Mind Gardens: June 2012

Note: This was written for a writing competition. The rules required that the story begins with this sentence: "I’ve got to get out of these clothes—fast." and that it should be about 750 words in length. It is a true story.

I’ve got to get out of these clothes—fast. It's freezing out here! The quicker I get these smelly clothes off and get my clean ones on, the sooner Sally will let me into the nice warm kitchen. I can smell the dinner cooking and I can't wait to eat it. It smells like meatloaf. I love her meatloaf! Man, it's cold! I'm shaking all over! The thermometer in the chicken house said 10 degrees. Okay, gotta concentrate: shoes and pants are off, two more buttons and the shirt's off. Come on fingers, stop shaking, just two more buttons. That's it—now put the clean pants and shirt on and go in! I left all the smelly clothes on the back porch and went into the kitchen.

I did that bone-chilling exercise every ten weeks during my Junior year in high school many years ago. And believe it or not—the freezing change-of-clothes experience not withstanding—I have very warm memories of that year. I was living with my sister Sally and her husband Mark in a small country town in Maryland. Mark raised six thousand broiler chickens and sold them about every ten weeks when they were ready for market. Then a new brood came in—thousands of little chicks—and it started all over again. I went to the chicken house, which was four big rooms, every day after school to water and feed them. Sometimes I had to carry 50 pound sacks of feed up to the second floor rooms. Then there were different mixes of feed depending on the age of the chickens and I had to mix in some special medicines now and then so we didn't get an epidemic of some kind of chicken disease. So I was careful to do everything right.

But before I could do much of anything, each new brood of little chicks had to get used to me first because they frightened easily and wouldn't let just anyone take care of them. One of the tricks Mark taught me was to whistle every time I entered one of the rooms—not just any whistle but a soft, low, soothing kind of sound. If they heard someone coming and didn't know who it was they all ran, frantically, to a corner and bunched up together, which was not good because some could have been smothered to death—especially when they were still small chicks. So as I approached each room I began my soft little whistle to let them know not to worry, that it was me. It worked like a charm. In fact it worked so well that when I walked into the room they didn't even throw me a sideways glance, let alone a “Hi Bobby, it's nice to see you.”

Now about those smelly clothes that I had to change really fast before I froze to death. Like I said, Mark sold the chickens when they were ready for market, which, if everything went right, was in about ten weeks. At that time, a few big trucks would arrive to get the chickens. Well, after the trucks left Mark and I had the job of cleaning the chicken house to get ready for the next arrivals and that, I can tell you without hesitation, was not anyone's favorite kind of work. Ten weeks of droppings from six thousand chickens left an eight inch thick layer of some of the most acrid of smelly stuff ever imagined on the floors of all four rooms. That is a helluva lot of chicken shit! Within minutes of shoveling into it, our hair, nostrils, skin, and clothes, it seemed, would not, could not, ever be redeemed. It was quite impressive, actually.

So Sally made a rule—no, more like a law. On those clean-out-the-chicken-house-days, when we came home we had to take off our unwelcome, amazingly pungent clothes on the outside, unheated back porch and change into a fresh set before we were allowed to enter the house. And there they would remain until she had a chance to wash them—however many times it took—and until they passed her particular smell test at which time they may or may not be wearable in her house once more. Who could blame her and, anyway, she was doing us all a favor.

Interestingly, all these years later as I write this little story, for some reason I cannot recapture that special smell. All the other memories are alive and well but that odor just may be lost to me forever and that is just fine.

They were an ordinary group of people. Nothing stood out

to make you think there was anything different or odd about

them—except for what took place. No need to tell you where

it happened—what country or town. That's not important

and has no bearing on the matter. They were mostly men

with a few women among them.

One of the men said, “Did you hear the news, God is dead.”

Another man said, “What? What news? You mean someone

told you that?” The first man said, “It was on television,

on the news. They announced it. They said that God is dead.”

“That's ridiculous.” the second guy said. “They wouldn't

announce such a thing.” Yet another man said, “Of course

they wouldn't. How would anyone know such a thing anyway?

It's absurd.” The first man said, “Well I was wide awake

and I wasn't drunk and I know what I heard. The TV guy said

'God is dead.'

The group tightened. Everyone seemed suddenly interested.

They had never talked about such a disturbing thing as this before.

This had nothing to do with the weather or how someone got

ripped off at some store or how someone wasn't talking to

someone or other topics that protected them from deep think.

A woman said, “Don't pay any attention to him. He's just trying

to annoy everyone. You know how he is.” The first man said,

“What did you mean by that? You think I have nothing better to do

than make up things like this? I'm telling you it was announced

on TV. He said 'God is dead.'

I should at least tell you they were at a park with a very large

pond full of geese and ducks. It was a beautiful summer day.

You need to know this because while they were talking the

sky abruptly changed. It just went from sunny and clear to

dark, windy, and scary—the geese and ducks took off all at once

as though they all had the same thought simultaneously.

Someone said, “What the hell's going on?” Another said, “Jesus!”

They headed for a couple of picnic tables under some trees.

A woman said, “It's just a passing thunder storm. It'll be over

as fast as it started.” A man asked, “Anyway, how can anyone prove

that God is dead?” Someone said, “The same way you can prove

that He's alive.” A woman said, “That's crazy!” They all fell silent.

The storm passed and the sun came out but for some reason the

geese and ducks didn't return. A woman said, “I have to go.”

She headed for her car. A man said, “Yeah.” Another man said,

“I'm tired.” They all got up from the picnic tables and left.

Mind Gardens

Quick Change Artist

A Day At The Park