Just the other day as I was cresting the hill on the road near my childhood home, the Egg Lady popped into my head. I haven’t thought about her in years. Egg Lady? Who is the Egg Lady, right? The Egg Lady for me is a sweet and carefree childhood memory.
Many years ago, before the dinosaurs roamed the Earth, I was a child. I was a country child with a home nestled in the middle of cherry orchards on the lakeside and cornfields on the other. I enjoyed being a country kid. I was raised on fresh garden vegetables and farm raised chicken eggs.
Just up the hill from our house lived the Egg Lady in a white, two-story farmhouse that stood proudly among the red cowshed, piggery, and coop. Every Saturday, my mother would need more fresh eggs. Situated on the kitchen shelves built by my father, sat four empty, plastic peanut butter buckets. Yes, they were buckets. If an empty egg carton was cut in half, the two halves could fit perfectly inside a bucket. Safe. Protected. These buckets labeled “Peanut Butter” were the protective vessels that I, along with my brother and two sisters, would grab as we headed out to the Egg Lady’s house.
Promptly after a summer morning of Saturday cartoons, we would each grab a bucket, dash to the garage and hop on our bikes. My bike was a purple Schwinn with a white banana seat and high handlebars. It was a sweet ride. With buckets dangling from our handlebars, we would ride down our dirt driveway as the gravel crunched under our tires. At the end of our driveway, we would turn left onto the paved, country road toward the Egg Lady’s house. Off to our right was a forever view of Lake Michigan with cornfields and fruit orchards sharing the same space of beauty. The four of us would pedal and pant as we climbed the gradual hill to the Egg Lady’s farm. Wind whipped. Chains creaked. Seats squeaked. The glorious sounds of riding our bicycles along the country road. We never complained about having to make this ride.
After riding our bikes a quarter mile down the road, we arrived at the Egg Lady’s house. Without hesitation, one of us would jump off our bike and knock on the farmhouse door. Moments later, the Egg Lady would appear. She was a tiny lady with round glasses and short, permed hair. Brown farm boots, jeans, and a worn flannel was the only attire I knew her to wear. She would greet us and lead us into the kitchen that seemed to always smell of freshly, baked bread or pie. The wood floors creaked as we went to the back pantry to fetch the eggs. We would exchange our empty egg carton halves for full ones. Sometimes we would watch as she candled each egg under a bright beam of light. Each egg would light up clear and translucent like a light bulb. This simple and silent process of candling captivated my siblings and me. We waited patiently and with awe to see if our eggs were without chicks. Finally, she would gently pack our egg cartons into the peanut butter buckets then snap on each lid. Leading us past the baked bread and pies, she bid us farewell as the screen door snapped shut behind us.
With our precious cargo dangling from our handlebars, we waved goodbye to the Egg Lady and headed home. The ride home was slower and yet easier as we coasted downhill back to our driveway that again crackled with gravel under our tires. Four dozen eggs would be delivered to my mother from the Egg Lady’s farm. The Egg Lady. A lifetime when all that mattered was getting a peanut butter bucket full of eggs safely home to mother.
Last spring during the shutdown, I decided to incubate some of the fertilized eggs from my hens. I have had between twenty to sixty hens at a time over the years. Predators, old age, and illnesses have caused this fluctuation in numbers and is expected when you decide to raise chickens. My first seven hens had names: Opal, Ethel Mae, Bertha, Bessie, Petunia, Violet, and Zinnia. I even made a sign that displayed their names and I hung it on the side of their coop. After a couple deaths in my flock, I stopped naming my hens. I’ll admit that losing my first hen was hard. She was a gorgeous Ameraucana chicken named Zinnia. So last spring with my hen numbers down, I decided to see if I could successfully incubate eggs from my hens. I had three Buckeye roosters and a wide range of hen breeds. What hatched from each egg was going to be a delightful surprise.
Photo credit: Jessie Zevalkink of JZ Photo.
I diligently gathered twenty-two eggs of a variety of colors: olive green, light blue, cream, light pink, light brown, dark brown, and speckled brown. With an incubator filled with a colorful collection of eggs fit for an Easter basket, I began the incubation process. Generally, you can expect 75-90% of the eggs to hatch successfully. (If you order eggs to hatch, that percentage decreases to as low as a 50% success rate.) After 21 days, all of the eggs hatched. Every. Single. One. Of course, I had no idea how many were going to be hens and how many would be roosters. I was aware that by incubating my own that I would definitely get some roosters. The probability of hatching hens versus roosters is about 50/50 with a slight lean toward having more roosters. All the chicks from the incubation survived except one. It was tiny and had a difficult time pecking its way out of the shell.
Over time, the chickens got bigger and I began noticing large plumes of tail feathers emerging on a number of them – as in eight of them. I already had three roosters. So this brought my count to eleven roosters. There were about 40 hens in the flock so this was going to be a problem. Ideally, you want one rooster for every 10 -12 hens. Having too many roosters can take a heavy toll on hens. As the roosters grew in size and as their interest in the hens grew, I quickly observed the negative effect on the hens. First of all, they rarely had a break from the relentless mounting of the roosters. One hen would get pinned down. Once released, another rooster would pin her down. And then another after that. Often I would find all of my roosters chasing one, clearly exhausted, hen around the coop. It was too much for any hen. The hardship on my hens needed to stop. They had bald spots and missing feathers. Their egg production was down and they started hiding under the coop most of the day. My hens were overworked. I needed to bring back harmony and balance to my flock. My hens deserved better. It became clear that I needed to harvest some roosters for the health and happiness of my hens.
I couldn’t harvest the roosters straight away. They needed some time to mature and bulk up a bit. I also had to come to terms with what it meant to harvest them – putting an end to their life. I had never done it before and I was doubtful about my ability to do it. In the meantime, I made sure my roosters were well fed and well cared for during their time on the farm.
Harvesting day arrived. I had to make the selection of who survived and who was sacrificed for the good of all. My rooster count needed to decrease to four which meant 7 had to go. I decided on my oldest three roosters, one rooster who was showing signs of aggression, and three large young roosters all of the same breed. Prior to the day, a dear friend of the family – Matt – volunteered to show my husband, Sander, and me how to harvest a chicken. It was brutal to watch at first but he showed us how to end the rooster’s life with compassion. He patiently guided us through each step as he methodically harvested the first bird on our farm. It felt a tad ceremonial. The second bird was harvested by my husband as Matt reviewed each stage of the process with him while peppering in helpful tidbits. The conditions outside, however, were not ideal. It was getting dark and the temperature was dropping to the low 30s. Thankfully there was a bonfire nearby so we had opportunities to warm our hands as needed. With the knowledge that Matt shared with us, we felt ready to harvest the remaining five birds the following day. The weather would be warmer and it would be daytime.
Matt showing us how to pluck the feathers off the bird after scalding it for about 20 seconds in hot water.Miggie, the farm’s security dog, looks on as he sports his “off duty” sweater.
With the sun overhead and already warming up the day, my husband and I got an early start. The kill cones (yes, such an awful name) were discretely hung out of sight of the flock as well as any visitors to the farm. The five chosen roosters were captured and separated from the rest. Killing the birds was emotional for me. However, it was necessary. These harvested birds were going to provide meat for my husband and me. Meat from birds we cared for and raised. The slaughtering stage is not for the faint of heart. It needs to be done as humanely and compassionately as possible. We consoled and thanked each bird as we watched the blood drain from them into the buckets below. Not a glamorous task. There is blood and blood splatter. Initially, I was going to let my husband deal with this stage. Yet it didn’t seem right for me to let him bear this burden alone. It was my flock. My roosters. I needed to “put on my big girl pants” and see this through…every difficult step. The killing. The scalding. The plucking. The gutting. The cutting. All of it. So on a sunny, late Saturday morning, my husband and I harvested five roosters. Once I accepted that it could be done with dignity and care, I stood in the sun and quietly honored each bird as I moved through the process.
Not a cone of shame but a cone of sacrifice.
My roosters were raised seeing sunshine and rain. They weathered cold and snow with a coop to shelter them. They lived a good life. Their sacrificed lives will provide meat for my family and a needed balance back to my flock. The coop is noticeably quieter now. My hens are emerging from their hiding place under the coop. All is well on the farm. Having a farm means you need to be able to not only handle but DO the hard stuff. It’s one thing to raise a few chickens for eggs and a whole other thing to actually harvest the chickens.
The hard stuff.
This place I call home is a farm that will continue to evolve. It will continue to evolve me. I can do the hard stuff. I am learning to recognize the lessons in the harder things. The farm is a place that is gifting me a deeper understanding of farm life and the balance of all things living. My family and I are cultivating plants for food, nurturing chickens for eggs, tapping trees for sap, housing bees for honey, raising pigs for pork AND the hard stuff – harvesting roosters for meat. Honoring every stage of life on our farm is and will be the key to its success and the balance that keeps it flourishing with every season.
This cheap and handy tool proved to be an asset. I discovered my unknown ability to cut around the bird’s anus with precision without rupturing the bowel. I am now a “near expert” at butthole and bowel removal. Surprising, huh? If you are harvesting a bird, get this handy little tool. Moments after the most difficult stage in harvesting the birds, I found this heart shaped rock embedded in the ground just a few feet away from the table in which we were going to continue the process. It reminded me to do all things with love and care. A collection of feathers I gathered after harvesting the roosters. They are a simple reminder of the majestic roosters that resided on our farm and through their gift of meat will nourish us in the future.
Life On Willow Glen Farm 