One time my sister-in-law told me about how she snuck some fancy chickens into their spring order.
My brother and his family live on a farm in Maine, and my sister-in-law makes sure they have all sorts of animals to tend to including a bearded dragon lizard and three goats that think they live in the house or on top of parked cars. My sister-in-law was overly tempted by the little boxes she was to check to specify what kind of chickens they wanted to have that year. She was especially tempted when she learned that their order had earned them three fancy chicks. So my sister-in-law, naturally, checked yes. Send those baby chicks to us here in the vacation state with the icy, icy ocean.
My brother likes to have a sense of control, and so he would have said no to the fancy chicks because farmers who want control often, at least in my limited experience, don’t want random fanciness on their watch.
But what my brother wants means nothing in the face of my sister-in-law’s love of the wonderful.
The reason I’m telling you this story is because Spirit Hill Farm, more specifically the proprietor Carolyn, is planning on ordering some baby chicks for the farm.
And I’m nervous.
I’m not sure why, exactly, my nerves are nervous, except for the fact—and if you’ve been to Spirit Hill you’ll probably know what I’m talking aobut—Carolyn’s motto seems to be go big or go home. Or why be ordinary when you can be spectacular?
I’ve been here for a year now, and I’m just getting used to the chickens. When they molted I was ready to call the police. I thought someone must have come by and yanked all the girls’ feathers off because the chickens went from normal to almost bald basically overnight. Feathers were everywhere but on the birds.
Then I learned this process where chickens lose their feathers during the cold months is normal. I still can’t figure it out. They stand there panting in the summer heat with their thick feathery coats on and just when things get chilly, the feathers fall off.
Anyway. I don’t know what it will be like taking care of fancy chicks because I’m willing to bet there is no way normal is arriving at the front door of Spirit Hill.
Will I have to feed them with a gilded spoon?
And where, I’ve been too afraid to ask, are they going to stay when they are still the size of muffins? I’m guessing it’s with me in the guest house. It’s not that I’m afraid of living with chicks—it’s that frankly I’m afraid of how terrible it’s going to feel when it’s time for them to leave and join the other chickens in the coop. I already dealt with one child leaving for college and the shock of the empty nest.
I have to remind myself to slow down. The chickens have not even been ordered yet. The best thing I can do at this point, I believe, is to take a nap.