“Girl And Chicken” … a mid-twentieth century early black-and-white photograph, circa. 1948, probably taken with a commonly used “Brownie”. Cost a buck-ninety eight, film was what, 35 cents or something …
“Girl And Chicken” … a mid-twentieth century early black-and-white photograph, circa. 1948, probably taken with a commonly used “Brownie”. Cost a buck-ninety eight, film was what, 35 cents or something …
Anyway, here I am with my first pet … a rooster, one of those Woolworth’s Easter peeps that refused to die. He was tame, I kid you not. He knew his name, which is
way more than I am prepared to say about his owner at that same time. Can you imagine? A CHICKEN??? His name was Wacky. Don’t ask. He used to ride on the handlebars of my bicycle. Yepper. And he never even pooped on my foot, unlike a number of seagulls I have known over the years. Which are, come to think of it, not unlike a lot of the men I’ve known.
A chicken. Jeezuz. What kind of a mother gets her kid a chicken?? I mean, a hamster, goldfish, even a rabbit … but a CHICKEN? I was fucked from the get-go.
Okay, so I got this chicken. When he was pink. Which means someone really screwed up, but whatever, I don’t think his sexuality was threatened in the least, considering he crowed like a sonofabitch every morning between 4:30 and 5:00 a.m. See, my Grandpa, who was a farmer at heart, built him a wonderful chicken cage right outside our house. But Wacky grew up into a big honking white leghorn, and became the neighborhood nuisance. I believe someone blew the whistle on poor Wacky.
I came home from school one fateful day, only to discover that my beloved pet had been taken “out in the country, where he’ll be happy.” Uh-huh. Okey-dokey. And we’re having WHAT for dinner?? Don’t think so, check, please.
So: Upon careful consideration of the facts as set forth above, I’ve decided that this little episode on the bumpy road of life is exactly what is meant by the saying, “Bought the farm.” Wacky went to a farm. Nope. Wacky bought the farm.
Requiescat in pacem, Wacky. You were a good chicken.
Wonderfully warm, human, painful, beautifully written chapter,
Patricia. Key words here are: beautifully written. If every
guy who "crowed like a sonofabitch" had to buy the farm, there'd
be a helluva drop in the male population. -gene.
Who did they think they were fooling? Love the pic, and the story! Poor damn Wacky, turned in by someone without a heart on Trinidad Ave. When you think of what people think is acceptable for noise these days...I'd kill just to have Little Wacky next door!
Rosetta was born in 1909 as the youngest of ten children. The family had more laughter than money and neighbors would knock on their door to ask, "Can we come in and laugh, too?"
Join me as we travel together on the road called "Aging." I will be sharing my personal experiences with you and offer ideas on how we can better navigate the complex byways of our older years. Grief, healing, generations, ancestors, and more.
