I have discovered that
chickens do quite a bit more
than drop eggs. They have
other virtues as well. I suspect
for those who have
raised chickens the novelty
has worn off a bit. But for
me the experience is new
enough that every day
seems to present us with
interesting occurrences.
A friend bequeathed us
with a fancy metal, two tiered
nest box `condo.’
About a week before we expected
the `girls’ to start
laying I filled each box with
fresh cedar shavings. Cedar
is supposed to be a bit more
mite-retardant than pine,
according to the chicken experts
I consulted. Our first
clutch of eggs appeared
when we were away. Our
chicken minder discovered
the eggs and left a piece of
white paper stuck in the
door for us to see when we
returned. The message was
clear: ``Eggs!’’
Our neighbor took them
home where she and her
family enjoyed what I suspect
was some delicious
French toast. I had some
myself this morning and
can say without any sense
of false pride that homemade
bread soaked in fresh
organic eggs is about as
tasty as it gets.
Since starting this husbandry
project I have discovered,
as is the case with
just about everything, that
there are as many ways of
raising chickens as there
are chicken raisers. As my
close friends know I am not
one to gab much. At most
parties or social gatherings
I tend to hug the wall closest
to the either the darkest
wall or nearest escape
route.
I am not one to go out of
my way to ``make’’ idle conversation.
Oddly enough, I
find myself jumping at the
chance to engage friends
and neighbors in chicken
discussions in the oddest of
places.
For instance, I saw a
friend and neighbor at the
concert the other night and
leaped out of my seat to run
down the aisle to ask her
about her chickens. Are
they laying? Do you incarcerate
them for the winter
or do you let them out? How
do you keep their water
from freezing? Etc.? We
chatted a bit about tactics
and strategies and then she
said, with a slight hint of
bemused exasperation, that
she was in the market for
some intelligent chickens. I
suggested that there are no
chicken Rhodes scholars
and that chickens will be
chickens. Given my firm
adherence to evolutionary
theory, I suspect chickens
are about as intellectually
capable as they need be.
As I was leaving the gym
one morning I bumped into
another friend who has
been raising chickens for
quite some time. She had to
stand there in the cold, gym
bag in hand, while I queried
her about her cold
weather practices.
A wonderful and very
generous person, she offered
up the information
graciously. I settled into my
car and headed home feeling
a bit more comfortable
about my methods — and
my instincts.
This afternoon, weather
permitting, I will nail on
the siding to the winter entryway
to the hen house I
framed last week. I picked
up the lumber yesterday
and, lo and behold, the
neighbor from whom I
bought the rough hewn
lumber passed on some
chicken raising info he had
gleaned from his mother
who has raised them for
years.
The primary topic was
the necessity of plugging up
any openings that might allow
a draft to chill the girls
while enjoying their beauty
sleep.
My sheltie Gabby and
the chickens seem to be getting
on famously. The first
few days she barked and
they scattered. Now they
pay her no mind at all. Unfortunately,
she’s a bit too
enamored of their droppings
and will spend an inordinate
of time following
in their wake on the days
we let them out to free
range a bit.
The other day, while I
was working in one of the
gardens, Gabby was snoozing
in her favorite spot on
the hill while the chickens
pecked the ground around
her foraging for their protein
supplements. I wish
we could find ways of
achieving such peaceful intra-
species accommodations.
Hawthorn Hill
Hawthorn Hill: We’re experiencing chicken mania
- Hawthorn Hill
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Up On Hawthorn Hill: Spring inventions
The second line of Lawrence Durrell’s novel “Justine” reads as follows: “In the midst of winter you can feel the inventions of Spring.” I first read all four novels of his magnificent Alexandria Quartet during the year I traveled from Saigon to Paris after working in Vietnam for a refugee organization for several years.
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Up On Hawthorn Hill: The past in the present
Clichés abound about the value of photographs. Most are probably true at least to a certain extent. What I do know about an image is that it represents something of the past that is not the pastitself. But that is the power of any image. It represents something that once was. The beauty of an image, revisited, is that it functions as a catalystfor reliving in the present a past experience. My own view, one that I thank the Spanish writer Jorge Luis Borges for, is that all we ever can experience is the present.
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Up On Hawthorn Hill: Quiet wisdom
Reading is akin to a treasure hunt. There are surprises around every corner. Part of the fun, especially when reading fiction, is anticipating what might be next. Sometimes one guesses right and sometimes one is way off. But that is all right.
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Up On Hawthorn Hill: Bird Feeder?
Bird feeder is a relative term. At least that is the case around here. A few mornings ago we spotted the first rabbit to visit the feeders. Normally, all we see during the winter are rabbit tracks crisscrossing the gardens.
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Up on Hawthorn Hill: Making sense of things
A book I have been reading investigates the various ways over time that we have made sense of the world. It carries the reader through to the present via several seminal classical texts and ultimately aims to suggest a strategy for “ finding meaning in a secular age.”
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Up on Hawthorn Hill: Of birds and faith
I watch birds quite a bit. Every five days or so I send in a report to Cornell as partof its annual Project Feeder Watch program. The data, collected from volunteers from all over the country, enables scientists to track population trends. I would spend quite a bit of time checking out the visitors to our feeders anyway. Participating in the feeder program makes a personal pleasure that much more meaningful. It is rare that aesthetical and scientific endeavors work in tandem.
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Up on Hawthorn Hill: Circularity
When she was a puppy my dog Gabby would run in what I described then as “circles of joy.” She celebrated her15th birthday a few weeks ago and despite the inevitable frailties that old age imposes upon all of us, she is doing pretty well.
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Up on Hawthorn Hill: Irony abounds
These are querulous times. Dissent and disagreement, as uncomfortable as they sometimes are, are essential components of a viable democracy. Democracies are always messy because everyone has a right to speak his mind and because whenever a majority is able to gain the numerical upper hand it pretty much runs the show. Several political philosophers have written quite persuasively of what they characterize as the “tyranny of the majority.” Get enough people on your side and you have the opportunity to get your way so long as you are able to maintain power. I suspect that most thoughtful people would agree that wisdom is hard to come by.
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Up on Hawthorn Hill: Of kinglets and mortality
This is that transitional time of year when fall begins to take its final bow and winter starts to seep into our lives not always with a great deal of subtlety. It is also a time when body seems quite willing to step aside and let mind have dominant sway for a while.
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Up On Hawthorn Hill: Wisdom
I do not know about anyone else, but I tired of selfcongratulatory political talk a long time ago. Fact is, I have never liked it much. One candidate interviewed yesterday had nothing at all good to say about the present administration. In the process of lambasting its record on just about every front, this individual never once offered any specifics as to how he would go about creating jobs, ending Medicare fraud, or terminating these idiotic wars that we seem intent on embroiling ourselves in.
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Up On Hawthorn Hill: Spring inventions
