Unexpected Benefits of Getting Up Early to Feed My Chickens
(Those chickens pictured above are not my chickens. Those are Golden Laced Wyandottes and the one giving you the extremely unimpressed look is a rooster.)
I live in New Hampshire, a place just about as far from my home state of California as I could imagine. There are a lot of differences between the states; some are more enjoyable than others (I’m looking at you, snow). One of the things that’s delightful is that New Hampshire is pretty much semi-rural to fully rural. Most towns let residents have small barnyard animals.
In my case, I’m allowed a dozen hens, so that’s what I got. (Yes. Yes, I know that’s silly. There are only three humans here — how many eggs can we eat? I don’t know, but I know I’m going to find out.)
I love the chickens. They’re ridiculous. They’re fluffy and silly, and very very pretty. I’ve got a mixed flock, which means I have multiple breeds of chicken; I wanted them to be something like an outdoor feathery fishtank which also provides food. They’re perfect. Also, unexpectedly musical. Every time I go outside, they gather at the wall of the run and call out to me, hoping for treats. They’d stab someone for a grape.
What I hadn’t really thought about was how much work they’d be.
Every morning, I get up earlier than I’d like, trundle downstairs, set the coffee-maker to running, and then lug the chickens (in groups of six) from the basement to the current, temporary coop. I can carry six chickens in a plastic tub with the lid on, but only barely. (I’m under 5 feet tall, and the bin is about as big across as I can reach.)
That’s two trips, with heavy chickens. Then I bring them a big dish of dry food, and a shovelful of chopped vegetables and fruit, when I have it. If their pen needs mucking out, it’s at least an hour’s work to rake the whole thing out, get all the old material into the wheelbarrow and trundled over to the compost pile, and then new dry bedding laid out.
Only then can I think about having my own coffee and breakfast. Of course, at this point, the hens are old enough that they’re contributing to my breakfast, but still. There’s work involved in having these critters, no matter how much they’re like the weirdest, featheriest tank of fish ever.
I was thinking about it, this morning, as I heaved the heavy bin of chickens over to the coop.
What do I get out of this, other than knowing where my eggs come from?
I mean, store-bought eggs are cheap, so why am I doing all this work?
Some of it is, actually, the pleasure of having eggs with known provenance and date. Some of it is the novelty of having chickens, when I wasn’t allowed to have them before.
But more of it is that I enjoy the personal connection to my food, and to my environment and to what I use in my daily life. I enjoy doing this for the same reason I enjoy growing my own vegetables, and knitting my own sweaters. For me, there’s value in making my own thing.
Making my own is harder, and not always more successful, than purchasing something from a shop. I certainly haven’t grown enough to live on without needing to buy from a store. But my tomatoes are sweeter, and my sweaters actually fit me and these eggs are from my very own chickens, laid in my very own coop.
So in the end, I’m happy to get up early and slog the chickens around. In the long run, the heavy lifting is only short-term; we’re nearly done with the big coop and then there’s just the one-day project of building the run and then all they’ll need in the morning is a quick pull of a string and they can go outside on their own.
But I’ll have the pleasure of knowing that I’m one step closer to my food. And one step further from having to rely on someone else to feed me and my family. Self-reliance is worth getting up early.
Sustainability is worth even more..