The Great Chicken Debacle
By Zanie Ann Wilder, Staff Contributor
She's at it again! The continuing adventures of a very amusing woman.
This time—a little fowl play!
This time—a little fowl play!
Early one March, when I had nearly recovered from the craze of Christmas and the busyness of summer was not yet upon me, I convinced my husband that raising our own chickens and having our own eggs to eat would be healthier for our family. I am—even years later—reminded of my infamous last words on the subject, “It isn’t that hard to raise a few chickens. There is very little to it. My mom used to do it on the farm every year.” Then I sealed the deal with, “It will be a great adventure for the kids.” I figured even if things got a little complicated later on it really wouldn't be too bad. Right?
Wrong!
I convinced my friend, Theresa, to participate in this venture with me, that way I could share the cost and the fun, as well as the healthier meat and eggs. We were both too inexperienced, at the time, to know just how much ‘fun’ we would actually be sharing that summer.
I was sure I remembered the exact dimensions of the shed that Gramps and I had built 15 years prior. My mom advised us on the maximum number of chicks that could adequately be housed in one that size. I read that when raising chickens, you should expect to lose up to 20% of the chicks before they reach butchering/laying size.
Confident of the number we should buy, we researched the different breeds. Since Cornish-cross grew to full-size faster and had a higher meat ratio than other chickens, we decided they were the best breed for us. Additionally, we resolved to get some production reds and blacks to keep for laying hens. That way we would be able to distinguish which to keep.
Too late, I became cognizant of the fact that if the white chickens had more meat on their bones, they were bigger, thereby taking up more floor space in a chicken house. Are you starting to see one of my errors already?
With our research completed, my partner-in-crime and I gamely (pun intended) went to the local hatchery and purchased chicks. However, unbeknownst to us, the hatchery applied the new math. It went something like this: We asked for 100 Cornish-cross chicks and 15 black and 15 red layers, which should have made a grand total of 130 chicks. With the expected loss, we would end up with roughly about 100 birds in total. We thought so too. However, that isn’t exactly the number of chicks we ended up toting home.
Wrong!
I convinced my friend, Theresa, to participate in this venture with me, that way I could share the cost and the fun, as well as the healthier meat and eggs. We were both too inexperienced, at the time, to know just how much ‘fun’ we would actually be sharing that summer.
I was sure I remembered the exact dimensions of the shed that Gramps and I had built 15 years prior. My mom advised us on the maximum number of chicks that could adequately be housed in one that size. I read that when raising chickens, you should expect to lose up to 20% of the chicks before they reach butchering/laying size.
Confident of the number we should buy, we researched the different breeds. Since Cornish-cross grew to full-size faster and had a higher meat ratio than other chickens, we decided they were the best breed for us. Additionally, we resolved to get some production reds and blacks to keep for laying hens. That way we would be able to distinguish which to keep.
Too late, I became cognizant of the fact that if the white chickens had more meat on their bones, they were bigger, thereby taking up more floor space in a chicken house. Are you starting to see one of my errors already?
With our research completed, my partner-in-crime and I gamely (pun intended) went to the local hatchery and purchased chicks. However, unbeknownst to us, the hatchery applied the new math. It went something like this: We asked for 100 Cornish-cross chicks and 15 black and 15 red layers, which should have made a grand total of 130 chicks. With the expected loss, we would end up with roughly about 100 birds in total. We thought so too. However, that isn’t exactly the number of chicks we ended up toting home.
One of the stock tanks we used to hold the cute,
smelly little creatures in the basement.
In the first month we lost 10-15 right off—strange, I thought we would lose a few more than that.
It was quite a cold spring that year. We were afraid those cute little peepers were not warm enough in that drafty old shed. We decided to solve this by moving them temporarily into large rubber stock tanks and suspending heat lamps over them in a corner of my basement. That way they would be safe while we altered the chicken house a bit. This took us a few days to accomplish.
Did you know chicks stink horribly when in a house with very little outside ventilation? Now I do, too!
The fact that something so soft and cute could rapidly smell up your entire house motivated every teenager I was blessed to live with to assist me in hurriedly installing some rolls of pink fiberglass insulation on the walls of the shed, and stringing an electric cord across the yard to it. That way we could keep heat lamps on them at night outside of our basement.
We put the chicks back in their now warmer house one night and were forced to move them back to the stock tanks in the basement two days later. In response to teenage grumbling at this turn of events, I replied, “How was I supposed to know they would like eating insulation?” Just because it looked like cotton candy was no reason to eat the darned stuff! Even my children knew better than to try that!
It was quite a cold spring that year. We were afraid those cute little peepers were not warm enough in that drafty old shed. We decided to solve this by moving them temporarily into large rubber stock tanks and suspending heat lamps over them in a corner of my basement. That way they would be safe while we altered the chicken house a bit. This took us a few days to accomplish.
Did you know chicks stink horribly when in a house with very little outside ventilation? Now I do, too!
The fact that something so soft and cute could rapidly smell up your entire house motivated every teenager I was blessed to live with to assist me in hurriedly installing some rolls of pink fiberglass insulation on the walls of the shed, and stringing an electric cord across the yard to it. That way we could keep heat lamps on them at night outside of our basement.
We put the chicks back in their now warmer house one night and were forced to move them back to the stock tanks in the basement two days later. In response to teenage grumbling at this turn of events, I replied, “How was I supposed to know they would like eating insulation?” Just because it looked like cotton candy was no reason to eat the darned stuff! Even my children knew better than to try that!
We talked the men in our lives—bless their supportive hearts— into assisting Theresa and I to obtain (from her husband’s barn) used particle board and installing it over the insulation to protect those hungry little buggers. Finally, we moved the little chicks back into their new and improved abode.
I wanted them to be very happy and healthy, and to get plenty to eat. Accordingly, I left food out and a light on 24 hours a day. Except for the times one of my kids forgot about the cord and hit it with the mower, this seemed to work rather well. But after ruining his second 100-foot heavy-duty extension cord, my wonderful hubby got fed-up with all of us and purchased the correct in-ground wiring and trenched it in.
Hmmm, I wondered if that logic would work to motivate him to complete the remodeling in my house he had been working on for the preceding few years. This is a thought I would ponder when I didn’t have a yard full of chickens to contend with.
This multi-outlet situation was a great boon to the chickens. They now had a well lit, insulated, heated—and later fan-cooled—dwelling. Thanks to my children, it even came complete with a radio.
I wanted them to be very happy and healthy, and to get plenty to eat. Accordingly, I left food out and a light on 24 hours a day. Except for the times one of my kids forgot about the cord and hit it with the mower, this seemed to work rather well. But after ruining his second 100-foot heavy-duty extension cord, my wonderful hubby got fed-up with all of us and purchased the correct in-ground wiring and trenched it in.
Hmmm, I wondered if that logic would work to motivate him to complete the remodeling in my house he had been working on for the preceding few years. This is a thought I would ponder when I didn’t have a yard full of chickens to contend with.
This multi-outlet situation was a great boon to the chickens. They now had a well lit, insulated, heated—and later fan-cooled—dwelling. Thanks to my children, it even came complete with a radio.
What all the best chicks get their groove on with.
One of the older children read on the internet that chickens grow better when they have music and voices to listen to all the time. That way they won’t feel stressed when humans invade their territory to hold and play with them. The idea of getting to sit and play with the cute little chicks, without alarming them, was an appealing idea for all of mine and Theresa’s children. However, it was my children who took the initiative to give them a radio, since they believed it was imperative those birds had one right away.
They happened to have been learning about the election process in school about that same time. They soon voted to have one installed on the shelf, up in the corner of the chicken house. Can you guess whose radio my son nominated for this purpose? I will give you a hint; the election was held while my husband was at work and I was gone getting chick feed. If you had known our family, at that time, you might have already guessed that it was unanimously determined that the one from my husband’s man-cave/shop would serve well for this purpose. He and I were the only ones not home to object soon enough the day they held their family vote. When I discovered the radio in the chicken house that afternoon, I did not have the heart to object too strenuously. Mainly, because I wanted to be sure they did not take the one from my bedroom the next time I left. That, and the fact that I thought it was neat they had gone through what they understood of the election process as well. At least they were using something that they learned in school. I suspect our older children knew that it was patently unfair to exclude their parents from this process, but chose to ignore that little detail. They even informed us that if we couldn’t vote when the polls were open and had failed to file an absentee ballot, we were just going to have to live with the results.
They happened to have been learning about the election process in school about that same time. They soon voted to have one installed on the shelf, up in the corner of the chicken house. Can you guess whose radio my son nominated for this purpose? I will give you a hint; the election was held while my husband was at work and I was gone getting chick feed. If you had known our family, at that time, you might have already guessed that it was unanimously determined that the one from my husband’s man-cave/shop would serve well for this purpose. He and I were the only ones not home to object soon enough the day they held their family vote. When I discovered the radio in the chicken house that afternoon, I did not have the heart to object too strenuously. Mainly, because I wanted to be sure they did not take the one from my bedroom the next time I left. That, and the fact that I thought it was neat they had gone through what they understood of the election process as well. At least they were using something that they learned in school. I suspect our older children knew that it was patently unfair to exclude their parents from this process, but chose to ignore that little detail. They even informed us that if we couldn’t vote when the polls were open and had failed to file an absentee ballot, we were just going to have to live with the results.
Vernon G. Van Engelenhoven, my beloved surrogate dad.
Who raised those little wise-crackers, anyway!
My husband soon began pointing out we were becoming more and more like Uncle Sam; by voting to re-allocate his resources while he was out working to support all of us. In all fairness, he rarely used it anyway and didn’t even miss it in the shop until a couple of weeks later when he noticed there was music coming from the chicken house. He asked me about it. I pointed out the fact that he hadn’t even missed it was proof positive he could well do without it, at least until after all the chicks were grown and gone. Besides, it was beginning to look like our children were all pulling together to help with the chicken adventure and that was worth a small sacrifice from us.
By way of a sidebar, did you know that an alarm clock/radio/cd player does not fare well for more than a few months in a filthy, stinky humid chicken coop? We did eventually, get that thing back to the shop, but by then the only thing that worked was the radio, and its range was radically diminished because the roosters had repeatedly attempted to eat the worm-like antenna.
As soon as those chicks were big enough and the weather warmed, we began building them a pen to protect them. Thanks to hard work of both families, those rapidly growing fledglings soon had a beautiful spacious secure yard to run about in as well. I think after all the improvements; those birds lived better than we did for much of that summer.
Surprisingly, with all the chicken moving and last minute building alterations taking place, Theresa still assumed I knew what I was doing. That was her big mistake.
About now, I imagine those of you, more experienced and smarter than me, are seeing some of my mistakes and guessing what was about to happen to us as those 100 plus chicks turned into bigger chickens. To my chagrin, you would probably be correct.
In my own defense, I must inform you, that, as this was taking place, I had continued to deal with several active children underfoot, a torn Achilles tendon, and working full-time on a census operation which had me meeting every guard-goat this county had to offer (I will share the latter adventures with you in a later issue). I was also trying to plant and maintain my huge garden and help care for my adopted father, who was fighting cancer. So maybe I was a bit more distracted than usual. That’s my excuse anyway. . . And I am sticking to it!
My husband soon began pointing out we were becoming more and more like Uncle Sam; by voting to re-allocate his resources while he was out working to support all of us. In all fairness, he rarely used it anyway and didn’t even miss it in the shop until a couple of weeks later when he noticed there was music coming from the chicken house. He asked me about it. I pointed out the fact that he hadn’t even missed it was proof positive he could well do without it, at least until after all the chicks were grown and gone. Besides, it was beginning to look like our children were all pulling together to help with the chicken adventure and that was worth a small sacrifice from us.
By way of a sidebar, did you know that an alarm clock/radio/cd player does not fare well for more than a few months in a filthy, stinky humid chicken coop? We did eventually, get that thing back to the shop, but by then the only thing that worked was the radio, and its range was radically diminished because the roosters had repeatedly attempted to eat the worm-like antenna.
As soon as those chicks were big enough and the weather warmed, we began building them a pen to protect them. Thanks to hard work of both families, those rapidly growing fledglings soon had a beautiful spacious secure yard to run about in as well. I think after all the improvements; those birds lived better than we did for much of that summer.
Surprisingly, with all the chicken moving and last minute building alterations taking place, Theresa still assumed I knew what I was doing. That was her big mistake.
About now, I imagine those of you, more experienced and smarter than me, are seeing some of my mistakes and guessing what was about to happen to us as those 100 plus chicks turned into bigger chickens. To my chagrin, you would probably be correct.
In my own defense, I must inform you, that, as this was taking place, I had continued to deal with several active children underfoot, a torn Achilles tendon, and working full-time on a census operation which had me meeting every guard-goat this county had to offer (I will share the latter adventures with you in a later issue). I was also trying to plant and maintain my huge garden and help care for my adopted father, who was fighting cancer. So maybe I was a bit more distracted than usual. That’s my excuse anyway. . . And I am sticking to it!
It didn’t take me long to figure out as those darned white Cornish matured, they could not all get into the chicken house at night. It looked like a sea of white flowing out the door with islands of red and black sprinkled in. I couldn’t figure out what I had done wrong. I knew I had lost a little floor space by installing insulation and board to protect it; but that did not account for the explosion of chickens we witnessed night after night. My husband suggested I quit relying on my memory for the size of the shed and see if that was my error. My son and I took a tape measure out there and soon discovered I had calculated a few more square feet than was actually there to begin with. Yikes! What were we to do? Theresa and I discussed our options and decided to move most of their feeders and water containers outside and to put in a roost that would allow for more usable floor space.
The former solution worked—until I discovered wild birds love chicken feed. The latter solution was a bit more complicated. It was covertly done in a big hurry, while my husband was safely away at work. It had to be done in this manner since he was already a bit miffed about the extraneous cost associated with these birds, as well as questioning the wisdom of my latest venture. I decided to use materials we already had on hand, rather than spend the gas and time to run all the way into town and purchase new materials.
The former solution worked—until I discovered wild birds love chicken feed. The latter solution was a bit more complicated. It was covertly done in a big hurry, while my husband was safely away at work. It had to be done in this manner since he was already a bit miffed about the extraneous cost associated with these birds, as well as questioning the wisdom of my latest venture. I decided to use materials we already had on hand, rather than spend the gas and time to run all the way into town and purchase new materials.
I consulted my mom and Gramps about how to go about constructing a roost. Once we had drawn out what we thought was most workable, Gramps again came to my aid by helping me slap together a perch made from every rounded rod, handle, and pole the kids and I could find lying about our little mini-farm—which included more than one foray into hubby’s man-cave/shop.
I wanted to ease the chickens’ predicament as quickly as possible, so those poor birds could simply “double-deck” at night and all be safely shut up inside to discourage four legged poachers who might come calling while we were sleeping. Since I usually ended up being the one scooping out the bedding every few weeks—when I could not convince one of our collective children to do it— I even had the forethought to borrow a few hinges off some old unused doors standing about in the aforementioned man-cave. These, Gramps and I used to install the roost in such a way as to enable the entire contraption to be lifted up off the floor and hang suspended from the ceiling for cleaning purposes. This saved me another large round of re-construction later.
Just in case you are considering following my example for scrounging construction
materials when you have to build your next emergency chicken roost, let me share a bit of hard-earned advice: If you take any of the removable handles from
your husband’s shop for this purpose, hide the leftover broom and implement ends,
so he will simply think he misplaced the entire tool. Take it from me; it will save
you a lot of explaining.
With the roost in place, I was surprised when it went nearly unused. It seems chickens do not simply hop-up on a roost at night if they are too heavy to hop in the first place. Since the whites were quite heavy by then, they only saw the beautiful new roost as a barrier reef hindering their flood into their chicken house. The children and I found ourselves picking birds up and stuffing them in between the bars, to spend the night under the roost. After doing this a time or two, I wised up and propped the front of it up on blocks in an effort to encourage those stubborn hens to at least swarm beneath it by themselves. Things seemed to improve for a short while. The reds and blacks appreciated their beautiful new roost and soon were even using it all by themselves. However, those whites were getting bigger and demanding more floor space every hour.
I wanted to ease the chickens’ predicament as quickly as possible, so those poor birds could simply “double-deck” at night and all be safely shut up inside to discourage four legged poachers who might come calling while we were sleeping. Since I usually ended up being the one scooping out the bedding every few weeks—when I could not convince one of our collective children to do it— I even had the forethought to borrow a few hinges off some old unused doors standing about in the aforementioned man-cave. These, Gramps and I used to install the roost in such a way as to enable the entire contraption to be lifted up off the floor and hang suspended from the ceiling for cleaning purposes. This saved me another large round of re-construction later.
Just in case you are considering following my example for scrounging construction
materials when you have to build your next emergency chicken roost, let me share a bit of hard-earned advice: If you take any of the removable handles from
your husband’s shop for this purpose, hide the leftover broom and implement ends,
so he will simply think he misplaced the entire tool. Take it from me; it will save
you a lot of explaining.
With the roost in place, I was surprised when it went nearly unused. It seems chickens do not simply hop-up on a roost at night if they are too heavy to hop in the first place. Since the whites were quite heavy by then, they only saw the beautiful new roost as a barrier reef hindering their flood into their chicken house. The children and I found ourselves picking birds up and stuffing them in between the bars, to spend the night under the roost. After doing this a time or two, I wised up and propped the front of it up on blocks in an effort to encourage those stubborn hens to at least swarm beneath it by themselves. Things seemed to improve for a short while. The reds and blacks appreciated their beautiful new roost and soon were even using it all by themselves. However, those whites were getting bigger and demanding more floor space every hour.
After a few more weeks, I started having to carry ten or more whites in every night and out every morning. It appeared their legs were seriously injured and they could no longer walk easily. I thought someone was stepping on their legs. I fear I may have maligned my husband and children’s character about this a couple of times. I was just sick to think someone had carelessly injured those fat, fluffy white birds.
Complicating the situation more, was all the rain we were getting that year. Every time it started raining my youngest daughter and I sprang into action. —After several long hard weeks of dealing with chickens, she was the only one I could press into service without a bunch of haranguing or bribery. The others had started working hard at not being around to help with what they by that time referred to as, ‘mom and Theresa’s nasty birds.” —Each time the rain threatened in earnest, the youngest child and I would run around like crazy chickens ourselves, gathering up those poor crippled birds to keep them from suffering in the cold wet rain.
It wasn’t until late that fall when all was said and done that my Aunt explained, that I had been responsible for the crippled birds. Really! They should have come with a warning label not to keep food in front of them with the light on 24/7. How was I to know they weren’t smart enough not to eat themselves silly? That answered one question anyway—I had wondered why the chicken feed bill was higher than my grocery bill.
Soon it appeared expedient to begin the process of butchering a bit earlier than originally planned.
Regarding this: Do you have any idea what happens to childhood memories after 30 years? That summer it became painfully evident that they can become distorted. I honestly believed I could just raise that many birds, like mom always had. I was certain Theresa and I could pluck and butcher that many manually in just a few afternoons. What I didn’t remember clearly, until mother reminded me, was that she had had several young helpers—how else would I have known how to do it? She also had a bigger building and was blessed to have a stinking lot more patience to begin with.
After the first day of working for hours on end just to do 12 birds, Theresa—and our children who were manipulated into helping us—and I decided it was imperative to go high-tech. Accordingly, we borrowed the hatchery’s plucking machine. It was amazing! One person could do four birds in about 15 seconds. We roped our children, as often as they were available, my husband, mom, Gramps Theresa’s husband—the cattle and pig farmer, who kept referring to chicken as ‘imitation meat’—as well as any other unsuspecting person who was unfortunate enough to happen by our place, into helping us clean, cut up, and bag those birds over the next few weeks. We worked tirelessly, exhausting even my stalwart youngest daughter—who began to complain she now hated chickens as well. It was while dressing those chickens for the umpteenth day in a row that it suddenly occurred to me that this fiasco had not happened without other blunders besides mine.
Remember, I mentioned the hatchery used the new math when we bought the chicks? Imagine our astonishment when we started counting and discovered that 100 whites had already been butchered. The children immediately began counting those still clucking around behind us. They counted in excess of 25 more whites running with the 30 layers. See what I meant by new math? Apparently, the hatchery thoughtfully accounted for some loss by throwing in extra.
Startled, as we discussed numbers, my mom admitted, she had already accounted for some loss when she told me how many to get to begin with. Then, I compounded the situation, by again calculating extra for the 20% loss. Of course, in all honesty, the birds themselves should share the blame for the entire disaster, as they did their part by not dying in the projected textbook quantities. We all had a great laugh as we discussed how we had gone from chicken adventure to chicken fiasco that spring and summer. Talk about having more blessings than we had room enough to receive!
When we were finally down to the expected 30 layers that fall, the local wildlife (sometimes, our dogs as well) decided to pitch in to help ease the situation. This was helped by the layers themselves, who decided to suddenly "test their wings" by flying out of the pen. If they were unfortunate enough to land on the north side of their chicken yard they found themselves in dire circumstances indeed. That side bordered our yard where our puggle and lab mix dogs resided. This was not a happy place for any bird to land. If those air-born layers were fortunate enough to land outside of the dog yard, as they flew from the safety of their pen, they seemed to suddenly forget they could fly and were doomed to spend the day walking around the parameter trying to find a hole through which to rejoin their compatriots.
In sheer exasperation, we quickly found a way to raise the fence. This could be accomplished by adding chicken wire all the way around, weaving sticks in and out of the holes to hold it upright. By the time we had finished installing this at the top of the woven wire on the entire north side, my mom saw what was going on. She suggested we save our money and just clip the birds' flight feathers instead.
Needless to say, she was then obliged to come to the chicken coop in the middle of the night and show us how this was done. We spent what felt like hours pulling each of the sleeping layers off the roost one by one and carefully clipping wing-tips to stop the madness. By the time we finished, the floor looked like it had snowed red and black feathers in there. I don't think the birds or their humans groomers got much sleep that night. It took forever to do all those flight happy girls while keeping track of who was clipped and who was not.
Between the birds who chose to become dog chew toys and the help from the local wildlife, sadly, we were soon down to 20 layers. Between the chicken mess-ups and all the weeds that had overtaken the garden and the fruit trees—which were eaten more by critters than humans that year, I suspect we had the best fed wildlife in the state.
In conclusion, having survived the entire comedy and learned a great deal, Gramps and I made plans to build a new larger chicken house for the next time we decide to raise our own chickens. It will be complete with insulation, ventilation and heat lamps —and maybe even an old radio—in place before we even consider ordering chicks. I will also have a pen that will be more critter proof. Perhaps most importantly, I will count each and every chick before I bring the darned things home next time. Plus, once here, they will only get food for a few hours a day. These lessons are something my husband and I now fondly recall, each time we drive up to Amish country to purchase our already raised and dressed chickens to put in the freezer.
You never know—perhaps for my next adventure in farming, I will take Theresa’s husband advice and raise “real meat” cows and pigs.
You may be wondering how she handled all the craziness that year. Well, how could we not have grown closer? Shared adversity does have a way of doing that. I know she learned more about me, as well as chickens, than she ever believed she needed to know.
Lest you think we were always thoughtless, allow me to share what my children and I gave their dad for Christmas that year: a new clock/radio/CD player, three 100-foot extension cords, and a variety of new broom and implement handles and hinges—since we discovered, after the fact, that the old doors we took them from; were ones he had planned to use elsewhere. We felt those were appropriate gifts, given all we had done to him over the course of that year.
This chicken adventure/debacle is now a fun family memory that still causes my now grown children to laugh uproariously, when they get together and start trotting out their favorite childhood memories.
I wish I could tell you this was the only crazy memory they have of growing up in our family, but that would be untrue. They have several such memories.
Complicating the situation more, was all the rain we were getting that year. Every time it started raining my youngest daughter and I sprang into action. —After several long hard weeks of dealing with chickens, she was the only one I could press into service without a bunch of haranguing or bribery. The others had started working hard at not being around to help with what they by that time referred to as, ‘mom and Theresa’s nasty birds.” —Each time the rain threatened in earnest, the youngest child and I would run around like crazy chickens ourselves, gathering up those poor crippled birds to keep them from suffering in the cold wet rain.
It wasn’t until late that fall when all was said and done that my Aunt explained, that I had been responsible for the crippled birds. Really! They should have come with a warning label not to keep food in front of them with the light on 24/7. How was I to know they weren’t smart enough not to eat themselves silly? That answered one question anyway—I had wondered why the chicken feed bill was higher than my grocery bill.
Soon it appeared expedient to begin the process of butchering a bit earlier than originally planned.
Regarding this: Do you have any idea what happens to childhood memories after 30 years? That summer it became painfully evident that they can become distorted. I honestly believed I could just raise that many birds, like mom always had. I was certain Theresa and I could pluck and butcher that many manually in just a few afternoons. What I didn’t remember clearly, until mother reminded me, was that she had had several young helpers—how else would I have known how to do it? She also had a bigger building and was blessed to have a stinking lot more patience to begin with.
After the first day of working for hours on end just to do 12 birds, Theresa—and our children who were manipulated into helping us—and I decided it was imperative to go high-tech. Accordingly, we borrowed the hatchery’s plucking machine. It was amazing! One person could do four birds in about 15 seconds. We roped our children, as often as they were available, my husband, mom, Gramps Theresa’s husband—the cattle and pig farmer, who kept referring to chicken as ‘imitation meat’—as well as any other unsuspecting person who was unfortunate enough to happen by our place, into helping us clean, cut up, and bag those birds over the next few weeks. We worked tirelessly, exhausting even my stalwart youngest daughter—who began to complain she now hated chickens as well. It was while dressing those chickens for the umpteenth day in a row that it suddenly occurred to me that this fiasco had not happened without other blunders besides mine.
Remember, I mentioned the hatchery used the new math when we bought the chicks? Imagine our astonishment when we started counting and discovered that 100 whites had already been butchered. The children immediately began counting those still clucking around behind us. They counted in excess of 25 more whites running with the 30 layers. See what I meant by new math? Apparently, the hatchery thoughtfully accounted for some loss by throwing in extra.
Startled, as we discussed numbers, my mom admitted, she had already accounted for some loss when she told me how many to get to begin with. Then, I compounded the situation, by again calculating extra for the 20% loss. Of course, in all honesty, the birds themselves should share the blame for the entire disaster, as they did their part by not dying in the projected textbook quantities. We all had a great laugh as we discussed how we had gone from chicken adventure to chicken fiasco that spring and summer. Talk about having more blessings than we had room enough to receive!
When we were finally down to the expected 30 layers that fall, the local wildlife (sometimes, our dogs as well) decided to pitch in to help ease the situation. This was helped by the layers themselves, who decided to suddenly "test their wings" by flying out of the pen. If they were unfortunate enough to land on the north side of their chicken yard they found themselves in dire circumstances indeed. That side bordered our yard where our puggle and lab mix dogs resided. This was not a happy place for any bird to land. If those air-born layers were fortunate enough to land outside of the dog yard, as they flew from the safety of their pen, they seemed to suddenly forget they could fly and were doomed to spend the day walking around the parameter trying to find a hole through which to rejoin their compatriots.
In sheer exasperation, we quickly found a way to raise the fence. This could be accomplished by adding chicken wire all the way around, weaving sticks in and out of the holes to hold it upright. By the time we had finished installing this at the top of the woven wire on the entire north side, my mom saw what was going on. She suggested we save our money and just clip the birds' flight feathers instead.
Needless to say, she was then obliged to come to the chicken coop in the middle of the night and show us how this was done. We spent what felt like hours pulling each of the sleeping layers off the roost one by one and carefully clipping wing-tips to stop the madness. By the time we finished, the floor looked like it had snowed red and black feathers in there. I don't think the birds or their humans groomers got much sleep that night. It took forever to do all those flight happy girls while keeping track of who was clipped and who was not.
Between the birds who chose to become dog chew toys and the help from the local wildlife, sadly, we were soon down to 20 layers. Between the chicken mess-ups and all the weeds that had overtaken the garden and the fruit trees—which were eaten more by critters than humans that year, I suspect we had the best fed wildlife in the state.
In conclusion, having survived the entire comedy and learned a great deal, Gramps and I made plans to build a new larger chicken house for the next time we decide to raise our own chickens. It will be complete with insulation, ventilation and heat lamps —and maybe even an old radio—in place before we even consider ordering chicks. I will also have a pen that will be more critter proof. Perhaps most importantly, I will count each and every chick before I bring the darned things home next time. Plus, once here, they will only get food for a few hours a day. These lessons are something my husband and I now fondly recall, each time we drive up to Amish country to purchase our already raised and dressed chickens to put in the freezer.
You never know—perhaps for my next adventure in farming, I will take Theresa’s husband advice and raise “real meat” cows and pigs.
You may be wondering how she handled all the craziness that year. Well, how could we not have grown closer? Shared adversity does have a way of doing that. I know she learned more about me, as well as chickens, than she ever believed she needed to know.
Lest you think we were always thoughtless, allow me to share what my children and I gave their dad for Christmas that year: a new clock/radio/CD player, three 100-foot extension cords, and a variety of new broom and implement handles and hinges—since we discovered, after the fact, that the old doors we took them from; were ones he had planned to use elsewhere. We felt those were appropriate gifts, given all we had done to him over the course of that year.
This chicken adventure/debacle is now a fun family memory that still causes my now grown children to laugh uproariously, when they get together and start trotting out their favorite childhood memories.
I wish I could tell you this was the only crazy memory they have of growing up in our family, but that would be untrue. They have several such memories.
Copyright © 2014 by Rent's Due Publications
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All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, click a button on any page to send email with details of the request.
