Mother had a very big yellow Tom cat. As with all cats, he was very independent and just did pretty much as he wanted to do. One day he must have wanted to have his head chopped off because he showed up at the door with one of mother's baby chicken's in his mouth. Since my brother Jake was the only male present at the time the job was given to him. Mother handed him the cat, an axe and sent him off to the "forest". Now the forest was a grove of about 8 trees that was about 50 feet behind the chicken house. Jake was probably about 9 years old at the time. You need to remember that times were different back then. We never were allowed to be "kids" because the mere act of survival made us grow up really fast. In society today if a 9 year old kid chopped the head off of a cat he would immediately be put into therapy because he had all the makings of a serial killer. Back then that tiny chicken was part of our cycle of life and no cat was going to snack on mother's chickens that would someday lay eggs for us to eat, hatch more chickens and eventually end up in the stew pot to feed the whole family Chicken and Noodles. The cat, by killing the baby chicken, proved he was a chicken killer and that does not work on a farm. So, off they went to the forest and only one of them came back.
The chicken house was also an attraction to either a Fox or a Weasel. Dad patched the chicken house fairly regularly, but what ever was getting in was not to be deterred. One night him and one of his cronies hid in the chicken house and when the varmit surfaced we heard the blast from the shotgun. That problem was solved, but then there was that gaping hole in the chicken house. That is another story!
Have you ever gathered eggs? In the Spring when the chickens first start to lay, several of the old hens also begin ti "set". The setting is the fine art of laying eggs in a nest and setting on them until the hatch. The hen has to turn them every day, keep them an even temperature, and be the most patient creature in the world because this takes 28 days setting time. Did you ever hear the saying "Mad as an old wet hen?" I used to throw some of my biggest fits when Mother would tell me to go gather the eggs. She would tell me which nests had the "setting hens" on them and I did not gather those eggs.
I would walk into the hen house and several of the nests would have eggs in them where the hens had laid early that morning and then gone off in search of bugs, seeds or whatever. Those were easy to gather because I just had to pick the eggs up and put them in my basket, but some of the nest's had chickens on them. I knew which ones not to bother, but I was afraid of those beady eyed chickens any way. I was terrified of the "setting hens" because they were very protective and I had much respect for thier mothering skills. I gave them a very wide berth. However, I was supposed to reach under the hens who were setting on nests that were not designated as nest boxes. These are the hens that really scared me. You do know that hens have sharp beaks, right? Thier beak is thier sole means of defense. So I would slowly extend my hand while the hen watched my hand with those beady eyes. Time would stand still as my hand got slowly closer to her body setting on the nest. If she inclined her head even the smallest bit, I would run screaming from the hen house. Usually it would scare her so bad she left the nest in fright. In that case I could go back and get those eggs. I do not recall if a hen ever pecked me, but in my mind I left the hen house a bloodied mass every time. And mother knew when I left the house exactly how many eggs I should have when I came back. Mothers' are intuitive little creatures. Too few eggs meant I had not done my job. Too many and one of the last hatching had started laying.
We had a cow also. Well, as I recall we had several cows and horses. The horses were used to pull the plow, combine, trailer, or what ever. Dad did managed to get himself drunk once when he went to Hutch to the sale. He came home with a Shetland Pony for us kids. That was like a dream come true. A pony of our own for us to ride. OMG! That was the meanest damned horse I have ever laid eyes on in my life! That thing came out of the trailer kicking and snorting and I sought the solace of the chicken house! Scared me out of 4 years growth. His name was Star.
Star had a pen and went into the barn at night for shelter. Star had been ours for about a week when friends came by to see our new horse. The friends had kids our age. So Jake and a couple of the boys went out to see Star. By this time it was dark. How they came up with the next part of the adventure is beyond me, but Jake decided to crawl across the enclosure and scare the horse! (There was talk of actually "goosing him with a stick" which I am sure is closer to what happened then these boys let on to Mother.) To make a long story short, Star did not take to well to whatever happened and in typical horse fashion, kicked backwards. His hoof connected with Jake's right cheek and sent him flying into the fence. Much scrambling as the friends loaded Jake into thier car and took him and mother to Hutchinson to the emergency room. It was a very long night. Jake carried that scar to his grave. It was about 4 inches long and a 2 inch scar across the bottom. It looked like a "J" so he told everyone it was his initial.
Star was probably with us for 12-15 years and I do not recall anyone ever riding him. Well, Josephine might have, but not me. He died when we were at the Strong Street house. Dad called the "dead animal wagon" which in those days, made house calls. They probably still do. The man pulled out a long length of cable, wrapped it around Star's neck, turned on the wench and drug him across the yard, up the ramp and into the back of the big truck on top of whatever else was in there, and drove away. Fond memories? Not for me.
Will try to get back soon and finish off the Stroh house. Or maybe not. A lot happened there.
The chicken house was also an attraction to either a Fox or a Weasel. Dad patched the chicken house fairly regularly, but what ever was getting in was not to be deterred. One night him and one of his cronies hid in the chicken house and when the varmit surfaced we heard the blast from the shotgun. That problem was solved, but then there was that gaping hole in the chicken house. That is another story!
Have you ever gathered eggs? In the Spring when the chickens first start to lay, several of the old hens also begin ti "set". The setting is the fine art of laying eggs in a nest and setting on them until the hatch. The hen has to turn them every day, keep them an even temperature, and be the most patient creature in the world because this takes 28 days setting time. Did you ever hear the saying "Mad as an old wet hen?" I used to throw some of my biggest fits when Mother would tell me to go gather the eggs. She would tell me which nests had the "setting hens" on them and I did not gather those eggs.
I would walk into the hen house and several of the nests would have eggs in them where the hens had laid early that morning and then gone off in search of bugs, seeds or whatever. Those were easy to gather because I just had to pick the eggs up and put them in my basket, but some of the nest's had chickens on them. I knew which ones not to bother, but I was afraid of those beady eyed chickens any way. I was terrified of the "setting hens" because they were very protective and I had much respect for thier mothering skills. I gave them a very wide berth. However, I was supposed to reach under the hens who were setting on nests that were not designated as nest boxes. These are the hens that really scared me. You do know that hens have sharp beaks, right? Thier beak is thier sole means of defense. So I would slowly extend my hand while the hen watched my hand with those beady eyes. Time would stand still as my hand got slowly closer to her body setting on the nest. If she inclined her head even the smallest bit, I would run screaming from the hen house. Usually it would scare her so bad she left the nest in fright. In that case I could go back and get those eggs. I do not recall if a hen ever pecked me, but in my mind I left the hen house a bloodied mass every time. And mother knew when I left the house exactly how many eggs I should have when I came back. Mothers' are intuitive little creatures. Too few eggs meant I had not done my job. Too many and one of the last hatching had started laying.
We had a cow also. Well, as I recall we had several cows and horses. The horses were used to pull the plow, combine, trailer, or what ever. Dad did managed to get himself drunk once when he went to Hutch to the sale. He came home with a Shetland Pony for us kids. That was like a dream come true. A pony of our own for us to ride. OMG! That was the meanest damned horse I have ever laid eyes on in my life! That thing came out of the trailer kicking and snorting and I sought the solace of the chicken house! Scared me out of 4 years growth. His name was Star.
Star had a pen and went into the barn at night for shelter. Star had been ours for about a week when friends came by to see our new horse. The friends had kids our age. So Jake and a couple of the boys went out to see Star. By this time it was dark. How they came up with the next part of the adventure is beyond me, but Jake decided to crawl across the enclosure and scare the horse! (There was talk of actually "goosing him with a stick" which I am sure is closer to what happened then these boys let on to Mother.) To make a long story short, Star did not take to well to whatever happened and in typical horse fashion, kicked backwards. His hoof connected with Jake's right cheek and sent him flying into the fence. Much scrambling as the friends loaded Jake into thier car and took him and mother to Hutchinson to the emergency room. It was a very long night. Jake carried that scar to his grave. It was about 4 inches long and a 2 inch scar across the bottom. It looked like a "J" so he told everyone it was his initial.
Star was probably with us for 12-15 years and I do not recall anyone ever riding him. Well, Josephine might have, but not me. He died when we were at the Strong Street house. Dad called the "dead animal wagon" which in those days, made house calls. They probably still do. The man pulled out a long length of cable, wrapped it around Star's neck, turned on the wench and drug him across the yard, up the ramp and into the back of the big truck on top of whatever else was in there, and drove away. Fond memories? Not for me.
Will try to get back soon and finish off the Stroh house. Or maybe not. A lot happened there.
No comments:
Post a Comment