Stan the Chicken Man
All contents © Tami Wright
Today there was a memorial service for a long-time pillar of the community down in Clovis. He and his wife were friends of my parents, and were always very kind to us kids. He attended many a Cougar football game, was influential around town, and was even Mayor for a while, but to Tommy (back when Tom was still Tommy) and me, he was just "Stan the Chicken Man"...
Waaaay back in the very early 70's, Dad was helping a bunch of "old guys" (ranging in age from 24-40-ish) paint signs for a campaign. The sign painting was happening out at Stan the Chicken Man's chicken ranch, so I suppose it could have been his mayoral campaign, but that little factoid would be a footnote to the REAL story.
Dad frequently toted us along for some of his activities, and I was with Dad and the old guys out on the ranch. I wasn't much help with the signs, and back in those days they were painted onto plywood with equally heavy plywood stencils and paint, so I'm pretty sure I was mostly in the way. I was, however, a much better-behaved child than my adult self would allow you to believe, so I stayed out of the way and entertained myself. What happened during that independent, unstructured period of time is something my dad recalls, but I must have blocked in some kind of emotional defense, because I only remember the last 60 minutes or so. As dad tells it, I walked around the corner of one of the long chicken sheds and discovered a pile of what remains after a bunch of chickens have been butchered. I don't remember the sight of it, but I do remember a smell. The rest of what I recall was running into a large building with a concrete floor and announcing that it was time to go. Dad said we still had work to do, and I asked how much longer it would be. He said "One hour". I asked how long an hour was, and Dad told me that the red hand on the clock had to go around 60 times. I pulled up an empty 5-gallon bucket, turned it upside down, sat that thing smack in the middle of that room, and parked my rear end right there. My eyes watched that red hand go around 60 times without moving off that bucket one little millimeter. When it crossed the 12 for the sixtieth time I marched over to Dad and informed him that time was up. I have no idea if we left that very second, and we probably did not, but along with Dad and Pop-Pop, I credit Stan the Chicken Man with my ability to eat chicken and still have retired laying hens with names like Beatrix and Tallulah in my own little egg operation, but I especially credit him with my ability to tell time.
Rest well, Stan-the-Chicken-Man, and give your lovely Rita a hug for me.
This is Pippa, a Buff Orpington hen, seconds before she tried to peck out my eye. bwahahaha!
Today there was a memorial service for a long-time pillar of the community down in Clovis. He and his wife were friends of my parents, and were always very kind to us kids. He attended many a Cougar football game, was influential around town, and was even Mayor for a while, but to Tommy (back when Tom was still Tommy) and me, he was just "Stan the Chicken Man"...
Waaaay back in the very early 70's, Dad was helping a bunch of "old guys" (ranging in age from 24-40-ish) paint signs for a campaign. The sign painting was happening out at Stan the Chicken Man's chicken ranch, so I suppose it could have been his mayoral campaign, but that little factoid would be a footnote to the REAL story.
Dad frequently toted us along for some of his activities, and I was with Dad and the old guys out on the ranch. I wasn't much help with the signs, and back in those days they were painted onto plywood with equally heavy plywood stencils and paint, so I'm pretty sure I was mostly in the way. I was, however, a much better-behaved child than my adult self would allow you to believe, so I stayed out of the way and entertained myself. What happened during that independent, unstructured period of time is something my dad recalls, but I must have blocked in some kind of emotional defense, because I only remember the last 60 minutes or so. As dad tells it, I walked around the corner of one of the long chicken sheds and discovered a pile of what remains after a bunch of chickens have been butchered. I don't remember the sight of it, but I do remember a smell. The rest of what I recall was running into a large building with a concrete floor and announcing that it was time to go. Dad said we still had work to do, and I asked how much longer it would be. He said "One hour". I asked how long an hour was, and Dad told me that the red hand on the clock had to go around 60 times. I pulled up an empty 5-gallon bucket, turned it upside down, sat that thing smack in the middle of that room, and parked my rear end right there. My eyes watched that red hand go around 60 times without moving off that bucket one little millimeter. When it crossed the 12 for the sixtieth time I marched over to Dad and informed him that time was up. I have no idea if we left that very second, and we probably did not, but along with Dad and Pop-Pop, I credit Stan the Chicken Man with my ability to eat chicken and still have retired laying hens with names like Beatrix and Tallulah in my own little egg operation, but I especially credit him with my ability to tell time.
Rest well, Stan-the-Chicken-Man, and give your lovely Rita a hug for me.
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