Monday May 17,2021

Learning to Crow

Saturday was my first “Chicken Swap”. From time to time I’d heard of farm stores hosting one, and

thought it might be an interesting event to visit, but I always have plenty to do with my Saturdays and so

had never made it. Besides, we don’t need any more chickens, just to pass on some of those we have.

“You can sell them if you’d rather,” the store owner told me. “You don’t have to actually swap.”

Motivated by the 49 chicks and chickens overpopulating our poultry pen, I decided it was a great time to

go. Between preparing cages, catching chickens, setting up a warm area for chicks to spend the night,

loading feed, water containers, ropes, and so forth, I only got four hours of sleep. Just like good ol’

college days. I decided to keep the young red rooster, possibly Charlie’s son. In the morning, I plucked

two of the young reddish hens back out from the cage as well. Perhaps they were Charlie babies too,

and looked like they could grow up similar to Peaches, a favorite hen.

Despite my good intentions to get there early to set up, I was seven minutes late to the Swap. Expecting

a parking lot full of trucks and people, at first I thought the event had been cancelled. Then I noticed

several pickups across the parking lot with a few cages in back.

I pulled in next in line, saving a spot beside me for friends who had decided to bring some of their

overflow as well. I set to work unfastening ropes and removing coverings. In addition to a dozen chicks, I

had a big cage with five probable cockerels, another with seven young hens, and one more with two

miniature dairy bucklings. “Don’t bring any of them back,” DJ had said, shutting the gate behind me as I

pulled away. “At the end, give them away if you need to.”

Two and a half hours later, I was on my way home with only the little goats and cockerels, plus two baby

bunnies and a super-tame and easy-going Polish/Silky rooster from our friends. DJ has since dubbed him

“Shaggy.” I didn’t make a nickel, but I did manage some swaps.

“We’ll give him to you,” our friends had said, determined to pass on the crossbred rooster so they could

raise purebreds.

“No, you have to trade for some of mine,” I insisted. “There is no way I can come home with more than I

started out with!” Reluctantly they picked out two of the young hens.

When I first pulled up, the feed store owner was offering three-month-old Jersey Giant chickens for the

ridiculously low price of $5/pair. I wish I’d said “Sold!” but by the time I’d mulled over possibilities and

ways and means, decided to get two females, and tracked down the owner between my interruptions

and his, it was too late and they were all promised to someone else.

By then I quite wanted some of the large meat-producing chickens, a totally new direction for us. For

years we have enjoyed our eggs and goat milk while teaching visitors animal husbandry. We have hosted

and encouraged “homesteader” groups for those determined to produce most of their own food, but

for the most part steered clear of the blood and guts and trauma of meat production. With a procession

of young children visiting the farm, I didn’t want them to worry that the rabbit they were petting might

end up as stew. We did raise a couple of half-grown pigs awhile back (we joked about naming them

“Thanksgiving” and “Christmas” as providers of family dinners, and as I have never been enamored of

swine we thought we could handle it) but decided not to repeat the venture.

Lately, however, with the uncertainties facing our economy, rising food prices, and discussion of coming

food shortages, DJ and I have talked about possibly needing to transition to more of a genuine

homestead approach.

DJ didn’t like butchering pigs, and when he and our older son had processed some extra roosters in

years past they decided it wasn’t worth the work. “I’m okay with doing rabbits, though,” he said, having

grown up hunting rabbits, squirrels, and venison.

Ironic. When we lived overseas and our neighbors raised rabbits to augment their diet, we were not in

the least interested. Sadly, we failed to fully appreciate when they gave us a nice large already-

processed rabbit ready for the freezer. I wondered if it was the one I had helped feed some months ago

and put off cooking it. When I finally did, no one was very interested in eating it, and it didn’t taste that

good either.

However, a few years ago a local family led a workshop about homesteading in suburbia. With the help

of plantings, garden and rabbits, they fed their ten children largely from the proceeds of their largish

yard in the midst of an upscale development. At the end of the workshop, he offered us some rabbit

stew from the crockpot he’d had plugged in. Delicious.

When I saw the gigantic Jersey Giant chickens, I thought maybe DJ would find them worth processing.

However, I had missed the opportunity. Then I thought about rabbits. Of the two replacement bunnies

we’ve gotten during the past year, our large New Zealand cross “female” turned out to be Mr. instead of

Ms. Kennedy. I was hoping the reverse might be true of our “male” but wasn’t sure, and he/she is much

smaller anyway.

Just as they were pulling away, I learned that the young couple who had asked some questions about

our offerings had Flemish Giant rabbits for sale. I flagged them down and ended up swapping our dozen

chicks for two small baby bunnies that were declared “probably girls” by the feedstore clerk, after

examination of a dozen wriggling fur balls. At home we had an extra hutch standing empty, and the

couple said they had brooders and were experienced with chickens, so the deal seemed good on both

sides.

When I looked around, our friends were packing up with only the two Lionhead bunny babies they had

purchased, having passed on the young hens to an older gentleman starting to back his truck away from

the feed store.

“Sir,” I said, running up to his window. “Are you interested in more of the young chickens?”

“Well,” he ruminated. “It would depend how much you’re asking.”

I had started off wanting $10 each for them, but remembering DJ’s injunction and our overcrowded pen,

I said, “Sir, if you want them, I will give them to you.”

He stopped his truck and came over with his cage. Over and over he said, “Just ask (the store owner) if I

don’t take good care. I promise you, we will take really good care of them.” He seemed almost

overwhelmed, and I knew it was a fitting destination for the extras with which God had blessed us.

Perhaps it will make the difference for he and his wife in plenty vs. sparse meals in months to come.

No one actually bought our two little goats, but children enjoyed leading them around, and one man

took our number and may call after he gets his shelter ready. I made some swaps and went home with

19 less chickens than I came with. All in all, the morning was a success.

On the way home, I called DJ to report the results and ask him what he wanted done with the young

roosters. Give them away to friends? “No,” he decided, “bring them home and let them free range.” In a

few months, he will plan to process them. Times are indeed changing.

This morning I woke suddenly, listening, then hurried out of bed. It sounded like one of the young goats

was in distress. I threw on clothes and made my way outside...no, the goats were all okay. I heard the

sound again and looked around.

It was the young roosters, learning to crow. Instead of “Cock a doodle do” so far they only had the long

drawn out “-dooo,” which I had mistaken for a kid’s lament.

I went to feed the horses and start on the rest of morning chores.