Sometimes I question why I am so drawn to have chickens. It’s much easier to love dogs, or even cats. People understand that kind of love. I love cats, and OPD (other people’s dogs), but chickens hold a special place for me. They remind me of my grandfather and give me a feeling that touches me only when I’m with them. I guess it’s a way for me to connect with someone that’s been gone for over thirty years but I still miss. Every. Single. Day.
Growing up on the farm, my grandfather was in charge of taking care of the chickens. He and my grandmother lived “on the farm” but in a separate house.
Every day my grandfather would come to our house. His whistling, smooth and sweet, could be heard before he ever reached the back door. He would visit for a few minutes then go check the chickens. Even though I remember “hanging out” with the chickens, I don’t really remember having peeps or collecting eggs. Weird, huh?
Back then I named the chickens after TV personalities. Miss Ellie (derived from the original Dallas series) was my favorite but I have yet to have another chicken as sweet as she was. We would hold her and she wouldn’t hate it. Today I try to name them vintage names, probably as a throwback to my grandfather’s younger years. I guess I’ve never really thought about that until just now. Funny how things come together sometimes.
I sure wish my grandfather were still around to ask him questions although he’d be nearly 100 by now. I would ask him why he had chickens. I would ask him how he chose his breeds, what he learned from them and what he loved about them. I think his answer might be that he didn’t know anything different. He grew up a farm boy and that’s just how he was wired. His last name was “Farmer” after all. With his help we had hogs for a while and we raised many a steer to fill the freezer. We disposed of the chickens when they were done laying. It’s just what was done back then. It wasn’t weird and it didn’t breed regulation and zoning laws intent on tying people’s hands that are trying to feed themselves. It just was. Now I appreciate the simplicity of it all.
Today I have chickens because they connect me to the past but also because I don’t trust the food supply. I feel more secure knowing the farmer that raised the grain that I’m feeding my hens. I love knowing where my eggs come from down to knowing which hen laid it and about what time of day.
All my eggs are dated. No guessing how old they are. I can’t tell who laid every egg because some sizes, shapes and colors are just too close but I know most of them. Some are good producers and some, well, we’ll call them pets. I’m pretty sure Lemon only lays one or two eggs each week. We let her slide because she’s so darned cute and so friendly. I think she’s also myopic because she gets really close when she looks at me. It’s adorable.
Just like other animals, each chicken has its own personality. They also have collective personalities based on breed. For instance, we call the Leghorns “speedy little bastards” {Sorry if that offends} after this scene in this movie. If one ever gets out you’ll never catch it. My son and I tried to catch a 12 week old peep for 20 minutes one day. 20 minutes of chasing a chicken is equivalent to 2 hours of road rage. Take my word for it.
The two Austrolorps I can’t tell apart. They are the Austrolorp twins. Identical in every way. This is why on the graphic they are “1” and “2”.
The Marans are super friendly and they stick together. They walk with their held high and they almost strut. They’re French, after all. They even lay their eggs together. I named them after two places I visited in France in 2013. Although they look similar, they do have some physical differences so I can tell who is who.
As I said, Lemon Meringue is the sweetest. She’s always near me when I’m up there, probably because she can’t see me well. But, as far as laying goes…well, she won’t break any records.
Ethel was an adult when I got her. She’s skiddish but she’s hilarious. She always stays out too late. Almost after dark. She also wanders too far when she’s free ranging. Alone. I think the others admonish her for her freespirited ways. Last fall she decided to go “guinny.” During the molt she lost all her tail feathers and never *allowed* them to come back in. I’m not sure if she plucks for that smooth bumm look or what.
Charlotte, on the other hand, is always in bed early. She will be on the roost thirty minutes before anyone else even thinks of going into the coop.
I believe it when they say that chickens are the gateway farm animal. I would LOVE to have a mini donkey and perhaps a small floppy-eared goat. I would also love to have some quail. Have you seen those cute little things? And the eggs, pickled, are just to die for. But for now we’ll just stick with these fourteen clowns.
