A year before we officially started our farm, I reached out to another local farmer needing to downsize his egg laying chicken operation. I offered to purchase some hens which turned out to be a win-win-win… the farmer gets paid, I get fresh pastured eggs every morning, and the hens avoid going into the freezer.

Cardboard boxes in hand, I stepped out of my truck and onto the farm – clueless, but excited. With a glint in his eye, the farmer asked me, “Have you ever caught a chicken before?” “No,” I said apologetically as it finally dawned on me that the only way to get the free-ranging hens in the boxes was to wrangle them.

We stepped over the electric fence and started chasing chickens. The plan was to catch 12 before midnight. They ran around like their heads were cut off – flying away, running behind the coop’s wheels, and hiding in nesting boxes. I struggled for some time. My initial excitement grew into frustration. Eventually the farmer had caught 10, his 4-year-old daughter had caught 1, and I hadn’t caught anything. How could a toddler be better at this than a grown man? “This can’t be happening,” I thought. “This toddler is showing me up.” We only needed one more to complete the dozen and I was determined to put some points on the board. Luckily, the hens had warmed up to me, probably figuring this klutz was just another inanimate object to hide behind. One of them ventured close as I caught my breath. “Now’s my chance!” I lunged forward hoping to tackle this poor feathered beast.

FARMER - 10

TODDLER - 1

KEVIN - 0

As I hit the ground, a ripping noise burst out like thunder. I realized this could only be one of two things – either I tore all the ligaments in my groin or my pants went supernova. Instinctively, I released the hen and looked down to find an enormous tear in the crotch of my jeans. The kind of tear that leaves no guess to the color of your boxer-briefs. The kind of tear that makes a person’s eyes dart down mid-conversation (eyes up here buddy!). The kind of tear that exposes your ghostly pale upper thigh (G.P.U.T. is a disease that affects all Smith men). This was the Grand Canyon of tears. I wanted to lay down and die. “The chickens can just eat me,” I thought.

Getting to my feet, I looked up to see the farmer put the last chicken in the box. I pulled my hat down low over my eyebrows hoping this would disguise my identity should I ever see this family around town. We sealed the boxes and attempted some small talk about farming but my mind raced, “Do I hold the flap shut? No, that’ll look weird… Try to swing your leg around so the flap shuts on its own… that’s not working. Run… Just run away.” I couldn’t focus. Any potential I felt as a future chicken farmer before I arrived was now irreparably damaged. I thanked the farmer for his help, talked trash at this evil toddler (in my head… I think), and dragged the remnants of my Levi’s to the truck.

*Our first egg layers in their new home.*

The feeling of embarrassment quickly wore off. I had my first chickens and these girls were relying on me to get them in a comfortable, secure roost for the night. When we arrived home, I unloaded the hens into their new coop, an unused shed on our property, and they immediately began exploring. I was very tempted to try and catch one… but figured they had been through enough for the day. Frankly, I had too. Standing back, I admired the new coop and awaited our first fresh egg.

-Kevin Smith, The Pasture Stand

Supernova Pants: An Embarrassing Story About Catching Chickens

FARMER - 10

TODDLER - 1

KEVIN - 0