Stacey Seaside

On Friday, I collected the last egg out of my chicken coup.

It filled me with a sadness that an era had ended.

I have had my own chickens for more than 25 years.

At first I was terrified of these strange creatures–looking like feathered aliens with claws that appear reptilian, side facing eyes, red wobbly appendages trembling both under and over their beaks. I was vehemently opposed to having yet another responsibility to contend with on the estate–I had already managed goats– and these feathered creatures were both ugly and terrifying. I was a young mother raised in suburban Chicago. I did not sign up for the Clampits of Mykonos so I left my Ex and his father to deal with them.

Their initial “housing” of the 6 chickens that “arrived” on the property was on the concrete base of a septic tank, that had a brick enclosure.

My Ex informed me somebody had “given” him some chickens–which meant that he had some notion of himself as a farmer and he asked somebody for the feathered ladies.

Immediately I said we do not need them–at least I don’t — I have an infant, a shop to run and a household to maintain. I knew the responsibility of them would fall to me, as did so much else in our life.

After some time a “chicken run” was established on the east end of the property and another 20 creatures were added to our “tribe,” much to my chagrin at not wanting chickens at all.

They became comfortable in their new surroundings and began producing eggs. That is when I gained a better appreciation for them.

Eventually I took over feeding and watering them as their care was constitute to negligence from both father-in-law and Ex. Their idea of care for the feathered creatures fell days apart and was hit or miss at best. I even became responsible for purchasing and hauling into their space the 50-pound bags of feed.

I had a daily routine after lunch. In the kitchen I had a dedicated plastic bin, hidden under the black granite island. All the vegetable peelings and excess food would be swept off the counter to a dedicated cut out to be dropped into the container. I would head down to the chicken run–a caged space of 50 meters by 3 meters with a makeshift shack–created out of stone and cement blocks. It served as the roost for chickens and rooster with nest and wood beams for them to perch when they slept at night.

As I would descend the stairs, the chickens would begin to cluck –signalling to the community that “dinner was about to be served.” I had to strategically spread out the feast in a line as chickens are very insistent in pouncing on anything that drops to the ground.

I learned first hand about “pecking order,” as the bully chickens would let the less dynamic birds know who got first dibs. I also had several chickens that had lost alot of their top feathers. I learned that these were “the sexy” females as the rooster was “pouncing on them more regularly.” The rooster seized the back of their necks with their beaks, in a vice-like hold. Hence the greater loss of feathers.

I never did any of the slaughters or feather plucking. I was just happy to have the eggs. The Ex was responsible for the “dastardly deed. “
Of course, I could never actually eat any of those that came to the table.

When we moved to the other end of the property, as our original home became a rental, the chickens moved too and got a downsize. They ended up with about half the space. But that did not stop the Ex from adding another 20 chickens. At one point we had 6 roosters and 48 chickens–yes, that was alot of cockadoodle-doing!!

However, in all this time of increasing our livestock, I never got more than 8 eggs in a day. There are natural periods when there is zero production in “chickening”–extreme heat, extreme cold as well as during moulting.

After my initial objections I got used to having chickens and the reticent routine and ritual of caring for them.

Having feathered friends has given me the opportunity to eliminate food waste and in return get fresh eggs from a known source.

Occasionally some of my gals would attempt escape as I opened the grated metal door to the chicken run. The run was next to the vegetable garden so temptation was just steps away with succulent veggies teasing them for a feast.

When the gals escaped from their enclosure. I had to capture them!

Initially, I would chase them till we both ran out of breath and it was quite the comedy. My father-in-law would tell me to leave them be and wait until sunset when they would eventually want to go back into the enclosure at nightfall. I could grab them easily then.

That didn’t work for me as I knew they would damage the tomatoes, cucumbers, and other items I had so painstakingly nurtured. So I would lure them with food and make a quick snatch to get them back in their caged area. I grew into my ability to “neutralize” them, by pinning them in place dead in their tracks, lifting them from underneath and holding their wings close to their bodies. This technique allowed me to carry them comfortably without wings flapping and feathers flying. (I have witnessed others–less sensitive types-carrying them upside down by their claw legs, all the while fighting and flapping in dispute and highly cruel!!) Much kinder to rest the creature at your hip’s height and carry them under your arm. They do not squawk or put up a fight.

As I noted earlier, my chickens have been less than productive this summer.

Three bags of feed at 39 euros for a month were only giving me about 20 eggs at best.

Probably the most expensive eggs I have ever had—even topping prices in the USA where a certain leader tries to tank the economy.

Finally I said “enough. As much as I have enjoyed the eggs and knowing I had zero food waste it was no longer feasible to have the feathered ladies.”

Aside from the expense of keeping the chickens, my family is traveling at various times and the last person on the estate is always left to deal with the chickens if not daily, at least every few days. And I did not want to burden my sons with this duty. Yes, there are feeders you can stock for a week and water tanks but for me it was about the relationship with the chickens.

I “liberated” the existing chickens to a new home in the Mykonos wilderness—I am hoping they are enjoying their freedom as they are in a place with plentiful fresh water and plants.

My journey with the chickens is symbolic of so much else I have learned to adapt to on this rocky isle of my heritage in the Aegean Sea. What actually makes me hopeful is that should I end up time traveling, like Mark Twain’s character, Hank Morgan, in “A Connecticut Yankee In King Arthur’s Court,” I would have survival skills to live in the past. When Morgan suffers a blow to the head, he inexplicably turns up in King Arthur’s Court. I could easily adapt to being “a person of the land.” Although I would surely miss having a full shelf of books to keep me entertained.

So what became of that final contribution from my feathered gals?

I savoured that egg. I sizzled it in a bit of butter and put it on top of creamed avocado and toasted rye bread. It was delicious and I wanted to remember the moment. I only wished I could have accompanied it with bubbly alcohol to mark to occasion. I ate slowly and thoughtfully. I considered my history with chickens across almost three decades.

I was going to have to be like everybody else–take my eggs in a carton rather than from a warm nest of hay from my feathered gal pals. I became a bit melancholy as I actually had to study the egg cartons at the grocery store this week.

I already miss the daily visit and feeding with vegetable scraps and uneaten food, chatting them up and thanking them for the eggs they offered. I had several that would fly to my shoulder when I entered the chicken run to perch and say hello. (Now the vegetable scrap are becoming compost.)

Perhaps I could have invested in new chickens and start fresh, but it is just more work than I was willing to invest. The chickens nurtured us as a family with their regular offerings of eggs. I am happy if my sons re-purpose the space of the chicken coup for something that helps feed their souls in the same soft way the chickens fed my peace.

I hope there is something in your life that gives you quiet satisfaction and peace even if it is as simple as tending chickens.