Other than an occasional vegetarian, I
dont run across too many people who dont eat poultry, chicken
in particular. And, if the next Great War fought on this earth is anything
like the apocalypse many feel it will be, then Im going on record to
say vegetarians are going to experience a change of heart and a change of
diet.
Meanwhile, Ill try to be more tolerant of those whose dietary preferences
clash with mine. Thats something that would have made a good New
Years resolution for me, had I thought of it sooner.
Since this article is a continuation of comments last week on how I consider
friendships formed in the workplace an unheralded corporate fringe benefit,
perhaps, its time to resume the adventure of my travel to Kenosha,
Wisconsin a few days ago.
When Wayne Hunter and I departed Cape Girardeau, Missouri, Tuesday morning
we knew we would be meeting Mark Frank and Dennis Conn in Champaign, Illinois,
before continuing the drive to Kenosha. Mark is a relative newcomer to the
team of retail technology consultants in our region, but Dennis Conn came
over on the Mayflower (joke).
I first met Dennis when we both had managerial positions in our respective
wholesale divisions. Dennis managed the Retail Technology Department for
J.M. Jones in Champaign, and I was his counterpart for Lewis Grocer Co.,
Indianola, Mississippi. In 1990, our companies were already a part of SUPERVALU,
spelled Super Valu in those days, but our retail customers knew us better
by our division names, J.M. Jones and Lewis Grocer.
Somewhere on the Kenosha trail, Dennis shared with us, "I dont eat
chicken."
It was a nugget of knowledge I had allowed to slip my mind, but as soon as
he mentioned it, I remembered hearing him make a similar comment last year
at one of our regional meetings.
Dennis forgave my forgetfulness and commented, "But, youd think my
parents could remember I dont eat poultry! Yet, every Thanksgiving,
Mom tries to push some turkey on me. Sometimes, she puts chicken or turkey
in something thinking she can fool me into
eating it."
Dennis vividly recalled how his aversion to chicken emanated from his childhood,
"I was no more than six or seven years old, and I ate meat, but it was meat
like bologna, hot dogs, Vienna Sausages, and Spam. I wouldnt eat anything
with a bone in it."
Dennis explained that his two sets of grandparents were quite different.
One granddad was always taking time to teach him farm related tasks, but
the other granddad didnt.
"Years later, I asked my mother why her dad was so mean, when I was young."
Dennis shared. "She said he wasnt mean to me, but that he was very
business oriented and was probably more concerned about making a livelihood
for the family than spending time with a grandson."
Denniss paternal grandparents allowed Dennis to participate in family
chores when he visited them. Being at a tender age and not wise to what
constituted the "meats" he enjoyed eating, Dennis had no idea that some farm
animals were destined for the family dinner table.
"My granddad would catch a chicken by its legs with a long piece of wire
and wring its neck and then take a hatchet and chop its head off on a block.
The headless chickens were dead, but as soon as he dropped one it would run
every which way flopping and bleeding all over the place," Dennis remembered.
"My grandmother was seated over by a big pot of boiling water on an open
fire in the backyard. It was my job to gather up the dead chickens, once
they stopped flouncing around, and take them to my grandmother. Shed
dunk them in the boiling water, or I think she did, and then shed pluck
off their feathers. Well, the sight of all that blood and the smell of wet
chicken feathers was pretty traumatizing to me. Then, when we sat down to
eat dinner, thered be fried chicken on the table, but I said,
Im not eating that."
I can recall a similar scene at my granddads farm in Thaxton, Mississippi,
but I was never asked to help, and I may have been a year or so older than
Dennis was when he was first exposed to animal slaughter on the farm. Its
hard to say why we both witnessed similar acts, but only one of us was persuaded
to enjoy the end result.
"Would you believe," Dennis asked, "I was a sophomore in high school before
I ever ate a steak? It was a t-bone, and had it not been for peer pressure
from fellow athletes, I dont think Id have eaten one then."
Returning to more recent food memories, Dennis shared, "I think Ive
found a way to keep my family happy at Holiday meals. I look for the smallest
piece of turkey on the platter and put it in on my plate. Ill eat small
bits of it throughout the meal. This seems to satisfy my family."
Ah, the sacrifices one makes for family. For my generation, our parents
sacrificed so that we could have things to enjoy, and as we grew older we
found the balance of sacrifice shifted, and often we were called to sacrifice
for the sake of our parents. Sometimes our sacrifice was in finding time
to run errands for them or chauffeur them about. And, sometimes, it became
our lot to care for them in their golden years. As the sage observed, it
is how we pay for our raising.
As for Dennis, having found a means to reduce his parents "hand wringing"
over his aversion to poultry, I find it interesting the fifteen acre farm
near Tuscola that he and his wife purchased last year has free-range chickens
in the yard and ducks on the pond. While the critters are safe from any act
on Dennis part, I understand at least one duck has fallen prey to a
hawk.
My travel companions and I arrived at our motel in Kenosha before dark. The
remnants of an earlier snowfall were noted as we made our way inside.
Dennis made sure I saw the snow and warned
me he was making me a snowball. I asked him to let me get a picture of him
throwing it in my direction, carefully noting he should aim to miss me. The
snowball can be seen in flight in the lower left corner of the photo.
At check-in, each of us was given a $10.00 coupon valid at a nearby local
establishment specializing in alcoholic beverages. I dont drink alcohol
but saw no good reason not to accompany my friends. Our certificates paid
the tab and left plenty of tip-money for the waitress.
An effort was made to find a deck of cards in order to play a card game named
Eucher. I was told it was the sort of card game one could play and carry
on conversation while playing, because it wasnt too complicated from
a rules and strategy perspective. Our first stop was Gander Mountain, which
had most anything one might need in sporting goods, but they had sold out
of playing cards. At the local establishment specializing in alcoholic beverages,
the eight-dollar price on a deck of cards was too steep for our needs. Perhaps,
one of the guys will bring a deck along on our next trip.
The strength of friendships in the corporate world may be negatively influenced
by the physical distance separating individuals. Dennis and I have remained
friends almost twenty years in spite of the miles that separate us and the
infrequent meetings that call us together. Its too bad neither of us
have another twenty years of working in our future, for I believe our friendship
would continue to strengthen.
A Corn What
Mark Frank Knows
Two years ago, Wayne Hunter and I drove to Champaign for a regional meeting.
I was puzzled by what appeared to be an upper room atop many of the barns
we saw in Illinois. I asked Wayne if he knew the purpose of the structure,
but he didnt. I seem to remember asking a few folks at our meeting,
but none of them knew either.
Seeing them again this year, our curiosity was roused again.
"I know, lets ask Dennis and Mark," Wayne suggested, "They live up
here, and Ill bet they know."
The "upper room" as pictured here, is representative of the style we most
often saw, but many rooms were much larger, and all of them had a door.
Thankfully, there were a few such structures along our route from Champaign
to Kenosha.
Wayne asked the question, "Whats with the room on top of the barns
around here?" directing our companions attention to that which had us curious.
Mark confidently stated it was used by
a "corn hiker."
"They put those on top of corn cribs," he explained.
Neither Wayne Hunter nor I was familiar with a corn hiker and it took a bit
of explaining on the part of Mark and Dennis for me to understand the concept.
As I understand it, the upper room has a doorway, often on both sides. The
purpose of the door is to be an access point for the conveyor to escalate
ears of corn from ground level to the top of the crib. A hopper in the room
allows a worker to direct the ears of corn to different areas of the barn-sized
corn crib.
Mark stated "hiker" was native slang for any conveyor system used on the
farm, whether it moved hay or corn into a barn.
Finally, it all made sense. Illinois farmland is planted predominately in
corn. Therefore it takes a lot of storage space for the annual harvest, which
explains why the cribs are so large. Honestly, here in North Mississippi,
my mental image of a corn crib is an out building smaller than a one car
garage.
Bodock Beau
Menopause Jewelry
My husband, being unhappy with my menopausal-induced mood swings, bought
me a mood ring the other day so he would be able to monitor my
moods.
Weve discovered that when Im in a good mood, it turns green.
When Im in a bad mood, it leaves a big red mark on his forehead.