Well, that's a ridiculous title.
But really, chickens, Nancy? Again??
It isn't my fault really. It is just that there was a lot of conversation spurred by my last chicken post and my possibly changing my blog name to something more chickeny -- Chickens Chickens Everywhere? Duck Duck Chicken? Don't be Chicken? Why'd the Chicken Cross the Road?
Anyway, it seemed funny to me that I truly could have a blog with a title having to do with chickens because, for crying out loud, if I counted, I probably have more posts involving chickens than any other girl who isn't actually entitled to write about chickens (you know, like how a chicken farmer is).
I don't live on a farm.
I don't even live in the country.
I live in the city . . . or maybe the suburbs? Or maybe something else altogether. I've never really been certain about the exact meaning of words like city and suburbs and urban -- I just have vague ideas sometimes involving houses, and generally involving no large fields, and occasionally involving lots of traffic and tall buildings. I mean the place I live is called a city, but that doesn't seem like that means I can just go ahead and say, "I live in the city." And yet, I feel like I can say, "I live in a city." Maybe that is it? The "the" makes it, not necessarily one particular city, but definitely a super busy big city? Be careful with that "the" and you are OK, is it?
Well then. Weird that I live in a city and somehow always seem to be associating with chickens. I don't think of myself as someone with chickens. Of course, I don't think of myself as someone with loads of kids either. And yet, certain things just are. In fact, my parents lived in a city, and they never even purchased chickens OR got chickens as white elephant gifts, but one year when I was younger, a chicken came to live with us there just the same. It was a stray. A stray chicken. Only we called it The Racing Chicken. Maybe if I'd been reading my life in a book I would have seen the sudden appearance of that chicken as foreshadowing -- I would have known more chickens were yet to enter my life. But, at the time, we just wondered where on earth a stray chicken came from, and why it decided we were home. We called it The Racing Chicken because we only ever saw it streaking full speed across our yard. Maybe it was being chased. Maybe it just liked to run. Once I went into the garage to get something out of our big freezer out there. Suddenly I was startled by screeching and meowing and then a big cat fell from the rafters above and tore out of the garage like a bat out of you know where. I was stunned for a moment, but when I looked up, I saw The Racing Chicken -- standing firm and proud on the rafters above -- eyes blazing, wings held firm. He was a noble breed of chicken I am sure. Only, he wasn't a he I guess because later, when The Racing Chicken had either met an untimely end, or moved on to greener pastures, we found a large clutch of eggs up in those rafters. (And no, they wouldn't have been baby chicks. I always have to tell everyone about how there needs to be a rooster, and frankly, it gets a little awkward).
Anyway, it's no wonder we keep having chickens. Mike thinks they are the perfect animal (actually, it might have been pigs he said were the perfect animal), but he has definitely said that they are the perfect thing to have for our food storage -- when hard times hit, won't we be happy to have fresh eggs galore every day (and I did read somewhere once that eggs are a near perfect food -- from a survival standpoint -- you'd only need to supplement with like one vitamin to have your diet A-OK). So, Mike says, when I feel conflicted about meshing chickens with my life, I can just view them as food storage. Of course, Mike also says our "food storage" ought to be 12 matching rifles. Shotguns? Oh he'd be so disappointed in me for not remembering which it is. I'm not sure if it is so we can protect our food storage or so we can steel other's food storage. I like to think it is only to protect our own -- of course, if the guns are the only food storage we've got, it seems to leave us with the less noble alternative. Oh wait. There won't just be the guns. There'll be the chickens! Of course, we must protect the chickens! That will put our guns to the very noblest of work.
This is what happens when Mike leaves me and won't come home to me for too many days. I get all typey crazy. Honey? Where are you? Well, I know where you are, but, come home to me, and I'll quit writing all this nonsense! I'll go back to writing nice sensible posts about the joys of motherhood and of being your wife. But, maybe you like this nonsense. Of course you do. You like everything I ever say or do. Don't tell me different or the chicken gets it.