Pluck 'n Cluck

Dallas is my home. I grew up in Irving and moved into the city after high school and it is always the familiar base of operation I return to when I am faced with the task of reinventing myself due to desire or necessity of circumstance. This seems to happen more often than I would like – this process of jump-starting my life. For the past four years I have been living and working in small towns writing for community newspapers. In an industry struggling to stay afloat, change is inevitable.

So I find myself back in Big D basking in familiar surroundings – the house, the tree lined streets with the same potholes.  The dips ad dangerous curves that would surprise those less familiar are obstacles I easily navigate as if I had never ventured away. But there are changes. The neighborhood is dotted with enormous castle-like structures that resemble Fox and Jacobs track houses on a grander scale, that have replaced lovely Austin stone homes with screened porches and breezeways. Towering oak and pecan trees have given way to spindly new offerings that will not provide a shady respite to the brutal summer heat for another decade or so. Change is to be expected and while traffic is still awful and drivers are still rude, what I find most puzzling are the chickens in the backyards of these opulent displays of wealth and questionable taste.

I knew the chicken thing was a blossoming fad with urban dwellers; still the clucking and pecking coming from the neighbor’s backyard surprised me as I enjoyed my coffee of the back porch after moving in. I heard about the onslaught of Range Rovers and Hummers flocking to the rural community in early spring to select exotic varieties of chicks from local farms and breeders. While it may have been the subject of more than a few chuckles from the more countrified folk, I imagine any dollars would be a welcome boost to the local economy. And apparently these transient visitors were definitely willing to shell it out.

Not all that long ago, the possession of any farm animals within the city limits, much less in the upscale neighborhoods would have been swiftly dealt with. Owners of exclusive high dollar properties frowned at the prospect of Ma and Pa Kettle living next door and the city takes exception to alienating payers of exorbitant property taxes.

But even if I hadn’t heard the chickens, I suspected they were there because of the fox lurking on my side of the fence. Poultry attracts predators looking for a tasty morsel. In the country, coyotes are the most common wild culprit – and snakes. In the city, especially near the lake at the very least raccoons and possums will likely venture over to snag an egg or two for a late night snack.

Still I can’t help but wonder what will happen to the floundering fowl when the novelty wears off. Recall the potbellied pig fad. Once the fun faded or the creatures became too large or burdensome to be manageable, the dilemma was where to discard it. We are a disposable society with a short attention span and an affinity for impulse buying. What often begins as an interactive lesson in nature for the children and a source of organic sustenance just becomes another chore, when our lives are so jam-packed with other obligations. The chickens fall further down the priority list trumped by nail appointments and play dates and who really wants to clean the chicken pen and gather eggs with freshly manicured nails.

I have written stories on all types of animal rescue organizations, dogs, feral cats, horses, donkeys, even pigs. So I wonder who will take on the chickens. Perhaps locations will be set up as “safe” places like there are at schools and fire stations to drop unwanted children. The icon would be a chicken cradled in a basket wrapped in a soft warm blanket to protect it from the cold to be dropped anonymously under the cover of night. Or perhaps the local chicken shack will throw open the back doors for receiving before sending it through the front with the option for original or extra crispy.

I have no vendetta against poultry. But I do recall the fate of the colorfully dyed chicks ad ducks that filled dime-store widows every spring. And as a parent the desire to provide a lesson in nature and responsibility to my children that quickly became my unwelcome additional chore before running out the door for work or school when the infatuation faded with the gerbils, hamsters, fish and hermit crabs that were as easily disregarded as the latest action figure or Cabbage Patch doll thrown in the bottom of the closet.

The Great One

I was never a twinkle I my father’s eye. He did not pace the floor agonizing over my much-anticipated “burst” onto the scene so to speak.

This is not to say there was no fanfare or scramble of preparations – but basically one day I wasn’t there and the next day I was. My arrival may not have been the traditional journey into fatherhood, but that in no way diminished his role as father – a role he embraced with enthusiasm.

When I recall my childhood – it is my dad who is the center of my universe.

           

With me, he may have gotten the short end of the stick. From all accounts, I was a troubled, needy kid – full of never ending questions – searching for answers and reassurance, always making up stories and full of imagination, but quite content to follow him around like a loyal puppy and I would imagine chattering constantly.

           

My older sister and I were quite opposite. She was more of a social creature – spending her time playing with neighborhood kids – making friends – participating. I was a loner and preferred it that way. I was happy to reside in my own imagination creating adventures, changing occupations on a whim – from pirate to scientist to king of the forest.

But if Dad had a favorite, he never showed it. We had no reason to question if we were loved. He seemed to be in tune with each of us independently. We weren’t coddled. We were given opportunities to make our own choices and had to live with the consequences of those decisions.

           

Today is Father’s Day and I am reminded of the gifts we gave Dad that he accepted with such ardor and affectionate appreciation. Preparations began days ahead with the emptying of the piggy bank and a trek to the dime store for supplies. Glitter and glue were always involved whether attached to a plastic box that once held a razor to be transformed into a bejeweled holder of keepsakes and tie tacks or colored constructions paper to create a masterpiece or greeting card to include an original verse in carefully printed contrasting crayon. Whatever the creation – from plaster of Paris paperweights to the more traditional macaroni necklaces – each held a place of importance on a dresser cluttered with the objects d’art.              

Sometimes, when the house was empty and quiet, I would stand at the dresser and survey the collection taking pride in the display.

           

While I didn’t really buy into the whole “you are special because you were chosen” answer to my questions of how I came to be a part of the clan, that philosophy was continually proven through love, respect and nurturing. I was allowed to be a kid and protected from the storms that blew across the landscape of our existence. I had no doubt that it was safe to explore because if I faltered or lost my way, there would be a strong hand to grasp and a gentle nudging back on track.

           

So much time has passed. His thick reddish-brown hair has turned white, but I still see him covered in freckles wearing Bermuda shorts driving us across the country on a family vacation in a pink and white Pontiac, attempting to teach me to hit a softball (an effort predisposed to failure), or in the workshop building tiny furniture for our Barbie dolls. He is now a Dad, stepfather, grandfather and great-grandfather – or “the Great One” as he puts it. It is a fitting title because he is a great one indeed.

Copyright © 2012 Rebecca Hertz