Coop_ A Year of Poultry, Pigs, and Parenting - Michael Perry [126]
Today my friend Buffalo came by to inspect the roof of our old granary to see if it would support a rack of solar panels. Actually, Buffalo has informed me they are photovoltaic panels, and that if we get some we will be part of the “PV community.” Buffalo installs alternative energy systems for a living, and he and his wife Lori were the first set of friends Anneliese and I met and became close with as a couple. Although I am happy to say we each get on well with the friends the other brought to the marriage, it is also nice to have “shared” friends, and it doesn’t hurt that they have two daughters roughly Amy’s age. Anneliese invited them over today under the pretense of dinner, but in addition to spec’ing the granary, I’ve bamboozled Buffalo into helping me finish off the coop. While I cut and staple insulation between the studs, Buffalo tarpapers the roof and cuts a hole for the roof vent. After he helps me install a row of plywood facing around the base to keep the chickens from eating the insulation, I bring the tractor around and we make the big move.
The tractor moves across the yard with the coop in tow. In a rare moment of foresight, we removed the windows so they wouldn’t bust in transit, and Buffalo is riding crouched in the window waving at the kids like an underweight troll, his head of curls and big black beard flopping in the wind. For my part, I keep ’er steady with the tractor, one arm raised and pointing to the distance as if I am Hannibal headed for the Alps. The three little girls dance and wave from the deck.
We pull the coop into a patch of weeds beside a chokecherry tree, the windows facing south to catch the winter sun and allow the hens a view of the valley as they squeeze out their eggs. When we head to the house for supper I notice the coop is sitting at a pretty good angle, but it looks solid there on the horizon, just like I imagined all those months ago when I was poring over schematics drafted in 1933.
In the morning I rig a fence for the meat chickens. One of them developed splay-leg a week ago. I tried taping its legs together like it said to do in the chicken book, but he didn’t get any better. He couldn’t walk, so I put him within reach of the food and water, but the other chickens stampeded over him. “That’s because chickens are small in the head,” Amy said. Over the course of several days he declined, and today I find him dead, which makes me think I should have knocked him in the noggin early out of mercy.
Three days after the move, I have to leave to participate in a literary festival, but it is only a few hours from here and the hosts have graciously offered a place for the whole family to stay, so we’re turning it into a mini-trip. We have arranged for Anneliese’s sister Kira to watch the livestock. I still haven’t quite got all the layers trained to roost in the coop instead of the pump house, so to save Kira the trouble of rounding them up at night I decide to rig a makeshift fence. While trying to finish the fence in a rush the same morning we are leaving, I manage to knock the roll of steel chicken wire over just as one of the layers is making an inquisitive pass. It’s one of those slow-motion moments where I can see the heavy roll falling and the chicken boop-a-dooping along right into its path, and sure enough even as