The Chicken Story

“Stop running around like a chicken with its head cut off,” admonished the impatient mother to her teenage daughter. The girl slowed and pondered a time many years ago at her grandparent’s farm.

            Pa rolled a large stump to the middle of the barnyard. He carefully took his ax from the scabbard and honed it against the whetstone, rotating the large stone with the foot pedal. Sparks flew as the metal glistened to a sharpened edge. The flock of white leghorns cackled at his feet, oblivious to their fate.  Reaching down, Pa picked up a bird and in one motion had it spread across the stump. Thwack!  The ax made a clean cut severing the head from the bird’s body. Pa released the bird and with wings flapping, it haphazardly ran from him until it dropped. More followed as Pa’s ax hit its mark time and again. The headless birds ran without direction, dropping when death took over.

            Hearing her name, she came back to the present knowing full well the meaning of her mother’s oft used phrase.

Nelson's General Store

Nelson’s General Store

            The brass cowbell tinkled softly announcing our entrance into the dimly lit general store. The well-worn hardwood floors creaked as we searched the shelves for our few purchases. Such a contrast from the supermarkets in my hometown. No florescent lights, no hustle and bustle of customers late getting supper on the stove, no rows of checkout lanes. No, Nelson’s General Store in Ogema, WI seemed from another era. The store had plenty of groceries, though not the variety I was used to. Being only 5, I judged a store’s quality by the size of its candy counter. My favorites were within reach but I knew better than to ask. I wasn’t with my mother but with my aunt Pearl and wanted to be on my best behavior. I contented myself with looking around. We were the only customers in the small store and my aunt gave me the freedom to browse. This was a privilege I didn’t get at home, where I was always under the watchful eye of my mother.          

            Mr. Nelson came from the back room and greeted my aunt. He was a balding gentleman with wisps of graying hair peeking from around his ears. The heavy black rimmed glasses seemed to define his face. He had a bloodstained long white apron covering his clothing. As my aunt placed her order for the week’s meat purchases, Mr. Nelson disappeared into the back room. He soon returned from the cooler pulling a large beef carcass on an overhead hook. As it hovered over the solid butcher-block table, Mr. Nelson lowered the carcass to prepare cutting. Deftly he wielded the cleaver and parts of the carcass became steaks. At the end of the table was a huge roll of paper hanging on a wrought iron roller. Mr. Nelson quickly wrapped our purchases with this paper and tied the package neatly with white string. He carried our purchase over to the counter with the rest of my aunt’s selections and proceeded to ring up our purchase on the ornate silver cash register. CaChing! The final total appeared. My aunt paid, said our good-byes and we turned to leave. The brass cowbell tinkled softly as we left the store.

Ice Skating

Ice Skating

Ice skating was an important form of entertainment for my parents. Both mentioned skating with friends on the river when they were young.  Thus as they started their family, they wanted to give us every advantage. As soon as winter snows would allow, Dad would bank out a small area of our yard  by shoveling to form a rink. The garden hose would come out and Dad would flood our private rink. Of course it wouldn’t be ready until the next day but by then the water froze solid to form a smooth sheet of ice. Mom and Dad both would help us lace up our skates and we would attempt to become the graceful skaters they wanted us to be. It never happened. We fell more than stayed upright, our legs betraying us as we landed on our posterior thankful for the padding the extra warm clothes offered.  Dad went through this ritual for us for several years to no avail. We were not going to be star hockey players or figure skaters. 

Let's Go Fly A Kite

Let’s Go Fly A Kite

A song made popular by the movie Mary Poppins in the 1960’s was Let’s go fly a kite. The chorus went like this.

Oh, oh, oh!
Let's go fly a kite
Up to the highest height!
Let's go fly a kite and send it soaring
Up through the atmosphere
Up where the air is clear
Oh, let's go fly a kite!

I remember singing it quite often but I don’t think we ever sang it on our kite flying adventures. Our kites were simple: plastic sheeting stretched over balsa wood cross pieces. We used a torn sheet for a tail, tied in bows along a string.

The wind needed to be just right as we ran along to help our kites get airborne. Many times they would circle and flop to the ground, lying inanimate until picked up and set free for another attempt. YES! The wind caught and lifted the kite. More line was played out as the kites began to shrink from sight. An average spool of kite string was a mere couple hundred feet. Not being satisfied, we purchased more and added to our kite’s tether. The kites soared as we had a competition of sorts. How far would the kite fly? We could barely see them, flying so high, tugging for their freedom.

“Vicki! Julie! Dennis! Supper!”  Before cell phones it was common practice for parents to summon their children by calling out the back door.  “Coming!” We answered. We began the arduous process of reeling in the kites. Having a taste of tethered freedom, the kites fought the process. The string was wound on the handles and the kites came into view. Finally, back on the ground they were quickly gathered up as we raced through the trees to hurry home for supper. 

Sliding

Here is another attempt at a poetic memory.

Sliding

We were lucky.
Our own backyard sliding hill.
Horses recently vacated,
lumps of manure still present.

Bundled against the cold,
snow pants, heavy coats,
freshly knit mittens covering tiny fingers.

Piling three on the toboggan, Dad gave a shove.
Zooming, flying, shouts of glee broke the silence.

Tail wagging, happy black dog ready for a job.
Clipped to the collar
the toboggan followed Smokey up the hill.

Laughing, holding hands,
we trudged up the hill.

Do it again!

The Boat

I recently attended a program on writing your life story in poetry. The assignment was to take a photo and write a poem about it. Here is my attempt.

Wooden Boat

Wooden boat; American flag flutters fully in the breeze.

Classic- Dad's pride and joy.

Touring the river, miles of water

Waving to friends at backyard barbeques.

Fishing crappies, sunfish, bluegills.

Three small children

Cane poles tangled.

Waterskiing-with big waves challenging

Splash!

Circle to pick up skier.

Smaller waves; skier upright.

Safely on shore.

A new generation enjoys.