"Off With Their Heads!"

I know, sounds gory, doesn't it? Well, it was! And . . . . traumatizing. And. . . . I was very little!

"Back in the day", as Rease and Helena like to refer to it, my Grandparents (my mom's parents) killed their own chickens. I'm sure my dad's parents probably did too, but I wasn't privy to that.

I remember witnessing only a couple of these necessary chores. The chain of events, as I remember, for "whacking and plucking" your own chickens went something like this:

1. Catch the bird - no easy feat, mind you
2. Put said bird's head on a chopping block and "Whack!" (Papaw used an old tree stump for a chopping block and a hatchet)
3. Release bird and let his life's blood flow from him. (This is where they flop around)

Liking the situation so far? N0?

4. Retrieve dead bird and, while holding his feet, immerse him into boiling water
5. Pluck feather from chick-a-dee - all the feathers, even the teeny, tiny ones

Feeling squeamish? Yes?

6. Remove feet and innards

Still with me? Not hardly? Sorry, almost there.

7. Cut up and freeze or fix the night's dinner.

Not feeling the urge for chicken tonight? That's okay. Grab a pizza, I say!

But, believe it or not, that wasn't my worst experience.
One particular day all was going well until they released the decapitated bird. Usually they just flopped around. But this bird had supernatural powers. He, this bird, could see where he was running without his head! ! ! Yes, yes, he could! And do you know who he decided to get even with? ME! Me, a scrawny 3 or 4 year old who wouldn't harm a feather! No pun intended.
That bird chased me all around the yard! Yes, he was chasing me too. Every time I turned around he was just steps behind me. When I finally made it up the back steps and into the screen door, only then did the bird drop. Dead. Right at the foot of the steps! Did I say, dead? I was horrified. My heart was beating out of my little chest. Why me? I didn't kill him!

But, I'm okay now. I survived with minimal scars. Well, the one thing that does make me recall this whole process of killing and scalding chickens is the smell of wet paper towels. Some of the brands smell just like the chickens when they were scalded. (Insert shiver here).

Kinda puts a whole new twist on the phrase: "Running around like a chicken with it's head cut off!" , doesn't it?

And, that's all I have to say about that. For now.