Hello from a quiet corner of Louisiana bayou!
I’m Lisa (really), and I live down here in paradise with a 6-going-on-28-year-old little girl, a schnauzer who is commonly mistaken for a grandpa named June (Junes, Juneses, Junebugs), a giant, lazy, counter-surfing Great Pyrenees named Lola (Lola May, The Lo’s, Lo, Lola-roo), a quarter horse named Betty, and - hang in there! - 12 fantastic chickens who are the loves of my ridiculous life and that replace any want or need for basic and decent human interaction.
Also, I’m a 34-year-old single mom and widow, a seasoned ICU nurse (COVID talk not allowed), addicted to mowing grass, climb big mountains for fun, functionally degenerate, love planting things and growing them, love Willie and Waylon and the boys, love grillin’ and chillin’, don’t love answering the phone, and I’d rather watch murder shows in bed than ‘go out,” whatever that means.
Last summer I bought a property, tucked away somewhere between a marsh and the bayou, that changed all of our lives.
Our chickens weren’t in the picture yet, but the property had a pretty little house, acreage, an unfinished barn, and an intriguing old chicken coop built by the previous owners. I’d never had chickens before, but it didn’t take long for me to realize that navigating a backyard full of chickens would be both an adventure and a special experience that my daughter and I could share together as we started a profoundly beautiful new chapter.
A week or so after settling in, I did my research and a gifted procrastinator’s form of planning before spontaneously deciding, as I’m driving home from a 12-hour shift, to swerve into the parking lot of Tractor Supply “just to see” the baby chicks. I ended up walking out with a giant tub, $200 worth of stuff and 10 chicks - five yellow ones and five brown ones. The signs hanging in their little set-ups in there had breed names that I recognized from hours and hours of reading about which kinds were which and how to raise this or do that (“NO ROOSTERS if you want to live,” etc.) - breeds that I had reasoned could be good options. They read:
Easter Egger and Buff Orpington.
Long story short, I’ve spent much of the last year raising a total of 12 chickens - my first, not my last, with a surprise rooster, a surprise broody hen and her chicks (they’re new!), one gut-wrenching loss and a ton of blood, sweat and tears.
After a year of checking BYC for tips and advice and problem-solving and reading so many of your stories, I woke up the other day and instead of checking my email before the snooze went off, I found myself checking BYC. What a great way to start the day.
Thanks for reading. If you need me, I’ll be in the run picking up chicken @*$# with a paint scraper!
I’m Lisa (really), and I live down here in paradise with a 6-going-on-28-year-old little girl, a schnauzer who is commonly mistaken for a grandpa named June (Junes, Juneses, Junebugs), a giant, lazy, counter-surfing Great Pyrenees named Lola (Lola May, The Lo’s, Lo, Lola-roo), a quarter horse named Betty, and - hang in there! - 12 fantastic chickens who are the loves of my ridiculous life and that replace any want or need for basic and decent human interaction.
Also, I’m a 34-year-old single mom and widow, a seasoned ICU nurse (COVID talk not allowed), addicted to mowing grass, climb big mountains for fun, functionally degenerate, love planting things and growing them, love Willie and Waylon and the boys, love grillin’ and chillin’, don’t love answering the phone, and I’d rather watch murder shows in bed than ‘go out,” whatever that means.
Last summer I bought a property, tucked away somewhere between a marsh and the bayou, that changed all of our lives.
Our chickens weren’t in the picture yet, but the property had a pretty little house, acreage, an unfinished barn, and an intriguing old chicken coop built by the previous owners. I’d never had chickens before, but it didn’t take long for me to realize that navigating a backyard full of chickens would be both an adventure and a special experience that my daughter and I could share together as we started a profoundly beautiful new chapter.
A week or so after settling in, I did my research and a gifted procrastinator’s form of planning before spontaneously deciding, as I’m driving home from a 12-hour shift, to swerve into the parking lot of Tractor Supply “just to see” the baby chicks. I ended up walking out with a giant tub, $200 worth of stuff and 10 chicks - five yellow ones and five brown ones. The signs hanging in their little set-ups in there had breed names that I recognized from hours and hours of reading about which kinds were which and how to raise this or do that (“NO ROOSTERS if you want to live,” etc.) - breeds that I had reasoned could be good options. They read:
Easter Egger and Buff Orpington.
Long story short, I’ve spent much of the last year raising a total of 12 chickens - my first, not my last, with a surprise rooster, a surprise broody hen and her chicks (they’re new!), one gut-wrenching loss and a ton of blood, sweat and tears.
After a year of checking BYC for tips and advice and problem-solving and reading so many of your stories, I woke up the other day and instead of checking my email before the snooze went off, I found myself checking BYC. What a great way to start the day.
Thanks for reading. If you need me, I’ll be in the run picking up chicken @*$# with a paint scraper!
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Lovely introduction. Hope you find the forums fun and informative!
. And welcome to the Coop.
I enjoyed your intro 
