Friday, January 13, 2006
The chickens of our lives
I moved this up from a comment under the Pounding Chicken post to make sure you all saw it.
It's from Last Grey Poet, who used to write for the HHJ
The parrot joke is an old favorite. Thanks for refreshing the memory.
As for chickens who are members of the family: My younger sister and I grew up on a fairly sizable piece of land on the edge of town, and our father occasionally took it into his head to put this land to use housing various farm animals. Invariably these urges led to mishap, though in one case this was not apparent for many years.
This was the incident of the chickens.It happened in the mid-1980s, a time when I was just entering the double-digit ages and my younger sister was (as usual) a few years behind, that Dad -- well, he was still Daddy, then -- struck on the idea of keeping chickens.
The plan was a combination of saving money, and, of course, teaching the kids the value of working.There were an even 10 of the birds, and we kept them in a smallish fenced area, complete with hand-made coop, which cost me a Saturday morning of cartoon-watching, as did so many of Dad’s construction projects, for which I was combination lumber carrier, tool caddy, and whatever other role a small-for-his age boy could manage -- your general all-purpose “go-fer.”
For the duration of raising these fowl, my younger sister and I were responsible for feeding them (not so bad) and keeping their coop relatively clean (bad.) This went on for many months, until Dad judged them ready for the table and, on a Saturday when Mom -- still Mama then, of course -- and my younger sister were away, I was put to work as chicken holder while Dad set about employing an axe.
Even now that day comes back to mind whenever I hear someone use the old Southern expression, “running around like a chicken with its head cut off.”
Let’s just say it was not pretty and leave it at that.
Nearly two decades later, as I’m in the process of moving from one small Georgia town to another, leaving one little newspaper for another, the moving day conversation ranges -- as conversations among friends and family, especially those made when very tired, are wont to do -- from one strange topic to another, and, among them, we hit upon Dad’s penchant for keeping critters.
My younger sister espouses the belief that he just had some weird fascination with raising animals, but I (in a rare moment) come to his defense, saying at least some of the animal-keeping had a legitimate purpose. For example, we ending up eating the chickens.
And my dear sister, all of 25 years old, successful, semi-cynical woman of the world, drops two decades in a second, and I’m looking into the eyes of child, one who has just lost a pet.
“We ate those chickens?” she asks, lip atremble, eyes so very large.
“Yes,” I confirm, unable to say more.
She nods, slow acceptance creeping across her face.
“They were my friends,” she says, voice small and sad. “Dad told me some nice farmer came by and gave them all a home.”
I think all parents mess with their kids’ heads, intentionally and not, in ways subtle and obvious.
“I’m sorry,” I tell her, unable to put into words my guilt over my complicity in the demise of her beloved birds.
“Did we eat those cows, too?”
I nod, fearing what this confirmation could bring.
“Well, good; I never liked them, anyway.”
Ah, practical; we get that from Mom.
It's from Last Grey Poet, who used to write for the HHJ
The parrot joke is an old favorite. Thanks for refreshing the memory.
As for chickens who are members of the family: My younger sister and I grew up on a fairly sizable piece of land on the edge of town, and our father occasionally took it into his head to put this land to use housing various farm animals. Invariably these urges led to mishap, though in one case this was not apparent for many years.
This was the incident of the chickens.It happened in the mid-1980s, a time when I was just entering the double-digit ages and my younger sister was (as usual) a few years behind, that Dad -- well, he was still Daddy, then -- struck on the idea of keeping chickens.
The plan was a combination of saving money, and, of course, teaching the kids the value of working.There were an even 10 of the birds, and we kept them in a smallish fenced area, complete with hand-made coop, which cost me a Saturday morning of cartoon-watching, as did so many of Dad’s construction projects, for which I was combination lumber carrier, tool caddy, and whatever other role a small-for-his age boy could manage -- your general all-purpose “go-fer.”
For the duration of raising these fowl, my younger sister and I were responsible for feeding them (not so bad) and keeping their coop relatively clean (bad.) This went on for many months, until Dad judged them ready for the table and, on a Saturday when Mom -- still Mama then, of course -- and my younger sister were away, I was put to work as chicken holder while Dad set about employing an axe.
Even now that day comes back to mind whenever I hear someone use the old Southern expression, “running around like a chicken with its head cut off.”
Let’s just say it was not pretty and leave it at that.
Nearly two decades later, as I’m in the process of moving from one small Georgia town to another, leaving one little newspaper for another, the moving day conversation ranges -- as conversations among friends and family, especially those made when very tired, are wont to do -- from one strange topic to another, and, among them, we hit upon Dad’s penchant for keeping critters.
My younger sister espouses the belief that he just had some weird fascination with raising animals, but I (in a rare moment) come to his defense, saying at least some of the animal-keeping had a legitimate purpose. For example, we ending up eating the chickens.
And my dear sister, all of 25 years old, successful, semi-cynical woman of the world, drops two decades in a second, and I’m looking into the eyes of child, one who has just lost a pet.
“We ate those chickens?” she asks, lip atremble, eyes so very large.
“Yes,” I confirm, unable to say more.
She nods, slow acceptance creeping across her face.
“They were my friends,” she says, voice small and sad. “Dad told me some nice farmer came by and gave them all a home.”
I think all parents mess with their kids’ heads, intentionally and not, in ways subtle and obvious.
“I’m sorry,” I tell her, unable to put into words my guilt over my complicity in the demise of her beloved birds.
“Did we eat those cows, too?”
I nod, fearing what this confirmation could bring.
“Well, good; I never liked them, anyway.”
Ah, practical; we get that from Mom.
# posted by Charlotte @ 12:58 AM 
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The good grey poet's reminiscence happened to catch me on an insomniac night. I too have childhood memories of having to help with chickens. There's still a "light switch" to nowhere halfway up a bedroom wall in our old house in Montezuma (now owned by Young at Heart and Sid). My grandmother had the idea that if chickens got more light, they'd lay more eggs, so she had a switch installed right by her bed that would turn on spotlights in the chicken yard that was just outside our bedroom. Her alarm would ring in the dark of morn, and she would reach out and flick the switch, creating a blaze of light. I grew up thinking that sun rose all at once.
I "edited" it,but blog-editing seems to have a mind of its own - won't indent,for example. I hope that it's better now.
My grandmother was an interesting lady in all respects (This is my southern grandmother. I also had a Swedish grandmother)
Her name was Adrianne Harp Moore, and she actually had a college education in that day and age. She was a teacher, and then was elected Superintendent of Schools. When she went to work she wore suits, which she referred to as sewts, and she actually had pince nez attached to retractable thin chain that was pinned to her suit lapel. I remember her reading Balzac in French and badgering me to learn my Latin. She also trained us all to compete in the spelling competions of the time. (I won county, but got no further) At the same time,she had grown up on a farm and frequently said "money spent on food is wasted." The entire yard -- and there's a lot of it -- was cultivated. She grew all kinds of vegetables in addition to raising the silly chickens. The front yard had azaleas and cemellias and a big rose arbor. She was quite vain and wore shoes that were a size too small all of her life. I loved her dearly and have not yet in my life recognized any genetic inheritance from her.
My grandmother was an interesting lady in all respects (This is my southern grandmother. I also had a Swedish grandmother)
Her name was Adrianne Harp Moore, and she actually had a college education in that day and age. She was a teacher, and then was elected Superintendent of Schools. When she went to work she wore suits, which she referred to as sewts, and she actually had pince nez attached to retractable thin chain that was pinned to her suit lapel. I remember her reading Balzac in French and badgering me to learn my Latin. She also trained us all to compete in the spelling competions of the time. (I won county, but got no further) At the same time,she had grown up on a farm and frequently said "money spent on food is wasted." The entire yard -- and there's a lot of it -- was cultivated. She grew all kinds of vegetables in addition to raising the silly chickens. The front yard had azaleas and cemellias and a big rose arbor. She was quite vain and wore shoes that were a size too small all of her life. I loved her dearly and have not yet in my life recognized any genetic inheritance from her.
Remarkably, the chicken story could be mine, expect it was in Pennsylvania rather than Georgia. And my little sister did know what happened to the chickens. The most remarkable incident of chicken-slaughtering days was when I was chasing a chicken, and it laid an egg as it ran. I expect this was a tactic to delay the pursuer. In this case it worked -- egg shells come out soft, and only harden when in the air.
I hope nobody's reading this who feels kindly toward chickens. My feeling, having chased the squawking creatures and having cleaned roosts and gathered eggs from under hens is that the best chicken is extra crispy. We used to get the cut-off feet after the chicken was killed, because there is this tendon you can pull that will open and close the claws -- and we'd chase other children claiming the claws were still alive.
# posted by 
: Saturday, January 14, 2006
: Saturday, January 14, 2006
now i don't feel so bad that my cousins and i use to de-tail lightning bugs and stick the lights on our faces. that seems to pale in comparison to chasing small children with dead chicken feet. of course my cousins probably led to the invention of juvenile court.
# posted by : Sunday, January 15, 2006
: Sunday, January 15, 2006
Your Honor, We just played with "live" chicken feet and tore up lighting bugs because we didn't have any toys.
I will keep a muzzle on my mouth as long as the wicked are in my presence. Psalms 39:1, your honor.
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# posted by : Monday, January 16, 2006
: Monday, January 16, 2006 << Home
