chickens of my childhood

Being raised like an only child (my siblings were both gone from home by the time I was two), and many times isolated from other children once school let out, I learned at a young age to use my imagination and entertain myself. I played cowboys and Indians, switching between characters as needed. I rode my imaginary horse, which trotted at a leisurely pace anywhere I wished to go... although I remember wishing my imagination worked just a little better, because I could never quite make myself believe I was on a real horse.

Until we moved to Kansas City, my mother always kept chickens on the place, wherever we lived. Even in the small town of Eagleville, we had a chicken-wire fence creating a yard around the hen house. I loved to play with the chickens and watch their behavior. No need to be bored with them around!


Early in the spring Mother would order fifty or a hundred day-old chicks, and I remember riding to the hatchery to pick them up. It was exciting to hear the peep-peeping coming from inside the cardboard box they were in on the ride home; there were round holes in the sides of the box to let them get air, and you could see the yellow fluff of their bodies moving, through the holes.

It seems most of the chicks were yellow (which means they'd be white as adults), but usually there were a couple with black on them; I always claimed those as my pets, since I could tell them apart from all the others.

The chicks started out in a room upstairs (so the poultry smell didn't invade our living quarters) in a brooder similar to THIS. There were light bulbs in it to keep the babies warm, and trays for food; a glass fixture that went on an upside-down mason jar gave them water.

I learned as a very young child to tell if the chicks were happy or sad, just by the sound of their peeping. The sound of happy chicks peeping is one of the most pleasant memories of my childhood. If they got chilled or ran out of food or water, their peeping got a desperate sound to it.

The chicks grew fast, and they were soon taken outside to a brooder house, where a heat lamp was hung over them for heat; they needed a source of heat until they were well "feathered out". I recall one time at my grandma's house, rats got in her brooder house and killed some chicks.

Usually Mother got straight-run chicks, which means an assortment of male and females. The males were destined for the skillet; the females would supply us with eggs; I believe back then we could take extra eggs to the grocery store and receive money for them. I'm sure my cousin Carolyn remembers how it all was, since she spent her childhood on a farm up the road from Grandma. When Grandma went to town on Saturdays, she never said she was going to shop: She said she was going to do her "trading".

Fried chicken was almost the only meat you'd ever see on our table. We didn't have a deep freeze, so when company was coming, Mother went out and killed a chicken or two the day before. She simply stepped on the chicken's head while holding onto it by it's feet, and pulled. What fun it was to see a headless chicken flopping around all over the yard! Then she'd dip the chicken in scalding water to loosen the feathers and turn it over to me to pluck all the feathers off.

If there was a hen that wasn't laying, she had the distinction of ending up in noodles. Once in awhile Mother would be mistaken about the hen's non-production and there'd be eggs in formation inside her. What an experience, seeing the miracle of how eggs were formed!

I got so many great anatomy lessons watching my mom "dress" chickens (I always found that term peculiar; shouldn't it be "undress?). I was fascinated with the craw, which was full of rocks and sand. Mother explained to me how, since chickens didn't have teeth, the craw did the chewing for them. The words "craw" and "gizzard" were used interchangeably; but checking online, it appears they might not quite have the same meaning.

My mom, and all my aunts, made the best fried chicken ever. I've never tasted any like theirs since. When the chicken was done and the cast iron skillet cooled off a bit, I'd pick out all the little crispies left behind in the skillet. Good stuff, Maynard!

That's my trip down memory lane for today. By the way, if you want to meet someone who keeps chickens as pets, go visit Kelly. That lady LOVES her chickens!