Wrapped in Wonder: A Childhood Christmas Story

I never could stand secrets. Oh, I can keep one—I’m not completely untrustworthy—but I have never handled someone keeping a secret from me with any kind of grace. As a child, Christmas wasn’t simply a holiday; it was a month-long campaign of whispers, hidden packages, and grown-ups acting like members of an elite undercover operation.

Christmas, to me, was one enormous locked diary, and everyone I knew was holding a key but me.

The real suspense started the moment the first wrapped package appeared in the back of my mother’s closet. Not under the tree—no, that would’ve been too simple. They were tucked away like contraband behind winter coats, wrapped in paper so crisp and colorful it caught your attention immediately.

I would stand there in the half-dark, feeling that familiar itch of curiosity that’s been my companion since toddlerhood. I’d stare at the pile like maybe, just maybe, I could channel Superman’s x-ray vision and peer inside.

Of course, I did what every curious child does: I shook them. But while other kids gave a polite rattle, I conducted a full-scale scientific investigation. Tilt, weigh, listen, rotate, reposition. If NASA had recruited children, I’d have been first in line.

But gifts are stubborn little creatures. They refused to surrender their mysteries. Sometimes, like people, the more you demand answers, the quieter they get.

One year, after enough suspense to age me prematurely, brilliance struck—a plan bold enough to be my undoing and clever enough to feel worth the risk. I would gently peel off the tape, open the flap, and peek inside. Then I'd rewrap it and no one would be the wiser. No shaking. No guessing. Just pure, unfiltered truth.

The first few gifts turned out to be for my brother—possibly the most anticlimactic discovery of my young life. All that work, and the universe handed me a pair of boy’s gloves, a book about cowboys I had no interest in, and a pair of socks for a kid who didn’t even appreciate clean underwear.

The betrayal was personal. But I was nothing if not determined, so I moved on to the next. Eventually, I found one for me, and that moment—the breathless anticipation, the thrill of knowing—was like striking gold. I admired it, soaked in the joy, then rewrapped it with the intense concentration of a safecracker.

And this is where childhood ingenuity really bloomed: knowing what was already purchased meant I could skillfully, strategically, and repeatedly “suggest” items that had not yet made an appearance in the closet. I’d drop hints with all the subtlety of a brick through a window.

“Gee, Mom… I sure do hope Santa remembers how much I love dolls with curly hair… Curly hair, Mom. Really curly. The curliest.”

It was a system. A fail-safe. A mutually beneficial arrangement—or so I believed.

Christmas morning, I’d perform with award-worthy theatrics. Gasps. Widened eyes. Joyful squeals. I deserved an Oscar and a cookie. I thought I was a child genius—practically a holiday prodigy. For years, I believed my own performances. My mother… did not.

The year I walked into the closet and saw that every gift was wrapped in a different pattern—one design for my brother, another for me—I knew something was wrong, and my stomach plummeted.

It didn’t take Sherlock Holmes to notice that my wrapping “repairs” were less than invisible. His gifts were pristine and perfect, looking like they’d been wrapped by the angels themselves. Mine… well… mine were slightly rumpled, the edges not quite crisp. I had been exposed.

My mother’s silence said everything. She never uttered a word. Not one syllable. She simply upgraded her security system.

The next Christmas, she taped my gifts shut like they were being shipped to a foreign country. Tape down the seams. Tape across the top. Tape around the sides. Tape around the entire box in both directions. At one point, I considered checking for a padlock. The woman had basically shrink-wrapped my Christmas.

Again—silence. No accusation. No lecture. Just a mother quietly saying, in the gentlest way possible, “I know who you are, child, and I know what you did—but I love you anyway.”

Years rolled by, and eventually I outgrew my covert operations. Not because I became patient—let’s not give me that much credit—but because I finally understood something: those moments of surprise on Christmas morning mattered. Not the gifts, not the objects themselves, but the look on someone’s face when you opened something they had picked with love.

Surprise isn’t just about the gift. It’s about the people who thought of you, spent time choosing something, pictured your face when you opened it. When you steal the secret, you steal the moment. When I already knew what was under the paper, I robbed myself of something I couldn’t put back. In knowing everything early, I had stolen a bit of that magic from myself.

When I grew up—truly grew up, not just got taller—I learned to let the packages sit, mysterious and untouched. I don’t peel tape, shake boxes, or stage covert raids on closets. Not because the temptation isn’t still there—oh, it is. Curiosity still sits beside me like the devil on my shoulder, smirking, “Come on, girl, you know you want to. It’s not duct tape after all—don’t act like you’ve suddenly developed will-power. You’ve got less resistance than a plate of Christmas cookies in a room full of grandchildren.” But I’ve learned that anticipation has its own sweetness, its own quiet shimmer.

Waiting is part of the gift.

And every Christmas morning, when I open a present without knowing what’s inside, I think of my mother—her silence, her patience, her roll of tape that could’ve held the Titanic together—and I’m grateful. Because she taught me something I was too stubborn to learn on my own: sometimes the secret isn’t the problem. Sometimes the secret is the joy.

The older I get—and having lived more Christmases behind me than I’ve got waiting ahead—the more I realize life isn’t so different from those gifts in my mother’s closet. We spend years shaking the box, wishing we could peek ahead, certain that knowing the ending will somehow make the middle easier.

But living on a farm, and having lived long enough to have seen a few seasons circle back around, teaches you something quieter: the best things take their time. Lambs, gardens, stories, Christmas mornings, or life itself… none of them show up a moment before they’re ready.

My mother never scolded me for snooping. She just wrapped a little tighter, taped a little firmer, and let me learn the truth on my own—that the waiting is part of the gift.

And now, whether I’m opening a present, writing down a memory, or walking between two fenceposts at dusk, I’ve come to trust the same simple thing:

Not every blessing introduces itself early. Some arrive gently, right on time—and sweeter for the wait.

Enjoyed this tale from the barnyard?

Don’t miss the next round of critter chaos — subscribe here or follow on Facebook.

🐑 If you liked this story, please click one of the small share buttons below instead of copy-paste—it helps folks find their way back here for more tales from the farm.🐓

©2025 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm

Hula Hoop Champion: How a Parking Lot Contest Taught Me to Keep Life Spinning

Life was simple when I was a kid. We didn't have internet or social media, but we made our own fun. We played marbles, jump rope, and kick the can until the streetlights came on. We thought hula hoops were Olympic equipment. 

I was a skinny kid back then with hip bones that could’ve doubled as coat hooks — which turned out to be perfect for keeping a hoop in orbit. My friends and I stood in the driveway, hoops spinning (or trying to) while the dog barked encouragement and Mom yelled not to hit the car. Every time mine made one full rotation, I declared victory like I’d just broken a world record.

Grace wasn’t our strong suit. We were all elbows and attitude, hoops clattering to the ground like cymbals in a middle-school band. But we laughed ourselves silly and picked them up again. Nobody told us it was exercise—we just knew it was summer, and we were unstoppable… for about twelve seconds at a time.

As with anything, practice improved my skills. I spun that thing for hours on end—up, down, knees, shoulders, reverse, repeat. I was convinced I was destined for greatness—specifically, hula-hoop greatness. By the end of summer, I was less a child and more a finely tuned hooping machine.

Then came the moment every legend waits for: an ad in the Manchester Union Leader announcing a hula-hoop contest in the J.M. Fields parking lot. Now, if you weren’t around in the 1950s, J.M. Fields was where destiny went to buy discount socks—a department-store empire with all the glamour of a fluorescent light bulb. But to me, that Saturday, it might as well have been Madison Square Garden.

I could hardly sleep the night before. My mind was spinning faster than a hoop itself. In my ten-year-old brain, this wasn’t just a parking-lot contest—it was the first step in a dazzling career. I pictured myself crowned as the Grand National Hula Hoop Champion, my name in glittering lights in Times Square: “The Girl Who Defied Gravity!” Maybe there’d be a parade, a key to the city, or even a handshake from the President. Reporters would clamor for interviews, toy companies would beg for endorsements, and I’d humbly say things like, “I just want to thank my hips.” By morning, I was practically famous—at least in my own imagination.

The next morning, armed with my trusty hoop and a level of confidence usually reserved for astronauts, I arrived to find what looked like every child in New England. The parking lot was wall-to-wall kids—rows of bony knees, saddle shoes, and neon plastic rings.

A man with a loudspeaker stood on the back of a flatbed truck, barking orders like we were troops heading into combat. “Hoops up! Hands ready! On my mark!” Mothers waved from the sidelines, dads fiddled with cameras the size of toasters, and the air smelled like asphalt, popcorn, and Coppertone—that unmistakable summer perfume of ambition and second-degree sunburns. I took my place in the front row, gave my hoop one last respectful glance, and waited for the signal.

“Go!”

Hundreds of hoops went up at once, flashing in the sunlight like synchronized satellites. Within seconds, chaos reigned. Hoops hit the pavement, kids groaned, tears were shed, and parents shouted conflicting advice from the sidelines. It was survival of the spinniest.

I stayed focused, channeling the hours of backyard training that had made me the terror of my neighborhood. I wasn’t just spinning plastic—I was defending honor. My strategy was flawlessly executed: I kept away from the chaos. I drifted toward the edge of the crowd, where no rogue elbow or flying hoop could take me down.

One by one, the contenders fell. Some got tired. Some lost rhythm. Some, clearly amateurs, forgot which direction to spin. By the ten-minute mark, the battlefield was alive with the unmistakable clatter of defeat—hoops hitting asphalt with a hollow clack-clack-clack, spinning in sad little circles before wobbling to a stop around the fallen hero’s ankles.

Then came the voice from the heavens—or, more accurately, the tiny loudspeaker bolted to the back of a flatbed truck: “We’re down to ten contestants! Nine! Eight!” it blared, the announcer’s voice cracking with patriotic urgency, as though the fate of democracy itself depended on who could keep a hoop spinning the longest.

Parents gasped. Toddlers wailed. Somewhere in the crowd, a man dropped his snow cone in suspense. The tension was thick enough to bounce a hoop off of.

And then there were two.

Her and me.

The crowd drew in close, the sea of faces blurring into a single collective gasp. The announcer’s voice boomed through the loudspeaker, trembling with importance. “Ladies and gentlemen, it all comes down to this!”

She was about my age, maybe a little taller, with a determined squint that said she’d been training for this moment her whole life. Our eyes locked in battle, two warriors bound by destiny and poor fashion choices. Around us, the parking lot shimmered in the heat—a coliseum of cracked pavement and gum wrappers.

Somewhere in the distance, a car horn honked. Somewhere else, a baby cried—the soundtrack of destiny. The crowd murmured in awe, sensing history was being written between the Garden Center and Automotive Repair.

She began to edge closer, using the oldest trick in the book—the bump. One false move and my hoop would spiral out of orbit. I countered by shifting just beyond reach, my hoop spinning strong, defiant, loyal to the end.

The announcer’s voice dropped to a dramatic whisper. “Two remain... only one will stand!”

That’s when instinct took over. I stepped forward, gave her hoop the gentlest tap, and retreated like a general executing a flawless maneuver. For one glorious second, we were mirror images of grace and panic—her hoop wobbling wildly, mine threatening mutiny. The crowd gasped, the sun flared, and time itself held its breath.

Then—victory. Her hoop clattered to the pavement in defeat while mine recovered, steady and triumphant, the last survivor in a field of fallen heroes.

The announcer raised his arms in triumph. “We have a winner!” he bellowed, as if announcing the end of World War III. The crowd erupted in polite suburban applause, the kind that says, Well, good for her, but also what time is lunch?

I had done it. I was the undisputed Hula Hoop Champion of J.M. Fields, Manchester, New Hampshire—conqueror of all who dared spin against me.

I don’t even remember what the prize was. Probably a new hula hoop. Maybe a gift certificate worth seventy-five cents. But it didn’t matter. For one shining afternoon, I was somebody. My name wasn’t in lights, but if you squinted hard enough, you could imagine it reflecting off the chrome bumpers in that parking lot.

I went home that day taller—not physically (I was still ten, after all), but in the way kids get when they’ve stared down destiny and won. My reign as champion didn’t last long; life moves on, and new fads come faster than dandelions in June. But that day taught me something about grit, balance, and knowing when to bump back.

It taught me that sometimes life’s biggest lessons come with the smallest trophies. It was never really about winning a hula hoop contest in a parking lot—it was about learning how to stay steady when things start to wobble. Every so often, I can still feel that hula hoop circling my waist—though I'm not nearly as skinny as I was back then, and I really have to search to find those hip bones. The hoop isn't plastic anymore, but life itself, daring me to stay balanced, focused, and just a little playful. And maybe that’s the real secret—not to keep it spinning perfectly, but to just keep spinning any way I can.

And whenever I see a kid twirling a hoop in a driveway, I can still hear the hum of plastic in the air, smell the asphalt, and feel the pulse of the crowd in that J.M. Fields parking lot—the day the world, for one ten-year-old girl, stood still.

Enjoyed this tale from the barnyard?
Don’t miss the next round of critter chaos — subscribe here or follow on Facebook.

🐑 If you liked this story, please click one of the small share buttons below instead of copy-paste—it helps folks find their way back here for more tales from the farm.🐓

©2025 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm

Family Reunion: Love, Laughter, and a Worn-Out Livestock Guardian Dog

There are few things that make your heart as full as hearing, “Everyone’s coming to visit!”

This weekend, they did—Jim’s kids, one of the kid-in-laws, all but two of his grandkids, including a friend of one of them (who's taking the picture), and even one of my kids. It’s been years since he’s had all four of his kids in the same place at the same time, and seeing them all together again was something special. The laughter, the catching up, the stories that got retold for the hundredth time—it felt like time folded in on itself and gave us a few golden days to remember what really matters.

We had a full house—emphasis on full. Every chair had someone in it, every flat surface had something on it, and the air was full of conversation and the kind of easy noise that only family makes. I couldn’t believe how many times we ran a full load in the dishwasher, but somehow even that felt cheerful—like the sound of a house doing what it was built for.

The grandkids spent half the time outside playing with Gus, our livestock guardian dog. He’s half Akbash and half Spanish Mastiff—built for endurance, strength, and protecting his herd from just about anything. But even Gus met his match. The kids tore through the pasture, shrieking and laughing, with Gus happily chasing them at full speed. After a while, he slowed to a trot, then a walk, and finally stretched out in the grass with a grin that said, "Okay, kids. You win." It takes a rare kind of energy to wear out an LGD, but the grandkids managed it.

But oh, it was worth it. The laughter, the stories, the kids running circles around the adults—it all felt like life turned up to full volume. Jim’s grin said everything. There’s a certain kind of peace that comes from seeing your family together, under one roof, even if you can’t hear yourself think while it’s happening.

Most of them arrived Saturday morning and were gone by Sunday night, with the rest slipping out in the wee hours of Monday morning. It went by far too fast. One minute the house was alive with chatter and laughter, and the next it was still and quiet again.

When I got up Monday morning, well after the last car pulled away, I paused for a moment taking it all in—the echo of voices, the faint trail of muddy footprints across the floor. And all I could think was how lucky we are to have people who fill our home, our hearts, and occasionally our dishwasher, to the brim.

Family may be loud, messy, and impossible to keep under one roof for long, but they’re also the heartbeat of home. And for one weekend, our house had a very strong pulse.

Enjoyed this tale from the barnyard?
Don’t miss the next round of critter chaos — subscribe here or follow on Facebook.

🐑 If this story made you smile, please click one of the gray share buttons below instead of copy-paste—it helps folks find their way back here for more tales from the farm.🐓

©2025 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm

Sheep on the Job: My Unqualified Construction Crew

Some people spend their weekends doing home improvement projects. I, apparently, spend mine proving Darwin was an optimist.

This week’s plan was simple: take down the old chicken coop before gravity does it for me. Easy, right? Just me, a hammer, a few stubborn nails—and, as it turns out, two very involved ewes who think they’re essential personnel.

Meet the “Crew”

If you’ve never worked with Katahdin sheep, imagine toddlers in fleece pajamas who eat everything and have zero respect for personal space. My first volunteer was Ba-a-arbra, named after Barbara Walters, because she’s forever giving me that “hard-hitting-interview” stare like she’s about to ask, “So, Sandy… how long have you been making questionable decisions with power tools?”

Her sidekick was Lambchops, named by the son of a friend. She lives up to the name—sweet, cheerful, and about as useful as a screen door on a submarine.

They trotted over from the far end of their pasture like the construction crew had arrived—no hard hats, no clue, but an unshakable belief that they were essential personnel.

Tools, Troubles, and Terrible Advice

No matter where I set my hammer, one of them had to sniff it, lick it, or decide if it was food.
I turned to pick up a board and nearly tripped over Ba-a-arbra, who’d stationed herself directly in my path. She gave me that calm, investigative look—the kind that says, “Tonight at six: local woman defies logic, attacks leaning structure, film at eleven.”

Then came the moment that tested both my patience and my vocabulary. I tossed a board toward the burn pile—right as Lambchops wandered into the drop zone.

“Look out!” I yelled.

She stopped, blinked, and stared at me—curiosity in her eyes, salad between her ears.

“For that board I just threw!” I said, pointing.

She blinked again. “Maybe you shouldn’t throw boards where sheep are going to stand,” she said.

“You weren’t standing there when I threw it!”

Before I could finish, Ba-a-arbra chimed in, perfectly calm. “Technically, she’s not wrong. Also, you failed to post safety signage.”

“Signage? You’re sheep!”

“Ignorance of the law is no excuse,” she replied, slowly chewing her cud and clearly confident she was winning the case.

Meanwhile, Gus, my livestock guardian dog, cracked one eye open from the shade, sighed so deeply it rustled the grass, and mumbled, “Union break.” Then he rolled over and went back to snoring for his 16th nap of the day.

Progress… If You Can Call It That

An hour later, the coop was half down, I was half done, and the sheep were half asleep—though still managing to supervise. Ba-a-arbra had taken up the role of foreman, standing three feet away and offering unsolicited feedback.

“You might get more done if you used two hands,” she said — which was rich, considering I already was. It’s not like I was out there dismantling a coop one-handed while sipping cocoa.

“Thanks,” I grunted, “I’ll jot that down in the ‘helpful tips from livestock’ file.”

Lambchops kept pacing beside me, asking, “You need help with that?”

“No.”

“Sure? I can hold the other end with my teeth.”

“Positive.”

“Okay, but if something falls, that’s on you.”

Ba-a-arbra sighed. “Enthusiasm over skill. It’s a hiring issue.”

I finally said, “You know what? I don’t need a construction crew—I need a referee.”

“We could do that,” said Ba-a-arbra. “But we’d need whistles and snacks.”

Of course.

The Break Room

When I finally stopped for water, they gathered around like we were having a staff meeting.
Lambchops grazed near my boots; Ba-a-arbra stood like she was about to deliver a quarterly earnings report; Gus didn’t move, but one paw twitched, which I took as his vote to adjourn early.

“Well,” I said, “we didn’t finish the job, but nobody got hurt, and Gus managed to supervise the entire operation without opening both eyes. Good enough for me.”

“We could’ve finished if you’d delegated better,” said Ba-a-arbra.

“Or snacks,” added Lambchops. “Morale’s low without snacks.”

“You two are about as helpful as a pogo stick in mud season,” I told them.

“Maybe,” said Ba-a-arbra, “but we’re cuter and smell better than those chickens you work with sometimes.”

Hard to argue with that.

End of Shift Notes

Half the job’s done, half the crew’s asleep, and I’m half sure I’ll regret this tomorrow.

Enjoyed this tale from the barnyard?
Don’t miss the next round of critter chaos — subscribe here or follow on Facebook.

🐑 If this story made you smile, please click one of the gray share buttons below instead of copy-paste—it helps folks find their way back here for more tales from the farm.🐓

©2025 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm

Raising Chickens 101: Fresh Eggs, Farm Fun, and the Fine Print Nobody Tells You

Chicken keeping: come for the eggs, stay for the chaos.

So, you’re thinking about raising chickens—fresh eggs every morning, a peaceful little flock in the backyard, maybe even that Pinterest-perfect coop. Sounds idyllic, doesn’t it? Well, buckle up. Chicken keeping is part farming, part babysitting, and part stand-up comedy. You’ll get eggs, sure—but you’ll also get drama, chaos, and more “what on earth are they doing now?” moments than you ever thought possible.

When people tell me, “I’d love to have chickens!” I just smile and nod. Because if I told them the whole truth, they’d either run for the hills or hand me a sympathy casserole.

So, let’s walk through Chickens 101—taught with equal parts practical wisdom and sarcasm (because honestly, sarcasm is a survival tool when you live with poultry).

Before You Even Buy Chicks…

Hold your horses (or hens). Before you come home from Tractor Supply with a box of peeping fluff, check your local zoning regulations. Some towns limit the number of chickens you can have, some don’t allow roosters, and a few don’t allow chickens at all.

It’s better to find this out now than after you’ve built a coop, named all your hens, and discovered the town ordinance officer isn’t nearly as charmed by chicken math as you are.

Choosing a Breed (or, Why It’s Hard to Stop at Just One)

There are more chicken breeds than coffee flavors at a fancy café, and each one has its own personality. Some are calm and friendly, some are flighty drama queens, and some act like they’re plotting a Hollywood-style escape.

If you want reliable egg production, go for Rhode Island Reds, Golden Comets, or Leghorns—the overachievers of the chicken world. Buff Orpingtons are big, gentle types (think golden retrievers with feathers). Barred Rocks are steady gals who handle cold like true New Englanders.

Breeds vary in weather tolerance. Chickens with small combs and heavy feathering—Australorps, Orpingtons, Wyandottes—handle cold well. Lightweights like Leghorns and Andalusians prefer warm climates and pout all winter if their toes get chilly. Before ordering that mixed batch, make sure your birds will actually enjoy your weather.

And if you’re anything like me, you’ll start out wanting “just a few hens” and end up with a flock that looks like a feathered rainbow. Because once you discover all the colors, sizes, and personalities chickens come in, you’ll convince yourself you need “just one more.” That’s how chicken math starts—and friend, it’s a slippery slope.

The Coop—Chicken Hilton or Poultry Prison?

Step one in chicken keeping is housing. Chickens need a safe place to sleep, lay eggs, and plan their next great escape. You can spend thousands on a Pinterest-worthy “she-shed” coop, or hammer something together out of scrap lumber and prayers. Either way, the chickens don’t care.

Here’s the rule of thumb: if you think it’s secure, a raccoon thinks it’s a puzzle box. I’ve seen raccoons break into coops with the persistence of jewel thieves. Ventilation is a must—but don’t confuse that with turning the coop into a wind tunnel, or you’ll have feathered popsicles.

Size matters. Plan for 3–5 square feet of coop space per bird, plus 10 square feet per bird in an outdoor run. Cramming too many chickens in a small space leads to fights, filth, and a smell strong enough to knock you off your boots.

Don’t forget the furniture:

• Roosts for sleeping (yes, chickens like bunk beds).

• Nest boxes for egg-laying (about one for every 3–4 hens; but they’ll still all share one).

• Bedding like pine shavings. Clean weekly, or use the deep bedding method—just keep layering until it becomes compost.

Imagine the coop as Airbnb. If hens could leave a review, it would read:
“Bedding was scratchy, breakfast was late, and the host screamed when I pooped on the porch. Three stars.”

The Feed—Doritos, Bugs, and… Styrofoam?

Chickens technically need balanced feed—starter for chicks, layer pellets for hens—but don’t let that fool you into thinking they’re dignified eaters. They’ll chase bugs like Olympians, mow down grass like lawn equipment, and ignore their gourmet grain to peck at Styrofoam. Yes, Styrofoam! Cooler lids, packing peanuts, insulation scraps—it’s the forbidden fruit of the poultry world.

Only a chicken brain can explain why. Honestly, they’re toddlers with feathers—if it fits in the beak, it’s going in the mouth.

Along with feed, they need calcium (like crushed oyster shells) for strong shells, grit if they don’t have access to dirt or sand, and fresh water daily. A thirsty hen is an unhappy hen—and unhappy hens don’t lay.

Chicks—The Baby Stage Nobody Warns You About

When you first buy chicks, they don’t come with an instruction manual—just endless peeping, curiosity, and a desperate need for warmth. A chick without heat is basically a feather duster with bad odds.

I start them in a large Tupperware tub on my diving room table (doesn’t everyone have chickens in their house?) with a heat lamp. Watch the temperature: too cold and they huddle under it; too hot and they scatter like popcorn. Aim for the chick Goldilocks zone—comfy, curious, and not plotting your demise.

Pro tip: be ready for dust, smell, and more noise than you thought possible from creatures that weigh less than a candy bar. You’ll swear you’re raising a tiny marching band in your living room.

Eggs—Nature’s Surprise Package

Yes, you’ll get eggs—beautiful ones in white, brown, blue, and green. Dr. Seuss was right. But don’t expect consistency. Chickens lay when they feel like it, and when they don’t, you’re out of luck.

Sometimes they lay neatly in the nest box. Other times, it’s a daily Easter egg hunt. I’ve found eggs under the lawn mower, in a pile of hay, and once inside my toolbox. Don’t ask.

Collect only the ones you’re sure are fresh—or risk discovering the dreaded “egg grenade,” a forgotten egg gone bad. One wrong move and boom—sulfur stench so strong FEMA should be called. Nothing says “romantic farm life” like explaining to your significant other why you smell like a swamp monster.

Predator Protection—Building Fort Knox for Chickens

If you’re raising chickens, you’re basically opening a diner called All-You-Can-Eat Buffet for every predator within five miles. Coyotes, foxes, raccoons, weasels, owls, hawks, even the neighbor’s dog—they all think your coop means free takeout.

So how do you keep your flock safe? Think like a criminal. If you can break into your coop with one finger and a sneeze, so can a raccoon.

• Coop: Use hardware cloth, not chicken wire. Chicken wire keeps chickens in but doesn’t keep predators out—raccoons rip through it like tissue paper. Add predator-proof latches, because raccoons have hands so nimble they can untwist, unlatch, and unhinge just about anything short of a padlock.

• Fencing for the run: Coyotes dig, hawks drop in. Bury wire at the base and cover the top with netting. Electric poultry fencing adds extra motivation to stay away—one zap and most predators decide dinner elsewhere sounds like a better idea.

• Night Routine: Chickens put themselves to bed at dusk. Your only job is to lock the door. Skip that step, and you’ve just set out a midnight snack.

• Guardian Dogs: Great Pyrenees, Anatolians, Maremmas—these dogs take predator patrol seriously. Mine bark if anything breathes wrong within two miles.

• Human Patrol: At some point, you’ll find yourself sprinting across the yard in pajamas, waving a rake, yelling, “Not today, you mangy thief!” Forget the gym. That’s cardio and strength training all in one.

Predator protection isn’t about perfection—it’s about convincing predators to look elsewhere for dinner.

Personalities—More Drama Than Daytime TV

Nobody warns you about this part: chickens have personalities. Some are sweet, some bossy, and some just plain weird. They live by a pecking order—basically middle school with feathers. There are popular hens, outcasts, and bullies.

And then there are the roosters. Here’s the truth: hens lay eggs just fine without one. But a good rooster earns his keep by breaking up squabbles and sounding the alarm at danger.

The catch? The best protectors are often the meanest. They’ll strut like they own the place, flog your leg if you walk too close, and give you that “you dare enter my kingdom?” look. There’s a fine line between guardian and feathered tyrant.

Ever been stared down by a seven-pound rooster who thinks he’s Godzilla? Suddenly you realize Jurassic Park wasn’t fiction—it was a documentary.

The Unsolvable Mystery—Chickens Just… Die

Here’s the part no one likes to talk about: sometimes chickens keel over for no reason. One minute they’re scratching happily, the next—well, you’re digging a hole behind the barn.

Sometimes it’s illness or predators. Other times, they just decide to clock out early. Chickens have a knack for dying dramatically, often for reasons that defy science, logic, and decency.

You’ll do everything right, and still—poof. Flat chicken. The best you can do is keep them fed, watered, and safe, and accept that sometimes you’ll lose one anyway. It’s not you. It’s just… chickens.

Chicken Math—The Principle You Can’t Escape

Here’s the last great truth: no one ever just owns “a few” chickens. It starts with three hens for eggs. Then you discover the feed store has a six-chick minimum. Then you spot the blue-egg layers. Then someone offers you a “rare breed you just have to try.”

Before you know it, you’ve got 47 birds, two coops, and an incubator you swore you’d never buy.

I should know.

One spring I walked into Tractor Supply for feed. Just feed. That was the plan. But then I heard the cheerful cheep-cheep from the tubs of chicks under heat lamps. Ten minutes later, I was in the parking lot with a fifty-pound bag of starter and a cardboard box of chicks, wondering how I’d explain it to Jim.

He spotted the box and gave me that look—the one that says, “You said feed, but that doesn’t look like feed.” “Let me guess,” he said. “How much did the free chicken cost us?” “Oh, you know,” I told him. “About six others.”

That’s chicken math. You start with a few hens, add “just a couple more,” then try a new breed because the catalog shows turquoise eggs. Before long, you’re not a casual chicken keeper—you’re running a small hatchery.

(Truth now: I turned my chicken obsession into a business and ended up with 400 layers. Yes, you read that right—four hundred.)

Chicken math isn’t really math—it’s sorcery. Chicks materialize out of nowhere, and every new addition makes perfect sense in the moment. The only thing multiplying faster than your chickens is the number of excuses you come up with to justify them.

The Wrap-Up—Why Raise Chickens at All?

So why go through all the work of raising chickens? Because they’re worth it. Backyard chickens give you fresh eggs, natural fertilizer, endless entertainment, and more stories than you’ll ever fit into polite conversation.

You don’t raise chickens to get rich—you do it for the laughter, the lessons, and the daily reminder that life on a farm is never boring. They’re funnier than cable, cheaper than therapy, and they add more joy (and manure) to your days than you’d believe.

And if you’re wondering what this adventure really costs, just ask Jim. He’ll tell you: “About six chickens more than whatever Sandy said we were getting.”

(Although, in fairness, I did stop at six once… and then went right past it to 400. But who’s counting? Oh right—Jim is.)

Enjoyed this tale from the barnyard?
Don’t miss the next round of critter chaos — subscribe here or follow on Facebook.

🐑 If this story made you smile, please click one of the gray share buttons below instead of copy-paste—it helps folks find their way back here for more tales from the farm.🐓

©2025 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm

Eau de Cow: The Fragrance That Lingers

When a Cow Rode in My VW Station Wagon – A Funny Farm Story.

Back in the late 1960s and early 1970s, homesteading was starting to gain traction among the counter-culture crowd. The “back-to-the-land” movement was in full swing—people were ditching city apartments for chicken coops, high heels for barefoot gardening, and TV dinners for home-baked bread. Some were chasing purity, some were chasing freedom, and some of us were just chasing the idea that having our own cow sounded like a good idea.

So, I decided to buy one. My very first. A three-day-old Holstein calf weighing about 100 pounds already—basically a toddler with hooves. She came from excellent milking lines. In fact, her mother was so well-endowed that special precautions had to be taken in the milking stanchion just to keep her from stepping on her own udder. Imagine needing a wide-load sign for your mammary equipment.

Since I didn’t own a truck or trailer, the only option was my orange VW Squareback station wagon. Not exactly designed with livestock in mind, but I figured with a little farm ingenuity, it would do. The backseat folded down so the entire rear was one big open compartment—perfect for camping gear, groceries, or, apparently, livestock transport. And being caught up in the hippy culture of the time (minus the drugs which I never did have the desire to try; they just never seemed like a good idea), I had painted big, bright flowers all over the sides of the wagon. Tie-dyed shirts, sandals, and love beads were my uniform, so the whole setup looked like it had rolled straight out of Haight-Ashbury—except instead of guitars and incense, it was about to be cow legs and chaos.

At the seller’s farm, I told the friend who was with me, “Hog-tie her and load her in.” Simple enough. Best laid plans, right?

We weren’t halfway home when she Houdini’d her way out of the ropes, stood up in the back, and let loose. And not just any loose—scours. For those who aren’t familiar, that’s explosive, bright-yellow, bacterial diarrhea. The kind of smell that hit your sinuses like tear gas at a protest rally—sudden, burning, and unforgettable.

The sound alone was unforgettable—something between a fire hose and a custard pie fight. When we rounded a corner, she slipped in her own mess and smeared it across her hips, then stood back up and thoughtfully redecorated the floor, the side panels, and both windows. With no seatbacks or compartments to contain the chaos, every shuffle spread it farther. By the time we’d gone another mile, the VW looked like Picasso had taken up finger-painting with mustard.

We had to open the windows halfway—our only hope for oxygen—so now the stench was rolling out into traffic like a hog barn on a hot July afternoon.

Apparently, she didn’t like the smell either, because she stuck her head out the window like a Golden Retriever on a Sunday drive. And that’s when the real show began.

A businessman in a gray flannel suit slowed his Chevy, rubbed his eyes, and looked like he was ready to call his optometrist. His wife smacked his arm hard enough to spill cigarette ashes down his tie. A group of teenagers in a rusty pickup leaned halfway out their windows, flashing peace signs and shouting like we were headlining the livestock stage at Woodstock. A prim woman in a Rambler gasped, covered her child’s eyes, and gunned it as though she’d just witnessed the fall of Western civilization. A trucker laid on his air horn, then laughed so hard I thought he’d topple right out of the cab. And a poor motorcyclist nearly wobbled into the ditch trying to process what he was seeing: a Holstein calf, smeared in mustard-yellow, grinning out the window of a bright orange flower-power Volkswagen. Try explaining that to your insurance agent.

Meanwhile, there I was at the wheel—tie-dyed shirt, sandals, and love beads clattering against the steering wheel—looking like the poster child for peace and love. The outside said “flower power,” the inside said “toxic spill site,” and the calf said “moo.”

We finally rattled into the driveway, eyes watering and gag reflexes exhausted. The calf got unloaded, medicated, and settled in, while the VW sat steaming in the sun, radiating enough odor to make the local skunks pack up and move.

Now came the cleanup. The VW had the engine in the back, which meant if we just blasted it with the hose, we’d risk frying the motor. So, we parked it nose-up on the hill, stripped out everything that wasn’t bolted down, and covered the engine with plastic like we were prepping it for open-heart surgery. Then came the power washer.

Picture this: two people armed with rubber gloves, boots, and expressions usually reserved for crime-scene investigators. Spray. Soap. Scrub. Gag. Repeat. The runoff looked like something a Civil Defense crew should’ve handled. I half-expected the neighbors to roll up in gas masks left over from air-raid drills or Walter Cronkite to break in with a “special report.”

By the end, the VW looked cleaner, but the smell? Let’s just say it never again passed as “family friendly.” I had to hang so many cardboard pine trees from the rearview mirror that the dashboard looked like a lumberjack’s Christmas tree lot. Even then, it smelled less like “pine fresh” and more like a porta-potty at Woodstock.

Our clothes? Straight to the burn pile.
The car? Forever carried the faint whiff of barnyard regret.
The calf? Worth every stinking second.
The friendship of the guy who rode with me? Still intact—but let’s just say he never wanted to take another road trip in my car again.

And because her mother was so generously built, I named the calf Francine—after Francine Gottfried, the young secretary who caused gridlock on Wall Street in September 1968 when throngs of men abandoned their desks just to watch her daily commute. Newspapers called her “Wall Street’s Sweater Girl.”

My calf didn’t own a sweater, but believe me—she had the same, uh, “qualifications.”

And much like her namesake, Francine left a mark that nobody forgot—though in my case, it was baked into every crevasse of the car, right down to the ventilation system that puffed Eau de Cow every time you turned on the fan.

Enjoyed this tale from the barnyard?
Don’t miss the next round of critter chaos — subscribe here or follow on Facebook.

🐑 If this story made you smile, please click one of the gray share buttons below instead of copy-paste—it helps folks find their way back here for more tales from the farm.🐓

©2025 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm

Chicken Math: The Hilarious Farm Phenomenon Every Chicken Keeper Knows

If you’ve never heard of chicken math, let me explain.

It’s a highly contagious condition that strikes without warning, usually in the poultry aisle of your local feed store. It begins with pure intentions—you just stopped in for dog food—and ends with you Googling “best backyard goat breeds” at 1 a.m., your debit card still warm from the hardware store.

It starts simple. You spot the bins of fuzzy chicks under their glowing red lamps. They’re peeping softly, looking at you with their tiny dinosaur eyes, and you think, “Well. . . maybe just one.”

The salesperson, who has seen this tragedy play out countless times, leans in and whispers:
“One chick will get lonely. Better get a few so they can keep each other company.”

You nod sagely, like you’re making a calculated, responsible decision.

Tally: 5 chicks @ $4.50 each = $22.50 (cheaper than therapy. . . for now)

Then your daughter—who was “just along for the ride”—points out three more that are “the cutest thing I've ever seen in my whole life.” You sigh and agree.

Tally: 8 chicks = $36.00 (because we can’t break her little heart. . . or resist those fluff butts)

But eight doesn't feel like a good number. Ten is good. Ten is civilized. Ten says, “I’m in control here.”

Tally: 10 chicks = $45.00 (famous last words)

While still at the feed store register, you grab:

--50 lb bag of chick starter feed: $22.00 (tiny chickens eat tiny food. . . and a shocking amount of it)

--Feeder & waterer set: $18.00 (because apparently they can’t just use a salad bowl)

--Heat lamp with bulb: $25.00 (aka the Chicken Spa Deluxe Package)

--Pine shavings: $7.00 (chicken toilet paper)

Cashier: “$117.00.” (not including the dog food, which you almost forgot to buy)

You: “That’s not so bad.”

Future you: Filing for bankruptcy in the poultry aisle.

You have no idea where you're going to put them. But on the way home, you remember the old shed in the yard. With a little work, it could be a coop. You picture a Pinterest-worthy space where hens roam gracefully and you gather eggs in a wicker basket like a wholesome farm goddess.

Then you hit the hardware store for:

--Lumber, hinges, screws: $140.00 (building Fort Knox for birds)

--Hardware cloth: $60.00 (ordinary chicken wire is basically predator gift wrap)

--Drill bits you “might as well” get: $15.00 (because tools are investments, right?)

Running Cost: $332.00

You set up your brooder in a old Rubbermaid tote on the dining table. The chicks are cheeping, the kids are glued to the action, and you’re feeling accomplished. Then you Google “how to care for baby chicks” and realize you forgot:

--Chick grit: $6.00 (gravel. . . yes, we are buying gravel)

--Electrolytes & probiotics: $12.00 (chicken Gatorade)

--Brooder thermometer: $9.00 (because “feels warm enough” isn’t science)

--Poultry netting: $35.00 (for keeping chickens in, not predators out)

--Bigger feeder & waterer: $28.00 (because your tiny chickens will become feathered linebackers in two weeks)

Running Cost: $422.00

-------------------------------------------------------------

Weeks 1 and 2

Everyone is in love with the chicks. You’ve started naming them after Golden Girls and country singers.

The smell? Manageable, if you keep the windows open.
The fine white dust coating your coffee cup, laptop, and houseplants? Concerning.

Week 3

The chicks are bigger. Louder. And they’ve discovered altitude. One perches on the tote edge. Another sprints across the table like it’s late for a job interview.

Meanwhile, coop repairs continue:

--More hardware cloth: $40.00 (because raccoons have tiny hands and big dreams)

--Predator-proof latch set: $18.00 (because raccoons also know how to use doorknobs, apparently)

Running Cost: $480.00

Week 4

The coop is technically ready. You move them outside, and not a day too soon. Victory! Fresh air! No more chicken dust in your coffee, for now!

Two days later, you go to the feed store for bedding and come home with:

--6 more chicks @ $5 each: $30.00 (different breed. . . totally justified)

--Second heat lamp: $25.00 (you’re running a chain of chicken spas now)

--Another feeder & waterer: $18.00 (because chicken etiquette says sharing is impossible)

Running Cost: $553.00

The Gateway Effect

This is how it begins. First chickens, then “maybe a couple of goats.” You start researching goat-proof fencing, which doesn’t exist, but it’s cute that you think it might. They do, however, have “no climb” fencing.

Pinterest boards now include:

--Chicken Coop Ideas

--Goat Barn Plans

--Alpaca Sweater Patterns (don’t ask why)

Then one morning, you open the nest box and see it: your first egg. Perfect. Warm. Your precious. You carry it inside like it’s the Hope Diamond, set it gently on the counter, and do the math:

That first egg cost you $553.00! But so worth it.

Epilogue

One year later:

--Feed for a year: $320.00 (because chickens eat like they’re training for the Olympics)

--Bedding for a year: $84.00 (coop janitorial supplies)

--Egg cartons: $25.00 (so you can look like you’re “making money” when you give away eggs)

--Replacement heat lamp bulb: $8.00 (because apparently they explode for fun)

--Emergency chicken items: $60.00 (a mix of vet bills, treatment for mites, and buyer’s remorse)

Final Running Cost: $1,050.00

And here’s where future costs start to sneak in:

--Bigger coop: $1,500.00 (they need more room)

--Electric poultry netting: $350.00 (predator protection)

--Chicken swing: $45.00 (happy hens lay more eggs, and you wanted to see a chicken on a swing)

--Heated waterers: $120.00 (I’m so not breaking ice at 6 a.m.)

--Goat starter kit (2 goats, fencing, shelter): $1,800.00 (it’s free lawn care!)

--Goat vet bills: $250.00 (preventative care)

--New barn: $8,000.00 (property value improvement!)

--Farm truck upgrade: $15,000.00 (we need it for hay)

--Therapy after goat purchase: $600.00 (cheaper than divorce)

--Second freezer for “extra roosters”: $350.00 (we’ll eat well all winter)

Projected Grand Total: $ 29,065.00 and counting.

At 1:07 a.m., you’re at the kitchen table, sipping coffee from your “#1 Egg Dealer” mug, Googling “DIY barn expansion,” and wondering how it all started.

Dog food. It all started with dog food.

And that, dear friends, explains “chicken math.”

Enjoyed this tale from the barnyard?
Don’t miss the next round of critter chaos — subscribe here or follow on Facebook.

🐑 If this story made you smile, please click one of the gray share buttons below instead of copy-paste—it helps folks find their way back here for more tales from the farm.🐓

©2025 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm