Depression Support Group

I want to try to put a spot in, where everyone can find something to laugh about when they are hitting the bottom. I know it helps me.
I wrote this true story and posted it earlier, but it was lost over the hours....I am reposting and hoping others will add stories of theirs as well.....

My boys, who wish to remain anonymous, chose their nicknames for this story.
The youngest, who at the time of this story was 6, is called, “Fuzzo.”
My oldest who wishes to be called, “Manly Anonymous”, I will call “Nonnie.”
At that time, both were picky eaters. Neither would eat leftovers, so our fridge was usually filled with bowls of un-identifiable bits and pieces.

Chore time in our house is to be avoided at all costs….The chicken bucket, as I have said before, is where we scrape everything that is left on the plates or left too long in the fridge for human consumption. On this morning, Fuzzo went to empty the chicken-bucket, but it was already empty. Knowing he had to find something, he went to the fridge to see if anything was scratching at the door to be let out. He found several likely bowls, emptied them into the chicken bucket, and went out to feed the chickens.

About an hour later, my oldest son wandered into the house, munching on an apple. “Chickens are dead,” he said calmly. I peered out the back door to see limp feathered bodies scattered around the yard. Three obviously ill chickens were still alive. One was staggering around making strange noises, while another lay on the ground with a glazed look in its eyes. One was spinning in circles with wings outstretched. Within minutes, all of these chickens lay motionless as well. I walked over and poked at a limp body with a stick a couple of times. No movement-no signs of violence.
I figured the boys had finally fed them something that had killed them. This was really bad, because I loved my chickens.

I knew we couldn’t eat them, but I figured I would pluck them and use the feathers for something. I have always wanted feather pillows. I didn’t want to scald them as wet feathers stink to high heaven. I got the boys and we sat down and plucked dead chickens placing their feathers in a bag, leaving their bodies under a tree until I could dispose of them. (I didn’t realize at the time you only use the down of geese, not feathers of chickens.) I ran out of garbage bags, so the boys and I hopped in the truck to go buy some more. One thing led to another, and by the time we got home it was late.

I went into the house to put bags away, when Nonnie sauntered into the kitchen and started foraging through sacks of food. “Chickens are alive again.” he said, face buried in a bag. I stared out the back window to see eight naked, shivering chickens…two pecking half-heartedly in the garden, the rest squinting and staggering around extremely carefully. I went to find Fuzzo to see what he had fed the chickens that morning. It turns out we had a big bowl of corn niblets that had gone “fizzy” and a half a bottle of fermented apple juice. The chickens hadn’t been sick, they were drunk…and apparently had really bad hangovers.

Until their feathers grew back, people would drive past the house slowly, mouths gaping, staring wide-eyed at my naked flock… but they would swerve wildly, almost taking out the neighbor’s bushes…once the chickens got their sweaters…
Posted on 03/31/12, 06:45 pm