Since I told the fella at the co-op my story of my iron-clad security at the chicken house, I suppose it’s only fair to share the wealth (of laughter) here. My sister likes to refer to this as Chapter 1 in the book that I will write. One day. Not today. Maybe tomorrow…
So while the Bullington kids were up for Spring Break (can I say how much I love that it’s become their family tradition to come camp out with us for part of the week? – love it) we moved the little ladies over to their new house – pictures to prove it soon, promise. Well, Tuesday was a busy day for us – take Noah to school, plunder the wonders of River Sports in Knoxville, explore the Southwest Point Fort, lunch at Handee Burger, retrieve Noah from school, come home and clean up and prep for cooking out over the campfire. In between all that the chickens needed tending to, of course.
Sidenote: I like to refer to myself, thanks to Ashley English – see her book down & to the right a bit, as a Chicken Tenderer. Not to be confused with a chicken tender – you see how that could get confusing? She kindly signed my personal copy when I took her class, “Happy tendering, Beth!” hence the title I’ve given myself.
Back to the story.
So, we gathered up all of our campfire goods and headed down to the water’s edge for some old fashioned kumbuya-ing. At some point I wandered off to take something somewhere for someone and decided that it was getting late and the little ladies needed to be put back in their house, safe from our pesky raccoon bandit.
I merrily went along shutting windows, closing gates, locking latches, refilling waterers, topping off feeders, herding pullets… you know, the typical tasks of a Tenderer. I was hanging out with the little ladies in their house, teaching them about their perches when I realized that in all my latch locking and window shutting I had securely secured myself in the hen house.
Secured securely surely.
So secure I had to squeeze, and I mean squeeze myself out of the trap door – you know, the one that’s big enough for a full-size chicken to scurry out of. The good news is that I fit through the hole fairly unscathed by chicken droppings and was only nearly beheaded one time by the door that is eerily similar to a guillotine when you are staring up at it ( I have no idea how to spell this word and really why would I?).
Escape from the chicken house – success.
But then there’s the run that I was now standing in. Good thing dad thought it would be a good idea to put wire across the top of it to keep aerial threats at a minimum. Yep, real good thing.
And to keep climbing out at an even smaller minimum.
Well, crap. The family is down by the water’s edge surely devouring delicious hobo stew and moving on to chocalatey, marshmallowy, banana boats by this point and I am pondering the most poop-free spot where I can sit until someone realizes I’ve wandered off. Brilliant.
So what did I do?
Well, what any tough, rugged, wilderness woman of the woods would do – I started hollering Chris’ name at the top of my lungs – waited – and hollered some more. You have no idea how defeated I felt… standing in a wired-in chicken run waiting for my knight in khaki shorts.
I’m such a girl.
I could hear the crunch of the gravel and knew my rescue was near – followed closely by my humiliation. Chris got within shouting distance and said, “Where are you?”…
“In the run. Don’t ask questions. Just let me out.”
He chuckled – gracefully.
“Don’t tell them what I did.”
He smirked – not near as gracefully.
- The biggest chicken in the hen house.