The Apprentice
Written in 2021
Up north there was a ramshackle farm owned by my Auntie and her husband. Each year we drove Gramma Viola 320 miles to the exact center of the state because she did not know how to drive.
That particular year an early November snow encased the grounds, like white cloth wrapped around a dead body. The two-story farmhouse, long on hope, had blistered and peeled from inattention. But behind it, a majestic barn rose to the skies. Freshly painted and filled with Aunties prized Appaloosas, the mountainous structure caught sunlight and cast a shadow over the chicken coop.
I remember being zipped into my green snowsuit, mittens clipped, and snow boots tied and instructed to follow Gramma to the back door for my apprenticeship. She was dressed in her everyday periwinkle blue apron and old gray cloth coat that barely covered her ample breast. A big woman, who bent clumsily to re-tie her many times re-knotted laces. She wore no gloves and looked ill-prepared to step out into the cold Wisconsin air.
In the gap between buildings, Gramma used a voice I had never heard to explain that my role for the day would be helping her kill the chickens. The loud cluck-cluck-clucking faded immediately into my mind’s own murmurs and mumblings as I freaked out. I stood alone in front of what would soon become our makeshift abattoir.
I was terrified. I saw Gramma wobbling her way back toward me through the whitewash of buildings with the weapon. A red ax polished to a shine held firmly in her right hand. The brown, rusty feathered faces of chickens were framed between the wires, powerless to peck out a release. Things were changing fast and with no path to escape, their clucks ratcheted up into shrieks of terror.
“You gotta lis’n to Gramma real close now, Andy, every second counts” she demanded.
“Yes, yes ma---am,” I said with trepidation.
“Some of them birds in there is almost six years old. And six years old is old for birds. When this happens, us farmin’ people know it’s our cue to get’em ready for our tables.”
“But Gramma,” I interrupted, “Gramma, they ain’t much older than me!”
“But boys grow into old men. People is different than animals! They grow up to live long lives and they do this by eatin’ right. Chickens got purpose and that is laying eggs and given’ us food.”
I wondered to myself how I would ever, ever be able to reconcile Gramma with an ax and Gramma feeding her brood. But again, I was shaken into my new role with further explanations.
“Whenever these birds weigh enough for us to dress ‘em good for dinner or they turn six, whichever comes first is when we must complete this job,” she said.
I stood there almost numb. Motionless. My chattering silenced.
When Gramma handed me the ax, I thought I was gonna cry. The cold would have preserved the tears, so I felt lucky to have grown up enough to know better and leave no evidence of my weakness. I was trying to get a grip, but it kept slipping from my mittened hand which made me wonder how Gramma could even lift it.
But at that moment, Gramma’s hazel eyes darkened black as ink and her smile disappeared. She directed me with gestures and clear statements: In order to be an accomplished helper, I would need to help with the following items: a sturdy wood block for cutting, a scalding tank, a hose for rinsing, garbage cans for guts, a baggy for the heart, an ice chest for finished chickens, and finally a blow torch for remaining feathers.
I was sent scrambling first to find the hose and make sure it was not frozen. Then to the garage with a charge to return with three tall black garbage cans. Auntie stood watching us from the kitchen sink and seemed to know all Gramma’s commands from memory. Her job it turns out was to bring the ice chest, the baggies, and a butcher and boning knife. It took Gramma, Auntie, her husband, and the neighbor, to haul two enormous silver kettles brought to a roiling, angry boil.
When every item had been located and placed for its usefulness to the task at hand, Gramma explained the essential first steps. It felt like there were a hundred, but I froze when she got to four: “Sever head and body.” She look down at me and said, “you understand what I mean when I say sever?”
“Yes ma-am,” I heaved until I quietly sobbed. Droplets stained my cheeks.
“You must be quick, very quick,” she yelled while performing this sadistic ritual and “don’t be gettin’ distracted again by the sounds they be makin’.”
She seemed to know what was going on in my head before I did. Sounds became unrecognizable, no longer signatures of the animals I knew. Terrifyingly unfamiliar and alarming. It was Gramma’s arms that spoke the loudest as she pinned down the bird, lifted the killing blade with the other, and as the first bird was sliced, Gramma’s lips puckered, and she emitted a grunt.
Gramma demanded my attention again as she readied herself for more killing. She went on to explain further that after a few more severed heads, we would have more steps to complete. Again, it was the brutality that got to me as the steps then directed us to cut a “horizonal slit across the chicken’s body so we could pull out the intestines and other organs.”
I can still see the little bits of electricity running through their bodies after their heads were severed. The current that remained turned them into artists as they moved like dancing paintbrushes, their feathered bristles spattering the white canvas with red rage. I had fallen into the snow to rest during this performance and looked up to see Gramma’s blue apron spattered with blood-red roses.
Many chicken clucks turned to growls as they watched members of their brood plunged headless into boiling water and then were forced to witness further annihilation with a blow torch when the boiling failed. The abattoir, our makeshift slaughterhouse, stood silent in the shadows after the parade of orange plumes fell softly on the graves.
Gramma looked at me, forced a worn and weary smile and wiped her forehead with the back of her hand. I stood silent in the pinkish snow trying to understand.
“Not bad Andy,” she said with tired smile. “But always remember to wipe down the ax.”