I spent months worrying about Buck off dallying with Imelda Jane and feeling sorry for myself because of it. Mama always said if you’re going to sit and stew, stew something you can eat while you’re at it. I took out her recipe and made up a batch of stewed tomatoes. They didn’t turn out too good. I added too much salt and not enough sugar. And I didn’t know how to use the pressure cooker. They exploded and made a real mess. While I cleaned it up, I got to thinking that having a husband who didn’t keep his boots where they belonged was hardly a bother compared to Tempe’s troubles. Besides, there were more important matters to concern myself with than Buck’s choices—like our future, for instance. I made a plan. I was going to be the best wife and mother possible. Maybe my example would coax Buck to follow suit. However, some not-so-blessed events got in the way. To begin with, it didn’t appear that Buck had any regard for the future. He mostly lived for the moment at hand. And he was happy flying by the seat of someone else’s pants, Imelda Jane’s to be exact. I soon realized if he wasn’t going to work hard to better our lives, then it was, plain as pie, up to me. But what could I do?
I thought about it for days with no answer in sight. It started to depress me. Mama said it couldn’t be postpartum from having Grace Annie. She was six months old. I told her it was post-partner from having Buck.
I went outside to tackle the garbage that was scattered out behind the cabin. Buck promised me he’d see to it, but he hadn’t. What a mess. Soggy, empty spools of toilet paper—swollen twice their normal size—rested on the ground alongside broken beer bottles, worn-out tires, a handful of rusty coat hangers, and cords of twine. Cereal and detergent boxes with nothing inside but slugs and mouse droppings were scattered close by. I raked the entire mess into one heap, counting on Murphy to help me haul it off to the dump. Standing back to admire my hard work, I realized the three old sheds out there looked to be in pretty good shape. They were much too big to be outhouses, but by the smell you wouldn’t have known it. They were each about fifty feet long and a good twelve feet wide, all lined up in a row. The boards were weathered gray, but the wood didn’t budge when I kicked at it and the roofs were intact. That’s when it hit me, the answer to my problems.
Willa Mae was inside taking care of Grace Annie while I tended to the yard. There wasn’t a cloud in sight. I cupped my hand over my eyes and watched the sun peeking through the trees. My idea was perfect! I ran in to get Willa Mae.
“Are those old sheds chicken coops?”
“They’s chicken houses,” she said. “Chicken coops is little crates you carries the broilers to market in. Folks always mix dat up.”
“Good enough,” I said. I was jumping up and down, bouncing around the kitchen like a human pogo stick. “Did you raise any chickens when you lived here?”
“Land sakes, no,” she said. “Das too much work for an ol’ wore down body likes mine. My mammy chicken farmed here when she was starting out and I helped. And I gots my fill of it, sure enough.”
“Those coops have about everything a body needs to be a chicken farmer,” I said.
“Takes lots more, chile. All dat’s dere is the houses,” she said. “One to start the chicks in. Nother to raise the broilers go to market. Third to grow the pullets.”
“Pullets?”
“Dey’s the ones lays the eggs.”
“A body could make a good living growing chickens,” I said.
“Lot a’ work and worry,” Willa Mae said. “Gots to fix da feed, clean da coops. Gots to keep da ground ’round dem clean, too. And dey’s all kinds disease chickens kin git if you don’t keeps everything clean, and somes git sick even whens you do.”
“Chicken diseases?” I said.
“Das right. Gasping Disease, Fowl Pox, Chicken Typhoid, Bumble Foot, and dey’s Newcastle Disease, too. Hens git that, they stops laying eggs.”
“But they have medicine for those diseases, right?”
“Somes. What you got gwine on in dat head?” Willa Mae said. “You be hearing what I saying?”
Of course not—my head was already busy chicken farming. It was perfect. I could provide well for us until Buck got his head straight. Besides, I wasn’t afraid of hard work. And I wasn’t going to let some old chicken diseases scare me, neither. That decision, I am sorry to say, led to my losing Grace Annie. The chain of events that followed seemed innocent enough on their own, but when lined up in a certain order, it was like a tornado blew in and rearranged the landscape and everything around it. Having no idea trouble was headed right at me, I bounded out the door.
“Watch Grace Annie for me, will you please?” I called over my shoulder. “I’m gonna go see Murphy.”
“And you gots to have chickens to start da flock with. And where dey’s gwine come from?” Willa yelled, and plopped her hands on her hips. “Uhm! Uhm! Uhm!”
I turned around and walked backwards, telling her not to worry. I had everything covered. She was mumbling away. “What you be thinking up next?”
I didn’t answer. I turned and headed up the hill to Murphy’s.
“Chicken farming…half-pint chile…no sense…nohow…” Willa Mae was still standing on the porch muttering.
I should have listened to her.
• • •
I spotted Murphy loading wood into his pickup when I made it to the top of the ridge leading to his cabin. His was four times the size of mine and Buck’s, and it had a wraparound porch with rockers that stretched forever.
“Murphy!” I called to him.
The sky was still as blue and clear as Cold Rock River. My decisions would pay off. The world was a beautiful place, and I was well situated in it. Worry tore off from the far side of the house and near knocked me down licking my face off.
“How you be, Adie?” Murphy said. “Worry! Git!” Worry dropped his paws off my chest and plopped onto the ground. He pranced in a circle around me, his tail wagging to beat all Dixie, his tongue lolling in the air. I rubbed his ears and patted his backside.
“Good boy,” I said. “You remember me.”
“He’s like an elephant,” Murphy said. “He doesn’t forget nothing, good or bad.”
“Murphy, I’ve decided I’m gonna be a chicken farmer like you,” I said and marched up to the truck and leaned on the wheel well. “So, I need you to learn me how to raise chickens.”
“You what?”
“Those coops—I mean those chicken houses—behind the cabin are just sitting there going to waste.”
“So just like that, you figure you’re gonna chicken farm?” Murphy scratched his head.
“Yep,” I said. “Made up my mind. You gonna help me or not? I ain’t got all day. I got a baby at home, ya know.”
“That’s the thing, Adie. Takes a bit of time, chicken farming. There’s a whole lot you got to be privy to. It ain’t something you learn in a day.” Murphy tossed the last piece of wood into the truck bed. He took off his work gloves and slapped them against his coveralls.
“For starters, I figure you can give me just the basics,” I said.
“The basics?”
“Like what they eat and when do I pick the eggs,” I said. “And which ones go in which house. I want to get started right away.”
“You’re serious about this, are you?” he said matter-of-factly.
“I am, and I’m a good learner, too,” I said. “And I’m not afraid of hard work.”
“Well that’s good, ’cause you have no idea,” he said. “You thought about where you’re gonna get your starter crop?”
“My starter crop?”
“There’s five ways to start a flock, Adie. There’s day-old chicks, half-grown pullets, ready-to-lay pullets, hatching eggs, and breeding stock.”
“Well, which ones you got plenty of?” I said. “That’s the way I best start. And I’ll be needing to pay you back once I get them growing good.”
“You don’t ask for much, do you?” Murphy said, grinning.
“Willa Mae told me you had hundreds of chickens, more chickens than anybody round these parts.”
“That I do,” he said. “Reckon if you’re serious I can help you get started.”
“What I do first?”
“I guess we best take a look at them houses and see what you’ll be needing to get ’em in shape.” Murphy jumped in the truck. “Climb in.” He pushed the passenger door open. “I’ll drop you off. I got to deliver this load of wood and then I’ll be back. You can sweep them chicken sheds out while I’m gone. Make sure you get the ceilings and the walls swept down good, too.”
“Ceilings, walls, and floors, whatever,” I said.
“Then I’ll show you how to scrape any droppings stuck to the boards. You’ll need lye to scrub the floors, the dropping boards, the roosts, and the walls with.” Murphy looked over at me. My eyes were opening a bit wider.
“Told you it was work, girl,” he said. “You changing your mind?” I shook my head.
“You’ll be needing a sprayer and some Creolin to disinfect the interior and some crankcase oil for lice and mites. You got any carbolineum?” he asked.
“Carbo who?” I said. He laughed.
“Just playing with your head. I’ll get what you need and add it to the bill—which is growing by the minute.”
“And I’ll be paying every penny of it back, too. Every single cent. That’s a promise.”
“Why Adie Jenkins, I believe you will.”
“Yes sir. You absolutely have my word on it.”
“Then I guess we be partners, partner.” Murphy stuck his arm out and shook my hand.
“Partners,” I said as I pumped his hand back. “Why are you doing all this anyway, Murphy?”
“Ain’t you heard?” he said and looked over at me and winked. “I’m a right nice guy.” For a second I thought I saw something else in his eyes. If I did, it was gone in a flash. Maybe I imagined it.
“What about that husband of yours?” Murphy said. “He in agreement with your decision?”
“He will be when I start showing him it makes money.” Which reminded me, I had to get home. Buck wanted me there when he got off work whether he actually came home afterwards or not.
“I gotta go.” I turned and ran back down the hill my heart nearly bursting. When I got to the bottom I hugged myself. Adie girl, you got yourself a plan! You can do this! You can!
But once we got the chicken houses ready, I wasn’t so sure. I found out exactly how much I knew about chicken farming, which was absolutely nothing. Murphy set out to educate me. He brought over two hundred chicks in different sizes in separate crates!
“There’s many kinds of chickens, Adie,” he said. “And they’re grouped according to class, breed, variety, and strain. Understand?” I nodded as if I did.
“The class is mainly the place where they come from. The breed is how they’re similar, say, in shape, things like that. The variety is based on their color or their plumage or even their comb.” I puckered my lips and twisted my brow, trying my best to follow along.
“The comb,” Murphy pointed to the top of his head, “the part sticks up on top their heads. And the strain is what comes about over the years when you breed the chickens.”
“Well, it’s all a bit confusing.”
“Adie,” Murphy said, “the first three terms have to do with characteristics—size, shape, and color. Now, strain has to do with quality, what makes them distinctive.”
“Why don’t you just tell me the parts I need to know; like what do I feed them and which ones sleep in which coop?” I said.
“I’ll get to that,” he said. “Now, what I brought you are pullets—they’re the egg breeders. These others are the cockerels, thems the ones you’ll sell at market. You paying attention, Adie?” I nodded.
“Now, we’ll separate the pullets in about six weeks and put the majority of them in the laying house. We’ll keep about fifty good pullets in the growing house for the next batch of chicks. The pullets are Leghorns. They’re the best egg layers. They’re pretty much considered the smallest of the breeds.”
“Uh-huh,” I said.
“Single Comb Leghorns,” he said.
“There you go again,” I said. “Can’t you just tell me what to feed ’em, when to pick the eggs they lay, and be done with it for now?”
“Now Adie, you got to know the basics,” he said. “We’re talking purebred chickens here. No mongrels amongst them. Pay attention, now, and have a little patience. Soon this is gonna all make sense.”
“Purebred chickens,” I said. “I never heard of that.”
“Well they grow faster and they lay more eggs than mongrels.”
“So these aren’t mongrels?” I said.
“Nosireeee,” he said. “Purebred.”
“Well they look a bit puny, don’t you think?” I said. “Not that I ain’t grateful, mind you.”
“These are half-grown pullets, Adie,” he said. “Give ’em time. They’ll reach maturity at six months. Come fall, they’ll be ready to begin laying. You’ll get top dollar for your eggs in the colder months.”
“What do I give them to eat?” I said.
“I’ll show you how to mix the mash. Milk, corn, and green feed will do, so long as they get plenty outside time in the sun.”
“Maybe I best write all this down,” I said.
“Don’t worry. I’ll go over all of it again. I got to tell you what to watch out for too, so they’ll stay healthy. Nothing worse than sick chickens. Wipe your stock out in no time.”
“I think this is enough chicken learning for today,” I said.
“In a minute,” Murphy said. “Now these here in these crates are New Hampshires, the cockerels, these are the broilers you’ll take to market. You’ll have plenty for yourself, too. This way you can grow into your business.” Murphy unloaded the crates and put them in their proper shed. Made for quite a stink.
“No one said chicken farming smelled good,” he said. “That’s the down side.” More likely he meant “down wind,” because when it blew, just right, whooooooeeeeeeee those chickens could make a smell. But the Leghorns were mighty good egg layers, and soon I had a passel of customers lined up at their doors when I came around each week with cartons of fresh eggs. I bought an old wagon with wood slats built around each side and toted everything in it, including Grace Annie. Tucked her in a basket that fit down in the front part by the handle and away we went. Soon the cockerels grew into big, plump broilers. I sold them at about ten weeks old, then culled the pullets a week or two later, getting rid of those that wouldn’t be good laying hens. I got where I could tell which ones were and which weren’t without asking Murphy. Then I set aside about fifty good ones to start the next batch of chicks and put the others in the laying house. Hot dang! I was a chicken farmer.
You’d think Buck would have been right impressed. But the only thing he said was, “First it’s baby shit. Now it’s chicken shit,” and shook his head. Maybe the smell of money would change his mind, once I got things really going good. I rolled up my sleeves and got to work.
Basically, that’s a good description of how the events that led to my sorrow got started.