My girls love to hear stories of my childhood. They often want me to tell them one of my stories, rather than watch TV or a movie. It has been a great experience to share these stories with them. One of their favorites is called "Watch Out Chicken!"
It was early evening and everyone was getting ready for a family outing to Denny's. No matter the occasion, no matter the child - it was always Denny's and their kid's menu. Being eight, and non-color conscious, I threw on a dress, some knee highs and waited for the rest of my family to finish getting ready.
"Mom," I yelled impatiently "I'm finished. Can I ride my bike?"
"Yes" she said "but stay on the cement! Do not go down the hill in your dress!"
As time passed, I became more discontent with riding my bicycle around in circles on the cement pad. We lived in the country where houses were off the beaten path and driveways consisted of dirt and gravel - or just dirt. The only part of our driveway that was cemented was a rectangular pad in front of the garage. From the cement pad, the driveway turned downhill sharply, winding around two barns and finally straightening out for another eighth of a mile. I loved racing down the hill from our driveway past the chicken coup and up a dirt trail; and finally, looping back around to the house. It wasn't safe, but it was great fun.
Impatient and bored, I put aside my mothers warning and decided to take the hill. I pushed off at full speed screaming "Whoo hooo" all the way down. I sped up the dirt path and looped back around to the house. As I circled the driveway, I spotted a group of chickens mingling in the middle of the road. I pushed off again assuming that they would move when they heard me coming down the hill, but to my horror-they didn't move. I could have used my brakes and I should have swerved around them; instead, I did the only sensible thing I could think of at short notice. I yelled "Watch Out Chicken!"
I plowed through the mingling chickens, catching one of the fine feathered creatures in the chain and spokes of my bike. The force of this sent the chicken and the bike in one direction and me in the other. As the bike crashed to the ground, the chicken broke free and ran clucking frantically back to the chickens I didn't hit. I landed several feet away from the original crash site, and suffered major scrapes to my hands, elbow, knees - and to my pride.
You might be relieved to know that the chicken lived a happy life with only minor permanent feather loss and a continual fear of bright yellow bicycles! I, like the chicken, lived and am living a happy life; but will never try to reason with a chicken again.
It was early evening and everyone was getting ready for a family outing to Denny's. No matter the occasion, no matter the child - it was always Denny's and their kid's menu. Being eight, and non-color conscious, I threw on a dress, some knee highs and waited for the rest of my family to finish getting ready.
"Mom," I yelled impatiently "I'm finished. Can I ride my bike?"
"Yes" she said "but stay on the cement! Do not go down the hill in your dress!"
As time passed, I became more discontent with riding my bicycle around in circles on the cement pad. We lived in the country where houses were off the beaten path and driveways consisted of dirt and gravel - or just dirt. The only part of our driveway that was cemented was a rectangular pad in front of the garage. From the cement pad, the driveway turned downhill sharply, winding around two barns and finally straightening out for another eighth of a mile. I loved racing down the hill from our driveway past the chicken coup and up a dirt trail; and finally, looping back around to the house. It wasn't safe, but it was great fun.
Impatient and bored, I put aside my mothers warning and decided to take the hill. I pushed off at full speed screaming "Whoo hooo" all the way down. I sped up the dirt path and looped back around to the house. As I circled the driveway, I spotted a group of chickens mingling in the middle of the road. I pushed off again assuming that they would move when they heard me coming down the hill, but to my horror-they didn't move. I could have used my brakes and I should have swerved around them; instead, I did the only sensible thing I could think of at short notice. I yelled "Watch Out Chicken!"
I plowed through the mingling chickens, catching one of the fine feathered creatures in the chain and spokes of my bike. The force of this sent the chicken and the bike in one direction and me in the other. As the bike crashed to the ground, the chicken broke free and ran clucking frantically back to the chickens I didn't hit. I landed several feet away from the original crash site, and suffered major scrapes to my hands, elbow, knees - and to my pride.
You might be relieved to know that the chicken lived a happy life with only minor permanent feather loss and a continual fear of bright yellow bicycles! I, like the chicken, lived and am living a happy life; but will never try to reason with a chicken again.
2 comments:
Cute story. I love that you have documented it. How fun for the girls to hear stories from your childhood. Those are darling t-shirts, by the way.
How can you remember with such great detail!! I love it and that you wrote it down. You are a great mother.
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