The Time Capsule: The tale of the featherless red hen
A few weeks ago, preparing for a trip south, I received a bon voyage haircut at the exclusive shop of Villisca’s premier barber. Gary asked if I was taking the chickens. He worked in a hatchery as a boy, an experience that left him with a deeper understanding of chickens than that of most. He’d read with interest this column from a year ago, one which depicted a couple of experiences that had to do with my wife’s snowbird companions—me and three laying hens.
A memorable adventure took place at a Texas rest area. Not knowing I was being watched by an officer of the law, I opened the hatch on the pickup topper, asked the girls how the ride was going, offered them a bread crust and drink of water. A warrantless search followed.
Nothing of that nature happened this year, but Gary will be saddened to learn that a few days after arrival, disaster struck. A midnight marauder carried off one of the girls. We suspect a raccoon that was seen lurking in the area, although how he got into and out of the chain link enclosure is a mystery.
A deeper mystery is what has since taken place with the little red hen. The day after the raid, she began losing feathers. Just a few at a time to begin with, but as days passed, they fell out by the handful. I’ve seen molting. This goes beyond that. She lost first the downy feathers, then the stiffer-quill wing and tail feathers dropped. They piled up in the pen. One day a strong west wind blew a quantity across the street, causing a neighbor to fear the worst. She investigated and couldn’t believe what she saw. Red hen is bright-eyed, her comb looks healthy. She eats, drinks and clucks. She is, however, naked as a Fareway fryer.
Word spread and others came to have a look. Reactions were interesting. Women sympathized, speculated that red hen had been traumatized by that horrible night, was grieving the sudden and unexpected loss of a life-time companion, and the feather-shedding resulted. A solemnly sincere lady told me of her grandma Florence, long since gone to her reward, who had attended a circus as a sixteen-year-old girl. She was a big-top regular, having developed a crush on a daring young man on the flying trapeze. There came a fateful performance when the flight didn’t go well. Her heartthrob lost his grip, did a flip or two and splatted onto the concrete only a step away from where Florence stood. She lost her hair, so I was told, and it never grew back.
Men were less compassionate. Their consensus was that red hen would go well with noodles, and the preparation was mostly done.
I don’t know how this will turn out, but it won’t be with noodles. Red hen has traveled thousands of miles, given us hundreds of eggs and as long as she seems to feel well she has a home. And, although she’s a fright to look at, she does seem to feel well.
She will not, though, roost on her perch—instead burrowing into the feathers she’s deposited in the nest box. Florence’s granddaughter brought over a heating pad, tucked it under the feathers, and on chilly nights I plug it in.
She’s getting along all right down here, but we fear the heating pad won’t be enough when we head north.
Roy Marshall is a local historian and columnist for the Red Oak Express. He can be contacted at news@redoakexpress.com.