Lockdown January 2021: Week 2- Finding the Reset Button

I'm disappointed to realise that I've not introduced you to our chickens yet: Sita and Flower.  In April 2020, when the shelves were emptying of free range eggs, we decided we needed to fulfil a life long dream and become chicken keepers.

The advice is to buy at least three chickens (if one dies, they'll still have company and because with just two, they might not get on).  The chicken coop we'd hurriedly bought online was supposedly for up to 3 chickens, but when it arrived, I didn't see how they'd all fit in.  I had read about some hens- the lowest of the pecking order- being shut out of the brood and forced to sleep outside the door, so we just bought two.  Finding chickens to buy wasn't easy.  It seems that we weren't the radical thinkers we thought we were; pet hens were more difficult to source than eggs. After a tip off from a local farmer friend, we hurriedly called and bought two black Daisybelles from a local seller.  My husband (A) went to collect them and arrived home with a cardboard box with two young black hens, looking very scared.  Poor little chickens; only three months old.  But as time went on, they grew, fluffed up and developed red combs & wattles.  They quickly became free ranging and we all perfected the  hilarious art of herding chickens. Over the summer, A built a magnificently beautiful chicken run.  He credits our then one year old for the hammering, but he's far too modest; it really is his wonderful creation and our chickens loved it and moved in straight away.

Since then, we've gone to the chicken house every morning to open the hatch and serve them breakfast.  Sita always laid her egg early, but Flower usually laid hers by mid morning.  By lunchtime, the littlest one helped me to clear out any chicken poo and check the bedding and the feeders.  He would always carry the second egg in and demand for it to be cooked immediately for his lunchtime egg.  The chickens roamed the garden by day, sunbathing/dustbathing side-by-side, coming close to the house if we'd popped inside. Cats didn't bother them; Red Kites didn't bother them; we'd not seen any other predators.  By nightfall, they would return to roost.  Sita would head to bed as early as possible; Flower would hang on until total darkness before turning in and then we would tuck them in for the night. The sisters would cuddle up together until daybreak.

Why the backstory of two little chickens?

Well, after crawling through the first week of lockdown 'learning', we woke up on Sunday to thick heavy fog, lulling us all into a deep lethargy.  We had fed the hens first thing and returned with littlest one to clear out the coop late morning, but a hungry little robin flew into the chicken run.  Sita- the wilder escape artist- had already bolted out the door for some much-longed for foraging; her tamer docile sister, Flower, faithfully followed.  The door had to stay open until the robin was out.  This probably all sounds like bucolic loveliness, but with the threat of Avian Flu, we had to deep-clean the house and the feeders, easier to do with the hens outside (especially with little one's yummy-looking juicy wriggly fingers at perfect pecking height).  A and little one then had to pop inside to refresh the feeders.  While all this was going on, I was making a cake with our four year old star baker, who has a special skill for cracking eggs, mixing and beating.  I remember taking a moment at the sink and noticing the sisters together in the garden.  Two minutes later, I noticed that Flower was alone, pacing towards the house and making a distressed sound.

At first I thought it was a fluffy cat, but as my eyes focussed, I saw that a large fox was right at the door of the chicken house.  I screamed out "IT'S A FOX. A FOX. A FOX" and like a true warrior mum, in flowery apron, head scarf and fuzzy slippers, I sprinted out the back door, across the muddy lawn, screaming into the thick fog.  The hungry hunter loped away.  Sita didn't appear when called.  She didn't run to us when whistled.  Only an unbearable silence and stillness across the misty  lawn.  A discovered a pile of thick black feathers.  But it was our six year old who suddenly shouted "There!" and pointed at her dropped body, under a bush on the soil.  With Flower safely back in the coop, I ushered the younger ones inside, but our six year old stayed outside for ages, gently talking to Flower, bringing her willow leaves and worms from the veg patch.

Out in the garden, A dug the grave. Before moving her (now headless body), A deliberately waited until the boys were back inside and Flower was out of sight.  But as soon as he lowered Sita's battered body deep into the hole, her sister started clucking loudly- that same distressed sound- despite being away in the coop.

And that was how our second week began: a freshly dug grave and Sita's final eggs, already baked in the cake.  I've always been highly sentimental, but I had no idea that I could be so sad from the death of a chicken.  I dragged myself through each day.  Sita's death had a profound impact on us all, eliciting some deep questions, conversations and artwork.  

By Wednesday, the last slice of cake was finished, the fog had lifted and a renewed peace resumed.

We had some more success with Distance Learning, both older children completing a satisfactory range of tasks, but I felt that we'd overdone the pyjama days and needed more fresh air.  Even in the kitchen, I burnt the popcorn, spilt the milk and messed up the custard.  I felt deflated and avoided the news.  It was all too much.  Too sad.  Luckily, I'm part of a good team: A was there to scrub the pan, mop the milk and give me a hug. And then on Thursday, he took the older boys with him into his empty high school, to collect some teaching resources and to set up a temporary work station.  This was exactly what I didn't realise we all needed.  To have one day just to focus on our two year old was absolute bliss.  We played all day, went on a random walk/run in the rain, jumped in all the puddles and laughed so much at absolutely nothing.  When the bigger boys returned, having loved their day 'at work', we hugged as though we'd been apart for weeks.  

Reset.  Feeling refreshed, loved and unbelievably grateful for my family, we did a cha-cha-slide into Friday, with jazz hands and sparkles aplenty.  We checked all the seeds and saw that the cress has rocketed to the sky. We spent the morning finding more worms to bring for Flower, planted more seeds (radish and onions) and even found time for drawing/writing down our hopes and dreams for 2021 (finally!) This was a lovely idea, but I now feel morally responsible for sourcing rollerskates for our 6 year old, a tree house full of Pokemon cards for our 4 year old and a TON of glitter for our youngest. Oh, and my husband's focus is going to be juggling.  Me? I want to grow more veg and see the sea. And for Flower, some cool new chicken chicas to peck around with.