Clemmons Chickens
Grandma Brewer was a tiny woman. Five feet tall if that. It is hard to imagine how such a small person could exude such energy. She split wood for her stove, cooked meals for a near-football team of children, hoed, raked, grew vegetables, made soap, canned all sorts of stuff, kept a spotless house, and absolutely doted on each and every one of her 15 grandchildren.
“All my grandchildren are smart and pretty,” she said, often.
When I made my visits to Clemmons, NC each summer, I got passed around like a collection plate at Church. I stayed with Aunt Lena and Grandma a day or two, then visited Bob, Edward, Steve, and other families until I ran out of time.
As such, I have lots of Clemmons memories and several involve chickens.
I was about 6 or 7 and was with Grandma in the kitchen while she entertained me with stories about my dad.
“James,” she said. She always called me James, not Jimmie.
“James, let’s go pick out a chicken for dinner.”
Grandma picked up a small axe on the back porch and went out into the back yard. Grandma had chickens for as long as I can remember, and I stayed clear of them as they pecked all around the house. You never know about chickens. Grandma, however, had noticed that one of the older hens had not been producing eggs. That was the chicken she invited to dinner.
Quick as a bobcat on a mouse, Grandma snatched up the old hen by the legs, took it over to a stump, stretched the bird out and whacked off its head.
She then turned the headless bird loose and I discovered the true meaning of “running around like chicken with its head cut off.” The chicken made a few random laps around the yard and flopped over.
This was interesting, I thought. Next, Grandma brought out a pan of boiling water, dunked the chicken and I helped her remove the feathers. They came off effortlessly.
Next, Grandma split open the bird, carefully removed the heart, gizzard and liver and cut the bird into 8 pieces.
We had that chicken at dinner, fried of course, and it was delicious.
I expect my father, James, had also helped Grandma with chicken duties as a boy, and she wanted me to have the same experience. It’s something I’ll never forget, along with the sweet memory of Grandma’s abounding love for all her children and grandchildren.
My second recollection of Clemmons’ chickens was on a visit to Aunt Flossie.
I had spent a day or two with Steve, and Aunt Flossie invited me over one morning. She had made a sugar cake, which I loved. After I had dunked a big piece in a glass of cold milk, she handed me a basket and asked if I would gather some eggs from her hen house.
This, I was not so sure about. I wondered if any of her chickens were related to Grandma’s old hen and might retaliate. But I did as I was asked and proceeded to the chicken house. Aunt Flossie said that if any of the hens were sitting on the eggs to just reach under the bird and take the eggs.
Creeping into the hen house, I was thankful that most of the nests were unoccupied with the eggs front and center. I gathered those quickly. No problem. But four of the hens were sitting on eggs and that was a problem. I tried gently slipping my hand beneath one of those chickens, hoping she wouldn’t notice, but received quite a peck.
Suddenly, collecting eggs was not so appealing, but thankfully, Cousin Jane appeared on the scene and came to the rescue.
I explained to Jane that there were four chickens in the coop that were quite attached to their eggs and were also prone to pecking.
“They’ve pecked me, too,” she said. “You just have to let them know who’s boss.”
I knew who was boss – those feathered beasts with sharp beaks. But Jane showed no fear. She moved the chickens aside, grabbed the eggs and quickly filled my basket. I don’t think Aunt Flossie ever knew what a wuss I was. It was a deep, dark secret forever shared between two Brewer cousins.
