What NOT to do with your new Driver's License

My oldest daughter recently got her driver’s license.  It was a bit of a nerve-wracking experience watching her pull out of the driveway alone for the first time.  It got me wandering down memory lane, reminiscing about my own 16-year-old self, in a ‘92 cherry red Cavalier with an itch to go somewhere - anywhere - every chance I got.

You know that crazy excitement that comes from realizing the whole world of possibilities that now exist for you with this newfound freedom?  You could literally go anywhere that a road led to; you could drive to scenic lookouts or quiet parks, or go shopping or grab lunch, or go visit friends… Yeah, well, one of the very first things *I* did with my freshly minted state ID was head down to the local pet feed store to buy cat food.  (Yep, I’m the life of the party.)

If memory serves me correctly, a few days after the temporary, computer printed paper ID was in my hands - probably even before the plastic card arrived in the mail - I got home from school to find a note.  It read that Holly was out of kibble, and proceeded to ask me to run and get some more before dinner time.  I was a restless teenager anyway, and didn’t even need an excuse to drive around, so I’d love to head in to town before homework.

Now, I feel like I need to set the scene for you a little bit better here before I continue.  

“Town”, only one mile and zero turns from our house, was a one-horse wonder that accidentally happened halfway between the two actual cities located ten miles to either side of us on a small state route in mid-Michigan.  Our small village probably popped up on account of a little river that meandered through it, and a railway that supported a grain “elevator” back when my grandparents’ grandparents (or maybe their grandparents) were alive.  Since then, the big train-loading contraption was rusted through and mostly dismantled, and the little shop that was attached to it sold pet food, farm supplies, and - when in season - chicks and ducklings.  

I parked out front on the street and headed inside.  Ancient bird cages and dog beds under a layer of dust were piled in the big, glass display windows on either side of the entrance.  The “OPEN” sign hung crooked on the heavy old glass door, and the makeshift bell that rang brought a huge orange cat lumbering down the counter.  He had 7 toes on each foot and a voice you could barely hear.  Everyone in town knew him, but now I can’t remember his name.  It might have been Milo.  The lone store employee (at least I never saw anyone else in there) followed not far behind him.  She nodded a greeting and flipped through a catalogue on the counter while I grabbed the requested bag of cat food and turned for the register.  And ran into a whole rack of freshly hatched chicks.  On sale.  

They. Were. So. Cute.  And, at only $0.25 each, or “5 for a Dollar” according to the sale sign, they cost only about as much as a king-sized candy bar.  We didn’t have a farm.  We’d never had chickens, or ducks, or anything of that sort.  We didn’t have a real barn - just a pole barn for housing the camper trailer and john boat.  We didn’t have a chicken coop.  Buuuuut we had an old rabbit cage laying around somewhere at home.  And we knew how to take care of animals; we’d had fish, dogs, cats and rabbits before.  And we had plenty of space for chickens to run around.  So I didn’t see any reason why this would be an issue.  

Now any of you who have actually had chickens are laughing hysterically, or shaking your heads and “tsk tsk”-ing away, or crying out to me “NOOOOOOO….” 

… but I was a silly 16-year-old girl, and they were fuzzy little yellow animals that cost the same as a gumball each.  So I boxed up five of them, paid the cashier and headed on home, very pleased with myself.  

With the chicks still peeping away safely in the box, I dragged the old rabbit cage out of the pole barn.  I had forgotten that there was a square hole cut in the wire, to let the rabbits exit the cage and enter the wooden hutch - that no longer existed.  But I just wired that bad boy up a bit and hauled it inside, because it was still way too cold for chicks to live outside in Michigan in the first week of April.  

There was no room in my bedroom for the cage, so we - it’s very helpful to have a sympathetic and apathetic younger sibling on hand when you’re making terrible decisions in life - set it up in my brother’s room, on some old newspapers.  We put a tiny bit of water in a shallow dish, and stuck our new chicks in there and wondered what to do next.  I grew up before Google, or really much useful internet at all, really, and my parents weren’t home from work yet.  But I was able to discern, at this point, that they needed food, which I lacked.  

Back to the pet store.  This time for chick feed.  I can’t imagine what that woman thought.

And home again, to add food to the cage, which was already getting quite messy.  The little fuzzballs sure pooped an awful lot for their size.  And it was very runny, unlike rabbits.  I was becoming concerned about the newspapers…

And that’s when my mom got home.  She was a truly patient woman, bless her.  She did lack my enthusiasm for rearing chickens in the house, though.  She quietly - something that I now assume required a great deal of effort - explained that this was the type of decision that should’ve been preceded by a little more planning.  My dad just laughed.  And said that we weren’t keeping chickens.  And laughed.  And we kept the chickens.  

As soon as they were big enough they were moved out to the garage, and eventually outside.  Of the five of them, four were turning into nice little, white pullets.  The last looked much like the others, but was starting to sprout a much larger, brighter comb and wattle; the lone rooster.  

Dad explained that they would make tasty chicken dinners, and stated - again -that we weren’t keeping chickens.  I now understood what he meant.  There would be no fresh eggs in my future.  But before we could get around to eating the first one, something else did.  

I was mowing the lawn, and decided to let them out for a bit.  They were pecking around in the weeds by the edge of the grass.  I checked on them with every pass I mowed.  

5 chickens

5 chickens

5 chickens

4 chickens and a pile of feathers

Oops

They were getting too big to comfortably stay in the little cage for long, so Dad butchered another one soon after the theft.  Three fit much better. 

Over the next couple of months we ate the other 2 pullets.  But not the rooster.  He just kept getting bigger, and noisier, and  - to our embarrassment and Dad’s delight - meaner.  

Before long everyone who came to the house was well aware of the guard rooster.  But not everyone had the same deal of trouble with him.  Some visitors were accepted or ignored completely.  The Schwann’s man, for example, saw a large white rooster pecking away in the yard.  My grandparents were inspected and ignored.  But a handful were run off in a flurry of shrieks and squeals and flying feathers and foul language.  The UPS driver was among the unfortunate.  Eventually, as the years rolled by, my boyfriend (now husband) was as well, and my 18 year-old self had come full circle around to regret my 16 year-old impulse buy.  

And so, at 39 and watching my daughter drive off with her new license to Target for some shopping, I am here to warn her, and you, of one very specific thing that you should NOT do with your new driver’s license: don’t buy chickens, no matter how cute and fluffy they are.