Chicken Chaser

2005-03-14T20:18:00.000-05:00

Many of my fondest childhood memories center around the time my brother and I spent at my grandparents' farm in Nebraska. The farm is also the home of my very first memory of chasing chickens in the yard.

The spring day was warm and breezy I remember the newly green leaves dancing in the wind and the sun shining between them, creating dappled shadows on the dry dirt driveway. My parents were loading boxes in the trunk of our car. They seemed to be in a race of some sort, and it was time to go home. I was wearing a white sun dress covered in brown and blue flowers. My feet were bare and the ground felt gritty beneath my feet as I twirled around and around so my dress would look like a parachute.

Then, I noticed a tan chicken in the driveway, moving from shade to sun. It was out of its cage. I started to follow it. At first, I was a stealthy as a two-year-old could be. Then, as the chicken sensed me inching closer behind, it chicken began to walk as fast as it could. It looked ridiculous, like an out-of-shape race walker or wogger. It seemed it would be an easy catch. I sped up in pursuit. It flapped its wings and began to run. My arms came out like an airplane as I chased after it. By this time, my father was chasing me, with my little white sandals in his hand. Just before I could grab the chicken's tail, my fathers arm came around me and he swooped me off the ground and made me laugh. The chase was over and the long car ride was about to begin.

hmmmm...

Chicken Chaser