night is small, so it’s not much trouble to keep it secure.  The fence around the chicken yard is another matter, and I’ve grown weary of hens pushing under or finding a way over it.  I wasn’t worried about losing eggs, the problem was the hens were much more persistent about getting out than getting back in.  If we didn’t open the gates before evening, they’d start roosting up on rooftops, steps or low trees, from which I’d have to extract them by flashlight when I came home from work.

So we left the hens in the coop & built a mighty fence.  It seemed like we collected more eggs than usual while the hens were cooped up, but I couldn’t be sure.  When the fence was ready, I was relieved to see that it worked.  With the hens confined to their yard all day, we kept getting “extra” eggs”.

So I decided I couldn’t wait for Easter & went on an egg hunt this weekend.  It didn’t take long to find a clutch of eggs in one of the hens’ old haunts, the ivy by the back door.  18 eggs!

Will we ever know if it’s the only place they were laying?

Coo, coo, ca choo.