GARDEN CHICKENS

My Dad's Dad, Grandaddy, was a gardener extraordinaire. Each year he raised a huge crop of vegetables with each offering a prize winning specimen of nutrition and countrified good taste. In addition, the garden itself was a picture perfect monument to precision and care. Each row was as straight as an arrow, a weed never dared to rear its ugly head in any corner, and the soil was tilled to perfection year round. Each growing season, Grandaddy would have more squash, okra, onions, etc., than ten families could eat.

My Mom's Dad, Papuh, also "raised" a garden. He would sorta plow this way and that thru whatever patch of ground he chose to call his "garden". He would then sort of haphazardly strow some seed, sets, or plants, and then say a short prayer before leaving the "garden" to " the will of God" (meaning he never touched it again other than to harvest the vegetables). In a rainy year, the weeds in Papuh's garden would completely obliterate any view of the garden plants (Papuh called that "shade"). Guess what, he also raised an amazing amount of delicious food in those gardens.

Ole frankie tried a garden in Wright City once upon a time (yeah, like a fairy tale beginning). I near bout foundered my fat butt pushing Grandaddy's plow with its iron spoked wheel and iron bicycle-like handles in order to break up the ground. Then I expectantly planted potatoes, corn and peas. All grew well (especially the weeds, Papuh) and time came for harvest. I dug the potatoes and found that the fire ants had eaten them to the point they looked like they had been hit with a shotgun. I tried to pull the ears of corn and each one I touched caused a nest of fire ants to boil out of the shuck and near eat me alive. END OF FLW GARDENING.

Now comes my Dad. Dad never had access to a fertile, loose soil garden in his life. His garden area was alway mostly sand over a base of red clay. No matter how much he plowed prior to planting, when it rained it packed the sand like concrete. Dad could raise enough peppers (jalapeno, bell, bannana, they were all HOT) to burn the hide off a rhinoceros, (and a monkey could raise a passel of yellow squash), but some years he struggled a bit to produce enough tomatoes to his liking. It wasn't that he lacked the talent, it was just that he had a nefarious enemy that tharted his efforts.

Dad also like FRESH eggs for breakfast each morn, so he had about 6-8 chickens. The chickens love to peck the ripe red tomatoes. Dad became sorely conflicted as he wanted the fresh chicken eggs and he wanted the tomatoes. His compromise: Daisy Red Rider BB gun. Any time he saw the chickens in the garden, he would pop them with the BB gun causing them to run sqawking behind his house.

Chickens are mostly dumb, but they ain't all dumb. Dad and I would sit in his front yard (usually sucking on a cold brew) with said BB gun nearby. Them varmit chickens would elect a "scout". The "scout" would stealthily ease along the side of the house until it could just stretch its neck around the corner to see if we were "paying attention". If we ignored the "scout", the cackle fruit posse would then begin to slowly stroll in the general direction of the tomatoes as if they did not even notice that the garden existed. Dad would wait until they were all in view, and then cut down on them with that BB gun like a banshee (think chickens running every which way while sqawking hysterically).

Those chicken "wars" are a funny memory I have, among many, of days in Wright City.