RIP Ginsberg my chicken

Growing up we all want different things. After watching my grandparents keep chickens, it was probably inevitable that someday I would have chickens. It was just one of those little sureties that went unmentioned, a secret imprint on my childhood.

Was I purposely secretive about my love for chickens? Absolutely, I was. Chickens were not cool. 

Most people look at you funny when you mention that you have chickens. Though the response is definitely lessening these days.

Never the less, being an Urban Farmer gives me a nice stylish niche to keep company with.

Plus, now that I'm a parent, contemplating my "cool factor" while I stare at my  5 yr. old picking his nose seems pretty pointless. Nothing corrects a wayward ego like kids...or chickens.

Ginsberg was my chicken. Ginsberg didn't care how cool I was, which is why I named her Ginsberg, after my favorite beat poet Allen Ginsberg. I knew growing up that no matter how cool I was, Allen Ginsberg would always be way cooler.

Lately the inside of my coop looks less chicken disco and more like a chicken senior village. The heat lamp in the coop glows red at night hoping to infuse my aging flock with new blood.

She was my favorite old hen when she closed her eyes for the last time yesterday afternoon.

Chickens on the average live 3-5 years. And when Ginsberg stopped laying eggs very early this year, we knew she was probably on her way out. She had a good life on our urban farm.

Yesterday, I was too busy to even have time being sad. So I spent a few moments today saying goodbye. I even read a section of Howl in her memory. Which just made me feel kind of silly. But again that's only because as a chicken, Ginsberg was still way cooler than me.

Friends are special, even when it is a chicken with a suede grey muff and leather colored feathers...

Ginsberg 2009-2012

Hey Father Death, I'm flying home
Hey poor man, you're all alone
Hey old daddy, I know where I'm going

Father Death, Don't cry any more
Mama's there, underneath the floor
Brother Death, please mind the store

Old Aunty Death Don't hide your bones
Old Uncle Death I hear your groans
O Sister Death how sweet your moans

O Children Deaths go breathe your breaths
Sobbing breasts'll ease your Deaths
Pain is gone, tears take the rest

Genius Death your art is done
Lover Death your body's gone
Father Death I'm coming home

Guru Death your words are true
Teacher Death I do thank you
For inspiring me to sing this Blues

Buddha Death, I wake with you
Dharma Death, your mind is new
Sangha Death, we'll work it through

Suffering is what was born
Ignorance made me forlorn
Tearful truths I cannot scorn

Father Breath once more farewell
Birth you gave was no thing ill
My heart is still, as time will tell.

 "Father Death Blues" by Allen Ginsberg

Grown Up Talk.

Listen People. Chickens die a lot.. on their own.

So No. I don't mind eating chicken. I like it. It tastes good. 

But--I won't kill any of my own chickens.

And-- I'm not shocked and shaken when we lose a chicken now and then.

It's part of having chickens.

I might complain about it a LOT though.. I'm working on that.

A few of my "Grown Up" chicken keeper friends have no problem dispatching a neck like they were snap peas. Swift and Vulcan .

Therein lies my 'Chicken Hypocrisy' debate.. Were I to seriously "Keep it Real" barn yard style I would be like this;

Lately I've been looking at the pages of people and first of all... I'm not really sure y'all realize how beautiful your worlds are, but you don't have nosy neighbors who don't believe that you should be eating your own eggs. 

So for those of you who are limited zoning  

Riddle Me This: do you dispatch your roosters or re-home them?

I've gone back and forth about culling a chick who starts to show signs of being of the unwanted sex. Sorry Guys... although I'm sure some of you had it coming.

(I'm looking at you mean anti-social neighbor whose dog pissed on my shoe )

Children don't like it when you kill things they name.  And honestly folks I'm too big of a bleeding heart to look into their big eyes and say, "Sorry baby but we gonna kill him, bless your heart". 

Him of course are the male chicks you have irresponsibly let your children name--and then had to rehome-all our roosters of the BBCE microfarm....

Spike (White Crested Blue Polish), Forrest/Jenny (Turken), Kramer (Splash White Showgirl) and last but not least Ralphie as in Christmas Story (Black/Blue Bearded Silkie). 

He really does look like what Ralphie would look like.. if he were a chicken. How could I kill something who represents Raphie? I mean come on people. 

Got distracted.. sorry

So absolutely no disrespect to those of you Farm Sturdy people who aren't me and have no problem with this. I mean that in the best sense.

How does everyone handle this?

What are some good ways to learn to buck up and do whats right or......WELL, come on they're little kids.. they'll believe pretty much anything.

Eggs, sour crop and mindfulness.

Well if any of you are like me and bought hatchling's in early spring all your hard work is paying off with the gift of one of nature's most perfect foods. Eggs.

All of our spring chicks have grown up and are now laying eggs almost daily. *tear*.

(intro soft guitar and Harry Chapin softly singing "Cat's in the Cradle") 

The soft balls of fluff, the giggles watching them run, the running to clean up their poop on the new rug.
Maybe losing a chicken or two to maladies or predators.   grrr

I remember not so fondly when my fingers were cramping up into balls of clay from hammering and sawing boards for my coop--- wondering if this was just some sort of folly of which I would soon grow tired.

Not for a second, I don't think, have I thought I made the wrong decision.

Sure their are times when I don't like getting up crazy early to let the girls out of the coop barefoot and then a morning blast from the sprinklers.

 A few weeks back I spent my fabulous Saturday night sitting next to our chicken coop with a flashlight in hand holding Nancy my barred rock hen. She was lethargic, unsteady and a bit stiff and had no appetite.

She had sour crop, which is really unpleasant.

Following instructions in my handy dandy chicken book I was holding her wrapped in a towel, head tilted down and massaging her crop which had become the size of a small water balloon.

After massaging for a while I felt this trickle of the most foul smelling droplets of liquid hitting my flip flopped feet.
Eeeessh... and oh sweet mother mary.... pushing past my tendencies to gak,   I bucked up and did it... I continued giving sweet feathered Nancy treatment every six hours or so.

She improved, but only for a short while before she went to that big coop in the sky.
I miss her face in the flock. But I'm glad she's not in pain.

RIP Nancy

And I'm glad that there are other people out there like you who would have done the same thing for any of the girls in their flock.

Pabu having brunch with his ladies.

I've become more mindful this summer, I think.
More mindful of what goes into our bodies and where it comes from.
More mindful of how to care for creatures and our environment.
Mindful of sources of all the little bits of laughter that I get from my flock.
And I've spent so many hours with my family checking for eggs, cleaning out the coop, raking hay, shooing chickens out of the garden, the list goes on.

I hope those of you on this journey with me have had many of these moments for yourself.