Chapter Five
When The Shit Piles Up, Shovel It Out
There’s an ancient proverb written down somewhere (I’m almost positive) that states, “Those who pen their flock outside their window, will smell foul all night.” But, if that isn’t some ancient proverb, (which I’m certain that it’s not, because I, literally, just made it up) then, it needs to be.
My grandfather, in his masterful wisdom of knowing exactly what the wind does to the things that smell offensive, chose to build his chicken coop down the hill and behind his garage — a spot where the wind was supposed to never blow. But, on certain days, when the wind is particularly stubborn and it’s determined to blow beyond its boundaries, like a brick wall to the face, it makes itself well known beyond the hill and garage. What I’m trying to say is, on especially primed days, when the wind would blow hard from the West, we would know, quite well, that it was time to shovel out the chicken coop.
Perhaps, there was a time back when Grandpa did this repugnant job himself, but I do not recall. Instead, it was the “perfect” job for me, or Jeremy, or Jason, or maybe any one of the other cousins. Matter of fact, I’m pretty sure that in Grandpa’s mind it was the “perfect” job for anyone, other than himself. And, well, let’s just be honest, who could really blame him?
I was more than happy to do it (okay, I just lied). But, the thing is, in my younger and more naive days, Grandma and Grandpa had a way to coerce me into doing these sorts of things. They knew my weakness, and they knew it well. And, quite frankly, they weren’t afraid to use it against me: candy. What can I say? I had a mouth full of sweet teeth and the inability to turn down a nice full pouch of Big League Chew, or Gummy Bears, or Blow Pops… or, really, anything else that was fruit flavored and full of sugar. Now, before you ask, yes, I’m still cavity free and to the best of my knowledge, I have avoided diabetes thus far (knock on wood). But, even beyond all of the verbal warnings of my teeth falling out, and the possibility of high blood sugar (like I even knew what that really meant, anyway), I was a sucker for suckers. I was crazy for candy, and I didn’t care who knew it. I would proudly parade my smiling-red-stained-lips all over the yard — slurping down whatever sticky mess I could get my hands on. Matter of fact, if there was ever such a thing as Candy-a-holics Anonymous, I’m pretty sure that I would’ve been a weekly member. I was willing to do anything for another piece of candy: sweep the patio, clean out the gutters, mow the grass, feed the animals, and, yes, of course, shovel out the chicken coop.
Now, when it came to cleaning out the chicken coop, this wasn’t just some simple task that involved a shovel and some sweat, huh-uh. This was elaborate. This was sophisticated and refined. There was a process to getting this done and doing it right. And, I assure you, that although Grandpa would “let” me do the hard parts, he would be checking up on me from time to time to make sure that I was doing it right.
Thinking back on it now, it must’ve been a funny sight to see… me in my “old” clothes (weeeell, usually in what I thought was my old clothes, but then, later, in the middle of doing laundry, my mother would ask me why I thought it was a good idea to wear those jeans, that shirt, and my brand new school shoes to shovel out shit from the chicken coop. Look, Mom, I really don’t have a good answer. All I know is — that candy was promised and my judgment was impaired. I apologize). Normally, I had on an old pair of Grandpa’s gloves, which were waaay too big and would keep falling off whenever I’d hang my hands down at my sides. Then, there was the dust mask that covered enough of my face to make it impossible to see exactly what I was doing.
Okay. So, back then, when candy was almost the most important thing in my life — more important to me than money, or love, or responsibility, or work ethic, (but not football, or hunting) — I would gather up my supplies accordingly: one short flathead shovel that was nearly as big as I was, a five gallon bucket that I struggled to carry when it was filled to the top, and either the wheelbarrow, or the lawn tractor and trailer that Grandpa would let me drive, only after showing me, three times, what all the levers and knobs would do, again.
First, I would open the door to the coop, turn on the lights, go inside to the stench and clutter of flustered hens, immediately rethink my social position in the family, walk back outside for a breath of fresh air… focus on the candy, then, walk right back inside and force those confused wretched fowl all from their roosts, or nests, or feeding trough, and finally, funnel them outside. Quickly, I would untie and close the small doggie (or chickie) door that was cut out of the bigger, full sized door, and lock them into their fenced in area so that I could do my dirty work.
Grandpa, conveniently, had everything that was supposed to go up and down on pulley systems (like I said, he was handy). So, I would raise the roost into the air and tie it off on the metal tie-off point that he had screwed into the wall. I would move the food and water out of the way, swing open and lock the door that led from the walk-in area to their nesting area, and, fiiiiinallly, start scooping up the dried-and-plastered-to-the-floor chicken shit and shoveling it into the five gallon bucket.
Once the bucket was full (like, two or three scoops), I’d grip its dirty, nasty, poop-handle, lift the heavy poop-bucket to my hip, and wobble it outside to dump it (no pun intended, well maybe, a little) into the waiting wheelbarrow or trailer. I would carry the empty bucket back inside and do it all over again until I had a full load, or in the case of the wheelbarrow, until I had a load full enough for me not to spill it all over the place as I pushed it up the hill to the garden. Oh, did I forget to mention that we used the manure to fertilize our garden vegetables? Yes, there was a purpose for everything at Grandma and Grandpa’s house.
So, I would shovel at that mound of manure methodically, one scoop at a time, braving through the stench of disturbed dung, one bucket full at a time, out to the wheelbarrow, up the hill to the garden, to either dump the wheelbarrow or scoop out the trailer, rake it around a bit, and then, head back down to the chicken coop to do it all over again. It was a shitty job, indeed. But it needed to be done. That was just a part of taking care of the chickens.
In the summer’s heat, it was a job even less desirable (if it could even get less desirable). Either way, I would force myself through the misery of the heat and rank filled coop. My sweat would mix with dust and feces creating a dirt-n-dung trail rolling down my skin. Around my face mask would visibly be poo, or dust — I hoped for dust — but knew that it was probably more poo than dirt. I accepted this, simply wiping sweat and crap from my forehead onto my sleeve, grunting the wheelbarrow up the hill to the garden, just happy to have a taste of fresh air on my skin.
Actually, there were times when I considered it a good work out. There were times when I refused to use the tractor and trailer because I thought that, by pushing a wheelbarrow up the hill, it would somehow help me to become a better athlete (if only wheelbarrow races were sanctioned events). Or, if cleaning out a chicken coop and spreading the manure out over the garden was a sporting event, I am certain that I would’ve won Blue Ribbon and a shelf full of trophies. Look, I’m not claiming that I’m the best, by any means (so, please, don’t call me up to clean out your chicken coop — that’s what children and grandchildren are for), but I am saying that over the years, I polished up those skills and became quite proficient at it.
As I got older, the motivation to clean out the chicken coop changed for me. It was no longer about the candy (although, I would still help myself to the candy jar on Grandpa’s TV stand). And it wasn’t ever about the money that my grandparents would force me to take, hide somewhere in my truck, or threaten to never ask for my help again, unless I took that $20 that I tried to give back to them. For me, cleaning out the chicken coop became more like a responsibility of mine, a duty, a badge of honor that I proudly accepted. It became something that I owned, something that I wanted to do. Not just because it was helping the Old Folks out (which any of us were more than happy to do), but because it was liberating for me, it was rejuvenating to go and shovel out the old, the waste, to plow through all the crap, to endure all of the agony of what it was to pile that poop into a bucket, into a wagon, a trailer, or a wheelbarrow and shove it on up the hill to rake it and spread it out all over the garden… to allow that crap to become useful crap, to allow that waste to become renewal. It became less of a job, less of a task, or chore, and more of lesson, a symbol for life; a revival.
Okay, look… I know how silly that sounds to you, and trust me, it sounds silly to say it. But to see a task or a chore transform into a lesson for life — that’s priceless. To watch waste become creation, to see the hard times turn into the fruitful times, to understand that we must endure the misery, that we must overcome the pain and the agony in order for us to prosper, in order for us to blossom, to become ripe — that is the kind of reparation that is worthy of all the sweat, all the strain, and all the stench.
You see, the true value here, is not just completing a job that needs to be done, it’s not just cleaning out the crap from inside the chicken coop. The true value is realizing that the chicken coop is a metaphor for life. It’s comprehending the lesson, that when the crap piles up in your chicken coop — when things truly get shitty in your life, instead of letting it overwhelm you, instead of allowing it to bury you… you just have to scoop it away, one shovel full at a time, one bucket full after another, thinning it out over the gardens of your soul and consuming it as energy, as nourishment, and as strength to grow.
*****
Although, I consider my grandfather a VERY lucky and fortunate man (because he has me as a grandson, duhhh), he has, certainly, plowed through his fair share of poo, and grew from each heap of feces that he defeated.
He was the baby of twelve children, to a loving and caring family that put down roots, right here, in the same foothills and abandoned coal mines that I call home. His family wasn’t of wealth, though if you ever told them that, then they would argue it, and then proceed to show you the true value of family and love, and promptly convince you that you, yourself, have no idea what true wealth is. They had each other, and to them, that was everything that they needed.
My grandpa served a stint in the Army as a mechanic. Although, he was lucky enough to never see any combat, he did move around, often from base to base. Living just off base in Mineral Wells, Texas, he witnessed the birth of his first-born child, Penny. Braving the dust storms, the bugs, and the heat, living in a small apartment above somebody’s garage, he and my grandmother started a family that would, eventually, bring into this world four daughters, nine grandkids, and (so far) one great-grandchild. Unfortunately, along with learning a life skill in the Army, Grandpa also learned that the soldiers who smoked cigarettes would be allowed smoke breaks during duty. And, so, just as many other military members before him and after him, Grandpa became a smoker.
My grandfather’s smoking and drinking, undoubtedly, led to a major heart attack at the age of 56. Although, at the time, I was not much bigger than a small pain in my mother’s ass, I faintly remember the overwhelming power of what a near death experience had on our family. Upon signing his discharge papers and ready to leave the hospital, he suddenly went code blue and needed resuscitated right there. Luckily, for him and for all of us, they were able to revive him. If he would have left the hospital any sooner, then they said that he would not be here today.
But, more recently, I’m drawn to the memories of my grandfather’s doctor visits, hospital stays and surgeries. One particular hospital visit (which is semi-hazy in my recollection, as this was back in my drinking days… uhhh, I mean, COLLEGE days,) comes to mind. I recall sitting in his hospital room, with a folder of new poems in my hand (because, everyone brings something to ease the struggle, and for some reason, my poetry seemed like a good idea at the time???!). I was surrounded by family, some who left work in a hurry, some (me) who were more than obliged to skip their Women in the Middle Ages class, and others who drove some distance to come see him before he went into surgery. I believe he had internal bleeding or was septic or, perhaps, a combination of both. But, whatever he was battling through, we were there to fight with him.
As I walked into the room in shorts and flip flops, mentally rehearsed and prepared for the somber atmosphere, I was, almost, surprised to find his daughters laughing and carrying on about something that he had just said.
(If it wasn’t for the vast knowledge of Women in the Middle Ages and higher education that had been filling my head space at the time, then I’m sure that I would remember this more specifically) but I remember it something like this….
Mom (or maybe Aunt Penny) laughing, “No, they can’t fill your IV with Bud Light.”
Grandpa, lying in his hospital bed, grunts, “Well, why the hell not? All I need is a beer.”
Right on cue, I cross the threshold of the doorway smiling, “I’ve got half a case in the truck if you want me to go get it.”
The room fills with laughter as he chuckles and nods his head.
Mom gets up to give me a hug; the hugging goes around the room, ending with a handshake for Grandpa.
“How ya feelin’, old man?” I ask.
He scoffs at the attention. “Well, they won’t let me have a beer.”
We laugh, again.
“Ah, that might not be the best thing for you, right now. How are the nurses? Are they cute?” I inquire. (Look, everyone knows that the cute nurses are what makes hospital stays less intolerable, that’s scientific fact.)
After a few chuckles and one “Jacob!” from my mother, he answers, “There’s one who’s not too bad looking.”
“Uh-ohhh! Better watch out, Grandma!” I joke.
He grins his ornery grin at Grandma and winks. “Almost, reminds me of you, about fifty years ago!”
Grandma laughs, “I don’t know if I ever looked that good, but I’ll take it.”
We all snicker a little more and I start to wonder if we should be having this kind of fun in a hospital room. So as soon as we settle back down, I ask about what the doctor said.
The combination of my loving aunts, mother, Grandma, and Grandpa, all trying to remember word for word what the doctor had said (and, half arguing about how many bleeding sites he actually had) makes me and Grandpa grin with how hard they’ve all tried to get it right.
The truth of the matter was, that, even in as bad of shape that he was in, Grandpa still kept to his ornery ways. He still kept his sense of humor. And without that, I can only imagine how much more difficult that day could have been for us.
Even through the tears, the hugs, and the I love yous, as they wheeled him away to prep him for surgery, he never lost his inner shine. Now, maybe this is all part of some made up memory brought on by wayyy too much studying (clears throat — Okay, beer) but I could swear, that as they wheeled him off, he raised his IV’d arm, put his thumb into the air, and gave us the same “I’ll be alright” signal as those Pro football players do while they’re carted off of the field.
Life will, undoubtedly, at times, go ahead and take a big ole deuce right on your happy, comfortable, un-expecting plans. But, even as we become overwhelmed by the stench of this misfortune; even as we feel hopeless and afraid that we just can’t get through this, one thing that we will always have control over, is our attitude and what we choose to do with it.
Just like Grandpa, laying there, not knowing if he would see another day or not… not knowing if he would be able to kiss his daughter’s cheeks one more time, or if he’d even be able to argue with Grandma over something completely unimportant, but absolutely funny — even as he was staring at that huge pile of shit, right in front of him — he didn’t give up, he didn’t give in, he didn’t cave to the weight and burden of all this crap that was suddenly in his lap. No, he just rolled on, scooping it out of his way — one jab, one joke at a time — and comforting his teary-eyed family with his trouble-making gags and light-hearted chuckles. And, folks… that’s just what you have to do when shit starts to pile up… scoop it up and shovel it out, don’t let it bury who you are, and then, just like the tomatoes and peas in Grandpa’s garden… grow from it.