Chickie

This is an action photo of my father feeding somebody's chickens. The lady in the skirt behind him was probably a neighbor who liked children, because my father's parents would sooner keep a hippopotamus in their carp pond than chickens. You might think that this picture indicates that dad developed a kinship with the birds, enough so that he might raise some himself when he became a man. This was not to be. He married an R.N. who was trained over three years in 36-hour shifts, just like doctors were and are today. This put neat and tidy in the blood. She would sooner have kept a diplodocus in her cap than chickens in the yard. This was to have interesting repercussions later.

My mother married a man who although overqualified academically for delivering coal and loading feedbags onto frieght cars, had a gift for making people feel good. The son of wealth moved easily among his Amish customers and farm families; he was one of them. He even had a farming rhythm to his voice, and fell almost naturally into the phrases and accents of his customers. This drove his wife nuts, because before they married he had a Virginia twang and a college boy vocabulary, whereas she, like many folks coming up out of poverty, paid extra attention to her speech. For her class it was a part of the ticket out. Neither of them had counted on marriage to turn their worlds upside-down.

Even long past Depression days, farming was (and is) a risky business. Mostly the customers paid their bills in cash, sometimes in fits and starts, and sometimes not at all. My grandfather forgave many a debt that was never spoken of beyond his office. Paying or not, the dignity of the customer was most important. A face saved was a face that would speak well of the family business for generations.

Thus it was that one very, very hot June day my father delivered coal, or maybe feed, or lumber - to a customer who wished to pay in chickens. Although the customer pressed my father to accept several birds, he protested that he could accept only one, because his wife was so busy with something (who knows?) but she would be by in the car later that day to collect. There was never a question of not accepting chickens for payment. The customer's pride was on the line and who knew? Someone might really want it.

Inwardly my mother hit the ceiling but being the great wife that she was, she dutifully piled the two little girls and Brother No.2 into the big red Ford station wagon. It was red inside and out. Everything in it was red. A better choice for the trip might have been a brown Ford, but too late - we were on our way to the farmer's.

Brother No.2 acted like he went for chickens every day. My sister and I were wild with excitement. A pet! "This bird is not a pet!" Mother warned. It's a chicken. And after we get it and take it home, we're giving it away." Her tone told us she would not be moved. But at least we would have our small time in the station wagon with our own chicken. My brother pretended he was in San Francisco. Mother pulled into the farm lane and the wife was there to greet us. She held a brown chicken upside-down. Its feet were tied and it didn't seem to like it. My mother got out of the car with a big paper bag in her hand. We stared at the chicken with rich fantasies of keeping it in a doghouse and dressing it in castoffs. My sister jumped the gun on me and named it Chickie. Mother slipped the bird headfirst into the big paper bag and thanked the wife profusely. She stowed the bird in the back seat, with me. I almost fainted from excitement. Then, before we hit the road, the chicken wrenched itself out of the bag and performed amazing leaps and somersaults. Feathers flew. With its feet still bound it fought back with its final means of defense. Chicken excrement began to fly everywhere. Immediately the chicken-as-pet fantasy died. With claw and beak it attacked. Feathers scraped with surprising pain against our bare arms. It was flying in the car!

The eyes seemed void of life, and the squawks and cries were my first taste of a living thing in misery. The odor was indescribable, only to say it smelled like chicken s___ and we knew from that day on why that phrase had such power and popularity. "Just keep it out of my face," Mother said calmly. My sister and I were frozen in terror and amazement. Brother No.2 manfully assumed leadership and kept the thing away from her eyes and away from our legs. In not a moment too soon Mother pulled into the back yard and calmly but swiftly assigned us tasks. Chickie was humanely tethered to a clothes pole. Brother No.2 brought it a pan of water and what did the bird use it for? Sister and I, still dazed from seeing a creature go from fantasy pet to hand grenade, obediently gathered rags from the ragbag and Mother went into the house and came out with a cleaner that guaranteed not to tarnish metal.

By evening the car was red again, but everyone agreed that the windows must stay rolled down all night) and it was laughter and happy times around the supper table. Mother and Father had cooperated to achieve a goal; when disaster struck, we children were enlisted to join the family effort; the farmer and his wife enjoyed a small breather from frozen cash flow. These were the times, when the family was united in good ways for good things, that I felt most alive, and pray that the sad and frightened faces of the children I see in prison might know if only in their sleep the safety and joy of being a child in a family that knows how to live, parents that know how to love.

My childish wish to keep Chickie alive was dead. I did not mind if someone else would take it and dress it, properly. Mother knew best. I could rely on her word as I relied on Father's ability to always earn a living for us.

Much later, in my father's last years, he used to call all women between the ages of 21 and 25 "Chickie."