A few weeks ago when an artist set up his wares down the street from me, this seven foot tall Rhode Island Red chicken caught my attention among the African safari metal sculptures and antlered steed. Not so long ago I was the chief cook and bottle washer to some 3,000 in half a dozen coops our family boarded.
Every morning and evening at 6, I was carrying buckets of mash to their troughs and gathering the eggs they layed. Dad said, he only kept them to help us learn how to be good workers. Now I thank him for the great gift of work he instilled in me. What I couldn't see then has been a blessing in my life and my siblings, too.
Thanks dad for the Rhode Island Reds that allowed me to serenade them with love songs from Bobby Darin, Andy Williams and the Beatles. They never complained about my singing. If I was mad, they got a piece of my mind. I loved how they would stop clucking and their heads would bob up holding still for a split second, to my hollering, crying or shouting.
We had eggs a-plenty and fried chicken to die for. Rain or shine, cramps or fatigue I fed them day in and day out for six years. Then the baton was passed along to my younger sisters. Here's to hard work and small farmers of yesteryear.
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