THE ACCIDENTAL HOMESTEADERS

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Three sweaty hours of catching and bagging chickens and $20 later, we were the ( proud? ) owners of 18 hens and the meanest rooster I'd ever set eyes on. We jury-rigged a large packing crate — a leftover from our overseas move — into a makeshift henhouse . . . gave the chickens a pail of water . . . and stood back to watch them devour all those nasty garden bugs.

Needless to say, the scene didn't unfold quite as we'd expected it would. The supposed bug disposers went everywhere except toward the garden . . . that ornery rooster attacked anything that moved ( especially Donna, our youngest daughter) . . . and within five minutes the water pail had been knocked over and we were all shouting for help.

At that, our neighbor returned to the scene, laughing a little behind his hand. He proceeded to assist my husband in preparing a list of the "few" supplies needed to turn the packing crate into a secure, waterproof henhouse . . . construct a poultry yard fenced in with chicken wire six feet high . . . and "furnish" the new shelter with nest boxes, bedding, food and water dispensers, and — of course — several hundred pounds of feed and grit.

Four and a half sweaty hours and another $200 later . . . the feathered females — along with their chauvinistic chanticleer — were safely fed and tucked in for the evening. (By the way, the insects enjoyed a long, troublefree night in the garden . . . we could almost hear them laughing!)

Somehow summer soon gave way to fall . . . and — in spite of the bugs — our pantry and freezer were fully stocked. Along the way we had acquired a rather expensive but wholly necessary library of how-to books, a few cats to limit the mouse population in our double-garage-turned-barn, a complicated lawn and garden tractor that possessed far too many attachments . . . and healthy, vibrant complexions.

Then one day as I sat reading about culling nonproductive hens from the flock — and munching on a store-bought apple — our son came up with what (he thought) was a brilliant idea: "Why don't we plant some of the little fruit trees advertised in the garden catalogs?" (We were on everybody's mailing list and surrounded by dozens of the volumes.)

I patiently explained to the boy that we were going to be living in the country only temporarily, until the tenants could conveniently move from our city home. (I considered that a fact beyond question, although Herb — my husband — had begun talking about remodeling and renovating the house to "make it more livable". His reasoning was, he assured me, that the alterations would make it easier to rent the property once we were "back home".)

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