Repost of an earlier post.
Being a farm kid is not for sissies and cowards. The dark side of the chicken experience is slaughtering, plucking, cleaning, and preparing chickens for the pot. I watched as Mother transformed into a slobbering beast as she towered over the caged chickens, snagging her victim by the leg with a twisted coat-hanger, ringing its neck and releasing it for its last run. We crowded by, horribly thrilled by what we knew was coming. It was scarier than ”The Night of the Living Dead”, as the chicken flapping its wings, running with its head hanging crazily to one side, chased us in ever larger circles until it finally reached the Pearly Gates. It looked horribly cruel, but done properly, a quick snap of the wrist breaks the chicken’s neck instantly, giving a quick death. Afterward, my mother grabbed the dead chicken, plunged it into a pot of boiling water, plucked the feathers, slit its pimply white belly and removed its entrails, cut off its feet and head, and prepared it for dinner. I was repulsed when Mother found a unlaid eggs in the egg cavity and used them in cooking. That just didn’t seem right. I was happy to eat the chicken, but future eggs….disgusting.
Mother looked out one day and saw one of her chickens eating corn, oblivious to the fact that her gizzard was hanging out, bobbing up and down as the chicken pecked corn off the ground. Apparently she had suffered injury from a varmint of some kind. Clearly, she wouldn’t survive with this injury, so Mother and I tried to catch her. At least she could be salvaged for the table. Well, she could still run just fine. We chased her all over the yard with no luck. Finally, Mother decided to put her out of her misery by shooting her. She missed. She fired again and shot the hen’s foot off. I knew I could do better. I shot her beak off, then hit her in the tail. By this time, we both felt horrible and had to get her out of her misery. Her injuries had slowed the poor beakless, tailless, gizzard-bobbing, one-leg hopping chicken down enough so we could catch her and wring her neck.
All chickens didn’t end life as happily. The LaFay girls, Cheryl, Terry, and Cammie raised chickens for 4-H with the rest to fill their freezer. Late one Thursday evening while their mother was at work, they realized tomorrow was the day for the big barbecue chicken competition. Mama wouldn’t be in until way too late to be helping with slaughtering and dressing the chickens. After all the time and effort they had put in on their project, they had no choice but to press forward without Mama’s help. They’d helped Mama with the dirty business of putting up chickens lots of times. They’d just have to do manage on their own.
Cheryl, the oldest sister, drew the short straw and won the privilege of wringing the chicken’s neck. She’d seen Mama do it lots of times, but didn’t get the theory of breaking the neck with a quick snap. She held the chicken by the neck and swung it around a few times in a wide arc giving it a fine ride, but no real injury. When she released it, it just ran off drunkenly. The girls chased and recaptured the chicken a couple of times, giving it another ride or two before the drunken chicken flew up in a tree, saving its life. Acknowledging her sister’s failure, Terry stepped up to do her duty. She pulled her chicken from the pen, taking it straight to the chopping block, just like she’d seen Mama do so many times. Maybe she should have watched a little closer. Instead of holding the chicken by the head and chopping just below with the hatchet, Terry held it by the feet. The panicked chicken raised its head, flopped around on the block, and lost a few feathers. On the next attempt, Cammie tried to help by holding the chicken’s head, but she jumped when Terry chopped and the poor chicken only got a slice on its neck. By now, all three girls were squalling. Cheryl tied a string on the poor chicken’s neck, Cammie held its feet and they stretched the chicken across the block. By now, Terry was crying so hard so really she couldn’t see. She took aim, and chopped Henny Penny in half, ending her suffering. Guilt-stricken, they buried the chicken. Defeated, they finally called their Aunt Millie, who came over and helped them kill and dress their chickens for the competition, which they won. All’s well that ends well.
Cackling with laughter! And shed a tear for the chooks …
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Yeah!
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Howling with laughter and horrified all at once. Great story telling!
Alison
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We really aren’t evil incarnate like it sounds.
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Chuckle.
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Sure glad I can go buy my chicken…
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Me too!
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Hello there…
Thought of you!
https://authenticitee.wordpress.com/2015/05/31/i-lovehate-your-song/
Do stop by!
e
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Hey thanks!
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Absolutely! Love your sense of humor, wit & candor!
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Thanks
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Your terrifying humor know no bounds.
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My mother should have had me neutered when she had my tonsils out. I have a boy just like me.
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Ha! Thanks for sharing your humor.
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Welcome.
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I’m glad you said it. It was my howling laughter for the week:0)
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Oh good. I thought you might unfollow!
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My husband gets a pig from the 4H kids for their company pig roast every summer. It always bothers him a little that the kids then send thank-you notes telling him thanks for buying ___________(insert Pig’s pet name) for their pig roast:0).
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Oh, I know it does. He can’t very well write back. “You’re welcome. He was delicious.” Can he? I wish I hadn’t said that,
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I think I enjoyed this story even more than the first time I read it. With a memory as short as mine, even the suspense was fresh. And I still love that sentence, which I see you have now promoted into a very well deserved title position. 🙂 😉
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Thanks for inspiration
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You are always very welcome.
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Oddly compelling. Morbidly hilarious.
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Kind of makes you hate yourself when you laugh, doesn’t it?
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Only a little 🙂
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I lost that email address for veterans caregiver program. Can you please send it again? Thanks
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It takes caring people like you to keep their eyes open and bring these things to light. One small step for man…
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The story about the beakless chicken is sad, but I could not help still finding it funny all the same. You have a way with words. My brother was the designated catcher and butcher of chickens. I collected a few greens and and some corn to feed the chicken before the big
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You had the best job. Thanks for reading.
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That is just sad and hilarious at the same time!
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Sad, true, and hilarious. I am so glad chickens don’t have nine lives!
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Quite a saga–there’s a story out there, about a headless rooster surviving for several weeks. The farmer took pity on the poor creature, and fed it with an eye dropper. It continued to roost at night, and attempted to crow (which had to sound pitiful). Apparently the rooster had enough of its brain stem left for basic functions. This was also a botched execution with a hatchet. I’m a farm kid and hated killing, plucking, singing, butchering chickens. the smell was horrible–as you well know.
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I think I saw that on Public Television. “The Natural Life of the Chicken” There was nothing natural about it, though. It was all chicken nut stories. That being said, I loved it.
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OMG, LInda, that could be part of a horror movie. I feel so sorry for the poor chickens. You really must have felt very bad. But you didn’t mean it.
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We were trying to put it out of its misery, but just made it worse and worse. Thank goodness we finally caught the poor thing.
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What a panic all around… it wasn’t its lucky day.
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Oh that’s terrible, funny but terrible. We used to stun the chickens by hitting them with a club, then chop the head. Less flailing around. 🙂
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But we dis have TV to watch back then!
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Ahh the good old days. 😉
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That’s what you call hard living. I’m guess I’m too much of a city gal to handle such a site. But I’ll still eat me some chicken, though.
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Oh, it was definitely rough for the chickens. When it’s your life and you’re with people you love, it’s just life. My life was just like everyone else’s in the neighborhood. We needed those chickens and eggs.
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Like the new theme by the way, much easier to read!
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Oh, I was wondering
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It is cleaner and better set out.
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Oh good.
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Oooh YUCK how gruesome! I am a wimp and a cissy (but I DO love chicken)!
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Better stick to the market
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Yes or get someone else to do the dirty work!
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Don’t call me! I do lousy work
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Well yes you are pretty rubbish with a gun. I would bloody starve if it were down to you. I beak is not going to fill me up!
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Certainly not if you were puckish! So sorry for that!
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Ha Ha!! 🙂
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I never felt bad for the chickens they were the meanest critters on the face of God’s green earth even meaner than the hogs. The cows and sheep, on the other hand, I felt really awful about. They were so sweet. I couldn’t eat beef while I was on that ranch.
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The cows were sweet.
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