I love chickens. I always have. When I was a kid, we had chicken
every Sunday. Other
than fat back and other pig parts, it was about the only meat we ate.
I had two pet chickens. The first one was a hen. I used to hypnotize
her all the time. They are very vulnerable to hypnotists. You just
pick them up, put them above your head and swirl them around a few
times. Set them down and they are in a trance. Unfortrunately, they
are not under your command. One, they are fairly stupid. Then the
other thing is, they don't talk our language. You have to talk
Chicken Talk if you want them to do anything. But, still, it was a
hoot to have a hen in a trance.
The second pet chicken I had was a rooster who was half-blind. He had
a habit of wandering under the house in the middle of the day. It was
dark under there and he thought it was night time, so he would roost.
And roost. And roost. When I finally missed him, I would have to
crawl under the house and drag him out into the daylight.
Immediately he would start crowing as loudly as he could. (I told you
chickens were dumb.) He was not very reliable as a wake-up call
unless you were working on the second shift.
Once I got to a certain age, it became my responsibility to kill the
chicken for Sunday
dinner. It was a big responsibility for a 10 year old boy having to
make life and death decisions. especially when it involved some of
your friends. (I was an only child so
I befriended anything that breathed, except snakes. )
I would toss out a few pieces of dried corn and all the chickens would
come running.
They would start pecking at the corn and I would have to decide whose number was
up. Sometimes I would say "inny-menny-minny-moe" and use that method to choose.
Sometimes I would ask God to guide me in my decision. After all, he
knew which chickens had been good or bad. But usually I just had to
make a quick decision or the corn would run out and they would run
away.
I learned to grab one by the neck, grit my teeth and wring its neck.
Sometimes I wrung it so enthusiastically that the whole head would
come off in my hand and the chicken would go running around in the
yard like...well...a chicken with its head cut off. That was always
amusing to a 10-year-old boy, but not to his Momma. If we were having
people over for supper, I'd have to kill two chickens. Or if they
were big eaters on my father's side of the family, I'd have to kill
three.
Killing them was gruesome, but it was the easy part. After they had
quit running around,
I had to boil water in a big pot in the yard, then I had to dip them
in the water...get the chicken really wet and then pick the feathers
off.. There were always some small feathers left, but I could singe
them off. Again, fairly amusing for a young boy.
I had a step grandmother who lived with us from time to time. She was
Jewish, we were told. She insisted that all the blood be drained from
her chickens before they
were cooked. So I would usually have to chop the heads off of these
chickens which was more dangerous than it probably sounds. I was a
nervouse boy, you see, and
to hold a flapping chicken on a chopping block, hold an ax and swing
it at the neck of
the chicken was intimidating. I was always certain I would chop off a
few fingers for killing all those other chickens. I figured there was
a Chicken God someplace just eager
to settle the score. But it never happened. My step grandmother made
me hang her chickens upside down on the clothesline while they dripped
blood. That was a spooky
sight but, again, fairly amusing for a yung boy. And even his friends
who would come by
and say, "I see your step grandma is in town again."
I have a couple of chicken feet now, but no chickens. Chicken feet
are powerful charms
in the Voodou World. A friend and I went to a voodou shop in New
Orleans and the woman had a pile of chicken feet. I asked her how
much for two of them. She said
$10. I said, "I can buy two whole bar-b-qued chickens at Ingles for
$10." She said, "Sure, but you don't get the feet and that's where
all the power for warding off evil is." So I got two. So far, so
good.
I would have chickens here at Lake Sheila. But we have covenants that
don't allow any
undomesticated animals. I suppose if I walked my chicken on a leash,
I could claim that
it was domesticated.
Joe Adams
