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.