Posted on 02/11/2009 5:28:05 PM PST by SJackson
Wisconsin author Michael Perry has a book called "Truck: A Love Story." I decided to write a story and title it "Chickens: Not a Love Story."
Let's start at the beginning of this non-love story. Which came first, the chicken or the egg? On our farm, it was a little of each. Sometimes they arrived as little chicks in a box and other times they popped out of eggs.
I was searching my overcrowded memory bank, trying to remember where we got our baby chicks. I was pretty sure we bought them from Storbakken's in Westby. They had a grocery store, but I also remember going into a room next door where there was an incubator for hatching baby chicks. It seemed like hundreds of them were peeping and scurrying around. Dad would buy 25 to 50 of the small, fuzzy chicks. They put them in large cardboard boxes with small air holes in the sides and we took them home.
I called Sandra (Storbakken) Iverson in Westby to see if my memory was correct. She confirmed that her family had operated the Westby Hatchery next door to their grocery store. Her father bought the eggs for hatching from local farmers. She said her job was to feed and water the chicks. She also got to take some black ones home overnight. Little chicks can be cute and cuddly at that stage, but just wait.
After we got them home, we put the chicks in a small brooder house, equipped with heat lamps to keep them warm. I also remember an upside-down glass jar used as a water dispenser. The chicks were fun to take care of and watch when they were young.
But then they grew up. At that point they graduated to the chicken house where they joined the mature chickens. The pecking order, so to speak, was quickly established. Roosters generally ruled the roost.
When I was young, my job was feeding the chickens and gathering eggs. A rooster guarding his harem of hens can be mighty intimidating to a youngster. It's surprising how fast a rooster can run when it's chasing you. If I stopped and confronted him, he suddenly flew up in the air at me, wings flapping, and attacked me with his beak and sharp spurs. It made the hair rise on the back of my neck. If a rooster or hen got too feisty, it was relegated to the chopping block and became a tasty meal. Ah, sweet revenge.
Gathering eggs could be an adventure too. Wood nesting boxes lined the walls of the front room of the chicken house. If a hen still occupied a nest, I'd cautiously reach underneath to retrieve the eggs. Sometimes I got pecked. I guess that's where the old saying "hen-pecked" comes from. After all the eggs were gathered into a wire egg basket, they were taken to the house for cleaning and sorting by Ma.
In the summer the chickens were allowed outside and had free reign of the area around the farmyard. In the evening they retired to the back room of the chicken house where there were horizontal poles for them to roost on. I still don't understand how sitting on a pole and trying to sleep can be restful. How do they keep from falling off the pole when they're asleep? It's another of the great mysteries of life.
Now let's go back to which came first, the chicken or the egg. When we bought baby chicks from Storbakken's hatchery, the chicks came first. They hatched from eggs. I know this is all a technicality, but we didn't take eggs home; we took chicks home.
On the farm, some hens would sneak off and lay their eggs in a secret place, usually in the old granary. If we didn't locate the nests in time, little chicks emerged from the eggs about 21 days later. Because the eggs were there before the chicks, naturally the eggs came first. We could debate this question until the chickens come home to roost, but we'd still be going in a never-ending circle.
One of our chicken-related jobs was to find the hidden nests with the settin' hens and retrieve the eggs before they reached the embryo stage, or a hen abandoned the nest and the eggs went bad. Have you ever smelled a busted rotten egg? That sulfurous stench can turn your stomach inside out. I'm not saying that David and I ever threw rotten eggs at each other, but hypothetically, it could have happened.
I hated cleaning out the chicken house in the spring. The chicken droppings could be a foot deep under the roosting poles. Breathing in the fine dust raised from the chicken droppings did my lungs and breathing no favors. It can cause histoplasmosis and scarring in the lungs. There are spots in my lungs. I'm susceptible to lung problems and need to avoid congestion from viruses and colds. I like to call it my chicken lungs. I suspect other people who once raised chickens also have lung problems but aren't aware of what may have caused it.
Chickens: I've been chased, attacked, scratched, pecked, humiliated, splattered with rotten eggs, saddled with chicken lungs, and even pooped on while cleaning out the chicken house. Is it any wonder I don't have a love affair with chickens?
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I don't like roosters, they're noisy. And chickens "attract" them.
The article just about says it all. Except that chickens like to wander around and scratch freshly planted flowers out of flower beds.
I’m not much of a chicken eater, but I must say that REVENGE is delicious!
Which came first? The chicken or the egg?
The rooster.
It was also my job to gather the eggs.
Our rooster was of the Shack Nasty Clan and loved to take out after me. I still have nightmares about something chasing me. Dad had noted that he had better get rid of that particular rooster as he was overly protective of the hens.
We had a coffee can by the door for gathering the eggs, but one particular day there were more eggs than room in the coffee can. So I was a little slower than normal and had to invent places to keep the eggs. So I filled my pockets.
Delay in gathering lead to the rooster finishing his freshly picked grass out in the yard. Somehow he spied me gathering those precious eggs and here he came.
I could hear him running after me. I made it to the door of the chicken yard, but did not stop to slam the door in his face. Instead I did what every kid does, ran for the house.
I could still hear him coming and as I turned around, while running at full speed, just to see where he was, I slammed into the side of the house. Can full of eggs, pockets full of eggs and a rooster who was probably doubled over in laughter at the site.
Mom to her dying day still recounted how long it took to get the shells out of the pockets.
A couple days later, some hungry farm hands stopped in. Dad talked them into taking three roosters.
They returned to complain how tough one of those roosters was. Couldn’t even chew after we cooked it all day.
I was “lucky” enough to have goats as a kid. I’ll take a noisy rooster over a billy any day of the week.
As you all know, I LOVE my hens. ‘My Girlz.’ I think the Chicken is the most useful critter God put on this Earth!
Except for that ‘magical animal’ the pig, which gives us bacon, pork chops, tenderloin roasts, awesome BBQ and even Canadian Ham, whether you’re a Canadian or not, Eh!
However, I have no desire to RAISE pigs.
And I HATE goats for reasons stemming from my childhood as an indentured slave on my Aunt’s farm...so let’s not even go there, shall we? LOL!
LOL! THAT is a GREAT story. Loved it! :)
My mother HATED turkeys.
Not growing up on a farm, only spending summers and weekends there, I hated bulls, but learned early on that a trusty dog would protect me, so have had multiple dogs my entire life.
I don't like goats cause lamb is tastier, though goat is good with curry.
I don't like donkeys, even horses much.
This is a theraputic thread.
Thanks, great story.
“Thought of you when I posted it....This is a theraputic thread.”
Are you implying that I need therapy for my Chicken Addiction? LOL!
THESE people need therapy and a lesson in hygienics:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ygKxFMRRG9M
This reminds me of stories my father used to tell about himself growing up. A mean rooster pecked him while gathering eggs. He complained to my grandmother and sure enough, an hour later he spotted only the rooster’s head laying in the chicken yard. They had that old rooster for dinner that night.
My father became interested in the flight characteristics of chickens and commenced dropping them from atop a windmill. He said they flew like a brick. Sometime later, my grandfather wondered aloud why the hens had not laid eggs for a week. My grandmother replied, asking whether Junior tossing chickens from the windmill might have anything to do with it. WHAT???
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