Honorable Mention: Adult

Chicken For Dinner

It’s difficult to say why some memories stay with us readily while others get shuttled away to a corner of our mind until some rusty key, a picture or smell perhaps, unlocks it. A memory that has stayed with me from a very young age is the first time I became aware of the fact that my father loves me.

My Dad has always had difficulty when it comes to using words of affection. He’s the kind of man to show it instead of say it; this was evidenced by the subsequent birth of ten children in thirteen years. Dad just couldn’t seem to express himself in any way except to be a good provider, which, with twelve mouths under one roof, was a major feat in itself.

I was born the ninth child in the family, just twenty-two months before my little sister Lisa came along making the tally complete at ten children and two adults. To many of us kids, Dad was a presence that we just couldn’t quite put our finger on. Though the idea of him was always there; “Just wait till your father gets home,” and his physical appearance could be counted on like clockwork, his emotional presence was something not often shared.

Another reason for my Dad to hold back his feelings has to do with an event that changed him the way that tragedies often do. When his fifth born child, a son, was 9-years-old, he contracted meningitis and died suddenly. Mom and Dad changed after Davey’s death, becoming less restrictive and at the same time more distant. It was if they were afraid of loving, or disciplining, too much for fear of losing another one of us and going through all of that pain and guilt again.

Dad worked the 3-11 shift at the International Harvester tractor plant before it went bankrupt and was sold to Caterpillar. In his 32 years there he had been offered the 7-3 shift many times, but always turned it down. He explained that he loved playing pinochle with his friends, and went in two hours early every day to do just that. We later suspected that he couldn’t handle getting so many kids through homework, baths, and bedtime. When he was home on the weekends there was his paper to read in the library A.K.A. the bathroom, and sports teams playing on the television or radio. While Dad was not necessarily mean or violent most of the time, he just seemed disinterested in this large lot that had been handed to him. While growing up Dad was a sense of the word to us kids rather than a real person.

The year of 1968 we were living in my Grandpa Woods’ farmhouse, the first and last place where we had become a complete family. It was white clapboard with a tin roof and sat facing away from the road as if it had secrets to keep. When raindrops would first start pinging against the tin, some of us would stand in the dining room counting and jumping as quickly as we could until the rain would either get too fast or stop, being only a small summer spurt.

We had run of the sixty-six acres the farmhouse sat on along with a pond and creek that held our attention on long summer days after chores were done. Being one of the youngest children got Lisa and me out of the majority of farm labors, planting, hoeing, and weed pulling, until we were older. Our work at that time consisted mainly of learning to make our beds, being where mom could find us all the time, and staying out of the way of six older brothers. Mostly we spent our days under the cool shade of the Water Maple and Box Elder trees in the back yard, playing pretend or using spoons as shovels. We were always dreaming of finding buried treasure in the ground, mom was always wondering where all the spoons had disappeared to.

Sometimes we played with the many animals that were bought for both the farm and entertainment. We had ducks to make a picturesque setting on the pond and for us to chase and never quite catch. This lasted until Mom accidentally backed over Millie on one of her many trips to the grocery. The other ducks took this as a sign that they had worn out their welcome and soon disappeared.

We had a pony named Macaroni to ride around bareback as there was never any extra money for a saddle. When she had a little colt, we all voted on several names but the overwhelming favorite was Cheese. We would walk out to the pasture and holler, “Come here Macaroni and Cheese.”

There was always a variety of animals that were cared for and ate to supplement Dad’s income from the plant. Cows used for milk and butter were bought in the spring and one was always sacrificed for our meals when the first frosts signaled winter would be sweeping in soon.

A few times we had little pink piglets that grew into fat hogs. They were much smellier than cows though and the hams had to be smoked and the bacon sent off to be sliced, so we only had pigs once or twice.

Chickens were bought one hundred at a time because their eggs were used at almost every meal in some way and we had Mom’s delicious fried chicken every Sunday for dinner. We watched these birds turn from shrill yellow balls of soft fluff into clucking wild-eyed beings with albino feathers and red combs adding to their somewhat crazed look. There seemed to be every variety of animal at one time or another, but the one I especially remember is a fowl I’ll call psycho-chicken.

I was about 5 when a group of chicks had grown into young adults and one hen in particular took her slightly maddened look a bit further. Whenever we children were in the yard she would stalk us! While pretending to be interested in finding worms or other bugs, she would slowly edge closer until suddenly she would run up and peck someone on the leg. After that the offended would run towards the house crying, and the offender would run towards the henhouse.

One late spring morning after the other seven kids had gone off to school; Dad and I were in the yard talking while he was working on the tractor, again. I was pushing my second-hand bike around while keeping an eye on psycho-chicken, her white feathers standing out starkly against the Kentucky bluegrass. She was maneuvering towards me as I chattered on like a monkey and rocked my bicycle back and forth so she couldn’t peck me.

Dad stopped working on the tractor to give me a puzzled look and asked,

“What are you doing?”

“I’m keeping that chicken from pecking me,” I told him.

“Oh, that chicken won’t bother you,” he grunted.

I stopped rolling my bike and looked at him. I really couldn’t blame him for not believing me, after all this was not the usual barnyard behavior of poultry. After I stopped the bike wacko chicken flew between the wheels and pecked me on the leg. Dad stood there with this stunned look on his face for a half a second and then took off after the bird as it ran for the chicken coop. With his greasy black hands he had picked up an ax from his tool chest before chasing the crazed bird around the yard.

Dad is about the fastest man I’ve ever seen but even he couldn’t catch this bird as she dodged and weaved around any object in the yard. They ran behind the corncrib and I could see Dad closing in on her as they reappeared and crossed in front of the henhouse. He finally resorted to aiming on the run and threw the ax with deadly precision, the certifiable chick never had a chance; she ran a little farther before falling with Dad close behind.

Mom came out of the house just then to see what all the commotion was and I explained through my tears about the mean chicken that always pecked on us. She stood there with a slightly indulgent smile until Dad told her the same story, then she was just as surprised as he had been. Mom took the chicken in to pluck and fix for dinner and I happily pushed my bike around with no fear now that psycho-chicken was gone.

But my five-year-old mind began to turn over and over with the thought of why? Why would my Dad kill this animal just because it pecked me? It certainly wasn’t the first time, this bird had been possessed with the idea of attacking any child in sight, but what could him killing this half-baked chicken possibly mean? Sometime in the late afternoon the reason came to me, my Dad did not like to see me in pain. If this was the case then he probably loved me. He loved me!

I walked around with my secret all that evening and as it got dark we all went in for supper. Everyone else ate fried chicken, but I had a symbol of my Dad’s love for me.

We are all grown now and the farm was sold long ago. The “baby” of the family is thirty-nine. It is easier for Dad to show his love nowadays; there are lots of hugs between him, his children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren. He does still tend to speak in symbols though and his words retain the language of the farm.

“Did you see my tomato plants in the garden?”

“I sure did Dad; they’re hanging like grapes on the vine.”

“Be sure you take some home with you, you know how Rob loves them. Now don’t forget.”

“I won’t.”

He’s still using symbols instead of words but that’s okay, “I love you too Dad.”

By: Becky L. Kelley