Home to Roost

I grew up on a forty-acre farm in Northern Michigan.  We had chickens, ducks, goats, horses, dogs and cats.  A big garden. Apple trees. Grapes. Rhubarb. Maple trees that we climbed and from which we made maple syrup.  A wood stove that heated our house (though not so well I remember!).  I loved it.  I didn’t know any differently. It was the perfect childhood in my memory.  If we are lucky, we can say that – and I was so, so lucky.  Blessed, blessed, blessed.

Without a doubt, there were parts of living on a farm that really resonated for me: having a pony named Choo-Choo, taking naps in the hammock between two of those huge, sheltering maples, the space to roam at will. I loved all of this even though I have always been very particular about getting my clothes dirty, have a disdain for certain smells, and cannot stand the feel of dirt under my fingernails.  Some of these unique qualities shed light on other parts of farm life I was not so keen on: the distinct odor of a male goat, the taste of goat’s milk while my parents tried to disguise it in a half-gallon cow milk jug (nice try mom and dad!), or walking barefoot in the thick green grass and feeling chicken poop ooze between my toes . . .ugh!

It is no small irony to have come full circle and be in a place where Jeff and I are about to embark on a six chicken journey as they come home to roost in our backyard in the coming weeks.  Let me explain.  Jeff’s dream is to live out in the country with some acreage, and largely provide much of our food through gardening and farming. I suggested, when my mother-in-law asked what Jeff might like for his birthday, that she and my mom go in on a chicken coop for Jeff.  Thinking of it as a potential stepping-stone, I’d much rather try six chickens in our backyard before selling our house, moving out to the country, and finding out: “Oh Crap! We’ve made a huge mistake . . . I hate this!!!”

So yeah, I’d be lying if I didn’t say there’s a bit of resistance in me toward moving and this whole farm idea – at least right now in our lives.  I like that we are ten minutes from everywhere we want to be. I like that while living in the city, we still have almost an acre and a half to call our own. I like that Star Bagel is only 10 minutes away.  The library – 10 minutes. Our kids’ school – 12 minutes.  My mom’s condo – 8 minutes. The grocery store – 5 minutes. And Target – yes I’ll say it! – is only one mile away.  I won’t even mention the nail place (yes I will - 8 minutes!!!) . . . In about a 7-mile radius of where we live, almost all my wants and needs are accounted for.  And, we have a creek, a cedar log cabin on the back of our property, and three huge pines that stand sentinel over house.  Though not the maples I grew up with, these sage pines give our property a sense of place and permanence. I’m not ready to leave them anytime soon.

Which brings us back around to the chickens . . . with two non-meat eating family members, eggs are a major source of protein for this crew.  That I’m all about local/organic, is a given.  So this seems like a great compromise.  Raise chickens, feed them well, eat good eggs, share good eggs with neighbors who are putting up with our “country come to town” ways, continue to work on our garden, and see how that feels.  Sage and Taggart are dying for baby chicks and with names already picked out (Poppy Seed and Happy), they are all in on our new family project.

The chicken venture was solidified earlier this week when my mom and mother-in-law presented Jeff with the “Chicken Chalet” for his birthday. No turning back now, the wheels are in motion. The coop to be built, the chicks to be purchased and raised, we are on our way.  Easing into this back to nature, back to my childhood jaunt, we just may be inching toward a small farm (though I’m not making any promises!).  But in the meantime, we’ll stay right where we are, centrally located, under the tall pines, raising those baby chicks, eventually gathering our eggs and keeping those chickens happy. Yep, there I’ll be, doing my best to avoid chicken poop between my painted toes at all costs, eating my organic omelettes, and livin’ the “country come to town” dream!

Come join in the fun. Welcome the chickens. Help gather eggs.  Avoid the chicken poop in the backyard. And then run to Target if you must.  I’m with you: one foot in, one foot out, at least on the whole farm idea.  But chickens in the backyard I can handle.  For now, it’s having the best of both worlds.

A good compromise (perhaps the key to any successful marriage . . . ), I wouldn’t have it any other way.