A new chicken coop arrived on Wednesday, pulled across the meadow and placed on the waiting slab. The chickens gathered at the edge of the fence to peer at their luxurious new digs, the fowl equivalent of a Hyatt. It's sturdy and functional, custom-built from a design inspired by the chicken coop where my husband kept a flock of hundreds in his youth. We don't have a flock of hundreds but goodness our chicken population will be happy when they move to their new coop. Just a few more tweaks and they'll be coming home to roost.
Meanwhile, I'm at home in an actual Hyatt, just blocks from the hospital where our son has been languishing for three weeks. He was released today, a week earlier than expected, an excellent indication of how well he's been responding to the bone marrow transplant. He has to remain close to the hospital for at least a couple of months, but the Air B&B he rented won't be available until next week, so we're hunkering down at the Hyatt in the interim. It's a decent room with a well-equipped kitchenette, though I was too exhausted to cook anything but canned chicken soup for supper tonight.
Yes, I'm here too. He needs a trained caregiver available at all times, so my husband and I went through required training and are now considered equipped to keep him healthy between regular visits to the hospital. But we can't both be here all the time, so we'll being doing the tag-team parenting thing again: Through the week my husband will be in Columbus while I'm at home to finish up the semester, and on weekends we'll switch places. I think the next time we'll all be together in the same house will be over Thanksgiving break.
But who will take care of the chickens through the week while the resident chicken fancier is in Columbus?
That would be me.
I don't mind gathering the eggs or tossing down some scratch grains, but I mind the old chicken run, which always makes me feel as if I'm about to fall on my face or impale my eyeball on the sharp edge of a pole. What I really mind, though, is getting down the steep hill to the coop. Walking uphill doesn't hurt (much), but downhill can be a nightmare.
Someone suggested installing a zipline. Why not? Zip on down the hill to tend to the chickens, trudge back up with eggs in hand.
Frankly, given the amount of driving I've been doing this week to complete caregiver training and then retrieve my son from the hospital, I'm looking for the day when every household comes equipped with a transporter. I would even install one in the chicken coop. Beam me up, Scotty--but make it over easy.
O give me a home says the song, but I roam
over highways, through city-snarled traffic,
to live in the Hyatt--no more country quiet--
as a dutiful health apparatchik.
Then when Sunday night comes I'll go driving back home
to a house empty of all companions--
except for the chickens, for whose needs I will quicken
my steps down the hill to their mansion.
In one home I'll be tending the chickens: unending
the need to retrieve fresh eggs daily.
In a home in Columbus I'll tend to my son, but
the stakes are quite high if I fail. We
would never have planned for a life so expand-
ed, with chickens, coops, houses, and Hyatts.
but necessity called so we promptly enrolled
in the caregiving life. (You should try it.)
Maybe not--but feel free to tell me about your unexpected adventures in living.
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| The old chicken run in the background, downhill from the new coop |
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| The house in the background, uphill from the new coop |
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