THE CHICKENLADY...

In my last blog, about my feathered friends, I briefly mentioned our experience with chickens.  I began remembering things about those few years, when I was known as the ChickenLady – we had 27 at one point.  Our kids thought we had totally lost our minds.  We were not “farm” people – we didn’t go out into the back yard and choose our dinner for that evening (YUK!) We went to Publix!  But we did have a lot of fun and I thought you might enjoy a trip down memory lane with me.  It all began with my husband came home from our neighbors’ house one afternoon.

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"Honey, you've got to see the baby chicks next door," he said, with a big grin.  They're so cute." 

"Mom, Mom don't make me go."

I figured this had to be some kind of a trick.  For twenty-two years, this incredibly patient man had been trying to keep me away from "cute" animals.  You see, I’ve always had an uncontrollable need to adopt anything "cute."  Here he was telling me to go and see them.  Something was fishy, but I went anyway.  

 "Cute" didn't begin to describe those little brown fuzz balls with double black stripes around their eyes and teeny-tiny feet that ran a mile a minute back to Mommy hen.  I guess Mother hen was pretty, as hens go, but their Daddy rooster was abso­lutely gorgeous.  He was a perfect example of the beauty that mother nature lavishes on the males of the bird kingdom. 

Our neighbors told me what fun they were having watching the daily antics of their new brood.  The best part, they said, was that these chickens were practically maintenance free.  They had simply laid an old tool box from a pick-up truck on the ground, put in a little hay, set out a jug of water and a handful of chicken scratch, and the chickens were comfy-cozy.  Searching for and eating bugs in the woods was their all-consuming passion.  They were totally independent and self-sufficient. 

"Seriously, we can you go away for a day or so without making all sorts of chicken-sitting arrangements?" I asked.

"You can go away forever for all they care," was my answer. Three days later we received a chick delivery--two-week old Lucy, Ricky, Fred, & Ethel.  We settled them into the basic, split-level, starter chicken condo that my spouse had hastily thrown together and went to bed dreaming of hens and roosters and chicks and fresh eggs.

The next morning I received a phone call from our neighbor.  He had two very interesting bits of information for me:  (1) the chicks needed to be kept very warm for the first few weeks (usually not a difficult thing to do here in sunny Florida, even in February) and (2) a cold wave was to arrive that night with freezing temperatures and worse for the next week or so.  And so the “maintenance” began.

The Southern Oaks Chicken Condo - Phase I

A 100-watt bulb was installed in the condo; all cracks and openings were caulked; timers were set and thermometers were strategically placed to insure the proper temperature at all times, day and night.  We walked miles that week, back and forth between the house and the coop, checking on our new charges.  The cold spell passed and they survived.  We, however, caught colds from tending our brood. 

Day by day they grew and each developed a very distinct personality.  Fred was the nosy one, into everything, and pushing quieter Ricky around at every opportunity.  Lucy was shy and demure.  Ethel was coop-wise and one of the boys. 

My home improvement specialist made frequent modifications to the condos, upgrading the flooring, fencing the area for their protection, installing storm doors with screens, altering the roof-line for better runoff and fitting it with a ridge vent for ventilation.  He built perches everywhere, indoor and outdoor, for their entertainment.  They seemed to love it.  Each night they slept in a different bedroom of the condo--huddled together like newborn puppies.

The day finally arrived when we set them free to roam.  They took their first steps outside their yard and promptly flew onto the roof of the coop.  Over the next few weeks they explored. At first, they remained within sight of their home; slowly they branched out.  Each evening, though, as darkness approached, they made their way back to the condos.

Every morning, after I had let them out of the coop, all four would half run, half fly to the fence outside our bedroom window where Fred and Ricky would hold a crowing competition.  We would be the judges.  The girls would practice their clucking nearby.  The adolescent squeaky voices learning their chickenese were hysterical and we found ourselves thoroughly enjoying the entertainment.  Laughter is a wonderful way to start the day.

"Boy, he's got everything in here! Ricky, you check for axes!"

They discovered every nook and cranny of my husband's workshop, inside and out.  They roamed our woods and found all sorts of hiding places.  Hours would go by, and I would swear they had been eaten by some wild creature--but they always came home, safe and sound. 

In late April, I began thinking about the coming hurricane season and the need for additional covered protection for our pets.  We designed an addition to the coop which included a large covered area with a high perch, ridge vent, and a larger outside run with screening on the top and sides.  We intended to keep them locked in this shelter when a storm was approaching. 

"Not bad.  Do you think our rent will go up?"

While the construction was underway, they acted like side­walk superintendents; and at night, while we were having dinner, they inspected every inch of the new addition.  The paint had barely dried on the new wing of the condos when I had quite a fright. 

We had developed a bedtime routine.  They would play outside the coop for a while--a few games of leap-chicken in the branches of the live oaks that shade the condos, a snack or two (cracked corn and a few ants or beetles), and then they would put them­selves to bed.  I would go out later in the evening and lock them in for their protection.  Our woods are full of creatures who would like nothing better than a free, fresh, tender chicken dinner.  This particular night, I lifted the lid to see which bedroom they had chosen and who was sleeping with whom (nosy thing that I am).  Empty!  No chickens!  Oh my God!  Just then I heard the clucking.  It seemed to be coming from over my head.  They were still in the trees and no amount of pleading and bribery could coax them down.

"The chickens are where?" my husband asked.

"Up in a tree!" I exclaimed.  "The coop is empty, and I can't get them to come down."

"You're kidding, right?  This is a joke."

"I wish it was," I stammered.

 I wasn't sure exactly what to think.  After I got over my initial shock, and after I had convinced my mate that I wasn't playing a sick joke, I tried to rationalize the situation.  Most likely, they were safe from predators up there.  They looked comfortable, I guess.  They were still near the condos and their water and food.  They hadn't left home; they were merely camping out (or up) for the night.  The next night these ungrateful fowl did the same--and the next.

Maybe it was the altitude; or maybe their new sense of freedom, but Fred and Ricky's crowing improved tremendously.  They took it upon themselves to awaken the entire neighbor­hood every morning at the crack of four o'clock.  All four of them became very vocal with a varied vocabulary.   They seemed happy!  

"Why didn't they do this before I spent $55.00 on that new shelter?" asked my disheartened spouse.

"Don't worry dear.  The new addition won't go to waste.  The feed store just got some adorable baby turkeys in.  I've heard that turkeys aren't very bright so they need a lot of protection and security.  They do get pretty tall, though, so you might have to raise the roof--just a little; and you may have to lower the perches a fraction--I hear turkeys are afraid of heights.  But honey, they're so cute!"

SURVIVAL TIP FOR THE DAY:  Laughter is a wonderful way to start your day.  So is remembering happy, heartwarming memories.  Take a look through an old photo album - guaranteed you'll find something to make you smile.