COMMUNITY EDITORIAL BOARD
Kingston Whig Standard
After two months of laying eggs in the cold of winter, this
January, our chickens went on strike. Now I am well aware that it is
normal for birds to go through a period of moulting late in the year,
when the days are shorter. The birds shed their feathers to make room
for new growth, and along with hormonal changes comes a halt to egg
production. My research told me that this period could last up to seven
weeks, so Josh and I sat tight.
Two and a half months later - that’s 10 weeks sans eggs - the wheels
of our new farm business, Fat Chance Farmstead, started to turn. The
pace quickened, the to-do lists grew and out of fear that we would soon
be running around like chickens with our heads cut off, we decided that a
division of labour was in order. Josh was put in charge of the
greenhouse, cows and all things plants, and I was put in charge of the
mushrooms, bees and chickens.
The ever-extending period of moulting was now my concern and my
concern alone. I took this to heart. Except that the more research I
did, the more puzzled I became. It was spring, the chickens were warm,
and they were now getting plenty of sunlight – an important precursor to
egg production.
But perhaps they needed more? The chicken run was small and had shady
spots through the day. I started sprinkling food in the sun
periodically to encourage the girls to expose themselves to just a bit
more sunshine.
Eventually, I noticed two nests formed in the corners of the chicken
coop, but still no eggs. Frustrated with their seemingly never-ending
appetite and the foolishness of buying bags of organic feed while also
paying top dollar for organic eggs at the store, I started rationing.
By limiting their diet to what a chicken actually needs for a day, my
hope was that we would come to an agreement. You start laying eggs, and
we’ll go back to the bottomless pit of grain you had back in the good
old days.
Unfortunately for me, there was no bargaining with these girls. By
feeding them less, I was actually prolonging the strike. Instead of
calm, happy birds greeting me each morning, opening the chicken coop
door was like walking in on four angsty teenagers who were ready to
pounce. Clearly, I had ruffled some feathers.
As I struggled for control of the chicken operation, I maintained a
glimmer of hope. Every morning, every evening, when I opened that door I
believed that I might find an egg. With every visit, my eyes would scan
the corners of the coop. Front left, back left, back right, front
right. Middle? Perch? Anywhere? Through three months of anticipation,
and three months of disappointment, that routine never changed. I knew
the eggs would come.
One morning as my eyes ran from front left to back left, I caught a
glimpse of a round brown egg. At last! The wave of relief that I felt
was quickly replaced with terror. As I leaned in to grab the prized egg,
I realized that it was but a shell. The white, yolk and a third of the
shell were nowhere to be found. Well, I knew where they were. They were
in the chickens’ bellies.
This nasty habit is common among chickens lacking calcium in their
diets. Looking to supplement, they resort to eating their own eggs, and
it can be the kiss of death for a flock. Once it starts, the rest of the
chickens jump on the bandwagon, and the habit is difficult to shake.
As a new farmer who is raising chickens not as pets, but as
producers, I was faced with the realization that I may have to cull my
flock and start fresh. Despite my good intentions and efforts to
encourage egg-laying, I somehow felt responsible for my chickens’ new
addiction.
I wasn’t ready to say goodbye, nor was I willing to relinquish
control. And so, Josh hopped on board and we put all of our eggs in one
basket: rehab. Lacking the funds to send our girls to a posh facility in
California, we needed an intervention in our own backyard.
We added crushed oyster shells to the chickens’ diet, thus increasing
their calcium intake. We moved their coop to a new part of the yard.
Josh increased the size of the run tenfold, giving the chickens access
to lush grass and plenty of bugs. We held weekly therapy sessions. I
even went back to my old feeding habits, treating the feed tray like a
24-hour, all-you-can-eat buffet.
The chickens must have sensed that change, on their part, was in
order. Maybe they overheard me telling a friend that their lives were at
stake. Or perhaps we had eliminated the opportunity to dine by checking
for eggs on an hourly basis. Maybe it was the combination of changes.
Five days into their new life, the chickens went cold turkey, and quit
the habit. The strike was over, and the hens let us have their eggs.
It has been a month now, and any poor feelings that were held during
the strike have dissipated. The chickens are happy scratching away in
the grass and we are collecting three eggs a day. Kitchen conversation
has shifted from reminders to buy more eggs at the store to reminders to
eat more eggs before we run out of counter space.
The ordeal has forced me to accept a principle that many farmers
before me have embraced; one that the wind hinted at in March when it
blew over our greenhouse: though you can change some conditions, you are
never fully in control. And so it is with a new sense of respect and
humility that this spring chicken thanks the hens each morning for
sharing their eggs.
Born and raised in Kingston, Jen Valberg is a member of the
Whig-Standard's Community Editorial Board and co-owner of Fat Chance
Farmstead. When she's not in the garden, you can find her in the
kitchen, behind the sewing machine or making noise on the piano.
