A couple of winters ago I made my way through deep snow to the bottom of my driveway at four o’clock in the morning, to be picked up by the town plow—a ride I had arranged the evening before—when a major storm had been forecast.
Out of the darkness, first came the rumbling sound of the plow, then lights flashing orange through the trees. I climbed up into the monster, which for the next three hours the driver navigated up and down many back roads. » read more
I miss my chickens. This is something I never thought I would find myself saying. But there it is. I miss my chickens. But maybe I should start at the beginning.
I have a friend, Kathy, who more or less rents a couple of chickens every summer and lets them roam around her yard and flower gardens, eating bugs. She found an antique coop where the chickens spend the night, secure from the various predators—foxes, coyotes, raccoons—that are common in Vermont and always hungry. When I pull into Kathy’s driveway, the chickens are generally out in the yard, looking around for a Japanese beetle to eat. And they are strikingly decorative. They just do something for the scene. One has a kind of salt and pepper coloring and the other is a very dark, almost mahogany, brown. And, finally, they do lay eggs, which Kathy likes to make into omelets—or a nice quiche—for lunch. After a few visits, I began to envy her those chickens.
When I mentioned this to my daughter, one day, she said, “No problem, take mine.” » read more
