Checkin' Chickens

My last rooster buddy

It’s odd, having lived all but one year of my adult life in rural areas, that my longest experience with chickens was as a St. Louis kid. The adventure started in Doniphan on spring break from school. Mom stayed with us kids and Dad went back to work. We shuttled between grandparents - Robert and Cecilia Pearson on A highway and Tom and Ardieth Bizzell on 160E.

On one of those break days in the early 1960s, we went to town, which to us kids meant going to Ben Franklin. What a treat for all not to have to stay at Mom’s heels! The floor was made of well-worn wide wooden planks so keeping track of us was easy.

So many treasures to pick and choose from for my little purse and Glenn’s pockets! Phyliis was just a toddler, probably wearing a playsuit Momo made from a pretty flour sack. But, wait! The store had something new right up front!

I don’t remember pleas and promises made or tactics used to persuade Mom to purchase a chick for each of us. Whatever it was, it worked. Catching a train in Poplar Bluff to head back to St. Louis, we climbed aboard with suitcases and bags and a shoe box of ‘toys’ for the trip home.

Glenn and I sat on opposite seats to watch for the conductor. That way we knew when to swing our feet or sing or aggravate Phyllis - commotions to drown out the chirpings from the noisy toys.

As the train pulled into Union Station, the conductor came by to wish us a Happy Easter and good luck with our chicks. He wasn’t fooled, but our failed mission probably made the trip easier for Mom.

We had an old structure by the alley that resembled a barn more than a garage. That’s where the chickens spent their nights. One died before long, but the other two grew up happy…as roosters.

Did neighbors complain or did Mom and Dad decide to act before? I don’t know, except it was a sad day when we loaded those beautiful pets into boxes tied under the open trunk hood for their trip back to the country. I remember the lecture on thinking what was best for the roosters, that they would be happier on the Harris farm just across the state line at the end of A highway. We were sure to see them on subsequent visits. I don’t know how much time had passed, but I recall the sadness when I realized our roosters were no longer in their flock.

I can spend a ton of time watching chickens so perhaps that childhood event triggered my fascination. I don't consider it time wasted. It’s practice in minding the present moment and never fails to make me smile. The world looks better afterward.