Chapter Eight
Nurture And Provide For Those You Love
For much of my early and wild childhood, Grandpa’s chickens were not much more to me than just something to feed, to play with, to clean up after, to protect, and, well, to harass (but only on occasion). In those early days, back before I was old enough to see past all the chicken poo and hard work, I had no idea about the kind of impact that this life style would have on my life. I was blind to the true value of what those chickens really meant to me, to him, and to the rest of our family. Quite frankly, back then, I was more interested in chasing them through the yard with sticks in my hands, just to see how high that they could fly, than I was about any sort of life lesson that I could possibly take from those experiences (like, don’t chase the chickens, because, eventually, one day, one might just chase you, instead).
I knew that it was up to us to take care of them, although, the relevance of which I wasn’t quite aware of until I got a little older and watched my youngest cousins experience some of the same things that we all did when we were that age. Things like, feeding the hens left over dinner scraps, gathering and washing the eggs, and coddling the Easter chicks that Grandpa would buy each year. When I stepped back and became more of an observer than a participant, when I watched my cousins interact with those chickens in the same ways that I did when I was younger, it was quite clear to see just how important those chickens truly were (even if they did smell like poop and pecked at my hands whenever I’d pick one up to hold it).
It was a tradition in the Patchen household for Grandpa to go down to the Farm and Fleet and buy baby chicks just a few days before Easter each year. He had a small, wood-framed cage that was big enough to hold a dozen chicks, but was still small enough to set up on the kitchen counter of his finished basement, just beside the fridge (which was stocked full of Bud Light, water, and juice boxes). In his infinite chicken wisdom, he would rig up a heat lamp and lower it down into the cage, letting it hover about 8 inches above the bottom where they would huddle together to keep warm and peep-peep back and forth, probably talking about what a lovely accommodation this heat lamp provided. Grandpa would line the bottom of the cage with old newspapers for them to soil and bed on. He tasked out the responsibility of changing them to us, whenever we would come up to visit. Inside the hinge and latch door of this mini chicken resort, he would set a small tray of baby chick feed, and an upside-down jar of water that would trickle out into a round dish for them to drink from and splash in.
Feeding and watering the baby chicks was my 2nd favorite thing to do around Easter (my 1st favorite was the Easter candy, I mean, c’mon). This was my 2nd favorite thing to do, because while feeding, if I was careful and gentle, then I would be able to hold a baby chick. And, let me tell you about how much I enjoyed holding baby animals… umm, A LOT! Matter of fact, for the longest time growing up, I wanted to be a veterinarian. I mean, seriously, who doesn’t love baby animals?! So, anyway, there I was, standing on top Grandma’s good dinner table chair, right up next to the counter, reaching in with curious little fingers, tongue sticking out in concentration, trying to grab the one baby chick that “chirped at me.” Meanwhile, Grandpa would be rinsing out the water dish in the sink beside us. Once I was able to corner the one that I had connected with through the wire mesh that wrapped around the front of the cage, I gently coaxed it into my little hand, and lifted its peeping little body outside of the cage and into my chest, where I rocked it back and forth, petting its tiny little feathers until it was nearly asleep in my hands (I’m pretty sure that I was a bona fide chicken whisperer).
After my two youngest cousins were born and were old enough to hold a chick, it was with this same curiosity and excitement that they would reach out to pull in and secure a peeping baby chick from Grandpa’s aging hand. Gently, they would cradle it against their chest to comfort and protect it, just as if it were their very own offspring. To watch a child learn how fragile and delicate a baby is — to watch that same child learn the significance and necessity for life as it holds that tiny beating heart against theirs — that is what raising animals is all about. That, right there, is the secret behind Grandpa’s traditions. That is the lesson that any parent or grandparent wants to pass on to their children and grandchildren — that life is a fragile, fleeting thing; that it is so special and extraordinary, that we must pull it into our hearts and hold it gently and closely, tight enough to make it ours, yet, loose enough to let it breathe. And we must care for it, protect it, show it love, and give it meaning. Because, if we do not… if we do not cherish such a rare, remarkable, and beautiful thing, then, we simply do not deserve it.
One of the more difficult ways that I learned the value of life was helping Grandpa butcher a hen for dinner, every now and then. The older a hen gets, the fewer eggs she typically lays, and to make room for new chicks, we would, sometimes, slaughter a hen for dinner. It wasn’t my favorite thing to do, by any means, as I had helped raise most of these chickens with Grandpa. But, I also understood why we needed to do it, and that it would be nourishment and nutrition for our bodies. Knowing that, though, did not make it any easier of a task.
We would select one of the older hens out of the flock and then spend a good 5 minutes trying to catch her (okay, I would spend a good 5 minutes trying to catch her). After chasing her around the yard, cornering her, and snatching her up, I would try to comfort her by stroking her feathers and holding her close to me. I could feel her heart beating as fast as mine. It wasn’t an easy thing to do; it was actually, quite difficult. But, I knew why we were doing it. I knew that this hen had a long and productive life here at Grandpa’s house, and that she provided us with many eggs, which made lots of food for our family and friends. I knew that, now, she would serve her final purpose as becoming nourishment for our bodies so that we may live and go on to do great things with our lives. I knew this, but as I keep saying, it was still a difficult thing to do.
In the back yard, right in front of the shed that housed the riding lawn mower, we placed a large upright piece of firewood and partially hammered down two nails into the top of it, spaced about an inch and a half apart. Grandpa had the hatchet from the garage already in his hand as I brought the hen over to the piece of wood. I passed off the hen to Grandpa, who placed its head between the two nails, and with one swift swing, removed it with the hatchet.
There’s no reason to get into any kind of gory details of what immediately happened next, but let’s just say that the folklore is true. Next, we would dunk the chicken into boiling water to loosen the feathers for plucking. Grandpa would be in charge of the dunking, as somehow, I would always end up burning myself, and I would be in charge of the plucking. But, let me tell ya, I was the best plucking plucker this side of the Ohio River (probably).
There was a trick to it, really. I would start at the tail and work my way down, pulling loose the feathers and throwing them down onto the unfolded newspapers that Grandpa had set on the garage floor. The small fury feathers were the hardest to pluck clean, as they would stick to your hands and the bird and anything else that made contact with them (like my shirt, pants, face, and boots). We would keep dunking the bird and cleaning it off until it was, for the most part, completely bare of fur and feathers (or, about as clean as I would get an ear of corn when I peeled it, leaving several small hairs and fibers). I imagine that it was one of Grandma’s favorite parts of cooking the hen (and corn) — cleaning off everything that I missed — because she did it so well and so often.
On those nights, we would sit around the table at Grandma and Grandpa’s, bow our heads for grace, and thank the Lord for giving us this food, family, and our health. As we passed around the bowl of mashed potatoes, the corn, and the chicken, I couldn’t help but to think of the cycle of life that this chicken was a part of (I know, I know… even back then, I had weird thoughts at weird times). But the thing of it is, this was probably one of the baby chickens that I held only a few years ago at Easter, while Grandpa fed and watered the rest of the chirping baby chicks. This might have been one of the chicks that I had held close to my chest, quieting her peeps with my gentle strokes and soft words, putting it to sleep by rocking my hips back and forth, like I had watched Mom do with Jason only a few years before.
This could’ve been one of the hens that I had chased through the yard with magic sticks raised in each hand, yelling and giggling, running in circles trying to get close enough to grab her. This chicken might have been one of the hens that destroyed my hands as I reached up under her to grab the eggs for next week’s scrambled eggs with mushrooms and onions. Or, this might have been the same hen that Devil was always protecting, every time that he attacked me.
The truth is, there was no real way to tell exactly what hen it was and what all we had been through, together. But, sitting there around the table with my family, enjoying a warm, home cooked meal together, laughing and smiling at Grandma and Grandpa’s orneriness, talking about friends and family, and honestly, just simply enjoying each other’s company — was all thanks to this bird for giving its life up for us. It was because of Grandpa, who chose to raise a food source that we could not only enjoy in life, but also in death. It was because he wanted to show us what life and death meant — that we all have a purpose here on Earth. And sitting, right there at the table, almost behaving… my purpose was to be thankful for such an amazing family… for such a blessed and wonderful life.
You see, Grandpa didn’t just have the chickens because he wanted chickens. Grandpa used his chickens as a tool, a mechanism, to raise his daughters and his grandchildren. And, as silly as such a thing sounds, I’ve come to this conclusion through my very own observations and experiences. I’ve watched first hand as Grandma would take cartons of eggs to church to hand out to those who needed them. I’ve seen numerous family, friends, and neighbors leave Grandma and Grandpa’s house with a carton or two full of fresh brown eggs. I’ve seen the generosity; the caring, and nurturing character that my grandparents humbly projected. I’ve learned from them, and through the act of raising chickens, how valuable it is to nurture and provide for the people that you love. And, I can tell you right now with conviction that learning to be compassionate, learning how to care for and treat others, has done more for my soul than any other lesson that I’ve ever learned from my grandparents.
What value would we have as people if we never learn compassion, generosity, or how to care for one another? How on Earth would we ever survive as a community or a society if we cannot help each other grow? This is what I’ve taken from a childhood surrounded by a good, loving family. This is what I’ve learned, with Grandpa by my side, showing me how to nurture and provide for his chickens. If, at a young age, we are not introduced to the virtues of providing for, nurturing and loving something, then we are missing out on the foundation of life. And, without that foundation, we will surely crumble.