Throughout my teenage years I disliked any activity that even slightly resembled work and I especially hated giving out my labor for free. I've always considered my labor to be a precious commodity that was not to be abused--although mom would surely say that my labor was precious only because of its scarcity. So I clearly remember with less than fond memories a ward money-making activity that took place every five months or so over a period of three years--the chicken farm project.
This egg farm was owned by Brother Fox (no lie!) and he hired the ward to remove the older chickens from their cages and load them into trucks. During each project we loaded approximately fifty to one hundred thousand chickens. It is not surprising then that the members called the egg farm the "chicken farm." It was dusty, dirty work and the chickens did their best to make it more difficult. Consequently, I'm sure that most of the members who participated in the projects weren't overly troubled about the fate of these chickens; they were destined to be mixed (in very small pieces) with noodles and spices by a certain soup company. I freely admit that I lost no sleep over their fate. After a few sessions it even seemed too kind.
Anyway, let me explain the work we did. There were only three positions available--pulling, hauling, and loading. Pulling was considered the most glamorous position by my age group and we fought fiercely for the honor.
I also considered pulling to be the easiest. The job consisted of opening the cage door, reaching in and finding a chicken leg, grasping it firmly, then quickly jerking the leg through the door; the chicken usually followed. While this may sound simple enough, the task was complicated by the small size of the door and the large size of the chicken. If the jerk wasn't quick and forceful, the chicken would get stuck and would make a terrible racket. But with a quick jerk, the chicken would only have time for one small screech before it found itself dangling by its leg in the puller's hand. I should add that it was O.K. if the chickens were damaged--I guess bruises didn't affect the flavor of the soup. I became an experienced puller and was able to pull chickens quickly. WHOOSH, WHOOSH, WHOOSH!
But since only a lucky few got to be pullers at any one time, I spent much of the evening being a hauler. The job was simple, but tedious. The puller would hand me six chickens (three per hand, held by their legs) which I would then carry outside to the waiting truck where they would be loaded. Six chickens would quickly become a heavy load, especially when the truck was parked at the far end of the building. Neither were the chickens content to dangle idly during the hauling phase (the only exceptions being the chickens that had been stunned during the pulling phase--they just dangled limply, making small hurt noises). The active ones would screech and scratch and occasionally flap their wings madly, requiring the hauler to stop to calm them down. I found that a good way to teach the unruly chickens to keep still was to slam the offending chickens against the nearby cages, or, even better, any nearby wall. No chicken ever needed tutoring more than three times. This method of tutoring was also a good way to punish the chickens for any hygienic indiscretions they committed on our clothes and hands. Only during such tutoring periods would hauling become even slightly enjoyable.
Loading was job invariably done by the bishopric. It consisted of throwing the chickens into the cages on the trucks. This assured the loader of staying relatively clean.
Now, it would be incorrect to suppose that this chicken farm was one of the modern, air-conditioned, sanitary egg farms of recent years (you know, the kind that don't smell even when you're downwind). This chicken farm only resembled the modern farms in purpose. In the buildings, the cages were built over trenches in the concrete that were about six inches below the walkway level. These trenches were used to catch all falling matter emanating from the chickens. These trenches were often "shoe-deep" (a unit of measurement I happened to stumble upon), and didn't look or smell very good. I'm not sure that I can adequately describe the stuff in the trenches, but maybe "a vile, festering morass of viscous, evil-smelling effluvium from the very depths of hell" would be apt enough.
Along with the smell was the dust. From all the activity a cloud of "chicken dust" would develop that would effectively coat everything and everybody. My sister Denna would always give us a piece of advice as we were leaving: "Don't lick your lips until you've showered." This was very good advice.
Yes, by the time we finished for the night we would be dirty and smelly, our arms and legs would be aching, and our hands would be covered with scratches and earth-tone stains (unless you were one of those wimpy types who wore gloves).
Now, as I look back to the days of the chicken farm, I am certainly thankful for the experience I gained there; I mean, really, there is no better incentive to do good in school so that one can go on to college that a week or so at the chicken farm.
And, strangely, I almost feel sorry for the way I treated the dumb chickens.
But just "almost."
© 1988, Louis A. Floyd
