The Rural Voice, 1994-03, Page 37If only
the chicken
could talk
This bird could have
saved everybody a lot of time
By Sylvia Hasbury
There is a hump in the road where the northline leaves
Kincardine Township, but we didn't notice it as we
ploughed into the soft axle deep snow in the next township
one December morning.
Creeping along this familiar road, peering through a
wall of blowing snow, my husband and I reassured
ourselves whenever we could see a landmark, that this was
just "lake effect" snow. We were sure driving conditions
would be better inland.
My stomach tightened as our venerable 1980 Chevy
laboured through the heavy snow. I tried to put thoughts of
a kind soul with a tractor, out of my mind.
The feel of the main highway under the tires set my
mind at ease and freed it to speculate on how late we would
be for our nine o'clock doctor's appointment. The highway
was wet and slushy. As my husband drove, his attention
intensely focused on the road, I monitored the white cloud
enveloping the van for signs of blue sky.
Twenty miles from home and Lake Huron, we were
rewarded for our perseverance. Blue sky triumphed and
the sun shone nonchalantly. Stopping briefly on the east
side of Hanover, we gassed up at the local co-op store.
While I ran into the store to telephone the doctor and
reassure him that we were on the way, my husband topped
up the van and parked off to the side of the lot.
Rushing out of the store, I paused to watch one of the
gas bar attendants dogging a black fan tailed chicken like a
seasoned soccer player. He chased it across my path and
back off into the corner of the lot through the remains of
last summer's plant nursery.
Darting between the pots and dividers of the greenhouse
skeleton the chicken scooted on, but the sporty teenaged
attendant scored and carried the chicken back to the gas bar
kiosk.
I hurried over to the van and began to climb in.
"Did you see the chicken?" my husband asked me with a
grin.
"Sure," I replied. "The attendant chased it right across
the path as I was coming out of the store."
"I wonder where it came from? Not enough country Icft
around Hanover for a chicken to get to the co-op by itself,"
he chuckled.
"It didn't fall off a truck going to market, either," I
added. "It isn't a commercial breed. It reminded me of
some of the unusual combinations we get from our free
range chickens," I continued absent-mindedly. "But then, I
guess lots of people must order those assortments of fancy
breeds."
"I thought it looked a lot like that chicken we have, you
know, the one that had the tips of its toes frozen off last
winter. That one that insisted on living in the garage after
we moved the horse out. You remember, its toes froze
from walking on the bare concrete floor," I rambled on, as I
fitted a few purchases between clutter on the van floor.
"Oh yeh, that one," he replied.
"I am sure it's possible, that someone could get the same
combination," I concluded.
"How long was he chasing the chicken?" 1 asked,
digging around for my seat belt.
"Well, I don't know exactly," he replied. "I pulled up to
MARCH 1994 33