Raising chicks, a family tradition.
On St. Patrick's Day, in a cardboard box on the back seat of my car, 14 little chicks twitter all the way home from Frederick and the wonderland of Farmers Supply. For the next 6-8 weeks, these chicks will be my peeping charges. Because of them I'll spend more time in the parlor where I've set up their brooder. Though less than a week old, several already have tiny wing feathers emerging. I'll be able to hear them from the kitchen peeping while I cook. I can visit them between daily tasks and lay on the couch of an evening holding them on my chest where they tend to lay easy against our human warmth and drop off to sleep.
These little chicks will lose their fuzz and have feathers by Easter. They will become future layers of delicious, miraculous eggs. They will eventually join my flock in the red barn and be part of a daily ritual; my going to the barn twice a day. Mornings I let them out into their run; bring them chicken feed and water. Evenings I close them in for the night and collect eggs. Both trips invite conversation. They chatter and I chatter back. "How was your day? I hope you girls don't fight over these greens I brought." What they say is my choice. "Where are the bread crumbs? What took you so long to get down here?"
Several weeks ago I found a box of elbow macaroni in the cupboard and couldn't recall how long it had been there so I cooked it up for my hens and drizzled the last of a bottle of garlic basting oil on it. This treat lasted for three morning trips to the barn with what we call “the chicken bucket,” full of vegetable scraps and whatever tasty edible comes to hand. Everyone loved the pasta and carried on with pleasure as they grabbed a piece and ran to safety before swallowing it. There was something amusing about watching hens eat elbow macaroni on a cold morning. Spaghetti is funnier for the noodles are long and, like us, the hens kind of suck them down.
Raising these young birds is perhaps a Spring rite. Both my grandmas raised chickens and the Grandma who lived in Silver Spring sold eggs during WWII to help take care of her family. One of the earliest photos I ever saw of myself at my country Grandma's place is of a little girl squatting in the dust of a chicken yard, hens all around her. Under one arm she holds a dollie. Her other hand is extended to the milling flock. Does she have dry corn to scatter for them? She looks so at home in the small black and white photo. Sometimes I wonder if my grandmothers, now guardian angels, are looking down on me and clucking to one another in approval.
The author lives in Potomac's historic Glen. She is an artist, environmental activist, sometime writer and currently president of the West Montgomery County Citizens Association (WMCCA).