The Plucky Little FarmHer

This little girl, FarmHer Raye, is nothing if not determined. And she was determined to get herself some chicks. She had saved up her money for months and combined it with a gift card she'd gotten for Christmas and had waited (not) patiently for spring to arrive. She was relentless in asking if it was time enough to bring home chicks. 

It was a Sunday. The day our family usually heads to town to do some dinking around with no real agenda on tap. But that day? Oh we had an agenda! We all knew it was the day she would finally be able to stop asking if we could get the chicks. 

There was much fan fair and much ado in the picking them out. Fluffy yellow fuzzy nuggets huddling under a warm red lamp, completely unaware of the world around them. A few darting out of the reaches of the warm, red heat lamp and pecking about under the scrutiny of the pint-size FarmHer. "This one" she would say with a nod, "Not that one! The other yellow one" exclaimed with an air of well-worn and hard-earned authority. She is a FarmHer you know. 

She made it to the checkout counter without her reputation proceeding and getting ahead of her. And so, to the eyes of the woman behind the register by all rights, she looked the part of cute little girl. The innocent piggy tails and springy sundress easily throwing her off. "Ohhhh chickies, someone's getting new pets, are you going to name them?"

"What? No!" Indignation heavy but not as heavy as the exasperation. "These are MEAT chickens!"  Big eyes and breath-holding from the checkout woman as the little FarmHer continued "I'm going to grow them up! I'm going to chop off their heads. Then I'm gonna rip out their feathers..." At this point, we were sure if smelling salts were still a thing we should be waving them under the poor woman's nose because she looked chalk white, was starting to twitch a bit, and she looked to be close to passing out. FarmHer Raye continued "And then...'' pausing (we're sure for a bit of effect) "I'm… going … to..." and another long pause "EAT THEM"! 

Oh boy. We scooted out quickly. If there's one thing we have learned as her parents it's how to make a quick exit. 

Over the next weeks that followed, we could have changed her name to Chicky McCluckerson and our city to Chickville. She found ways to litter every conversation, every activity with "chicks". It was more than a hot topic, it was a blazing, all-consuming feather-strewn wildfire. Her first activity of the day "check on the chicks", at lunch she would be spotted with a chick under her arm, her mouth alternating between kissing the chick on its head and taking a bite of her sloppy peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Dinner leftovers were slid off plates and into a coffee can she banged as she called "Babies, Baby, Baby, Babies it's treat time!" on her way to the chick coop. Between those, she scooped manure, rinsed waterers, poured more feed, replaced bedding, and all the things that go along with chicken care. Only she's FarmHer Raye, so they were done with a flair and excess that only Raye can manage. 

Good gravy. We kept wondering with much trepidation how butchering day would go. Did she realize they were meat chickens? Even as rather seasoned farmers we have struggled with the reality of raising meat animals. If you've spent time on our farm you'll see the ones whose butcher dates didn't come to pass. The ones that still run to greet us at the sound of their coffee can banging the treat bell. So how was this precious little child going to wrestle, let alone tame and take captive, the harsher side of being a carnivore? 

The momentum only building- with each passing day the chicks grew larger, closer to fulfilling their destiny. Our tender-hearted little chicken tender tending to her (not so little anymore) chicken nuggets.  A litany of excuses always ready as to why the butcher date was being pushed out. We just couldn't. She would ask "Are they ready?" her big blue eyes piercing us and out we would pull those ready-made excuses from our pockets. 

She was sitting on her Daddy's lap while he scrolled the marketplace when she spotted it. A chicken plucker.  Most kiddos wouldn't have a clue such a thing existed, let alone what it would look like and certainly not know $100 is a downright steal, for that style plucker. In the farming world, that style is hard to come by period even if you have several Benjamins. "Dad, contact seller, now, Dad only a hundred bucks, Dad now!". And with that, she was off to her room to gather her monies from their respective stashes. Boot money, joined piggy bank money, those joined ziplock bag holding coin (and a little candy) money, she gathered and mined it from all reaches of her room. If memory serves it was about 26 bucks, but in the hopeful eyes of  FarmHer Raye it was "Lots! Lots of a lot". There were promises too of working off any money she was short on "Fill pig waters-sure Dad!" And, "Sweep the kitchen? You've got it Mom" kind of help ensued. She claimed she was going to be the helpingest helper that ever helped if we could just loan her whatever was needed to get that plucker!  Dad went ahead and did as he was told- "contact seller", set it up and Big Sis helped bring it home. A family affair to be sure. She had her plucker. And we had no more excuses.

It was an early, hot July mornin' when she called us together, wearing her serious face,  the solemn quiet was broken by "Guys it's time". We- unsure of what exactly it was time for- raised our brows. We could likely save some facial muscles and just get them permanently stitched in that raised position with her around. But we soon learned that was the day we were going to embark on yet another Raye-led adventure down the often unpredictable path.

That well-honed voice of authority returning she began "Mom we will need your canner, and Dad you will need to get the grill going, Harv, you can fill the pot, and Sis, I'm going to need one of your sharper-est knives". Ooooh... It was that time. The day of harvest. We all sort of looked at each other awaiting the histrionics and tears. Our hearts poised for sympathetic pleadings to pardon her beloved birds. We may have seemed to onlookers as if we had frozen in our seats, all of us about half afraid to make the first move. A bit like the boy with his thumb in the dam, none of us wanting to release the flooding of emotions we were sure were bubbling and frothing beneath that calm exterior. 

"Guys, sitting there isn't getting this done! Do you want chicken dinners or do you want to starve? Huh? I'm not doing this all day. Time to get at it" and with that, she marched off to the porch to pull down the canner. Our eyes pin balled across the room at each other, and our brows again assumed their positions, our shoulders joining in with shrugs. No one spoke. 

We set about preparations. The older kids drifting off and disappearing like only teens can do. It was just her and us. Everything was set. "Dad you'll have to do the whacking of the first one so I can see how.  Then Mom, I need you to show me the rest. Not Dad, cuz I think you have done more and I need to learn this the rightest way". She trotted off to the coop behind the house. We heard a cacophony of squawks before seeing her emerge. A chicken practically half her length grasped in a bear hug style grip doing its best to give her some heck and her, doing her best to keep it wrangled. 

She presented it to Dad, up and out above her blonde,messy haired head like it was a trophy at a world cup. And rightfully so! That kid had spent the last two months giving those chickens her all. Her hard work stacked up right there.  She wore pride well and it was heaped across her whole demeanor, piles and piles of it evident across her face and sprawling across her puffed-up chest. White feathers flapping on the birds and, on her? Plenty of feathers in her cap. 

"You done good kiddo!" with a pat on the head, Dad took the bird. One quick cut and it was over. And like the cliche, the chicken did what they do when their heads are cut off. It ran around the yard for a second, a macabre scene, but a natural one that plays out often in rural life. Mom, staying close, anchoring herself to the little FarmHer with a hand on her wee shoulder, should that flood of emotion finally break loose. 

A half chuckle from Raye crumpled the quiet "Even when they are dead they are giving me trouble!" She broke from the mom anchor-arm and was off to retrieve the now still chicken carcass. Deadweight always seems much heavier than live weight and she was heaving and huffing to drag it to the table. But again, she's a FarmHer and she got it done. She needed help dunking it in the scalding pot, those legs of hers were just too short and the bird was just too heavy. She couldn't reach up and into the pot no matter how far she boosted on those tippy tip toes, some laws of nature just can't be broken even with the strongest of willpower. Once the feathers were saturated it became a smelly heavy load to be hauled back to the table, and despite all the protesting that "I've got this guys" she finally relented and allowed assistance. But be assured there was a full bucket's worth of scowling the entire time. 

Mom instituted Chicken Butchering 101 and started on explaining.  Mom showed her how de-feathering the bird was done. Teacher knowing best, Ma expounded that a first-timer should do their first bird by hand. The plucker is great, but there isn't much like learning done the hard way so you better appreciate tools and things that make your job easier. And as much eye-rolling that may have gone along with it, Raye eventually concurred. Plucking a chicken isn't a fun job, but that girl has an ability to go at even the mundane with pizzazz and fervor. And that she did! Wet feathers sticking to everything in sight, the naked bird on the table it was time to begin the evisceration. 

It's likely chicken guts had never been met with such gusto. There was no squeamish squealing or tummy-turning gags. Pure fascination and delight exuded and emanated with each passing question "What's this?" Or "Are these ribs!?!" The litany continued" as she was elbow deep into her work. A wire brush couldn't have scrubbed the grin from her face and the exuberance was almost tangible in its thickness. 

After the first bird was finished, bagged and in the cooler, we sat for a sec to catch our breath. She had a few things to say. No surprise. 

She always has plenty to say...

After having just come from Mom's School of Butchering and her first Chicken Butchering 101 class, FarmHer Raye was hashing over that first chicken butchering experience. She was talking about the things she thought could make the job easier. Analyzing and assessing, she's our inventive one and always thinking. She figured some traffic cones flipped upside down and hanging from the beam in the shed would work better to hold the bird and keep their neck accessible for cutting. And it was unanimously decided that the plucker needed to have its maiden voyage into the sea of chicken butchering. Other than that though she thought it went wonderfully and she was ready to jump into the deep end!

We set up the cone and off she trucked to the coop returning with a plump one.  This one, more docile than the first, was slipped into the cone (mostly) uneventfully. She asked Dad for the knife and Mom stepped out of the shed. Some things a Mom just isn't ready to see and her sweet baby cutting the head off of a chicken was one of them.  Lots of grunting.  Lots of aggravated growling. "I can't...gahhh" and "This stupid knife". Of course, you'd blame the knife if you're a proud farmer and not the fact that you're simply just a young girl whose muscles, while stronger than most, are just not yet developed enough to push or even pull even a sharper-est knife through bone. 

Farmers though don't give up easily and especially pint-sized ones with gallons of gumption.  "Dad tree trimmers! The lopers. Grab them!" commanding as she pointed, snapped, and held her hand out expectantly. And as quickly as he could hand them to her the head of the chicken thunked with an echo into the bucket below the cone. Well then! And so with lopers that opened as wide as she was tall, butchering moved forward. 

She still resentfully conceded to needing help with the dunking. Hot water, flames, and a large potential for things to go south in a handbasket, that part had to be subcontracted to the adults. She could, however, manage to run the plucker. The plucker while highly effective also proved to be hilarious entertainment. There are basically two styles of plucker. One, used in most backyard farms, is similar to a washing machine where chickens are tossed into a drum and rubber nubby fingers knock up against the bird as it spins vertically, pulling the feathers out. The other is considered more of a professional-style machine. Of course, that is the style a peanut sized farmer with much to prove about her ability and authenticity would have. That style spins horizontally, with no drum holding the bird or corralling the feathers. No, the holding is left to the farmer and the bird is passed over the nubby knobs, bouncing and flouncing the chicken goes, as it's waved around in a bit of a grisly hokey pokey dance. Feathers like confetti shooting every which way it gets the job done quickly and effectively. And when the holder doesn't weigh much more than the bird she's holding, she too goes shimmying and shaking, while being polka-dotted with feathers. 

Kiling- check! Plucking-check! (A little bit of whiplash from the plucker- check!) That left only evisceration and bagging. And boy, she had that in the bag! She would slice open the bird and snake her little girl, tiny arm up and in. There would be wiggling and giggling, face squishing, some grunting, lots of fishing around, but out she would come with a handful of the gloppy goods. She would plop them into the bucket with dramatics worthy of an Oscar. But the only award to be had was the satisfaction that comes from a job well done. 

That first solo bird joined the teaching bird in the cooler. Butchering was underway Folks! The skills and silliness only growing and the time it took shortening as her skills continued to improve. Her mouth was the only thing running faster than the motor on the plucker. She conjured up some pretty big dreams of owning the world's first chicken butchering empire. We didn't breathe a word to her about Tyson or Foster Farms, some dreams are better left un-dashed, where they are allowed to expand, building and building until nearly bursting with possibility. 

The day continued, bird after bird making it's way to the cooler. Despite the yellow jackets that swarmed relentlessly,  despite the blistering hot sun high in that July sky, despite bone-scratched, raw aching hands, she just kept after it.  When morale would wane she would trot out the wisecracks or turn up the tunes on the playlist and incorporate a little dancing to lighten the steps. She never backs down from a challenge, especially when she's challenged herself. And that's exactly what that whole ordeal seemed to be. 

She wanted to know just how much gravel and grit she was made of, proving to no one but herself that she comes by her title of FarmHer honestly... 

The sun had moved across the sky and as those glowing rays came now at an angle, the dust and feathers that floated around were lit up like glitter after that long first day of butchering chickens. The cooler had birthed two smaller coolers and 25 chickens were now ready to go to the freezer. Dad grabbed a side handle of the big cooler filled with chickens and ice and was stopped with a shout "I've got this!" And of course, she did, she's FarmHer Raye. She grabbed a handle with two hands, her little behind bent behind her and putting her whole weight into it scooched, and tugged until, inch by inch, that cooler made it to the house. 

The birds were bagged one by one. A deep breath would fill her chest, expanding those shoulders even broader. Her head held high enough to nearly scrape the ceiling. She paraded through the house and out the back door to the freezer room with her whole fryer prize. The solo performer in her own proud parade, gratification in herself glowing for all to see. She'd done it. 

This dream that started at age seven in the fall and ending at age eight the following summer. The many steps and long miles it took to get there, faith in her heart, and prayers on her tongue she never wavered. She saved her money that usually comes just a few quarters at a time, she abandoned sleepovers with friends to care for tiny chicks only days old. She ripped emotion from task and stuck with the ugly parts with a vigorous rigor. She never, not once gave up or shirked from the grind. 

And that's our FarmHer Raye. She sets her mind to something and that's that. A tempest of activity and a storm-stubborn tenacity she works until it's completed.  We knew we were going to learn from her (yet again) when this journey began, and that we did. 

We watched a true farmer at the intersection of caring-compassion and feeding-family. We saw her bravely separate and wrangle emotion and matters of fact. We learned about improvisation and not letting any excuses or laws of nature derail your determination. We heard humor used to bolster waning willpower. And we were privy to what it means to truly live in the moment squeezing every drop of joy from tedious tasks. 

There in the sea of chicken butchering, we floated. We were submerged in profound perseverance and were privileged to receive a bit of the glory of the satisfaction that splashed over us as it completely sloshed all over her. Buoyant and beautiful she floated and sailed yet again closer to the woman God's calling her to be- and well underway to truly embodying all it means to be FarmHer Raye. 

She did it.

Winner winner chicken for dinner!