Out Behind the Barn

I have a barn. It has a gambrel roof. It's even red. And it's the perfect size for a half-dozen chickens.

Thanks to a fox in the henhouse and a bit of fowl play (and maybe a bit of negligence on our part), it was expedient to let our two remaining broody hens hatch out some eggs this past summer. Indeed, the most difficult part was finding fertilized eggs, after which the mother hen manages very well, left to herself.

I don't have the courage or constitution to be a farmer. I mean, like, a real farmer. The kind of farmer who needs a full-size barn—who milks a cow daily or tends large animals only to eat them a short while later.

Now, I am not at all opposed to raising animals for food—I just prefer if someone else (like, a real farmer) does that part for me. While I've often been accused of being vegetarian (which I'm not, quite), the very real threat of our Canadian grocery stores carrying unlabeled lab-grown "meat" almost makes me reconsider. That said, we are fortunate to have a butcher shop/meat market right in our neighbourhood—people we know who source real animals from real farmers.

My mom raised chickens, for both the eggs and for butchering; and from a pretty young age, my sister and I would help with the latter by "bathing" the chickens at the stage between de-feathering and de-gutting. I could hardly wait until I would be old enough to do the gutting, because it looked like such fun.

I know, right?!

In grade 12 Biology, we had to bring in an animal to dissect in front of the class. Most of it was incredibly gross, and maybe even unethical. Nevertheless, I was fortunate enough to have a chicken at my disposal as well as the skills and knowledge to pass at least that part of the course.

More recently, I've helped my neighbour butcher a chicken or three; but our own hens are of the egg-laying kind and a mere six of them fill out the tiny red barn quite satisfactorily. Which, finally, brings me around to the title of this post . . .

Out behind the barn.

While the painted quilts are for decorative purposes only, the lawn blanket adorning the run is intended to produce some shade at mid-day.

My daughter, the avid crafter/quilter, put me onto this; so, I got a little crafty between planting and harvesting, and the lean-to on the backside of the run got an upgrade by way of a couple barn quilts. No one else sees them, but I enjoy them—morning and evening—from my barnyard swing. And they make me feel happy.

Happiness is not a station you arrive at, but a manner of travelling.

        — Cecil Murphy