The chickens have flown the coop.
Penny and Isla, our two recently acquired plump Red Shaver hens have shunned the little chook house my husband and I recently acquired. It’s a double story, with a pull out tray for easier cleaning, and light enough to move anywhere we want it in the yard.
After the recommended week of keeping them locked in and well fed at regular times, we let them out. Free range. We worried about neighbors complaining as our newly liberated hens roamed the neighborhood, pooping incessantly, and quite possibly scratching up others’ gardens. But no one came knocking. There were no dirty looks while out strolling with my little girl. And the hens always returned each night as the sun got low in the sky, with a gentle coaxing and the promise of a scoop of feed. Then one night it was nearly dark before Isla came back, hinting out back with her quiet clucking, letting us know she’d returned. But there was no sign of Penny. We left the door to the coop open, hoping she’d find her way in later that night. But in the morning, there was no sign of her. We’d given up hope, assumed an angry neighbor had gotten fed up and grabbed her, or chicken thieves? A cat? A car? Who knew? We thought she was a goner. But the next night she showed up.
And so it began. Our chickens became free range in every sense of the word. Isla’s sojourn into the great wide open marked a turning point in their lives. We can’t be sure what happened out there, but Isla was no longer content to be a follower. Before her great escape Isla could always be found trailing Penny, sometimes running smack into her tail-side or bumping beaks with her, causing a great spreading of wings and frustrated chortles. No, Isla, and in turn Penny, would no longer ease back into that little house for a sleep amongst clean wood shavings and fresh hay. From that day forward they have made their roost on the mast of our little sail boat, in a tree, and (not on my watch) my daughter’s stroller. Goopy droppings now litter every inch of our driveway. And the eggs? The eggs we were meant to find each morning nestled in the straw like little treasures, awaiting crispy omelets, steaming frittatas, and buttery baked goods, are nowhere to be seen.
Oh the eggs: meringues, quiches, bennies. I pictured their shells speckled brown, their yokes bright, golden and poached medium-soft, oozing and seeping into the craters of toasted whole wheat each weekend. I’d take deviled eggs to parties and learn the Kiwi art of Pavlova, our ova-riches would be in such excess.
Without a nest, there would be no place to lay their cache, we reasoned. Eggs weren’t dropping from the tree or the mast. Their loot had to be somewhere. My thoughts now turned to Charlotte’s Web and that looting rat’s stink bomb, and wee little chicks roaming everywhere, fertilized by a rogue rooster from the farm across the stream.
This is when the cutting was set in motion. Behind that tree Penny and Isla had been favoring for their perch was an amalgamation of bushes I simply couldn’t bear the thought of conquering a few months back when we first move into our home In Holdens Bay. I had gone wild with my shears at that time, whacking down anything that didn’t hold promise of blossoming; already well into summer, in our very overgrown and neglected garden. Why anyone would let such a garden get into that state is beyond me, but that is for another day. Those bushes in the back though, proved a match for me. The one with the bright yellow blooms was alive and buzzing all of January with the fattest bumble bees I have ever seen. There was also a floppy hydrangea, and could it be: a Bougainvillea without flowers, its vines like ropes of steal twisting and tangling its way up to the roof. But tucked away into those bushes the chickens spent much of their days digging, protected from the rain and sun, and the heavy breath of the horse who leans over the fence to surprise them frequently. “This is where the eggs are,” I told my husband.
Those bees had long since stopped buzzing. The hydrangeas whose soft bushels of flowers, molted sky blue, lime and mauve, which I prized so much, had turned smoky purple and crumbly. Now was the time to tackle the job. That first apprehensive snip with the secateurs proved a great release. Liberated, I made another snip, and another. Soon clouds of leaves, broken branches and spider webs were flying everywhere. I was Edward Scissorhands! Hidden away in there were broken dishes, scraps of corrugated metal, and rotting planks of wood with rusty nails poking out. And what I also found was that once I started cutting I couldn’t stop. It felt so good.
Once finished (how can you ever be sure you’re finished when you’re pruning?) I wanted more. I found myself soon after with used gardening books spread out before me, looking up proper pruning techniques. I was happy to find the hydrangeas in the front yard (I think they are weeds here in New Zealand. These fluffy bushes are seen in every yard, and the rate of their growth is astounding) would need to be cut back hard, and sad to find I’d need to wait until the last frost to prune the tangle of roses, because frost would kill any new tender shoots that would grow from where they’d been cut back.
Later, cutting became a fixation. Magazines were torn apart, with recipes, gardening tips, and pictures for collage neatly clipped and piled about the house. The food processor could be heard regularly, its sharp blades dicing, chopping and whizzing. From this, baby food was stockpiled, and squash soup, hummus, cashew curries, and expertly grated coleslaw. New hairstyles were considered. Legs were shaved. Didn’t I need a lock of baby’s hair for a memento? Where would it end?
For just as it is in the garden; the more we trim back and take off the old, the more we set the stage for growth. Taking off those branches makes the tree less top-heavy; it lets in light and allows for air to circulate. Dormant buds are exposed and energy is diverted, strengthening weaker areas. You can pinch back sideways growth to promote it upwards, or snip from the top to encourage bushiness. Death creates life. We can all benefit from a little air, strengthening and outward growth. Instead of investing time in finding a pen, it make more sense to clean of the table, leaving that time for drawing, meals together or a quick game of cards.
Pruning is a meant to be done delicately though. While many plants tolerate my style of whacking and hacking, big trees can take years to recover and a big chop is unsightly. Young flexible shrubs put up with pruning more readily than older ones, and a jagged cut won’t heal, exposing the plant to disease and rot, as will a poorly placed snip. Shearing is usually best done just above a bud or branch, or back to the trunk, ensuring re-growth or mending. As with a spontaneous short haircut, seeing those lifeless locks heaped on the hairdresser’s floor can be a shock to the system.
For now, my secateurs are hung up, and I watch Penny bathing herself idly in the patch of dirt now exposed beneath the cleared bushes. I keep my eyes open for eggs, though I know in the back of my mind it could be a long time before they settle into a pattern of laying. Also, they are still young and winter is fast approaching. There are fewer bugs for foraging out in the paddock behind our house, meaning less protein for good egg production. I will keep daydreaming about over-easy on rye, and shapely rose bushes, and even more about the masses of flowers it will help to create. I think I’ll put a bouquet of them on the breakfast table. But, I guess I’ll be eating oatmeal.
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