Why is there always that one chicken? You know the one, the one who is faster than all the others and the one who gives fast food its name. I was the oldest grandchild, so it was that when grandmaw wanted chicken for supper, and I was there, it fell to me to catch and kill the chicken of the day. However, there was always a crowd of younger children helping me decide which chickens lived and which one would be reduced to those mouth watering drumsticks we’d be fighting over at the dinner table.
Standing there looking into the pen, I had many things to consider while making my selection. Roosters were off limits, I swear I wasn’t a sexist that was the number one rule. I simply picked a strong, healthy hen. Somewhere in my ten year old mind I believed, it was better if I executed one who’d led a long, full life. Then I’d squeezed through the gate into the pen trying to keep the chickens from squeezing out of it at the same time. My small, inadequate mind having picked the best candidate, I would commence to chasing said chicken around the pen. A gaggle of siblings and cousins would stand outside the pen cheering for their favorite contestant.
Some wanted me to win; they enjoyed seeing the chicken die. Cats, dogs as well as chickens would forever be leery of those cousins, later women would be too. Others would cry and root for the chicken. Once the deed was done they would pout and tell me how horrible I was. They would threaten to never speak to me again. By the time dinner was done they’d have forgotten about it and fight along with the rest for those two coveted drumsticks.
Anyway around and around the pen we’d go. Chickens squawking and flipping and flopping acting like someone was trying to kill them, which was exactly what I was trying to do. Feathers would be flyin as the chickens tried to avoid their turn at fryin. I’d be running full blast through chicken mash and all the other things which litter the floor of a chicken coup.
Two things come to me about those times. It wasn’t the mash and kernels of corn between my young bare toes that bothered me; it was the stuff that held all that together that grossed me out. Where there is chicken feed, chicken poop is not far behind. The other thing, this was before we knew there were Civil Rights or more importantly that we had any. I can’t imagine saying to my grandmaw or trying later to explain to my grandpaw. Here’s what the vegetarian would say. “I just ain’t a gonna kill no chicken grandmaw,” Here’s what the vegan would say. “What ifn that chicken were to decide to kill you grandmaw? That thar chicken gots more right to live than you do.” I’d have picked my own switch, and she’d have beaten my behind until one of us figured out what a vegan or vegetarian was and why anyone would want to be either. The last one has nothing to do with chickens. By this time, who cares? Just after she said, “boy fetch me a switch,” imagine saying, “ grandmaw let me ask you a hypothetical question.”
So, back to the chicken kickin part of the story. If you picked the wrong chicken, and several times I did. You would run in circles until you were tuckered out. The rest of the kids would then jump into the pen, to help, and there would be children, chickens, chicken feed, chicken poop and chicken feathers swirling in a circle so viciously they might create a chicken poop tornado. That’s a concept for those who grew up in New York City to try and get a grip on.
After what seemed like a week and after the poop tornado had spun off and destroyed chicken houses and trailer parks for miles, the chosen, illusive chicken would be standing on the other side of the pen blinking at me innocently. In an attempt to save face in front of all those cousins standing around looking at me with little pieces of poop and feathers in their hair, I would pick a chicken whom had not qualified for the Olympics and triumphantly deliver it to be sacrificed. I chased the same chicken a dozen times and never caught it. Other cousins gave it a try and failed too. Then one day my grandpaw simply picked it out, walked into the pen, picked it up and rung its neck. My cousins and I gained much respect for the old man that day, and while he may have accomplished many more noteworthy things in his life, in our eyes he will always be the one true chicken slayer.
No comments:
Post a Comment