Some will judge me sexist when I assert my belief that women, in particular, are called on to wear many hats, shoulder numerous titles, and play many roles. We are women first, of course. But depending upon our personality or the sway of our many moods, we may also be described as a sweetheart, a smart-ass, or a bitch. Many of us are mothers, and if we work outside the home, we are dubbed “working mothers”. In defense of my earlier statement, I can’t recall ever hearing the title “working father”.
Were we required to string our titles out behind our names; mine would never fit on a standardized form. You know the kind that provides tiny squares in which to write the letters? But, if possible, it would look something like this:
Stacye Carroll, Woman, Mother, Writer, Kennel Operator, Head Chef, Head Housekeeper, Head Laundress, Personal Shopper, Party Planner, Interior Decorator, Floral Designer, Chief Accountant, Groundskeeper, IT Director, Working Mother, Operations Manager, Hospice Volunteer, Team Manager, Chicken Farmer.
Yes, you read that right. Recently, I added a title. Last week I became a chicken farmer, adding two more words to an already overloaded string of descriptive jargon that in no way describes the person I really am. But today, I am a chicken farmer.
I now own ten chickens, brought to me by a friend who has successfully raised chickens in her suburban backyard for over a year now. Several months ago, she added turkeys to the mix, and she has already slaughtered several of them. Turkeys are aggressive and really, really stupid. This is not a good combination in humans or farm animals. I don’t intend to try my hand at turkeys.
But chickens…chickens are a whole different thing.
It all began when my friend brought me a carton of eggs laid by her suburban chickens. The eggs inside were smaller than those I purchase at the grocery store; and blue, the softest shade of baby blue. They were laid by Araucana chickens. She brought me two Araucana chicks..
She also brought me Red Stars, which haven’t a spot of red on them, and two Wyandottes, which are a black-and-white breed favored by artists using various mediums. Wyandottes are also uniquely American, my friend was proud to point out.
She told me, after I’d accepted my brood, that there may be a rooster or two in the mix. My horror must have shown, as she bent forward from the waist, placing her hand on my forearm as she assured me she would take the roosters back.
“Just bring them to me. We’ll eat them.”
Another friend, upon hearing of this exchange, reminded me of a passage in “Gone With The Wind” wherein Scarlet holds up the eating of rooster meat as a sure sign of the depths to which she had fallen. I just prefer not to think about it, and pray I have been blessed with ten broody hens.
My goal is eggs, enough eggs to feed my family and provide an occasional dozen to my closest friends. Observing and tasting the eggs my friend gave us made it very clear that the eggs we purchase at the local grocery store have been tampered with, and the end result is not an improvement. For one thing, the shells are thinner. It takes a couple of really good cracks against the edge of the bowl to break a “home-grown” egg. The yolks of the eggs my friend gave us were much larger and a bright, bright yellow. And they actually had a taste; a rich, mellow taste like grocery store eggs, only magnified.
I already buy organic, whenever possible. I never buy the grossly gigantic chickens most grocery stores offer, opting instead for locally grown, steroid- and antibiotic-free meat. Raising chickens for eggs is an extension of this decision.
But there is another aspect of this decision that motivates me. I recently read that as we age, we may spend our time in one of two ways; we can brood over past decisions, missed opportunities, and lost youth, or we can take on new adventures and continue to grow. I’ve never been a farmer before. I’ve never even considered being a farmer before, not even when I lived in a farmhouse across the street from a cow pasture! At the time, I was too busy raising children to consider cultivating farm animals. And, while I can’t say my life is any less busy than it was then, it is more my own. More of my time lies at my discretion, and for now, some of it will be spent farming chickens.
When I first began working as a hospice volunteer, I almost always found a way to insert that information into a conversation with everyone I knew, or met, or shared a queue with. I did take pride in my decision, as well as the work, but I think the constant mention of the fact had more to do with making it a reality inside my own head. I find myself doing the same thing now, with much different results.
The revelation that I work in hospice, is usually met with one of several different levels of disbelief. Some people can not fathom the idea, and really prefer not to hear any more about it. Some people find their morbid curiosity piqued and bubble over with questions about death, and a few get it, and express their appreciation accordingly.
I expected a similar sort of disbelief from those I tell about my decision to raise chickens, but so far, have received the opposite reaction. Everyone seems to have either raised chickens or know someone who has, and is eager to have someone to discuss it with. I have received countless tidbits of valuable information and many helpful tips. One friend assured me of the wisdom of my decision by telling me about his mother, who never fed her chickens anything but kitchen scraps, making the eggs she fed her family virtually free! Another suggested I keep the chickens in a mobile pen that can be moved from place to place about the yard. While, yet another, encouraged me to build a coop above ground, making it more difficult for predators to reach my flock.
For now, I house ten chickens inside an over-sized dog crate sitting in front of an unfettered window in my spare room. I visit twice a day, first thing in the morning and just after I get home from work. Last week I purchased a new feeder, a watering contraption, and a bale of hay. I went to a local convenience store to purchase newspapers. As I laid them on the counter, the proprietor suggested I check the date. When I explained it didn’t matter because I was only using them to line a chicken crate, he pushed the papers back at me asking, “Why you spend money?” He hurried to a back room and returned with a large bundle of newspapers secured with a length of twine.
“Here!” He dropped them on the counter. “I have bird, too. You don’t buy papers. If I have them, you have them.” He spoke with a force that brokered no argument. We are a fraternity.
© Copyright 2007-2009 Stacye Carroll All Rights Reserved
Sadness quickly became outrage that somehow evoked a memory. Two dark-haired girls rode side-by-side in an aged go-cart that often spoiled the peace of a sunny Sunday afternoon. They rode with abandon and joy-etched faces. I might not have given them a second glance had it not been for their headgear. Instead of a helmet, each girl wore the equivalent of a white, mesh muffin cup on the crown of her head. The clash of cultures was striking; hard core Islamic fundamentalism meets good old American know-how.
I read the note and decided, without hesitation, to ignore it. I mean, what can she do? Fire me? But her ingratitude did inspire me to put down some words of hard-earned wisdom, a kind of “Everything I Needed To Know I Learned In My First Year As Team Mom”, if you will. This is my swan-song. I’ve tossed my muddied shoes, and advise the next person filling them to invest in a good pair of galoshes. Were I asked to compose a handbook for parents of children playing recreational sports, it would be just this simple:
Posts
