By mid-afternoon of the next day, I had completed a rough draft for the first three chapters of the serial. Bam!
I had a day-and-a-half remaining to work on the Alex and Kat saga, explore the local thrift/book store, and find a cool little sandwich shop. Back at the park’s gift shop, I got a CD sampler of synthesizer music by a local band, Scorched Earth. The music is supposed to make you think of the stars, and it did, as I zoomed along, memorizing the trek from the dunes, through farm and park lands, over a bridge that was under construction, and hopefully into the side of town with the gas station that has the Mexican food (not that I ever got lost).
For my final night, I had to change campgrounds. This time, I put my tent up with no fanfare, so ha! The only hitch was a storm hit in the middle of the night, and I kept wondering exactly how big the branches were in the tree over my tent. I finished up Empire Falls and drifted off to sleep with instructions for my unconscious self to immediately roll off my cot if I heard branches snapping.
I left the park the next morning. And no, on this adventure, I didn’t hike to the top of the dunes. I have before, and maybe I will next time. This is how I camp. Don’t judge.
So, those are the origins of Chickenshit, but so much has gone into actually finishing the project. My partner, Stephanie, has taught me far more about farming than I will ever remember. She’s like having an intuitive search engine with an attitude always at hand. I am eternally grateful for her input, support, and, at times, discipline (hey, nothing kinky here, guys). My son, Phil, who is a touch newer to farm life than I am, provided perspective on the few things I have actually learned and asked questions I had not thought to ask. Thank you, Phil, for all the hard work. My dog, Lucy, has provided me inspiration, as well. I’d like to think on some level, she knows about her cameo role in this book.
I would like to both express gratitude and apologize to all the chickens and goats that have suffered through my learning curve and are fodder for this work. With the exception of a couple of Isbar roosters, I have kinda liked all the chickens and have been especially fond of my girls (Buff Orpingtons), roosters; Loretta, Jethrine, and Fred, too many hens to count (aw, Stumpy … and Samantha … and Dolly), and my favorite baby goat, Cocoa. Alas, I have not experienced the miracle of kidding first-hand.
Carry your bucket as best you can.
“Never forget this. Love is an action. In ways many and small. Love others until you see how essential they are to you.”
- Daniel Hatcher, Written in a Book Margin
”I saw a little grey chicken bobbing back and forth outside the coop gate in front of me. … It looked like it was about to have a heart attack before I even got ten feet from it. I bent over and started to grab it, but it flew straight up, exploded, and then reassembled into a chicken about five feet away.”
- Billie Hatcher, Journal Entry January 19, 2013
January 5, 2013
Buckets of water. Carrying them back and forth, for whatever reason. That’s really all I remember from my time on the farm. My mom and my dad split up when I was four, and she and I went to live with my grandmother in Boise for a couple of years before moving to Sacramento. My dad remained on the farm, and I saw him only a few times over my childhood. He came to Sacramento twice that I can recall, and after that, it was monthly phone calls that turned into birthday phone calls.
At twenty-three, I sit by his bedside at Freedom Plaza Respite Care in Emmett, Idaho, as he prattles on about goat intestinal conditions and chicken mites. I don’t know why he wants to tell me all this, but it’s important, so I let him rant. He has a severe lung infection and has a type of dementia, somewhat like Alzheimer's, and they aren’t sure how long he will live. They think he may have had a stroke, as well. It could be over tomorrow, or it could drag on for several weeks. He started asking for me, so someone tracked me down. Even though he hasn’t recognized me since my second visit and he sometimes calls me Shelly, I am glad to at least get the time to say goodbye and to keep him from being alone at the end. I wish I felt something more.
January 7, 2013
Dad has stopped ranting and is quiet for long stretches, staring into space, sleeping a lot of the time. I held his hand for an hour and read to him from The Hobbit, one of his favorite books, as I remember. The nurse said there may only be a few semi-lucid moments left, but there aren’t any guarantees and we should call anybody who wants to say goodbye, sooner rather than later. I left a message with Mom. She’s sure Dad doesn’t care about seeing her, but she wants to be there for me. I let her know it was time.
A couple of Dad’s friends came by today and told me how much he cared about me. They told me how I was
