Meet my dad. This one on the left is one of my favorite photos of him as a child. Of course, he doesn’t look very happy (but given that diaper, are you surprised?) The first time I saw this photo, I couldn’t understand how my grandma could let her kid play on a lawnmower. But look closely. It’s clearly built for children, but I’ve no idea what to call it. Suggestions?
My grandpa’s family hails from Freelandville, Indiana where I have a number of distant relatives still farming. Visiting the family farm where my grandfather grew up and my father spent his childhood summers was always a treat. As kids, we wore the blue and white striped overalls long before Osh Kosh B’Gosh became trendy kid wear. 
We played in corn harvesters, jumped from hay bail to hay bail, rode in huge farm equipment, teased goats, visited the baby pigs (And were corrected every time. Hogs, not pigs). But my favorite place of all was the chicken yard.
With a look of great tolerance, my distant great aunt would send my sister and me out to collect the fresh eggs (no doubt we ruined the egg collection for days). Then, when the task was done, we were finally allowed to put the chickens to sleep just like my father had taught us.
No. Not that kind of sleep.
As elementary school age kids, my sister and I ran beneath low-lying branches, scrambled behind bushes, caught the chickens one at a time. (Chickens are fast, they can turn on a dime, but we kept at it for as long as it took.)
We’d catch each chicken, gently tuck its head beneath a wing, gently clamp the wing down on its head, and swing the chicken slowly – back and forth like a pendulum. And the chicken would fall asleep. And stay asleep.
We lined them up, one at a time until only the swiftest of the swift chickens ran free. Then – as only grade school children can – we’d scream at the top of our lungs. All at once the chickens would jump up, squawking and clucking and running for cover.
So Happy Father’s Day, Dad. Thanks for the chicken lessons.
