Red Bird, My Friend

my first flock

my first flock

When I moved back to my hometown in the country, I felt the need to get fit, get healthy and get back to my roots. I'd just had my son and had taken up jogging. I knew in order to eat healthy, I wanted a garden, and I wanted fresh eggs.  I also wanted my son to grow up with animals. So, I went down to the local feed store and bought some day-old chicks.

Red Bird was one of the hens from the first flock I raised. She was always a standout, one of my two Rhode Island Reds. The Ameraucanas were loners, the Barred Rocks standoffish. But Red Bird was always friendly and curious.

It had little to do with her upbringing. I handled them all just the same. They were nurtured and cared for, but not coddled. I made no effort, held no hope that they would be overly tame. They were layers.

For those of you who aren't in the know, layers are basically chickens that are bred to lay eggs.

Our arrangement was simple. I would provide them spacious accommodations, feed, scraps, and all their basic care. They would provide me with delicious free-range eggs.

If you've never had fresh, free-range eggs, you really should. The yolks are a deep, rich orange and taste rich. I've had people tell me my chicken's eggs taste like cheese. And the colors. It's so fun to have light brown, dark brown, white and blue-green eggs all together in a carton. No, not dyed. Different breeds lay different colors and shades. And no, the color doesn't affect the taste.

When I brought home the chicks, my son was three, barely old enough to handle delicate chicks. He loved them and held them, under close supervision. It was a relief when they were old enough for the coop, cold-resistant and hardy. No longer confined, they could fend for themselves. With plenty of room, they easily escaped the toddling boy.

It was always fun to watch my son, Matthew, toddle after the girls. They'd scatter in his wake, as smart free-range birds will do. When they were small and still relatively tame, he was able to catch quite a few different birds . But once they'd gotten their full feathers in, they were a challenge for little Matty to get his pudgy hands on. You should have heard the fits he'd throw begging me to catch him a chicken to hold.

Red Bird, though, didn't run. She was his favorite, always easy to catch. And so it was was that the plump red hen was the first to earn a name. He'd carry her around, and insist she join him in the garden while I worked at weeding. He'd be driving little trucks through puddles and mounds of soil while Red Bird pecked and scratched, content as can be.

Sometimes he'd get greedy and beg me to bring other chickens to join them in the fenced garden. I'd gather up a few girls and lock them in with us. They'd pace the fence, frantic to escape back to the rest of the flock, blind to the bounty around them. Not Red Bird. She knew she had a good thing. Bugs and plentiful cherry tomatoes were her reason to contentedly stay.

I'd eventually plead for him to let them loose, fed up with their frantic pacing. The joy of gardening is the quiet and peace of enjoying your surroundings. The mood isn't quite right when you've got a chicken running back and forth, sticking her head through every bit of chainlink she can find. It amazes me how they never quite understand that they won't fit. It doesn't matter how many times they jutt their little heads through.

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Author's Note
I'm resurrecting this collection of short pieces about raising chickens. These are more or less true stories. I've changed some of the names and embellished the stories here and there. I have chickens once again,  and will likely add to this collection in the future. 

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Thank you @Prisim who created the cover for this story.

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