Not Our Chicken

Feeling a sense of peace, as I make the turn onto our street. Just 1/2 mile to go to embrace my littles, who I’ve missed so much. Pulling onto our road that leads to our farm, I see a disheveled looking rooster, taking cover under the salal that lines the gravel roadway. I squint through the rain soaked glass, taking note of its features. Nope not ours thankfully, as I wonder how and why he is there. I continue down our saturated gravel road, little creeks running everywhere. Thinking man we really need to get that drainage finished. Through the open gate, my canine welcoming committee surrounds the car. I enter the farmhouse kitchen. Business clothes covered in muddy dog hair, to find my sweet hubby making dinner. As kids run to me, tossing word salad into the roast filled air. Showered with hugs and feeling a sense of calm, I distribute the expected token airport rewards. I have officially created little Pavlov trinket monsters.

Catching up on 4 days of absentee parenting over dinner, I mention the rooster. My hubby rolling his eyes “Yeah its been up on the road all week”. Annoyance in his voice “People keep coming down here asking if it’s ours”. Just then an older lady with very purple hair and long matching purple fingernails appears at our back porch. Her lengthy hands and face peering over the half opened farm door. Built in the early 1900s, folks would come to this door to pick up fresh eggs. We now leave the top half open for ventilating our small kitchen. Always running the risk of unwelcomed guests, both of the human & fur variety.

“Hello sorry to bother you, but I think one of your chickens is out on the road” My hubby trying his best not to act annoyed, politely leaves his dinner plate and approaches her. “Thanks not ours, all of our chickens are accounted for” “Its actually a rooster, someone likely dumped it.” Trying his best to push her away from his perfectly staged, family welcome home dinner, complete with fresh flowers and gourmet appetizers.

Any sane rooster fearing human knows full well what a pain in the butt a male dominate bird can be. Especially one that stands erect to your knees with 3 inch spurs cocked & ready to rip open your shins. Attempting to capture one is life threatening at best. We have raised many over the years: Peaches, Handsome, BillyTheBully, Donald, BigRed, my most favorite guy snatched by a coyote. The list is long with the battle scars to prove it.

We politely wave her off and return to our meal. My hubby secretly peeking through the wood levelors, as she exits our driveway. He returns, referencing something about a Gold Hummer this time. Taking his seat, he grumbles on about all the “minivan moms” day after day, inquiring about “the chicken”. Apparently rescuing rogue animals is not a male dominated sport. I tease him about being so popular with the neighborhood wives club. A first responder, dealing with the public for so many years, he is not a fan of having his personal downtime interrupted. The “property” is his safe space. The “farm” was my idea…Let’s get some chickens she said. Maybe some bees, how about a goat or two for the kids, we really should learn how to raise our own meat & teach classes. My poor hubby.

The next day unpacking & getting settled back at home, I hear a knock on the door. There is no more room at the inn people. Another unfamiliar neighbor, young kids in tow, asking if we’d lost a chicken. I begin to explain in detail anticipating the ask…”With small children we are not able to take it in” I explain. “An agitated rooster can jump & blind a small child in seconds” Smiling sweetly to her littles peering up at me with those pleading eyes. My daughter shyly wrapping herself around my leg. I continue on..”Someone dumped it” explaining how attempting to corral a rogue rooster is not in the best interest of anyone. Further “All chickens return home to roost at night.” Yes even roosters. She stares blankly, patiently awaiting my long winded sales speech.

Un-phased, she drops the chicken topic & asks if her kids can play on the farm. I explain that this is our home, not a public farm. She pushes, “Well can they atleast go see the animals?” As if somehow having small kids entitles her to a free pass to my front yard. Unable to further hide my annoyance, I hesitantly agree, offering a few notes of caution, as I continue about my chores. All the while, peering outside every few minutes waiting anxiously for her minivan to depart, so I can finally relax on my ONLY. DAY. OFF.

Having a small farm in the middle of an otherwise developed area can have its challenges. Our farm outreach model (still under development at the time), focuses on youth education. Which over the coming years we begin to provide via structured classes & a youth farm stand…..NOT on a Sunday afternoon unannounced, when I have a mountain of laundry calling my name. I think to myself, we really must start keeping the gate closed.

We spend a sunny, crisp spring weekend as a family on the farm. Myself, along with my young kiddos prepping the soil and getting ready for seeding. Spring is my favorite time of year. The tulips, daffodils & hellebore beginning to appear. The fresh smell of earthy soil in my hands. Song birds fluttering about their nesting routines, while the entire farm lights up like a Thomas Kincaid painting. Vibrant shades of Pinks, Reds, Purples. Azaleas, rhododendrons & fruit trees all on full display. Carefully planted by the Hansen homesteaders, Edna & Ollie in the early 1900s. Always over anxious to get those first seeds in the ground. Although I know deep down they will most certainly rot in the wet, cool soil. Despite many hours as a master gardener, I never seem to learn this simple lesson. If only I could get back every dollar wasted on rotted packaged seeds.

I suggest that the kids start a farm stand this summer when school lets out. “A great way to earn money for college.” I proclaim. Always one step ahead of my 10 year farm plan. We discuss what we want to grow, what supplies we will need, the best days, hours and how shall we advertise. Maybe Papa will want to help too. Having spent his childhood bouncing around the small rural farms in Roy, located south of here. We spend the evening writing out a farm business plan. My son carefully mapping out the garden in his best kid writing. Zookeenee, carits, pees. My hubby watching from a distance, sipping his homemade wine, frightened look in his eyes.

Entrenched back into the busy work week, our blissful weekend a distant memory. Alternating Dad on civil servant duty, me working from home, school, activities, shuffling kids around to & fro, managing animals & keeping everything alive. That’s my only job, to keep everything alive. Our proverbial war ships passing in the night. Still in love with this crazy, insane farm life and yearning for more.

The weekend arrives, our anniversary. Sadly I must leave again on Monday, off to the airport for a week of immunochemistry sales training. We secure grandparent sitters & plan a night to go out to dinner. Packing my suitcase with my kiddos, as they secretly hide little tokens of love in the pockets. Barking dog outside, I catch a glimpse of a car at our gate. I peer out the upstairs window and see a blue minivan, well of course. Blue, beige, white..starting to find humor in all of it. My hubby currently mowing the back forty. I send him a text “Looks like one of your girlfriends is here to see you” giggling to my son.

I see my hubby appear at the gate, followed by a short conversation and the woman retreating back to her van. My hubby returns to his running bush hog. Uneventful, I continue organizing my organization. A few moments later I hear honking, only to look out and see the minivan sitting almost on its backend, front hood & wheels pointing to the sky. There it was, sunk deep in our drainage ditch, just outside the gate. I text my husband “uh-oh seems your girlfriend is in trouble” nervously giggling. My hubby texts back several choice words, not to be repeated here.

I watch as the woman, hands on hips with her kids staring curiously at their family home on wheels. My hubby appears from behind the trees, driving our orange Kubota, bucket full of large yellow tie downs. He pauses, sitting high on the tractor, sizing up the situation. I can’t see his face, but I can only imagine. Deciding best to watch from the house to avoid the fray & unwanted small talk. Hours upon hours of jimmying follow, with other neighbors showing up to assist. Our long easement lined with various sizes of pickup trucks. The woman’s husband arrives to help, while she and kids depart. I peer out to see mounds of earth torn up, engines revving, while the little blue van sits at an angle now, still blocking our only exit. Evening falls. It is clear there will be no date night this anniversary.

Back at corporate, freezing to death under the stale air conditioned training room. Getting up only for the occasional bio break & warmer cup of coffee. Surrounded by large scribbled sheets of white paper, covering the ever present suffocating walls. A girl who has spent her whole life outside, feeling like I am dying a slow cold, paper wrapped death. I peer at my itinerary counting the minutes. Dreading the 8 hour planes, trains & automobiles adventure home. I dream of the week ahead without travel, always struggling between professional responsibilities & family farm life. My hubby on duty, grandparents filling in as needed.

Settled in at my home away from home, training materials spread over my perfectly tucked hotel bed. I am certain that I no longer remember how to even make a bed. I pick at my room service tray, while catching up with kiddos over FaceTime. Struggling with the time change, we wrap up the call early with a brief update on my hubby’s ongoing E-Farminy Rooster Romance. I wonder, should I be jealous?

Finally back home in my makeshift office strewn with kid toys, struggling with my usual travel induced cold. Conference calls to adnauseum, son at school, daughter napping, hubby happily pitchforking moles outside. Showing up proudly at my office window with each gruesome catch. Out of the corner of my eye, I see him appear with something larger. I gesture that I’m busy, focusing my eyes back to my screen. Refusing to leave, I see he is holding up an old white cupboard door from our neverending farmhouse renovations. I glance up to see freshly painted black lettering. That consistent frustrated look on his face. I erupt in laughter!

My focus interrupted now, I watch as he heads up the long driveway to fetch the kids from the bus. Carefully & proudly positioning his sign against the pasture fence at the entrance of our farm. He texts me a photo. I laugh hysterically…”Well that ought to take care of it once and for all” I respond. Another photo follows, the backend of a muddy, matted rooster butt in the distance. I laugh harder.

As the hours and days follow, friends & neighbors begin leaving messages. “Whats up with the sign” “Oh boy Scott must really be annoyed by those selfless do gooders” Multiple friends & neighbors, driving up to the house, happily hopping out of their cars to get the backstory. The week is consumed by a constant stream of traffic in our driveway. “Why don’t you just have us over for Coq au Vin” (French soup which literally means rooster cooked in wine). My hubby known for his culinary skills.

Multiple bottles of homemade wine pour, while story telling fellowship ensues. Always the good sport, more annoyed than ever, hubs embraces the attention. My sales brain working overtime….Let the farm stand marketing begin!

The chicken buzz creates neighborhood Facebook action. Before we know it, we hear about a sweet neighborhood lady named Isabelle, known in these parts for her commitment to rescuing horses. Boarding them on a neighbors farm nearby. A man we don’t yet know, but who will eventually become very significant to us in the coming years. See https://willabellafarm.com/2020/08/24/kellee-dogs-story/

She has successfully captured the rogue rooster. Apparently housing it in her kitchen, while ultimately finding a home for it on a rescue farm up north, far far away from here. The Famous Fosdick chicken has finally gone home to roost. No longer having to worry about fending off the hungry housewives, we can all rest easy once again. As we returned to our normal routines, the front gate remaining closed, my heart begins to open to the endless farm possibilities to come….

Roosters are actually misunderstood, beautiful creatures if raised and handled with care. Learn more below:

https://heartwoodhaven.org/adoptions/roosters/https://www.patreon.com/roosterhaus
https://www.pasadosafehaven.org/adopt/farm/