A visit to my doctor the other day, revealed something about myself that I was not aware of prior. I was seeing my physician regarding another matter, when she, my doctor, revealed that I had Psoriasis.
For weeks, my skin was dry and itchy and even going so far as cracking and bleeding, as well. To look at me, I resemble a man prone to bar fights, the way my knuckles, hands and upper arms are riddled with sore patchy skin. I'd thought it was just dry conditions in my house, as I have rarely been venturing out this past winter season. That coupled with the fact that I've stopped chewing my nails, thus allowing them to grow out and actually do damage when I scratch an itch. I should trim them, but it's been decades since I've actually had fingernails that extended past my finger tips.
I also believed it was a necessary sign of aging. I'm not that that old, yet, but I recall seeing my Great Aunt, Chrissie, when she was getting up in years. Her hands and lower arms resembled what mine currently look like. Her skin was thin and frail and the slightest wind would cause her skin to crack open and bleed. At least, that's what I initially believed, but in retrospect, there may have been a more obvious cause for those abrasions and wounds.
Growing up, I lived on a farm, just outside the city limits. We could see the sprawling houses in the distance, advancing closer and closer, like trudging foot soldiers. The land belonged to my Great Aunt, Chrissie. When I was quite young, she had cattle, which were a source of milk for many years. She also had chickens, which were also a source of sustenance. My dad, also farmed the land for seed. Grain, flax and canola was his preferred crops. Eventually, the cattle were sold off and only the chickens remained.
Like clock work, every morning and every evening, Chrissie would walk down to the coop and gather up the eggs, returning them to the house. It was during these spells that I'm sure the chickens would lash out at the large hand groping them and stealing away their unborn offspring. As dumb as chicken appear to be, surely there's some sort of motherly instinct that exists. These pecks at Chrissie's hands and wrists, now that I think about it, is a more obvious cause for those wounds, than mere Psoriasis.
Startled poultry, lashing out and pecking at prying hands stealing their young, it was a natural reaction, but pales considerably for the surprise that would eventually befront them in the not-too-distant future. If they thought cold hands were a nuisance, then they were in for quite the surprise.
I was quite young at the time. I do recall that much. Heading down to the chicken coop with my mom and sister in tow, meeting Chrissie who was armed with a flashlight. We would stand at the doorway, accompanied by very little. Only the darkness and the muffled squawks of panic that were coming from inside the old chicken coop. We'd hear some rustling as Chrissie would return to the open door and hand over a couple chickens, which we'd carry, two-by-two, over to the far side of the cattle barn, the side where the horse, Jim, used to reside. Jim was a work horse who did very little else than tow cow manure out to be spread over the field for fertilizer. At least, I think that's all he did... That and fart. I do remember my dad saying that he'd be reigning the horse, when in mid-stride, Jim would raise his tail and unleash a nasty smelly fart. That's for another day and another blog, maybe.
Two-by-two, the chickens would be delivered into small pens in the old horse barn, where they'd stay until the next morning when their fate would be sealed. Like those who opposed King Henry VIII, these poor chickens who'd sacrificed their eggs for our consumption (not mine, I was deathly allergic to eggs in my youth), were now paying the ultimate price.
I was not allowed in the barn at this time, with good reason. Even the idea of all those chickens being beheaded and having their feet amputated so violently, bothers me now. The little heads and feet were discarded out the door, where my sister and I would retrieve them and feed them to the dogs. (*Editor's Note: I took a long pause here, pondering those actions. It's disturbing.) A few pecks and punctures were a small price to pay, I suppose, considering the huge sacrifice those chickens would ultimately pay.
These days, I don't want to know how the food gets to my table. I like pigs. Wouldn't want to hurt them in any way, but I also love bacon. The method that gets that bacon from the farm to my table, doesn't concern me. Nor what chickens have to endure, as well as lamb, beef, whatever the case. Blissful ignorance is on my side. As long as I honour the animal that gave it's life to feed me, I believe that's good enough. The thought of becoming a vegan, based solely on fear of hurting animals, is weak and stupid, but that's a blog for another time. Bon Appétit!
"The method that gets the meat to my table,
doesn't concern me. Fried chicken is good!"
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