Back in the 90’s I decided I wanted to raise chickens. Partly for the fun of it and partly to sell eggs locally. I got 2 dozen sturdy, brown egg-layers call Bufforpingtons. They arrived in a small box at the post office and the postmistress called me to pick them up. I was excited. Kind of like being a Mom for the second time around.
When you first get them as chicks, you need to dip their beaks in water so they get the hang of it. I was enthralled, sitting in the henhouse with them and letting them climb all over me, peeping and pooping. When they got larger they would fly up to my shoulders or my head. I lost a couple of earrings that way. They ate them.
At that time I was living in the Northern Catskill mountains, real Rip VanWinkle country; consider the paintings of Frederic Church of the Hudson River School of painting, that’s exactly what the scenery was like. Very dramatic. We had epic snowstorms, and living on top of a mountain we got more than our share. The ski areas were thrilled. But one winter I was snowed in for 3 days and couldn’t even walk to the hen house. Sixteen years later I thought, “I could have used my cross country skis!” but then I would have had to dig out the door and there was 3 feet of snow which had drifted to at least 5 feet. Those big, fluffy chickens were just fine when I finally got to them on the 4th day. They were snug, had water and feed and had laid 6 dozen eggs!
Fast forward to 1999. I had always wanted to move back to Chestertown where I was born, went to elementary school, and then to Gunston when it was a girls’ school only. So, here I am, thirteen years later, happily settled with, at present, thirty-seven hens and one rooster who, thank God, has ceased regarding me as a threat to his harem. To be continued……
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