By John Hargraves.

When I was six, I wanted baby chicks for Easter. It was a happy surprise that my father thought this was a great idea. Soon enough he brought home a brood of beauties. Yellowy-white tufted peepers with orange legs and feet grew almost overnight. I watched them with pleasure and curiosity as they pecked away at my tossed handfuls of grain.

That summer my father watched with pride as I learned to water and feed the birds that were kept in our empty basement coal bin. He had earned an associate degree in poultry science at SUNY Cobleskill. Working on farms in the Schoharie Valley before the war, he knew everything about chickens. He had even raised some in my grandfather’s backyard in Niskayuna on Palmer Avenue and sold eggs up and down the street. After the war he raised more chickens with my older siblings before I was born. There were pictures taken and I recall not understanding my brother’s sad face. 

My father loved everything about chickens. Every year he took us to the fairs – Altamont, Cobleskill, Ballston Spa and even once to Syracuse. He held court in the poultry barns, expounding on the Rhode Island Reds, Plymouth Rocks and Leghorns. I thought he was amazing as he explained the incubators and how to hold an egg up to the light. We watched hatchlings peck through the walls of their shells.

My father brought home white Leghorns that Easter and said they were wonderful prolific birds. With joy I watched them fluff and preen themselves all summer long and the old man smiled along with me. He pointed out how they liked to scratch in their bedding and roost in the bin, craning their necks as they swizzled drinks from the watering pan. 

Fall approached and my father smiled even more. My chickens were getting plump and mature. He explained how good they would taste and something about being freshly taken. This really didn’t make much sense to me at the time. 

Soon enough my father made ready and had me gather my feathered friends, one at a time and bring them to the backyard. He planted a stake and tied one of their legs with a generous amount of string to let them wander without getting away. They seemed to enjoy exploring the grass and dandelions as they snatched insects from the soil.  How beautiful they had become. The old man pointed out the importance of the high flat stump nearby and retrieved his hatchet from the garage. I had never seen him use it before and remained unsure of its actual purpose. Soon enough he demonstrated his technique. 

He grabbed the first leghorn by its hackles and splayed it deftly across the stump. I still recall my chicken’s cherry comb and wattles as its head parted at the neck. My father released the bird. Its decapitated body stood upright and became a red fountain. It ran in circles, fluttering without eyes, staining the green grass before it collapsed. The old man then reached for another bird. I was seized in and by the Faces* of my chickens. 

My father explained every detail in the kitchen after dousing their bodies in boiling water and plucking them clean. With a sharp knife he revealed the gizzards, cloacas, and sweet meats hidden beneath their goose-bumped flesh. From a disarticulated orange leg, he demonstrated the grasping action of claws by pulling on a sinewy flexor tendon.  Following my lessons, he quartered the birds and rinsed them in the sink. 

I was not able to eat chicken for the rest of the year. Later I found photos my mother snapped, revealing another sad-faced boy.

Postscript: Two years later my father granted me a single duckling for Easter. I insisted he make promises this time. She grew to full size with a rich yellow beak and white plumes. She thrived in the coal bin for nearly two years laying large eggs several times per week and was gentle to the touch.  She quacked and we grew close. The old man enjoyed eggs for breakfast often despite his high cholesterol. His promises and her luck ran out when her production faltered. I did not watch that time. Duck has never been my menu preference.

* Per Emmanuel Levinas (1906–1995), a 20th-century French philosopher, the Face refers to the profound ethical responsibility we have towards others, as symbolized by their faces, which represent their intrinsic and infinite value. The Face is a call to acknowledge and respond to the humanity of the Other, forming the basis of Levinas’ ethical and spiritual philosophy.