Raising chickens in a post-post-modern age

Some years back, in a deep and reverent bow to my long-gone grandmother, and as a life-lesson for my children,I decided to raise chickens. I had fearful yet fond memories of my grandmother preparing for Sunday supper by raising an ax on Saturday morning and chopping off the head of a chicken. I wanted to raise an ax like that, with a noble purpose, food for the young 'uns! I remember the incomparable taste of truly fresh chicken and dumplings, and I was willing to learn how to make it from scratch. And if I couldn't make it that far, at least I could harvest the eggs.

I have a decent sized yard, I love the sight of a lone chicken pecking in the yard at dawn and dusk, I love the little hen stories of childhood, and nothing beats the sound of a rooster crowing. How cool would it be to have a sloppy sign on the fence that says "Brown Eggs, $1 a Dozen"? How hard could it be? I was living the American dream- five beautiful, smart, and funny children, a white picket fence, an American flag, a tire swing in the tree,a pie in the oven, and now chickens in the yard!

After buying some chicks, I spent an afternoon with a brilliant chicken farmer who showed me with surgical precision how to kill a chicken humanely then clean and prepare it for cooking. I was ready to go. It was heaven for awhile. The chickens grew feathers, the kids carried them fondly around the yard, splendid photo ops abounded! There's something transcendent about a beautiful child with golden curls carrying a glistening young Rhode Island Red, opalescent in the evening light!

My children allowed me to transform their playhouse into a chicken coop. All it took was some chicken-wire fencing. But little chicks grow astonishingly fast. They grew, put forth and multiplied. The eggs were bountiful. The egg sign hung on the fence for awhile, attracting surprisingly little interest. Too many chicks turned into roosters. The neighbors were kind, and tolerant of the 4AM cockadoodledoos, but I had to find takers, and try not to wonder what random folks did with the free roosters I gave them. Too many chickens flew the coop and slept on the back porch railing at night. They loved us and wanted to be near us, we knew, but they sure do leave a mess! I never quite got hold of my inner chicken-raiser. A coyote came one night and got all but one dear little hen, my story-book hen. Life was manageable again, she pecked in the yard and kept me company while the kids were in school. As long as she was there, I felt a wonderful calm, and no need for an ax. She lived a good comfortable life as a pleasant and demure old maid until one day the sky fell in, and I saw her laying mortally wounded in the field next door, done in by the neighbor's dog.

My friend Warren has a much more successful venture in Connecticut. 80 free-range chickens, 7 Shetland sheep, a vegetable garden, 8 cats and 2 barking dogs, all just in spittin' distance from a Dairy Queen. Good to know that the American dream of yesteryear is still honored and even achieved by a rare few. I'm here to tell you, it's not easy to pull off. But even a little try has its rewards.