Outside The Box

It’s been a while since I updated you on the status of our fleet of chickens. I knew Shawn would be asking me about them any day, and the loyal fans of our velocicrappers always want to know. The question hovered in the air like the electric, hair‑raising expectation that heralded the arrival of our recent vigorous thunderstorms. So without further ado…

Free‑ranging chickens are at a disadvantage without a rooster. They fragment into little groups ripe for exploitation by predators. A good rooster watches and defends and keeps the peace between squabbling factions. There’s a lesson in there somewhere for this age of fluid ambiguity.

To gain that rooster we ordered baby chicks from a hatchery, but the maternal instinct was dormant among our squadron of independent thinkers and crowing hens, so we had to raise the babies ourselves. That meant separate housing, which they rapidly outgrew, so I opted for a more permanent solution.

You may recall our recent discussion about predatory pricing at the big‑box stores. I resolved to use whatever materials I had on hand — to see if I could create something using locally sourced materials like our ancestors. It had to be bear‑resistant (a plan encouraged by a recent visit from Ursula). It needed to be properly “weaseled” to prevent opportunistic attacks from the barn rat and the barn black snake, and ideally it would be multi‑use so that it could store all the feed that now takes up space on the floor of Tracey’s shop.

A stack of seasoned logs and a barn loft full of lumber odds and ends beckoned. I envisioned a miniature “log cabin” style structure. I had never built a notched log structure, but I know my way around a chainsaw, and once upon a time was a crosstie wrestler, so I was well acquainted with gravity and leverage.

The thing about moving logs, sawing logs, notching logs, and stacking logs is that it takes more time than you think it will as you plan your work from the comfort of the recliner. The first unintended consequence of this was that the babies outgrew the dog crate in Tracey’s shop long before their permanent home was complete. A temporary structure was erected in the backyard consisting of an aluminum cage surrounded by a mesh electric fence. Tracey called it “Chicken Mumbai” because it reminded her of the movie Slumdog Millionaire.

Another consequence of this setup was that it lengthened my day. Early to rise; carry the sleepy crate of chickens out to the chicken slum, feed and water, and make sure the electric fence isn’t grounding out. Then proceed with the regular morning farm, dog, and cat chores. Coffee, quick breakfast, and then roll out the tools.

It’s hard to square a stack of logs. Trees are independent thinkers. And the higher the walls go, the heavier the logs become. I’m not a carpenter, but half my DNA traveled the length of the Appalachians, and my spirit animal is the trapezoid. Like Leroy Jethro Gibbs said, wood tells the truth, and you can always make it right.

But making it right takes time, especially when you have to discover some of the facts via trial and error. Time passed. The box of chickens I had to carry to the shanty in the morning and back to the shop at night grew tediously heavy. The logs seemed to get heavier every day too.

But there was an unintended consequence of wrestling logs and curling chickens and chainsaws. Tracey began to admire the way I was filling out my T‑shirt. And a little appreciation is like leavening in bread. It goes a long way. It makes the logs lighter. It makes the arms even stronger.

And forget sleep aids and counting sheep. If you want a good night’s sleep, wrestle a few logs and drive some rebar with a sledgehammer.

The work got a bit easier once the A‑frame roof was installed with a covering of leftover tin saved from a long‑ago project. I was able to frame the inside and weasel the gaps working in the shade.

But then the pressure was on. The holiday approached and company was coming. Some of the farm and cleaning chores lagged because of all the energy diverted to Chickenopolis. The baby birds were now juveniles, and one rooster was learning to crow (with a little help from his log‑wrestling friend). They were crowded in their sleeping quarters, which now weighed as much as a sack of feed, and none too happy about it.

The day finally arrived when the chicken cabin was complete, and the only thing left to do was to fence in the yard around it with a screen to thwart the hawk. The sun was dropping toward the ridge on what looked to be the last dry day we would have for a while. I was “log tired,” but determined to finish. I heard thunder in the distance, and my fingers flew over zip ties and wire. The last thing to do was fill up the watering can and move the pullets to their new home. Peaches and I crouched by the garden hose to wash out the can. My hair tingled and lightning struck on top of us. I jumped one way and Peaches another, and we ran to the house together, where I limped inside with a torqued big toe.

Tracey laughed when I told her the story and dubbed me “Thunder Toe,” but later that evening, when the storm had passed, she helped me move the babies to their new home. There was much joy in chickenland.

So ends our tale of truth and consequences, and it occurs to me that much of what we label as unintended consequences is simply the result of the factors we fail to take into account. Think of it as a tax on our attention to detail. And when someone eventually shows up to measure the square footage under the roof of my new structure so I can pay more tribute to the common good, they will discover that it’s just shy of the maximum — because that factor, at least, I took into account.