Chapter Two
Help Somebody, When You Can
For as far back as I can recall, my grandfather has always had chickens. Not the kind of chickens that would just sit in a hen house and nobody would even know that they are there, except for the smell and random squawking. No, these were yard chickens. These were driveway chickens, patio chickens, garage, and when no one was paying attention… deck chickens. They were the type of chickens that told other chickens what to do. Grandpa’s chickens owned other chickens. These were free-range chickens. At least for a little while, anyway.
But here’s the thing, even street fighter chickens with the meanest roundhouse kick around, lose a battle to a coyote every now and then. Hell, even a lucky raccoon could sneak through the night and pick off one of the unlucky ones. But, don’t get me wrong, Grandpa’s chickens were not weak chickens, I mean, not when compared to the other sheltered and pampered chickens in the neighborhood, anyway. As strong as they were, at times, they were just unfortunate.
So, it was my job, no, it was my duty, as the best tree climber in the family, to venture out into the cool dusk air, with Grandpa at my side, and climb those tall bushy pines to snatch those free-range chickens from their roost and toss them into the safety of the coop, with them of course, in protest, kicking and screaming all the way.
It would go something like this….
I would leave the safe dwelling of my mom and dad’s house and venture out alone, with flash light and pocket knife at the ready, up the grassy, shadowed, corridor, surrounded by wild woods — wide eyed and ready for fierce deer or wolves or gorillas or lions or whatever else might be lurking in those Eastern Ohio hills. My mother would be watching from the back screen door with the yard lights on (though it wasn’t completely dark, yet) making sure that I wasn’t eaten alive or kidnapped, or that I didn’t get lost in the nearly two-hundred careful steps and twenty yards of sprinting that it took for me to reach Grandma’s front porch. And Grandma, God bless her heart, already in her nighty, standing on the wrap around deck of their two-story country house, would be waiting with the deck lights on and trying to talk to me the whole way, “Jake… Jaaaake, is that you? I think I see you. Can you hear me? Jake? JAKE?!”
(Yes, Grandma, I could hear you, but what fun would it be to reply?).
Grandpa, already in the garage, would be waiting patiently with my favorite greasy, hand-me-down, way-too-big, work gloves. How he seemed to keep his composure at the sight of me in my brother’s extra-large sweats, way-to-tight long sleeved shirt, and blue snow boots, is beyond me. Come to think of it, how any mother would allow her child to dress in that ridiculous get-up is beyond me. I assume, that one woman could only take so many temper tantrums before she finally gives in and says, “Yeah… go ahead and dress like a heathen; I don’t care.”
Well, there I was, dressed like a heathen with a day’s full of dirt in my dirty-blonde hair; ready to tackle the task of de-roosting these curiously clucking hens. (Look, in my opinion, I feel like I was dressed for success, “heathen” was in style for chicken grabbers back then, alright? Don’t judge me.)
Now, it was imperative that we did an equipment check before we started: boots, check… gloves, check… flashlight, check… pocket knife, phhff… uhh, yeaaahh. We were ready. Like two professional chicken handlers, we were ready. Like two long time pals about to go on an adventure, we were ready. Like two soldiers gearing up for battle, we were ready.
Grandpa would go first, and I would hold the light. The clucking turned to squawking as soon as we stepped up to those pines beside the garage. But, we didn’t care; we knew what we had to do, and this wasn’t our first rodeo.
His instructions were simple. There was no need to elaborate. We had developed the sort of silent communication that long time special ops team members do. We practically had our own hand and arm signals.
“Light ‘em up,” he’d say as he started to climb.
I’d acknowledge with a salute and a head nod.
He’d start with the lowest birds first, grabbing at their feet, stepping down with one in each hand. They didn’t quite care for it, flapping and squirming, screaming bloody murder; they had no idea that it was for their own good (and some of Grandpa’s chickens were a bit dramatic). But we went through with it, anyway, as he shuttled them, upside-down and thrashing, towards the chicken coop.
Here, is where I became the door man. I’d run ahead, with purpose, around the corner of the shed behind the garage and down the hill to the chicken coop. What good was I if I didn’t make it there before he did? When I got there, I’d swing free the door and prop it open with the trash can. But, it wasn’t over, I still had to manipulate the latched door on the fenced in area, (okay… okay… now listen, the first run was the easiest, but from the second time on, I’d also have to keep the chickens in the fenced in area, while he threw the new birds inside). This required skill — a skill that only Grandpa and I had mastered. So, from the second round on, I’d lift the latch screaming some made up words to the hens that were already in there, and open the door while flailing my leg inside, just in time for Grandpa to throw the overly-dramatic hens safely though the threshold, as I’d slam the door shut with perfect timing. Then, we’d watch them run to the other side of their Marriott, ruffle their feathers, and forget everything that had just happened as they would take to their own roost within seconds. We were fluid, we were smooth… we were as cool as John Wayne rounding up bandits for bounties; and we were getting richer by the minute.
Next, it would be my turn. And by “my turn,” I simply mean that Grandpa would give me a chance at grabbing a few hens. Now, for those who have never grabbed a hen from her roost, it’s no simple task. And to an 8 year old, it’s downright frightful the first dozen times.
Let me break it down for you. There are hens, ten to fifteen feet high in pine trees, trying to sleep for the night. Then, there are two rednecks below them, equipped with a light, some hillbilly ingenuity, and hand-and-arm signals, trying to figure out how to snatch them from their branches without getting jabbed, pecked, or crapped on (okay, it was really just me who was worried about getting jabbed, pecked, and crapped on, but, I mean, come on… I was 8 years old and these were, like, fifty-pound chickens or something). So, there we were, looking up at these squawking, annoying chickens that are now realizing that we aren’t there to feed them and that they should probably just freak out and climb higher in order to stay away from us.
At this point it takes a tree climber — I was a tree climber. So, up I’d go, reaching for those sticky pine sap and shit covered branches, quickly, but carefully, semi-professionally, self-proclaimed majestically; I would climb within grabbing distance directly under my target hen. Now, to simply reach up and grab a hen by its perching feet is not something to take lightly, here, folks; this is a finely tuned snatch and grab operation. You have to be quick, you have to be accurate, but above all else, you have to be able to dodge the incoming poo when you scare the shit right out of them. Write that down… dodge the poo. This isn’t a lesson that you want to learn the hard way, trust me. Nor is it a lesson that your mother wants to find out that you learned the hard way when she does the laundry….
Back on point — there I am, halfway up into this pine tree, holding on with one oversized-gloved-hand and shooting out at a chicken’s dancing legs with the other. I reach out, like a pro (well, more like a slightly intimidated and scared pro), and snatch a hen by one leg (okay, so more like semi-pro). It immediately makes it known that it, in fact, does not fancy this situation at all. It clearly does not consider this a, particularly, good time. It starts flapping and fussing and bouncing around like... well, like a chicken caught by one leg in a pine tree. You see, this is where you have only two options, you can either hold on tight, or you can drop this maniac and spend the next thirty minutes trying to chase it into a corner, so that you can try and grab it all over again. To be honest, as fun as that may sound, I got tired of having to chase them. So instead, I would lean my back against a branch, balance myself in the stickiness, and use my other hand to wrap around the chicken’s wings in order to keep them from flapping wildly. Once I reached this point in the process, once I had a less-hysterical chicken in my hands, I would pass it down to Grandpa who was patiently waiting (and laughing) at the bottom of the tree.
At times, I would get ambitious, and I’d pass off two hens to Grandpa, and try for a third. These were the fun days. Me, trying to carry some lunatic chicken down a pine tree without dropping it, and rushing this loud-mouthed-monster over to the chicken coop to join the others. Some days I was good, other days, well, other days I would chase loose chickens around the yard until bedtime.
I remember being a part of this tradition for years. It was my favorite part about Grandpa having chickens; to be on his team, to join him in this manly task of man/boy vs. ninety-pound chickens. But, eventually he got too old to be wrestling with roosting chickens in trees, and I got too busy with sports and girls, and everything else a teenager gets into (except homework, no matter what my mother says, I was never given any to do). Eventually, we had to add on to that chicken coop, build the fence a little bigger, add running water, another room, and just keep those hens pinned up all day and all night long.
*****
Look, it wasn’t really that unusual to have chickens. I mean, where we came from, our little space in Guernsey County, Ohio… it wasn’t that big of a deal, lots of people had them. Of course, I remember from the beginning how excited I was to show anybody new who came over, any new friends who had never been up to see Grandpa’s chickens. I’d run outside, the screen door of my mom and dad’s house slamming behind me, and off I’d go with my own little chicken legs kicking as fast as they could, squealing “come ooon” to whoever it was lagging behind me. Through the freshly mowed yard I’d dash, passing the flowered bushes that marked my “night time boundaries,” rushing passed the path that leads up from the woods on both sides. There, I’d stop and wait by the oak tree for the slowpokes to catch up. From under those dying oak branches we could already see the hens in the yard pecking at the ground, eating bugs, worms, and corn that Grandpa would toss out by the handful.
As we would catch our breath there by that oak tree in the middle of a grassy pathway between two small hills, with woods to each side, Grandma and Grandpa’s two-story, brown, country house peeked up over top of the two pine trees in front of it. Beside the pines sat their faded-tan, or gold, or something mixed, pop-up camper that we would take to Myrtle Beach each year, and sometimes camp out in, right there, in the yard.
To the other side of the pines was a dog box sitting between two trees. Behind that was Grandpa’s two-car garage, where he would spend hours under the hood of some run down car or truck (And later, under the hood of my Blazer because it was a piece of crap and I knew nothing about mechanics). This is where he’d hang his tools on the walls in the free spots around his huge tool-boxes, shelves, and work-benches. The same work-benches that he would go to when we would wreck the wheels or beds off of our Tonka trucks or Power Wheels Jeeps. The old grease soaked wood had dents and scratches from years of fixing our mistakes.
Outside, and behind the garage, stood the chicken coop. It was built tall and large enough for thirty or more chickens. A large fence squared off and topped a 10x20 foot yard for the chickens to roam safely, jabbing at the dirt for the leftover bits of last night’s dinner (or roll around in the mud, whichever). Going out into this yard, Grandpa had rigged up a trap door to let them out or to keep them in. This door was hooked to a rope that allowed me to easily lower and raise it whenever I wanted. Inside this mansion of a coop was a fenced in room equipped with a pulley rigged roost that we raised whenever we’d clean out the piles of feces. In front of the roost was the feed trough, and against the wall was a two-story, individually boxed and strawed nesting place for the hens. A swinging door complete with a locking latch kept everything in and almost everything out. There was even electricity and running water. And if, at any time, the hens needed their pillow fluffed or an extra blanket, they just had to ring their bell and Grandpa would come running… ish. Yup, Grandpa’s chickens were spoiled.
This is where we would put the hens at night. It sat on a flat spot leveled out midway up the bank of a small slope where water would leave a soggy trail down to a trickling stream. The other side of the hill started the woods that wrapped around three sides of his property. These were the same woods where Dad would take us rabbit hunting every Thanksgiving morning. And they were the same woods that we would romp around in, play army in, shoot squirrels and chipmunks in, and build tree forts and sometimes eat mud pies in. These were not just Grandpa’s woods, these were our woods.
The chickens would roam freely from behind the garage, to the coop, to the woods, and to the front yard. No matter how hard I tried to sneak up on them, they would see me coming. So, from the oak tree, to the cherry tree, to the hickory tree in the yard, I would bounce, zig, zag, duck, roll, and ninja my way as close to them as I could get. This took skill, skill that only an eight year old could master after several years of trying. And just for ninja references, let’s just say that when I’d wear a belt… that it would be a black one.
This was my favorite part; to hear my grandmother’s voice over all of the stirred up hens that we were chasing, “Who’s out there? Jake, is that you? Leave them chickens alone!” I, of course, would not “‘leave them chickens alone.”’ In fact, I would chase those chickens around the feathered yard, each one squawking and clucking, flapping and running from my giggling, stick-for-a-sword, ninja-ness. Until, that is, Grandpa would come out of the garage, an Old Milwaukee in his hand, covered in grease and grime, raising his voice over all the laughter and noise. “HEY, KNOCK IT OFF!” It was at this point that I knew that it was time to give it a rest and go climb a tree or something.
Now, IF I ever did take it too far, to redeem myself was simple. A few toothless grins in his direction and he’d grunt to himself and scoot his feet back into the garage, smiling once no one could see. And, at times, I’d follow him into the garage, anxiously asking if I could feed the hens that I just scattered through the yard. He’d give in on the third time I’d ask and let me fill that old coffee can full of corn and walk out among the now friendly flock and throw handful after handful of those scattering gold nuggets down to the ground where a feeding frenzy of excited feathers ran about.
When the corn was gone, and the fuss was mostly over, I’d go see Grandma. She was usually hanging up or pulling down laundry from the clothes line (I don’t know why, but in my memories, Grandma always seems to be doing laundry), and, after she’d make me wash my hands, give her a big hug and a kiss, then, she would let me help her. I’d pull at the towels, unclipping them from their clothes pins and attempt to fold them the best that I could without getting too much of the freshly cut grass all over them. Of course, I failed miserably at both, folding, and keeping the grass off of them. So, really, I don’t think that I was much help at all. But, Grandma sure did love my company and would reassure me that it’s the thought that counts.
To be honest, I thought it was mostly just boring and took too long, so instead, I’d go get the broom and kind of sweep off the patio from all the dog hair and loose feathers that blew that way. Again, I wasn’t very good at this task either, but like Grandma says, it’s the thought that counts. Either way, I would be rewarded with a popsicle or bowl of ice cream, which I was VERY good at eating.
Growing up in the country meant that there was always some work to do. There was always something that needed fixed, cleaned, cut, raked, or shoveled; and I learned that, sometimes, even just being there, even just “trying” to help, was worth more to them, my grandparents, then it was to go buy something brand new, or hire someone to come out and do it for us. We were family, and we took care of each other. My mother, my aunts and uncles, my dad, my cousins and brothers, friends and girlfriends… we all knew that when we went to Grandma and Grandpa’s, that there was something that we could help them do, and we were, very much obliged, to give them a hand. We wanted to help. We wanted to give back to the people who gave us so much of their time and love; the people who helped us grow and learn, who opened up their house to anyone who needed a place to sleep, who offered their home cooked meals to anyone who was hungry, who volunteered in the community, who worked on cars and trucks for free, because it was just the right thing to do. We all learned that helping someone when you can, was not just a thing that you sometimes do, but it was a way of life.
When it comes down to it, life at Grandma and Grandpa’s house revolved around helping each other out. It’s one of the strongest lessons that I have ever learned from them. After all, where would any of us be if we were never offered a helping hand?