(Author’s Note: I am re-publishing all of my past writings here on the new Komejo.com. This essay is several years old and refers to my very patient and forgiving ex-wife. Enjoy.)
THERE ARE MANY CHORES that befall a man when he owns a house. Lawn care is traditional in this regard; there are few men who pass up the chance to wander the yard in the company of the lawnmower. In the summer, this task must be performed every two weeks or thereabouts, and it adds still more order to an otherwise well regimented existence. All men know the true meaning of a quietly rhetorical question about the state of the lawn. It means you need to hop to it, man!
IT WAS IN THE SPRING, while upon my daily commute, that I began to notice a peculiar sort of atmospheric disturbance. It seemed to be snow, but the time of year and region (North Carolina – the Tar Heel State) dictated that this could not be. Onward I drove, and the ‘snow’ seemed to increase, until at last I seemed in a veritable blizzard. Only then did I realize my error – I was driving behind a chicken truck!
I had been steadily gaining on the truck for some time, but had been so absorbed by the odd situation that I could not properly adjust my frame of reference. Now, however, I had ample opportunity to observe. It was a normal sized semi tractor trailer – an ’18 wheeler’. The bed of the truck was flat and consisted of several very large palettes, each of which contained many small cages, stacked very high, with about a dozen chickens per cage. They (the chickens) were white, and decidedly fat. They were undoubtedly bound for the dinner table. Adding insult to injury, they were being buffeted by the winds on the freeway. I resolved to be more circumspect the next time I ate poultry.