The Farmer is an eternal optimist

 

Farmers hope for the best and prepare for the worst. They are the ultimate optimists. They prepare the soil, plant the seeds and hope the crop will grow, even if it was washed out by floods or shrivelled by drought the year before. And so, the Farmer is buying more chicks, even though our little flock was wiped out last year by some kind of stealthy predator. 

We will do what we can to keep the raccoons out of the chicken coop this year. We will cover the space with chicken wire and install a door that even the most dexterous fingers will not be able to open. We will keep a light on and the radio will play all night. But even then, we might lose a few birds to the coons. Because if they want to get in, they will. 

Of course, theoretically, we can trap and get rid of the raccoons, but they are smarter than most of the traps. So, in the end it is up to luck. We just hope that the raccoons have found something else to eat this year, so they will leave our chickens alone. At least for the 12 weeks that we need to grow them. 

I am not a huge fan of chickens, because they peck my ankles. Every time I go in to feed them, they swarm around my feet and peck me – and we never let their feeders run empty. It isn’t as if they are starving or even hungry. They are just socially awkward. They have no idea how to make friends with the hands that feed them. 

Chickens are also cannibalistic. If one of their lot gets wounded, you have to pick him out and put him in his own quarantined space, or his friends might eat him. How is that for nature at its most brutal? Disgusting. I prefer turkeys. They are polite, softly cooing around you as you fill their feeders. They also respond in unison sing-song gobbles when you speak to them. Turkeys are cool. 

Last year after our flock was destroyed, we were left with a handful of chickens and one lone turkey. After the chickens went to market, Turkey Lurkey was alone. We gave him to our daughter who raises laying hens and she snuck him into her coop under cover of darkness. When the sun came up the next morning he was pretty much accepted into the fold. We ate him for Easter. 

Growing your own food is risky business, but it’s worth it (I say as I watch my husband roll out the chicken wire, from my safe vantage point on the porch).