ringo the feral chicken and other adventures
Which might sound like an unbelievable distance to drive, over two hours one way, but you have to consider the circumstances. Small hobby farmers like myself can't buy animals in bulk or always plan far ahead. When the perfect animals come you better be prepared to work your life around it. So when I found a farmer selling young, fat, and healthy homebrewed free range laying hens (cheap), I jumped at the chance to take home five at once. The hens were a mix breed of farm-hatched Rhode Island Reds and Wyandottes, they lay like gangbusters and can handle the Vermont winter with the best of them. Making them more than worth the drive.
I needed layers. I already had a deal in the works with a local cafe in Bennington that needed a full time organic local egg supplier. A great side business for my little farm, but my Polish hens little white eggs weren't going to cut it (specially since they have developed the awful habit of eating their own recently, but that's a story for later)
So, the excursion was going to pull me into parts of the state I have never seen. I was wound up with anticipation while loading the wire cage into the hatchback and pouring coffee in the car mug. Every time I get to add some more animals or plants to the farm I feel a separate kind of happiness. Something that's pleasantly fulfilling because I know they'll be contributing to my life here in ways most things you buy can't.
I drove off towards Burlington with a light heart. While rolling the station wagon past the dairy farms and high water creeks, I realized chickens have been my personal New England tour guides. Forcing me to drive into parts of New York and Vermont I would've never had to navigate though if I wasn't trading for livestock. Meeting people I would've never otherwise met. I am in love with all of this. I drive like it's a chance to be grateful at high speed.
I pulled into the chickens farm, put on my gloves and helped the older gentleman and his wife load the cage with the fat, squawking, HUGE birds. Compared to the Polish hens they were monsters. Almost seven pounds each. And when you're bones are hollow, that's a lot of chicken, son. I drove them south, listening to some Irish music I was trying to learn on the fiddle, and stopped at a garden center for some pony packs of salad greens and some bags of garden soil and compost. Driving towards home, with a car full of chickens and soil, plants and tools, gave me a smile on my face that was a force to be reckoned with. The day had already peaked at 77 degrees. Warm sun, healthy animals, dark soil.
How dare I ask for more at 12:30 on a Saturday.
I unloaded the birds. Two escaped. Shit.
They flew right out of the coop and ran into the woods. It was foolish to chase them. All that could accomplish was scared birds running even further away from safety in a place they didn't know. I could only hope they'd find their way back. The Polish hens hated the new birds and literally segregated themselves to a far corner of the coop in protest. Wonderful.
I got a shower, and hoped in the car for another two hour drive, this time over the mountains and past Mt. Snow to the funky town of Brattleboro. Nisaa was getting off her train there and when she started walking toward me at the station the years apart melted. I hadn't hung out with Nisaa since three states ago. She knew nothing about Tennessee or Idaho and Vermont was her first real connection with me in years. But it was like we just talked yesterday. She bought me dinner in Bratt, we paroozed a music store where she shouted in glee to finding Paul McCartney's Ram for 3 bucks on vinyl, and we drove home through the mountains in the dark.
That night was the Beatles on the record player, wine in our glasses, and catching up in our conversations we were like girls in a dormroom back in college again. Nisaa was excited about gardening for the first time, and I was looking forward to teaching her what I learned so far. Before bed I went out with a lantern to see if the missing hens had perched in low branches in the woods around the cabin. I never saw feather or heard a coo. I felt upset, guilty those helpless birds were in the New England woods living on a prayer.
Well, Sunday started out nice enough. The sun rose, Ben the rooster crowed ("Is this really happening?" Nisaa asked from the bathroom shower as Benedict belted out the morning thunder) Before any labor was to be procured from my guests, I usually buy them breakfast in town. We hit 'Up for Breakfast' (second floor restaurant, get it) and after full stomachs and some shopping at Northshire Books, we drove back to the farm. We found out that one of the runaways had returned! There with the other hens was a fourth, pecking away, back from the wilds. She somehow wasn't eaten by a coyote or raccoon. The lucky thing was back in the safety of the farm. The other hen was still missing. I chalked her up as a loss.
And then, we gardened. Nisaa, to her credit, is too stubborn to give up on a project even if she hates it. The romantic ideas of gardening were flushed down the Jon when she realized that breaking sod, throwing rocks, pulling weeds, carrying fifty pound bags of dirt, and always-biting bugs meant gardening was awful business if you aren't into it. As she huffed and puffed with her hoe in hand, she just shook her head and said "we are VERY different people" By the time we had broke sod, added in our fresh composts, made rows, and planted she was pissed off at gardening in general. She said she'd come back and look at it when she forgave it. I liked that Nisaa didn't pretend to be into gardening. She had no interest in being like me or impressing me, but I was impressed. She might be a city person but adapted instantly to the garden work, and while she didn't like it all - the sweat and manure, she loved the garden by dusk. Said it looked great, even felt proud of the effort. But she'd stick to flower pots, thanks. I respected her more than ever.
We cooked a big homemade meal of fettucini alfredo with homemade garlic bread and applie pie with ice cream for dessert. I love homemade food more than most. I have no shame in this and ate like a girl who deserved it. My sore arms and sunburned nose proved it up. Bring on the white sauce.
As dusk fell I gave the meals scraps to the chickens and hoped my four-star leftovers would win over the missing hens. It must've worked because in the distance, we noticed a miracle, the fifth hen had returned! it had also survived a night in the woods and was back with the other girls. But as it became dark out she ran off to the woods again. Great. I doubted we'd ever see her again. A chicken is exactly equipped for a life in the pines. But maybe this would be her bit. The wild chicken of Vermont, farmer by day and werebeast by night. Living with the grouse and cardinals like a true highland girl. Fighting of coydogs with kung fu like maneuvers of talon and beak!
Eh, she'd be fox poo by 4 AM. I gave up on her. Nisaa called her Ringo as she ran into the forest, saying, "She's not really missed when she's gone but nice to have around when she's here." Ringo was my feral chicken.
Monday morning we made scrambled eggs and checked on the birds and backyard salad bar. All made the night and Ringo was outside by the coop waiting for me to let her friends out to play. I couldn't believe she survived a second night. People, me included, don't give these birds the credit they deserve. She joined the flock, always wary of me when I came by. As the other birds played in the dust and scratched for bugs wihtout so much as looking up, she would stare at me like I was the equivalent of a human trafficking operation to a labor camp. I guess to her, I was. I felt kind of dirty when she glared at me, throwing me hands up in the air saying "What!?" like she'd cut me some slack. Ringo hated everybody. The world owed her something.
The weekend ended with Nisaa's train back to the city, and Ringo joining the flock in the coop that third night. I guess two nights of kung fu was enough and apple pie won her over. But I had a garden planted (the first of many), and chickens laying delicious eggs right in the yard. I felt that I was starting to use the six acres correctly, and went to sleep sore and happy. I am a big fan of getting dirty with friends and animals. Feeling the long days in your body and smelling the farm on your shirt when you take it off at night. The world is full of people who hate the smell of dairy farms but like the smell of gasoline, when are we going to realize how messed up that is?
The weekend was grand. Let's hope for more.