I forgot about the chicken

In my haste to hop a train in Minnesota, I forgot to tell my chicken story. I cannot spend time writing about every little episode from my past, so I exhume only those experiences destined to have an impact later on in life. Amy pointed out that my second grade chicken incident qualifies. 

I am guessing this thing happened in the summer between second and third grade.

Background: We lived on 5 acres in Wonder Lake, a hay field with one old oak tree by the gravel road. A farmer cut and baled hay each year. (Not related to chickens, but)........................one summer, after the farmer had baled the hay, me and my friends dragged all the bales together to build a fort- that's nearly 5 acres of bales- only to discover the farmer loading all the bales on his flatbed the next morning. I think he actually waved to me. If I'd known what an expletive was back then I would have used one.

Did I say background? Oh, yeah- Our next door neighbor, about 100 yards away, was a man named Brennan, a retired cop. He had the idea of raising chickens for profit. He bought a hundred chicks and let them run amok in his basement until they were mature enough to be let out in his barnyard. They could then run amok outside and he could clean six months worth of chicken crap off his basement floor.

I often hung out at Brennan's, and one day he offered me a chance to take home dinner- if I could catch it. I ran home to ask mom if I could bring a chicken for dinner, she looked to my dad, who laughed and said if I could catch one, dinner would be chicken, as long as I helped in the process. I was thrilled, ignorant of the "process" of which he spoke. I headed across the field to fetch dinner. I remember running a lot, isolating the bird I wanted and finally catching a hen, flapping and squawking. It took a while, but I managed to hold the wings down and the bird calmed and I passed through the gate toward home. As I approached my back yard, I saw my dad behind the garage and held up my prize. He laughed and motioned me to where he had a board lying across saw horses (It's vague here, all I remember is an old board). He had a hatchet. A dull one (I soon found out). He took my chicken and plopped it on the board, holding it down. He handed me the hatchet. He placed my right hand on the bird and told me to press hard. He then backed up and said " Give it a whack, Trace!" By it, I figured out he meant the neck, stretched out in front of me, attached, if temporarily, to a little dinosaur like head, which twitched and jerked like all chicken heads do. I don't remember hesitating, but I do remember that when I swung down, awkwardly, and the hatchet met the bird, I didn't come close to severing anything. The dull edge managed to crush something; the chicken, I think, had a stroke. I managed to hold it down and my dad said to hit it again. I did. And again. And another. Finally, after several strokes, none accurate, I hit wood instead of sinew and bone. Blood was everywhere. The neck was now two and the bird was now headless. And alive! My dad said to let it go. The live, headless chicken flopped off the board, hit the ground and took off through the yard, strangely, though appropriately silent. It listed to one side and, after about 50 feet, flopped over and was still. I will never forget my first "dinner kill", but for the life of me, I can't remember eating that chicken.