Several generations — chickens and people — get things settled.
Bruce Ingram | Photo Styling by Janette Spencer
Sam and Eli resettle the chicken “teenagers” into their new home.
Chickens are a vital part of how Elaine and I try to live off our Botetourt County, Virginia, land as much as possible. The eggs, excess roosters and older hens nourish us, and the copious amounts of manure these birds produce enrich our garden’s soil. But on one mid-July day, our chicken rearing was very much out of whack. Our daughter Sarah and her husband David live across the hollow with grandsons Sam and Eli, and a series of raccoon raids resulted in a barren henhouse there.
Making matters worse, our two flocks were experiencing issues as well. Our five-year-old hen Charlotte always becomes broody the first week of June, but this year when she didn’t do so, Elaine and I figured we had better order heritage Rhode Island Red chicks from a nursery, so the next generation of birds could come along. The 13 tiny chicks, which arrived in mid-June and had been living in our basement, had now metamorphosed into what we call “teenagers” and were more than ready to live outside.
Meanwhile, our two-year-old rooster Tom decided to turn rogue and attacked me three times in one day. This resulted in the late, not-so-great Tom becoming Sunday lunch’s main course and leftovers on Monday and Tuesday evenings.
Next, the elderly (in chicken terms) Charlotte decided to go broody after all and had been sitting on (with Tom’s demise) non-fertile eggs for a fortnight. From past experiences with Charlotte, we know that once broody she can’t be deterred from sitting on her eggs, no matter how rotten they become.
My wife and I couldn’t bear to put our hen through that ordeal, so we ordered seven heritage Red chicks just for her, scheduled to arrive the next day. Our four other hens would endlessly torment the teenagers if they were put in their run; and if the teenagers moved in with Charlotte in the second run, the teens would likely try to kill the recently hatched chicks.
So, the next morning on the first Moving Day, I asked Sarah to send 12-year-old Sam and 10-year-old Eli across the hollow to help us transfer Kitty, Summer, Autumn and Winter (Tom’s former hen harem) from their enclosure to their new henhouse at Sarah’s. There’s art to carrying chickens 80 yards without them panicking and escaping into our woodlot. So, I explained to the boys how to hold one hand under the chicken’s breast and the other wrapped around their upper body, then press the bird tight to their chest. This arrangement seems to settle a bird and makes them feel secure.
Both boys willingly agreed to their assignment, as long as it didn’t involve Winter … last on the pecking order and infamous for her flighty behavior … no pun intended. I agreed to carry Winter, and our procession successfully resettled the quartet that morning. Then the boys and I gave Tom’s former coop a thorough cleaning in preparation for the arrival of the teenagers the next morning.
On Moving Day II, all of us arose early for our various tasks. Elaine arrived at the Troutville Post Office at 6:30 to pick up Charlotte’s seven chicks, and the boys and I prepared to resettle the teenagers. In two covered cardboard boxes, the boys slowly and successfully carried the birds to their new abode.
Next, Elaine having reached home with very hungry, thirsty, two-day-old mail order chicks, the boys and I had to convince Charlotte that the two foul eggs under her had miraculously metamorphosed into seven chicks. But I reminded the grandsons that we had deceived the mama hen in this way before. We removed Charlotte from her house, stealthily put the chicks in and took out the two eggs. When Charlotte reentered her house, she quickly took to the chicks, and they to her. Moving Days had been a success.
The story above first appeared in our July / August 2025 issue. For more like it subscribe today or log in with your active BRC+ Membership. Thank you for your support!