Saturday, February 4, 2017

Drive - A Memoir 35th Installment

them, they crowd the fence and hop over the tubes; they can't get out and we kill 'em. The first question now, the farmers, on the other hand, will be smart enough to know that without the fence their hay is destroyed, and that our fence will keep one thousand jackrabbits out for every one that gets in. They don't have to lift a finger to save their haystack because we supply the chicken wire, we do all the work and we laugh all the way to the bank, or I should say the little strong box Edith keeps.”

         “Where do we get the chicken wire? I don't remember seeing a chicken wire tree around here,” joked Russ.

         “Hardy har har, you are no Jack Paar!” I fired back. Russ should know by now that I’m the king of one–liners. I also knew a considerable amount of barnyard jokes – some of them real dirty. “Okay, I have a plan. We make a deal with the Old Man to tear down the old chicken coop and the chicken wire pens around it – the payment: we get to keep the chicken wire.”

         “This plan sounds like a lot of work to just get some chicken wire,” Russ complained.
Giving him a toothy grin I retorted, “Sounds like a lot of fun and a lot of money to me!”

Chapter 7
          For about ten years our folks had raised chickens for food, but mostly to sell the eggs to the Challenge Creamery that picked up our milk. They had enough chickens to fill a 30 dozen case of eggs in a day or two. I remember gathering eggs out of the nesting boxes and pretty much anywhere else in the hen yards. We would wash, rub and shine them, then fill the 2–1/2 dozen egg carton trays and stack the trays in the cardboard case. They also sold the chickens that were too old or too tired to crank out eggs, and we’d have chicken dinner at least twice a week.
I remember Grandma Gusty would show up about once a month, even though we lived 35 miles of bad road from Idaho Falls where she lived. She had the fanciest box camera we’d ever seen. After she struggled out of her green 52 Ford, she’d always line us all up and try to make us act like a civilized family so she could take our picture. We would pose in our fake faces while she would look down in the top view finder holding the box at her waist, do a little hula hula dance swiveling her hips to get us centered in the shot, and push the shutter. We’d immediately scram, but Edith and Grandma would gather us together again for a second shot in case the first one was fuzzy. Every time she came to visit we had a chicken dinner, and after the family photo we’d head for the coop to select

500 more words tomorrow

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