It was one of those
wickedly hot days. You know the kind that just makes ya feel a little bit
crazy? Four girls flopped in various positions around the homestead,
their noses stuck in books. At the moment they were blissfully unaware of
the trauma that awaited them.
The parents of these
four girls had left on an errand earlier in day without explanation.
With no adult there to assign new chores, the girls took pleasure in
their leisure. One in front of a fan, another under the tree, another one
in the barn curled up with various kittens and another sprawled across her bed.
It was a peaceful moment.
Until the parents
arrived home. Suddenly the hum of serenity was destroyed by
a cacophony of sound unfamiliar to these girls. Each jumped up
from their various positions and ran to the back door to be greeted
with...chickens. Loud, cackling, clucking chickens boxed up in various
boxes, valiantly poking their heads up through the corners of the
boxes. Just a few minutes more and they might have a chance at escape.
Mom and dad walked into
the kitchen and set their two largest pots, old sterilizing pots in fact atop
the stove and turned the burners on high. "Yell out to the barn when
that water starts a rapid boil." And with that he grabbed a few
boxes of chickens and made haste to the barn. The mother came inside,
instructed the girls to put their hair up in ponytails, and put on their
grubbiest work clothes. "You are going to get messy," she
added.
All four girls shuffled
to their bedrooms, with their hearts in their throats. Despite the fact
that neither parent actually SAID what was going to happen to the
chickens, they all knew. This was a chore they had never had to do before. It was not one they looked forward to.
As they reentered the
now steamy kitchen, they heard their mother call out to the barn, "The
water's boiling now." Mom had laid vinyl tablecloths on the floor as
well as various plastic bags. Looking to the youngest daughter, she
pointed to the roll of trash bags "Your job will be to give your sisters
an empty trash bag and take the full ones and put them in the fire barrel.
The youngest gulped and nervously asked, "What are they putting in
the bags momma?"
"Feathers,"
she answered, to which the four girls groaned and the youngest shuddered,
"moooom, do we have to do that? Can't we just keep the feathers on
the chickens where they belong?"
Sister three couldn't
stand it, and snapped at the youngest, "You dummy, the chickens are gonna
be dead. They won't need the feathers."
"Dead?" and
the youngest began to cry, running to her mother and throwing her arms around
her waist, "Not dead, please not dead." Her mother soothed her
hand over the youngest hair and answered. "I know this is not fun. In fact it's nasty. I know it's boiling hot in here and we are all
going to be miserable and this might make feel us sick. But this is
the cheapest way to have chicken for meals...to buy them and slaughter them
yourself. Your father will come in soon, with dead chickens.
He's taken all their insides out, and bled them out as much as possible. We will drop them into the pots for just
a few seconds. I will take the long tongs and pull each chicken out of
the water and give one to each of you older three girls. Start grabbing
feathers by the handfuls and dump them in the plastic bags."
The four took their
positions, and soon the father walked in with 4 headless chickens in his hands.
Those four girls looked on with horror and disgust as he dumped the first two
in the pots and left the others in the sink and headed outside. Mom stirred
the pot and within seconds was plopping soppy wet chickens in front of each of
the girls. Chickens that only 10 minutes ago had been squawking, cackling
and creating the ruckus in the back of the truck.
The girls did as they
were told, and each reluctantly pulled feathers, dumping the feathers into the
bags that the youngest would drag behind her as she grieved the deaths of the
hens. No one was very happy to be doing this. It was the most
wretched farm chore yet that they had been instructed to do. And the hens
kept coming. They plucked and they picked and when mom declared the hen
was plucked clean she took it and gave then a new soppy wet one.
The more they plucked
the harder it became to ignore the fact these had been living creatures.
The three young pluckers did their job but with each pull of the
feathers, more tears dripped off their faces.
About midway through
this nasty process, the door burst open. But it was not father, it was
their favorite aunt. "Hey, what's everyone doing?" Sweeping
her eyes around the room, seeing the boiling pots, the teary girls, the piles
of chicken feathers and the pile of carcasses, she recognized the connections.
She told the girls, " Awww nuts, I always hated doing this job."
Not one to shy away, she wiggled a space between the girls and started
sharing plucking stories with them, taking a hen to pluck while she talked.
The girls perked up a
bit but still could not get past the fact that these chickens were warm.
Not just from the pot, but because it had been alive just 10 minutes ago.
It was hard to ignore. Soon, the girls
were entertained by their aunt's stories and methodically pulling
feathers.
Until the second sister
turned her hen over and it groaned. Within seconds of that groan, this sister picked the hen up screaming "It’s still alive!" and THREW it
against the wall. Their aunt fell over in a fit off giggles. The
wall was a nasty mess of blood and feather, running down the walls surface.
Between her gales of laughter she told them, "Well if it was alive,
its surely dead now" as she pointed to the lifeless body broken on the
floor at the bottom of the wall. In its sudden impact with the solid wall, parts of the hen broke and were sticking out at odd angles. Their aunt
could barely speak through her giggles and soon the aunt, the girls and even
the mother were holding their stomachs, laughing and gasping. The aunt was claiming she was going to wet
herself if they didn’t stop laughing.
Their father came in
with the last batch of butchered hens but stopped abruptly in the doorway,
perplexed by the laughter. His last visit, he suffered through the
sniffles, and teary glances. He looked around, saw nothing to cause such hilarity,
then shook his head and decided you just can’t define a female regardless of their age. Mother finally caught her breath enough to say, "Girls, it can't be alive...it has no head!"
"Or legs"
added the first sister. "Or wings" laughed the second sister.
Their mom explained the death moan...a dead creature can have air
trapped in a cavity. When the creature
is moved and the air escapes it often sounds like a moan. Then she told
them to clean up the mess on the wall. She guessed that chicken could be
stewed for supper that night....to make chicken and dumplings.
They finished the
plucking and once the butchering was over, dad came in to cut the chicken into
pieces. He sent the girls outside; and mother brewed up a pitcher of
sweet tea and carried it out to them. Sweet tea was a treat to these
girls on the farm. Milk and water was their staple, while tea was
"for company". Soda was just not an option. Not because they had any objection to
it. The parents just felt funds should be spent on those items that
nourish. So the four girls eagerly clutched icy tall glasses of sweet tea
and gulped them down as if it were an antidote for the experience they just
had, hoping it would wash those images from their minds. It didn't work. Neither did the second or even the third glasses.
They would all remember
plucking chickens the time one moaned and Becky threw it at the wall.
And it was the last time
the parents thought to butcher and pluck their own chickens. They paid
the farmer down the road for already butchered and plucked hens. The
girls would all agree, it was a bargain.
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