All in favor of chickens. say "Aye"

Aye!!

Is it bad that I sent the entire family out of the condo on a rainy Sunday morning? Dressed them up in rain slickers and snow pants and sent them on their way, ignoring their protests and cries of , “Nooooooooooooooooooooooooooo! We want to stay with Mama!” and smiled sweetly as I pulled on their rain boots and told them to have fun catching frogs and newts or whatever else might be out there that would be sort of slimy and intriguing to the toddler/preschooler set.

Chris is always up for a walk outside, so I felt no guilt there. I felt a mild pang of guilt in shooing Ella and Jay out the door as the weather oscillates from a cold drizzly pitter-patter to a strong, gusty full-on downpour. But as I sip my coffee and sidle up to the computer for a good session of journaling, my guilt melts away. Or at least I can’t hear it ringing in my ears over Ella Fitzgerald on Pandora. Eh, we’ll put them in a warm shower when they get home and follow it up with a cup of chamomile tea. They probably won’t remember this experience in thirty years, anyway. And if they do, it might be because they are doing the exact same thing to their kids so that they can reclaim the tiniest schnibblit of sanity.

But hopefully they won’t remember it in fifty years when they are choosing my nursing home, and I’m all, “Noooooooooooooooooooooooooo! I want to stay with YOU!” and they just smile sweetly and zip up my granny hoodie and orthopedic shoes as they shoo me and my walker out the door...

But who knows? Maybe they’ll actually have fun stomping in the rain puddles and catching frogs. And who knows? I might like Bingo and creamed corn.

So, really, I sat down to write about chickens. I want chickens. I have wanted to chickens for years. Egg providers, composters, entertainers, pets. Chickens are the overachievers of the animal world. And I want a flock of chickens so bad I can taste the fresh brown eggs.

When we bought the condo four years ago, it was understood that it was a starter home. Only a starter home. Something to earn us equity while we finished school and planned for our real home. A house. With a yard. Maybe even a small farm. With enough room for a huge, overflowing vegetable garden, berry bushes and some fruit trees. A bee hive and chickens would round it out. When Chris and I were both still in school, the condo made perfect sense. Who has time to mow the lawn or shovel snow when there are term papers to write and midterms to study for? And we’ve enjoyed being able to take off for an impromptu camping trip or day long road trip without worry about who will shut the hen house at night or collect eggs in the morning. We also haven’t had to worry about upkeep of the siding or replacing the furnace.

But lately our 1000 square feet on the third floor has seemed stifling. Incredibly limiting. Suffocating, almost. We crave more space, more room outside. The ability to fling open the back door and march the kids outside on a sunny day to play in the sandbox while we cook dinner or talk. The ability to step outside and pluck a fresh tomato from the vine or harvest kale or potatoes for dinner. And of course, the ability to collect fresh eggs for breakfast.

We have done the best we could with what we have. We have had a plot in the community garden a mile away every year that we have lived here. Our garden plot is bigger than our condo, at 1200 square feet. We spend as much time there as we can, but there is just something very different about having a mile in between your stove and your tomatoes. Sometimes that mile really makes a big difference. Plus, keeping bees and chickens there are against the rules.

We garden on our deck, the best we can too. We struggle since we have a very urban downstairs neighbor who abhors anything natural. She once called the condo association and complained because we had a hummingbird feeder. “ All birds poop,” she explained matter-of-factly to Chris.

We’ve had to take down our bird feeders, our bird houses and even limit what we plant on the deck because she has called the condo association more than once to report dirt falling between the cracks onto her patio from our upstairs deck.
Wonder what she would think about chickens roosting on our banister.
Wistfully, I pick up urban homesteading and simple living books from the library. “Get a set of chickens!” They advise. “They are cheap! Provide wonderful eggs! Easy to care for!” Urban chicken farming has really taken off the last several years. In many cities, it is quite common to see chickens picking their way through suburban lawns and roosting in backyard coops. Madison, Chicago, Seattle… urban chicks are chic. But trust me, I am not doing it because they are trendy (hey, don’t make fun of me. Trendy is relative, o.k?).

I want chickens because they just make sense. They eat your kitchen scraps and produce wonderful compost for the garden. They produce luscious, rich, colorful eggs. They are entertaining to watch strut around and peck at potato bugs. (Entertaining is also relative. We don’t have a T.V., ok.?) Did I mention the bit about the eggs? While Madison is chicken friendly, my condo is not. So, until the housing market picks up and we can sell this condo, I’ll have to continue to buy my eggs from the food co-op and longingly look though dreamy poultry catalogs (Hey don’t make fun of me. Dreamy is relative, o.k.?).