What's With All the Chickens?

I know, I know, I did tell you I would get right back to the “Best of 2012” series. But Barbara just put up “the chickens picture” on my wall page, and I feel the need to explain this to you a little. This little need I have to explain myself may well be one of those strange quirks I'm trying to clear up with this story. Bear with me! And, thanks for your time, and your attention.

 ***************************************************************************

 Refer to chickens picture below. I know, pic should be at the top. But I'm just lucky to be able to get it there at all, much less where I want it. This is a two part story.

****************************************************************************

Somewhere around 1947 or so, an enterprising businessman from Plainview, ten miles from Wing, came up with a good idea. Build a chicken hatchery at Planiview. He was a good salesman, and he sold a passel of farmers in Wing and the surrounding area on the idea of producing the eggs. Always searching for ways to bring in a little bit more money, Dad went into the egg business. This was along about the time cotton was on its way out in the valley as a money crop. That overworked land was playing out.

      Dad built a long chicken house. It was to the left of the picture above. To the right, closer to the end of the lane, was the huge barn that was built to house the Gillum/Compton/Turner super mule breeding project of the nineteen teens or so. The barn, by the way, was so large, it cost twice as much to build as the house we lived in. That business did well, before the depression, but that business played out also, when tractors came into common use, also along about that time. Old Murt, the only super mule alive when I came along, successfully sidestepped the glue factory until the late forties. I rode him bareback a lot, and an old, skinny mule without a saddle can be a hard ride. Ida' bout' as soon walk.

.

      At the time of this picture, 1949 or so, the chicken house was stocked and producing. I was just getting old enough to work the chickens. That's me in the picture. Though, as I'm sure you can see, I was added to the picture later. But the time line of both pictures is right. Look at that face. Do you see a trusting, relaxed, laid back, self confident soul in that face? I'll come back to that later.

      That year, Dad needed a second generation of chickens coming on, to replace the six hundred some odd laying hens, along with a cranky, mean bunch of roosters. The hens were playing out, and getting just too tired to produce an egg a day reliably. And the roosters, each with a very large flock of ladies to attend to, ensuring those eggs were fertile, were playing out too. So the next generation was housed in the barn. These young chickens were producing some eggs, but the eggs were too small for market value. Thus we ate a lot of eggs. During the day, they were turned loose to forage for themselves, cut down on the feed bill. I can count about two hundred in the picture, but there were six hundred or so out there somewhere.

      I would like to tell you it was my job, every afternoon before dark, herding each of those six hundred chicken back into the barn to lock them up and protect them from the coyotes, coons, mink, foxes, etc. at night. Or, it might be an even better story if I told you I just started playing my little flute made out of a piece of fishing cane, marched down the lane to the barn, and they all just lined up and followed me in, a little trick I learned from The pied piper story. I just love to impress people. Actually, though, I can't say either of those things, because this is a true story. And, It's awfully hard for a Gillum to just outright tell a bald face lie, because of the Gillum Do Right Mechanism we're all infected with. So the actual truth is, we kept them shut up in the barn awhile until it became home. They came back in on their own at night. 

      My main job was gathering those eggs in a big, wire basket. Now, those chickens had big plans for those eggs. They planned to lay up about all the eggs they could sit on and keep warm, and eventually hatch out their own batch of baby chicks. Once they began to get the mindset to become a “settin' hen,”

they became very protective of their eggs. I had to steal many of those eggs out from under that mad hen. She would flog, squawk, and peck me. Then I went on down the line to the next nest. Those cranky roosters didn't like me one bit, either. I was invading their territory, and messin' with their women folk. I never knew when one of those cranky old roosters would be on my back, scratching, biting, and floggin'. And, it was not unheard of for me to approach a nest, only to find it occupied by a really big black snake, containing several egg-sized lumps in his belly.          .CONTINUED NEXT POST