Chickens

 The eternal question of which came first will not be answered here. When my brothers and I were deported to our maternal grandparents’ farm in Woodstock for the summer, we spent our first days running around the farm exploring, marveling at the machinery in the barn, chasing the cats that kept the rodents at bay and wondering at the vegetables (who knew they grew out of the ground) and flowers that were my grandmother’s domain.  The peonies and hollyhocks were her pride and joy; such resplendent colors; much better than any Crayola color set. 

And I remember a very large chicken coop that housed a couple of dozen chickens and a couple of roosters. Those were some lucky roosters. I would stare at the menagerie through the chicken wire for hours, fascinated. Real live chickens, with feathers and beaks. The only chickens I had ever seen in the big city were dead, plucked and hanging or bagged. These hens were plump, round, live and mean. 

Every once in a while the two roosters, Foghorn and Panchito, would eye each other warily but kept to their own territory, more or less; a certain detente prevailed between them. Nonetheless, I often wondered about their conversations: “Did you see that new young redhead?” “You mean the Rhode Island Red? Crow. She’s no spring chicken.”

Each morning my grandfather rose with the dawn to tend to his various chores, ending with feeding the chickens. He had a sack of feed in the barn from which he’d collect a metal panful, venture into the coop and spray the seeds on the ground. The chickens scurried around him, pecking the ground hungrily for their daily meal then would spend the rest of the day scratching for any leftovers. Meanwhile, as they ate, my grandfather nimbly and unobtrusively raided their roost for eggs. Once the eggs were collected he “flew the coop”. 

Like my grandfather, I woke with the roosters’ calls. I’d scramble downstairs and follow my grandfather outside, asking too many questions at too early an hour. Oftentimes I asked to feed the chickens with him but he always answered that I was too little. I took umbrage regarding my stature. I was almost four feet tall. I repeatedly claimed to be big enough. I was sure that I was big enough, I said again and again. Finally, one early dawn, to shut me up, he relented. He allowed me to enter the coop behind him even though he was sure that it was a bad idea. I grabbed a handful of seeds from his pan and looked at what I held in the palm of my tiny hand. Wanting the moment to last, I proceeded to dole the kernels out two or three at a time. The chickens weren’t having any part of my miserly handouts so they pecked at my legs, clucking and demanding more feed. I wasn’t having any of their sass so I screamed and kicked at the chickens who were taking chunks of my body for dessert. No part of this scenario sat well with my grandfather who, horrified, immediately lifted me up above the line of chicken beaks. My screeching and the chickens’ cackling brought my mother and grandmother racing out of the house to see what was the matter. Me sobbing wildly, legs bleeding, while my grandfather held me by the armpits was not a picture that made any sense to them; a resounding round of recriminations ensued. My poor grandfather was no match against three generations of extremely perturbed women. Red faced and dejected, he had no alibi or defense as he carried me to safety, apologizing profusely for what I had done. After all, he couldn’t very well blame me. I was only seven years old. 

To this day, whenever I have the chance to eat chicken, I take my revenge.