by Amy Stinnett
I have been getting up early a lot lately. I usually have a couple of cups of coffee and some toast with jam. I can’t figure out if that’s European or old person style, but, either way, it kind of settles me. The strange thing is, when I first wake up, I could swear someone was smoking a pipe on the porch, but when I go out and check, there’s nobody there and no smoky smell when I open the door. It’s probably my mind playing games with me. I have been reading more of my dad’s journals and some of his notes on the farm. I honestly don’t know how I’m going to slaughter goats this fall, but one thing at a time.
I just started my second cup of coffee when my phone rang.
“Is this Billie Hatcher, Dan Hatcher’s daughter? This is Betty, down at the post office.”
“Yes, this is Billie.”
“Well, good morning, Billie. Your chicks are in.” Betty spoke with a sure voice. She could have just as easily said, “Your car’s due for a tune up.”
“My chicks?”
“Yeah, your chicks. Well, your dad’s. Sorry for your loss. We like hearing them cheep and all, but you should probably come get ‘em soon. They’ve been across the country.”
I was not comprehending, but I didn’t want to sound like an idiot. “Okay, I’ll be right over.”
I called Elliot.
“Yep, April 1st, that’s about right.”
“They ship chickens through the mail?”
“Yeah. He gets ‘em from a hatchery in Iowa.”
“But won’t they die from the cold or lack of food and water?”
“No, they overnight ship ‘em. They huddle together to stay warm and have food left over from their egg sack.”
“But we can have eggs to hatch anytime we want. Why would we buy chicks?”
“It’s the meat birds.” Now Elliot was being annoyingly certain, too.
“They’re different than the birds we have?”
“Oh, yeah. And we feed ‘em different, too. You want me to help you go get ‘em?”
I figured I could fit them in the back seat or the very back of my car. “No, I got it. But you’ll be here to help me set them up, right?”
“Yeah, I’ll be there.”
I went into the post office, and Betty was at the front counter. “Oh, hey, honey. Look, you probably want to drive around to the back, and we can bring them out. Also, sorry I had to ask around to get your phone number." I wonder who had it. "I guess there’s no landline out at the farm. Your dad always gave his cell phone." She pointed to a paper on the bulletin board behind me that simply read COMPUTER HELP and had Dad's phone number on it. "But I tried that, and I guess it’s shut off.”
“Yep. So, you knew my dad?”
“Oh, yeah. He was so funny. He ordered some turkey chicks once, I don’t know what they’re called, and they were so ugly they were adorable. He gave me one, and we could never bring ourselves to eat it. We called it Thomasina and kept it forever. It either died of old age or ran off with a group of wild turkeys. Every year he told me I’d better eat it for Thanksgiving before the coyotes do. Your daddy was a good one.”
“Thanks.”
“Anyway, they have your birds ready out on the loading dock.”
“Okay. What are they in, some sort of cage?”
“No, they’re in boxes.”
“Box – es?”
“Yeah, only two. I think it’s about a hundred birds. They’re about yay big.” She held her hands out about two, then three feet apart.
One hundred birds? I drove around back, and the guy handed them down to me. I tried to peek in at them, but all I saw was beaks, eyeballs, and feathers, none of it adding up to a whole chick. Rather than risk escapees, I ignored my curiosity and didn’t open either box. Also, I was afraid there might be a dead chick. There was a lot of scratching and chirping until they finally settled into a rhythmic cheeping for the short drive home.
By the time I got there, Elliot was starting to feed the chickens, but he stopped to help with the baby chicks. In the back of the meat bird pen, he uncovered two large metal tubs I had never paid any attention to. We gathered a couple of smaller feeders and waterers, a bag of feed, and a giant bag of pine shavings. He pealed back a chicken wire cover on each of the tubs and showed me how to set them up.
“So, it’s still pretty cold. Do we need a heat lamp or something?” I had seen those at the farm supply store.
“Well, your dad got rid of all his heat lamps a long time ago. I’ll show you what we do.” He went into the storage box and pulled out what looked like two grills, only the grill side faced down. There were two extension cords in the pen, and we put the heaters in one corner of each tub. “It doesn’t get hot. You can put your hand on it.” He pressed his hand against the ‘grill’ side and held it out to me. It was warm but not too hot to touch. “Just enough to keep them warm until they feather in.”
We got the chicks and set them down into the tubs one at a time. We each counted fifty-four. His chicks were light yellow with darker backs, and mine were mostly yellow all over. No deaths and eight extras! They were adorable. We set up their feeders and waterers, and Elliot said that was good enough for now, other than checking and cleaning their mess a couple of times a day. Elliot told me that meat birds eat way more feed than regular chickens. They eat so much that you have to take their food away for twelve hours a day when they get a week old. They can grow so fast that they can't walk or their hearts give out. Dad has been doing cross breeds that grow slower but fewer die. These guys will be gone in less than three months. Another shipment will get here the first week of June. So, I guess I'm going to have to figure out how not to get attached.
How could anyone kill and eat something this cute? Anyway, I’m trying to focus on what I’m doing right now and deal with the other stuff as it comes up. Out in the field, the kids were scampering and butting heads, goading their moms into kid behavior. Elliot and I finished feeding the chickens (the grey hen’s chicks are getting big), and the vet came out and picked him up. She took a second to check Frodo’s paw, and they were off.
After they left, Frodo and I took a little walk over to Dad’s tree. I sat on a stump and had a little talk with him. Dad, that is. It was quiet except for a few tiny birds in the bushes and an occasional truck on the highway. There was no one around, but I tell you, for a second, I could smell pipe smoke again…
Amy Stinnett grew up in Louisville, Tennessee. By a circuitous route, she completed her degree, made two cross country moves, and raised a child. She has written short stories and articles that focus on LGBTQ relationships and coming of age, edited an LGBTQ newspaper, and edited works for other writers.
She has a varied background, having worked in group homes with developmentally delayed and chemically addicted individuals, a homeless shelter, private prisons, and a day care, to name a few places.
Some of her favorite authors are Dorothy Allison, Cormac McCarthy, Maya Angelou, Harper Lee, William Faulkner, Tom Robbins, Barbara Kingsolver, and Fannie Flagg.
She has a degree in English from the University of Tennessee, Knoxville and is a member of the Idaho Writers Guild and the W.I.L.D. Writers Group.
Amy has also lived in Georgia, Florida, Arizona, Idaho, and Eugene, Oregon. She now lives in Ontario, Oregon with her partner, Stephanie, and their son, along with their two dogs, cat, nine goats, and too many chickens to count.
Blog – https://www.amystinnett.com
Twitter - https://twitter.com/jumblefish @jumblefish
Facebook - https://www.facebook.com/amystinnettwriter
http://www.waitingdogpress.com
Other Works by Amy Stinnett:
Now that Billie has made her choice to run the farm, it’s time to roll up her sleeves and get to work.
Baby chicks and goats want to be fed. Gardens need to be planted and tended. And Billie seems up for the task.
As the farm teems with life, Billie goes after her chores with zeal and tenacity, as her dad did before her. But, unlike her dad, Billie�
��s no hermit. Before long, the farm has more visitors than ever, but the one person Billie wants in her bed insists on taking things slow, to grow their relationship from the ground up. Dates, day trips, and working with friends on the farm give Billie and Jodie time to get to know each other’s virtues and vices before they are in over their heads. Soon, Billie will learn that nature works on its own schedule.
Chickenshit Volume 2 is the second novel in a four book series that follows Billie Hatcher as she continues to deal with the many challenges that come with life on a small farm.
Billie’s garden is growing. Peppers are popping. Lettuce and tomatoes abound. Squash and melon vines spill over into the yard, and Billie is doing her best not to kill anything.
But every garden comes with a few weeds and pests. Some are harmless, more annoying than anything, but some are noxious, persistent, and intent on destruction. As Billie starts to put down roots in Milepost, with her girlfriend, Jodie, good friends, and helpful neighbors at her side, some unwelcome intruders want to make trouble for her and Jodie.
In the garden, she can just pull the weeds or feed the bugs to the chickens. With people, it’s not that easy.
How will Billie and Jodie deal with a woman who wants to get Jodie fired and run Billie out of town? And when they suspect Billie’s farm has been targeted, can they ever feel safe and know it won’t happen again?
On top of all this, Billie has to say goodbye to this year’s goats. Geez.
Chickenshit Volume 3 is the third novel in a four book series that follows Billie Hatcher as she finds that life in a small town is not always simple.
Autumn leaves are falling. Billie’s meat birds are all gone, butchered and sold, or in the freezer. There are only a few spring goats left from the dozens born in May. The garden is dwindling and ready to close up for the year.
For months, Billie has been working at full speed and trying to grow into her father’s shoes. She dreams of quiet winter evenings with Jodie and time to gather her thoughts, even as she scrambles to get the farm ready for snow, sleet, wind, and whatever else they will have to endure over the next few months.
Meanwhile, everybody’s lives keep marching on. Benj, Elliot and Frankie, and Liv and Nate (with baby Poppy/Green) are all diving into new adventures. Russ is coping with life as a bachelor. And Dillon and Martin are helping Delilah find sanity and Shirley stay on track with his new job.
Just as everything seems to be calming down around Milepost, Billie’s family back in Sacramento gets hit with a crisis beyond anything her mom or Harvey can manage. Will they find answers in Milepost?
When some problems are too big for mere mortals to solve, animals can heal places humans cannot touch.
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Chickenshit Volume 4 is the final installment of a four book series that follows Billie Hatcher through her first year on the farm she inherited from her estranged father. She has survived three seasons on the farm, but new and old family members are complicating her life in ways she never expected.
Alex and Kat have been together about a year and a half, and things are getting serious. As they struggle to find their way as a couple, they have to contend with career and family issues. A client from Alex's group home is missing, and she starts to doubt her chosen profession. Kat begins to realize that bartending and starting a family don’t mix for her. Add in family guilt and one persistent bar skank, and their relationship is on overload. Will they find a way to mend all the broken places? Or will it just be too much?
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Lookout Butte is the first of a three book series that explores the beginning years in a young couple's relationship. Alex is a young professional from Connecticut. Kat is a bartender who grew up in a hick town a stone's throw from Atlanta. Together, they are either a train wreck or a force to be reckoned with, depending on the day and the challenge.
Books two and three in this series are coming soon!