It was brought to my attention yesterday, as I sat in my back yard chatting with my mom and sister, that I had overlooked a few decent hunks of memory from my life on Liszt. Ya see, there was a reason I used the caveat that my remberer was full of holes way back at the beginning... because it is. But, I think worst of all, was the simple fact that, up until this point, I really haven't mentioned my sister, Kristy, very much. Why? Believe me me it's not because of any sinister or vindictive reason... its just because I simply don't remember doing an awful lot with here as a kid as young as I was. You see, she was born in 1979, and we only lived on Liszt until 1981. So, my memories of her really don't blossom until we moved, and I'll get to those years soon, I promise.
Now the other thing I had forgotten -well, inasmuch as the details- was the farm that sat just beyond the swampy area past the end of our street. I mentioned playing out there and having forts and whatnot, but my friends and I used to also go to the pig farm and just hang out. As far as I remember, the owners of the farm were pretty nice and were okay with us loitering about so long as we didn't mess anything up. But besides the pigs that were milling about, this farm also featured the best thing ever: chickens!
Why were chickens the best thing ever? Well, and at least in the case of these particular poultry, they were friendly and enjoyed being picked up and played with! They were like... uh, cats with beaks. Anyway, as I was recalling this fun little farm yesterday, it occurred to me that I bore witness to one particular bit of tragedy involving those chickens as a youth. And I finally remember just how horrific and repugnant it really was.
It was hatching time down on the farm, and my friends and I were hanging around snuggling the chicks like the little balls of fluffedy fluff fluff they were. Hey, when you're 7, chicks still means baby birds, ya know? Anyway, we were playing with the chicks when out of the shadows we hear this God-awful cacophonous crow that sounded like someone kicking a clarinet player in the crotch. We ran over to investigate and saw a gigantic chicken -presumably a pregnant female- sitting right on top of another, smaller chicken. No, not a chick, but a full grown bird. This fat-ass fowl just plopped right on top of it! She obviously broke its neck and then, adding insult to injury, smothered it under her massive bulk. We shooed her off in a flurry of protest and feathers, and stared dumbly at the flat mess that was once another chicken. It was definitely dead. We prodded it with a stick, even though we all knew what had happened. It was kind of sad, really.
Well, that was the story. Nothing particularly earth-shattering, I know. But, it happened none the less. We still visited the farm regularly, and we still hung out with the chickens, but we learned that day that a fat, angry hen is nothing to be trifled with. A lesson I've carried with me my whole life...
Now the other thing I had forgotten -well, inasmuch as the details- was the farm that sat just beyond the swampy area past the end of our street. I mentioned playing out there and having forts and whatnot, but my friends and I used to also go to the pig farm and just hang out. As far as I remember, the owners of the farm were pretty nice and were okay with us loitering about so long as we didn't mess anything up. But besides the pigs that were milling about, this farm also featured the best thing ever: chickens!
Why were chickens the best thing ever? Well, and at least in the case of these particular poultry, they were friendly and enjoyed being picked up and played with! They were like... uh, cats with beaks. Anyway, as I was recalling this fun little farm yesterday, it occurred to me that I bore witness to one particular bit of tragedy involving those chickens as a youth. And I finally remember just how horrific and repugnant it really was.
It was hatching time down on the farm, and my friends and I were hanging around snuggling the chicks like the little balls of fluffedy fluff fluff they were. Hey, when you're 7, chicks still means baby birds, ya know? Anyway, we were playing with the chicks when out of the shadows we hear this God-awful cacophonous crow that sounded like someone kicking a clarinet player in the crotch. We ran over to investigate and saw a gigantic chicken -presumably a pregnant female- sitting right on top of another, smaller chicken. No, not a chick, but a full grown bird. This fat-ass fowl just plopped right on top of it! She obviously broke its neck and then, adding insult to injury, smothered it under her massive bulk. We shooed her off in a flurry of protest and feathers, and stared dumbly at the flat mess that was once another chicken. It was definitely dead. We prodded it with a stick, even though we all knew what had happened. It was kind of sad, really.
Well, that was the story. Nothing particularly earth-shattering, I know. But, it happened none the less. We still visited the farm regularly, and we still hung out with the chickens, but we learned that day that a fat, angry hen is nothing to be trifled with. A lesson I've carried with me my whole life...
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