This is a story my mother told us dozens of times of her experience with a Mother Hen. It didn’t save me from having the same problem. This is her original art.
For my birthday, Mama made me an Indian outfit. By now, I’d been around the chickens long enough to know a mother hen would jump all over anyone getting near their chicks. I’d already been flogged trying it. This was different. In my Indian dress, I was brave and invincible. I played pretend in the yard shooting several buffaloes with my bow, saving the tribe from starvation, single-handedly. As I rode my horse, Midnight, bareback across the prairie, my long black braids flowed behind me. I had actually imagined myself up two horses. Midnight, a black stallion with a white mane and tail and Silver a white stallion with black mane and tail. If only I’d thought to imagine Silver was a mare, they could have created their own imaginary colt, but that never crossed my mind. They were both wild and would allow no one else to ride them. When I rode one, the other ran along with us. Deep in my fantasy, I slaughtered a bear and saved the chief, who by the way, was desperate to marry me. I was having none of it. I rode into the chicken yard, bravely scooping up a baby chick. Mother Hen ignored my two stallions, Indian dress, and the long black braids flowing behind me. In a split second, she was on my head, squawking, pecking, flogging, and scratching till I gladly dropped her baby. I’d never been so disillusioned in my life. That hen had no imagination whatsoever!!!
humor
How to Get Along With Obnoxious Poultry
Daddy was a nut about poultry. He made regular patrols locally, and if he detected poultry, not in his collection, he couldn’t rest until he had one-upped whoever had put him in a “fowl mood. His enthusiasm didn’t last long enough to build a proper poultry yard, so the coyotes inevitably got whichever of the unfortunate creatures not roosting in the hen-house or trees. He enthusiastically scouted out additions to his flock who served no function but grain-eating, making a lot of racket, and a free-range pooping. Periodically, he would bring in a flock of guineas, boasting that they were excellent at letting him know if intruders were on the place. Guinea fowl are typically smaller than chickens, eat just as much and lay small, thick-shelled speckled strong-tasting eggs. Their meat has a strong, somewhat unpleasant taste. In addition to all this, at the first notice of a slight disturbance, they panic and go shrieking “pot-rack, pot-rack”, flying madly in all directions. A slight disturbance is likely nothing more than a feather falling off a guinea hen standing nearby. Having bragged about what excellent “watch dogs” they were, he’d tolerate the incessant racket and disturbance of the guineas better than the rest of us did. I never felt bad when the coyotes snatched the last of the guineas.
Geese made an occasional appearance, remarkable for their noisy honking, arrogance, biting, and lifelong diarrhea. Since we never ate nor plucked a goose, ours served absolutely no other purpose, other than giving up plenty of practice in guarding our backsides against their bites and teaching us the value of wiping our shoes. Cool kids don’t show up at school with goose sh__ on their shoes. The coyotes liked geese, too.
Chickens were a given. They roosted in the chicken house at night to keep them safe from varmints, but they had the run of the place during the day. They were pleasant to look at as they bobbed around the place, but weren’t interested in toilet training. Most importantly, hens lay an egg a day a few months of the year. They had a nice nesting box built high off the ground. The prim and proper among them hopped up the little ladder, strolled along till they found their favorite nest, and deposited an egg. Afterward, they cackled out news of their accomplishment and hopped back down the ladder one hop at a time. The renegades and slow learners stole away to hide a nest in the bushes. Gathering eggs was a job for women and small children. Mother listened for these naughty girls and sent us scurrying to find their eggs. It was very important not to take the “nest egg” or the hen would abandon the nest and steal away to hide her nest. Hens weren’t too fussy about the nest egg being genuine and were perfectly satisfied with glass nest eggs, or an old white door knob, just so the handle pointed down.
We gathered eggs just before dark. Should eggs be left in the nest after dark, chicken snakes were likely to steal them. More than once I have reached in gather eggs and grabbed a scaly black snake instead of a warm fresh egg. Once I was gratified to find a snake skeleton complete with a crushed glass egg resting inside.
In the spring, Mother would “set” her hens when she noticed hens acting “broody” or fussing around and feathering a nest. Instead of gathering the broody hen’s eggs, she’d add a few eggs to the pile. The hens never seemed bothered to see the increase. They’d sit on the nest for about three weeks till the biddies hatched out. She’d parade around proudly with her babies, fiercely protective. Many a child, dog, or cat has lived to regret interfering with a mother hen’s babies. They’d fly on an aggressor in a fury, flogging, spurring, and beating. I learned early and well to respect Mother Hen.
My grandma loved her chickens and had personal relationships with them, naming each. Her hens jumped on her shoulders when she went in the chicken yard. She was not above pointing out to Mabel that Helen had laid a double-yoked egg, nor mentioning to them that if egg production didn’t pick up, a lazy chicken might get invited to Sunday dinner. Grandma’s feelings for her hens got more personal as she got older, and she started retiring her hens instead of inviting them to Sunday dinner. Grandpa raised peas to feed the chickens. When he went into the chicken yard to toss them their peas, they fogged up to sit on his shoulders and on the top of his head.
Dogs loved eggs, too. Should a dog be foolish enough to take up “egg-sucking” or “chicken-killing” his days on the farm were numbered. When my grandpa’s dog got in and killed one of her precious layers, she tied the dead hen around his neck and made him wear it for several days, ridding him of his interest in chickens forever.
Once we had a Tom turkey, one of the most detestable creatures living. He’d been given to Daddy by a deranged backwoodser who found him too evil for his tastes. Naturally, Daddy grabbed him up and brought him straight home to us, leaving him to the care of his darling bride and tender children along with the rest of the rest of the barnyard creatures. Daddy enjoyed procuring creatures, not caring for them. That’s what his family was for. In theory, we only had to tolerate the turkey until Thanksgiving day, when Tom would be the centerpiece of our holiday table. All we had to do was somehow survive until then. At his previous home, he’d had a harem of turkey hens, till he got so mean he had to go. For a few days after his arrival, that devil had the run of our barnyard, terrorizing the other fowl. Deprived of their gentling company, his testosterone exploded. They escaped into the tree branches, under the barn, into stalls, as soon as they’d hear him strutting and making his aggressive, scratchy mating sound, “Aruh! Aruh! Aruh!” Turkeys don’t always say “Gobble, gobble, Gobble! Denied the company of poultry, he was not picky about partners, jumping on anything that didn’t get out of his way. He was no respecter of species and attempted to molest pigs. goats, and even horses. I was so glad when Daddy put a stop to his antics. That was one year we gave heartfelt thanks a few weeks early.
Farm Life Ain’t for Kiddies and Cowards
Original art by Kathleen Holdaway Swain
Being a farm kid is not for sissies and cowards. The dark side of the chicken-raising experience is slaughtering, plucking, cleaning, and preparing of chickens for the pot. I watched as Mother transformed into a slobbering beast towering over the caged chickens while we shooed them into the corner of the chicken-yard. She seemed particularly calculating as she stooped, giving the poor chickens the impression the threat was over. Running her hooked wire clothes hanger at ground level into the midst of the terrorized multitude, she snatched a startled chicken who’d never expected to be attacked at the foot. Exiting the enclosure with her victim, she held it firmly by the head, giving its neck a quick snap before releasing it to turn its last crazy race. Chickens take a while to get the connection between a broken neck and the end of life. We crowded by, horribly thrilled by what we knew was coming. It was scarier than “The Night of the Living Dead” as the chicken flapped its wings, ran with its head hanging crazily to one side, and chased us in ever larger circles until it finally reached the Pearly Gates. It looked horribly cruel, but done properly, a quick snap of the wrist breaks the chicken’s neck instantly, giving a quick death. Sometimes, Mother killed several chickens for the freezer, treating the waiting chickens to a taste of what they were in for. It didn’t calm them down a bit as the watched the dearly departed flop around the yard.
Roosters are necrophiliacs, turned on by the sight of floppy-necked hens racing by. If one is enticing, just imagine the effect of a yardful! Lustful roosters have no problem resorting to violence toward moralistic humans trying to get between them their fascinating harem. For some reason, Mother was equally determined her chickens not be interfere with her chickens.
Once the chicken was disabled or dead, Mother grabbed it, plunged it into a pot of boiling water, plucked the feathers, slit its pimply white belly and removed its entrails, cut off its feet and head, and prepared it for dinner or the freezer. I was repulsed when Mother found unlaid eggs in the egg cavity and saved them for cooking. That just didn’t seem right. I was happy to eat the chicken, but future eggs…disgusting.
Mother looked out one day and saw one of her laying hens eating corn, oblivious to the fact that her gizzard was hanging out. It bobbed up and down gaily as the chicken pecked corn off the ground. Apparently she had suffered injury from a varmint. Clearly, she wouldn’t survive with this injury, so Mother and I tried to catch her. At least, she could be salvaged for the table. Well, Her running skills were still intact. We chased her all over the yard with no luck. Finally, Mother decided to put her out of her misery by shooting her. She missed. She fired again and shot the hen’s foot off. I knew I could do better. I shot her beak off, then hit her in the tail. By this time, we both felt horrible and had to get her out of her misery. Finally, the combined fatigue and her injuries had slowed the poor beakless, tailless, gizzard-bobbing, one-legged chicken down enough so we could catch her and wring her neck.
All chickens didn’t end life as happily. The LaFay girls, Cheryl, Terry, and Cammie raised chickens for 4-H completion with the of the flock destined to fill their freezer. Late one Thursday evening while their mother was at work, they realized tomorrow was the day for the 4-H barbecue chicken competition. Mama LaFay wouldn’t be in until way too late to help with slaughtering and dressing the chickens. After all the time and effort they had put in on their project, they had no choice but to press forward without Mama’s help. They’d helped Mama with the dirty business of putting up chickens lots of times. They’d just have to manage the grisly business on their own.
Cheryl, the oldest sister, drew the short straw and won the privilege of wringing the chicken’s neck. She’d seen Mama do it lots of times but didn’t understand the theory of breaking the neck with a quick snap. She held the chicken by the neck at arm’s length and swung it around a few times in a wide arc giving it a fine ride, but no real injury. When she released it, it just ran off drunkenly. The girls chased and recaptured the chicken a couple of times, giving it another ride or two before the drunken chicken flew up into a tree, saving its life. Acknowledging her sister’s failure, Terry stepped up to do her duty. She pulled her chicken from the chicken yard, taking it straight to the chopping block, just like she’d seen Mama do so many times. Maybe she should have watched a little closer. Instead of holding the chicken by the head and chopping just below with the hatchet, Terry held it by the feet. The panicked chicken raised its head, flopped around on the block, and lost a few feathers. On the next attempt, Cammie tried to help by holding the chicken’s head, but fearing dismemberment jumped when Terry swung the hatchet. The poor chicken only got a slice on its neck. By now, all three girls were squalling. Cheryl tied a string on the maimed chicken’s neck. As Cammie held its feet they stretched the chicken across the block. By now, Terry was crying so hard so really she couldn’t see. Taking steady aim, she chopped Henny Penny in half, ending her suffering. Guilt-stricken, they buried the chicken.
Defeated, they finally called their Aunt Millie, who came over and helped them kill and dress their chickens for the competition. They triumphed and won second place in a field of two. God only knows what the other team’s chickens may have endured. All’s well that ends well.
Rudy Carries On
Jody’s rooster acted just like him, except maybe for the drinking. He was in a chronic bad mood, always looking for a fight. We could hear him coming. “ Aruuh, aruuuh, aruuuh.” He sounded like the screeching of metal rubbing against itself. He entertained himself by stalking around and finding someone or something to attack. We all despised Rudy, and ran when we heard, “Aruuh, aruuh, aruuh.” I was visiting the neighbor kids, Lainy and her mean big sister Nita, when Rudy hopped the Austin’s fence into their yard. If Nita ever played with us, we could usually count on a mean trick, like stomping our mudpies or kicking down the walls of our playhouses. As we sat in the grass making clover chain necklaces, Nita jumped up and ran in the house. She latched the screen door behind her, not saying a word. Lainy and I just kept on making our necklaces when we heard, “Aruuh, aruuh, aruuh,” right behind us.
Rudy had sneaked up on us. We tried to escape, but he jumped high on Lainy’s back, hanging onto her hair, clawing and scratching her with his big spurs. I made it to the front porch, but Rudy hung on to Lainy, flogging and clawing. Every time she tried to make it to the porch, Rudy clawed her again, and off she went, his beating fueling her terror. Poor little Lainy ran round and round the house, that sneaky Nita running from window to window, door to door, laughing and enjoying the whole thing. When Lainy’s mother realized what was going on, she raced to Lainy’s rescue. Rudy kept spurring Lainy somewhere out in the yard . Finally, Lainy’s mother caught up to her and pulled Rudy off her. Furious as a mama bear, she whirled Rudy around smartly to snap his evil neck, slung him a few times around her head to do be sure she’d done the job right, then turned him loose to do his final chase around the yard. Even though his head hung to one side and flopped madly as he ran in circles, it wasn’t comforting to see the depraved monster coming at us again.
Jody Austin had started over to save his property when he realized Rudy had gotten in over his head, but reconsidered when he saw Rudy’s sad fate at that enraged mama’s hands. Nita didn’t fare too well when her Mama made time to deal with her, either.
Rudy the Rooster and his Boosters
The Austins lived just across the pasture from us. Jody Austin “drank.” In our neck of the woods, “drinking” meant a man was considered disreputable, prone to beat his wife and children, and probably didn’t work. It sounded a lot like today’s alcoholic. Jodie qualified magnificently. It was rumored that he had shot a man in a bar. Folks left Jody alone. Every Saturday night Jody hosted his “drinking” buddies for a binge. The festivities started with a huge bonfire. As they sat around on barrels, old cars, and broken lawn chairs, they tossed their cans out in the darkness. They got louder, sometimes had a friendly fight, occasionally rolling all around the fire, finishing off with a little singing…a treat for all the neighbors.
Jody and his gang of rowdies got sufficiently drunk, they started crowing trying rouse the rooster! Jody had a fine crowing voice, but roosters are territorial, determined to keep their harem to themselves. Since roosters habitually are “early to bed and early to rise,” it usually took about four tries to get Rudy the Rooster going. His initial response was usually half-hearted and anemic. Roo-ooh- ooh-ooh-ooh-oooooh. He obviously needed his rest. Jody’s buddies took a turn crowing. Rudy was riled now and ready for a rooster fight, but couldn’t find a single rooster to whip. The partiers thought this was high humor. They all took turns crowing. After a particularly authentic crow, Rudy called back “ROOH-OOH-OOH-OOH-OOOOOOH!!!” The longer the competition went on, the madder Rudy got. He must have hated Saturday nights and drinking.
First in a series
How Miss Tillie Tittillated the Heathen
Miss Tillie, my Sunday School Teacher held my attention like no other before or since, giving the class candy, bubble gum, and tiny little paper umbrellas if we learned our Bible verses. Mother thought she ought not to bribe us to do our lessons. I thought Mother ought to mind her own business. Miss Tillie had already taught Sunday School for thirty years by the time I had her in 1956. She still wore lacy dresses left over from her daughter’s high school days when she didn’t opt for gabardine suits with oversize shoulder pads from the forties. She showed up once a month with robin’s egg blue hair that faded over the next three weeks to a pale lavender. We always complimented her when it was at its brightest and she’d shyly say, “Can you believe I don’t even have to color it?” I couldn’t. She still wore seamed stockings long after the other ladies wore seamless. I always looked forward to seeing a special one with a mended run she wore every third Sunday. I got to know Miss Tillie before I was old enough to know she was a little wacko, so I admired all her differences.
Miss Tillie was so sweet I wouldn’t have wanted to misbehave. The naughty words in the Bible caused her a big problem. She couldn’t bring herself to say the bad words like lie, sin, Hell, and ass, so she made modest substitutions such as fibbing, doing wrong, the bad place, and donkeys. The lesson of Samson versus the Philistines was a challenge for her. Starting out fine, she described Samson’s great strength and glorious hair, reminding us of his obedience to God. Things were going well until the battle reached its zenith. With her modesty, she couldn’t possibly say, “Samson slew ten-thousand Philistines with the jawbone of an ass,” so after a great deal of obvious preparation and practice, she concluded the lesson with a flourish, “and so Samson picked up the assbone of a donkey and slew ten-thousand Philistines.” That lesson is still burned in my brain.
How to Get Your Yard Work done in Three Simple Steps
My dad had a fool-proof plan to get his yard-work done easily and painlessly (for him). Let the leaves and tree debris pile up pretty high in the fall and spring. Mention casually a couple of times, “You kids are gonna’ have to clean up this yard in a few days.” Let a couple of days pass so they hope you’ve forgotten or gone blind. Come home from work on Friday afternoon in a jovial mood. This works best if you are normally a real grouch. It’s best if one of your brothers is visiting and your kids ask to spend the night with Cousin Becky, Susan, or Joey. Implement step #1
“No, Y’all have to clean the yard tomorrow, but they can stay with you if they want to help.”
He was serious about them staying, always hoping to get a little of work out of them. Even though there were no Einstein’s in our family, no cousin was ever that dumb.
“No, I am not staying! I don’t wanna’ clean the yard!” They were in the car before the screen door slammed.
Traitors!
Step #2 The next morning he’d roll us out at six am, anticipating a good day. We didn’t talk much at breakfast, especially avoiding the words yard, sweep, work, and leaves. It’s amazing how often a word jumps out when you are studiously avoiding it. “Billy didn’t LEAVE any jelly for me.”
“Don’t worry. You’ll get all the LEAVES you want today.” He made crappy jokes, playing on our dread.
Finally, he’d push his chair back, “Time for the friendships to end and the work to begin.”
I would have enjoyed flailing the genius from whom he’d picked up that cruel witticism. He routed us into the one-acre yard where the lecture began. “Now, get the wheelbarrow, rake, and yard broom. I want all these sticks picked up first. Then one of you can rake, the other sweep and the other pick up the leaves and haul them back yonder to the burn pile. Now, I mean for this yard to be clean when I get home.”
With that, he was off to whatever he had planned that day. The task looked endless, with drifted leaves from dozens of trees, shrubs, and fallen sticks. I would have gladly traded places with Sisyphus and his rock.
We had to fight a while before we got started. Phyllis was the oldest, so she commandeered the yard broom, the prize implement. Billy and I got stuck with the rake and wheelbarrow for loading and hauling leaves. Of course, we had to fight a while before we made a good start. Mother usually brought the little girls out and redirected us before she got back to her work of the day.
Step #3 Cleaning that yard would have been a huge job for a yard-proud person. Three fighting kids cleaning a yard didn’t go that well. The first time or two, we were of the mistaken belief we could make a pathetic excuse and get by with a half-done job. Daddy was of the opinion that no well-balanced kid could get through a day without a good whooping, anyway, so he was happy to oblige. He frequently quoted, “I might as well whip y’all first thing in the morning and get it over with.” A few stripes paid off handsomely in the next day’s efforts, and he had the satisfaction of knowing he hadn’t “spared the rod and spoiled the child.” We were motivated to do the job right.
Yes, indeed, Daddy knew how to get his yardwork done in three easy steps. Just so you know, I am not advocating this plan.
How Not to Get in Good With the Snotty Girls
As I ran to the playground, I spotted my “sometimes friend” Betty Green deep in conversation with Rita Lawson, the principal’s snotty daughter. The choice of friendship each day was Betty’s. Her mother and mine were friends, so when when we we at my house or hers, chances are she’d be nice to me, unless she wasn’t. I was a friendly kid and would have played with a rattlesnake. When Betty saw me running up, she turned her back, making it clear she didn’t want my company when she finally had Snotty Rita all to herself. Ignoring her cue I tromped right in. “Wanna play chase?” They didn’t. They were both squalling and loftily resumed their tearful conversation, bonding over shared grief. It seems each had recently discovered the existence of a baby sister, dead and buried long before either of these two snotties were born. I listened in awe, caught up in the drama, knowing I had nothing to offer on the altar of their shared grief.
I rushed in and questioned Mother as soon as I got home. “Did you ever have a baby that died?”
No she didn’t. I had heard women whisper of losing babies. I had no idea what that meant, but it might be worth a try.
“Did you ever lose a baby?” She was hugely pregnant at the time and quite touchy.
“No, now get started on your homework. If you don’t have any, help me with supper.”
I recalled lots of homework. Remembering an ancient picture in a box in Mother’s closet, I prowled till I found it. Aha! This will surely get me in the dead baby club! I slipped it into my math book, the first time that book had been opened at home that year.
Betty and Snotty Rita were still best buddies at recess the next day. I ran up, ignoring their cold looks, as I pulled my prize out of my jacket pocket. “Look, I have a picture of my dead baby sister. She died before I was born.” The sad image of an angelic baby in a white Christening dress, laid out in a homemade wooden coffin, her eyes closed in death was undeniable. Her black hair curled around her tiny face. They examined the picture somberly, giving me sympathetic looks as tears sprung to their eyes. I enjoyed their friendship for about thirty seconds until Betty turned the picture over and found scribbled, “Carrie Louise Perkins, born and died July 7, 1904.” I was out!!!
Now, That’s Lost!
Joe Crater, our neighbor, took his dog, Ol’ Boots and walked into the woods behind his house one afternoon intending to hunt squirrels for a while. The woods stretched for miles behind his house. It was easy to get lost, even for a fellow who’d grown up there, like Joe. He didn’t remember leaving his compass home till he reached for it a few minutes before just before dusk that cold, fall afternoon. Rattled, he walked the direction he thought was home as it started to drizzle. He thought he recognized a landmark in the distance a time or two, only to be disappointed one he reached it. Finally, as dark closed in, he realized he was just getting more and more lost. He’d expected to be home long before night, so he had no flashlight. He only had his gun, his dog, and the clothes he stood up in. He decided he’d better make a fire while he could still see to gather wood. He gathered a sizeable pile of deadwood and fallen brush, knowing he’d make it through the miserable night if he could just stay warm. Fortunately, his Zippo lighter was handy. It was a long, wet night. As soon as he could see well enough to walk without stumbling, he walked till the woods thinned enough to see the lights of a farmhouse. He was so turned around by now, he couldn’t begin the guess where he was, but had no qualms about walking up to a stranger’s house and knocking on the door, after the night he’d just endured. The dog must have passed just as bad a night as Joe since he broke and ran when he saw the house. That wasn’t like Ol’ Boots.
Exhausted and chilled to the bone, he knocked on the back door of the stranger’s house, hoping someone would give him a hot cup of coffee. A woman in a housedress, flannel shirt, and frazzled hair opened the door. She looked like she’d been “rode hard and put up wet.”
“Where in the world have you been all night?” she demanded. “I been worried crazy!”
After the night he’d just passed, he was in no mood for jokes. “Lady, don’t give me no trouble. I been lost in the woods all night and my wife’s gone be worried to death.”
She looked at him like he’d lost his mind. “Joe, it’s me, Louise. Where in the world have you been? I was just fixin’ to send for yore brothers to go lookin’ for you.”
He was so confused it took some convincing that he’d stumbled up on his own house.
Nutsrok 