Gertie was just a chicken - but she was so much more

 I recently experienced the death of the matriarch in my large flock, Gertie. When I found her curled up peacefully under a nesting box, I instantly began to cry. It was as if the air had been let out of the big balloon that was the dream of creating this farm and where it had originated. 

I picked her up gently and cradled her, noticing how soft her feathers were as they always had been, as I carried her out of the coop and laid her atop the non-working freezer that is used to hold chicken feed - keeping pests out. I couldn’t process her death immediately. I didn’t want to bury her right away but I knew that time was not on my side and I needed to work out where I was going to bury her, when and how. Almost paralyzed, I managed to take an empty feed sack and place her in it and then walked back to the house, tears streaming down my face at the loss. I would work at burying her later in the day. 

I need to add, I don’t typically cry any longer at the loss of a chicken. Death on the farm happens. Chickens typically don’t live beyond 5 years and usually my method for disposing of them is to take them to the furthest corner of the property and place them in the field for some forager to carry the bird off and thus feed life from death. This was not going to happen with Gertie. 

Gertie was just a chicken, but what she was and what she represented was so much more. She was the sole survivor of the original flock that I had in Columbus when I first started my journey with chickens and then into farm life. 

Gertie arrived with three other chicks, which I purchased with my dear friend Mel, from a 4H poultry group fundraiser on February 5th, 2015. As they grew, I worried over them having enough heat, enough light, enough food. Then my attention turned to anticipating that first egg when they started to approach 8 months of age. Gertie was not the first of the 4 to lay an egg but when she did it was a moment of rejoicing. Three of the chicks in that first flock were named after my grandmothers’ middle names and one after an aunt; Mildred, Eleanor, Henrietta and Gertrude (or Gertie as I knew her). I loved them all, but Gertie was special as she was named after my maternal grandmother who I was very close to. 

In 2016, life became more complicated as I learned that I would not be able to keep chickens in town. I began to look for other living spots in and around Columbus but what I found was a farm that was located in the town I grew up in, Seymour. I wasn’t exactly thrilled about moving back, but it was close to Columbus and I could have my chickens and still be connected to my friends there. 

The end of October 2016 was very traumatic. I was busy creating a secure, cozy coop for the four chickens when I received a call on a Sunday morning. My dear friend Mel had passed through the night. I recall looking at the four birds thinking that at least I still had them as a memory with her. 

As I said before, death is common on the farm and that memory would not last long. In the following year I lost the first of the original four, Eleanor. I was devastated, but she was buried beside the barn and I vowed to keep the rest as healthy as I could. Then there would be two more deaths with Henrietta in 2018 and Mildred in 2019. Gertie was the one that kept going. 

She visited Santa Claus one holiday season, tolerated having her nails painted green and red, attempted chicken art by walking through finger paints and even got the attention of the CEO at Columbus Regional Hospital when she donned a small CRH branded backpack that contained a first aid kit. 

When 2020 happened, I noticed that Gertie was really ruling the flock. She always got the upper roost, kept the hens in line, didn’t seem to cater to the roosters’ advances and always had the most golden feathers and the fluffiest backside of any of the growing flock. I was concerned that she was “old” in chicken lore but at five years old she seemed to be thriving. 

Then I started writing a guest column for The Tribune and one day I thought, “hey, maybe Gertie could say her piece” and thus the voice of Gertie was born. I heard from readers constantly how they loved to hear her perspective on farm life and her sass (which was a real thing).

When visitors came to the farm, I always made sure to point her out as she would make herself seen - almost demanding to have the attention as the farm’s oldest chicken. She was approaching 8 years old and I was so hopeful that we would see her decade birthday in just two short years. 

Gertie celebrated her 8th birthday in February this year, but the season was rough on the chickens and I know that she was working through some gastrointestinal issues. I tried several remedies but her recovery was not to happen. She died peacefully through the night on August 20th and the last of the connection to my old life in Columbus was gone. 

Gertie was laid to rest beside the barn she lived in which will soon have a marker memorializing her resting spot. There are also plans to name the barn “Gertie’s House” and a plaque will be made stating such. Gertie’s legacy will continue for many years to come and beyond.

Gertie was just a chicken, but you see - she was so much more.

Rest in peace Gertie - you will be missed.