Chicken Scratch

I wrote this for a 2008 issue of Texas LIVE Magazine, but I’ve never published it here…

Chicken Scratch

So, which came first, the chicken or the egg? For this wide-eyed fourth-grader, it was definitely a chicken. To be more exact, it was a red hen. I found her while visiting some friends that lived on a busy street in our small town. She scuttled away from the other kids, but she seemed to trust me. When I caught her, I just knew that God had placed that hen in my path for a reason—why else would a chicken be in the middle of town?

I artfully wove words of appeal to my mother, hoping she would allow me to keep the bird, but she had already practiced years of gently vetoing various, and often exotic, pet pleas. After making some calls and posing for a few photographs with my new companion, we headed for the country to give her to friends that had a perfect place for another chicken. The patient hen had been wrapped in my arms all afternoon, but as we rode in the van, she suddenly became resistive and even flapped her wings. I whispered reassurances about her new home to calm her fears. When we finally arrived, I tenderly adjusted her before crawling out of the van. Suddenly, the dread of saying goodbye turned into amazement as I realized why she had become so restless—an ivory egg rolled off my lap and settled on the seat next to me. She had left me a parting gift!  The journey home was bittersweet; through tear-filled eyes, I stared at the most perfect egg ever laid.

Over a decade later, I moved from Austin to Brenham and decided to embrace a simpler lifestyle. I had not thought about raising chickens since that fateful day in fourth grade, but as I fell in love with gardening, I decided that it would be quaint to have a few chickens in the yard. Besides being charming, they could help with the bugs, fertilize the flowers, and provide fresh eggs. For months, my fashion and home magazines were replaced with hatchery catalogs. An unimaginable variety of size, color, and temperament made it difficult to select just a few, but I finally chose my modest flock. Later that summer, my day-old chicks arrived.

Safely caged in a corner of our unfinished guestroom, I watched the chicks grow daily. Their fuzz was gradually replaced with feathers as they all developed their own unique personalities, and I learned the true meaning of “pecking order.”  Within a few months, it was time to move them outside to an old coop that a friend had given me. Checking on the birds before and after work became part of my daily routine. My husband even bought a cedar bench so I would have a comfortable place to observe them. I chronicled all their “firsts” like a proud mom—the first time my rooster crowed, the first egg, the first time they had free-reign in the yard.

Last week, my two-year-old niece came for a visit; she bypassed the toys and TV and marched straight to the backyard to see the chickens. From the other end of the yard, the hens saw us approaching. They raced to greet us, and only their fluffy feather petticoats slowed them down.  Katie clapped with glee as the chickens scratched at the food she had thrown to them. I noticed one of the hens had made a late entrance, and I knew where she had been. After some gentle leading, Katie discovered the ivory prize. With sparkling eyes, she examined the perfect egg. In that moment, I recognized why my backyard chickens were such a pleasure. Despite the busy pace and daily stress that easily squelches the imagination, there is still a child-like wonder that is awakened by those simple creatures that share my garden.

Related posts: