It began in the springtime, as most of our clucking adventures do. My daughter, like most consumers, is drawn to the cutesy “farm-life” items: metal chicken lawn décor, farm-themed ornaments, and more pet toys than you can shake a stick at. During the spring, however, she visited a particular farm-focused box store that fills with little peeping chicks.
It is these chicks my daughter cannot resist. She likes to say she “only buys the species of chicks she doesn’t currently have.” As of this writing she has 22 hens. Several of the cluckers are thinking about getting in the motherly way.
I have reminded her husband that the word “No” is a complete sentence.
This time, she used Poppa as the means to procure poultry. Poppa, who supported his family by working as lineman in rural Appalachia, has a fondness for banty chickens. Now that he has turned 80, the Winchester family believes Poppa should get what Poppa wants. While two chicks would have been sufficient, daughter arrived at Poppa’s with six banty biddys all “sexed” as females.
That’s another issue I have with the big box chick-selling store; they don’t know diddly squat about sexing chicks. Show of hands, how many of y’all have purchased hens but was awakened early one morning to the throaty sound of a juvenile hen who was actually a rooster?
As the days became weeks, four of the banty’s died and one identified as a rooster. This rooster doted on the lone female in ways that would make any human female jealous. He picked grass for his love, he found beetles, bugs, and worms. He slept standing over her with one eye peeled ever watchful for trouble.
For those unfamiliar with the way of poultry, the term “banty,” is given to a breed of fowl that have no large counterparts. Bantys beat their wings to their own drum. They are tender and tiny and one can literally tuck them in the front of her bibbed overalls and take her hen to work; not that I have, but I could. While the rest of the world refers to this breed as “bantam,” Appalachian hill folk—who are known for using their own identifiers—simply say, banty.
Here in Appalachia, having a banty bird is a status symbol of authenticity; especially if you are lucky enough to procure a true bantam such as an American Game bantam which are, in all honesty, a bird you don’t want to mess with. A true banty rooster will land atop your head and flog the ever lovin’ puddin’ out of you; especially if he thinks you’ve offended his beloved soulmate.
As a small breed, banty birds are easy prey when night falls and critters come creeping. This was the case one November night when Poppa’s rooster lost the love of his life. Farmers never understand how possums manage to pull their hens halfway out of the cage, slit their throats and drink their blood. But more than one farmer has witnessed the carnage firsthand.
Poppa’s rooster was grief stricken. He paced the cage. He crowed. He opened his beak and released a scream. Being a tenderhearted farmer, Poppa set out to find his rooster a new companion.
Native Appalachians have a network of resources beyond compare. We know who has seed beans dating back to our time of oppression in the mother country. We know who makes the best corn juice, and we know that one person in the wayback holler who has been raising banty birds since the Eisenhower administration. Banty hens are valuable to farmers because once a banty hen gets broody, you are guaranteed she will hatch a clutch of eggs.
If you think baseball card trading is a tough business, I’m here to tell you Poppa had to do a right-smart bit of begging before he came home with a new banty. The nocturnal critters had also paid a visit to the wayback holler.
“I thought I was gonna have to throw in my first born to seal the deal,” Poppa said when I called to inquire on the acquisition.
Since yours truly is the firstborn, I’m happy that cash is king.
“Oh, that rooster took to her like nobody’s business,” Poppa said with a smile on his face. “He has clucked and cooed at her. Now he hasn’t gotten down to the business of baby making. It’s too early for that nonsense.”
A few months later, Poppa found evidence of nonsense hidden beneath her grey feathers.
“She’s sitting on eight eggs,” Poppa crowed during our nightly conversation.
The next morning, the rooster had jittery feet and Poppa discovered a single egg outside of the nest.
“Some critter took off with four of my eggs.”
In the background, the rooster crowed.
Banty hens are a soft-spoken lot and even if she had cried for help, all poultry suffer from night blindness. I’m sure the rooster did his best to protect the clutch upon which his beloved sat. However, when it comes to nocturnal critters, bantys and other feathered friends haven’t a prayer. Truth be told, we are lucky the thief didn’t kill this hen as well.
Poppa commenced to fortifying their home. No more of that soft chicken wire. No sir. It’s a fortress now. Thick galvanized wire with holes so small you can’t even slip a marble through the opening. In the center of the coop, he fashioned a perch and hung it from the ceiling for the rooster to stand watch then slid the incubation bungalow under the perch where the little hen would be guarded.
Two weeks later, the Winchester farm had a birth announcement: three widdle-biddies were born. Poppa was so proud, we considered harkening back to the monarchy’s tradition firing a 41-gun salute. Instead, I posted a video on my Facebook Author page. The littles were born during a brutally-cold night. I rushed to the farm to procure additional hay and more zip ties to secure the already fortified fence.
As I opened the door to get a closer look, the mother hen’s prideful clucks quickened to that of alarm. The rooster paced as if asking, what do I do? In the process, he accidentally stepped on one of the littles which resulted in a stern warning from their mama. As the rooster paced, she corralled her newborns into the corner and lowered herself to the floor. One chick rushed beneath her, and then another. She emitted a growl-like warning. There’s always one wayward child. Upon hearing the warning, the rooster herded the newborn toward its mother. Then he stationed himself between his family and crowed.
This protective moment was the most beautiful act of love I’ve witnessed in a while. The rooster had endured the heartbreaking loss of one hen. We would not suffer another.
Her clucks softened and her feathers roiled as the chicks found their place beneath her.
Behind me Poppa said, “It don’t matter how many times we humans try to raise chickens, nothing beats a momma hen.”