Our Christmas Songbook - 3. Faverolles

Faverolles

By Cole Matthews

“Three French Hens”

I could feel my heartbeat begin to slow a little, as I took slow, deliberate, and deep breaths. It seemed she was fine, but it had given me such a scare. Sitting back on my haunches, I lifted my hand and wiped my sweaty brow.

“Are you gonna be okay?” I asked, not expecting an answer. The tree was splayed over the deck, water from the tree stand soaked into my slacks, but I didn’t really care that much. It was only a tipped over tree, though several shards of broken glass ornaments were scattered around on the wet patio tile.

She was all right though. Moving around. Maybe a little scared of the downed tree, but otherwise okay.

It made me think about the day before. To think, it had only been twenty-four hours since we were out on that farm.

“Chickens are mean, disgusting creatures that deserve to be eaten,” I’d said. I meant it too, though our daughter, Chelsea, was pouting something terrible. Her determined look was thunderous, steely, and it would take a miracle to move the corners of her mouth upwards.

“We are not bringing home chickens to keep in the backyard,” I said resolutely. “They are incredibly smelly and a lot of work.”

I tried a different approach. “Why don’t we get a nice goat, like we’d planned. You know, like the Sanders have. Sara loves her little goat. That would be much better I think.”

“No. I like the chickens. They’re prettier and nicer.” Chelsea said, reaching down to pet the little feathery bird gaily pecking away at grass for seeds and insects.

“Chickens aren’t nice,” I continued, though these Faverolles, a French breed, were considered to be the most kid friendly of fowl. The one pecking near us looked up at me, cocked its head, then looked back at our little girl. I’d raised chickens on the farm where I grew up. I knew how terrible they could be.

“I like this one,” Chelsea responded, and actually stomped her left foot a bit.

“They are too much work, collecting eggs, cleaning out the coop, carrying water and feed out to them every single day. You can’t just forget to feed and bring them water.” I thought that might dissuade her a bit.

Goats practically took care of themselves in comparison.

My husband, Seph, reached out and took our daughter’s hand. “We will do all the work, right Chelsea?”

Chelsea looked up at him, the frown turned on a dime, and she beamed. “Of course, Pops. I will do it all.”

“Well, we can do it together,” Seph said. “Phil, you won’t have to do a thing.”

And like that I was the odd man out. My dear man, Joseph Story, and our lovely daughter, Chelsea Story, did this to me all the time. If I wasn’t so practical, I wouldn’t get caught in this situation so often.

My heart ached as I saw how happy the idea made her, and how Seph just made me the ‘goat’ here.

“Fine, we can get a couple.” I crossed my arms showing just how grumpy this made me, even though I caved. “Only a couple.”

“How about two girls and a boy?” Seph suggested wagging his bushy dark eyebrows at me. He was trying to make amends now. After eleven years together, he knew what my reaction would be.

“No roosters. That’s a veto. You’ll have it crowing at all hours of the morning and night. There is no need to have a rooster if all we want are pets that lay eggs.”

“Won’t the girl chickens want a boyfriend?” Chelsea asked, her face puzzled and worried.

“No, the girl chickens will enjoy each other’s company, so there is no reason to bring a rooster into this scenario.” I answered her carefully.

“Oh, so these are lesbian chickens?” she reasoned, as any six-year-old with two men as dads might.

“Sure,” I answered, looking at Seph. The man’s tan, swarthy features were currently battling with a belly laugh trying to escape his body. “We can make sure they are lesbian chickens. Now let’s find just a couple.”

In the end, we found three chickens who seemed to be in sync with each other or as Chelsea put it, “shouldn’t be split up” and these lovely salmon-colored hens came home with us.

I hefted the chicken coop into the back of the truck, placed the box with air holes and three loudly clucking chickens next to it. I tossed in the large bag of feed and a gravity water bowl that would give the hens a steady source of fresh water.

Getting into the truck, I saw Seph was looking at me with a wry grin on his lips. I snorted at him, and started up the vehicle. As we left Gravely’s Pet Farm behind, I felt like I’d been rolled. This was an expensive Christmas present, but we had one happy girl in the back seat chattering away.

“I wonder what I should name them. Let me think,” Chelsea pondered excitedly.

“How about Anne, Emily, and Charlotte,” Seph suggested. Of course he did. He was an English teacher and would immediately think of the Bronte sisters.

“Who are they?” Chelsea asked.

“Three old dead chicks,” I answered for him. I gave him a devilish grin now, and he pursed his lips at me.

“Daddy, what do you think?” Chelsea asked, leaning through the two front seats. I could smell the bubble gum perfume she wore with her lavender ‘hair-so-pretty’ scrunchy.

“I think you should name them Marcia, Jan, and Cindy,” I said, winking at Seph.

“Are those the girls on that show Pops likes?”

“Yes, they are. Pops loves him some Brady Bunch.” I answered and nodded gently at my husband.

He smiled broadly and agreed.

“Daddy, what happened?” Chelsea called out frantically, racing from the French doors past the pool and out to the ramada where we set up our poolside Christmas tree. I shook my head and stood up quickly and gestured her away from the broken glass littering the patio.

“Someone left the chicken yard door open. Cindy flew into the Christmas tree and tipped it over.”

“Is she all right?” Chelsea asked, breathing hard from her shock and the run across the yard. “Is she?”

“She’s fine,” I said, waving a hand at the plump red bird pecking away at the strings of popcorn we’d trimmed this outdoor tree with.

I was glad I’d been out here when it happened. The bird had been trapped under the tree. I’d freed her before she got cut with broken glass or hurt herself in the struggle under the branches.

“She’ll be just fine,” I said, and then I realized. I hadn’t saved the chicken just for my daughter’s sake. I’d saved Cindy because already she was our pet.

Our pet. Our family.

I smiled as it sank in a little more deeply.