All this back and forth talk about whether to allow chickens in the city has brought a bit of nostalgia.
I was about five years old, just a few months short of my sixth birthday, when I acquired Hop Along. Named, if I recall correctly, after that cowboy in a western TV series that came on every Saturday. That was usually the only time we got to watch much TV. We didn't get to watch much TV during weekdays, having to go to bed early, and my older brothers having to get up in time to walk the couple of miles to school the next day. Being only five, I hadn't yet started school. As there were no kindergarten or Head-Start back then that I can recall.
Towards the end of each school year my brothers would go on field trips. Mostly to various farms down below the Georgia state line. They'd always come back with something that was produced on the various farms they got to visit. Some of those farms raised chickens. Others, some other kind of livestock or vegetables and sometimes fruit. So they always returned with bags of goodies and exciting stories to tell.
At the end of this particular school year, when I was five just less than a month shy of my sixth birthday, they got to visit a chicken farm somewhere down in Georgia. When they returned they had this half of dozen egg carton that when opened had live baby chicks inside. They were the cutest little things.
My brothers built their own chicken pens out of scrap wood they went out and gathered along the roads. I can't remember how they acquired the chicken wire fencing, but somehow they managed to get that too. My parents told them the chickens would be their responsibility to keep the pens clean, because they didn't want the neighbors complaining and old Ms. Stella, one neighbor in particular, was forever complaining about something.
Anyway, the pens got built and my brothers owned up to their responsibility of keeping the pens clean. Although Ms. Stella still complained, they kept well ahead of her complaints. They gave me the job of holding the chicken pen door as they cleaned it. One day while they were cleaning and I was holding the door, it accidentally slipped from my grasp and fell on one of the chickens feet, breaking it. I felt horrible to see that chicken racing around in pain. Mama, as was the compassionate thing to do, was going to put the chicken out of its misery on the spot. I begged her not to. She caved in, but told me the chicken would be my sole responsibility. That's how I came to have Hop-Along. My baby. My first born.
Hop-Along's broken foot never properly healed, but he did learn to hop/drag that broken foot. It was so cute and inspiring to see him hop/drag___hope/drag that broken foot until he got to where he wanted to go. He'd even allow me to cuddle him like I did my baby dolls, only this baby was alive and more fun, before he'd get tired and hop/drag on his merry little way.
Well, that August? September? I started first grade and got really busy with being in school, meeting new friends and learning all that stuff that first graders are required to learn. By then, Hop-Along was the only chicken left. I never gave much thought to what became of the other chickens my two younger brothers had brought home from that field trip. I just assumed they'd grown up and flew away like the birds I saw flying in the air or nesting in the trees. It never occurred to me that was them on the dinner table from time to time.
Just starting school and getting busy with school activities, I admit, I started to slack on my responsibility and promise to care for Hop-Along. Mama warned me that we'd have to get rid of him if I kept slacking off my duties. Old Ms. Stella was complaining about the smell again, which really wasn't a smell. She just liked to complain. My brothers helped as much as possible, but they were busy with school too. To me, "getting rid of Hop-Along" meant he'd be allowed to fly away if he could. That's the way kids rationalize things I guess.
On this particular day, while at school, I'd thought and thought about it. I was going to do better keeping Hop-Along's pen cleaned. I couldn't wait to get home that day. I'd decided, first thing, I was going to throw my books down and head out to the pen and clean it. Mama wouldn't have to remind me anymore.
When I got home that day, after dropping my books, I went straight out to the pen, but there was no Hop-Along. I raced around the yard, and at first I felt a sense of relief. Thinking he'd healed enough to fly back to his family. I ran through the back door into the kitchen ask mama if she'd seen Hop-Along. Then I froze. There on the table between a plate of cornbread, bowl of green beans, mashed potatoes and what else I can't remember, it suddenly hit me. Where all those other chickens had gone, what had become of my Hop-Along. I knew only as a mother could know: There he was, all crispy and fried sitting between that plate of cornbread, green beans and mashed potatoes. I cried so hard. I couldn't stop. I cried so hard that no one ate the chicken. In fact, I don't think anyone ate anything at all that day. I cried so hard.....and I saw the hurt I was causing my mama because she saw the hurt I was going through. I decided to suck it up rather than see all the pain and hurt I was causing her and my brothers. By then, Hop-Along had lived too long and was too tough to eat anyway. Even our pet dog, Black Gal and her pups wouldn't eat him.
But I learned a valuable lesson that day about agreeing to take on a responsibility. About taking your responsibility seriously. Even at that age of five and six, we learned early on about being responsible. That our parents expected to carry out what we promised to do.
To this day I think about Hop-Along occasionally. I can sometime still envision him as he struggled to hop/drag that broken foot. And I still remember the importance of being responsible, owning up to that responsibility and honoring it and those for which we're responsible.
Brenda Manghane-Washington