Upon the wings of....well.....chickens.

photo credit to Mrs. Denotsko
Growing up in the country is not as boring as one would think. It takes longer that growing up in the city; but the journy is one hell of a lot of fun. You are forced to find entertainment for your self. There are no malls, or movie theaters, or those video arcades the kids love so much. There are no neighbors to playwith or harrass or set on fire. More on the fire thing some other time, maybe. Let me check the statute of limitations first.

Well, as I was getting to, you just have trees, fields, hills, and firearms to keep your self buisy. All of which can be employed in one way or another for personal amusement, and/or injury. Some of us were really lucky though. The truly blessed among us had chickens. Chickens may seem like odd fair for young boys; but don't jump to conclusions. I wasn't that bored. Not until puberty at least. JUST KIDDING :)

Back to the story now.

I was always facinated with flight. I'm sure many young, ignorant boys thought they could fly by jumping off the garage roof holding a kite, or umbrella. Many, many days of my youth were spent doing this. As a kid on a farm learns after some experimentation, is that you can fly a lot farther by jumping from the barn loft instead of a garage. You also get the bonus of a fluffy pile of hay to land in.

One day my father was sitting on the porch swing disposing of some unwanted beer. He'd been watching me for a while, jumping from the loft. I would run at top speed and launch myself from the loft window like Icarus on methamphetemines. I would land with a flop in the hay and immediately grab my kite and dash around the side of the barn. Emerging from the loft again a few minutes later. My father knew from his own childhood traumas that you just couldn't really gain any altitude with the equivalent of a parchute. A boy would eventually get hurt trying. He was always concerned with my safety.

I heard him calling me from a few hundred yards away. Never willing to keep my pop waiting, I rushed across the open terrain between us. Dodging, along the way, the psychotic goat that chased me with a butt hungry animal lust in its eyes every time it caught sight of me. As I launched my tiny frame over the barbed wire fence, snagging a nipple ever so slightly, my dad bust into laughter. It was like terrets syndrom, that laughter. Every time my father saw me in danger, he would burst out laughing. He just couldn't cope with the stress of it.

Once I had recovered from the fence and goat, he offered my this proposition.

"Go get me another beer, and I'll tell you how to fly without killing yourself."

OK! Right fucking on Daddy-O. The Wright brothers could have only wished for a fountain of knowlege like my dear old dad to drink from.

It took a few tries to get the beer. They kept hitting his hand half empty. I still can't figure it out, they were full when I got them from the fridge....but when they got to him, they were half gone. That must be why he was trying to get rid of them. Leaky cans. Eventually, he got a beer he was satisfied with, and I got my gold nugget of countryboy genious.

"Just run and catch some chickens, and tie their feet to a broomstick." he says.

"You crazy? Have you ever tried to catch chickens on 5 acres of open field? You fucking wacko old bastard. I'm 9 years old! I've got better shit to do with my time."I thought very, very, very quietly deep inside my brain. To the rest of the world, it sounded like, "REALLY!? HOW MANY CHICKENS WOULD I NEED OH GREAT AND WISE BUDDHA?"

"I did it with six; but you're a little lighter than I was. You could probably do it with just four."

BEEBBEEP!!! ZIP FUCKING TANG FOLKS. I was moving before he could even finish the

sentence. NASA couldn't reach the speeds I was hitting. "I'm gonna fly!!!!!!!"

I spent the rest of the day collecting supplies.

• 1 broomstick
• 4 chickens
• 1 roll of tape (I didnt that string would create a very secure bond, so I got electrical tape instead. Safety First.)

By the time I had caught 4 chickens, the sun was moving toward sunset. I spent some time behind the barn, where mom couldn't see me, taping chickens to the stick. I had discovered that roosters could be quite brutal, so I went with hens in my final design. When the construction was complete, I went to ask my father to look it over and make sure my flier was built correctly. I found him in the garage changing oil or something. He assured me that he didn't need to inspect it. He trusted my skills. He then handed me his motorcycle helmet and wished me the best of luck. As I ran from the yard, he called after me, reminding me to call if I was far from home when the chickens stopped to roost, and he would come to get me in the truck.

I stood in the loft window. I was, for the first time, looking up instead of down. I was trying to map a route around the trees and power poles, so I could reach cruising altitude without obstruction. Seemed clear enough. I could see that Dad had left the garage and was on the front porch to see the show. Is presence gave me confidence. His never yeilding concern for my safety always reassured me when I was about to attempt to bend the laws of physics . The sweat trickling from under the helmet cooled my neck as I stepped back from the opening.

After a few minutes of soothing, the disguntled chickens were ready for their trip into history. As stood in the center of the loft, holding the chicken flier, I could see my father on porch. He was leaning with his elbows on the rail, a beer in one hand, a cigarrett in the other. The sun was starting to set behind him, turning the sky the ominous shade of a fresh bruise.

Always lost in a vast world of geekdom, I started the countdown. I was picturing my self sitting alongside Chuck Yeager and Buzz Aldrin in a dusty bar reliving the glory of our deads.

10

9

8

7 rotate chickens into launch position

6

5 face the door

4

3BREATHE! BREATHE!

2 I start to run, 5 feet of chicken stick in my hands

1 SHUTTLE, GO WITH THROTTLE UP.

BOOM!

As I launched through the door, both ends of the 5 foot long stick struck the sides of the 4 foot opening, snapping the flier in the middle. I had jumped with all my strength and extended my legs behind me like Superman. As I flew through space, I could see my dad stand fully erect with a jolt. The extra weight of the helmet pulled my head toward the ground like a giant electromagnet had been swithed on beneath me. I was racing toward the ground at a rate equal to my speed away from the loft window. My mind was quickly trying to calculate my trajectory. The human mind is capable of amazing mathmatical acheivements. In less than .0026 seconds I knew that my projected landing area would be exactly 6 feet 4.5 inches beyond the 'sweet spot' of pillowy, life sustaining hay in the center of the pile under the window. My world was like a watercolor painting in a blender. I twisted and contorted my body in an effort to, somehow, reverse my path of travel and go back in the window.

As the planet came back into existance, I could hear my father laughing as the goat swooped in for the kill. He was in total panic over the outcome of my flight. He may have peed himself too.