Revenge of the laying hens

My daddy is 87 years old. He is a brilliant man—an actual rocket scientist. Back in the day he worked for NASA in Wallops Island, Virginia, launching actual rockets. He spent a good portion of his career life as a chemistry and physics teacher, and while I would like to say I inherited his intelligence, I did not get A's in those classes even though he was my teacher.

Daddy loves to tell stories. All his students remember his canned speeches, which he would give occasionally instead of teaching us to balance chemical equations or calculate the acceleration of the boulder Wile E. Coyote launched off a cliff trying to squash Road Runner. One student made him a can for his speeches, and included the topics on little slips of paper in it. He was famous for them, and he still has this can.

Daddy has told stories as long as I can remember, but I didn't always appreciate them. As a teen I rolled my eyes way too often. Now I wish I could remember them all. This one came to mind the other day and I thought you'd appreciate it.

My mother grew up on a farm in New Jersey. You're probably thinking, "They have farms in New Jersey? I thought it was just a giant suburb of New York City." But yes, they have farms. Years ago, New Jersey was mostly farmland. Its nickname is the Garden State, and even their license plates are the color of straw.

When she was a child, her dad, my grandfather, had dairy cows and chickens. Mom tells stories of riding atop one of the cows when they were moving them between pastures, poking other cows with a stick to make them go faster. When Mom grew up and was being courted by my dad—a city boy—he would come visit and my grandfather would put him to work.

One day, he gave my dad the task of collecting eggs in the henhouse. Daddy didn't like that job much, because when you reached under a hen to get her eggs, she would peck your hand. On this particular day, I guess Daddy wasn't in the mood for any chicken nonsense, and when the first hen pecked at him, he slapped her in the head. He reached in again and she retaliated with another painful peck. This time, he grabbed her by the neck and flung her out of the box. She repaid him by laying an egg in midair. I can't say I blame her.

But our chicken history doesn't end with Daddy. When I was a little girl, we spent a lot of our days at the farm. One day, I was maybe 7 or 8, my grandmother suggested that I take the basket and go collect the eggs. She assured me all the chickens would be outside and wouldn't bother me. As I walked across the barnyard, I saw a group of hens pecking away at the dirt, so when I got to the henhouse, I walked right in. There I was met by a descendant of the chicken my daddy had flung from her roost many years before. Apparently, the legend had been handed down from fowl to fowl for generations and this hen was out for blood. She came charging at me, squawking and flapping and scaring the bejeebers out of me. I was (am) scarred for life. I was so done with chickens. I'll get my eggs at Kroger, thanks very much.

I wish I could say the family chicken curse ended there. Unfortunately, it continued.

Fast-forward to my adulthood when our neighbors in Tennessee asked us to care for their flock while they were away for a few days. They told us we could have the eggs while we were caring for them. I remembered with some apprehension the aggression shown by that hen those many years ago, but by then I was a full-fledged adult and was I going to let a measly chicken intimidate me? I agreed to the task.

The first day I went down to do my duty, I realized I could give them water and feed before I opened the coop, and therefore I wouldn't have to be so close to them. I did that, then flung open the coop door and ran. Everything went according to plan and I was satisfied with myself. I was hosing off the back patio (where the chickens liked to leave deposits—not in egg form), when one curious hen came toward me. I told her to back off, even waved my arms and yelled a little. When she kept coming toward me with that look in her eye, I turned the hose on her full force. She was blown over, rolling like a tumbleweed across the yard. I'm sure the chickens are still telling that story around the roost of an evening.

But don't get me wrong. I love chickens—in a roasting pan. Also, still buying my eggs.

Part of what fascinates me about this family tradition is that my granddaughter Ellie, now 6 years old, is best buddies with a chicken. Reggie (a rooster) is her BAE and they play together every day. Ellie is a real-life chicken whisperer.

Part of Ben's plan for taking on even more things we don't have time for is raising chickens for meat and eggs, which fills me with all manner of bird anxiety, although I once helped a friend with chicken butchering and there was some satisfaction in it. Maybe Ellie will be the one to break the generational curse. One can hope.