The Art and Egg-ucation of Chicken Farming

Hana chases a chicken in the chicken pen          
Photo credit: Keith Skelton, www.KeithSkeltonPhoto.com

     

Montecito Messenger published an article written by me (photos by Keith Skelton) about Crane School in today's weekly edition:

 Putting the “Country” Back in Crane Country Day School.

For Anne Dascomb, assistant to the head of school at Crane Country Day School, starting Crane's afterschool Discoveries Chicken Farming program for first through fifth graders was a natural. When she was a student at University of California-Santa Barbara, her roommates were veterinarian students and always had chickens around. Dascomb's animal husbandry skills combined with a generous grant from Parents from Crane (Crane's parent association) and a chicken coop donated by parent Ramsey Cronk, provided Dascomb with all she needed to launch the chicken farming class.

"I always say that I'm putting the 'country' back in Crane Country Day School," says Dascomb, dressed in a flouncy Western skirt and stylized leather cowboy boots.

A quick stroll past the Sprague Mathematics and Science complex to the far end of the parking lot leads to a small knoll above the basketball courts. There sits a bucolic patch of land that hosts the chicken coop, the chicken pen, a compost, vermicompost, the school's organic gardens, and an outdoor classroom with wooden benches and an oversized white board.

"We were so lucky to have Eric Haessler, our Lower School Drama teacher, donate a weekend of his time to construct and install the chicken run," says Dascomb, pointing to a long, extended run that is enclosed by chicken wire and opens up to the coop with hinged doors. "The pen gives the chickens room to run."

Known affectionately around campus as "The Chicken Lady", Dascomb says she loves the program because she is no longer "just an administrator behind the desk." Children visit her all day, bringing her empty egg cartons from home in hopes of being one of the "winners" of the dozen egg giveaways (a half-dozen each) at school assembly. The weekly or so winners receive egg cartons designed with a gift label that says, "From your friends in the Poultry Club at Crane Country Day School." The label portrays animated caricatures of Dascomb, Haessler, Maintenance Supervisor Joel Jamison, Learning Specialist Theresa Gorey, and two of Crane's inaugural chickens. The person who draws the winner of the eggs enthusiastically recites the catchy chicken phrase, "Winner, winner, chicken dinner" as he or she pulls the name of the egg-cellent prize.

In fact, many of the first-, second-, and third-grade girls are "totally into the Crane hens," says Dascomb. "They collect the eggs from the nests daily and bring them up to the office, and they beg to announce the winner of the eggs. It is so much fun to see an otherwise shy little first-grader stand up and, all on her own in a brave voice, shout out to the 280 assembled students, faculty and administrators, "Winner, winner, chicken dinner.'" Besides barnyard activities, Dascomb has a "flock" of curriculum ideas. The students watched the Virtual Chicken DVD, a movie produced by Auburn University's (Alabama) Department of Poultry Science that takes a "trip" through the hen-making apparatus. 

They've also whipped up tantalizing chocolate eggs and formed their hair into rooster-like styles using egg whites.

The students crafted felt "flock" jackets for the chickens, better known in the poultry industry as "hen savers." These jackets provide chickens with extra protection from aggressive, pecking peers, which are often the more dominant hens in the flock. One chicken "farmer", Rhys, glued cut-out fabric letters onto a hen saver for his cleverly named chicken "Fly."

Besides the care and feeding of the chickens, the students also learn about chicken anatomy and by the end of the class, are required to know the Chicken Farmer's Glossary of Terms from backyardchickens.com, a popular chicken blog. During the final egg-xamination, the students crowded around an outdoor picnic table next to the coop and began answering Ms. Dascomb's questions.

"What does a chicken need to lay an egg?" asks Dascomb, which is in itself a bit of a trick question.

Zane raises his hand and proudly says, "A hen doesn't need a rooster to lay an egg."

"You're right," says Dascomb and hands him a rubberized see-through egg with a yellow yolk inside.

Other questions are asked. Enthusiastic answers are given. Each member of the Chicken Farmers Club receives an egg toy and accolades from Dascomb.

"You've all graduated," Dascomb says proudly as she holds up the Chicken Farming T-shirt. "And, you're now official members of the Chicken Farming Club." She hands them each a T-shirt. On it, it states, "Crane Country Day Schoool. Eggucation at its best." And, that it is.

Always Spring.

Looking into the outside - from the winter to the spring.                          Photo credit: Nancy Shobe 

A friend of mine, Rebecca, constructed the most amazing coop. She gathered recycled boards, windows, and a door and built her coop in her backyard. Every time I visit her, I'm in awe of her finished endeavor. It's not just that the coop is the perfect little house, a house that could become a future mother-in-law getaway (if it was well-scrubbed) or a tucked away artist's studio. What amazes me is that Rebecca constructed it herself. She donned her hip belt and adopted a Rosie the Riveter's attitude. It's as if "I Can Do It," is written in subliminal messaging all over the coop.

What Rebecca doesn't know, and to which I doubt I will ever confess, is that I often tiptoe inside her coop while visiting her, camera in hand, and snap photos of her eleven or so engaging chickens. They prance around, hen dancing to some invisible beat. A hen has often laid a warm and recent egg and that egg sits like a golden prize in her hand-built, wall-to-wall nesting box.

But, what captivates me most is the view from the coop. Inside the all consuming darkness, I look out of the four-paned window and find a magical world of oaks, orange-blossomed nasturtium and long forgotten garden "things". Right before me, is a painting-perfect portrait of Rebecca's life: the sturdiness of the oak, the vibrance of the orange flowers, and the tradition, history and storytelling of the old and rusty things.

I feel very fortunate to have her as friend.

Friends are often remembered in ways other than the visualization of their faces. Perhaps it's their hands, the way she sat on your couch knitting her grandson another sweater. Or, maybe it's the scent of the freshly-baked apple pie that alights on your senses as you walk into her house. Or, maybe it's the scratchiness of his unshaved morning beard against your sensitive face.

I once had a friend who doesn't even know he is my friend. He sat on the airplane next to me while I was journeying back to the "homeland" to visit my dying father. We talked about life and death and what it meant to us. We talked about losing loved ones. We both had tears in our eyes as we filled the hours with a kind of partnered talk that one can almost only find with strangers--a baring of our souls, souls that are usually intensely guarded with our own immediate loved ones. Even though I can't tell you his name and I have no idea where he lives, he was a great friend to me and my heart will always be grateful to him.

As this is the last day of winter (and also National Poultry Day), I think it's important to remember those people who warm your heart and bring you spring. I admire Rebecca for her strength and courage. I respect her for taking a month sabbatical every year to pursue and refine her love of painting. I treasure the fact that I was the first person other than the parents to hold her gorgeous newborn baby daughter. And, I am thankful that she allowed me to sit with her for days waiting for her goat to give birth. I even appreciate the way that we can squabble and still be friends.

Nearly all the ways that Rebecca has touched my life has been captured by me in color and black-and-white photographs. But, the evidence of her presence in my life is so much greater. She has shown me that with strength, conviction, and a can-do attitude, the view from the window is almost always spring.

Stepping Outside of the Box

Stepping Outside of the Box            Copyright Keith Skelton; www.KeithSkeltonPhoto.com          

Every morning when I walk up the hill to the coop, the chickens are standing at the door.

The entire flock rubs their beaks against the aviary-wired door, clucking their morning "hello's", sashaying their little tail feathers back and forth. When I open the door, at least two of them jump onto the lower doorframe and peek out their heads.

Due to predators--namely my cat, hawks, a neighborhood dog, and a lack of fences--I've been hesitant to let the chickens free-range. Yet, their constant behavior of greeting me mosh-pit style in front of the door leaves me feeling guilty. So, the other day, I decided to grab two of the hens and let them explore.

With a cup of my morning chamomile/citrus tea in one hand and a chicken in the other (I made two trips), I brought two hens down to the "flatlands."

Coachie, my Giant Partridge Cochin, went into a snit. She was fine in my arms, but the minute I put her on the grass, she cawed out for the rest of her flock. Even when Sunshine, the Golden Spangled Hamburg, was set down beside her, she still cawed. With equal fervor, the penned hens responded. The communication went back and forth for over a half hour.

After 45 minutes or so, Coachie began to relax. Well, kind of. One peck here, and a quick twist of the head and a dash of the eye. One peck there, and a quick twist of the head and the dash of the eye. She clearly didn't appreciate being the Christina Columbus of chicken explorers.

I kneeled down next to her and petted her. I tried to reassure her with my best Chicken Whispers. Her agitation lessened but never ceased. After downing my cup of tea, I scooped her back up into my hands and transported her and Sunshine back to the remaining flock.

Coachie was having a difficult time being out of the box.

Settling into the "coop" of life is so much easier than stepping outside of the box, isn't it? When a challenging opportunity arises, instead of "going for it", it's much easier to heed the bugle blowing warning calls: What if I fall apart? What if I get sick? What if I die? What if I'm a failure? What if I'm away from my kids too long? Our mind rages with warnings like an overprotective parent. "Don't you dare do it," it screams while throwing a protective arm across our chests. "You could get hurt." So, we don't move forward. We stay. We listen to those whispering voices and nestle back under the wings of our existing flock. After all, it's warm there. It's comfortable. It feels familiar. Maybe life's just easier staying inside the box, we tell ourselves.

But, what happens after awhile?

We get bored. We suffocate. We pick fights with significant others.

Our minds and souls feel as if they are turning to mush.

A librarian friend once asked me, "How do you do what you do for a living?" referring to my career as a fundraising professional.

"I do it because everyday I wonder if I can. When I wake up in the morning, I have 'butterflies' in my stomach. I suppose it's the challenge that keeps me interested, keeps me engaged. My life's motto is,'Go for the butterflies,' " I said with a giggle.

"I can't even remember the last time I had "butterflies" in my stomach,"  she said.

Going for the "butterflies" adds excitement to life. It means taking ourselves beyond our own prescribed limits, testing who we are.

There was the time years ago I attempted to climb Vernal Falls in Yosemite, despite my deeply embedded fear of heights. I almost made it to the top. Even though I didn't climb the last twenty steps, I gained such confidence in my abilities that I landed a very significant philanthropic gift the next week.  I learned that "butterflies" in my stomach--although certainly not comfortable or at all desirable--are a sure sign that I am stepping outside of my box, or "wandering" away from my norm, and that "ain't all bad."

I interviewed a man once who helped found a branch of an international leadership organization and at 83 years old or so, still travels extensively around the world for work.

"What's the secret to your success?" I asked him.

He paused for a moment, deep in thought. Then, he looked at me, with amusement dancing in his eyes, "It's that I've never said 'no' to any offer. When someone asks me to do something or go somewhere, I always say 'yes', that is unless I have a sense that it's very dangerous or really not good for me."

"And, the result has been your success?" I asked.

"The result has been that I've done so many different things and been to so many different places that I had never expected or even imagined. I've led a very rich life."

All because he chose to step outside of the box. He chose to say yes to the "butterflies."

As I sat and watched Coachie's distress yesterday, I realized that I have often felt that distress, too. Stepping outside of the box isn't easy. It causes anxiety, fear, and sometimes pain.

Just this afternoon,  I sat at my desk reviewing my to-do list.  I added: create a safe space for the chickens to free-range. After all, they can't choose to free-range for themselves. The option has to be given.

But, for me...I have the ability to choose...

I, then, picked up a yellow sticky note and wrote on it in all caps: REMEMBER TO CHOOSE THE BUTTERFLIES. It's now posted on the keyboard of my laptop. After all, by choosing butterflies, I'm guaranteed wings.


P.S. According to research, the gut plays an important role in creating memory due to something called our vagus nerve (derived from the Latin word "wandering") and "second brain". This is all fascinating material. 

Will They Eat It?

A very funny video on You Tube. This episode is about whether or not the chicken will eat the banana.

P.S. I tried to feed two of my chickens a banana this morning and they just kept walking by it for over 30 minutes. I guess I'll stick to peanuts.

The Distinction of Extinction - Did T-Rex Become a Chicken?

                                                                      Photo By Nancy Shobe, Shobe Biz Communications

Are chickens and dinosaurs related?

Research conducted by Harvard Medical School and Beth Israel Deaconness Medical Center (2007) seemed to help prove what paleontologists have long thought: that common birds evolved from dinosaurs. Focus Online, an on-line news source from Harvard's Medical, Dental, and Public Health Schools, reported  in 2007 that research showed that sequencing from tiny pieces of collagen from Tyrannosauras Rex, seven proteins in all, matched the sequencing of the amino acids in the collagen of the common-day chickens.

But, as we all know, scientific studies are never conclusive. The great mystery continues, this evolution of the bird. Gareth Duw Davies for PBS gave a detailed and interesting story about the evolution of the bird. And, Science Daily reported in 2010, three years after the Harvard research, that birds and dinosaurs may have had some common ancestors but each seem to have evolved on their own path.

So, do or I don't I have a Jurassic Park in my backyard?

At one point in my career, I worked for a small paleontological museum, the Raymond M. Alf Museum, on the campus of The Webb Schools. It hosts the world's largest collection of fossil footprints. I would spend hours talking to the paleontologist/curator about the collections and the Museum's paleontological finds on its digs. A friend of mine even bought me a book about dinosaurs to help further my knowledge.

What I learned is that the intricacies of evolution probably will never be known. It's the head-banging curiosity of "making connections" that's so intriguing.

(During one of our many conversations, The Alf Museum curator told me that, at that time, there was conjecture that dinosaurs didn't make any noise. "No way," I said, "Tell that to Hollywood."  And, recent research highlighted in List Verse shows that T-Rex probably had some feathers.)

One of the things that had the greatest personal impact on me while I was working at the Alf Museum had nothing directly to do with dinosaurs. It was a huge spiral in one of its halls that symbolized the evolution of time. Starting from the ground, it wound and wound up toward the ceiling, naming different evolutionary time periods. It was only until the last foot or so that the word "Man" appeared. In comparison to the Universe, man hadn't been around very long.

I was going through a rough patch at the time and something about that spiral comforted me. My problems at the moment were overwhelming, all consuming. But, when compared with the timeline of the universe, they were an infinitesimal speck. Everything I was going through wasn't that important.

Years ago, a writer friend of mine said she wrote a journal of her years---meaning she allotted a couple of pages in a journal to every year of her life and then wrote down what she could remember about each year. She said she started to see patterns, Venn diagrams, in her life that helped her to write her stories. Connecting the dots of her own evolution helped her to better understand her life story. Perhaps it is by stepping back, observing and being curious about one's own life's trends, and not falling into the quagmire of thinking that our problems (or we) are ALL so important, that we as people evolve. 

Yesterday, I read an article in the Smithsonian Magazine about a new kind of travel called Evotravel, a travel trend to places where you can find evidence of evolution. Standing in the coop this morning, feeding the chickens sunflower seeds, I couldn't help but think I didn't have to travel far to see evolution. Just watching the chickens' antics--their wings flapping, their preening, their squawking--lessened my burdens, even if I never will truly know their ancestral history.

You Can't Always Get What You Want

                                                                      Photo by Keith Skelton

My cat, Sequoia, is a determined feline. Perhaps it's because I discovered him homeless in the tiny town of Springville, California near the Sequoia Mountains.  He was meandering around the Springville Inn, the inn I was staying at. He frolicked at my feet while I was enjoying breakfast outdoors, waiting for me, no doubt, to throw him some tidbits to eat. I went hiking in the mountains that day and re-discovered him, again, later on that afternoon, waiting, rolled up in a planter, by the bed-and-breakfast. When I walked by, he lifted his head and purred. His personality was cute, but he wasn't. He was filthy, dirty, covered with ticks and fleas.

"Please take him home," said a woman cleaning the motel rooms. "He'll die here in the winter if someone doesn't take him."

It was an odd coincidence, finding Sequoia, as just two weeks before, I had dreamt that I was on a trip to Seattle and found a cat. In my dream, I had put the cat into a cat carrier and shipped her home. Ironically, my trip to Seattle never happened. It was cancelled eight hours before the first leg of my flight due to a family issue. I was disappointed, frustrated, angry. As a way to relieve my "pain,"  I traveled to the Sequoia Mountains. It was a last minute Plan B.  And, unbeknownst to me, that is where my dream came true. And, isn't that how it usually is? I really wanted the trip to Seattle but I got the cat instead.

You can't always get what you want...

Sequoia has been trying to pounce on the chickens for awhile. He sniffs around their coop and pen, even digs at the pen's surrounding soil. I've seen him sit a couple of feet away, waiting--quietly, stealthy, shy--and then, suddenly, take a running lunge for the cage. The chickens squawk and fly. He watches in tail-swishing glee. His happiness is fleeting. They're still out of reach.

This time, Sequoia sits inside the house, again waiting for his catch. But, there is a screen, a barrier, between him and what he desires.


You can't always get what you want...

After my father died, I dreamt that I saw him. There was a pane of glass between us. I could hear and see him. He could hear and see me. But, we couldn't touch. We each raised our hands to the glass and laid our hands against each other, palm to palm. But, the coolness of the glass replaced the warmth of our touch. We both cried in my dream. Cried because we could see and hear each other. Cried because we couldn't feel each others touch. I awoke desperately, very desperately, wanting my Dad to be alive again. I needed more than anything to feel his warm embrace.

But, there was the glass...the screen...the barrier...between us.

Mick Jagger and the Rolling Stones once sang,

"You can't always get what you want.
You can't always get what you want.
You can't always get what you want...

And, if you try, sometimes, you just might find

You get what you need."

So, we don't always get what we want...

we often just get what we need.

I need to remember that.

I think it's called faith.

Seasons Magazine Publishes My Article: Backyard Brooders

                                 Photo by Keith Skelton    www,KeithSkeltonPhoto.com

Santa Barbara Seasons Magazine just released their 10th Anniversary issue. It is a beautiful magazine that showcases Santa Barbara County.

Check out my article about raising backyard chickens, Backyard Brooders, in the 10th Anniversary issue. If you want to know about raising chickens in Santa Barbara County, it's a great place to begin.