Little things remind us of others, especially those who have gone

before us. Yesterday was Veterans Day. A simple item or action brings

back a whole life to relive again for a moment, happy or sad.

Whenever I go someplace, I usually have an armful of things to take

with me. And, whenever I load up my arms, I think of my sister Betty who

died in 2000.

She used to say: “I carry my stuff in my left arm so that my right hand is always free to salute.”

You see, she had been in the WACs in WW II and had learned to always be prepared should she meet an officer. It carried over into her private life as well, even when she was a civilian.

She was also La Grande’s first woman police officer and, if need be, she could have drawn a firearm had she chosen to wear one. Although she was governed by all the rules and regulations of the male counterparts, it was the early days and she chose more the role of the matron in which she did the secretarial work, examined women prisoners and locked-up the weekend imbibers to sober-up. She always saluted the American flag passing by in a parade or rode with the other women veterans.

I have never been in the military or law enforcement, but I carry things on the left, draping plastic bags in a line down my arm. My right arm is free – to stand at attention with my right hand over my heart when the American flag passes by, or to carry a most important item at the ready – my car key.

* * * * *

How quickly the year moves along. Just over the horizon is Thanksgiving and folks are beginning to plan for their turkey dinner. We generally had turkey, too, but the rest of the year it was usually one of the chickens from our own pen.

That makes this subject rather sensitive in nature, so I hardly know how to approach it.

I had chicken for dinner today.

It came from a shop all prepared and hot, juicy and succulent, from there to my plate without my effort other than a few coins. It could have come all neatly packaged as to whole or necks, wings, thighs, legs and such, convenient for my fry pan or roaster, but that sounded like too much trouble for one person – the purchase, the preparation, the cleanup. So, I just gave my order and sat down to enjoy.

Eating a piece of hand-held chicken seems much more rewarding than daintily cutting pieces from the bone with knife and fork, even though it affords less self-cleanup afterwards. While self-indulged, thoughts came in as to how this instant convenience hasn’t always been a way of life.

As a child in my parental home, we had all forms of meat – chicken, rabbit, pork, beef, deer, elk, ducks, trout, bear and, once even a leg of porcupine.

We raised the domestic kinds and Dad hunted and fished for the rest in company of his brothers-in-law and nephews on my Mom’s side. Anything bagged was shared by all. None of us ever found the courage to try rattlesnakes Dad brought home to collect their rattles, having killed them with steam from the railroad engine’s boiler on his road-trips through the passes. But, it was the chicken on my plate this day that brought back visions of chicken at home.

We always had a chicken-house or chicken-coop fenced in with chicken wire so the chickens could run free for carte blanche pickings among the cracked corn and wheat thrown out each morning. The wire was an open mesh, held in place by brads on upright posts, high enough to keep the chickens in and dogs out. I guess that’s why they called it “chicken wire.” Ha! Just a thought.

From the chicken-house we would gather eggs from under the warm reluctant bodies of our brown hens, raised from mere chicks under a heating shield of lights until they had their pinfeathers. The good layers led a charmed life, for the others and too many roosters in the flock found their way to our dinner table.

From here on, I’m not going to read this column as I write it. It’s too horrible, for it deals with death, and I helped with the executions. You are on your own.

Most of the time my Dad would do the dirty deed, but he was a railroader and quite often “out” on the job, so it fell to my mother. She didn’t like doing it, but always did what had to be done. I can see her in her sleeveless cotton housedress, covered with a bibbed apron, chasing a chicken around the yard. It was funny to see and my three-year-younger brother and I would run out to help catch the chicken in flight. It was the chopping-block scene that I wanted to avoid.

Once in a while, with an obstinate chicken, we would have to hold the legs and wings on the block so Mom could aim for its neck with her ax. I wouldn’t do the best job by averting my eyes from the final blow that would give us chicken for dinner and, in exasperation, my brother would take over in manly fashion and help complete the job.

Other times a chicken would flop around the yard a bit, and I would wonder how that could be, until it finally lay still, ready for the next procedure.

Even worse would be a rare one that would run around with its head chopped off, on its feet for flight. I remember wondering if we couldn’t sew the head back on so it could see where it was going, deserving to live again.

Poor chicken. My family put up with a lot from me. My Uncle Ed and Aunt Velva Hofmann owned the Inland Poultry and Feed store in La Grande on Jefferson Avenue many years later, but I never walked into the back of the shop to watch the butchering of the chickens, ordered and sold to individuals, conveniently cleaned of their feathers as well. My tender heart wouldn’t allow it. I contented myself with watching the little yellow chicks, ready for distribution to waiting growers.

I’ve run out of space for this day, but will get that chicken from chopping-block to table next writing. Pardon me if I don’t re-read this after it hits print. I’d advise you to do likewise. It’s a terrible subject.

End of Part 1 …

Veteran newspaperwoman Dorothy Swart Fleshman is a La Grande native. Her column runs every Friday. Reach her by e-mail at fleshman@eoni.com.