The Mystery of Chicken Seeds

As a parent, I did a lot of things wrong.  I worked more than was necessary and missed more church events and ball games than I would like to admit.  But, I also got a few things right.  And occasionally, I hit it out of the park.

One of those right ideas was of instilling an entrepreneurial spirit in my kids.  Staring into the tub of chicks at Tractor Supply late one spring, flanked by Elizabeth and John, it occurred to me that having the kids raise chicks into laying hens, tend to them chicks daily and then buying eggs from the kids would be the perfect business model.  So, the clerk boxed up a half dozen Rhode Island Red chicks and we headed home.

I built a 6x6 feet square pen that could be moved around the backyard.  I’m not sure that the term pastured poultry had been coined yet and technically we were in the backyard, but I like to think of ourselves as visionaries of future self-sufficient agricultural practices.

That summer the chicks matured and by the following spring we were anticipating fresh eggs.  As the weather warmed, the chickens libido also kicked into overdrive.  Ever observant of the natural world, John, who was five or six at the time asked a question one night at the dinner table.

www.heritagepullets.com

“Daddy, why does Big Red (the rooster) jump on the Little Red Hen’s back?’

I suddenly realized that I had actually hit the paternal lottery.  Not only was I creating entrepreneurs and a sense of responsibility, I now had a segway to the birds and bees via roosters and hens.

“Well John,” I began in my best patriarchal tone, “When Big Red jumps on the Little Red Hen he is planting a seed in her that fertilizes the eggs so they can hatch into chicks.”

John nodded his head and simply said, “Oh.”

I felt pretty good.  Actually, I felt real good.  Like, “I should write a parenting book” good.

After a couple of minutes of thought, John added, “But Daddy, I don’t think Big Red hits it every time.”

It took me a couple of moments to process what he said.  I saw the title of the parenting book changing to “Big Red Strikes Out and other Tales of Failed Livestock Husbandry” (this was before the commercials of couples watching the sun set from claw-foot tubs, but I'm sure there is some chicken equivalent).  As much as I wanted to bail on the conversation, his observation peaked my curiosity.

“Why do you think Big Red misses sometimes?”

“Cause I found some chicken seeds in the yard.”

Now he had me.  My bluff was called.

“You found chicken seeds?”

“Yep, chicken seeds.”

“Exactly what do they look like?”

“They are hard and white.”  He held his fingers about a quarter inch apart and added, “And about this big.  Kind of like cucumber seeds.”

As my mind reeled and I wondered if I had stepped on the chickens seed with my bare feet because that would be kind of gross, Elizabeth, two years John’s elder, solved the mystery.

“John,” she said, “Those aren’t chicken seeds."  She pointed her fork in John's direction to emphasize her epiphany.  "Those are bits of oyster shells.  Right Daddy?”

It struck me that some of the oyster shells we were feeding them to combat egg eating had been kicked through the wire into the yard.  They looked seed-like so it was an easy mistake to make.  

“You don’t know everything Elizabeth,” John protested, now pointing his fork at her.  “Daddy, tell her those are chicken seeds.”

"Well, I think she is right John.  Those may look like chicken seeds, but I’m pretty sure they are oyster shells.”

I suddenly realized I was discussing chicken seeds as though I knew exactly what they looked like.

As Elizabeth looked content with her assessment, John deflated just a bit.  Then his expression changed.  I saw another question brewing.

“Okay maybe those are oyster shells.  But tell me this Daddy, how does Big Red actually plant the chicken seeds?

I thought for a moment and decided to throw down the parental trump card.

“That’s enough about chickens.  Eat your supper.”

So the seed metaphor was less than perfect.  As always seems to be the case, it seemed like a good idea at the time.  I'm really glad that I steered away from tadpoles...