6 of 13

Write now Article Tools

TITLE: A CHICKEN DILEMMA
My early years,from 1941 to 1950, were spent on a farm. Everything placed on our table at meal time we raised and prepared for food, including meat. I never questioned the method of death for any bird or animal our family used for food. We were taught that we only killed for meat to eat.
I followed my father around the farm, feeding the animals, gathering chicken & turkey eggs, and help milk the cows. I went to the field with him to gather vegetables, pull corn, watermelons, and anything else ready for harvest. We also had to put out poison against bugs, insects, and Varmints to protect the crops.

That was hard work, but our reward was good healthy food, for all the sweat, blisters, long days, and short nights. I was witness to the butchering of fowl, hogs, deer, rabbits and cattle. All these were killed for food which our family also shared with friends, and neighbors.
My grandparents had a chicken farm, where they kept from three to five hundred chickens. All were hatched and raised by her, and a lot of them she called by a name which she gave them. However, not even one was exempt from their ultimate destiny. Food, they were being raised for food. She supplied the surrounding country with eggs, meat, quilts and pillows. They could pick up the chickens live, or fully dressed and ready for cooking. I spent a lot of my weekends and most every summer until the age of ten in her home. Her son, actually my uncle although he was two years younger than me, was my best friend. When it was time to fill orders, or prepare for our own weekend family get-to-gather, we would catch the unlucky birds and give them to grandmother. She would remove their heads by wringing the neck or sometimes with a hatchet. After they were free of bleeding, Granddad would dip them in boiling water and We would all begin to pluck out the feathers. They were then cut up for frying, broiling, or baking.

The feathers were made into pillows, quilts, or cushions, but that is another story.

I came to dislike the sight of blood, the sound of a chicken when it was captured, and the repulsive smell of bird-feathers in hot water. One Sunday Morning, grandmother said, "if you boys want meat for dinner you need to kill and dress a chicken. Your granddad is busy in the garden, and he can't do it. I am busy with the rest of cooking and I can't do it. So I guess it's up to you guys.
Well we went to the pen, picked out a big fat one. I tried to chop off the head,

• 1
• 2
• next page >>

Add your voice

Know something about KFC: The torture of chickens?
We want to hear your view. Write now!