Stories for Sylia and Sophie, too:
So that no matter where this life takes you, you remember where you came from. When you were both little you lived on the farm with Grammie and Pop. Your house was above the garage, and in the spring time your Uncle Eli would open the garage doors while he was working at his work bench. When the garage doors were open, Pop's chickens would come inside. They were empty headed animals- perching on top of the cars, laying eggs behind the freezers, and climbing the stairs to your house. One afternoon the sun was shining outside, and your momma decided to take you two girls for a stroller ride. The wind was blowing, and so she bundled you up in your jackets and off you went. You went down the drive, across the hay field, and along the creek bottom. Meanwhile, Uncle Eli kept working at his work bench, and the chickens kept climbing your stairs. When you returned to the house, your momma found the door blown open from the wind and a chicken in your kitchen. She squabbled and squawked as loud as the chicken as she picked it up and tossed it back outside. This was the first offense. A few days and a few chickens later, you all came home to a hen perched on your daddy's dresser. Only, this one was not going to be tossed outside without a fight. The chicken started flying through the air, jumping from one piece of furniture to the next, with your momma trailing right behind it. It was quite the scene- two wide eyed babies sitting on the couch and your momma chasing the chicken in circles around and around the house. You thought it was hilarious, indicated by your rolling belly laughs. When your momma caught that old hen, you clapped and cheered. Your momma was a hero. . . Grandma Janet said that chicken would have been fried chicken, but it lived to see another day, or at least- that's what your momma says.
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Our Farm's Voice
Hello! I'm Madelaine Paige, and I'm so glad we've met. I love mornings, milk cows, and musings. Archives
July 2021
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