why did the chicken cross the road?
Don't know… Don't care…
What I do know is that it probably wasn't in Vermont. The chickens I see around Vermont don't seem particularly interested in crossing roads. Most of them are busy wandering around front yards, pecking at the ground, chasing bugs, and generally conducting whatever important chicken business occupies their day.
I can only assume they head back to their coop in the evenings, much like mine do. Of course, my chickens have it pretty easy. They live on a large property where traffic is practically nonexistent. The greatest dangers they face are my kids ripping around in their electric Power Wheels, me pretending I'm running the Baja 1000 every time I climb into the side-by-side, and my wife on the zero-turn mower conducting her annual campaign against my carefully placed landscape lights.
The chickens have somehow survived all of it. In fact, they seem less concerned about us than we are about them. Most of the day they're busy doing what chickens have done for thousands of years: scratching, pecking, dust bathing, arguing with one another, and hunting.
And make no mistake, chickens are hunters. People like to think of them as fluffy little farm animals, but spend enough time watching a flock and you'll realize they're basically miniature dinosaurs. Tiny feathered velociraptors patrolling the yard in search of insects, worms, and anything else unfortunate enough to cross their path. Here in Vermont, that includes ticks. For that service alone, they deserve our gratitude. Our cats certainly seem appreciative. Every tick a chicken eats is one less tick hitchhiking through the yard looking for its next victim.
The chickens work for free. Well, mostly free. They demand mealworms from time to time. As compensation goes, it's reasonable. One of the things I love about Vermont is that chickens aren't hidden away behind barns or fences. They're often right there in the front yard, greeting the world as if they own the place. And honestly, they sort of do.
The same spirit shows up at farm stands across the state. You'll find coolers at the end of driveways, hand-painted signs, coffee cans for payment, and cartons of eggs that look nothing like the ones stacked neatly under fluorescent lights at the grocery store. The shells are different. Sometimes they're brown. Sometimes they're cream-colored. Sometimes they're pale blue, sage green, or even faintly pink.
If you've ever purchased eggs from someone raising Americana chickens, you know exactly what I'm talking about. Open the carton and it looks less like breakfast and more like a box of Easter eggs. They're beautiful.
I should probably confess something. I do buy eggs. Just not very often. For most of the year our hens keep us supplied. It's only during those short Vermont winter days, when sunlight becomes a precious commodity and the hens slow production, that I find myself needing a dozen from somewhere else. When that happens, I'll gladly stop at a farm stand. Because the eggs are good. The people are good. And because I like knowing exactly where my breakfast came from.
Maybe that's what I appreciate most about Vermont. Not the mountains. Not the foliage. Not even the maple syrup. It's the quiet trust that still exists at the end of a gravel driveway. A cooler full of eggs. A handwritten sign. A cash box. Nobody watching. Just neighbors feeding neighbors.
So why did the chicken cross the road? Around here, it probably didn't. It was too busy patrolling the yard, eating ticks, laying pastel-colored eggs, and avoiding a six-year-old in a Power Wheels Jeep.
And honestly, that's a pretty good life.
Slow is smooth and smooth is fast.
