Chickens

Years ago, when I worked in an infant school, I was given the task of drawing a large chicken which was to be the centrepiece of a class project and would fill a classroom wall. I may have skills, but freestyle drawing is not one of them and I mumbled such to the teacher, who was very lovely and kind, but spoke to me like I was another of her 4 and 5 year old pupils and suggested that I try my best and might surprise myself. Hilarious, Miss! 

With good grace, and for the sake of the class who were going to make eggs, chicks, wheat and bread to be part of the wall covering, I accepted the challenge. It was difficult but my end result was acceptable in so far as it looked like a chicken, if only through the eyes of a child, and with the work of the class added to it, the scene looked like a fabulous reproduction of the story, The Little Red Hen. 

For anyone who doesn’t know, the hen lives on a farm with other animals. She looks upon these animals as friends. When she finds a grain of wheat and decides to grow it to eventually make bread, she asks for the help of her friends. All refuse. She plants the grain, looks after it, harvests the crop and every step of the progress she asks for help and doesn’t get any. The wheat is milled into flour and she makes bread. The others all want to eat some, but the little red hen refuses to share. She eats it herself with her own chicks. Through the story, the aim was for children learn about sharing tasks, being fair, being helpful and working together. The collage remained on that classroom wall all term. The Little Red Hen, my ‘wonderful’ artwork, for all to admire. Long gone.

Why are cowards or anyone refusing a dare, called ‘chicken’? There is a lot to learn about the origins and some of it is fascinating, but to give a brief outline, chickens, usually called ‘hens’ were considered to be weak, timid creatures and completely the opposite of the male ‘cocks’ which were strong and fearless. Cocky, perhaps. And from Wikipedia, ‘According to the Oxford English Dictionary, the earliest written instance of the word ‘chicken’ in the craven sense comes from William Shakespeare’s Cymbeline, circa 1616. “Forthwith they fly, Chickens,” he wrote, describing soldiers fleeing a battlefield.’

Back to the world of childhood for my choice of poems, written by Jack Prelutsky, former U.S. Children’s Poet Laureate.

Last Night I Dreamed of Chickens

Last night I dreamed of chickens,
There were chickens everywhere,
They were standing on my stomach
They were nestling in my hair,
They were pecking at my pillow
They were hopping on my head,
They were ruffling up their feathers
As they raced about my bed.

They were on the chairs and tables,
They were on the chandeliers,
They were roosting in the corners
They were clucking in my ears,
There were chickens, chickens, chickens
For as far I could see…
When I woke up today I noticed
There were eggs on top of me.

                                Jack Prelutsky


Ballad of a Boneless Chicken

I’m a basic boneless chicken,
Yes, I have no bones inside,
I’m without a trace of rib cage,
Yet I hold myself with pride,
Other hens appear offended
By my total lack of bones,
They discuss me impolitely
In derogatory tones.

I am absolutely boneless,
I am boneless through and through,
I have neither neck nor thighbones,
And my back is boneless, too,
And I haven’t got a wishbone,
Not a bone within my breast,
So I rarely care to travel
From the comfort of my nest.

I have feathers fine and fluffy,
I have lovely little wings,
But I lack the superstructure
To support these splendid things.
Since a chicken finds it tricky
To parade on boneless legs,
I stick closely to the hen house,
Laying little scrambled eggs.

                                Jack Prelutsky

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Wallpaper - Let's Keep It Dry

My impaired vision cannot cope with brightly coloured carpets or patterned wallpaper, so our house is very plain in neutral colours. The busy, lived-in look or clutter, if you like, keeps it interesting and homely. A small wall between the kitchen and the back room needed something.

 I’ve avoided putting any pictures on that particular wall since one of my cross-stitch artworks was almost ruined when the bathroom wash basin overflowed directly above. Water streamed down the wall and trickled from the light-fitting. Our daughter was the culprit, a young child at the time. We removed the plugs from every sink and basin and implemented an ‘ask if you need it’ policy which remained in place until the children had grown up. All our replaced sinks have built in plugs now. I will keep a close watch on our grandchildren.

We decided to have wallpaper, just on that small area. I liked the idea of something bright, jazzy and loud, to make a feature of it. My eyes would be fine, after all, it’s only one, very small wall. Huge, red poppies interlaced with pale green leaves on a white background looked stunning and I loved it. All visitors remarked on how nice it was and I felt very house-proud, just for that wall. No one seemed to notice that it wasn’t sticking properly just above the skirting board where I think we had been running out of paste. The enjoyment turned out to be short lived.

At the front of the house, a damp patch seemed to be getting bigger. It was between the stairs and the front door and dried out when the central heating was on but always came back. We had checked for leaks and unblocked the airbrick, but the damp area persisted. We called the guys in. It was bad news. We needed a new damp core all along the outside wall from the front door to the beginning of the kitchen extension, which was unaffected. It had to be done, so it was a sad goodbye to the lovely wallpaper but that was nothing compared to the dismantling of fitted cupboards and the walls taken back to the brickwork. It was easier for our builders to replace the downstairs loo and basin with new ones, rather than trying to salvage anything. Crumbled plaster and smashed tiles. What a mess, but soon sorted.

This is where one job leads to another. The rest of the hall and the stairs and landing had to be prepared for redecorating.  Year in and year out, we had painted the walls over the same wallpaper. It was as thick as cardboard and hard work to get off, even with a couple of steamers, but to see the various pale shades we thought were nice at the time was amusing. I don’t remember ever choosing a wishy-washy pink, but there it was and Regency Cream had quickly turned yellow. The mushroomy off-white was a mistake, magnolia would have been better.   

Eventually, everywhere was painted white on to the newly skimmed plaster and that is how it has stayed.

We papered the feature wall with another large, floral pattern, which isn’t as good as the original, but it would do. Unfortunately, we had another flood in the bathroom, nothing to do with children and nothing that could have been prevented. Once again, the only wallpapered wall is the casualty. I’m glad we have a reliable plumber. It has dried out leaving wrinkles, bubbles and a few streaky marks. For now it can stay like that. I can’t see the damage as well as everyone else can.

 

I found this poem. It reminded me of the memories we shared when we tackled the hall.

 

 

Wallpaper Torn

 

paint revealed by wallpaper torn,
layers of peeling; the
faded adorn—a story of life.

joy, of accomplishment and
new beginnings.
children born, playing,
growing up—growing old.
past scars distant
memories; misplaced, obliterated—
by time reduced to dust.

a home
buried beneath the earth,
its walls no more.
the vessel shattered, decaying
stories lost, forgotten,
the curse of mankind’s
living.

 

Shaun Meehan, Ontario 2015

 

 

Thanks for reading, Pam x

 

 

 

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