I am terrified of chickens.
Grandma Eller had a solution for my fear. “We’re going to collect the eggs.”
Worst idea ever.
These are the same chickens that gather around me in the barn yard, fussing
and scratching. Scaring this poor little six-year-old girl out of her wits, they go, “Cluck, cluck, cluck!”
And Mom wonders why I won’t go outside over at Grandma’s farm.
We went into that smelly chicken coop. Chickens were roosting on their nests.
Beady eyes froze me in place. Alpha chickens, every single one of them.
My tiny Grandma shooed a chicken off its nest and gathered her eggs. “Go
ahead, Patty,” she said. “Shoo the chicken away and get the eggs.”
Timidly my hand reached forward. Peck!
“Ow!”
“Don’t be afraid,” said Grandma. “Let them know you’re the boss.”
I reached out again with the same result. “Ow!” I don’t want to be the boss; I want to go home. I sat in our old Chevy until it was time to leave. No one made me go into the chicken coop again. I hate chickens.
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