A Christmas Story ~ As Told by the Chicken Lady ~

  It was a cold December night, close to Christmas. It was late...Dan was asleep in the recliner, tired from waking up at 4:30 several mornings in a row. As I felt bad for him, I decided to leave him in slumber and volunteer myself to head outside for one last time that day.

  I grumbled to myself as I pulled on my poop encrusted ski pants over the thin layer of my pajamas. All I wanted to do myself was climb into a warm bed. It had been a long day at the mall, standing in long lines (apparently checking a customer out at Christmas time was the equivalent of performing brain surgery), my back still ached from the miles of walking, searching for the perfect gift for the people who have everything, and I had been close to passing out on several occasions from the heat of my winter coat in an over crowded store...oh and said coat now reeked of mall food from the food court.

  "I'm gonna have extra laundry to do tomorrow." I mumbled to myself, then cursed out loud from stabbing my thumb with the baby pin used to close those buttless ski pants. I sucked at the drop of blood oozing from my thumb then pulled on my gloves, thinking not for the first time, that it took longer to bundle up then it did to actually do the work that needed done.

  When I stepped outside, the crisp night air stung my cheeks and I hunched my shoulders and buried my hands into my coat pockets. It was a quiet night; the only sound that reached my ears was the soft crunch of my boots on the gravel driveway.

  "Not gonna have a white Christmas either." I said sarcastically aloud.

  Almost to the barn, I heard out of nowhere, deep and ancient baritone voices sing on the breeze that also blew with it the hint of wood smoke from Mike's chimney across the road:

"O come O come Emmanuel,

And ransom captive Israel..."

 

  I stopped dead in my tracks as the hairs on the back of my neck stood up straight. I felt the goose bumps race over my body even under the thickness of the heavy coat I wore. Now the only sound I heard was the blood hammering in my ears. As puffs of air came from my lips and hung frostily in the winter air about my face, I slowly turned around and looked behind me. All I could see was our house with it's cherry Christmas lights and inviting glow.

  I thought of Dan, asleep in the chair, and made a step to go back and get him. He knew how chicken I was in the dark...YES, I'm almost 31 and I'm scared of the dark! But usually it's the thought of the Exorcist chick standing in the glow of the night guard light that scares the crap out of me or that deranged clown on American Horror Story: Freak Show... not men's voices floating on air. In fact, maybe I didn't hear anything after all. Perhaps it was just a figment of my imagination.

  But when I turned back around, a huge light shone down on our barn, far greater than that of any night guard light. Again, I heard the voices on the wind, louder this time and yet, less frightening:

 

"Silent night, holy night,

Shepherds quake at the sight.

Glories stream from heaven above,

Heavenly hosts sing 'Hallelujah'.

Christ the savior is born!

Christ the savior is born!"

 

Completely stunned, I walked the last few paces to the barn with my head up looking at the sky. Only when I tripped and fell over the barn threshold, did I come crashing back to my senses. I pushed myself back on my feet, not bothering to brush off the strands of hay and straw that clung to my clothing.

  Jimmy and Charlie stood in their stalls, heads over their gates and looking at me. I blinked. They didn't blink. I licked my dry lips and looked over at the chicken coop. All the chickens were out in the kennel, lined up along the fence, quiet as church mice. The steers too were all inside and standing in a perfect line at the fence of their pen, looking in to where we used to store their hay under the low mow in the back of the barn.

  My heart sped up again and I began to shake as I crept slowly forward. As I did so, Jimmy and Charlie turned their heads to follow me down the aisle and so did the chickens; as if I were walking down the aisle on my wedding day.

 The voices sang again in time to my light footsteps:

 

"Why lies he in such mean estate,

Where ox and ass are feeding?

Good Christians, fear, for sinners here,

The silent word is pleading.

Nails, spear shall pierce Him through,

The cross be borne for me, for you,

Hail, hail the word made flesh,

The babe, the son of Mary."

 

   By the time I had walked down to the end of the barn, I thought I was again about ready to pass out. When I stopped and turned to the right, all the blood drained from my face and I had to clutch an old beam for support.
 

 

  When the voices sang out again, it was with a thunderous boom, louder than any rumble of thunder from the strongest of summer storms:

 

"Fall on your knees,

O hear the angels' voices!"

 

  And I did. I fell, right there in the loose hay and straw and chicken poop, on my hands and knees. Tears blurred my vision. I shook and sobbed out loud as I thought of own precious son, who means more to me than my own breath and life, pierced with nails and spears and other sickening means of brutality. My own little boy, who was also fast asleep, but warm in his clean crib surrounded with his favorite soft furry toys.

  Throughout my emotional outburst, no one said a word. I was aware of the steers, quiet save for their soft breathing, all seven of them standing at the fence with their heads bowed low. I was also aware of the voices, not booming this time -I didn't know how much more I could take-but in a sing-song (happy) way:

 

"Veiled in flesh the God-head see;

Hail the incarnate Deity!"

 

  Finally, as the emotional storm within me subsided, I raised my head (at the exact same time as the steers), snot pouring forth from my nose and down over my lips. I opened my mouth to try and say something, but no words came out.

  She just looked at me and smiled, and as my brain began to process things again, I thought hilariously that she didn't look anything at all like the scandalous Keisha Castle-Hughes who played her in The Nativity Story. When she looked back down at the baby in her arms, her veil and hair covered most of her face. The strong hand of her husband, who stood behind her, rested on her shoulder. I wanted to look at more, but my eyes couldn't budge from the baby.

  I have no idea how long I stayed there...maybe only seconds, or maybe it was hours. The cold was slowly seeping in through my winter clothes, my now lack of adrenaline no longer aiding them in warmth. Finally, as if on their own accord, my limbs began to move and I quietly stood up, my eyes never leaving the baby who made no more noise than what a contented newborn makes. Before I turned to leave, she looked back at me with a smile and looked beyond me to the east and nodded. I opened my mouth to ask what she meant, but before the words could be formed, I felt a force pulling me towards the entrance of the barn.

  Jimmy and Charlie were still standing at their gates, but their eyes were shut and Jimmy was resting his back foot, clearly relaxed and not wanting to be let outside that night. The chickens had all retired into the coop and I looked at the closed coop door perplexed. As I stepped over the barn threshold, all the electric lights shut off by themselves. I glanced over my shoulder and saw a small dim glow from the back of the barn.

  Finally, once out in the driveway again, I looked east and remembered that in the daylight we can see the beginnings of the Appalachian foothills. As their images came into my mind, I heard the voices for the final time that night:

 

 

"Go, tell it on the mountain,

Over the hills and everywhere;

Go, tell it on the mountain

That Jesus Christ is born!"

 

Come Along My Darlings

CLUCK, CLUCK, CLUCK!!!

 

  A couple of nights ago we decided to keep all the animals inside for the night because of the predicted rain. With that decision made, I went out a little later in the evening to tuck everyone in for the night. Now for the past several weeks, we have a group of Golden Comets who escape on a daily basis. (I'm sure we'd get more eggs each day if they were in with the rest of the flock...and I've been too lazy to search for their hoard of eggs I'm sure is out there somewhere.) Anyhoo, these broads are getting gutsier and gutsier, coming up close to the house and exploring new territories far past the safe reaches of the barn. Even as I'm typing this they are scouring the fence row at the edge of the yard.

 

  As I suited up to go outside, I could see out the window the form of two waddling chickens up the driveway towards the light of the house. They greeted me with soft clucks as I stepped out the door. As I began walking down the driveway towards the barn, they turned and followed me, seeming to be picking up the pace once they discovered where we were headed. All I could hear was the clacking of nails on the gravel and soft guttural singing all the way down the drive. When I turned around, I saw my two little darlings in a perfect line following m obediently.

 

 Not every evening is as humorous and soul touching as that one was. Usually I have to chase them back in and it's a goat rodeo of wings flapping, straw flying, cursing and squawking before everyone is safely inside for the night. But I'll take the treasured moments while I can!

One Fine Day

CLUCK, CLUCK, CLUCK!!!

 

  These past couple of days have been pretty special. Just when you think you can't love someone anymore, you discover that you can.

 

  Yesterday, in particular, was a simple kind of day. It was beautiful and sunshiny, warm enough to go outside and take advantage of, but Old Man Winter's presence was still apparent. Even though there have been acceptable days to venture out of doors before yesterday, the Chicken Lady was unprepared to take her youngster out for long periods of time.

 

  Last Friday Carl had his 18 month well visit check. After his doctor appointments, I like to hit up the local thrift store because you never know what goodies you might find. I was really hoping to score a snowsuit that would fit Carl this winter. I'm sorry, but I'll be darned if I'm going to spend a decent amount of money on something he's only going to wear this winter...and watch it be a mild winter at that! The whole episode was truly as if it was meant to be. I walked inside and went right to the infants/toddlers rack and there it was. An 18 month pair of ski pants! I couldn't believe my luck! I was scared to pick them up because they were on the very end of the rack, almost as if someone had put them there while they looked at other things. I half expected someone to come up and start an argument with me, like fighting over the last Black Friday door buster. I kept looking around...I probably looked like I was about to steal something...built up my courage and swiped the ski pants.

 

 I basically did steal those ski pants. $2.19 later, my kid is going to be warm this winter while he's outside. Peace of mind is priceless.

 

  So anyhoo, yesterday I dressed Carl is his new (and freshly washed) ski pants and winter coat and we went outside to visit the chickens. Carl was very excited to get back to his favorite place...outside!

 

 We went and visited the chickens first. He got right to work thrusting hay and straw through the kennel bars...

 

Though the ladies were excited to see their cherub friend, I think they were disappointed Carl didn't have any real treats for them. Aside from the debris of the barn floor.

 

 After our visit to the barn, Carl helped me pick up all (ok, maybe 2 or 3) of  the dead limbs from side yard and put them on the fire pit. We waved at passing cars and trucks, watched the school bus fly by and an unknown WHITE tractor that varoomed past. Carl also practiced stair climbing and descending on the deck steps.

 

  Eventually we found ourselves in the backyard. I was perched on the top of the knoll (our only version of a "hill"), and Carl was enjoying the act of walking up and down the slope. I thought how odd it was that in 6 months time the grass would be green and already mowed a couple of times. The leaves would be back on the trees, flowers would planted and mulched and the air would be warm.

 

 It was here that I got my idea for this particular post. It was here I looked up at the blue and cloudless sky, feeling the strength of the sun's rays on my face, that I also felt a pang of guilt. I thought about my old job in Cincinnati, and that someone my age should be sitting at desk, falling asleep at the computer and counting down the seconds to closing time. Oh, and actually making a living. Providing insurance and retirement. And here I was, basking in the sunbeams, thinking about my next blog post to the music of my toddler son's trills and babbles. As I looked at the afternoon's lighting on the side of the barn, I thought about Dan at the farm working and "making a living" so I could sit in my sunbeams and peck away at the computer to fuel my "hobby".

 

  I know what everyone says...I have the most important job there is and don't ever think that I don't "work".  Even the doctor last week told me I must be exhausted by the end of the day as we both tried to hold down a little boy, who was more interested in the cool crinkly paper on the table than he was to lay quietly so she could listen to his heartbeat. Physically exhausted, no...mentally and sometimes emotionally exhausted, yes. And because of all that, I feel bad. Guilty. Like, compared to a working mom, I have no rights to complain or to feel guilty for my hiatus from the workforce.

 

  On the flip side of things, I would feel guilty for leaving Carl to go out and be selfish; be it to work out or even sub and "work" for the day. I would feel guilty for leaving him with someone (even a paid person) all day because my place is with him. It's my place to sit there and snuggle in the mornings, to eat breakfast together and take him outside to feed the chickens hay and straw and dead leaves from the barn floor.

 

 A continuous tug-of-war that is always going on. Maybe that's true for all moms, whether they stay at home or go to work. Oh well, by the time it's all figured out, Carl will be grown and able to take care of himself. Even with all my pondering yesterday, it was still one fine day. I wouldn't trade it for anything else...even a farm fresh hard boiled deviled egg.

Who You Gonna Call???

CLUCK, CLUCK, CLUCK!!!

 

  "Who you gonna call?"....The Pied Piper!!!! Well in our case anyway. The Shawhan farm as been taken over with rats! Does anyone have the number to the tight wearing, flute playing yahoo who is famously known for enticing the vermin away? If so, do please share it with me!

 

  Actually, my complaint on the rats has lessened to some degree. This post should have been done a couple of months ago.

 

  Once upon a time, there lived a farmer and his wife who began to raise chickens. They also raised Holstein steers and had two happy and plump Percheron draft horses. Because the farmer and his wife were just starting out, they were raising these animals with ancient supplies. One of these supplies was the "steer stuffer". (I did an individual post on steer stuffers...it's what the corn is kept in, which is what the steers eat.) The stuffer the farmer and his wife had was very old and outdated. It was made of wood and steel and was basically falling apart. It also sat on the ground, offering no protection against the rats who could easily chew through the wood of the stuffer and therefore engorge themselves on the golden grain feast. The rats also decided to move into the tunnels they had dug in the dirt underneath the stuffer.

 

  Then, one day, the farmer and wife showed up with a brand new steer stuffer! It was made of more durable materials and wasn't falling apart at the seams! More upgrades were being made on the farm, which included a new fence around the steer lot and concrete pads for the waterer to sit on and the new steer stuffer. Because of the new stuffer, the rats were unable to chew through its walls. because the new device sat on a concrete pad, the rats were unable to burrow under it in the dirt. The rats had nowhere to go.

 

  Except into the barn. The new fence, stuffer and pads were nice, but the farmer's wife cringed every time she went into the barn and heard the incessant squeaking of rodents. They were under the chicken coop and in the walls, SQUEEK...SQUEEK....SQUEEK!!! Sometimes, though not all the time, the farmer's wife would see a fat pink tail scurrying into the shadows and would think about gagging.

 

  Then one day, as the farmer's wife was collecting the eggs, she was deep into the chicken coop, when she turned around to leave she saw a fat, grey blob, running to and fro just inches away from her feet (concealed only in slip on garden shoes). The only thoughts in the farmer's wife mind were that disgusting rat running over her feet! So the farmer's wife screamed her very manly scream, and danced around a bit, praying the rat would leave her feet alone, panicking because the rat was between her and the door. During her frantic dancing, the farmer's wife peed her pants just a tiny bit. Finally, the rat disappeared, to where, the farmer's wife didn't know, nor did she care. All she wanted was out of the small space where the rat lingered in the shadows.

 

 That night, when the farmer got home from a long hard day of work, the farmer's wife put her foot down. "That it! We need to get rid of those rats!" So the farmer went out and bought some magic green pellets and threw them everywhere the chickens couldn't go, nor the farmer's tiny son. Soon after that, dead rat carcasses began to show up at different places.

 

 Now when the farmer's wife went out to the barn, she had to make sure no dead rats where within her tiny son's reach.

 

 But she would much rather do that than listen to the squeaking of vermin or peeing her pants.

Carl the Chicken Chaser

CLUCK, CLUCK, CLUCK!!!

 

Let me begin by apologizing....there are no cute pictures to go along with this post...so sad, I know. You see, the Chicken Lady is in desperate need of a new camera, so until then, I fear there will be limited pictures posted, and those that do happen to make it on here were taken by an antique.

 

  Anyhoo, Carl usually accompanies me out to the barn in the evenings to feed the horses and collect the eggs. We bundle up (he wears more cold weather gear than I do, even though I'm sure the chilly air bothers me more than it does him), but I do tend to have the first-time mommy tendencies. His head is covered up with the hood of his coat, his cheeks are pink and excitement is in his eyes, as Carl LOVES going outside. Bundled up and he walks beside me, trilling his tongue and pointing to the barn for the entire stroll. He looks at me, then straight ahead, back at me, straight ahead. I know he's trying to tell me something and I can't wait to hear it one of these days with real words.  Once we get there, Carl greets and chickens who happen to be naughty and loitering around in the barn instead of the kennel/steer lot/coop where they should be, and proceeds to get said chickens all riled up by chasing after them as I pour grain into Jimmy and Charlie's feed buckets. At first I told him not to, but as I saw he wasn't going to listen to me anyway, and how can really get the girls moving, I decided to put him to work. He has successfully chased a few of these broads back into the kennel when I open the door for them.

 

  After we have corralled any strays back to where they belong, he goes into the kennel part of the "coop" with me as I collect the ONE eggs that someone insists on laying there daily (at least she's consistent). All the while Carl practices his chasing skills. I feel like I'm in a tornado of feathers and BE-COKS as I try and painstakingly make my way to the door, calling for Carl to follow me as my voice is lost in the ruckus as Aunt Em's is lost to winds of the twister in 'The Wizard of Oz'.

 

  This daily activity is paying off, however, as real-life storm chaser and thrill seeker Reed Timmer has called to see if Carl is available to chase tornados once he is potty trained....

 

  The other night I left my sidekick indoors in the trusty hands of the Notekins as babysitters (because I'm going to receive the "Mom-of-the Year' award for 2014) and ran to the barn myself. These really cold days I can get the work done faster since it takes the same amount of time to bundle everyone up as it does for me to go and do the feeding and egg collecting. After several minutes of chicken chasing, I regretted my brilliant idea. One particularly stupid bird kept running past the open kennel door and out into the dark night. I had to chase her halfway down the steer lot fence row before I could get in front of her to try and scare her back in the barn. Then the genius ran past the OPEN door and almost out in the horse pasture. *Insert Shaw sigh here* Finally I succeeded and had her back in the coop with the door shut so that all the chickens were shut in for the night.

 

  Or so I thought.

 

  As I reached my hand in a crack of the horse hay where said less intelligent bird laid a hoard of eggs before we could find them, up sprang another chicken from the hiding place like a freak popping out of a birthday cake!

 

  "SURPRISE!" She squawked at me, hay flying everywhere and feathers flapping like crazy. *Insert annoying Carrie Screamerwood "Blown Away" here* So there I am, going into round two of chicken chasing, wearing a sexy getup, let me tell you. I had my skipants on over my stay-at-home-mom yoga pants, pinned closed with on old baby safety pin I think my mom used on me back when parents used cloth diapers, because the zipper broke on the ski pants. The nylon on the butt of my ski pants is almost all melted off because I stood too close to heater in the dairy barn office one morning. I had my Shaw Farm coat on under my heavy coat (that was free by the way) that smells like dairy cows (sorry Janet!) with dried poop going down one arm. Jimmy and Charlie are laughing hysterically at me, rolled on their backs, slapping their bellies with  their front hooves, as tears running out of their eyes.  

 

  I'm praying for three things as I chase this dumb bird to the OPEN kennel door, where she can't seem to comprehend the fact that she has to go AROUND the door and that the world doesn't end in the corner of the door and the wall of the kennel.

 

  1.) I pray my son is still OK inside and isn't screaming yet,

 

  2.) That a Yoder doesn't decide to pull in the driveway and see a sexy beast who apparently can't contain and catch her chickens, and

 

  3.) That this stupid chicken would just die for all the trouble she's caused me.

 

SO, lesson learned here, Carl is a much better chicken chaser than I am. He actually thinks it's fun!

 

 If you see me with a bald spot, it's from pulling out my hair over these birds and nothing to do with my toddler son.

Deviled Eggs & Blown Away!

CLUCK, CLUCK, CLUCK!!!

  WHEW! I just got done cleaning the horse stalls, and it’s just down right angry out there! The wind is really something today. It feels more like spring than fall; the air is warm on your bare arms and smells like damp earth. The only thing missing is the faint whiff of hyacinths and the promise of more days like this to come…oh and a tornado warning…though I wouldn’t necessarily rule that one out, as anything can happen weather-wise in Ohio.

    Anyhoo, all the animals are hunkered down tight in the barn, save for Jimmy and Charlie.

 

 I don’t think even this wind is strong enough to blow those two away! The chickens on the other hand should probably worry about it. Kinda figures the poor things get a nice warm day (which I’m sure these kind of days are going to be extinct pretty soon) and it’s too gusty for the poor things to be able to go out and enjoy it any. 

   It’s also a shame that Carrie Underwood (or as Dan and I call her, Carrie Screamerwood) is playing on repeat in my head right now, her horrible screaming song “Blown Away”. I mean, seriously? Country music has been reduced to a girl screaming about a tornado blowing away her abusive father, as he was “a mean old mister”. (Boy I sure hope whoever wrote THAT lyric doesn’t win any literary prizes for it…if so, I’m in the wrong business!) I’ll save my down fall of country music rant for another day.

  Back to the chickens…

   Yesterday we celebrated Thanksgiving with my in-laws (it felt more like Easter with the 60 degree temperatures, but the pumpkin pie and cranberry Jell-O mold reminded me that Old Man Winter is just around the corner). It was my job to bring the deviled eggs. Ah, I can still taste them now! Not much is better in life than a true farm egg that has been hard boiled. You top that with the mustard/mayo combination of the yellow filling, and BA-ZINGA! you have a true culinary delight. (Even as I type this I’m tempted to make more and indulge myself in a sickening gluttonous binge of eggs.) I had a few left over that weren’t going to fit in my little deviled egg dish, so I peeled the shells away and scooped the yellow stuff on the eggs and enjoyed a small taste of heaven. It brought back memories of pregnancy cravings and nursing starvation…it also ruined my appetite just a touch.

  I wonder just how many hard boiled eggs per day are considered unhealthy? Whenever I have a carton of them I have to stop myself from eating too many, usually by envisioning my cholesterol spiking. And let’s not even get into the nutritional breakdown of egg yolks and mayonnaise. I don’t feel like doing the research on it all, plus it’s hard enough to type this with a toddler on my lap.

  Nope, I’m just going to enjoy the times of deviled eggs and work hard to get this song out of my head. This time last week we were buried under several inches of snow and I was fighting myself to not put up the Christmas decorations (it’s not allowed to do so until after Thanksgiving in the Shawhan household). Today I’m fighting the temptation of the Easter decorations as strongly as the chickens are fighting off the strong southern gale!

  Enjoy Thanksgiving and wonderful deviled egg delights!

Double Homicide Takes Place at Shawhan Farm

Double Homicide Strikes Aloof Chicken Farm; Mink Mob is Suspected

Written By: jack Kelly of the Manhattan World

 

 

     A double tragedy struck the once famous Shawhan Farm late last week. Two working hens were found headless.

 

    "I heard a lot of ruckus when I went out to change over the laundry and ran outside to find two headless chickens." Rebecca Shawhan, formally known as the Chicken Lady, told us. As she rushed down to the barn, she says she had a gut feeling of what could have caused all the commotion.

 

    "I do suspect a mink, or weasel, whatever the suspect may be. We have had numerous run-ins with this guy before."

 

  The Shawhan Farm has been in the headlines quite a few times in the past due to the heinous crimes that members of the now suspected, Mink Mob, have been known to commit on the Shawhan's property. Their trademark be-headings, drifts of plucked feathers from the victims bodies, and the induced panic of the surviving members of the chicken flock, all point to the liberal mob family.

 

  "I don't think I would care as much for losing a bird if it wasn't so wasteful," Ms. Shawhan commented. "I'd rather something eat the body instead of not touching it and just ripping off the head." Ms. Shawhan confessed to actually contemplating on trying to salvage the meat off the carcass, but decided she wasn't that desperate for a meal. The remains of the two victims were buried in Manure Memorial Gardens after an autopsy and identification by Daniel Shawhan.

 

  Dan Shawhan has been in the press for his mink-slaying abilities. It was reported that Dan was responsible for the death of one Mink Mob family member.

 

Is this attack perhaps in retaliation to that infamous killing? Rebecca Shawhan commented "No." to that particular theory.

 

 We asked Ms. Shawhan how the rest of the flock was taking the tragedy. "they are ok," She responded. "I think it was hard on them for a few days. Egg production dropped off for awhile. It's slowly coming back around."

 

  The Shawhan's are taking precautions on their farm in an attempt to thwart off another attack. They are playing a radio during the days the chickens are allowed out of the coop with the hopes that human voices may deter the Mink Mob from slinking back around. Other days, the chickens just don't get to go outside.

 

  "We are hoping to throw off the suspect as much as possible. We will be letting the chickens out on random days, trying to throw him off a little bit." She shrugs. "We'll see if it helps."

 

  This reporter just had to ask a question that wasn't related to the story at hand. I asked Ms. Shawhan why the long hiatus from her comical literary contributions? To which she responded quite testily that it was "none of your business." I tried to provoke her further, but she ordered me off her property and threated to call the police.

 

  Speaking of which, no arrests for the double murders have been made at this time and no more evidence has been procured.