Springtime - when everything old is new again

Chickens, the three Rs, and making the most of now

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Renewal, revival, and resurrection are all words associated with spring and here in our little hameau (hamlet), I’ve been experiencing and reflecting on all of them, especially this past week.

Springtime in the High Alpes so far has brought the expected huge range of temperatures from final frosts to low 80s (27°C) and bright sun followed by stretches of clouds and rain. The warmer weather pulls everyone outside and into the fields and gardens, greener and more lush with each stretch of precipitation. Our neighbors, the farmers, have lent us a patch of land that several of us worked together to clear of dead trees and weed bushes. We chose not to tear down the old chicken coop on the edge of the plot, however, as we’ve decided to try our hand at raising laying hens.

Jeanmi and I had talked about getting chickens even before moving back to France. I think, like many others, being stuck at home during Covid and worrying about food supply chains first put the idea into our heads. We have several friends, some on farms and some just with yards, who have chickens in the States, and raising laying hens seemed like something we might enjoy doing.

I must have mentioned this to our neighbors. Then Jeanmi did. Even though Jeanmi, our son, and I all moved here from the Washington, D.C. area, I am the one seen as the city girl. Jeanmi has family roots here and our son was born in the capital city of the region, thus, is also seen as a native. Truth be told, I am not at all a city girl. Suburbanite, yes, but big city girl, no. I love the country with its open, peaceful spaces. I adore the mountains where we live now, but I’ve never done any farming and only minimal gardening and have always lived in small towns or cities not far from major metropolises. Still, for the farmers who have lived their whole life in a hamlet of less than twenty people in a village of seven hundred, the idea of Washington, D.C. or really anything at all in the United States is one of almost incomprehensible grandeur. The fact that I take an earnest interest in their way of life intrigues them. They joke often about how I’m being transformed into a paysanne, literally a peasant, but more like a simple country girl.

I don’t mind. I’m actually a little flattered that they have not just written me off as a foreigner and a city person and instead are patiently answering my questions about the sheep and the fields and the seasons of both. They even entertain my recounting of episodes of Dr. Pol and then counter with equally fascinating stories of births, illnesses, accidents, and joys they’ve experienced with their animals.

Though the neighbors’ main sheep barns and farming equipment are all kept further down the mountain, they do have a chicken coop just under the balcony that connects our house to the one they used to live in when their family first moved into the hameau. Their chickens numbered twenty or more a few months ago. Apparently, they were the responsibility and project of the son who passed away last year and ever since, the rest of the family has tag teamed on caring for them. However, a faulty coop door and a deprioritizing of the chickens has resulted in all but three being killed by predators or escaping into the wild. On more than one morning, we’d discover a gnarly chicken carcass or chicken bits strewn on the floor of the outdoor chicken pen and a bunch of traumatized hens huddled in a corner, their numbers again decreased.

This spring while the farmers were occupied with building a new coop and all of the other springtime tasks involved in running a sheep farm, I offered to take care of their chickens. They said “sure” and I became the chicken nanny.

I like the chickens. I like hearing them clucking as if invested in deep conversations ones with the others. I like watching them peck at the vegetable scraps the farmer brings to them to supplement their feed. I like how soft their feathers feel when I pick them up to return them to the coop after an escape.

I like to think that I’ve developed a relationship with the hens. I’ve learned some vegetables, fruits, and scraps that the chickens prefer or don’t like at all. On the preferred list are strawberries, lettuce, apples, and dandelion leaves. On the don’t like at all list are leeks and citrus fruits. Since dandelions grow in abundance not just near our house but all over the mountains and down in the valley, I regularly pick a bouquet of dandelion leaves while out on my morning walk with the dogs. Upon returning home, I toss it into the pen for the chickens. They’re used to this routine and run to the door when they see me coming each day.

We decided to refurbish the old hen house on the plot of land the farmers lent us and placed an order for three hens of our own. Jeanmi spent several weekends finding downed trees in the woods and discarded boards and doors in the barns to fix up the old hen house. He created some laying niches and a ramp system for access between the inside and the outside of the coop.

When the hen house and coop were done, we proudly showed the neighbor. He teased that it was far too nice for chickens and told me that because I’d taken such good care of theirs, I could have them. He’d be receiving fifty new hens and didn’t want to mix the three old ones in with the new ones. He gave us a bag of straw and a bag of feed, telling us to store it in a plastic container with a lid to prevent rats. He also gave us the feeder and the waterer so the chickens would be all set.

Last weekend, we relocated the three old hens into their new digs. The chickens have been in plain view to us for the last four months, but now that they are ours, we see them differently. We find ourselves suddenly fascinated by them, obsessively. Having the chickens reminds me of having a newborn or a puppy or a kitten. Jeanmi and I have spent more time than we’d like to admit just watching them, marveling that they eat, that they move, that they drink, explore, make noises. We’re awe struck when they go up or down the ramps or nestle into a niche. They’re just being chickens, but somehow that’s suddenly amazing.

The concept of new is old again carries into all facets of French life, especially here in the mountains where thinking ecologically, environmentally, and sustainably is paramount to the protection of the area. Reduce, reuse, recycle is a way of life, not just a slogan. We see it in the way trash is handled and in the expectation of minimizing waste. Instead of trash collections, there are huge trash and recycling bins around each community. To throw out your trash, you often need a card to open the trash bins. Then, the trap only allows small trash bags to be placed into it. Larger bags and items need to be driven to the dump where they are inspected to be sure nothing could be sorted and recycled or composted instead of being thrown away. The community recycling bins in each village are open access and clearly labeled with what kinds of things go into each - paper, glass, cardboard, packaging. Almost all packaging can be recycled, and this is what we have the most to dispose of each week. I picked up my free tiny compost bucket from the town hall the day we signed on our house. Some people compost in their yards, but there are communal compost bins as well, tended by volunteers. Composting, I learned, is absolutely an expectation, not really an option. In turn, the community has tried to incentivize everyone into participating by making the prepared compost available for free to anyone who wants to use it in their gardens. 

Along with composting and recycling, we’ve carried the reusing concept into our home which is rich in repurposed furniture. We brought very little furniture with us when we moved and most of the furniture in our house is recouped from someone else or someplace else. We have several pieces left to us by the family from whom we purchased the house, pieces that were made by hand generations ago. We also have a growing number of pieces that Jeanmi has made or refurbished. Recently, we found an old bench in the neighbors’ barn. When we asked how much they would sell it for, they said they had planned to give it away to the ressourcerie, the French equivalent of Good Will, so they just gave it to us instead. Jeanmi sanded it and will stain it to match the coffee table he made of planks from the barn floor. As we were looking for some inexpensive options for more outdoor seating, I found some second-hand chairs that I’ve sanded down and am getting ready to repaint. Both financially and environmentally, these are all satisfying acquisitions.

My husband and I both love the Alps, as an area and as a lifestyle. When we moved to the States almost seventeen years ago, we did not expect to be gone for so long. We don’t regret the experiences that we had in the States. We don’t regret that our son has fluency in English and American culture nor that my husband, though he’s kept his French accent, communicates easily in English and also understands American culture and Americans. I do miss some of the things we could have done and some of the ways in which my son would have been cultured had we not moved. We’re renewing that life and that alpine adventure with our son now.

Last week my uncle died. He was in his mid-eighties and had been ill with aggressive cancer for several years so it wasn’t a total surprise, though still a shock. He was not the first of my relatives to pass away - I’ve lost an aunt and two other uncles before him as well as all of my grandparents. However, this is the first time I’m old enough for the death of a family member to hit a nerve of my own mortality. There is something in his passing and the fact that my parents’ generation and I are getting older that just makes me think about death, and perhaps life, in a different way.

When I moved to the States, I was thirty-eight. Now, I’m fifty-five. There are things I was so excited to do again once we moved back to the Alps, but I’d forgotten that my general physical condition at fifty-five is not what it was in my thirties. Jeanmi and I can’t do so easily now what we did before. Climbing and hiking are harder. This winter, I got tired skiing quicker than I used to. My knees are not what they were. Some of that conditioning can come back with practice, but some of it probably just won’t. 

I look at my son and I hear him starting to express things he’d like to do and would like to accomplish. My response to him is “Absolutely. Go for it.”  Don’t let artificial barriers stand in your way because it all goes so fast and at some point it’s less possible and then at some point it’s just not possible at all. My renewal thoughts this week lead me to the old adage of seize the day. Make the most of it now. Take the trip. Go on the hike. See the concert. Have the conversation. Buy the damn boat. Get the chickens. Reinvent yourself. Live life as fully and as joyfully as you can. It goes by all too fast, but maybe taking advantage of all of the opportunities for renewal, revival, and resurrection help to slow it down and give it everlasting meaning.

If you’re enjoying these newsletters, you may also enjoy my book - The American and the Bus Driver - that tells the story of how I met and fell in love with my French bus driving husband and my first experiences in the High Alps in France. You can find it on amazon.com, bookbaby.com, and bn.com among others.

Thanks again for being here. If there are topics you’d like to hear about or reflections you’d like to share about the newsletter, please leave me a comment. I always love hearing from you and promise to respond.

À la semaine prochaine!