Sunday, September 16, 2012


photo credit: Bernard McManus
via photo pin cc
My first encounter with chickens was trying to gather eggs at my Grandma Mabel's house. If I remember correctly (it was a loooooong time ago), My Aunt Faye and I were sent to gather eggs. As soon as we stepped inside the gate, Mr. Rooster made it perfectly clear that he had no intention of letting us steal his future children.

He dived bombed us several times, flapping his wings in our faces. Nearly made me pee my pants! I ran screaming from the chicken coop and never went back.

My second encounter with chickens was when my Dad brought home a huge crate full of the feathered fowl fresh from the Hartivlle Auction.  He called in all the relatives for a chicken killin'. I guess the adults thought us kids couldn't handle the brutality of the slaughter, because they sent us all to bed at about 5:30.

My bedroom faced the back yard, so this 10 year old watched the whole thing through a slit in the curtains. First they got a long 2 X 4 and nailed sets of spikes down it. Then several of the men entered the crate (it was about 6 foot long and 4 foot square). They each emerged with a chicken in their arms, went to the killin' board and layed each chicken on the board with their necks between the nails, then Pop took an axe and chopped their heads off quick as a lick. 1-2-3-4-5-6 headless chickens commensed to runnin' around the yard splurtin' blood until they realized they were dead and flopped over.

You would think a garrish site like that would have terrified a little girl, but not me. I thought it was hillarious. Ever since then, chickens have cracked me up. I see one and I have to laugh. Maybe it's some kind of sick satisfaction because of the way Mr. Rooster scared me when I was little, but whatever...I love chickens.

When I lived in Ohio, I had a huge enclosed front porch with windows all the way around. I filled it with chickens. Not real ones, stuffed ones, glass ones, wooden ones, pottery ones. Chicken lamps, signs, salt & pepper shakers - you name it, I had it. I called the porch my chicken coop and enjoyed a smug satisfaction that I could enter the coop any time I wanted and none of the chickens could attack me. (but I kept an axe just inside the case.)

When we decided to move to Arizona, I had to get rid of my chickens and really didn't give them much thought until recently when Mr. Lee bought me a birthday card that plays the chicken dance song...

I laughed and danced and laughed some more every time I opened that card. Then it dawned on me how much fun I wasn't having these days and Chicken Doodle Soup was born.
This will be my fun spot on the web. Expect it to be filled with whatever hits me at the time. I like to call it free range chicken scratch. You never know what I'll be throwing in the soup pot, because I don't know, so stop back often to see what's goin' on in this chick's life.