I've never cared much for chicken crap. It does absolutely nothing for me, really. But for some reason my life and chicken crap have inexplicably crossed paths over the years. Scary.
My first memory of the stuff was traumatic. I was probably three or four and attacked by the Cujo of leghorn roosters. I was forced to the floor of a chicken coop and soundly mooshed all over by the vicious sixty pound fowl. Needless to say I wasn't very happy with all that white stuff that collects on the bottom of a chicken coop. Choosing between a certain death-by-dismemberment by a monster or rolling around in chicken poop is a choice no child should ever make. And my life would have been a breeze if that was my only run in with the stuff. But karma deals cold cards sometimes.
There was an old man in our 'hood that owned a triangular sliver of property along the railroad tracks, Old Man Minick. Minick was the local "junk man" and I'm almost sure when they cast Pat Butram as "Mr. Haney" on Green Acres they had the old man in mind. Minick also dealt with lawn services and hauling topsoil and anything else with which he thought he could make a buck. I and my older brothers Cole and Holden were (sadly) his labor force.
When Minick would kick us out at the curb with a junk lawnmower to mow lawns for him, he'd try get us to buy the gas for the mower. He was a skin-flint, but that's the kind of work a twelve year old kid got back then. And half the time he'd forget to come pick us up and we'd have to walk home with his old junk mower. His wife always told us "he wasn't feeling well". We knew he was drunk on his ass.
There was also a chicken farm outside of town a ways. Nobody needed a map to the place, your nose would lead you there. And probably once a month they would clean out the chicken houses...leaving huge piles of some of the filthiest smelling chicken crap in huge piles...free for the taking. And that word "free" would always catch Old Man Minick's attention. He'd flash his homemade "Chickin Manur" sign out by the road and people would buy it up by the wheel barrow load for their gardens. After a couple of years of successfully purveying crap he bought an old 1 1/2 ton dump bed Ford and added "DELIVERED" to his sign.
My oldest brother Cole was out of school and worked for Minick during the day sometimes. Cole kept the old Ford running and with the help of Minick's old broke down rubber-tired front loader the chicken crap flew out the drive truckload by truckload. And most of the time Cole would just deliver the crap and dump it where the customer wanted. Every once in a while I and Holden were tricked into going out on a delivery and helping spread the stuff. After each time we swore we'd never do it again.
One afternoon I was at baseball practice waiting for my oldest brother Cole to pick me up as usual. Sometimes he'd be on his motorsickle and that was pretty cool. This particular afternoon I was disgusted to see Minick's old dump truck wheel around the corner....with a hot load of bird crap in the back. I turned the other way and started walking. Cole pulled up and hollered for me to get in but I wasn't buying it; I had been tricked into helping spread chickensh*t way too many times.
Cole swore up and down this was just a "dump and jump" sale. When he pointed out there were no rakes or shovels on the truck I figured he might be telling the truth. I got in. And I'm glad I did. This turned out to be the best "chicken crap run" I had ever been on.
We had to take the load up into the 'fancy of fancies' neighborhood where rich people lived. Rich people with huge mansions, iron gates, and trimmed lawns with guys that couldn't talk English fussing over them. This was always a learning experience for me. Cole would point out the new cars in the driveway and tell me their names. TV ads during Bonanza were one thing, but seeing a brand new car up close is special. I was excited. We found the address and Cole pulled up front by the curb since the driveway was gated shut. He left the old truck running, jumped out and started up the walkway to the house. He told me he'd be back in a minute.
He hadn't been gone thirty seconds when I hear a horn honk. There's some man in a car behind the truck waving his arms and yelling. I gave him my best 12 year old "deer in headlights" look. That must have pissed him off because he got out of his car and came running up to the driver's door. He started cussing a blue streak telling me the truck was blocking his drive and I needed to move. In my most respectful Cash Brother retort I told him to move it himself 'cause I can't drive. I was shocked when he flung open the door and climbed in. I didn't appreciate him calling me a "little sumbitch" either...
The truck was still running and he stared at the gauges and the pedals. In a most agitated manner he pushed in the clutch, reached down and grabbed the PTO instead of the gear shift. As he revved the old Ford and slowly engaged the truck I felt the chassis groan as I had so many times before. The bed was lifting...and before he knew what had happened the bed was up full tilt. In his frustration he grabbed the gear shift and stuck it in granny gear. AS he let the clutch out the second time the old Ford jumped forward with just enough force to dislodge the load. A whole stinking load of chicken crap slid off and landed on the pavement with a resounding "plop"...right in front of his brand new shiny black Ford LTD...(Cole called them a La-Tee-Dah).
The car was far enough back that the crap missed the front end of his car but the ensuing 'plop' splattered quarter and half dollar size chunks ALL over the hood and windshield. The guy bailed out and started screaming and yelling like an idiot.
Then I realized Cole was standing there in the grass with his arms folded watching the whole thing. When the man saw Cole he ran up too him and got in his face and started yelling. My big brother Cole was the "cool of cool". He was the inspiration behind the Happy Day's character Fonzy. He never even blinked with that guy up in his face. The only thing that moved was the toothpick in his mouth...
Cole pulled the yellow copy of the ticket out from his armpit and shoved it the man's gut. "Here's your receipt Mr. Osborne" Cole said with his smirk, "Your wife just paid me and she said you knew where to dump it. Looks like you've taken care of it. Have a great day." Cole climbed up in the cab and we left Mr. Osborne standing there yelling with a puff of flathead Ford smoke. I watched him in the truck mirror as we left. Cole looked over at me and smiled. Sometimes life gives you a little entertainment and all you have to do is sit and enjoy it.
And although that was the only time I enjoyed getting involved with chickensh*t, it didn't change my mind about the stuff at all. And the ride home from the ball field that day was better than any motorsickle ride.
paden cash, post: 418425, member: 20 wrote: ..... by the vicious sixty pound fowl.
What the hell do they feed chickens in Oklahoma?
Tommy Young, post: 418426, member: 703 wrote: What the hell do they feed chickens in Oklahoma?
Probably small fox
Tommy Young, post: 418426, member: 703 wrote: What the hell do they feed chickens in Oklahoma?
Artistic license
[USER=20]@paden cash[/USER]
Cujo's twin brother resided in our backyard when I was pre-school age. He would hang out along the path that led to the two-holer that was a bit past the first chicken house. I was luckier than you. He hit me with all 60 pounds of flogging material at high speed out on the lawn. That area had the chickensh*t of which you speak, but in a much more random and widely distributed array.
I kinda hate to mention it, but i like your stories better than Kents. Something about their texture, framing, and the finer nuances of art, and picturesque speach. They are more real than a perdy courthouse. I had to read that one twice. It was stirring up old latent memories. Memories of a rooster, that flogged me badly. Gave me a black eye.
I went running past the old air force generator, and surprised the foul old fowl. He flew up, with his spurs i, full bloom. He rewarded my actions, by attempting to put my eye out. I managed to deflect his attack, and wound up with a shiner, that would make a man proud, on pirates day. I was probably around 5 yrs old.
Time is a funny thing. I don't remember alot about last week, but I do remember that rooster, like it just happened. We ran barefoot 9 mos out of the year. This was around the geographical area of Coarsegold Ca. We surveyed all over Oakhurst, Coarsegold, Deadwood Mountain, North Fork. We were surveying out at North Fork, the day Elvis died. I remember it, because i got paid that day, and bought myself a screwdriver set.
Anyway, time marches on, and yesterday's food becomes a forgotten thing.
I went shopping yesterday with the wife. She tells me that we have to have more food, due to my procreative habits. I've agreed with her, on two counts. Sex makes ya hungry. And, it tends to create more participants at the supper table. Cheesecake disappears much faster than it used to.
Wife also says a bigger place to live would be good. I have to agree.
Everything needs worked on.
Sawmill needs carbs cleaned. And some welding. Thats how ya get a bigger house.
I'm home sick, with a very unhappy tummy. I musta got somerhing out galavanting around with the wife, that turned my tummy into a sad state of affairs.
Cole, Holden and Sharon tried to dodge me one Sunday afternoon at Granny McGillicuddy's house. They were headed down to the pond in back and didn't want little 4 year old Paden to tag along. By the time I had a visual on them they were already in the pasture. Making it to the gate was a losing proposition. My only hope was to cut through the chicken house (an old greenhouse) that had one door to the yard and the other to the pasture.
It was a calculated move because generally most of the birds were out during the day scratching bugs up in the driveway...and that old rooster was generally with his ladies. I guess he took off in Sundays however...
He caught me on a quartering blindside and I dove to the floor and tried to belly crawl to the door. By the time I got to my feet to run for my life I was covered head to toe with chickensh*t. Momma Cash made me strip down and she washed out me and my rompers with the garden hose and left them hang on the line. I was forced to spend the afternoon sitting nekkid on a stool in the kitchen with all the wimmen-folk...wrapped only in bath towel.
I still get mad when I think about it...and I still hate roosters and chickensh*t.
I don't need to have been brought up on a farm to not like roosters or the mess they leave behind.
A number of years ago, we had a surveying job on a farm. One of "ponds" consisted of liquified cow droppings. Not a nice smell by any stretch of the imagination.
Even more years ago, I went hiking with a friend. At the end of the day, we stopped by a convenience store to get a soda. A young guy walked in who (my guess) had spent the day spreading manure. He was ripe, to put it politely.
Growing up in MA, there was a pig farm not too far from my folk's house. On warm (or hot) summer days when the wind blew the "right" direction, we would smell the pig manure.
I have no desire to be around those types of smells at all, let alone on a daily basis. Something I have no desire to get used to.
John, post: 418501, member: 791 wrote: I don't need to have been brought up on a farm to not like roosters or the mess they leave behind.
A number of years ago, we had a surveying job on a farm. One of "ponds" consisted of liquified cow droppings. Not a nice smell by any stretch of the imagination.
Even more years ago, I went hiking with a friend. At the end of the day, we stopped by a convenience store to get a soda. A young guy walked in who (my guess) had spent the day spreading manure. He was ripe, to put it politely.
Growing up in MA, there was a pig farm not too far from my folk's house. On warm (or hot) summer days when the wind blew the "right" direction, we would smell the pig manure.
I have no desire to be around those types of smells at all, let alone on a daily basis. Something I have no desire to get used to.
I share your sentiment. We have hog farms down here so large they're in danger of contaminating the water table.
Now there's no doubt that a majority of Oklahoma's area is considered agricultural. And any time I've voiced my disdain for the foul odiferosity of the wind there is always someone that tells me, "Smells like money!"
If money really smelled like that would anybody actually carry it around and use it ?!?
John, post: 418507, member: 791 wrote: If money really smelled like that would anybody actually carry it around and use it ?!?
I guess maybe in a moral sense there may very well be manure that is cleaner than some folks foldin' money. 😉
Wow and here I thought getting stuck behind a Chicken truck on a 2 lane highway, as a kid in East Texas was bad. It didn't help that my mom would never pass the truck either.
I am surprised that as enterprising as the Cash Boys are that you didn't start a franchise business where the customer could arrange a shipment to be deposited in the yard of their choice. The business plan could be similar to Singing Onion. I can think of a number of people that deserve to have their yard fertilized in this way. The closer to the front entrance the better. The upgrade (at least 2X) would be a picture of the home owner upon the realization of of your customer's charity. If you are interested, we can pitch this on Shark Tank using Mr. Wonderful as the demo.
lmbrls, post: 419000, member: 6823 wrote: I am surprised that as enterprising as the Cash Boys are that you didn't start a franchise business where the customer could arrange a shipment to be deposited in the yard of their choice. The business plan could be similar to Singing Onion. I can think of a number of people that deserve to have their yard fertilized in this way. The closer to the front entrance the better. The upgrade (at least 2X) would be a picture of the home owner upon the realization of of your customer's charity. If you are interested, we can pitch this on Shark Tank using Mr. Wonderful as the demo.
Thanks for the vote of confidence. An actual business plan always escaped the Cash boys in their pursuit of financial independence. I don't think any of us ever considered sticking up the local liquor store...but I am glad none of my older siblings ever taunted me with the task using the word chicken...;)
We did however successfully distribute a small amount of animal manure throughout the neighborhood. Once upon a time the "delivery" fell into my hands...and..well, refer to the following post for the outcome.
https://surveyorconnect.com/community/threads/young-paden-and-halloweens-past.324161/#post-342575
Tommy Young, post: 418426, member: 703 wrote: What the hell do they feed chickens in Oklahoma?
Apparently other chickens. Lol
My fondest memories are those of spending summers on my grandpa's farm as a child.
I remember on one occasion pulling up to the farm house with a dirt floor in the Appalachian Mountains after a 6hr drive to a bunch of chickens running around with no heads.
Those were the best days of my life. Sure do miss grandpa.
Ron Lang, post: 419033, member: 6445 wrote: ..Those were the best days of my life. Sure do miss grandpa.
My granny (and grandpa) always had chickens. I just assumed they were like feral cats and always "spontaneously generated" themselves into existence.
Chicken dinner on Sunday after church is a great memory. My grandpa was always at the house on Sundays and loved to "rassle" with us kids. If you were lucky to be around on the Saturday afternoon before you might get to see granny catch our Sunday dinner. She was quick death for the chicken of her choosing.
She would head out the back door with a coffee can of chicken scratch. They would flock around her with innocence as she scattered the contents. Then, with ninja stealth, a straightened out wire hangar (that usually hung by the back door) would magically appear from underneath her apron and....GAK!
By the time she drew the hooked and unsuspecting bird up closer her hand was already around its head. A quick twirl and a snap and it was over. The bird was no longer livestock; it was dinner. We never got tired of watching granny perform her magic. But you had to watch from around the corner of the garage...if she knew you were watching there was a good chance you might be drafted to help pluck the dead bird.
I would much rather eat chicken than pluck its feathers...
paden cash, post: 419041, member: 20 wrote: My granny (and grandpa) always had chickens. I just assumed they were like feral cats and always "spontaneously generated" themselves into existence.
Chicken dinner on Sunday after church is a great memory. My grandpa was always at the house on Sundays and loved to "rassle" with us kids. If you were lucky to be around on the Saturday afternoon before you might get to see granny catch our Sunday dinner. She was quick death for the chicken of her choosing.
She would head out the back door with a coffee can of chicken scratch. They would flock around her with innocence as she scattered the contents. Then, with ninja stealth, a straightened out wire hangar (that usually hung by the back door) would magically appear from underneath her apron and....GAK!
By the time she drew the hooked and unsuspecting bird up closer her hand was already around its head. A quick twirl and a snap and it was over. The bird was no longer livestock; it was dinner. We never got tired of watching granny perform her magic. But you had to watch from around the corner of the garage...if she knew you were watching there was a good chance you might be drafted to help pluck the dead bird.
I would much rather eat chicken than pluck its feathers...
One summer I took to a particular hog, I called him Brewster. I fed him and played with him. My grandfather raised many hogs and as a kid I was scared of most. But not Brewster, I can't really remember why. The next summer I came up.as usual and my first breakfast with grandpa that summer he asked me how I liked my bacon. I said it great grandpa and then he told me it was Brewster. I said well grandpa Brewster sure tastes good maybe I should care for all your hogs.
To this day some 30 years later when ever I survey a farm and catch a wiff of the farm it takes me back to trout fishing, snapping snaps with grandma, and that dirt floor. I swear that was the cleanest dirt floor I've ever seen.
When I was too young to go to school a local hardware store would get in a shipment of baby chicks shortly before Easter. They would give one to a little kid if the parent/grandparent present said it was OK. I got one and named her Glenna. A few months later Glenna disappeared and I knew why. The first time we had chicken I asked if this was Glenna. I was told "Yes." I asked the next time we had chicken and received the same answer. I think we were eating on her for several months because I would ask the same question and get the same answer every time. She tasted great.
Holy Cow, post: 419059, member: 50 wrote: When I was too young to go to school a local hardware store would get in a shipment of baby chicks shortly before Easter. They would give one to a little kid if the parent/grandparent present said it was OK. I got one and named her Glenna. A few months later Glenna disappeared and I knew why. The first time we had chicken I asked if this was Glenna. I was told "Yes." I asked the next time we had chicken and received the same answer. I think we were eating on her for several months because I would ask the same question and get the same answer every time. She tasted great.
I had a neighbor years ago that had four daughters that were "stair-stepped" in age. And they all were members of FFA and they all raised hogs. Beautiful hogs. Long and happy hogs. And they would all win ribbons and get auctioned and away they would go in a trailer to their "forever home".
When the youngest girl came up through the ranks she too raised a beautiful hog. The hog's name was Maribelle. Instead of letting her go to someone else at the auction, my neighbor bought her back himself. Maribelle's "forever home" was the deep freeze in the well house via the custom butcher. Even though his daughters knew very well what eventually became of their prize pigs, they at least didn't have to see the end results. Maribelle was different and came home in pieces wrapped in white butcher paper. None of the girls would touch any of the meat.
I guess it didn't help that their father had taken a marker and written "Maribelle" on every package of pork in the freezer. I can report that Maribelle was one fine eatin' Poland-China...right down to the cracklins. 😉
