Keeping Fowl Company and Other Summer Adventures

 

I spend a portion of each day in the society of chickens. I use the term society because my flock does form “a group of individuals involved in persistent social interaction.” They have a distinct community with strict rules and a hierarchy – the famous “pecking order.” In many ways they are just like people. The ancient Greek philosopher Plato defined humans as “featherless bipeds,” which makes me wonder if he kept a flock of chickens. There is a story that when Plato was applauded for his clever definition of man as a featherless biped, Diogenes the Cynic plucked the feathers from a chicken, brought it to Plato’s Academy, and said, “Here is Plato’s man.” I always imagined everyone in the room chuckling, except for Plato. From what I know of him, I doubt he had much of a sense of humor.

[I had the misfortune of taking a philosophy class in college. I had to take it in order to meet a requirement for my degree. It was a miserable class where I listened to a lecturer drone on and on about things I did not care about. I remember sitting through a long lecture on Plato, but do not recall much of anything that was said. I also remember hearing about Diogenes and I do remember some of it because he was a more interesting character than the other, mustier Greeks. Diogenes was one of the founders of the philosophy of Cynicism. He was famous for pointing out some of the ridiculous fashions and attacking the norms of Athenian society. He lived in a large ceramic wine jar. He wore very little if any clothing. He carried a lantern around during the day pretending that he was looking for “a real man” among the Athenians. And he pulled that clever stunt with the chicken. I think I like Diogenes because I might have a few cynical tendencies. The Cynics taught that the purpose of life was to live a virtuous life in agreement with nature. They rejected the desire for wealth, fame, and power and taught that happiness came from living a simple life. And now, after that lengthy digression, let’s get back to the chickens.]

Raphael's School of Athens. Plato is in the center in red pointing up. Diogenes is lounging on the stairs.

I like keeping company with chickens. I look forward to the time I get to spend with them. Many days I only have time to do the perfunctory chores, feeding them, giving them water, and collecting their eggs, but when I have the chance, I like to linger among them. I flatter myself that I fit into their community somehow. I know they recognize me. They know that I am the provider of food and water. They anticipate my arrival every day. I like to think that they like me. They always seem happy to see me in a galline sort of way. I’ve come to realize that they have more sophisticated ways of communicating than most suppose. They make a range of sounds from contented purring to screams of alarm. They complain and fuss. The roosters make certain noises to tell a hen that he has discovered some morsel of food that he is offering to her. Chickens are curious, always interested in checking out new things. Many people think chickens are stupid, but although they aren’t as intelligent as ravens or dolphins, they are as smart as chickens need to be and their level of intelligence would surprise most people.

My flock enjoying their morning scratch.

Some of the hens regard me as the stealer of their children. The maternal instinct has been bred out of most breeds and those hens don’t care when I collect eggs, but some hens do and when I take their eggs, they make a loud accusatory racket. I always apologize to them as I snatch their offspring. The fact that I say I like my chickens and then I steal and eat their children seems a bit creepy, but eggs are delicious. So is chicken, but I do not eat the members of my flock – usually.

The nesting boxes inside the coop.

My Black Cochin pullets resting in a sunbeam.

Out in their yard waiting for their afternoon scratch.

My flock is larger now than it has ever been. I have forty-three mature hens, two roosters, and twenty-four young pullets. With forty-three mature hens, you might think I’d get something close to that number of eggs every day. The average laying hen produces an egg every twenty-six hours (a fact which has led some people to wonder if they are actually an alien species that originated on a planet with a twenty-six hour day. But then, how did they manage to traverse space and time to come to earth? Hmm. Maybe the pyramid builders brought them.). I usually get twenty to thirty eggs a day during the spring and summer, a bit less than that in the fall and winter. The reason I don’t get more is that some of my hens are old and don’t lay anymore. The average life span for a chicken is around eight years, but they can live to be as much as twenty. After about seven years, they don’t lay eggs anymore. Some people kill their old, non-laying hens. We don’t. I figure that after so many years of service, they deserve a long and calm retirement. Unless something unexpected happens to them – sickness, a fox, a raccoon, or some other catastrophe, my chickens die of old age. Unless I have an excess of roosters, which happens now and then. I won’t tolerate fighting. Extra roosters get eaten.

We get eggs in all sizes. The middle one is normal size. The top one is a double yolk. The bottom is from a young hen.

We left on Thursday afternoon to spend the weekend in Toledo with the Fosters and the Thayns. As we traveled west, just before we reached Cleveland, we drove into a storm. There were tornado warnings posted along the freeway. The sky was low, the wind was ferocious, and the clouds were swirling. It poured rain. That lasted for about 45 minutes. We had to exit the freeway for a while because it was flooded. But then the storm passed. We arrived at the Fosters without incident. It was late by then, so we just unpacked and went to bed.

Driving along Lake Erie after the storm.

One of the things, actually two of the things, we took to the Fosters were two Black Cochin pullets from our flock. Back when I ordered chicks, I ordered extra Black Cochin chicks, two for the Fosters and two for the Thayns. Friday morning we began the process of introducing the pullets to the Foster’s flock. They have a little flock of seven hens, now nine, that live in what my flock would consider luxury accommodations. Their coop is inside a greenhouse that keeps them dry. They are let out into the back yard every day where they roam at will in the grass. Tosh has made a covered perch under the trees at the back of the yard where they lounge. They get treats. All their hens are fat and fluffy. And they all have names – Carla, Salt, Pepper, Pumpkin, Mohawk, Big Red, and Beep Beep. I’m sure the two new pullets will also get names soon. (My flock is too big for all but a few to have names.) Their hen, Big Red, is blind. She went blind several years ago, but she still gets around. She wanders the yard and follows Sarah and Tosh’s voices to find her food and water. When the Thayns come up here to visit in August, they will take their two hens home with them.

Introducing the newcomers. Note the Foster's great garden and the chicken coop in back.

Big Red, the blind hen.

One of the reasons we gathered at the Fosters for the weekend was to help them work on their other house. They bought a house down the street from them that needs a lot of attention inside and out. They’ve been working on it for almost a year now. They’ve done quite a bit of work. We went to help with the yard. Earlier in the year Daniel and Raven visited them and pulled out the overgrown shrubbery around the house. We continued the work of cutting up and burning that shrubbery and working on the front of the house. We removed large rocks and posts from a dilapidated garden bed and made a new bed with a cardboard barrier and mulch and rocks from the previous arrangement. We spent most of the day on Friday and Saturday doing that.

How the new house looked earlier this year.

Working on the front beds.

The crew.

On Saturday afternoon we went to Hoen’s, the garden center near their house. It is a great place. We go there almost every time we visit the Fosters. Even this late in the gardening year they have great plants for sale. I needed some plants to fill spots in my flowerbeds where I’ve pulled out spent plants. I got salvias and vinca, zinnias, nicotiana, and sweet Williams for the flowerbeds, some water plants for the lily pond, and a big Boston fern to hang on the front porch.

At Hoen's.

Russell at Hoen's.

While we were at the Foster’s we celebrated two birthdays – Russell’s first birthday, which is actually today, and Tabor’s 39th, which is actually on the 31st. All weekend we played games together and had great food, of course. Yesterday we went to church at the Foster’s ward. After church we had a delicious lunch and then it was time to head for home. Packing the car was a challenge with all the plants we’d purchased, but we managed to fit it all in. The drive home was long, but we listened to a good book, Mr. Rosenbloom Dreams in English, which we started on the drive to the Foster’s and finished just as we arrived home. We found all well here. The Shillig’s took care of everything while we were gone.

Birthday presents.

Playing games.

Aunt Sarah and Florence in a fort under the piano.

Packing the car to come home.

When we arrived home last night.

The Boston fern on the front porch.

Plants waiting to be planted.

This morning I took my usual walk. It was cool, 50°, and everything was drenched with dew. I went down to give the chickens their morning scratch and they seemed very happy to see me. I walked through the big garden and the orchard, noting deer damage as I went. I came back along the long border and considered where I’ll put the plants we brought home with us. When the dew has dried and it has warmed a bit, I will go out and get to work. We had a great weekend. I love being with my children and their families. But it’s good to be home.