Taproot Garden: A Melancholic Coup in the Coop

You always seem to be the last to know

Man, that's just the way that the story goes

There's nothin' you can do when the fields have turned brown

Man, you have to face it it's a young man's town

It's a young man's town

Full of young man's dreams

All God's children gotta learn to spread their wings

Sometimes you gotta stand back

And watch 'em burn it to the ground

Even though you built it, it's a young man's town

----Vince Gill

Sam was a surprise. The two Mottled Java chickens arrived at the farmstead three and half years ago, already 8-weeks old, and we presumed them to be the two laying hens we had purchased. When, a few months later, "Samantha" began to crow and strut in proud display of much more ornamental feathers, "Sam" was undeniably born. Despite this unintentional introduction to our flock, SamtheRooster remained and settled in - into the flock, to be sure, but more surprisingly into our affections, as well. He handsomely patrols the yard. He alerts the hens to take cover when ominous wings beat overhead. And he is, well, quite fond of the ladies. At least when he is feeling himself.

Last winter, Sam struggled. When the polar vortex settled over Central Iowa, Sam suffered. Indeed, every morning when we released the chickens we expected to find him dead. He spent the days in a stationary stoop, silently, hunched over despondently near the coop entrance like Willy Loman returning home each evening in "Death of A Salesman." We eventually diagnosed some frostbite - understandable in those sub-zero days - but the problem seemed a deeper, more existential ennui. Nonetheless, Sam soldiered on. Then, as if on Easter's cue, Sam revived in the spring. His posture returned, along with his prance and patrol. When his libido likewise returned with disconcerting verve we knew that so had the "Sam" of old.

Meanwhile, baby chicks were growing in the barn - one of whom revealed itself to be yet another unintentional rooster. A Blue Copper Maran, "Gallo" eventually gained admission to the larger flock along with the other youngsters, and Sam quickly put Gallo in his place. Let no one, least of all Gallo, be confused about who was in charge. Since summer, they have benignly co-existed.

Until a couple of weeks ago, when a tectonic shift began grinding out a new landscape within the flock. Gallo, having patiently bided his time, began to intimidate. Sam began to cower. More than once I looked out on the yard and witnessed the former standing atop the latter, pecking the older rooster into submission, or chasing him into the "freshman" coop, or variously harassing Sam into the lower reaches of the pecking order. Then, two days ago, I watched Gallo chase Sam across the chicken yard and over the fence.

A coup in the coop.

A violent overthrow.

Sam hung around a few moments, but when I looked over awhile later he had vanished. Twice during the day I vainly searched the acreage for the humiliated bird. Absence, along with the presence of my own disquiet. Evening came and suddenly there he was; in the front yard, a safe distance from the coops and Gallo out back. Lori maneuvered him, against his will, inside the fence and eventually inside one of the coops, but we knew something would have to change, to match the change that had already occurred.

Yesterday, while Sam remained safely confined with a couple of hens inside the JV coop, I reestablished a segregation fence around the freshman coop - a subset of the larger chicken yard. I gathered up the de-throned rooster in my arms and relocated him to the safety of the smaller enclosure, along with a couple of hens to keep him company. We'll see how it goes, and if it will go on indefinitely. He has his space, his remove from the hassle, companionship and food, shelter and water. It remains to be seen if he has contentment. We have long talked about subdividing the chicken yard and establishing a kind "Shady Rest" for aging chickens, given our aversion to retiring them to stews. It never occurred to me that Sam would be the first resident rocking on the front porch.

This morning, releasing the flock from the safety of the night, Sam toddled happily down the ramp along with his roommates. That, in itself, is encouraging. In recent weeks he has been the last to emerge, remaining sequestered some days for hours. He has been out and about within the narrower confines, moving, pecking, and watching on occasion the sky. If it feels like exile to him, he doesn't seem to resent it; happy, for now, to be free of the bullying. I feel for him, though. It's tough to watch the fields turn brown on the other side of the fence; and live, the old man, in a young man's town.

Still, I'm watching. For my part, I have led a privileged life, blessedly free from the torments of bullying and blithely ignorant of palace intrigue. I've endured none of the pecking order dramas of the chicken yard, notwithstanding the usual jostlings of professional careerism. And yet I'm not getting any younger; and though happily retired and meaningfully engaged in satisfying pursuits, the view is...different from this side of the yard. Perhaps Sam has wisdom to share -