7.12.2023

I am my mother's savage daughter
The one who runs barefoot
Cursing sharp stones
I am my mother's savage daughter
I will not cut my hair
I will not lower my voice

My mother's child is a savage
She looks for her omens in the colors of stones
In the faces of cats, in the falling of feathers
In the dancing of fire
In the curve of old bones

—lyrics from Savage Daughter, Ekaterina Shelehova

Summer has been a challenge.

Marion and Everett fight constantly and Forrest is teetering on the cusp of two; learning to become more independent (he can put on his Crocs!), but still too little to be left unattended. There are daily Forrest falls and head bumps and pinching of fingers—he has his siblings beat when it comes to the number of accidents, the amount of times I hear him cry because some body part got stuck somewhere it shouldn’t be.

I’d never wish their toddlerhoods away, but I am a mother who appreciates being able to tell Everett to go take a shower and not have to be involved in the process one bit more.

Our time with our children doesn’t end when they’re four, something society seems to be screaming on social media. They need us for the rest of their lives.

I still need you, and in two weeks I’ll be thirty-two.

The egg “business” is going well. I put that in quotations because it feels silly to refer to it as a form of employment—it’s a hobby, one that costs me money to produce what I sell. Profits will be possible when I have at least tripled my egg count and somehow lowered my feed expenses.

But making money is not my focus.

I have twenty-seven chickens but only six are laying. It looks like I should have endless eggs, but not just yet; it is taking time to produce and grow what I envision.

And get this—there’s a waiting list for when my next batch of chickens begins to lay, which should be within the next month. And I couldn’t be more happy that I’m reaching people who believe in the power of a pretty, hand-raised egg.

When I drop a carton off on a customer’s porch, I prance away like a little egg elf, delivering a package that has my passion encapsulated in each rainbow-hued shell.

I feel so proud.

To most, an egg is just an egg; no one thinks about the chickens who created the dozen placed in their shopping cart. So to educate myself and customers who are interested in investing in a “better” egg, I read about the differences between cage-free, pasture-raised, etc. And most labels, I’ve learned, are deceiving. Majority of chickens in this country are kept in wired cages, their confinement so tight, they cannot spread their wings.

Cage-free isn’t much better. The chickens are stocked in large buildings without access to the outside environment. They cannot roost or dust bathe or forage for bugs; natural chicken behavior is absolutely limited.

And whether they live a caged life or not, after they begin laying eggs around eighteen weeks of age, a chicken has until her first year to live, when egg production decreases. And off to slaughter she goes.

I free-range my flock, which means they have unlimited access to the grass and forest; they’re able to come and go from the shed as they please. They take baths in the dry dirt and rest in shady bushes and mess up the mulch on my front porch, looking for grubs. I believe in letting them live as natural as possible, especially if they’re providing me with the prize of an egg.

But this means a hawk could take one at any moment. Or a fox or raccoon that decides to hunt during its off-hours.

So I can understand why commercial chicken farming has turned to confinement in buildings: farmers are keeping the birds safe from predators and outside diseases. And they can mass vaccinate with ease and control their feed intake.

It may not seem like it, but keeping chickens alive and thriving is difficult. That’s why a small-scale egg operation like mine is a whole other story; it’s an art and a balance and every chicken gets personal care when she needs it, like when one has poop stuck to her butt feathers, and I need to give her a bath and a scissor trim.

Part of an egg’s distinct beauty, is how hard it is to produce.

Raising chickens can sound so dainty. I believed it would be when I first started out. I’d research and read about potential problems, like predators getting into coops, and think, Oh not my chickens! I’ll be so smart and careful. I figured it was only the “country folk” who let those kinds of things happen.

But these chickens are turning my into a lady of the land.

My beautiful Green Queen hen, Spinella, who I raised and held in the palms of my hand last spring, has been eating her eggs for months now. And it’s a habit that a few of the other chickens picked up on; a habit that is very hard to break. I managed to get them to stop—all but her. I kept giving her chances, convincing myself she’d stop, but every farm blog I read said cull them immediately, which in farm language means kill.

No one wants to house a chicken who destroys eggs.

When I told Allison I’d probably have to cull a chicken, her eyes got so wide, I saw all the white behind her lids. She looked at me like I was a monster. But I explained why I can’t have a hen eating an egg right after she lays it.

Chris said I’d have to do it. He’s done killing for the moment. It’s been a lot managing the trapped raccoons and for as “manly” as he is, it was hard for him to kill the deformed Tractor Supply ducks back in May. And if I want to live like this and have these animals, I have to be responsible for when things get difficult, too. I feel that in my heart.

I don’t want to write about it, other than to say I didn’t see her; I put her in a box to make things easy for the both of us. And it was quick. I was scared. I’d never used a gun before and didn’t like the way I had to hold it close to my face. But it was done. And afterwards I gently pulled one of her wing feathers as I cried and said goodbye to my pretty Spinella, knowing I’d keep that little piece of her somewhere special.

I have a feather of every chicken I’ve lost. I don’t know if that’s creepy or sweet but they’re all beautifully framed; a tribute to a pet well loved.

The next day, the girls only laid few eggs. They know she’s gone—they’re not dumb creatures. Their laying may be off for a bit, a side effect I didn't know could happen from the change of losing a flock member.

But four chicks were just delivered today from the Ohio hatchery. Two are Black Copper Marans, who will lay a dark chocolate egg. One is a rare Opal Legbar, and I used money from selling eggs to cover her ridiculous cost: $91.67. (I guess you could say I have some boujee chickens, but that is part of what I’m building.)

And I have a broody hen, Cloudberry, whose is sitting on eleven eggs that all have the potential to become hatch any day now.

So life on this little farmette continues on, even after loss.

Mother nature is brutal but she’s honest and real and I feel as if I’ve stuck myself in the middle of her cycle, sometimes having to get involved; like with Spinella or deciding if a hen will raise chicks and become a clucking mama, walking around the yard with little peeps following her sounds.

Chickens have made me more real and I don’t know how to put that better. Instead of making me a little more “glam” or “cool” or like Martha Stewart the way I thought they would, I am now more kin with a life not only surrounded by nature, but I desperately want to be in it.

I just don’t know how yet.

I hope people reading this don’t think I’m inhumane or crazy or wonder what the hell happened to “Hayley Norris,” the girl they knew in high school and now see on Facebook, sharing her chicken drama.

But if I could become a wild woman and live in the forest with my family and our animals and forget about the rest, I’d choose yes.

Homeschooling always seems like the first obvious answer to living a more off-grid life, but I know I cannot do that. Both my older kids love school and even just the first two weeks of summer proved I don’t have whatever those other farm moms do, who take their children out to milk the cows in-between a mom-taught math class.

I need the peace that school provides; even if it’s just the two hours Marion gets two days a week at pre-school.

Maybe one day I’ll get there. Maybe I’ll figure more out, on how to live just a bit more sustainable. Or if the world were to crash, I’d be able to provide for my family, knowing animals and the land.

I currently know nothing of the land.

But two yeas ago I also knew nothing about chickens. And look at me now.

I think the impression I give most people isn’t accurate. They see makeup and a manicure and somehow every worker at Tractor Supply inevitably thinks this means I need help lifting the fifty-pound feed bags.

But I can stay pretty and be rugged.

I can remain your daughter as I veer off your course and carve even deeper into mine.

Because I am my mother’s daughter, the one who runs barefoot, cursing sharp stones.