Posted on June 5, 2013 under Storytelling with one comment

 By Gerard macDonald

I walked out to the chicken coop, burdened with the duty I finally had to face. For several months, adorable peeping fluffballs had metamorphosed into somewhat less adorable, clucking, fully-matured Meat Kings. At the age of twenty weeks, these feisty squabs had reached their date with destiny.

 

Until now, this pusillanimous poultry man had not been up to the undertaking. Instead, the chickens’ ravenous appetites had continued to be stoked with limitless rations of Poultry Grower, Co-op Scratch and Grit. This led to unforeseen consequences, a perversion of the Darwinian struggle: survival of the fattest. Each morning, their bulging, glaring, lipid-engorged eyes would taunt me, daring me to end their gluttonous lives.

 

This went on for several weeks until finally, I was forced to take the first necessary step, known as “the cull.” One particular chicken, having temporarily enjoyed a growth spurt, developed a dysplastic leg and rapidly fell behind. Becoming scrawnier and weaker, he regressed to a dirty, mangled feather doormat. Although I have always been philosophically opposed to euthanasia, I thought I’d better give him a gentler death than what surely awaited him from the eagle eyeing his weakness from a nearby treetop.

 

Taking advice from the “How to” manuals, I set up the killing field in assembly-line fashion: first, the axe and tree stump; secondly, the scalding tank for plucking; thirdly, the knives for eviscerating and de-fatting. Try as I may, I could not summon the requisite brutishness for the conventional “elimination.” I couldn’t bear to have him watch me. In the true spirit of humanism I decided to sneak up on the unsuspecting bird from behind, rap him on the skull with a hammer, and send the poor fellow into blissful sweet sleep.

 

It didn’t work. The first blow glanced off his tiny head. He turned and glared at me in hatred, turning his neck in sudden saccadic movements, as only a pissed off chicken can. I slunk out of the coop amidst a cacophony of clucking and jeering.

I regrouped and crept back in – this time making the intended contact. There was no sweet sleep. Instead, there was a distraught bird flapping wildly with an arterial spurter arcing across the straw-covered floor. I panicked. Like a madman, I seized the struggling animal, raced outside and, missing the crucial first step, plunged the unfortunate bird into the scalding tank. The nightmare intensified as beating wings turned the water to froth for what seemed an eternity before de-effervescing. As the chicken’s wet body turned limp in my hand, the enormity of my crime hit me. Pale, nauseated and trembling, I stumbled back inside.

As a physician, I had sworn to uphold the Hippocratic oath, and to follow the golden rule of Dr.William Osler “ first, do no harm”.

Forgive me father, for I have sinned.

I don’t eat eggs much anymore.

 

 

Posted on June 4, 2013 under Storytelling with one comment

Tomorrow I will be posting a story that was written by my brother Gerard. Many years ago he was a family physician in Sydney, Nova Scotia and was living in Marion Bridge. He decided to try his hand as a “gentleman farmer”, specifically, raising meat chickens. This is a hilarious story about his attempt at butchering the fattened flock. This is posted with his permission.

I have officially started the book project with October as the target date for publication. I am starting to think about possible titles. If you have something imaginative, please send it along. If I decide to use it ( with your permission , of course ), maybe I will award the winner with a prize , like some beans from our garden!

Is it just me or is time speeding up? It used to be that Thursdays came around quickly, signalling the arrival of the weekend. Now it seems that once Tuesday has come and gone, the week is shot.

Stay tuned. “The Butcher of Marion Bridge” is coming at you tomorrow.

Posted on June 1, 2013 under Storytelling with one comment

Do you remember going to high school dances?  Do you remember the thrill of having that special person ask you on the floor for the last waltz?  And the incredible excitement of getting to walk them home, hand in hand?  My palms get sweaty just thinking about it.

At an earlier age, when hormones weren’t raging, it was kosher to hold hands with the opposite sex when playing “Red Rover”.  “Red Rover, Red Rover, send Johnny right over”.  The object of the game was to break the link of the opposing team.  It was the first real attempt to discover the “weak link” and, considering some of the characters on my team, the “missing link”.

Our parents’ generation were famous hand holders.  Just the other day I took my mother to visit a dear old neighborhood friend who commented on how my mother and father were always holding hands.

These days, it seems that most couples hold hands the first and last time when they utter the words “I do”.  This is followed by a lifetime of serious arm twisting which is an entirely different sensation.

I met my buddy Phil at the library today.  He is a retired university professor, a wonderful story teller and a bee keeper of some renown, certainly on Church Street Extension anyway.  We were meeting to start planning a fundraiser for the St. Vincent de Paul Society in the fall.  My hidden agenda was to get my hands on some of his liquid gold, churned out by thousands of bees.  Phil came bearing an unmarked, five pound plastic jug.  Phil’s motto: “Only the beekeeper gets stung when you buy your honey from Phil.”

When we had concluded our business, I took my leave and headed back to my office.  Along the way, I made a few stops.  It was “cheque day” and I stopped by the Credit Union to get my hands on some of that hard earned Canada Pension Plan money.  People in the lineup were polite but some inner sixth sense told me something was amiss.  The next stop was at a convenience store to pick up a sandwich. More odd looks.

I distinctly remembered having showered that morning and my hair could hardly be out of place, so I ruled out my appearance as an obvious staring point.

I returned to the office and climbed the stairs to the reception area.  Two staff members were chatting. I greeted them and plunked down the container of honey on the counter.  “Would anyone like a taste of this? It’s delicious”.  Now the stares were those of horror and profound disgust.  They respectfully declined.

And then it struck me like a thunderbolt.  Without any labelling, the container could easily pass as a giant urine sample.  Why I would be carrying one that large, in public?  It looked like I had just come from the racetrack after taking a urine sample from a thoroughbred horse.  Or perhaps I look like a World Anti-Doping Agency sleuth.

I assured the staff that the specimen in the bottle wasn’t you-know-what and that it was none other than the nectar of the gods.  And, like Winnie the Pooh, they dipped their fingers in for a taste.  As Winnie says, “The only reason for making honey is so I can eat it”.  Walking with my honey has taken on a whole new meaning.