A Thanksgiving Memory
If you were around Fred in Blemont, NC, after 2016, you knew he was the proud “Papa” to his brood of chickens. I could say owner, but that doesn’t quite capture it. They were his little flock of joy.
When he decided chickens were his destiny, he started small. He bought two older hens from a fella in Waxhaw, NC. With a buddy’s help, Fred hauled a red lean-to henhouse into our backyard with the girls in tow. He named them Birdell and Hazel, after my grandmother and his mother, befitting their attitudes.
And promised me I would not have to clean the chicken coop. Hooray!
Fred was a man with a vision. He spent months scouring the internet for just the right plans, sketching and combining ideas like a backyard architect. Every other week, he tucked away $60 from his Advance Auto Parts paycheck to buy supplies. Piece by piece, “D’Coop” rose from the ground!
At the same time, he was learning all he could about laying hens. He talked to other keepers, read articles, studied breeds, all until he settled on four varieties he wanted.
Then came the chicks. Eight tiny fluff balls arrived in a small box with air holes at the Belmont Post Office. The day before, he had gone there and made them aware that he would be there before the doors opened for business to pick up his girls. Fred picked them up at 5:30 in the morning like a proud Papa in a maternity ward.
For about 2 months, our basement was their nursery. He created a safe, warm space lined with straw and illuminated by an overhead infrared lamp. I learned why their first home was round. It was because if baby chicks huddle in a corner, they can pile up and smother each other. I may have been raised in the country, but we didn’t have chickens, so I was learning a lot.
When they were fully feathered and had been weaned from artificial heat to their own body warmth, he moved them to the darkened roost in “D’Coop.” He explained that this was crucial to maintaining their overall health and establishing their biological rhythms. After their first 8 to 10-hour night in the roost, they made their debut to the world.
Invitations had been sent out for the Dixie Chicks Debutante Ball. Twenty friends gathered in our backyard, surrounded by live bluegrass music. Laughter filled the air as each pullet was gently coaxed slowly and carefully onto the runway into the sunlight, eventually arriving safely on the straw-strewn dirt floor of their new home.
He turned the menu over to me, per usual. In honor of our pullets, we provided a buffet replete with delicacies spotlighting eggs and chicken meat. What can I say? I have a bit of dark humor.
They seemed to enjoy the evening sunlight while exploring the new, roomier area, which offered their own buffet of feed, sunflower seeds, and dried mealworms.
Fred made sure his girls were safe. Hardware cloth lined every wall, every seam, and was even buried underground. Thanks to his foresight, not a single hen was ever lost. We may have called it D’Coop, but soon most of Belmont was calling it the “Taj Mahal.”
Once the young hens had grown to full size and were consistently laying eggs, Fred tested his theory. One evening just before sundown, he brought Birdell and Hazel to meet the new girls, each named after our grandchildren (with the boys’ names sweetly “feminized”). They were all in the roost.
By morning, feathers were flying, Birdell and Hazel had claimed the roost, and the youngsters were huddled in a corner! So much for family unity. The elders were summarily returned to their lean-to, living as queens in their own castle. And peace once again reigned in D’Coop.
A few months later, the family was all gathered for Thanksgiving. Once we were seated around the dinner table, we each took turns sharing what we were most thankful for: health, secure jobs, children, grandchildren, the usual.
Last but not least, it was Fred’s turn. Without batting an eye and with a straight face, he said, “My chickens.”
I am told that my head whipped around so fast, it was a miracle it stayed on. The room went silent. Everyone but Fred held their breath. He still didn’t realize he had said anything unexpected.
After I calmed myself, I found myself laughing. You could hear the release of everyone’s breath. Because if you knew him, you knew that answer was pure Fred.
This became part of the tapestry of many laughable moments in our family history.
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Even though we are not yet fully into Autumn and Thanksgiving is still two months away, I came across this in my journal and couldn’t resist sharing a humorous bit of family history.
Please feel free to share a humorous story from your family history that highlights one of your dearly departed loved ones. Laughter is good for the soul, even when we’re grieving.
I hope you’ll stop by next week! Have a blessed one.
–Gritty Granny
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