Foul Fowl

I believe it was in the summer of 1978 when a truckload of chickens arrived at the house. These were laying hens that were past their prime and, therefore, ready for slaughter. They were contained in burlap bags. Since I was too young to be of much help I moved from station to station observing the process.
Outside the garage in the space between the driveway turnaround and the fence, Dad and Brad had placed a couple of tree stumps where the heads would be lopped. On each chicken was placed a little fabric hood which Mom had made. I'm not sure if it was to shield the victims from the descending hatchet or to keep Dad from having to look the chickens in the eyes as he chopped off their heads. It seemed humane.
In the garage were placed the large canning pots filled with hot water. I think Kathleen was in there dunking headless chickens, which were then plucked of all their feathers. I will never forget the steamy stench which permeated that space and the wet feathers that stuck to everything they came in contact with. I can hardly think of a worse memory.
Up the stairs in the kitchen, my mother disemboweled the now bare fowl. It was so interesting to me to watch her do this. She would extract an egg, almost ready to be laid, followed by a shell-less egg, then a whiteless yoke, then a smaller pea-sized yoke. Each egg removed was less developed then the one before. I had no interest in the rest of the process, for the smell which overtook the kitchen, as in the garage, turned my stomach.
Mom divided the meat and put it in the freezer. There was a lot of food stored that day. But after that, every time chicken was on the dinner menu, I refused to eat. The smell overwhelmed me and brought back the memory of that day. It took many years before I could enjoy chicken again.
Margaret