Are Chicks just for "Chicks"?

[wynedot55]

well im an old roo.been raising chickens for 6yrs.an i do have the addiction as bad as you gals.so bad that i have 2 henhouses.3 4 by 6 brooders an a small kennal for chickens.now yall tell me is that addicted.

 

[spencereb]

thechickwhisperer,
Here's another male.

My wife and I have always enjoyed wildlife and the outdoors.

When I kept these two pullets that were supposed to be my reptile's dinner,

I thought the wife was about to disown me.

Now, she loves our ever expanding flock,

and has even talked me into setting up a space for ducks

(her favorite)

Oh, and by the way, she's named them every one,

and I wouldn't have ever been caught dead naming even the first one!

 

[kstaven]

Seems there are more of us (guys) on this board than the ladies thought! And yes I have named a few chickens along the way. Just don't tell my wife that!!!!!!

 

[George in NH]

I'm male. My very first memory of chickens was when I was four. We lived in a run down shack without electricity or indoor plumbing. The shack belonged to my grandparents. My grandparents owned two shacks and they sat only feet from each other. I remember my grandmother coming into the shack we lived in to chase the chickens out of the house (I let the chickens in). I sat on the steps and laughed as my grandmother chased the chickens out the front door.

I remember watching my grandmothers chickens and falling in love with the different colors, shapes and sizes. I was still four-years old when my parents moved to a big farm. My father worked for a potato farmer and part of the deal was being able to live on one of the potato farmer's farm rent free. My family lived on this farm until I was 18-years old. We had all the farm livestock imaginable but my favorites were always the poultry.

At 18 I moved to Miami. My country days were over for the next 17 years. I moved to New Hampshire in 1995. That same year I built my very first coop and bought my very first group of chickens. I have been raising chickens and other poultry since then.

They say once you leave home you can't go back; my addiction to chickens is my link to the past. I don't think a day goes by that my birds don't remind me of how much I loved the farm I grew up on. My family often sit around and remember the numerous chickens and other poultry on the farm and how peacful it all seemed as we sat on the front steps and watched the chickens wander the yard with their babies. I get the same sense of peace when I sit on the front steps of my own little farm and watch my hens and their babies wander the yard; it feels like I am home again.

My poultry is also an interest that my father and I share together. My father was forced to give up farming years ago because of health reasons and all of his farm help had grown up and moved on to their own lives. I still rely on what my father had taught me about farming while I was growing up. My father often times calls only to discuss farming with me. It thrills him that at least one of his sons loves farming as much as he does. I guess you could say that my father passed his farming bug onto me and now I am what keeps keeps it alive in him.

I am 46-years old and to me there is nothing that is quite as thrilling as hatch day. I am still in awe of the fuzz balls that come from the egg. I still feel the same excitement as I did when I was a kid to see a baby chick that I raised grow up and lay her very first egg. I still find few things as relaxing as sitting in the front yard swing and watching the chickens scratch the earth for bugs or taking a dust bath. I still admire the numerous colors, shapes and sizes of the chickens. And I still love talking to my father of growing up on the farm and how I use what he taught me. I think the closest I feel to my father is when he visits and we sit in the front yard talking about my flock and when I look at him I see how proud he is that one of his sons turned out to be so much like him. I don't think I could ever be chicken free, they're not just for me, they're for my dad too.

Yes, I'm a male and in my heart I am still that kid laughing as my grandmother chased the chickens from our little run down shack.

 

[CranberryBirds]

George,

Your post is wonderful. Would you consider submitting it to "Mother Earth News" or some similar publication?!?

CB

 

[thechickenwhisperer]

George, absolutely wonderful post! You quoted:

I am still in awe of the fuzz balls that come from the egg. I still feel the same excitement as I did when I was a kid to see a baby chick that I raised grow up and lay her very first egg.

I think kids today have lost so much. What you learned as a child has been carried through your entire life. It appears as if you can appreciate being still and quiet, and not needing todays many electronic distractions as the current generation feels is neccessary.

One of the reasons I felt it so important to have chickens is to guide my kids away from the electronic age. In such a quick time, my children have spent HOURS outside chicken watching, and learning to desire the care and resposibility for the birds.

I appreciate all you men posting!

I thought so...men can be expressive too

.​

 

[George in NH]

I glad you like my post. I wrote an entire book of stories for my family of growing up in northern Maine. Many of the stories revolve around our daily lives with livestock. Here is the story about my first memories of chickens. This is pretty long.






When we moved back to Castle Hill, Maine, we returned the house my parents and brother, Little Jim, were living in when I was born. This house was not exactly what you would call a grand house, or even a nice house. It was what most would call a shack, but it was a roof over our heads. The house did not have plumbing, and I don’t even remember it having electricity.

My mother’s parents, Grammy and Grampy Carmichael, owned this house. It sat only a few feet away from the house my grandparents lived in. Their house was not much better then the one we were living in, but they always made it feel homey. Today both houses would be called “tarpaper shacks.” A lot of people were poor from the area, so no one cared what your house looked like, as long as it fit in with the surrounding houses. It was the typical yard full of animals, gardens, outhouses, over grown grass, a washer in the yard, broken down cars, and kids running around. It was basically a very rural setting. It was home, and I loved it there.

I always liked spending time at my grandparents. Us kids were allowed to run around and just be kids, while the adults sat and talked for hours about the weather, the neighbors, or whatever else struck their fancy. You never knew what was going to happen at my grandparents place. Usually it would have to do with kids or animals.

I remember one day my mother, her sister Verna, and Grammy Carmichael were sitting on the front steps of my grandparents house yodeling. I liked to listen to them yodel, to me it was a lot of fun listening to adult woman trying to yodel, yet sounding more like wild cats in heat. Sometimes even the neighborhood coon dogs, which were used for hunting Raccoons, would get in on the act. The woman would yodel and the coon dogs would howl. The music they all made together was a real treat for us kids. Although I would not call the yodeling music to our ears, it was still a lot of fun. Even kids enjoy a good laugh every now and then. The adult women saying yodel, yodel, oh lady who, and the coon dogs howling right along, what a hoot. The woman would stop to do some laundry, but would soon go back to yodeling again, and the hounds would start howling again.

All of a sudden, in the middle of all the yodeling and howling, there was an unfamiliar wail. This was not an intentional musical join in. It was my cousin Betty who lived a few houses up from my grandparents. A dog bit her while she was running down the street. Betty came running into the yard, screaming and limping as she ran. She was going on and on, half crying and half screaming, about being bitten in the butt by the dog up the road. Betty had the teeth marks to prove it. I still think to this day, the dog bit her because the yodeling was hurting it’s ears, and the poor thing was frustrated that it was not able to stop the noise. Or maybe, the dog was upset because it wasn’t invited to join in. Either way, I think the dog was very upset and just had the urge to bite something or someone so it could release some of its frustrations.

The adults took Betty into the house where my family was living, to calm her down and clean the wound. It was determined the bite was not life threatening. There were a few of chickens in the house, which were wondering around the floor picking up crumbs underneath the kitchen table. They had to be shooed out the front door into the yard to continue their search for food. My grandmother was very protective of her chickens and I’m surprised she chased them out of the house herself, even if it was to get them out of the house. I remember sitting on the front step trying to block their escape. I was laughing at their frantic antics as they tried to avoid the broom in my grandmother's hands. I was enjoying myself as I watched the colorful birds peck at the crumbs on the worn through vinyle florring and I was disappointed that my grandmother didn't see the cutness in their being in the house that I did.

My grandmother had a strict policy, which was everyone was to leave all chickens alone, especially those with chicks. But, when do kids listen to an adult who tells them to stay away from the chickens? I know I never did. Anytime I saw there were no adults around to see me, I was off on a baby chick hunt.

At my grandparents house there seemed to never be a lack of baby chicks. More then once I got too close to a mother hen and her chicks. Let me tell you, when a mother hen protects her chicks, she doesn’t hold back. I got pecked sometimes until I bled, beaten pretty good by flapping wings, clawed by slashing nails, and chased all over the yard with the mother hen ruffled up and cackling right behind me. I would run as fast as I could, and scream at the top of my lungs. Of course just when I thought I was running fast enough to get away from the very upset mother hen, I would trip and have the hen on top of me teaching me what happens to little boys who harass her and her chicks. Sometimes kids never learn though, and I’m no exception. I sure did have my share of mad mother hens, attacking me.

One day I was out on the prowl looking for baby chicks. I saw a big mailbox in the grass by the vegetable garden. I walked towards the mailbox thinking what a good place for a hen to raise babies, and I was right. I knelt down and looked inside, there in all her glory was a very upset hen with her babies. As luck would have it, I heard my grandmother coming my way; she was calling for my sister Tina. I had to act soon or Grammy would see I was bothering her chickens again. I was not going to take any chances with my grandmother seeing what I was up to, so I crammed my body, feet first, into the mailbox, with the mother hen and her babies still inside. I pulled the lid closed as best as I could.

It was a tight fit in the mailbox for the mother hen, her babies and me. She was letting me know there was not enough room as she was trying to get me out of her home by pecking fiercely at my legs. I was determined not to leave the mailbox until I was sure my grandmother could not see me when I crawled out. Of course the whole time the hen pecked at me. Each time I was pecked by the mother hen, it felt like a thorn being driven into my leg. I would squirm around trying to get some separation between the very upset mother hen and myself. I would try to make the gap between the friend, which I considered myself to be, and the foe, the vicious mother hen. I knew that not only did I need to be quiet so my grandmother couldn’t hear me in the mailbox, but I also had to be careful about how much I moved around so my grandmother wasn’t able to see the mailbox moving. I would make little whimpering sounds with each peck I got on my legs by the hen’s very hard and sharp beak.

All of a sudden I heard my grandmother, not really yelling at my sister Tina, but more in a loud surprised voice, asking my little sister, “TINA MAY, HOW DID YOU GET DOWN IN THERE, AND WHAT ARE YOU DOING DOWN THERE?” I saw this as my time to make my escape from the mailbox of chicken torture. I threw open the door and crawled out as fast as I could with mother hen right behind me. I ran to where my grandmother was. Even though my grandmother hadn’t caught me in the mailbox with the chicken and her babies, by running to her with the hen chasing after me, I had given myself away. No need to worry this time though. Tina was in a worse off situation then I was. After all, my grandmother didn’t see me in the mailbox with the hen and her babies. All she saw was little Georgie running, and screaming with a ruffled hen right behind him.

I was the least of my grandmother’s worries at the time. My grandmother was calling for everyone to come see where Tina was. I wanted to see too, but it was too messy for a little kid to see. What I was not able to see was what the adults were getting a kick out of. Tina had crawled down inside of the outhouse. She was knee deep in human waste holding a couple of baby chicks. Being in the bottom of the outhouse knee deep in human waste made my little sister’s situation a very bad and smelly one, but being down in the bottom of the outhouse with baby chicks was comical just the same.

If I didn't think my sister's situation was so gross I might have stopped long enough to thank her for distracting my grandmother long enough for me to escape the torturous mailbox I was trapped in. My grandmother knew I was on a chicken hunt again and had an upset hen chasing me to prove it, but she didn't know I had actually invaded their mailbox home. If my grandmother had known I could fit inside the large mailbox she may have removed it and then I would have had to spend extra time searching out the new home of the hen and her chicks. Kids don't want to spend extended amounts of time searching for things, they want to find them instantly; especially baby chicks. No kid can resist the urge to hold a newly hatched baby chick.

To this day no mother hen and her babies is safe from my curiosity.

 

[theOEGBman]

Im Jordan.

16 year old guy, and im majorly addicted to chickens!

I've raised them since I was 5. Uhh, and most of my birds do have name!

 

[V Chic Chick]

I think us women just feel the need to talk about chickens more than men do. The men just get on with it!

 

[The Laird]

I'm a male, and I'm the one who wanted chickens. It took me a while to get get wife to break down and agree, even though her granny and brother had/have chickens. We finally moved to the country 3 yrs ago. My wife needed more room for her addiction, daylilies. I've always liked animals, and my grandpa used to raise all sorts of poultry on his farm. We lived in the village and I just loved going to his farm. Now I have one of my own, and what's a farm without some animals? DW kept saying no to livestock. Then, last spring, my mum, who lives outside of a small village in Canada, and grew up on a farm, decided to get chickens. She got 16 RIR's. My brother and I dispatched the excess roosters on my summer vacation. Well, I decided that if my mum could have chickens at 60+ yrs of age, then I could too. We were up at my mums around Groundhog day, and DW was getting intersted in the chickens. Anyway, I have chickens now in a brooder pen in my basement, and am waiting for the weather to improve so that I convert a small barn/shed to a coop.