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.”
Hadley had gone into the chicken racket when she and her husband bought a house in West Pawlet. But she has other interests these days—namely a baby to raise, which tends to occupy most of her time and attention.
So one Saturday morning, Hadley and her husband, Mike, arrived with the chickens in their coop, which was loaded in the bed of Mike’s truck. We spent half a day pounding fence posts, stringing wire, buying feed and wood shavings and crushed oyster shells and all the other paraphernalia required for chicken farming. But I was thrilled with my ten fine hens and three roosters. (Hadley’s flock had suffered normal attrition.)
I went to sleep that night thinking of how it would be to harvest my first eggs. And woke up a scant few hours later when the roosters cut loose. They were both loud and persistent. The sun—and I—had been up for hours before they finally shut up.
The eggs were fine. And the chickens were plenty decorative. But the early wake-up calls were tough on us and, more importantly, the neighbors. As a peace offering, we asked them if they would like to bring their young children over to collect eggs. Figuring, no doubt, that they were entitled to some kind of compensation for all that lost sleep, they took us up on it.Their young son was picking up eggs and putting them in a basket when one of the roosters cut loose behind him. The boy stood up, looked around at his mother, and said, very seriously, “That was a good cockle doodle doo.”
And that one moment—and immortal line—was the sole contribution those roosters made to the ball team, all summer long. By fall, they were outta there. And, sadly, so were three of the chickens. Done in by a marauding raccoon.
Still, there were seven fine hens out on the yard whenever I pulled up in the driveway. And always enough production for an omelet that made you appreciate the real meaning of “fresh eggs.” We gave a departing houseguest a dozen of those eggs and a couple of days later, he sent back a pound of blueberries.
So the chicken operation was thriving. But, alas, the days were getting shorter. I took inventory of my country-living skills and decided that I wasn’t really up for winter chickens. I found them a “nice home in the country” and promised I’d buy them back after mud season.
It is quieter around here now and the scenery is less beguiling. Still, who knew you could actually miss chickens? But I guess that is life in the country.
Which, now that you mention it, we celebrate in many ways in this issue—primitive biathlons, for instance, where fanatical sportsmen compete in the snow on snowshoes with black powder rifles wearing coonskin caps and buckskin shirts (page 54). We also have a piece from Jennifer Hazard on places where you can take the fam for a sleigh ride (page 102), and another from new Stratton writer Anita Rafael on a dog sledding operation in West Wardsboro (page 30). We also take a look at what the Men Who Cook cook, and a walk down the memory lane of winter fashions. That and much more. Happy winter!
-- Marsha Norman
