Chapter Six
If You Want To Achieve Success, You Must Overcome The Fear And Pain
As brazen, bold, and full of foolishness as I was in my early years, it only took one time of trying to gather the eggs by myself, to realize that climbing trees and jumping out of them was less dangerous and not as scary as sticking my hand under a nesting hen to take her eggs.
The very first time that I ever experienced what actually happens before Grandpa comes walking back into the garage with a feed bucket full of brown and tan eggs is, for the most part, lost in the transition of growing older. Though, the first time or not (as I’m sure that I gave witness to this bizarre sequence of events ever since I was old enough to walk on my own without tripping and falling into the numerous “poop-traps” that piled the chicken coop floor), I can remember the somewhat traumatizing, maybe even terrifying, but absolutely fascinating experience that came with watching my grandfather thrust his ungloved and bare hand underneath that sitting hen, while she protested in full with frightening shrills and dagger-like pecking that gouged at his scabbed and bleeding hand, as he brought it out from underneath her holding onto those fresh brown eggs.
I imagine that some of my first nightmares were about those shrieking hens pecking and biting off my little sausage fingers as I tried to gather eggs for breakfast (this may or may not, also, be why I slept with a pocket knife underneath my pillow for the majority of my youth — to keep those psycho chickens from making num-nums out of my nose pickers). But, Grandpa was not afraid. Matter of fact, secretly, I think Grandpa was showing off — putting his bare hand in harm’s way only when watching eyes were around him, and then, in the private moments of gathering the eggs by himself, I’m sure that he would sneak his large heavy-duty, Kevlar strength glove onto his aching hand, and roust those hens from their nest — the easier, less-painful way.
The truth is, Grandpa took me with him several times to show me how to do it right. It seemed that there were one of three ways to do it: number one — go for gold and just plunge your hand under that hen, grabbing the eggs in twos or threes and quickly putting them into your feed bucket; number two — reaching in and pulling the hen out by the neck until it got up and out on its own, or until it was forced out in one quick yank, and then, you enjoy the pleasantness of having a free for all at the unattended eggs; and number three (my personal favorite) — was to make enough noise by either beating on the nesting box with the shovel handle, or by yelling and screaming like a little girl at the sight of a spider as you try to do it the number one or two way. Of course, the beating on the box worked better than the screaming, but either one was equally as entertaining for Grandpa to watch.
You see, the importance of gathering the eggs every day was grand. If we let them sit too long, then they would start to grow into embryos, and therefore, rendering those eggs no good to eat. It was imperative that we gathered them at least once a day, and if they were laying really well, then we would have to get them both morning and night. It only takes an egg twenty-one days to hatch, so getting them quickly was a must. And that responsibility fell onto the heads of almost everyone in the family at one time or another. Living only a couple hundred-yard dashes from the coop made it easier for me, my brothers, and parents to help.
Now, as I remember it, I was most certainly the best at it (just ask anyone, except for my brothers, because I’m sure that they don’t remember it as well as I do). But, if we had to rank ourselves accordingly (because, everything’s always a competition), then I would say that I was first (obviously), followed by Jeremy, and then Jason. And, again, if I remember correctly, Jeremy would use all 8’9” 250lbs of his 12 year old body (yeah, he was a little big for his age) to scare the hell out of those tiny chickens so that he could easily grab the eggs (without crushing them). But, Jason, he would engineer some sort of distraction device on a motorized pulley system out of his Erector set and Legos. Using this crazy machine, would drawl away the nesting hens so that he could send in his remote controlled race car with a glued on battery operated claw arm that would reach in and gently retrieve the eggs (he was, sometimes, smart).
Ultimately, we would all contribute in one way or another. Mom and the Aunts, who had years of experience themselves, the cousins, who would have to change into their “play clothes” first, and even some of our friends, who found that they really enjoyed hanging out at Grandma and Grandpa’s house. What I’m saying is, it was a frightening team effort; with Grandpa as our captain, and Grandma as our manager (from the deck), we would all learn what it was like to face down those hens in order to enjoy Grandpa’s famous scrambled eggs with mushrooms and onions, alongside Grandma’s homemade doughnuts and Maxwell House coffee (what can I say, we were spoiled).
Yes, we were spoiled little brats. But, honestly, it didn’t come free of charge. Matter of fact, sometimes it came with a serious risk to our health (and I’m not just talking about some crazed chicken that finally snaps and goes on a murderous plot of revenge). Nope. I’m talking about the snakes.
Let me explain to you, exactly, what you DO NOT want to feel when you finally work up the courage to reach your hand underneath of that angry nesting hen, or inside of a just recently evacuated nesting box….
I’ll set the scene for you:
There you are, on a mid-summer’s day, the sunshine is warming on your face and you have to shield your eyes as it glares off of the chicken coop door. You twist open the warm brass handle and walk into a gas chamber of chicken poo and dust. You’re ten years old, and have finally reached a point in your egg-gathering career, where you are only kind of scared for the first thirty seconds before you try to grab that hen and encourage it to come outside of its comfortable nest and off of its incubating offspring. So, you’re a little more confident, now that you have a few years under your belt. Hell, you’re downright cocky after you yank the first hen free from her sitting spot. You’ve even worked up a little smack talk to get inside their heads (any small advantage works at this point in the game). You say things like, “Yeah, chicken… get off them eggs,” or “shut up, stupid chicken, and give me your eggs" (apparently, you’re a very mean little egg grabber at ten years old… and your smack talk sucks, but anyway…).
You reach your little man-hand into that box of eggs, not really paying much attention now, since you’re a self-proclaimed egg grabbing expert stud. You grab the first egg. No problem. You grab the second egg. You think you feel/hear some movement from the straw inside. You brush it off, because you’re too much of hard ass to even care. You set that egg in the bucket with the other ones and reach back inside. You feel something different. It’s not exactly round. It’s not exactly hard. And it sure as shit doesn’t feel like an egg. Then it moves. And that’s when it hits you! Holy crap! It’s a “snaaaaake!” You scream like the little sissy that you are, drop the bucket of eggs and run to Grandpa; who, at this point, has grabbed a spade shovel out of the garage, and laughing (of all things!) walks around the corner to meet you face to pale face.
“Snake?” He asks, grinning.
“Y… y… yeahhh…” you choke out.
You go on. “It was the biggest snake I’ve ever seen! I think it was ten feet long. Probably a copperhead! And I touched it!”
Grandpa moseys on down to the coop, shovel in hand. You, anxiously, watch from the other side of the walnut tree, half expecting him to come darting out with a 10 foot snake clinging to his face. But, instead, he comes out grinning and holding the smallest guarder snake that you’ve ever laid your eyes on.
He holds it up as it coils around his hand, alive.
“A little short of ten feet.” He mocks, and then, he triumphantly prances over to the edge of the woods and lets it go.
You watch it rustle a few leafs as it escapes away into the trees and brush.
*****
Now, it’s not the first snake, it wasn’t the last, and it, most certainly, wasn’t the most dangerous one. The truth is, the threat was real. Whether it was a six foot black snake hanging from the rafters above our heads, or coiled up copperheads looking for an easy meal — the snakes loved the chicken coop.
And, you see, that was a problem… because, I, too, loved the chicken coop. But, as for those sneaking snakes with an evil grin and forked tongue, I was not a fan. Matter of fact, I was so much opposed to sharing the chicken coop with such a devilish creature, that I would often do the feeding with a BB gun in my hand, and a knife on my belt (this was totally normal, people. Everyone knows that you had to be a certain kind of tough to survive in the chicken coop). And, survive I did — by either running, or gunning, or sometimes by shrieking loud enough that the snake would decide that I was simply not worth the trouble to eat, and it would scurry off to find some other, less-loud-mouthed kid to munch on.
I’m not ashamed of it. So, what? I had a big mouth, no big deal. The neighbors already knew this from the all the years of arguing with my cousins and brothers that, “Nuuu-uhhh! You didn’t get me! I had my force field up! And this magic stick gives me extra lives, anyway!!” Every. Single. Time — that we played army.
There was a time when I was younger, that I would not gather the eggs by myself. I had to have Grandpa there by my side, because, quite frankly, there was no way that I was sticking my tiny little hand inside of the box with that crazy hen, or snake, or mouse, or whatever other creature that would, also, call that straw-filled box home. For a while, I wasn’t much help to Grandpa, other than taking the eggs from his hand, putting them in the bucket, and then drying them off after he washed them. In my younger years, this was as good of help as I could be. I was too afraid of those pecking hens and the pain of their sharp beaks. I was petrified of what was laying in the box, after the first time that I saw Grandpa pull out a snake and toss it outside (look — I wasn’t a dumb kid… if some lunatic chicken and secret snake called that nesting box home, then I just couldn’t find a logical or rational reason for me to put my fragile little fingers inside of it. That’s, exactly, what Grandpas are for).
So, for the longest time, I was afraid of getting the eggs without Grandpa’s help. From early on, I sat back and watched what those hens did to his hands. I heard the thud of their beaks hitting his bone and knuckles. I saw him flinch, just a time or two, when the blood started to trickle from one of those stab wounds. I knew what would happen if I stuck my hand in there, because I witnessed it happening to Grandpa.
Eventually, he would talk me into trying it myself. And, just like a fool, I fell for it. Oversized greasy glove and all, I slowly inched my hand closer to the dark, oval opening of that small box, the hens getting more frantic as I got closer.
“Just reach in, grab its neck and pull it out,” he said.
I worked over the plan in my head as my hand advanced: reach in, grab the neck, pull it out, check for snakes, and grab the eggs. It sounded simple enough if I didn’t already know how un-simple it was. So, I stood there, hesitating, shaking a little, nervous a lot, wondering how in the world I let him talk me into this.
“Don’t be scared of it,” he says. “It’s just a chicken.”
Just a chicken, I think to myself, these aren’t just chickens, they’re devil hens. But, he was persistent, coaching me along.
“You gotta be quick,” he said, waiting patiently. “Don’t give it time to peck you.”
Yeah, like I can be faster than these Olympic medal winning chickens. Thanks, Grandpa.
The possibilities of what could go wrong raced through my head. I could lose a finger, it could eat my hand, it could jump out and eat my face; I don’t want it to eat my face — I like my face! I pull my hand back and rethink my situation.
“You sure, Grandpa?” I question him, hoping that he changes his mind.
“Well, you gotta learn sooner or later… it ain’t gonna hurtchya.”
Surely, Grandpa wouldn’t lie to me?! I thought. I mean, he did sound pretty confident. I looked him up and down, studying his poker face.
“Them eggs are gonna hatch if we don’t hurry,” he chuckled.
“Nuuu-uhhh!” I said, as confidently as I could fake.
Then, as gently as I would be with our new litter of lab puppies, I forwarded my gloved hand towards that damned squawking hen.
My fingers were just to the threshold when the hen first took a swipe. I pulled back faster than those rabbits that we would jump from the thorn bushes, and screamed like the girls do at recess (I think I even peed a little). Grandpa laughed.
“Don’t be scared. It won’t hurt,” he insisted.
I scowled and stared him down. I was starting to think that Grandpa was out to get me — that maybe he had discovered that I had lost a screw driver and his hammer in the woods, and this was him getting his revenge. I thought about giving up — that even his scrambled eggs weren’t worth all of this pain and fear.
I took off the glove and hung my head.
“I can’t,” I said, sadly. “I’m scared.”
Grandpa bent down beside me and put his hand on my shoulder. “It’s alright to be scared. They used to scare me, too.”
I looked up, relieved that I wasn’t the only sissy in the room. “They did?” I questioned.
“Mmm hmm,” he mumbled over top of the clamor of roused up chickens.
One noisy hen, fed up with our presence, leaped from her nesting box in a flurry of flapping and squawking. She hit the ground with her feet running, darted outside to join the rest of the flock, and loudly told them all about her near death experience.
I jumped back at the surprise of her exit. Looking at Grandpa, we both laughed.
“So, how come you’re not afraid now?” I curiously asked.
Grandpa reached inside of the empty box, pulled out the eggs and put them in the bucket that I was holding. Then, he reached into the next box, grabbed the protesting hen by the neck and encouraged her to abandon her nest with a gentle tug. She hit the ground disgusted and went to share her story with the rest of the gossiping hens in the fenced in yard.
“I realized that the pain doesn’t last forever. And, sometimes, I don’t even feel it at all.” He reached in for another hen, which was waiting in ambush, and pecked at his hand until she, too, was encouraged to give up her ground and leave.
I watched him brave these jabs like a true warrior in the trenches, sacrificing his flesh for the survival of his family. I thought about giving him a medal for his bravery on the battlefield. Perhaps, a Silver Cross for exposing himself to enemy fire, while I took cover behind him.
Inspired, I slipped my hand back into my flak jacket; it was time to get some!
I thrust the bucket of eggs into his beer gut. “Here!” I said, with my best look of determination war-painted onto my face.
Surprised, he grabbed the handle of the bucket and stepped back away from the next hen.
And, with my best pre-puberty battle cry, I plowed my hand underneath that nesting hen. With her eyes wide from my quick offensive, she tried to counter attack, pecking at me wildly. But, with my heart beating like the sound of war drums, I pulled out the first egg, quickly put it with the others and, courageously, went back for more.
Her eyes were red with revenge, and she let me have it. Artillery rained down on my hand like hot steel. It caught me off guard, and for a second, I pulled back in retreat. I thought about home, my loved ones, my dog, and my magic sticks. I thought about never seeing them again; the pain was real. It was stinging up my arm like white phosphorous. I thought that maybe we would have to amputate it, that maybe I would lose my arm in this battle.
In slow motion, I looked over to Grandpa who I had hoped would be laying down suppressive fire with his encouraging words.
“Did she getchya? Hurts a little, don’t it?” He smirked.
For a moment, I suspected that he could be a traitor, defecting to the other side — that he walked me right into an ambush and left me there to be cut down by these rapid-fire-beak-bursts. I thought about shin kicking him. But then, I immediately thought against it. His shins are like iron, and my toes are tiny. It would never work.
Instead, I got angry, rallied my troops (just me, apparently), and took the fight to the enemy. I reached back inside the box, determined to fight through the pain, even if I did have to lose and arm… one way or another, I was going to get these eggs!
I grabbed that hen by her neck, just as Grandpa had done before, and I yanked, half out of fear, and half out of desperation. The hen fought me well for a second or two, and I almost doubted my guts and glory.
But then, just like that, she broke loose. She shrieked to the floor in a blood-curdling scream. There, she gathered herself, adjusted her feathers, and stared me down. But, I didn’t blink, I didn’t budge, I just stood my ground. Defeated, she honorably discharged herself from the nesting area and marched outside to a swords-in-the-air parade for her poultry courage.
I watched her strut away, saluting in the dust sprinkled air, while sunrays, like flares, lit the battlefield ablaze with the fall of a noble queen.
In all the drama, I looked up at Grandpa, who was smiling proudly, and reconsidered his allegiance. I reached into the straw, and triumphantly held up those remaining eggs. I handed them to Gramps, who held out the bucket for me, as I have done for him so many times before.
“Heyyy, good job, Jake!” He said. “You did it! I’m so proud of you!”
I suppose, that when I think deeply on it, the only way for a hard headed man to get his hard headed grandson to overcome the fear and pain of something like gathering eggs from under thunder-gunning chickens, would be to inspire him though determination and resilience. That’s the funny thing about fear, it’s only as crippling as you allow it to be. And pain will only remind you that you are still capable of feeling, that you are still alive, and that you are able to endure.
Of course, I was still a little shaky every time that I had to stick my hand inside that box with a nesting hen. But, I learned that fear doesn’t have to control me — that it’s alright to be afraid. I realized that I could overcome the pain, if I wanted to bad enough. Hell yes, it’s going to hurt. That’s just life. But, it doesn’t hurt that way forever, I can promise you that. Eventually, the pain just fades away into something that doesn’t even matter anymore and you forget all about it. The more you overcome them both, fear and pain, the more you realize that they aren’t road blocks stopping you from going forward, but rather, hurdles, that you just need to learn how to jump over.