Chicken Chat
Growing up in rural West Virginia in the 1980s, I had plans of what I wanted to be when I grew up. I took inspiration from popular toy franchises of the day. To an impressionable girl such as me, my favorite doll had it all: a metropolitan career, a Corvette and a slew of unrealistic ball gowns in an array of colors and holographic sequins.
I wanted that life. That would make me happy, right?
I was also pretty sure of what I didn’t want, things like a husband or to live in the country or to run a farm. At 10 years old, the idea of living in a big city with every imagined option seemed like a fantasy. School trips to “faraway” Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, made me feel like Dorothy visiting the Emerald City: awe-inspiring, intimidating and so completely opposite of what I knew.
Reality Check
A couple of decades later, at the age of 35, I found myself sitting in my comfortable, rural home amid the rolling Appalachian hills with my laptop bearing a variety of tabs on the screen. My husband and
I had been discussing the possibility of raising chickens. Having fresh, free-range eggs that I could cook and bake with was tempting. Plus, I had been doing research about becoming more self-sustaining with our food.
My husband grew up a farm kid, tending cattle, putting up hay and working in a large garden. I fell in love with his handsome features and his intelligence at first. Shortly after meeting his family, I fell in love with the whole
close-knit compound whose lives revolved around the farm, a place that means the entire world to them all.
I married that farm boy, scratching out one of the items on the “things I’ll never do” list. I learned to cook elaborate, gourmet meals from the gardens we produced every summer: plump, glossy tomatoes; picture-perfect bell peppers; fat ears of sweet corn; tender summer squash — things that a city girl would pay out the nose for at a farmers market.
The next step was inevitable: “Chickens? Really?” my husband asked. “I thought you hated farm stuff.”
I may have said that at one time; that was true. However, my research brought me to the inhumane practices performed by factory farms. Images of chickens stuck in tiny cages with their beaks cropped, unkempt nails and feathers in complete disarray broke my heart.
I could do better, raise a few happy hens and receive better eggs in the process. Besides, I wanted the best for my daughter and was determined to give her the kind of life I never had.
I purchased books and magazines, subscribed to blogs and read everything I could about poultry before devoting my life and backyard to them. My husband built a barn with plenty of room for them to roam safely behind a fence. I regretted that I couldn’t allow them to free-range. Fearing complaints from our neighbors along with the threat of forest critters and feral cats made that decision easier.
Birds, Birds, Birds
With everything in place, the day had finally arrived. We traveled to a nearby farm-supply store to pick out our new babies. My daughter was beyond excited. I reminded her to take care and be gentle with them.
The selection of tiny, fuzzy, peeping balls was overwhelming. What do I get? Brahmas? Cochins? Where does one begin?!
I settled on 18 — a mix of Buff Orpingtons (which I adamantly insisted on), Rhode
Island Reds, Silver Laced and Golden Laced Wyandottes, Jersey Giants and two bargain chicks I was told were ISA Browns. They were growing up, flying out of their metal enclosure and reduced to $1 a piece. Sold!
For the first few weeks, my new brood lived inside where I could keep an eye on them. I learned several things about chicks in that short amount of time. I learned they grow fast, eat a lot, make messes a lot and, when they’re tired, “yell” at each other until giving up and going to sleep.
My family was confused and amused by my new pets. “How funny!” my husband’s aunt said.
“I never pictured someone like you raising chickens!” Someone like me: a quiet, art-loving, book-hoarding, aspiring writer/introvert who never once declared a desire to have livestock. It was all hilarious!
But I loved them all right from the very beginning. Each chicken had her own personality. There was Troublemaker, a plucky Golden Laced Wyandotte who seemed to relish in causing squabbles; Frog, a large Buff Orpington that sounded like a bullfrog when she greeted you; Roux, one of the ISAS with a penchant for leadership and order; and her sister Twinkie, who never failed to show me which nest boxes contained eggs.
I lost some of my happy hens over the years, grieved for each departed bird and wondered if I could’ve tried something else to prevent their deaths. But I know I’ve done everything possible to keep them safe, secure and healthy. I’ve added two other flocks into the first group, incorporated each batch into one content community of Light Brahmas, Australorps, RIRS, Orpingtons, Easter Eggers, Marans, Princess the grumpy Wyandotte, and — still the alpha — Roux (though I think my sweet Brahma rooster might disagree with me).
Four years and 24 chickens later, I’m glad to say that my life is not turning out how I expected. I love being married to a farm kid. I love being a mother living in rural splendor. I love raising chickens and the peace it brings. Perhaps I should make a new list and see where the next couple of decades lead me!
Amy S. Volk lives in Reedsville, West Virginia.