Peckerhead

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!"

Grade A Douche Bag

I recall as a youth, the many times that I found myself helping a friend's family, to herd their cattle.

My friend's dad, like my own father, was a farmer. He had acres upon acres of land that he sowed with seed every spring and harvested every fall. Unlike my father, however, my friend's family also partook in the raising of cattle. Their farm never raised the cattle for dairy, but for selling off of the beef. Noble in and of itself, I suppose. Contribute to the betterment of society through the culinary arts and such.

However, as I stated above, I often found myself helping out the family in moving the herd of cattle from one pasture to another. I'm unable to remember if it was moving them to the north pasture in the spring or if that came in the fall. Either/or, I don't really give two shits. All I know is that I was invited by my friend for a visit and a sleep over, entertaining ourselves with movies, games and whatever other mischief we could find ourselves getting into. Then in the wee wee hours of Sunday morning, there I'd be, along with his family out chasing cattle around like a f*cking retard.

What the hell did I care, where these f*cking beasts of burden wound up? But there I was, asthmatic little ol' me, huffin' and puffin' like a motherf*cker, chasing these cows around, trying to herd them into another pasture. And all on our feet.

The family, having had lots of practice, had a knack for knowing where they needed to be in order to prevent any strays from eluding them. Me, on the other hand, had no prior knowledge on how to telegraph where the f*ck the animals were going to run. Granted, I'd been rooked into a similar situation just a few months prior, but like most unpleasant experiences, both then and now, I often deleted any knowledge from my memory. I believe that if something isn't enjoyable, why the f*ck remember how to do it? Same thing happened here. The cattle, dumb as they are, were always able to outsmart the young version of me. Repeating that fact now, doesn't shine too favourably on my behalf. Oh well.

What I do remember, from these experiences on my friend's farm, is the constant belittling and the barrage of unfavourable comments that I'd receive from my friend's dad, Wayne. (Normally, I omit the persons name, but being that Wayne was, and I suspect still is, a HUGE C*CKSUCKER, I have no guilt in revealing his identity.)

So Wayne would rush up on me and unleash a fury of colourful metaphors and practically boot stomp my ass into the dirt, all because I couldn't corral HIS stupid cattle. What a douche-bag!

I remember seeing him years later, at another friend's wedding. I showed up with a gal pal of mine. We weren't romantically involved. She was simply a female who I was able to convince to be my "plus one" for this day of bliss. At the reception, Wayne, being half-cut already, not that I recall ever seeing him sober, came over to my friend T____ and I then proceeded to make small talk, which involved mostly belittling me and trying to make me look bad in front of whom he presumed was my girlfriend.

He spoke of how useless I was with "this" and with "that", mostly topics he knew very little about, until he came to my efforts, or lack of, involving the herding of cattle. "Yep!" he boasted smugly, "Jeff'll never make a good cattleman. That much is for sure...!" Then he smiled like the Cheshire Cat at me.

"Why the f*ck would I ever want to be a cattleman?" I said calmly, my friend shocked at my comment. Wayne, looked baffled by my query. "Why would I want to be a cattleman? I mean, there's no money in it! Plus, the only place I'd want to see any cattle, is in 6 or 8oz portions on my plate, cooked to medium-rare with a baked potato and some string beans!" I shook my head in disbelief and made my way outside, my friend T____ following close behind. The last time I saw Wayne that day, was seeing that douche bag, standing alone in the living room of my friend's in-laws house, scratching his head and looking confused by what'd just transpired.

I did actually see that f*cker a few years later. It was after my dad had passed away from cancer and the vultures had all landed on our farm for the estate sale. Wayne was one of those bloodsucking vultures looking for some good deals. He came up to me and offered his condolences on the loss of my father. I don't know if it was sincere, as I doubt he ever liked me. I thanked him for his kind words, but I could tell that it was tough for him to be friendly towards me.