Grandma’s Cultivated Chickens
Baby chicks, there’s nothing sweeter, until something goes dreadfully wrong.
Irene and Novella Easley were well acquainted with crusty nails, and work-toughened hands. At age 13, Irene whistled her team of horses into submission; she was expected to plow as many rows as her dad. That ear-piercing whistle, learned from her father, was a skill she possessed her entire life.
George Easley would not borrow money, not even for land. Beginning about 1920, he rented and worked other people’s farms in Wise County Texas.
One summer, Bertie Easley was given a whole passel of baby chicks. The constant “peep, peep, peep,” times the passel, endeared these fluffy fowls to all observers. Tiny yellow feathers floated above their crate. Baby birds flailed and hopped, and cheeped, desperately tramping over each other, clamoring for some unknowable destination. Bertie sat the box close to the wood stove so the chicks would stay warm.
Day two
The chicks appeared to be settling into their new home. They seemed to have quieted, snuggling into the nearness and comfort of fellow hatchlings. Their peeps were softer too.
Day three
Late in the day, all chicks were dead.
“I should have known something was wrong with those birds. Oscar never gives anyone something for nothing. He probably knew he had sick chickens on his hands and wanted to get rid of them before they passed on.” Bertie rattled on, trying to comfort herself, “Oh well, the only thing I’ve been out is the cost of a little feed and time.
Day six
Oleta and Lavon came to play at the Easley house. Oleta had on a pink dress and perfect pink bows prettified her hair. Lavon had on a store-bought dress too, but her hair hadn’t even been brushed. None of the Easley girls owned a store-bought dress, not even a hand-me-down.
“Mother said this dress was showing some wear so I can’t wear it to church anymore, but it is one of my favorites. Don’t you just love it?” Oleta twirled around and the skirt rose above her knees and everyone saw her undies.
Irene made a monkey face at Novella. Lavon recognized the look, but Oleta was oblivious to anything except how pretty she looked swirling her pink skirt.
“Nice bloomers covering that crusty butt,” Irene never kept her mouth shut, even when a bad outcome was likely.
Oleta sucked in a quick breath, not quite humbled, but close, “Irene Easley, you are the meanest of all my cousins!”
“I just wanted you to know not to twirl around . . . unless you really want everyone to know you have on dirty underwear.”
“I don’t want anyone seeing my underwear, especially not you! And just so you know, they are clean!” Oleta made a snooty face, “Unlike some families, we take baths on Tuesdays . . . And Saturdays!”
Irene changed the subject and spoke with a serious face, “Our mama planted a whole passel of baby chicks a few days ago. They should be sprouting any day now.”
“Irene, that’s ridiculous. Chickens hatch from eggs! They don’t grow in a garden like a vegetable.” Oleta rolled her eyes.
“These are a new breed of chicken. Mama did a mail order and they came about a week ago.”
“I don’t believe you. Show me.”
“No, Mama told us to stay clear of that prized garden.”
“When have you ever paid mind to anything your Mama said?”
“We are this time. She was serious.”
“Well, I want to see if there really are chickens sprouting in a garden. You told me, now you have to show me! Get moving big mouth!”
“Okay, follow me, but only because you want to see them so bad. Just so you know, Mama’s going to fume.”
Day four
“George, you need to dig a deep hole, and choose a spot far from the house. These chicks already smell off,” Bertie crinkled her nose.
George grumbled, “I’ve got more important things to do,” but Bertie was the boss, “Irene, hitch up Prince, and bring him to the south fence.”
“Yes sir.”
George whistled for Prince to giddy up, and with the forward motion, moist dirt tumbled over both sides of the blade. When finished tilling, he picked up two shovels, one for Irene, one for himself. George always whistled, not a song anyone would recognize, but a tune nonetheless, and it never stopped. Irene learned to ignore the sound, and went to work, helping her dad scoop-out a deep pit.
Day five
Irene and her sister Novella, decided they needed to check on the fowl grave. Simultaneously, they crossed their arms in front of their chests. Both girls stood at the edge of the burial plot, flour-sack dresses fluttering, leaning slightly over the fresh tilled earth, sniffing the air for rot evidence.
“Yep, it looks just like it did yesterday. Nary a sign of critter pilferin’,” Irene spoke words she’d heard her mother use.
“Whaddya’ spose’ those chicks look like now? I never seen one that’s been dead this long,” Novella was curious.
“We could get a stick and pull one out.”
“Reenie, you do it. I’ll watch.”
Irene (aka Reenie) found a long stick and pushed it into the grave. When she removed the stick, there was some kind of stinky goo clinging to it. “I think we’d better let the chickens lie.” Irene tossed the stick aside.
So, the girls walked back to the house and left the grave intact.
Now, down the road a ways, lived the Motsenbocker family. Like the Easley’s, this family’s best legacy was they were first cousins to the sizeable Wise County Holt clan. They all lived in what was called the “Grub Hill” community, near Paradise, Texas.
Lavon Motsenbocker and Irene Easley were about the same age. They were best friends and first cousins. Oleta Motsenbocker was younger, and very pretty. In Irene’s opinion, like it or not, she was just a prissy farm girl. The Motsenbockers owned their farm, and were financially stable, still, they were farmers. The Easley girls loved, but envied them.
Oleta knew from a young age she was beautiful. And if that wasn’t enough, the Easley girls overheard tedious compliments, yammered constantly, about her good looks. She wore store bought dresses every day and her mother, Aunt Ollie, put matching bows in her hair. No stink encrusted barn residue lurked beneath her nails.
Left to right: Irene Easley, Fay Dunn, Lavon Motsenbocker, Oleta Motsenbocker, Pearl Holt, a Dunn sister, and May Dunn
When they reached the burial site, Irene pointed to where the recently tilled dirt still had that fresh-plowed look. “They are right there.” Irene’s face was serious but Novella gulped a half-suppressed giggle.
Suddenly, the ground rose just a smidgen and air burped out of the ground.
Oleta gasped, “Oh, my gosh! Something is under there!”
Irene handed Oleta the stick she’d used on day four. “Here, see if you can coax one out of the ground. I’d like to see how a half-hatched chick looks.”
Oleta inserted the stick into the earth and slimy brown goo shot out of the ground, landing smack-dab in the middle of her beautiful pink skirt. The smell was nauseating. A stunned Oleta held the slimy stick away from her body for several seconds . . . then came the howl. Poor Oleta could not think of one word to say. She just stood there, hand glued to the stick, screeching and screaming.
Irene rolled her tongue, and shot an ear-piercing whistle skyward.
Bertie ran to the south fence where the girls were playing. “What happened?”
Oleta was unable to talk, so Irene did.
“I told Oleta and Lavon about the chickens and Oleta made us to bring her here. I told her you said not to come, but she wouldn’t let it lie. So, we came. She insisted!”
Oleta’s eyes bugged out as she yelled at Aunt Bertha, “She said you planted mail ordered chickens and they were going to be sprouting any day now. We believed her,” she nodded in Lavon’s direction.
Bertie worked hard to keep a straight face, “Lavon, is that true?”
“Yes, well . . . I knew chickens didn’t sprout out of the ground, but I was curious. Irene tells the best . . .,” she paused, taking a deep breath, “Oleta did demand to see the chickens.”
“I thought they were growing under the ground like corn. Irene said. I’m going to tell my Mama and she’ll make you whoop Irene for lyin’. She deserves a whoopin’!”
“Well, I swan. Irene, what have you got to say for yourself? Any of this true?”
“Yes Ma’am . . . some. The sprouting chickens’ part is true, but I did tell her you said not to come, but she wouldn’t abide your rule.”
“Oleta, come with me. You can wear Irene’s best dress home. She will wash, and iron yours, and return it tomorrow.”
“I can’t wear one of Irene’s dresses. Even her Sunday dress is horrible!” Oleta shuddered and carried on.
Bertie’s face flinched as she realized what her girls had to endure. “I can’t send you home with that stink smoking off you. Guess you could walk home in just your bloomers.”
Irene gave Novella a conspiring look, “she can’t do that, someone might see how crust . . . ”
Oleta gasped, “I wouldn’t be caught . . . on second thought, let me have her best dress. It will have to do.”
So Oleta changed into a yellow, flour-sack, farm girl dress, with red and green printed flowers splattered everywhere.
Oleta’s self-interest kicked in, “Lavon, you wouldn’t mind changing dresses with me, would you? Irene is closer to your size than me.”
“You couldn’t stand wearin’ my sweat right next to your skin. I’d never hear the end of how bad my dress smelled and how you couldn’t change out of it quick enough. No, I won’t change dresses with you.”
“Fine then, never ask me for a favor, because it won’t happen.”
“Okay, I won’t.”
“I just hope no one sees me. Poor Irene, this is her best dress.
“Oleta. Shut-up! For once, just shut-up!” Lavon had heard all she could handle for one day and ran home, ahead of her sister. She braced herself for the looming storm that was about to enter the back door. And . . . it did.