#firstflock

[henobsessed-blog]

This is Harriet at nine weeks. (Notice: the eyes.)

She is the one I fell in love with first. 

We drove to Keanesburg, CO, on June 4th (coined “Chicken Day” from here on out) to buy some young hens from a woman at her private residence that sat on an expansive farm property. Everything was covered in a layer of dust and the air smelled distinctly of hard work. (The feed store we planned to go to for our chickens was closed on Sunday, a fact that we didn’t realize until Saturday night. And we put all our money on Sunday being THE DAY so thank god for Facebook and the Colorado Chicken group for connecting me with this woman and saving the day.)

The woman brought out a handful of older birds—12 weeks?—to choose from, carrying them unceremoniously by their ankles. She put them in a pen for us to have a look. 

My first thought was, oh no. None of them were speaking to me at all. None of them had the character or personality I was hoping for. But there was Opal standing next to me with these huge, expectant eyes and we drove almost an hour to get here and what a disappointment to go home empty-handed after three months of preparations and Chicken Day was finally here...

The woman said she had some younger ones, too. She disappeared around the corner and returned with the one we now call Harriet. She plopped Harriet on top of the crate the older ones were in. Harriet lied her body down in the sun, placid and relaxed like a cat in the window. 

That’s the one, I said. Thank all that is good and wonderful.

Do you have more from her flock, same age? 

(It’s important to get them at the same age so there is no dominance issues. It’s also important to get them from the same flock so there is no cross-contamination of germs.)

Yep, she said. Sure do.

And thus, a feathered family was born.

[henobsessed-blog]

Welcome to my new life with chickens!

These four chickens, to be specific. Well, now there’s three because the gold one in front got eaten by a hawk, but more on that later. (RIP, precious little Florence Nightingale.) 

Our three girls are named Harriet Tubman, Temple Grandon and Frida Kahlo, from left to right. Since we are only allowed hens in our town—six hens per yard, and no roosters—you can expect some wonderful, powerful female names to come into our coop. All named by Opal.

The two weeks since we got these little ladies have been a crash course. I researched for months before we actually got them—I read everything I could find online, I took a class, I talked with the staff at Jax ad naseum—but, as with everything, nothing compares to the actual doing of it. 

Now they are eleven weeks old. In that gangly teenage phase between fluff and real feathers. But the good thing about being a chicken, at least I presume, is that you don’t have to be bothered with the self-judgment that runs rampant throughout the human teenage years.

Harriet, far left, has a perpetually anxious look on her face and tail feathers that are laced with gray. She's our easter egger and she’ll lay green eggs once she’s old enough. (Egg laying happens at about 20-25 weeks.) She’s the tallest and seems to have the strongest opinions. Like a female gym teacher that always wears a whistle.

It appears that Temple and Flo are in the middle of a bro-hug in the photo here. Temple, on the left, looks like she's about to get caught for embezzling funds. Not sure what breed she is, but Flo was a Buff Orpington. Frida, who is in the back being an 'artist'—as in, eccentric and a bit of a loner—is a Rhode Island Red. 

Much to learn about caring for these sweet babies. And while there are a ton of resources out there about having backyard chickens, I found myself totally overwhelmed by all the perspectives and opinions. Much like with parenting,  we live in an era of information overload. So I’m justing taking it one step at a time.

Hopefully this blog can be a place where people can come for discerned information, helpful links and facts, but ALSO to observe and appreciate the world these little creatures help to create. 

There is real poetry in the act of having a closer look.