Wednesday, November 28, 2018// The Statement 
3B

O

ne afternoon in late May 2017, 
my family and I pulled our 
Ford Escape into the drive-
way — we’d just gotten back from a 
short Memorial Day weekend trip — to 
find a small, red chicken coop sitting 
on our lawn.
I dashed over and lifted up the roof 
of the coop, exposing two anxiously 
clucking, rust-colored hens cowering 
in the sawdust-covered nesting box. 
The birds were afraid to let me touch 
them, but I released them from their 
pen and spent the rest of the after-
noon watching them explore our small 
backyard, scratching at fallen leaves 
and nibbling on crabgrass. My parents, 
brother and I named the smaller, more 
nervous hen Egglantine, after a char-
acter in the “Guardians of Ga’hoole,” 
and the more robust one Yolklanda, a 
cringe-worthy egg pun.
The hens were a surprise for my 19th 
birthday, a gift for which I’d begged my 
parents after hearing of other chicken 
owners in greater Boston. The idea of 
raising farm animals in a suburban 
area was appealing, and quite honest-
ly, the chickens served as a welcome 
distraction. I’d just returned home 
from an exhausting first year at the 
University of Michigan. It had been a 
long, lonely two semesters — I’d found 

it nearly impossible to branch out and 
make friends, and had struggled with 
anxiety and low self-esteem. That 
spring, I’d come home feeling depleted, 
unclear on who I was or what I wanted.
Pouring my energy into the chickens 
helped me to feel grounded in a way I 
hadn’t during my first year of school. I 
turned the chickens into my personal 
project, building new additions to their 
pen, ordering bulk quantities of feed 
and treats off the internet, noticing 
and researching every new sound or 
behavior. Driven to own the happiest 
suburban chickens ever, I’d rush home 
from work each afternoon to release 
the hens for their free-range time. I 
worried constantly about the chickens’ 
well-being and picked up the slight-
est signs of discomfort. On hot days, 
Egglantine and Yolklanda were pam-
pered with frozen treats and ice-cold 
water, changed every few hours.
Not only did the chickens give me 
purpose, but I found them incredibly 
calming. Each morning before work, I’d 
collect their eggs, change their water, 
clean the cage and then sit on my porch 
with a cup of tea and a crossword puz-
zle, watching the hens scratch around 
the yard. I loved the routine, and the 
chickens looked so focused and peace-
ful foraging for their breakfast that it 

was hard to not feel relaxed.
As I settled in to the summer and 
slowly processed my freshman year, 
the chickens transitioned in their own 
way. Yolklanda quickly became com-
fortable with her new home and own-
ers, but Egglantine adjusted a bit more 
gradually. For the first few weeks after 
her move, she refused to lay eggs — a 
sign of stress — and was skittish around 
people. Eventually, Egglantine began 

laying, and by the end of the summer 
she was confident enough to run up to 
me and accept treats from my hand.
It wasn’t easy for me to part with my 
chickens that August, because they’d 
come to represent the comfort and 
routine of home. For the first semes-
ter of sophomore year, each time I 

called home, I’d ask for details about 
Egglantine and Yolklanda — did they 
seem healthy? Had they done anything 
funny or cute?
I pushed myself to find my place at 
the University that fall, joining student 
organizations and connecting with 
new people in my classes and clubs. 
Even as my schedule filled up and I 
slowly started to recognize more faces 
on campus, the chickens remained an 
important piece of my identity. They 
were my go-to fun fact, a dependable 
conversation starter. Owning chickens 
didn’t help me make friends, but did 
make it easier to introduce myself and 
give others a glimpse of my personality.
By second semester sophomore year, 
I was finally feeling adjusted. I’d devel-
oped close friendships with my room-
mates and a few classmates, forming a 
small but closely-knit social network. I 
still had moments of anxiety and lone-
liness, but I was paying much more 
attention to my mental health, and 
overall felt more centered and confi-
dent.
I thought of the chickens occasion-
ally, asking my family for updates and 
stories, but as the University became 
home, they gradually faded into the 
periphery of my mind. I was busy, 
immersed in my friends, clubs and 
classes, fully present. No longer was 
the fact that I raised chickens my 
default “about me” — I had new ways 
to connect with people, friends in com-
mon, shared clubs and extracurricular 
interests. My social circle expanded 
more over the summer, as I stayed in 
Ann Arbor for an internship at a local 
tech company.
One morning in August, I was 
running along Washtenaw Avenue, 
engrossed in my thoughts about the 
day ahead. I was happy, looking for-
ward to an afternwoon swim in 
the Huron River followed by a 
game night with friends. When 
my brother called and told me 
he had bad news, I wasn’t sur-
prised by the words that came 
next: Egglantine, sickly as ever, 
had died. Her sister was headed 
back to the farm where she’d 
been born, because hens don’t 
like living alone.
The news hurt to hear, but I 
didn’t feel sad, only reflective. I 
kept running, lost in the rhythm 
of my steps on the pavement, contem-
plating my one year and three months 
as a chicken owner. The hens had given 
me structure when I felt untethered, 
a sense of self when I needed one. For 
one-pound birds, Egglantine and Yolk-
landa had carried a lot of weight. 

BY ALICE TRACEY, DAILY STAFF REPORTER
Ode to Egglantine

COURTESY OF ALICE TRACEY

Not only did the chickens 
give me purpose, but I 
found them incredibly 
calming.

