Boys without Shirts, Oh Yeah!

I worked a chicken farm one summer. (Ok it was one day.) But it left an impression. 

I used to visit my family in Iowa. My Uncle's wife's family had a chicken farm. (Awkward way of saying not my blood family but by family by marriage. Which is all the same to me.) I was about 12 or 14 years old. Just discovering boys and other things shall we say. 

The farm had orders to fulfill. So the family all got together and proceeded to fill those orders. 

This is where I wish we could make pictures out of our memories. 

I can still see ...

• the yard that the chickens met their final squawks
• the "men" performing those deeds 
• my innocent eyes opening up when I knew where the phrase "running around like a chicken with your head cut off" meant
• the kitchen where all the women sat to clean and process the birds after the men were through with them

Now I say "men" but what I really mean is "males" in our current day vernacular. Because "men" means any male over 10 or so, and there were teenage boys there along with their parents, uncles and grandfathers.

I remember sitting at a table and told to clean a the bird. I had no idea what that meant. "I am a city girl" I wanted to cry. Thank goodness my Aunt took pity on me and showed me what to do. 

My cousin Nettie, who was my age, and I traded off duties. Cleaning is where one of us would pull out the pin feathers by hand using pliers. Then make it look like the chicken you get at the grocery store. So I was on pin feather duty to start with and Nettie was cutting. 

I remember feeling like I was a part of the family as I listened to "women" chatter. It was a warm feeling. I had a job and I did my part. Until... I was asked - since I was the visitor - which chickens we should cook for dinner (translation: lunch). 

Hunh?  

What? 

Like I know a good one from a not so good one? 

Did I mention I love my Aunt?  She came to my rescue so many times. This time was no exception. She said to me, in a lowered voice, "just pick 2". I love you Aunt Jesse. I picked the two I was working on. Done. Solved. 

Now, this is what I was NOT prepared for. Seriously traditional roles here. When it came time for dinner (read lunch) the call went out to the men it was time to eat. And they came filing in. They sat at the dinner table and filled each seat. I was wondering where was I going to sit? There isn't a spot left. 

My Aunt came to my rescue again and gave me plates of food to put on the table and then told me to fill the water glasses. I was to continue doing this until the men are done and then we women can eat. 

WHAT? 

The men eat first? 

We don't eat together? 

This is .... 

This is ... 

So medieval. 

Hunh?

We worked just as hard as they did. Granted it wasn't outside but ... 

Crap!  

I'm hungry!

My feminist diatribe was definitely at work here. This is so not fair. We worked hard too, I whined to myself. 

I think I pouted the whole time. 

There was hardly a word spoken and the men ate their meal in about 10 minutes and left without a word. 

Not a "Thank you that was good." 

Not even a "Thanks!" 

Nothing. 

Ungrateful louts. 

My Aunt explained that is how it's done. There. The end. Did I mention I am city girl and we eat together in the city? 

Now the good part.

My teenage boy cousins had to go and bring in the bales of hay from adjacent field. Nettie and I went along to be basically ballast and sit on the bales of hay as they drove along and grabbed them from the field with the flatbed attached to the tractor. 

Did I mention that I have some really good looking cousins? 

I was very content to just sit there on the bales of hay and watch my men cousins do all that work. Watch them with their shirts off in the afternoon sun, glistening with sweat and watching those muscles work. Again I wish I could produce pictures from my memory. 

Until Nettie decided to rock the boat - literally. 

She thought it would be funny if we rocked a bale off the back of the flatbed. And off we went. We then yelled for our cousins to come by and pick us up. Instead - all they did was hand us the hooks and told us to put the bale of hay back on the flatbed ourselves. A bale of hay is HEAVY. It took us both to get it back on as they watched and laughed at us. 

Finally they took pity on us and put the bale back on the flatbed. I think they just didn't want to wait in the hot sun any longer. 

I do have to admit though, I often remember those boys - out in the mid-day heat working at bringing those bales in and I have a nice smile on my face for a while.