Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer.
Once upon a time a young boy moved from the city to the country to live with his grandparents. He had never been to the country before, and had no idea what to expect. The hustle and bustle of the city streets were left behind, and was replaced by the tall gum trees and the orchards of fruit farms surrounding his new town. The culture shock was palpable. He knew nobody, and he knew nothing of country life. He left behind his friends and cousins, and he was unhappy.
This poor child became a recluse. He began to stay in his room rather than join his grandparents in front of the television, reading his grandmother’s and father’s old books instead. He refused to go to school, and he didn’t want to make new friends. Not that he could anyway, the kids in the country thought him weird and gave him a hard time. Then one day he woke up with a revelation. He thought, if I can’t beat them, I’ll join them.
He rummaged through this father’s old box of clothes that he himself wore as a young boy and dressed in the frilliest shirt he could find, and attached braces to his breeches. He was going to be a country boy, even for just one day. In no way did he think this attire was abnormal. As stated before, he knew nothing of country living.
He gathered his courage, swallowed his pride and followed his grandfather out to the farm. “I’m going to be a farmer, just like you, Grandpa!”, he proudly declared. He thought he looked like a real farmer’s boy, but his grandfather took one look and burst into giggles. Crestfallen, the little boy looked down, and was almost defeated. Little did he know his grandfather had laughed at the boy’s father thirty years earlier. Dad just liked frilly shirts.
“Well, come on then. Let’s tend to the chickens,” said Grandpa. The little boy dutifully followed him, not knowing what was in store.
Out in the far corner of the field, the chicken pen was tucked into the corner. Because of that, the little boy could not see what would await him until he reached the pen. He was too busy looking at his feet, anyway, fascinated by the way his heavy boots crunched the frosty grass in the early morning dew. He heard the creak of the gate as his grandfather entered the chicken coup, and then he saw them. Twenty, maybe even thirty, hungry hens gathered around his grandfather’s bucket. Wow, they were bigger than he expected! Wide eyed, he watched in horror as the hens clucked and clambered for their feed.
He did not realise just how scared he would be of these little creatures. Well, to you and I they are little, but to the boy, they were monstrous. Covered in fur, with spindly orange legs all scaley, with what he imagined were sharp claws scratching the dirt. Their bright red combs flopped about underneath their imposing beaks as well as on the top of their heads, placed inbetween their beady little eyes. He’s never thought he’d encounter anything quite as bizarre and prehistoric. And because of that, his courage died in the arse and turned into blind terror. One hen sensed this, and almost seemingly decided to take the piss out of his frilly collar. That’s what the little boy perceived, anyway. The hen just wanted the corn on the cob in his hand. The little boy retreated, burrowing his frightened faced into the wall of the shed, while the hungry hen clucked and garbled until finally the little boy let out a blood curdling scream.
Thinking the boy was hurt or in serious trouble, the grandfather quickly fled the pen to find his young grandson, in breeches, braces and frilly shirt, clinging to the post of the shed while the hen clucked for her food. His giggle from earlier returned, more raucously than before, and he bent over with laughter.
“She’s just hungry, that’s all!” He managed to say through his rolls of laughter. “Give her the corn!”
The boy threw the corn at the hen’s feet, and she hungrily began pecking. Soon she was joined by other hungry hens. Who can’t resist a good cob of corn!
“I thought she was attacking me,” the boy slobbered through thick tears.
“Don’t be silly! They’re harmless! Look.” Grandpa reached down to the eager little hen, and rubbed her back between her wings. She instantly retreated, crouching down with wings oustretched
Fascinated, the boy stared. “What is she doing?” he asked incredulously.
“That’s what I call the panic squat. They do this if you pat them or touch them.”
“Is she okay?”
“She’s fine. She’s just a bit scared. Like you.” He then picked her up and placed her back in the coup.
The young boy realised he had a lot to learn if he was going to be a country kid. He also realised he was not the only one scared by the unknown. These chickens could teaching him a thing or two, he decided, while he threw more corn cobs into the coup.
I have recently returned to Melbourne after spending nearly five years living in a small country community. It took me a good 12 months or so to get over the culture shock of transitioning from city slicker to country bumkin, and it wasn’t until that stage that I thought, go with it, enjoy country life and embrace it. I was surprised at how much this made a difference to my time there. Initially I was resentful of my life being up ended, but when I decided to change my outlook, things got much better and less overwhelming. The boy’s story is a simplified version of my own.
Katrina’s on twitter @kat_71