It Takes a Village

Murray from Missouri turned into the driveway midday pulling a flatbed trailer bearing two chicken coops.  One of them was ours.  The bigger of the two.  We had placed the order almost a month ago but between construction, weather and respective schedules delivery was delayed until now.  In anticipation I had made a largely failed attempt at clearing a path through the snow toward the chicken yard, but given the residual snow mass and the increasingly muddy conditions I had little hope that we could navigate the new arrival much beyond the driveway.  Even with the wheels I knew it would be tough sledding.  But Murray came equipped with his wife and two young sons -- though the latter, not accustomed much to snow in southern Missouri took some persuading to abandon their snowball fight -- and with the help of us all we moved it along the makeshift trail.  Pulling up several supports that allowed us to lay flat the fence, we made the final push into the chicken compound and heaved a sigh of relief.  Especially the Diebels.  We were not looking forward to moving the cumbersome structure that final leg of the journey on our own.  We patted one another on the back, appreciated everyone's efforts, thanked the crew and offered refreshments before sending them on their way toward the remaining coop's eastern Iowa destination.

Now we are equipped for the new additions that will start arriving in a month or so.  There are some finer touches to ready before that time.  Once the snow recedes and we can move it more easily, the coop will need to be more advantageously situated.  There are feeders and waterers to arrange and bedding to spread inside.  A segregating fence will need to be stretched to prevent the upper classwomen from getting too assertive with the freshmen.  But the hard part is done.  The coop is here announcing "welcome."

So what's the point?  A good question that we keep asking ourselves.  It would be easy -- and not at all incorrect -- to reply that the chickens are simply fun and it will be delightful to multiply the joy.  They are fun, and we love to watch their playful, skittering antics.  It's a kick to see them hop up on the straw bales or mount the balance beams to sun -- or is it simply to gain a better view?  It cracks me up when, all of a sudden, upon some indecipherable cue, one of them sprints the entire expanse of the yard only to arrive and...simply stop and resume her search for bugs. 

So there is the entertainment factor, and out here beyond the reach of cable, and inadequately wired for satellite dishes, we take our entertainment wherever we can get it.  But that doesn't really satisfy the question.

There are, of course, the eggs and we are grateful for those.  Despite their actual value in the triple digits each, we consume our share and manage to sell the rest for just about enough to pay for the feed.  So it's hardly a money-maker.  When backed to a wall I suppose we have to admit that there is no objectively persuasive answer. 

And yet...

When we moved to the farmstead 3 years ago it was with a determination to join that great circle of memory that knows how to produce food.  The garden was the heart of that desire -- to know what it means to sow a seed and nurture a plant and pluck the produce to nourish ourselves and others.  We wanted to experience, to learn, and learning, to teach.   But it was a desire not necessarily confined to those three verbs.  Less articulated, but essential nonetheless was the commitment to sustain.  There are heirloom seeds the fruit of which we wanted to enjoy, to be sure, but more importantly to keep in existence.  The honey bees we harbor we hoped would benefit our fruit trees and plants, yes, but we also value insuring their safe habitat as well.  Heritage breed chickens somehow align with that larger concern.  There are better egg layers to be purchased -- commercial varieties bred to be laying machines -- but the value of these is somehow other than their productivity.  Even if we cannot quantify or quite articulate that value we nonetheless discern it to be there. 

As Wendell Berry intimates in the title of his new book, this is "Our Only World," and if we take that observation seriously it will require us all doing what we can to sustain it.  Or to remember the oft-cited African wisdom, "it takes a village..." 

In our case, apparently, it takes a village of coops -- three now, counting the "annex."  But over the next few months the population of our little village will expand to welcome a few more of those dwindling, but precious breeds.  According to the specs of the new coop it will accommodate up to twelve. 

And we will give thanks for their arrival.  Hopefully, they will be sort of happy about it as well.