I always wanted to be a writer. I had no time to read, mind you. I was much too busy playing outside, making up my own stories through what I now like to call "creative play". (Ordinary childhood imagination.)
Nevertheless, by fifth grade, I had a well developed novel in my head. (The "well developed" part may be slightly exaggerated.) I remember talking to one of my friends about it as we kicked dust about on the playground.
I was writing this story about a horse whose evil owner wouldn't allow it to have carrots. Why? I have no idea. But as a result, the horse began to go blind. (You understand the correlation between carrots and eyesight...my mom taught me that, I think.) The horse stumbled often, and became very depressed. That is, until a little neighbor girl (Moi, mayhaps?) began secretly sneaking carrots to the horse. Within a very short time, the horse began to see; first vague outlines, and then images. Suddenly one day the horse got a good look at the little girl and gave her a horsy kiss right on the cheek.
One night the evil owner caught the girl feeding carrots to his horse. He probably had a shotgun or maybe he just called the sheriff. Anyway, he was enraged and had her banned from...sneaking into the barn and bringing carrots. Again, the poor horse began going blind, and the little girl franticly continued to attempt to sneak carrots to her long tailed friend. Alas, to no avail. An occasional carrot could not save the horse's eyesight.
Luckily, one day the bad guy dies. I never got to the detail of how he died. I was much too innocent to have imagined that the little girl hero kid would kill him, so it must have been an accident or brief illness. A lady who inherited the estate didn't like the horse. He was blind. She gave him to the little girl. "Take him! He's blind. I don't want a blind horse." The little girl told the lady about carrots, but the lady didn't care. "Just get him out of my sight!" So the girl happily took him home and kept the horse in...her bedroom or something? I don't know. It didn't matter. She started giving him carrots again, and voila! You know the end. Happily sighted ever after.
So I always wanted to be a writer. Never mind that I hated reading novels. I loved reading illustrated children's books aloud.
So the moral of this story: feed horses carrots. There's no real point to this story...just "hello".
Visit http://deberklein.com to see my art and check out one of my blogs, Little Pink Spaceship Gazette. You also might enjoy http://recklesslydancingwhilesupperburns.blogspot.com and http://cottageonthenew.com, and http://tarpapersubmarine.blogspot.com .
I can't help it. I am a blogging junkie.
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
Romancing the Chicken
It's almost Easter, and images of chicks are everywhere.
I recall when I was about eight years old, and Mama and Daddy took us kids down to the feed store the week before Easter. It was a thing in those days for feed stores to have big incubators full of chicken eggs, ready to hatch. Farmers could replenish their chicken supply after a long winter. Of course, before Easter, some of the eggs had been injected with dyes, so chicks would tumble out of the egg already colored a fashionable peach or green or purple. Easter chicks. That one year, our parents bought each of us a freshly hatched chick.
Maybe that's why I found myself wanting chickens a few years back.
We had three acres in town and it was legal to have a certain number of farm animals. My husband is patient and tolerant. You might imagine that chickens make for good water cooler conversation at work. Besides, my daughter-in-law Jennipher wanted a half dozen chickens or so, but you had to order at least 25 chickens at a time. I don't know why. Free shipping or a chicken discount or maybe to get them sexed (where they just give you females or males). One day she stopped by with the Chicken Catalog and we split the order. Bill built a coop and a fenced in chicken yard, and I became a city girl chicken farmer for a while.
Then again, maybe I wanted chickens because I come from a long line of farmers and chickens are in my blood.
When I was a kid, we went to my grandparent's farm every summer. Sometimes I'd get to help Grandmother do chores. Certain chores, that is. For example, Grandmama didn't usually let us go with her to milk Birdie, her beautiful brown cow. Birdie was a delicate old girl, and didn't appreciate cold little hands upon her sensitive teats. Icy, ill fitting fingers made her hold her milk back, as you can imagine. (Especially you nursing moms!) And that was bad business for Grandmama.
But if we got up early enough, we could help gather eggs. Grandmama would hand my sister and me a wire basket, and we'd go through the pasture, over the crude little foot bridge that straddled the creek, and up the hill to the whitewashed chicken houses. There were two of them. They smelled like old wood mingled with dirt, feathers and chicken feed. The smaller one was made from my grandparent's first one room cabin. The second one was their first two room cabin. Granddaddy had built nesting boxes across the walls, and when the chickens weren't scratching around on the farm, they were laying in those boxes.
There's something about being eight years old and reaching your tiny arm right up to your elbow between a straw filled nesting box and a chicken's soft, warm featherd body, feeling for eggs.
One day we saw Granddaddy walking thru the yard with his shotgun and a shovel. He had a big Collie by the collar, and he was headed for the back of the barn where he was going to shoot and bury it. Of course, my sister and I didn't understand. Why would our granddaddy want to kill Lassie?
"It's a chicken dog," Granddaddy said. "He got into the chicken house and killed about fourty hens. Most animals kill for food. But a chicken dog kills for sport. Once a dog started killing chickens, it'll never stop." I remember the crack of that shotgun. No more chicken dog. It was a hard lesson in reality.
Unfortunately, (speaking of chicken dogs and reality), my own chicken farming days didn't last too long. They ended less than two years after they had begun, when two neighborhood dogs were running loose. They dug under the fence to kill all dozen of my poor chickens while I was out. In about 30 minutes, they managed to maul and slaughter every one of them, just for fun. Like Granddaddy said. The poor rooster, good husband and defender of the hens that he was, had fought bravely. But in the end, his limp body was carried down the road in the mouth of one of those dogs. Chicken dogs.
Every now and then, I miss those chickens. I miss hearing the rooster crow. I long for the cooing and clucking as the hens scratch around in the yard. Most of all, I want to experience once more the feel the warmth of a hen sitting on a freshly laid bunch of eggs as I gently reach in to gather them.
Yes. The notion of raising chickens is romantic and old-fashioned these days; it's instinctive for many of us. But frankly, I'm getting too old to go out on a cold winter's day to feed chickens. But that's a story for another day.
Happy Easter!
I recall when I was about eight years old, and Mama and Daddy took us kids down to the feed store the week before Easter. It was a thing in those days for feed stores to have big incubators full of chicken eggs, ready to hatch. Farmers could replenish their chicken supply after a long winter. Of course, before Easter, some of the eggs had been injected with dyes, so chicks would tumble out of the egg already colored a fashionable peach or green or purple. Easter chicks. That one year, our parents bought each of us a freshly hatched chick.
 |
| Geese, Gennie Hens and Chickens for sale at a flea market. I bought two geese that day, but that's another story. |
We had three acres in town and it was legal to have a certain number of farm animals. My husband is patient and tolerant. You might imagine that chickens make for good water cooler conversation at work. Besides, my daughter-in-law Jennipher wanted a half dozen chickens or so, but you had to order at least 25 chickens at a time. I don't know why. Free shipping or a chicken discount or maybe to get them sexed (where they just give you females or males). One day she stopped by with the Chicken Catalog and we split the order. Bill built a coop and a fenced in chicken yard, and I became a city girl chicken farmer for a while.
 |
| My grandson feeding the chickens, about 10 years ago. Every kid likes to feed the chickens. |
When I was a kid, we went to my grandparent's farm every summer. Sometimes I'd get to help Grandmother do chores. Certain chores, that is. For example, Grandmama didn't usually let us go with her to milk Birdie, her beautiful brown cow. Birdie was a delicate old girl, and didn't appreciate cold little hands upon her sensitive teats. Icy, ill fitting fingers made her hold her milk back, as you can imagine. (Especially you nursing moms!) And that was bad business for Grandmama.
But if we got up early enough, we could help gather eggs. Grandmama would hand my sister and me a wire basket, and we'd go through the pasture, over the crude little foot bridge that straddled the creek, and up the hill to the whitewashed chicken houses. There were two of them. They smelled like old wood mingled with dirt, feathers and chicken feed. The smaller one was made from my grandparent's first one room cabin. The second one was their first two room cabin. Granddaddy had built nesting boxes across the walls, and when the chickens weren't scratching around on the farm, they were laying in those boxes.
There's something about being eight years old and reaching your tiny arm right up to your elbow between a straw filled nesting box and a chicken's soft, warm featherd body, feeling for eggs.
 |
| Granddaddy's farm from Echo Hill. The chicken houses are the two roofs in the front. |
Soon the basket was full, and we headed back to the house, where we sat around the kitchen table cleaning and boxing the eggs for market.
Chicken Dogs are bad for business:One day we saw Granddaddy walking thru the yard with his shotgun and a shovel. He had a big Collie by the collar, and he was headed for the back of the barn where he was going to shoot and bury it. Of course, my sister and I didn't understand. Why would our granddaddy want to kill Lassie?
"It's a chicken dog," Granddaddy said. "He got into the chicken house and killed about fourty hens. Most animals kill for food. But a chicken dog kills for sport. Once a dog started killing chickens, it'll never stop." I remember the crack of that shotgun. No more chicken dog. It was a hard lesson in reality.
Unfortunately, (speaking of chicken dogs and reality), my own chicken farming days didn't last too long. They ended less than two years after they had begun, when two neighborhood dogs were running loose. They dug under the fence to kill all dozen of my poor chickens while I was out. In about 30 minutes, they managed to maul and slaughter every one of them, just for fun. Like Granddaddy said. The poor rooster, good husband and defender of the hens that he was, had fought bravely. But in the end, his limp body was carried down the road in the mouth of one of those dogs. Chicken dogs.
Every now and then, I miss those chickens. I miss hearing the rooster crow. I long for the cooing and clucking as the hens scratch around in the yard. Most of all, I want to experience once more the feel the warmth of a hen sitting on a freshly laid bunch of eggs as I gently reach in to gather them.
Yes. The notion of raising chickens is romantic and old-fashioned these days; it's instinctive for many of us. But frankly, I'm getting too old to go out on a cold winter's day to feed chickens. But that's a story for another day.
 |
| My oldest daughter Kathleene, on Easter morning. About 1971. Sponge curlers, flowered panties and jelly beans. |
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