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Patiently Mother explained rural economy of the early fifties. “Chickens provide food and pay bills. Petunias don’t. We judge a wife by her chickens, her garden, and how early on Monday she hangs her wash.” To be truthful, chickens didn’t like me either. If I entered the chicken yard, the young roosters lowered their heads and charged. Wings beating cadence, they pecked and tore at my bare legs. I screamed and ran. “Stand your ground,” Mother insisted. “They’re just showing off.” I kept running. In triumph, the roosters pulled themselves to full height, thrust out their chicken chests and attempted to crow. Mother swallowed the shame of a daughter who ran from roosters. The next summer she brought me a rooster - a runt with a limp. A runt the other chicks had attacked and nearly de-feathered. Reluctantly I built a pen and carried food and water. He snuggled against me for warmth and chirped into my ear. To inspire bravado and self-assertion, I named him Robert Mitchum after my favorite screen star. “You’ll go back and teach those silly roosters to behave.” I lectured him every day when I rolled bread pellets or hunted bugs for him to vary his diet. Robert Mitchum blinked and stretched his neck in an attempt to crow. I stroked his smooth white feathers. Slowly his leg regained its strength. He was no longer a runt. He was spoiled. He followed me like a dog and waited on the back step when I went inside. Perhaps all chickens were not bad. One morning we chased butterflies through the dew-dampened weeds. When I dried his feathers with an old towel, he stretched his neck to peck a round shiny bug. The “bug” was my left eye. Robert Mitchum’s beak fastened around it, twisting and pulling. Screaming with pain, I headed toward the house, certain that I had lost an eye. So much for trusting chickens, I decided from under the cold cloths. After a few days in a darkened room and pain which only chocolate ice cream could conquer, I discovered I had two eyes and one badly bruised eyelid. Robert Mitchum was gone. When Mother wasn’t looking I sneaked to the gate to call him. Robert Mitchum was far too busy finding bugs for his pullet harem. What could I expect? He was just a dumb chicken. In September we always moved the pullets and a few remaining roosters into the henhouse. It was a simple affair. Mother removed the feed trays to insure their hungry cooperation. At dusk, she opened the gate, rattled a bucket of corn, and clucked. The chickens followed the food through the back yard into the hen house. To discourage any wanderers, I stood on the back porch armed with a broom. A simple affair. Except Robert Mitchum had a flashback to his days on the back porch and headed toward me. He didn’t attack, but the others did. My screams scattered the entire flock as their talons tore into my bare legs. No amount of corn rattling could entice the chickens into their new quarters. Next morning Mother served cold cereal with her lecture. “Use the broom. Just don’t run.” My lower lip quivered. “That’s what I do best, Mother.” “Honey, you have to stand your ground.” We both knew that would be a first. That night I took my place. Rattling the corn, Mother opened the gates. One rooster broke ranks. Lowering his head, he charged. Hoping to scare him, I raised my broom. Mother turned away. I squinted. I recognized him. I remembered the pain. He deserved a lesson in manners. “Robert Mitchum, behave yourself.” I slammed the broom against the porch floor. He skidded to a stop, strangling on his crow of triumph. Shaking his glistening white feathers, he turned. Head high, he marched docilely toward the hen house followed by his loyal pullet harem. I sighed with relief. So did Mother. I went into the house to roll some bread pellets for my favorite rooster. Mother was right. Sometimes you have to take a stand. |
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Most farm girls cuddled baby chicks. I covered my ears. “Why chickens?” I protested. “Flowers are quiet, and they smell much better.”