Like so many kids in the tales of Christmas morning, my sister and I came downstairs to see what Santa had left us. We were seven and twelve years old.
Under the tree, a big cardboard box was making interesting noises.
No one remembers who opened it, but we will never forget the moment when dozens of hysterically squawking chickens flapped out of the box.
This flapping began because my dad’s brother, our Uncle Elmer, had bantam chickens. Bantam roosters look like miniature versions of ordinary roosters, while the hens look like overgrown chicks, but with brown feathers. The pretty little roosters can only manage half a crow, and the hens peep plaintively, like baby chicks. Dad thought we needed some for Christmas.
Uncle Elmer was the oldest of the eight Pratt children. My dad was somewhere in the middle of the group. They grew up in an impossibly small house. I never figured out how they all fit inside. The place had a barn for cows and chickens, and a vegetable garden, although the land was too small to farm. In fact, it wasn’t on farmland; the little house was only a few steps from the center of a small town on the south shore of Boston. But with all those kids to feed, my grandparents needed the milk and eggs.
The younger members of the eight Pratt kids never had any interest in cows or chickens. But my dad and my Uncle Elmer did. They hankered to be farmers, even though they both had desk jobs, suburban homes, and only an acre of land. While cows were unsuited for suburbia, Dad thought a few chickens would be a nice touch for our yard.
Now, however, our Christmas present was skittering wildly around the house. My mother couldn’t decide whether to laugh hysterically, or to swat my father. She opted for hysteria, since Dad was running around chasing chickens.
All that fluttering felt like dozens of birds. In fact, there were only three. We caught the three hens easily. But the rooster dodged, weaved, and resisted.
Our house had a staircase in the middle. Mr. Rooster ran around and around it. Through the front hall, across the dining room, into the kitchen, back into the hall, and around again, with me and Dad dashing in pursuit.
Then I had a brilliant inspiration. As Mr. Rooster ran through the kitchen for the fifth time, I opened the broom closet door to block his path. In he went. I slammed the door.
Dad built them a little pen, with a house to shelter from winter snow. They joined our two pet ducks in providing entertainment for neighborhood dogs. It wasn’t a farm, but my father was happy. So was I. It was the beginning of my lifelong love of birds–chickens, ducks, parakeets, and now cockatiels.
No, we didn’t eat chicken for Christmas. We ate turkey, as always.
INSTANT NOODLES 