My life-long friend Lauri got chickens this year. She doesn’t even like chickens, but her daughter and husband went to the feed store at the irresistible chick season, and couldn’t resist bringing home a bunch of Rhode Island Reds.
She built them a coop and cares for them dutifully, but she doesn’t CARE for them. I, on the other hand, would LOVE a half dozen hens wandering about. My neighbors would no doubt call the city down on me, so I don’t attempt any urban farming, but I find them very peaceful.
My older daughter knows this about me. She knew that I raised them when I was younger. Hence this birthday present from her.
She didn’t know that when I was about 10 or 11 I had a pet topknot chick that I carried in a shoulder bag and let it ride on my shoulder on occasion, until it was more pullet than chick. This is so extremely redneck a childhood story that this gift made for gales of laughter on both our sides. I wish I could show you the photos of the crazy chickens inside! This feathered friend is quite tame in comparison.
Well, I’m only in my 40s, so presumably I have time to possibly again know the peacefulness of little hens pecking and scratching and making their soothing questing noises. But they won’t look like this one. And it won’t be in this particular suburb, or anytime soon. But who wouldn’t love to throw scratch to a few of these little faces every morning?