Rhoda and Rhonda

R & R's stomping grounds 

Rhoda and Rhonda is the story of two mostly lucky Rhode Island Red chickens and their sisters who were purchased and given a lavish chicken coop and spacious foraging grounds by my cousin, John Moran,  clearly an imaginative and talented writer, and his equally talented wife, Gretchen. It's wondrous what some people do in their retirement. John and wife Gretchen live in the main house of a compound that includes a "guest house", a spare cottage and, at least to our feathered friends Rhoda and Rhonda, a rather inviting and spacious chicken coup and run. Their home is cosy and friendly, full of warm and friendly original art, much of it of Gretchen's hand,  memorabilia and interesting bric-a-brac. During most of the year, the two of them take daily swims in the low-60's Atlantic ocean, make that frigid ocean, a mile or two from their home. They grow all manner of vegetables, prepare original New England fare as well as paellas and surely other ethnic and regional dishes. So now I know a little of what at least one retired heart surgeon and his talented wife do in retirement.

The author in residence

Artist extraordinaire

RHODA AND RHONDA by John Moran

Not all chickens in a flock develop a personality. Most just go about their business and do not stand out as being different from their sisters. In fact, most of them seem to prefer to be anonymous, ciphers , ordinary, I suppose to avoid standing out , attracting attention, and possibly the hatchet. But Rhoda and Rhonda were different. Both were Rhode Island Reds, of course, hence the names.
   Rhoda was the last remaining of her brood of six. Her sisters had been gradually picked off one by one in the first couple of years on Fluffy Bottom Farms (no roosters here), but Rhoda seemed to have the knack of survival, among her other talents. After the first couple of years the farm was remarkably free of predators until she was 7 years old, but that sad story can wait. The subsequent batches of Rhodies , and the last remaining  of the Barred Plymouth Rocks (FBF is in Plymouth, MA) were let out to free range for 6-8 hours a day, happily pecking, scratching, doing the backward dance, eating the grass that turns their yolks a mellow orange color.
   Our introduction to chicken psychology came when our first batch was about 6 months old, almost fully grown, and hadn’t laid an egg. One day we went to the local craft store, got a couple of wooden eggs and put them in the nest. Presto! fresh eggs the very next day.
   At a time when Rhoda and one other were the only two remaining of their brood, another batch of day-old Rhodies arrived and were sheltered in a small coop away from the grownups who can be pretty mean. Several weeks later when it was time to introduce them into the main coop we moved Rhoda and her sister to a small coop out in the run. Being evicted from their familiar surroundings threw them into a depression; they moped around, lost their appetite, lost interest in free ranging, and even began to molt, giving them a really scraggly look. After a couple of weeks we felt they were ready for integration, and it went smoothly. Rhoda and her sister reclaimed their favorite perches, and the others acquiesced without complaint. Soon the feathers were back and Rhoda was prettier than ever.
   It was at that time she began to approach me, squat down, clearly wanting to be picked up and talked to, and I was happy to oblige, even though she would occasionally leave a vent deposit on my pants, sometimes in the pocket. Unlike the rest, she enjoyed the company of people, though I was the only one she went to for a chat and some stroking.  I think she recognized that I was the provider of all good things and her protector. I relished my god-like status, though in her eyes only.
   Rhoda was clearly aware of her status as matron of the flock, the abbess of the convent. For the daily treat of a handful of birdseed, she always made her way, front and center, to the top of the ramp leading to the shed where I kept the food. Another treat they especially enjoyed were grapes. In true pavlovian style I had them trained to return from the field to the run by ringing a bell, which meant that grapes were in the offing. The flock would race back, often from an invisible distance, Rhoda in the lead, obviously taking pride in having taught her minions the lesson. And of course she was front and center for the incisor-created half grapes, easy to swallow.
   Another of Rhoda’s games was, appropriately, playing “chicken”. Whenever I mowed the lawn, she’d be right there, daring me to run her over, strutting directly in front of my path. When she realized I wasn’t going to stop, she’d jump out of harm’s way at the last minute.
   Rhoda’s niece Rhonda gradually made her off-beat personality apparent.  The flock usually foraged as a group, but when I counted heads, one was often missing:  Rhonda. She was literally up to highjinks:  she loved to sneak into my tool shed and fly up to a 7 foot high shelf where I kept stuff like WD 40, 2 cycle engine oil, wasp killer, etc., invariably knocking several off the shelf. Once she even laid an egg up there. If the garage door was open, she loved to get in and snoop around. Once I caught her on top of a water heater 10 feet off the ground. She liked to lay eggs in an antique sleigh out there; all the others behaved themselves and laid them in the coop according to protocol. At sunset when instinct beckoned them back to roost in the coop, she would often fly up to the roof and spend the night there. You might say she was the Jonathon Livingston Seagull of the chicken world…..she had a different outlook and definitely flew to the wingbeat of a different drummer.
   One day when I was about to take off on some errands, she made it clear that she would like to come along. I opened the car door, she jumped up on the driver’s seat, then up to the dashboard on the passenger’s side where she stayed for the entire trip. It is safe to say that she has seen things no other chicken has ever seen.
   The flock sometimes liked to hang around our back deck , with sliding door that leads into the dining room. She was the only one who dared come into the house and look around. One time she hopped over the threshold and on up to the dinner table , wanting a little higher  ground and probably a handout.
   Over a period of a few days last summer, the flock was wiped out by one or more nocturnal predators, probably fisher cats, that got into the run that I thought was secure, and despite my best efforts to find and correct the security problem, they polished off the last two, one of which was Rhonda, Rhoda having been picked off a couple of days earlier.
   My only consolation is the fact that they had a happy chickenhood in an ideal setting, with freedom to come and go as they wished, and far outlived the average chicken life span.  Having failed in my responsibility to protect them, and in their honor, I promise to be more vigilant and creative  in protecting our next flock.  Can’t wait till spring.