As a new farm wife, I was excited to become a part of in this adventure of living on a farm. I used to visit my husband’s farm home before we were married and was intrigued when he would take me to their large barn to watch the cows being milk in the evening, or I’d duck my head into the chicken coop to see chickens cackle and run as I came their way. I even watched with intrigue as my then mother-in-law-to-be calmly reached under a hen sitting on a nest to take a freshly laid egg and put it in her large basket for scrumptious farm meals, while the hen just sat there seemingly unperturbed by her presence.
“It will be a nice calm existence,” I said to myself. “A daily happening from sunrise to sunset watching the crops grow in neat rows and helping with harvest dinners to feed farm help. I smiled to myself so contentedly.

However, it didn’t exactly happen in the way that I thought. I remember my husband stating after we returned from our honeymoon that it would be my job to take care of feeding the chickens at our place each morning while he went over to his folk’s barn just across the pasture to milk the cows. “Great”, I said, after being properly informed. ” I can do that!” The next morning while it was still dark, I felt a little nudge, as he climbed out of bed. “See you at breakfast.” he whispered as he put on his boots beside the bed. “Breakfast?” I murmured. “You eat breakfast when it’s dark?” He grinned at me and left the room as I turned over, adjusted my covers and went back to sleep. The next thing I knew, someone was shaking me. Throwing the covers back. I looked up to see my newly acquired husband looking at me with astonishment. ” Why are you still in bed? There’s work to be done and I’m hungry for breakfast!” he exclaimed. I peeped out the bedroom window nervously. “You didn’t tell me I was suppose to feed the chickens in the dark. Can they see to eat at that time of day? I never get up for the day in the dark, so I just thought I’d sleep a bit longer.” Suddenly I realized our conversation was going a bit down hill. “It isn’t dark now,” he rationalized. The sun’s been up a good while and the chickens are not fed. I have done the mornings chores and I’m very hungry.” I’m sorry,” I moaned, “I guess I let time get away.” I exclaimed as I hunted for some thing appropriate to wear, dashed a comb through my hair and headed for the chicken coop. I looked back to see my husband scratching his head, as if in a gesture of, “What have I gotten myself into!”

With the chickens crowding around me and my bucket of feed, I managed to make my way to the trough, while the silly things pecked at my feet as if I was part of their meal. Somehow they didn’t seem very congenial this early in the morning, or was it I?

After this first episode of feeding the chickens, I scraped the manure off my shoes and entered the kitchen to cook a hearty breakfast for my one and only.
What time do you usually get up” he questioned carefully. “Well in my little urban existence. . uh .. around 8:00 a.m. ” I guess I forgot to tell you I am not a morning person.”
I could see my little bit of information wasn’t going over too well. so I changed the subject. ” I will fix you some delicious sausage and pancakes. I will take only a short time.” He seemed halfway pacified after a filling breakfast and hot coffee to go with it. ” I know this is all new to you sweetie,” he offered, “but you have to realize a farmer’s day starts very early “I’ll try to do better.” I promised and all seemed forgiven.

The fact is, old habits die hard. The more I tried to fit into this reasonable schedule they all observed so easily, the worse things got. Often husband would find me heading for the chicken coop as he was parking the farm truck, milking already finished and ready for breakfast. The real truth was I didn’t think straight before dawn. I needed time to adjust to the bleakness around me. After hopping out of bed I couldn’t usually find my shoes, much less the buckets I needed to carry the feed. The other factor was I hated to meet up with the haughty demeanor of those chickens who would step all over me just to get something to eat. They didn’t seem to like me at all.

But I tried, so help me, I tried. I learned early that I was also responsible at noon to gather the eggs. Well by this time I was fully awake and having watched my mother-in-law, I was sure this would be a success, however some of the chickens were not very cooperative to leave their comfortable abode insisting on staying on their nest and absolutely refusing to budge.There was one especially stubborn ole hen that simply refused to move. Maybe they weren’t thru laying. I don’t know what their problem was, but there was a problem and it seemed to be the same darn ones that did it every time. This is where the encounter began. “Don’t throw them off their nest. That will upset them so they will not be contented layers.” my husband instructed. “Just carefully reach under them and pull the egg out like you have watched Mom do.
“I’ve tried that! Every time I do, they try to peck me. These chickens don’t like me!” “That’s ridiculous, you’re just being paranoid. They just need to get used to you. Just approach them softly, do it easy like.”
Well, after I began to display wounded hands and knuckles from pecks from the chickens I decided upon my own strategy. I would take a farm board about the hens sitting exterior carefully place it under the hen, keeping my distance and pry her up. That worked pretty good, but for the casualty of a few broken eggs now and then. My husband just tried not to be around when I gathered the eggs after that.

Then last but not least came the day when we cleaned or dressed young chickens to be put in the freezer for delicious fried chicken dinners. We had an assembly line on the farm to do this chore. Some of the guys pulled their heads off and let them flop, the next group would douse them in very hot water to make the feathers loosen and they could be plucked bare, then they were ready for cleaning, and cutting up in favored pieces and put in freezer packages for later. That seemed to be recompense for all my troubles.

One day, after I found myself a sort-of seasoned chicken caretaker, ( though somewhat unwilling,) I was asked to take a fryer to a community dinner. The men were busy in the field, so having watched many times a foot being placed below the head on the chickens long neck, one could pull at the feet and the head and body would separate. I had seen it done many times and since there was no one there to assist me, I decided to do it myself. I did it just like I had witnessed the process many times, HOWEVER, something went wrong. The chicken head turned inside out,making a large bump protruding from inside the neck. Nothing separated as it was suppose to do. and I had a chicken flopping around my yard in a very unusual predicament. Luckily, my husband happened by and somehow solved the problem. I don’t know how, because I couldn’t look.
After serious discussion later, we somehow decided it was time to end our chicken raising tenure.

This decision was with the favored consideration, that the chicken that just had met its demise could have been a granddaughter-of-sorts of the one that always insisted on sitting on her nest waiting to peck me when I was gathering the eggs.