My huddled masses yearning to breathe free.

I love writing this blog, I really do. Well…most of the time. I don’t love writing the ones announcing deaths, but they are cathartic, all the same. Out with the bad air; in with the good air.

One of my favourite parts of the writing process is bringing in little bits of classical and popular culture. When I make a connection in my mind, I get a little frisson of pleasure in my nucleus accumbens, and a little voice in my head says, “Well, now. Aren’t you a clever one.”

This blog has seen references to Wagner, Hammerstein, Gertrude Stein, the Beatles, Eugene O’Neill, Stephen Colbert, and Charles Dickens, to name a few. This week, I added Dr. Suess, and now, The New Colossus. I am quite pleased with myself.

Anyway.

I have 27 eggs in the ‘bator, 25 of which have a very good chance of being alive and viable. I can only see into a few of these, however, so it is those I will be candling for internal pips, as a bellwether for the rest.

What’s an internal pip? When a developing chick reaches the end of it’s maturation, it reaches a point where it prepares to leave the shell by becoming an air breather. You know how when you crack open a hard-boiled egg (regardless of fertility), and you tap the fat end of the egg on a hard surface, there’s a space of no-egg inside? That is the air cell.

The air cell sits at the fat end of every egg, fertilised or no, and waits for the incubating chick to need it. As time passes, the shell, which is highly porous, releases moisture from inside the egg, and the size of the air cell increases. (This is why a very old egg floats when placed in water.)

As a fertilised egg passes through the incubation cycle, the air cell becomes larger (at a slower or faster rate, depending on the porousness of the shell). Many hatchers trace, in pencil, the air cell increases on the shell of an incubating egg, to note its progress.

Around Day 18, a chick embryo has consumed the contents of the egg, and prepares to leave the shell. And that looks a little something like this:

LL

But, before it can break the shell, it must learn to breathe. The space to the right of the chick, at the fat end of the egg? That’s the air cell, waiting for the chick to call upon it. The chick will break through the membrane that separates it from the air cell, and then rest, before pipping the egg externally.

But how do you know?! Candling often revels an internal pip, when the shadow of a beak or bill can be seen inside the air cell space. This is the moment for which I am still waiting. And waiting. And candling. And waiting.

Why is this moment so important? Because the ideal conditions for hatching are quite different than the ideal conditions for incubation. The chicks require much higher humidity to get themselves out of their shells, and must no longer be turned. Some experienced hatchers will also reduce temps in these final days. This is the time when Mama Broody Hen would glue herself to the nest and refuse to leave. This is lockdown.

Lockdown means removing a turner (if you’ve had the eggs in one) and laying the eggs on their sides on the floor of the incubator. It means humidity goes from around 30-40% up to 55-70%. It means no opening the ‘bator, dude! Babies are coming!

I want lockdown. I want it NOW.

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5 thoughts on “My huddled masses yearning to breathe free.

  1. I remember there was an incubator in the OP kindergarten class, and we waited very patiently for those eggs from the local farm to hatch. I feel that way right now! I’m very excited for little fluffers!

  2. It’s always the waiting, isn’t it? I expect I’ll be like this in another 8 days waiting for the rabbits to be born. Just glad I don’t have to candle a pregnant doe.

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