Grammakins's House

I'll never forget the day when my grandma took me to kill a chicken. I was a boy of nine, and staying with Grammakins (she often made me call her) for one week while my ma and pop went to Brighton to set up the set up the shop and the little apartment resting above it. We were moving from our small home in Pinkerton, and they didn't want any headaches as they were trying get everything settled. "Now you be a good boy for your grandmother, and don't give her anything to fret over. She was kind enough to take you in for a few days, and I want you to do whatever she says." Ma kissed me rough on the cheek, then rode off in the packed car with pop. I thought I was tough then, independent, and didn't even shed a tear as I watched them drive off down the dirt road. I didn't know Grammakins very well, since the last time I paid her a visit I was still running around in diapers, but I knew she had a small farm with a couple acres. I couldn't wait to see the animals and run around getting dirty in the green fields, without ma yelling at me to get cleaned up.

Grammakins looked a lot older than I expected. Her skin hung off her face like a rubber mask, and her hair was so light and stringy that her liver-spotted scalp stuck out sorely. "Hi Grandma," was the first thing I said to her, and, "Call me Grammakins, you little jack rabbit!" was the first thing she shrieked in a screechy, witch-voice as she pulled me into a bone-crushing bear hug. After she let go of me, she took my back pack and threw it across the room into a corner, then grabbed my hand with a steel grip, pulling me into the backyard. "First things first, Paul ma boy, we need to bust that farmin' cherry right open and get you to the meat of things. I won't have a city boy for a gran'son" She picked up a large bag of chicken feed and dropped it into my unsuspecting arms. "My name's Peter, Grandma." "Grammakins, Grammakins! That's the first lesson , Paul, is to listen! Now bring that chicken feed over here, so we can bait the lil' suckers!" I staggered with the weight of the chicken feed pressed hard against my left cheek, as I followed Grammakins slowly down a small hill to the chicken coop.

"Heavens Patrick, put the bag down before you bust a back bone! Now open it up and sprinkle some of that good stuff right on the ground. That's a good boy." She put a wart-crusted hand on top of my head and shook the hair on top of it, as the bag slid from my fingers with a huge thump. In the corner of the rather large chicken house was a small sturdy table with a rusty axe on top of it, and I felt my insides turn just looking at it. Grammakins saw me looking at the axe and a loud, squealing cackle left her lips. The rubber mask that was her face was being pulled and clumped together around her eyes, making them slits. "Afraid of that, are you? I wish your father could see you now, Pablo! He killed his first chicken when he was four years old, with his bare, neck-wringing hands!" She cackled again as she picked up the rusted axe, and swung it from side to side in chopping motions. Then her laughing stopped as she looked carefully at my terrified face. She knelt down beside me, and pulled both my hands into hers and looked over my palms, rubbing her fingers over them. She suddenly became very serious and spoke quietly. "It's the first test of manhood you know... to take a life. Even takin' the life of something as small as a dang chicken will change you after that first time. If you don't respect the life you're takin', it'll haunt you... forever." I could feel my eyes growing wide with her every word, suddenly becoming very aware that she wanted me to kill a chicken.

"Now," she said getting up off the ground and brushing the dirt off her knees, "let's catch us some supper. I don't know 'bout you, Parker, but I'm starved!" Her laugh screeched through the air once more, and with lightning speed she threw her hands around a hen's brown, feathered body. It flapped its wings a bit as she held it, then started flapping wildly as she forced it down on the table, and all I kept thinking was that the little critter knew it was going to die. "I'll hold her down, Philip, and you just take that axe and give her a swift chop on the neck. It'll be as quick and painless as death can be."

"Grandma..."

"Grammakins, love lump. Now don't just stand there like a frightened monkey. Pick up that axe, it ain't heavier than breadbox."

I didn't know what else to do. My ma told me to do as Grammakins says, so I picked up that old hand axe and held it over that clucking chicken. Grammakins held down both the head and body, and that poor little chicken's neck seemed to throb with quickening heartbeats. I closed my eyes as tight as I could, and I swung that axe as hard as I was able, wanting to show Grammakins and anyone else that I wasn't any kind of coward. All I heard was a deafening scream ringing in my tiny ears. I was afraid to open my eyes, convinced that it was the chicken screaming, damning me to hell for taking its sweet, little life, haunting me for all eternity. When I decided to open them I saw Grammakins running into the house, and a hen sitting on the table, picking at what looked like a bloody, wart-crusted finger.