About 15 years ago I had the romantic idea of raising chickens. Now, I say romantic because I saw myself as a Tasha Tudor, the whimsical Mother Goose illustrator, tossing feed to my beloved hens who followed me around like their very happiness depended on the way I, and I alone, cared for them. I would wear cotton prairie dresses with a homey and treasured apron and my long flowing hair ever whisping (yes, I said whisping) in the breeze and people from miles away would gracefully and politely flock (Get it? Flock? Sorry, I had to do it) to buy my eggs because my eggs would transcend any they could possibly buy at the store. Somehow in my chicken-owning dream I could now draw beautifully and I never lost my temper or sweat or got dirty (in fact, I think I even pictured myself barefoot with a lovely pedicure).
The only thing I got right: I have an apron that I kind of like.
Normally the gestational period for a dream like this is shorter than 15 years, but the important thing is that in the spring of 2015 my husband and I became the proud parents of 5 Rhode Island Reds shortly followed by an adoption of 10 others, shortly followed by . . . STOP! In my dream I only had, maybe, 5 or 6 adoring feathered children not 15. Oh, my young padawan, I’m not finished yet. As I was saying . . . shortly followed by 10 baby chicks to raise into endearing egg layers. Ok, we’re up to 25 chickens now (my math skills are staggering, no?). A year later we purchased, via the post office (yep, a peeping box of fluff delivered to a local P.O.) 16 more baby chicks. Can you say “glutton for punishment?”
Here’s my confession: I’m now a realist because raising chickens is not a romantic thing. Big surprise, I know! They are dirty. They eat all day. They wake me up at 4:00 in the morning. They are dirty. They eat my petunias. They climb into my flower pots and dig through the mulch. They are dirty. They poop on my picnic table. Did I mention they’re dirty. Mmmm hmmm. No such thing as sacred ground to them. But here’s the weird thing – I love them. I hope I never get too old to have chickens.
And – hair raising revelation – I have learned from them. Understand, I’m a retired English teacher, so I’m familiar and okay with learning from my students, but having chickens – well, let’s just say that they frequently supply opportunities to view myself and my fellow man through their behavior. Sort of parable-y or allegory-nessy or fable-ish (I are an English teacher). Too deep for you? I understand. I stared at the computer monitor for a while trying to put it into words. Well, anyway, that’s what Chicken Scratchings is about: the lessons we can learn from chickens. For the glory of God!
