I have a deep passion for poultry farming, especially chickens. My love for them was instilled in me during my early school years in the early 1930s by the school principal and teacher, Mr. Winter. They established a poultry farm at our school. Each student brought a chicken from home, and soon we had a sizable flock. You should have seen the enthusiasm with which we dove into this new venture. After classes, we would rush home for lunch and then back to school, where there was no shortage of work waiting for us. We built a chicken coop, a storage shed for feed, and nesting boxes for egg-laying. We took turns supervising the farm daily, ensuring it was never left unattended. We fed and watered the birds and cleaned their living space. To keep track of egg production, we placed numbered rings on the chickens’ legs. We marked the date and the chicken’s number on the eggs with a pencil. At the end of each day, we recorded all the laid eggs in a logbook, and at the end of the month, we tallied how many eggs each chicken had laid, both for the month and for the quarter, and then overall for the year.
We sold the eggs for a fee to the then-existing “Raikolhozsoyuz” (a cooperative for collective farms). In return, we received feed for the chickens, also for a fee. Monthly, quarterly, and annually, we discussed the results—whether we made a profit or incurred a loss. During general meetings, a board elected from among the students presented the reports.
In the first year, we discovered that our mixed-breed chickens weren’t producing enough eggs to justify their feed and upkeep, so we decided to acquire purebred chickens. Our mentor, Mr. Winter, took it upon himself to help us. By spring, we began receiving shipments of eggs from a new breed for us—Rhode Island Reds.
Within six months, we completely replaced our flock with this breed. Oh, how beautiful those chickens were! Our joy knew no bounds. By autumn, the Rhode Island Reds had multiplied to such an extent that villagers came from all around to marvel at them. I can still picture those chickens: large, dark red with a golden sheen to their feathers, and very calm. They laid a tremendous number of large eggs, stopping only during molting.
My fascination with chickens began with the Rhode Island Reds, and it turned out to be a lifelong passion. Now, at 72 years old, I am a retired veteran of labor. Although I may not have the strength I once did, I still indulge in this captivating hobby. I’ve had chickens of various breeds, but none, in my opinion, can compete with the Rhode Island Reds. They rarely get sick, withstand the cold winters easily, are not picky about feed, and will peck at anything. They are exemplary mothers and excellent caretakers.
In the summer of 1990, at the request of a society of poultry enthusiasts, we embarked on an expedition to search for Pavlovsk chickens. There were three of us—my wife, N.P. Protasov, and I—all avid poultry farmers. We traveled to a location where we had been informed there were supposed descendants of Pavlovsk chickens.
After driving over 1,000 kilometers, we arrived at the home of the person who had sent us the letter—Vyacheslav Petrovich Belousov. He guided us to the village where the supposed chickens were located. The owners confirmed that these were indeed descendants of Pavlovsk chickens, with a silver coloration. There was a resemblance, for sure.
The return journey with our precious chickens felt less exhausting and lengthy. However, it wasn’t without its stresses. During one of our stops to feed the birds, a rooster escaped. It’s hard to convey the panic we felt at that moment. Fortunately, we managed to catch the runaway. The chickens settled in well at their new home.