But Where Would the Fun Be in That?

Harvest Hosts people are so helpful, even when you don't want them to be.

For those unfamiliar with Harvest Hosts, it's a membership program that allows people traveling in self-contained RVs to stay overnight at farms, wineries, breweries, and other interesting locations around the country. We've been hosting travelers at American Way Farm for several years, and it's been a wonderful way to meet people from all over. After each visit, the host and guest have an opportunity to leave reviews about their experience.

Now, most hosts write perfectly respectable reviews along the lines of “Wonderful guests, very pleasant, left everything clean, welcome back anytime.” There's absolutely nothing wrong with that approach, but I'm a storyteller, and I find it considerably more entertaining to write something a little less predictable. Even the most uneventful overnight visit can inspire an unusual five-star review if I put my imagination to work. Besides, I figure people who have driven halfway across the country deserve something more memorable than a sentence that could just as easily describe the last twenty campers.

Recently, I wrote a humorous post in a Harvest Hosts Facebook group about the challenges of coming up with these reviews. I thought other hosts might appreciate the idea of finding something entertaining to say about people who had arrived, parked, behaved themselves, and departed without incident.

What I hadn't anticipated was the outpouring of helpful advice.

Several people assured me that I didn't have to go to all that trouble. Why not write one generic review, save it somewhere, and simply copy and paste it whenever another guest left? It would be so much easier, they explained, and think of all the time I'd save!

Well, of course it would be easier. I could also buy eggs at the grocery store instead of keeping chickens, eat frozen dinners instead of cooking, and stop writing stories altogether. Just imagine how efficient my life would become if I eliminated everything I enjoyed doing simply because there was an easier alternative. I'd have so much spare time I could sit in my recliner and contemplate the remarkable achievement of having absolutely nothing interesting left to do.

Eventually, I added an edit to the original post explaining that yes, I knew perfectly well that I could write generic reviews, but where would the fun be in that? Fortunately, that seemed to stem the tide of helpful suggestions before somebody offered to design a spreadsheet to automate the entire process.

In one exchange, I explained to a particularly helpful commenter that I'm a creative writer and humorist, and if I couldn't come up with something more entertaining than a standard review, I might as well hang up my hat. Her response was reassuring. “Then I bet your reviews are probably fine.”

Fine?

I've written a book, had my work recognized internationally, with one reviewer describing me as “one of the most honest, down to earth, hilarious authors of our time.” After all those years of writing, countless hours at the keyboard, and enough livestock-related disasters to fill a book, I had finally achieved the pinnacle of literary recognition. A complete stranger on Facebook was reasonably confident that my Harvest Hosts reviews were probably fine.

I know she meant well, and I'm sure all the others did too. They were simply trying to save me from a task they assumed I found burdensome. What they hadn't realized was that the supposed burden was the very thing I enjoyed. I wasn't looking for a way to stop writing entertaining reviews. I was looking for more entertaining ways to write them.

The irony, of course, is that all those considerate people trying to save me the trouble of writing have now provided enough material for another story. Their suggestions may not have improved my efficiency, but they've certainly improved my supply of material, and I didn't even have to wait for another camper to arrive.

So to all the wonderfully helpful Harvest Hosts members, thank you for your concern, your suggestions, and your generous assessment of my literary abilities. I promise to keep writing unnecessarily complicated reviews for perfectly ordinary visits, because sometimes the fun is in doing something you don't have to do.

And if this story turns out to be merely fine, I suppose I can live with that, too.

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©2026 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm

Downsizing the Flock

Because of my upcoming ankle replacement surgery this winter, I decided to drastically reduce the size of my chicken flock. Considering that I once had 400 chickens, I thought 29 hens and two roosters already qualified as downsizing. Apparently, the term is relative.

But fewer chickens would mean less feed to haul, less manure to deal with and, most importantly, no more packaging and selling eggs. Ten or twelve good laying hens could provide all the eggs we could possibly use and still leave Gus, our livestock guardian dog, with something to guard. After all, a livestock guardian dog without livestock is just a 130-pound unemployed noisy flooff-ball with excellent benefits.

With winter fast approaching, this seemed like the best time to do it. I put a notice on our town Facebook page: “Downsizing my flock of chickens. I have layers that are one year old and some that are six months. Anyone interested? PM for more information and price.”

I was surprised by the response. Apparently, chickens are a hot commodity. I could have sold the entire flock—and possibly several chickens I didn't own—before the weekend was over.

The first family to set a pickup time wanted ten. Almost their entire flock had been wiped out in a single afternoon by one particularly determined raccoon, who subsequently discovered that Dad owned a shotgun. Later, the family found a few surviving hens hiding in a tree. And they say chickens are dumb.

We arranged for the family to come just after dark, when all the hens would be settled on their roosts and much easier to catch. They brought their young daughter, Lily, who was delighted to choose her new friends.

Her first choice was Marshmallow, my pretty white Ameraucana who lays beautiful blue eggs. Marshmallow was one of my favorites, so although I hated to see her go, I was glad she was going home with a little girl who was already smitten with her.

Next came Midnight and Chocolate, my two Black Australorps. I'd never been able to tell them apart, but Lily immediately pointed out that one had more reddish coloring in her neck feathers. I'd owned these chickens for over a year and apparently I needed a child I'd just met to introduce me to them properly.

Then she chose Andrea, a particularly pretty New Hampshire Red with a story of her own. The previous spring, my friend Andrea and I had split an order of ten mixed-breed chicks. Although she'd raised chicks before, four of her five died within the first few days. All five of mine were thriving, so she offered me her lone survivor in hopes of saving her. When I went to pick up the chick, I tried to figure out why she'd lost four when mine were doing fine. Andrea had been painting something in her basement. We couldn't smell fumes upstairs, but it was the only environmental difference we could identify. Whatever the cause, I brought the lonely little chick home, tucked her in with mine, and she thrived. She grew into a beautiful gal and, obviously, had to be named Andrea.

Lily's selections also included Hennifer Lopez, the Welsummer some readers may remember from my last book, Between the Fenceposts: Tales of Mud, Mayhem, and Manure. When I told the family Hennifer was famous and explained why, they bought a book. I had accidentally discovered a new marketing strategy—sell the cast.

The remaining hens weren't quite as notable and had somehow made it through life without acquiring names, but Lily left happy with ten new chickens to rebuild the family's flock. I was happy knowing that several birds I'd grown attached to were going somewhere they'd be loved and appreciated.

The next day, a friend who happened to be passing this way stopped for several more hens and was also going to take my two roosters, Mike Crowe II and Dusty Springfield. Mike, of course, was named in honor of Mike Rowe, because being a rooster is a dirty job, but somebody's got to do it. Readers may remember the original Mike Crowe, the Light Brahma rooster who challenged Gus one too many times. Gus eventually settled that disagreement once and for all.

Mike Crowe II appeared determined to uphold the family reputation. At only six months old, he was already boss of the coop and well on his way to becoming every bit as obnoxious as his predecessor. I'd read that Light Brahma roosters were supposed to be docile. Apparently neither of these Mike Crowes had access to the Internet.

Dusty Springfield was another story entirely.

Dusty had arrived as the free mystery chick McMurray Hatchery tucked into my last order. I'd gotten lucky the previous two years and received female mystery chicks, so I hoped I'd beaten the odds for a third time.

I didn't.

But for a while there was hope. The chick was exceptionally fluffy and very vocal, chattering constantly. Because it looked like a feather duster, I started calling it Dusty. From there, Dusty Springfield simply followed. The fact that the chick seemed determined to sing all day only made the name more appropriate.

Then one morning Dusty crowed. Apparently I'd gotten the career choice right but the gender wrong.

Dusty grew into a Buff Cochin rooster and quite possibly the most ridiculous-looking chicken I've ever owned. For anyone unfamiliar with Cochins, picture a large blond feather duster with feet. It's as though an angel somewhere was designing chickens, looked at an already heavily feathered bird and said, “You know what this chicken needs? More feathers!” Then added feathers to his legs. And his feet. And possibly several places where chickens don't actually require feathers but there was a surplus at the factory. He looks like someone swept up everything left on the floor after a pillow fight and glued it into the shape of a chicken.

Temperamentally, Dusty couldn't be more different from Mike. Mike, and even some of the older hens, chased him. Dusty spent much of his day sitting on the roost where everybody would leave him alone. So while Mike Crowe II was strutting around conducting hostile takeovers, Dusty Springfield was hiding upstairs hoping nobody noticed he worked there.

Originally, I'd planned to send both roosters on their way. I didn't need a rooster. I wasn't planning to hatch chicks, and if I was reducing the flock to ten or twelve hens, every mouth at the feeder ought to have a reason for being there. The Red Stars I was keeping certainly did. They are egg-laying machines. If I was going to keep only a handful of chickens, I wanted the ones most likely to keep the egg basket full.

Dusty's contribution to egg production was going to be difficult to measure. Actually, it was going to be zero. From a strictly agricultural standpoint, his résumé was terrible. But when it came time for him to leave, I hesitated.

The hens I was keeping were the same age as Dusty and he had been raised with them. All of the older hens who bullied him were leaving along with Mike Crowe II. For the first time in his life, Dusty was about to find himself the only rooster in a flock of ten or twelve young hens. His circumstances were improving dramatically.

I also worried about what would happen to such a docile rooster if he went into a larger flock containing several other roosters. Dusty's primary conflict-resolution strategy seemed to consist of getting onto the highest available object and waiting for everybody else to go away.

And there was one other consideration that had absolutely nothing to do with practical chicken management. Dusty makes me smile every time I look at him.

So Dusty Springfield stayed. Mike Crowe II rode away in a dog crate in the back of a truck along with 4 bully hens, head held high and dignity apparently intact. If he understood that he'd just been voted off the island, he wasn't letting on. From the look on his face, this wasn't exile. He was expanding his territory.

The Red Stars earned their places through cold, hard economics. They're here to produce eggs. Gus remains gainfully employed guarding them. And Dusty? Well, Dusty is apparently in charge of morale.

Besides, I've learned something after all these years of keeping chickens. They don't necessarily have to do anything useful to earn their keep. Sometimes they lay eggs. Sometimes they eat bugs. Sometimes they provide a livestock guardian dog with a reason to get out of bed in the morning. And sometimes they're several pounds of golden feathers wearing bell-bottoms who make you laugh just by walking across the yard.

There's also the possibility that Dusty will eventually provide something considerably more valuable than eggs. Another story. Come to think of it, he already has.

Enjoyed this tale from the barnyard?
Don’t miss the next round of critter chaos — to get new stories by email, just send a note to sandydavis@aol.com or follow on Facebook.

🐑 If you liked this story, please click one of the small share buttons below instead of copy-paste—it helps folks find their way back here for more tales from the farm.🐓

©2026 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm