OMG...am I becoming a chicken chick? After years immersed in (ok, obsessed by) all things beachy, more lately, this "chicken thing" has been vibing me, and I don't quite know what to do with it! Somehow, the very thought of happy chickens gives me the grins. (I mean, what's NOT to smile about when you watch and listen to chickens?) At the same time, it seems something deeper, more ancient is being stirred...as if some cellular memory is being rekindled, some long-atrophied strand of my DNA is being rewired. Go figure, huh?
Background.
I grew up in a small town in eastern N.C., 100 miles inland from the Atlantic Ocean and my beloved Outer Banks. Sand dunes? Sand buckets? Count me in! Lucky for me, my parents and I spent many weekends camping on the soft sand, waking up to the sounds of surf and seagulls. Glorious days spent riding waves, collecting shells.... The whole "beach thing" imprinted me deeply. To this day, my home in Middle TN is more "beachy bungalow" than "grown-up." When it comes to nick nacks, the only "things" (other than cats) I've ever really collected have been goblets of sand from different beaches, sharks' teeth and shells. (Ok...and some rocks.) I really don't see any of that changing. At least, I didn't...until images of roosters and chickens started infiltrating the premises, but that's another story.
My earliest chicken-related memory takes me back to my grandparents' farm, about a 20 minute drive from my home town. Even for a pre-school beach bum like myself, it always seemed we entered an alternate universe as my mother turned off the highway...onto the main road...then onto the gravel road (where we had to watch out for noisy logging trucks and their giant loads of tall pines.) From there, we turned onto the long dirt lane that crossed a creek and led to my grandparents' house with its yard shaded by giant pecan trees. As far as the eye could see were fields of corn, tobacco and peanuts...tobacco barns, cows and pigs. A lush vine of red and purple grapes wound along the fence separating the side yard from an abundant veggie garden alive with bees and butterflies. As I recall, there was one freestanding chicken coop.
I must have spent the night with Grandmama, because in my memory (which may be a composite, of course,) it's early morning summertime and I'm following her to the "chicken house." Our mission is to feed the chickens and collect the eggs. As always, Grandmama's wearing an apron (which she uses for everything...like holding beans and "okries" as she picks them from the garden.) At the moment, it's holding the chicken feed -- some cracked grain and maybe some interesting table scraps.
Thinking back, I imagine the chickens already knew the drill and gleefully would have come for breakfast without fanfair. Still, Grandmama cries out in her best chickenspeak, "Chick Chick CHICKEEAAHHN? Chick CHICKEEAAHHN?" (Sorry, but I just can't figure out a better way to spell it. And yes, in my mind, a good don't-be-shy chicken cry sounds just like a question!)
And so, there we all are in the chicken yard...peckin' and scratchin' and BWOK BWOK BWOKin' and everybody's happy and getting their fair share. Next, we're stepping into the chicken house where it's kind of cool and dark. We peek into the nests and Grandmama collects the eggs into her apron.
And that's it. That's all I remember.
Funny, but I think the one thing that most stands out in my memory is the uninhibited way Grandmama called out to her chickens, mimicking their sound. I've always thought that was funny. I've never been brave enough to just "let one fly" like that, myself!
"But, KC, you never HAAAD chickens, " you chide. "Why would YOU ever need to 'let one fly?'"
What you may not know is that I've lived on a most exhuberent little duck pond for more than two decades, and have had plenty of occasion to call geese and ducks to come get their rightful share of my leftovers.
Not unlike stifling a sneeze while in "polite company," the best I've ever mustered has been "Here chickey chickey. Here chickey chickey." Though weenie, it's worked every time. In fact, once any geese or ducks experience the "chickey chickey" and associate it with free food, all it then takes is the very sight of me on the deck to bring them racing into my backyard -- honking and flapping and posturing for position!
No, my grandmother probably didn't need to let fly that chicken cry, as the chickens already knew a good thing when they saw it coming. But that cry...that full tilt boogie, no holding back, give it all ya got chick chick CHICKEEAAHHNN probably just felt good to her! Felt like a good night's sleep and a sunny summer morning. Like the zillion colors of flowers blooming all around her house. Like life force and love. Like "fried okries" for supper.
I love you Grandmama.
