“Chicken Pluckin”

by John B. Anderson

When I was attending the University of Chicago, ('60-'61), a couple of my friends from New York decided to hitch hike home for the weekend. They were upset with Chicago, as a person couldn't buy a single slice of pizza. A person could only buy a whole pizza. Anyway, the two hiked out to New York and back to Chicago over the weekend. They survived by grabbing a sandwich at “Horn and Hardart's” auto mat deli, ($.25), and sleeping in Penn Station.

Trying to sleep in Penn Station had its drawbacks. Every hour, one of NYPD's finest, (a cop), would jab the boys with his billy club, and ask them to move on. He also asked the boys what they were up to, and they replied, “We're loitering with the intent to commit a felony.” This confused the cop, so he left them alone the rest of the night.

“Loitering with the intent to commit a felony,” pretty much describes what Ron, Pat and I were doing one particular evening in Manistique. Ron didn't hang with Pat and me all that much, but he was a good guy, he was as adventurous as we. Another benefit of hanging with Ron was that his dad was chief of police, so how much trouble could we possibly get into? The adventure of the night was proposed by Pat. Pat was pretty clever when it came to getting into trouble, and this was no exception. We were going to steal some chickens.

I had read somewhere, (it certainly wasn't “Scientific American,”), that a person could quiet a chicken by tucking its head under its wing and spin it around. The plan was to raid Mr. Alstrom's hen house, and to grab a couple of hens. Mr Alstrom lived on Range St., just behind the Zion Lutheran Church. It was a really dark night. We sneaked down Mr. Carlson's driveway and into the chicken coup. The hens started mumering. I grabbed one bird, tucked her head under her wing, and spun her around. She went to sleep, but the other hens kept mummering.

The back porch light came on. We quit breathing. Mr. Carlson stepped onto his back porch, and listened. The hens quieted down, we thought that maybe we wouldn't be going to jail after all. Mr. Carlson, satisfied that nothing was amiss, went back inside, and turned out the light. We resumed breathing.

We quickly sneaked back up the driveway, ran down Oak Street, and then to the Sand Hills. There we did in the chicken, and attempted to pluck and clean up the bird. Not much success with that operation. We needed a sink. Pat said, “Doc is entertaining tonight, so maybe the kitchen at our house is available.”

Very quietly, we went in Pat's back door and into the kitchen. The kitchen door was closed, so we had to work quickly to finish getting the bird ready for cooking. We were almost finished, when Virginia, Pat's mom, came through the kitchen door. Once she realized what we were up to, she said, “You boys better hurry and get out of her, because if Doc sees you, he'll kick your butts.” Good advice.

We took the cleaned to my cabin on Indian Lake. It was too late to cook it that night, so we made a plan to get some beer, and to cook the chicken on the weekend. I was a cook at the Surf at the time, so I was in charge of the eats.

That weekend, we secured some beer, and went to the cabin. Pierre decided to join us. Talk about entertainment, Pierre regaled us with stories of his escapades around Manistique. The first story was, after a few beers, he bet everyone at the pool hall that he could get his motorcycle up to 90 mph between the First National Bank and the pool hall. He said that he was close to 90 by the time that he went flying past us at the pool hall. Joe Davis, the cop, was right on his tail, as they sped down River Street. When Pierre was going up the siphon bridge, here came Bruce Neadow, another cop, from the other way. Pierre hit the brakes, dumped the bike, and jumped into the flume. Pierre thought that the cold water would sober him up, and if the police didn't fish him out, he would sue them, claiming that he couldn't swim. They fished him out. As of the telling of the story, no charges had been filed.

The second wild story from Pierre was of the trial of the two predator teachers. I can't repeat any of those details her, but the story had the rest of us with open mouths.

I can safely say that I'll never steal another chicken.