I grew up with my brother and sisters in rural northern New Jersey. There were 5 of us, four girls and a boy. To support such a large family, my dad rode the train each morning to Newark, New Jersey where he worked as a Mechanical Engineer for the telephone company and my mom, a nurse, worked evenings at the local Veteran's Administration Hospital. They had a "tag team" sort of arrangement, where mom would have supper all ready for us and as soon as dad got home in the early evening she would take off for her job. Can you imagine working for eight hours then having to come home to 5 kids to make sure they ate their supper, cleaned up and did their homework? And my mom's life was no better, it was just reversed. It makes me exhausted just thinking about it.
So, I think its safe to say, they were looking forward to their weekend getaway to the Maryland shore. Mom arranged to have some intrepid neighbor come and stay with us, then they packed their bags into the "woody" station wagon and away they went. I imagine they were giddy with their freedom as they drove toward their destination, no kids for two whole days. However, when you have young children at home they are never far from your mind and you tend to start missing them after a while, at least that's been my experience. It may take a few days, but eventually you do start to miss them.
Such was the case with my parents, because on their way home they decided to get us a present. They were passing a poultry hatchery when the idea came to them to get their brood of kids a brood of chicks. We already had a dog, cat and a horse. Why not add to the menagerie? Plus think of all those fresh eggs.
They took the road leading to the hatchery farm where they found the farm office. Upon entering the office, they encountered the owner of the establishment and inquired if they could purchase some chicks as a present for their children. The owner wasn't used to selling his chicks on a retail basis, but never the less consented to the sale. "How much?" said dad. "Five cents a piece," replied the owner. "Great," said dad. "We'll take a dollar's worth." A box was produced, the chicks were installed, the dollar changed hands and my parents were on their way.
When they arrived home, we were thrilled with our new fluffy charges. We kept the chicks in the house in a large box for the first few weeks, while dad finished building a coop in our barn. Once completed, we placed the chicks into their new home. They grew quickly and enjoyed wandering "free-range" on our property during the day and sleeping in the safety of their coop at night. We eagerly looked forward to their eventual egg production.
The chickens were a variety of colors: black, speckled, yellow and a reddish-brown. There was also a white one, which we cleverly named "Snowy". She had a deformed foot which made walking difficult. My brother tried to correct her affliction by fashioning a splint for her out of two popsicle sticks and some tape, but she was destined always to have a useless leg. Still, she managed to feed herself and get around a bit. Aside from Snowy, the rest of the chickens grew into handsome birds. In fact, we began to notice that around half of them were growing longer tails and larger combs and wattles. They were becoming roosters!
If you've ever been around chickens before, you'll know that one rooster is plenty. More than that and you have too many egos for a peaceful flock. Plus a few of our roosters were down right mean. My mom had taken to arming herself with a broom so she could make it from the back door of the house to the car unmolested.
My dad decided to take care of our rooster problem and fill our freezer at the same time. He would butcher all of the roosters, save one docile fellow. For this he enlisted the help of my brother, two sisters and I. My littlest sister, Sally, was too young to participate. Having been a boy who grow up in the city, my dad had no prior experience butchering chickens, but he did know it involved removing the head from the body. He gathered the tools for his grim task: a hand axe and a wood stump on which to do the deed. He instructed my brother to capture one of the roosters and bring it to him. Once he had the bird in hand, he was at a loss as to how to proceed. How do you hold a struggling chicken still long enough to whack off its head? Then an idea came to him. "Stacey," he cried, "Run and fetch me the Bobby Murcer bat."
Side note - Bobby Murcer was a talented young right-fielder, who played for the New York Yankees at that time. My dad enjoyed baseball and once a year he would take all of his kids to Yankee Stadium for Bat Day. Back then any kid who was lucky enough to attend Bat Day received an official, full-sized, Little League, wooden baseball bat with a player's name engraved on it. That year, I acquired a Bobby Murcer bat which gained much use during our neighborhood softball games.
I came back with the bat and handed it to my dad. He smacked the chicken on the head, rendering it unconscious and then quickly chopped off the head. He held onto the carcass while it flopped around and then hung it by it's legs on the fence rail to bleed out. For the rest of the afternoon we processed the chickens in that manner. It was a bloody day, but I don't recall having nightmares or being emotionally scarred by the event. I think that's because my parents treated it without emotion, sort of "One of the facts of life is death." and that was all there was to it. That is, until we were sitting down to supper a few weeks later.
We were all gathered around the dining table as my mom walked in with the main course for that evening's supper. It was a steaming casserole of Chicken à la King. Chicken à la King is a dish consisting of diced, tender, chicken in a cream sauce laced with sherry, mushrooms, and vegetables, served over rice, pasta, or bread. Mom liked to serve it over toast points. She was an excellent cook, so it was always a tasty dish. Soon, we were all served and began to enjoy our meal, when dad cleared his throat and queried, "So gang, how does Snowy taste?" We all stopped, mid-chew and stared at him in horror. Then the crying and pushing back of plates ensued. My mom gazed at my dad and if looks could kill he would have dropped dead on the spot. Apparently, one extra chicken had met her demise on that fateful day a few weeks back. Dad was "culling the herd" as they say, getting rid of weak or inferior stock. He did it on that slaughter day, after we had gone into the house, because he knew we would protest. Needless to say, supper that night kind of deteriorated as everyone, except my dad, had lost their appetite.
I have eaten and enjoyed a lot of chicken since then, but Chicken à la King lost some of its appeal. Something else was forever changed by the poultry incident. Because of the integral and somewhat messy part it played in the whole affair, the Bobby Murcer bat became forever known, during our neighborhood games, as the "Blood Bat".
SIERRA NEVADA SUMMER
7x5 inches, oil on linen canvas, 2015
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This barn is located in the northern most part of the Sierra Nevada mountain range in north eastern California. The Sierra runs 400 miles north to south and is about 70 miles across east to west. The range features some of the most beautiful natural areas in the world including Lake Almoner, Mount Lassen, Lake Tahoe, Mount Whitney and Yosemite Valley.
