by Amy Stinnett
Chickenshit
Or:
How a City Girl Does Country All Wrong
Chickenshit
Or:
How a City Girl Does Country All Wrong
Amy Stinnett
Copyright © 2017 by Amy Stinnett
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof
may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever
without the express written permission of the publisher
except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
First Printing, 2017
Paperback ISBN 978-0999256718
Library of Congress Control Number: 2017918020
Waiting Dog Press
Ontario, OR 97914
waitingdogpress.com
[email protected]
Cover by coversbykaren.com
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
For Red, Blue, Greenie, and Skins.
The best first pet chickens ever!
(and still alive, mind you)
Introduction - Or What I Did Last Summer
After my birthday this year, not a milestone or anything, but a couple of gray hairs away from one, I went on a short camping trip filled with purpose. First, I wanted to go somewhere serene-ish in nature, away from the farm and my family to decompress and let my thoughts settle. Second, I wanted to write. I was about to publish my first novel, Lookout Butte, and I wanted to do some finishing touches on it and brainstorm the second book in the series. Also, I had been mulling over another project, my close-to-the-vest insurance that the first novel was not just a fluke. Finally, I wanted to explore the nearest town - its library, cheap restaurants, and anything I found of particular interest.
Note: Justification plays a central role in my life and personal character.
This new project, by its nature, was shiny and more enticing than the project I had spent the last three years working on. It would cleanse my writer’s palette, so when I went back to the Alex and Kat saga for the second book, I would do so with the cycle of its publication and initial promotion behind me; therefore, I could concentrate solely on writing.
During my two-hour drive to find my solitude, I kicked around a lot of ideas. I knew I wanted to feature the scant amount of farming skills I had picked up over the last couple of years, mostly learning what NOT to do. I knew most of my main characters, as always, would be lesbian, gay, bi-sexual, or transgender. I knew I wanted a local setting, and one that would be an amalgam of places I have lived or known intimately over the last fifteen years. And, I wanted to write from the perspective of a character younger than me, not as an attempt to regain my youth, but because my writing is still in its youth. I have a lot to process mentally and emotionally before I write about a woman with a grown son and a desperate desire to never return to the rat race.
For my retreat, I picked a place I was familiar with, easy to access, and far enough away not to tempt an early return home. Bruneau State Park near Mountain Home, Idaho fit the bill. If you have spent any significant time in the Great Basin’s history, you’ve probably heard about the great Bonneville Flood from documentaries, celebrations at state parks and dams, and historical site placards. (If not, go online or, better yet go to the modern man-made Bonneville Dam on the Columbia River). The flood was a natural event that occurred over 14,000 years ago. It carved out valleys and strange rock formations all along southern Idaho (including the area Milepost is based upon), eastern Oregon, and into eastern Washington. The sand dunes at Bruneau State Park are a regional windfall, literally, from that catastrophic event.
A couple of friendly pre-teens saw me floundering as I tried to put up my tent in the wind. It was a tent I had not used before, and I have been getting less mobile in my almost old age. They looked to their dad for approval and then ran over to help me. Together, we figured out the crisscross arrangement of poles, clips, and straps and staked it down. I set about getting my air mattress and other gear ready for the evening, and I sat down in my car for a break. I wrote in my journal for a while and ate the mushy tacos I had hauled in from town for my dinner. Not really sure of the terrain yet, I drove over to the observatory for its program. This being a solar eclipse year, public interest in Astrology was on the uptick. There was a full house at the presentation, as well as the star gazing afterward. Unfortunately, the night was cloudy, and only one star was open to a good view with the giant telescope. Like an ass, I drove back to the campsite after hours, opening and closing my car door during quiet time. I fell asleep reading Empire Falls by Richard Russo by flashlight, as the wind flapped the loose material on my tent. The dry grass crunched all around the campsite for a couple of hours but quit shortly after I fell asleep.
The next morning, I got up early, raced to the restroom, and headed into town, straight for the library. Exploring libraries has long been a hobby of mine, and I was impressed with Mountain Home’s work space. Within minutes, I was logged in as a guest and began brainstorming my new project. I started with the journal format, added the chapter/serial genre, then mapped out the main characters and my goals for the piece. The road to effectively creating and using an outline has been a long one for me, so imagine my surprise when that very day, I wrote out a ten-part outline with most of the storyline that has become Volume I of Chickenshit.
By mid-afternoon of the next day, I had completed a rough draft for the first three chapters of the serial. Bam!
I had a day-and-a-half remaining to work on the Alex and Kat saga, explore the local thrift/book store, and find a cool little sandwich shop. Back at the park’s gift shop, I got a CD sampler of synthesizer music by a local band, Scorched Earth. The music is supposed to make you think of the stars, and it did, as I zoomed along, memorizing the trek from the dunes, through farm and park lands, over a bridge that was under construction, and hopefully into the side of town with the gas station that has the Mexican food (not that I ever got lost).
For my final night, I had to change campgrounds. This time, I put my tent up with no fanfare, so ha! The only hitch was a storm hit in the middle of the night, and I kept wondering exactly how big the branches were in the tree over my tent. I finished up Empire Falls and drifted off to sleep with instructions for my unconscious self to immediately roll off my cot if I heard branches snapping.
I left the park the next morning. And no, on this adventure, I didn’t hike to the top of the dunes. I have before, and maybe I will next time. This is how I camp. Don’t judge.
So, those are the origins of Chickenshit, but so much has gone into actually finishing the project. My partner, Stephanie, has taught me far more about farming than I will ever remember. She’s like having an intuitive search engine with an attitude always at hand. I am eternally grateful for her input, support, and, at times, discipline (hey, nothing kinky here, guys). My son, Phil, who is a touch newer to farm life than I am, provided perspective on the few things I have actually learned and asked questions I had not thought to ask. Thank you, Phil, for all the hard work. My dog, Lucy, has provided me inspiration, as well. I’d like to think on some level, she knows about her cameo role in this book.
I would like to both express gratitude and apologize to all the chickens and goats that have suffered through my learning curve and are fodder for this work. With the exception of a couple of Isbar roosters, I have kinda liked all the chickens and have been especially fond of my girls (Buff Orpingtons), roosters; Loretta, Jethrine, and Fred, too
many hens to count (aw, Stumpy … and Samantha … and Dolly), and my favorite baby goat, Cocoa. Alas, I have not experienced the miracle of kidding first-hand.
Carry your bucket as best you can.
“Never forget this. Love is an action. In ways many and small. Love others until you see how essential they are to you.”
- Daniel Hatcher, Written in a Book Margin
”I saw a little grey chicken bobbing back and forth outside the coop gate in front of me. … It looked like it was about to have a heart attack before I even got ten feet from it. I bent over and started to grab it, but it flew straight up, exploded, and then reassembled into a chicken about five feet away.”
- Billie Hatcher, Journal Entry January 19, 2013
January 5, 2013
Buckets of water. Carrying them back and forth, for whatever reason. That’s really all I remember from my time on the farm. My mom and my dad split up when I was four, and she and I went to live with my grandmother in Boise for a couple of years before moving to Sacramento. My dad remained on the farm, and I saw him only a few times over my childhood. He came to Sacramento twice that I can recall, and after that, it was monthly phone calls that turned into birthday phone calls.
At twenty-three, I sit by his bedside at Freedom Plaza Respite Care in Emmett, Idaho, as he prattles on about goat intestinal conditions and chicken mites. I don’t know why he wants to tell me all this, but it’s important, so I let him rant. He has a severe lung infection and has a type of dementia, somewhat like Alzheimer's, and they aren’t sure how long he will live. They think he may have had a stroke, as well. It could be over tomorrow, or it could drag on for several weeks. He started asking for me, so someone tracked me down. Even though he hasn’t recognized me since my second visit and he sometimes calls me Shelly, I am glad to at least get the time to say goodbye and to keep him from being alone at the end. I wish I felt something more.
January 7, 2013
Dad has stopped ranting and is quiet for long stretches, staring into space, sleeping a lot of the time. I held his hand for an hour and read to him from The Hobbit, one of his favorite books, as I remember. The nurse said there may only be a few semi-lucid moments left, but there aren’t any guarantees and we should call anybody who wants to say goodbye, sooner rather than later. I left a message with Mom. She’s sure Dad doesn’t care about seeing her, but she wants to be there for me. I let her know it was time.
A couple of Dad’s friends came by today and told me how much he cared about me. They told me how I was his “bucket brigade” when I was little, carrying water in buckets almost as big as I was out to the garden and to the chickens. One of them said Dad always told a story about how, when anyone called me Billie the Kid (one pitfall to an otherwise cool name, Billie), I would turn beet red and steam would shoot out of my ears. “And if looks could kill, we’d ‘a all been a goner,” he quoted. So Dad nicknamed me Outlaw on the spot, which seemed to appease me. I could hear Dad on our last phone call at Thanksgiving. “Hey, there, Outlaw,” he said, sounding every bit like Sam Elliot, “what’re ya up to on this fine morning?” I was barely awake and only half listened to him on speaker phone while I made my breakfast. I wonder if he wanted to tell me how bad things were. I wish I had paid attention.
Honestly, though, I wouldn’t have been shocked if they’d said they didn’t know Daniel Hatcher even had a daughter. I assumed he didn’t talk about me much, and I teared up, hearing their stories.
January 8, 2013
One moment of eye-to-eye contact. It is impossible to know if he knows who I am. He could only mutter under his breath, and I can’t understand what he is saying. Mom is on her way, thank Goddess. Today was a hard day.
January 9, 2013
Mom and I sat on either side of Dad and held one of his hands. “Dan?” she said, like she was asking him if he needed a pillow, “Billie and I are here. We love you and want you to know you can be at peace now.” I could actually see his body start to relax and his breathing grow easier.
How did she always know what to say? It was all I could do to keep myself from blubbering.
When she went to see the nurse, I finally spoke the words I needed to say to him. “Dad, I always wanted you in my life more, and I blamed you for not being there. But maybe I should have gone looking for you. It’s not like I didn’t know where to find you. I don’t blame you anymore. I love you.”
January 10, 2013
The respite nurse called to let us know that Dad passed away during the night. Mom is taking care of the funeral arrangements. I am so relieved because that is far above my pay grade.
January 14, 2013
I am exhausted. The last few days have been nerve-wracking. I am staying at my friend Olivia’s house in Boise’s North End, and my mom is sleeping on the pullout couch with me for a few days. She arrived the day before my dad passed, and even though most of my dad’s final decisions had already been covered, it was still a lot to work through. I have to keep pushing macabre thoughts from my mind. I have these flashes of my dad in a Tim Burton-style filter, the way Burton blends love and sadness, creepiness and humor. It's distracting.
We had the funeral service tonight at a small church near the farm. The people were a bit backward but seemed to think a lot of my dad. Tomorrow, we are taking his cremated remains back to the farm to bury them.
Mom will have to leave day after tomorrow. I guess I should start figuring out what my next step is. I can’t stay with Liv forever. My life in Seattle is kind of screwed up, so do I move here to Boise and try to go to BSU or go back to Seattle and start over? I have no clue.
January 15, 2013
Life can sure throw you a curve ball sometimes.
We drove up to the farm to bury Dad’s ashes under his favorite tree. The farm is in an unincorporated area called Milepost, and it was nothing like the wild, weedy mess that I thought it would be. There are twenty acres, with over half of it covered with pasture and hay, but the area close to the house is extremely organized and set up for subsistence. I say that like I know something about it, which I don’t, except the chickens and goats fertilize the crops, the crops feed the animals, and the crops and animals both fed my dad.
After Mom and I placed the box of ashes into the hole (someone had already dug one for us) and we covered the box, I was really starting to get a sense of peace about things. The weather was clear and we could hear a small creek that ran through the woods on one side of the property. Mom told me a couple of stories I had never heard about Dad, about our short time here on the farm before Mom and I moved out. We sat on a ragged bench next to Dad’s tree.
“It’s strange being back here with you. You know, farm life is just not for me, but we did have some good times here. One summer, we set up a fire pit, right here, actually, and we’d roast corn and have s’mores until you fell asleep and he’d carry you to bed.” She looked up towards the snow-tipped mountains wistfully. “Remember, your dad would play guitar and we’d sing those corny folk songs?”
I shook my head. “Who’s Shelly?”
“Oh, that’s me. Your dad’s the only one who has ever gotten away with calling me that.”
We walked back up to the driveway and found another vehicle parked beside mine. It was dad’s lawyer/friend, Bill Conliff. I was surprised and yet not surprised, when my mom gave Bill a huge hug and said how glad she was to see him. She ruffled his hair and smooched him on the cheek, in her gentle way, like he was her long-lost brother. He reddened a little but took it with a smile. He apologized for bringing up business, but he had heard she was leaving in the morning. “I'm so sorry I was gone this week. My wife's mother passed on Wednesday, and we just got back last night. My clerk got you everything you needed?"
"He did," she said.
"Dan and I talked about a year ago to square up all his plans. I think it took a while, but he did finally forgive me for leaving and going off to college. I know you plan to be gone before the formal reading tomorrow. I wanted to see y
ou, though, so I brought these over.” Bill handed my mom a small stack of books tied up with string.
“These are his journals from when you were together. He wanted me to give them to you personally.” He shrugged. “There may be some things you want from the house, I don’t know.”
“I don’t think so, sweetie. I left that life behind me, but I will definitely read these.” She held up the journals and brushed his arm with them.
“I’m not good at these feeling things,” he said, choking up a little, “but you know, you and he were my family when I really needed one.”
“Sweetie, you were like the little brother I never had. I mean, my brother’s a little shit, God love him. But you know how much you mean to me and to Dan.” She bit her lip and pointed her head towards me.
As I stood there wondering exactly what she meant, Bill snapped back to the matter at hand. He reached in his coat pocket, pulled out the biggest carabiner I have ever seen with about a million keys on it, and handed it to me. “Here you go, you’re the new owner. I think this one goes to the house." He leaned over and held one key up between two fingers. I had been nodding, not really processing his words. I reached out to accept the keys. "Maybe you can figure out what the rest of them are for; I don't remember him ever locking anything. There'll be a little paperwork tomorrow, and I can transfer the deed. Property taxes and utilities have been covered for the year, but there’ll be some other expenses. You may need to sell some hay or some animals to cover you until you figure out what you want to do here. You could sell the place, although the market’s pretty soft right now.”