Two nights ago i was overwhelmed with the evenings beauty. Normally, the hens get tucked in right around the same time as the kids so you can imagine the craziness of 'bedtime routine' here. It's a mad rush to close up the chickens, gather straggling eggs, get the kids cleaned up and the house tidied for the evening. Only, this particular evening it was just so peaceful and so tranquil I found myself lingering, breathing in the moist air and relishing all that life has to offer (and letting Greg put the kids to bed).
The coop was glowing and I could hear the ladies shuffling around inside getting to their places which is a sound I thoroughly enjoy every day, just as much as hearing my children giggle. But, I have found that the times in my life when I really pause on the edge of tranquility and understanding, I am closest to death. Years ago, I remember sitting with our sweet cat Bubby and petting him in a way I hadn't, really appreciating him, really seeing him, almost pausing in time to remember him the way he was in that very moment. The very next morning he was hit by a car. I could only think how thankful I was that I hadn't just ignored him the previous night to rush about my life. I've had similar experiences like that all through my life with pets and people.
On this night, I literally stopped on my way to the coop, took this picture of my feet in the March mud and soaked in all that was about our chickens, appreciating their bounty, the food they provide, the comic relief they provide our family, the money they are earning for us. I just love them. Everything about them.
I stopped once more on the way in, amused by their shadows and the way that they too were very aware of me being outside. Some ladies hopped down off their high spots to take a peak outside the window.
Inside they were so orderly, I took the opportunity to take a head count. 59. We started with 62 chickens last August (61 chicks and one old hen) and have only lost 2 this winter, something that I am very proud of (keeping our flock safe and healthy, not losing the two). But one very important chicken was missing, our old hen, and my heart just sank. Oddly, Jorn came out to the coop at that very moment and right away scanned the chickens and said, "mom, where's Chippy?". I just let out a big sigh, said she was probably in the garage and suggested we let daddy look for her later. We agreed that was a good idea, but we knew.
Chippy was the last lady from our first flock, the chickens that brought out a passion in us we never even knew that we had until they arrived. Some people have chickens and adore them and then some people have chickens and go 'chicken crazy'. We fall into that category. Losing Chippy is hard for us, as inevitable as we knew it would be, she was sort of the farm mascot, Jorn's baby and Simonne's obsession. This is her here (read notes), here (go to page 2), here (as a baby! scroll down) and if you have ever bought something from the shop that is her on the back of the moo card. Oh, I have so many pictures of her I have to go through.
The reality is, we are used to this sort of loss. It happens. But Chippy represents the beginning of our dream. Her egg was the first blue egg any of us had ever seen in our lives! And one of the first fresh eggs we ever tasted! She was a survivor, in fact, I really hadn't given up hope on her until this morning when a man knocked on our door to say he just saw a fox run off with one of our hens (another one, which brings the count to 58) and I knew we had another problem on our hands.
We'll miss Chippy, she was always underfoot, laid eggs on our bumpers, liked to roost in the strangest places and always let the kids pick her up, but most importantly set us on a path of growing and raising our own food and now, more importantly, raising food for our whole community. She was a special hen.
