My First Writing Earnings – Chickens

I just completed an interview about my books and writing. Lots of questions. I came up with lots of answers. Somehow, I always do. I can do some talking with my fingers. 🙂 The last question asked me to tell them something quirky about myself. Now, how would you answer that? Quirky? I’m a fairly plain old country girl who just happens to write books. That right there might be the quirkiest thing about me. That wouldn’t have been an answer they might be looking for. I’d already talked about writing through a dozen or more questions. So quirky. Hmm.

So I thought of chickens. Is that quirky enough? When I was a kid, about the same time I got the writing itch and wanted a dog more than anything in the world, I joined the 4-H Club. Not something unique since most all my class joined the 4-H Club. It was expected. However, most of the girls took the sewing and cooking projects. I did too, but I also decided it would be fun to take the poultry project. Mom bought a hundred baby chicks every year in those boxes with holes in the sides. I liked chickens. After all, I did have that pet banty rooster that I’ve told you about in a different post.

I can hear you out there wondering what this has to do with writing. The fact is that one hundred baby chicks were my very first earnings from writing after I wrote an essay on why I would like to  have one hundred baby chicks and won them. Not exactly a million dollar book advance but it was pretty exciting for me when I was twelve. I already knew I wanted to be a writer and write stories that might someday sell. Winning those baby chicks seemed to be proof that writing words could pay off.

With my mom’s help, I fixed up the heat lamps to keep them warm when they were little. I feed them and watered them and cleaned out their straw. And I petted them. What I didn’t do at all that year was eat fried chicken! The rest of the family didn’t have the same aversion and my chickens did either end up on dinner plates or if they weren’t roosters, join the flock of hens to lay eggs. A farm girl has to face the harsh realities of life early on.

Since those years of raising chickens, I’ve always had a soft spot in my heart for chickens. I’ve introduced them into some of my country stories. Hens are an important to country people and supply a nutritious food source. They don’t need a lot of room. Just a place to lay eggs and roost. They scratch around and find a lot of their own food, supplemented by some corn. Most farm people have their flock of chickens. The people in my Appalachian stories do too. But my favorite hen scenes had to be with Granny Em in These Healing Hills. 

Here’s a little of those scenes with Granny Em about her hens.

“I can’t recall shedding tears for some time. Though I might near did last week when a fox carried off my fav’rite hen.” (Granny Em)
“Do you have other hens?” (Fran)
“None that lay regular like Hortense. I done threatened them others with the stew pot more’n once.”
“Guess that would be better than the fox getting them.”
“They’d be somethin’s meal either way.” She pushed up from the chair. “I best be on my way. Daylight’s wastin’.”

That’s when Fran realizes that Granny Em might be lacking enough food and hopes to help by giving her a hen. When she goes to her cabin with the hen, she meets up with Ben and they find Granny Em sick with pneumonia.

What’s your dog got cornered over there in that sack? Have you brung me a snake?”
Fran shivered. “Never.”
“Rattlers make right good eating. Better’n possum by a right smart sight.”
“You’ll have to catch your own rattlers for dinner.” Fran went over and undid the top of the gunny sack and opened it wide to let the hen out. “I brought you a hen.”
The brown hen flopped its wings at Sarge, who backed away. Then it cocked its head back and forth and stared at Granny Em. The old woman’s laugh turned into a wheezing cough.
When she could talk again, she called, “Here, chickie, chickie.” She pulled some crumbs out of a pocket somewhere under the quilt and held them out. The hen went straight over to eat out of her hand. Granny Em picked it up and stroked its feathers like it was a cat.
“I can’t remember the last time anybody give me a hen. Coulda been way back when I was still catching babies ’fore you nurses came around.” She looked up at Fran. “You ain’t got a baby you need catching, now does you?”
“Heavens no.” Fran could feel her cheeks warming.

Ben insists Granny Em go to his house where his mother can take care of Granny Em.

“And you could just let an old woman die in peace.” (Granny Em)
“You’ve never been the peaceful sort,” Ben said.
“But I got this new chicken to keep away from the foxes and the cow to milk.” Granny Em shook her head.
“I’ll come back up here and see to your cow or Woody will. And we’ll take that fetched hen with us, but Ma won’t let it in the house. I can tell you that.”
“Plenty of folks do.” Granny Em peered up at him.
“Not Ma.”
“She always was picky about her house.” Granny Em let out a wheezy sigh. “But I reckon Silky can manage in your henhouse.”
“Silky?” Fran said.
“Ain’t you never stroked a chicken’s feather, girl? Got a sweet, silky feel to them.”

It was fun being able to remember my own times with hens to help me write these scenes.

Do you think winning 100 baby chicks with my writing is quirky enough? How would you answer that question if someone asked you to tell something quirky about yourself?