I mentioned before that we had moved (back in December) to a town with a population of 408 and a town where the “Chitlin’ Hoedown” is an annual thing. It’s the country, basically. When we go “to town”, we’re really driving twenty minutes to the Wal-Mart in a different town with a population of 9,638.
I grew up in a city with a population of over 25,000 people and that was considered “small” in my metro-Atlanta surroundings.
Look, I’m no stranger to country. While my hometown is only 25 minutes away from the airport, it is also surrounded by cows, farms, baby goats and the occasional horse. Growing up, we had to drive twenty minutes to get to our Wal-Mart, but the area has exploded since then and there is everything you could need within five minutes. Well, five minutes after you pass the farm.
However! In my entire life, I have never walked out on the front porch and saw a damn rooster sitting in our flower pot.
Granted, there was the time a cow was loose in our neighborhood after a small tornado went through, but that really wasn’t a big deal (And of course, by “big deal”, I mean when my big sister Jamie, about eight or nine at the time, saw the cow, she hauled ass to the house screaming that a bull was in our front yard. I remember huddling together at the living room window, all of us watching it slooooowly walk down the road.).
I was taking Penny out to use the bathroom and had a cup of coffee in my hand when I saw him. Actually, I heard him first. There was a rustling sound in some fallen leaves and right when I let the storm door shut, I saw him. He was so… cocky. I don’t even mean that to be a pun (Okay, yes I did), but he was! It was like he was saying, “Yeah. I’m on your front porch, what’s up? KEEP THAT DAMN DOG AWAY FROM ME.”
The weird part? I didn’t even scream. I was more like, “Oh! …hi there!” and went about my business. I kind of hoped he was the neighborhood welcome wagon, but he didn’t even have a loaf of banana nut bread. I do have to say that his eyes were totally creeping me out. I know all chickens do it, but do they really have to look at you sideways with that glassy, vacant expression and then quickly flip their eyes to the next thing like Sissy Spacek in “Carrie”? I didn’t think so. GET SOME SUNGLASSES, CHICKENS.
Have I mentioned that I want chickens? Because I do! Especially after hearing that my grandpa had them in his backyard (the same backyard we were married in) and used them solely for eggs (DO YOU HEAR THAT, DAVID? HE DID NOT KILL HIS CHICKENS). Apparently chicken corralling is in my blood because Granny Ena also used to go and pick up live ones in England. …but then she would break their neck and cook them for supper so NEVERMIND.
I really want chickens and a coop. I’ve told David a thousand times, and he agreed, but I’ve been hesitant these last few weeks about it because I’m terrified I’ll come out there and see one dead from a fox or raccoon or coyote or something. David assures me that I will NOT ever find my chickens dead in the backyard. “No, honey, you would NEVER have to see that.”
“All you would see are the feathers and blood.”
Although I really shouldn’t worry. Apparently around this town, the chickens are safe to solicit their tiny pamphlets and watch your every move. SHIFTY EYES.
Welcome to Green Acres, folks. I like it here mighty fine.