Let’s admit it; we've all wondered
from time to time, what was it that motivated a simple farm-raised chicken
to haphazardly cross a road one day? And why in the name of Pete did someone
decide to make a joke out of it?
The sun was setting, slowly oozing behind the
flat horizon here in Kansas. It was summer; most people avoided leaving their
homes all together. It’s not like there’s much to do even if they did leave,
its Kansas after all. But even if they did, it was simply too hot to do much
other than sit and hope their faces didn’t melt off or crisp like a pie crust.
Needless to say, I didn’t get out much in
the summer, except to the pool maybe. But of course, since this is intended to
be a page-turner, there is a twist.
That summer of ’09 was the first time I went
down to the Kettleump’s farm. I have always hated nature and there I was
stumbling around a muddy farm pretending to be useful. I mean, dogs bite,
bees sting, and it makes me sad. But when I tried to remember my favorite
things, I realized that I was standing in a pile of manure with a farmer’s tan
that could go toe-to-toe with any redneck, and I didn’t feel any better. Thanks
for that Julie Andrews.
Anyway, I think nature just brings out the worst
in me, so let’s redirect this story in a way that will eventually lead to the
chicken that so fatefully crossed the street.
On my third morning at the Kettleump’s, raking
seemed like the job that required the least work, so I started
pushing dead leaves scorched from the sun around the front
yard in a sad attempt to accomplish something. Then there was a sneaky
crunching noise from behind me. I gripped that rake for dear life and swung
around, expecting to heroically knock out a bear. Though I don’t know if bears
even live in Kansas, maybe a muskrat or prairie dog would have been more
accurate. Either way, that wasn’t the case. Instead, the little Kettleump
boy, Ronald, had collapsed, unharmed, but in a mound from sheer fright.
Good thing Ron was the quiet one; if it was
Stacy I would have heard an ear-full from Mrs. Kettleump the next morning. I
apologized at least 11 times. And then I saw the most interesting thing I’d
seen the whole summer. There was a fat, squawking chicken projectile crossing
the coop in midair. I felt that it was my job as a dutiful farm hand who always sought to provide help, to go
investigate. With another sorry, I dropped poor Ronald again, and took
off like Usain Bolt toward the coop. Just as I was starting my powerful
scolding about child-like behavior to the group of chickens, I realized that
the one I was addressing was gone. Taking a sweep of the land, I saw him,
waddling like the wind through the field. “Oh Jesus that chicken can
run.” And so I followed him.
That chicken ran until he got to Haymarket road,
which was just a gravel back road that only tractors and cows used. But of
course, the one time a run-away chicken from the Kettleump’s was trying to
cross the street, an enormous John Deere tractor was barreling down the road
like it had somewhere to be. Just as I extended my fingers to grab the little
chicken, he hit the gas and bolted forward. That’s when I saw it. A beautiful
coppery-gold chicken waiting for him on the other side, wing feathers
perfectly clipped and daintily pecking at some old sunflower seeds on the road.
“Well okay, now I got it” Somehow he made it to the other side of the road, I
guess the poultry gods were shining down on him that day. Ever since that
life-changing day that little chicken was named Romeo, and I enjoyed working at
the Kettleump’s, because I knew something no one else did about why the chicken
crossed the road.
