Parrots, chickens and cows. Oh My


The minister of a church is frequently asked to have a meal with parishioners.  Often times, the whole family is invited along. For me, this usually entailed sitting quietly in uncomfortable dress clothes while sitting on  doily coved sofas and listening to polite adult conversation.  If I was lucky, there would be  Jordan almonds in  cut glass bowls that I could nibble while trying not to break something.  But,occasionally the yawn inducing visitations would have an unusual twist.

An elderly pair of maiden lady sisters invited us to their antique laden house, kept dark in order to fend off the heat, for lunch. They were the picture of genteel, soft spoken Midwestern ladies, wearing their Sunday best to host the young minister and his family.  Their table was set with their lovely old china and best silverware.  But what was with the extra place setting?

It was for Billy.  Not my friend Billy.  That would have been odd enough.  No, Billy was a parrot.  Bill, the ladies' pet parrot was allowed to roam freely through the house.  He had his own place at the table and ate from the some lovely china as everyone else.

Billy did not really like company.  His first words to use were "Goodbye".  When we didn't leave, he stepped up his tactics and began squawking, "Help! Police!".  The  lovely old sister ladies gently scolded "Billy!  That's not polite"  but he continued chirping "goodbye" and "help me".  throughout our stay.  I don't remember much of the meal-probably finger sandwiches or something- but Billy had what we were having.  I think Billy resorted to some passive aggression by occasionally lifting his tail and leaving a little pile of what he thought of us on the newspaper the ladies kept under his chair. 

This may sound unappetizing and potentially unsanitary, but parrot poop is child's play...

One of the homes where we were invited was out in the countryside on a pig farm.  If you are from farm and ranch country, you can discern between the pungent smell of cattle manure, and the even more pungent smell of a hog farm.  Nothin' like the smell of a good thriving bunch of pigs to whet your appetite.  This family were what you call "salt of the earth" kind of people.  The men folks wore overalls for everything and if they needed to fancy up a bit, they would wear  their better (overalls without stains or holes).  The farmers's wives were just as hard working and strong.  In this case (at least in my memory) the hostess wore a green floral dress with an apron.

I know I have discussed how fickle memories can be, so I am sure that mine are corrupted and only partially correct, but these are my recollections of that visit!

What stikes me as my most visceral memory, is drinking grape Koolaide  out of a plastic cup.  I'm sure our hostess was a great cook.  Most farm ladies are.  But I can't remember what we ate because everything else was so bizarre.  First, I think teeth were optional in the family we were visiting.  Cleanliness was also not much of a concern.  Food was served directly from what ever pot in which it had been cooked.  Dubiously clean utensils were made even more dubious when our hostess used the front of her dress as a towel to wipe them "clean".  I think my focus on drinking grape Koolaide had two purposes.  A). to keep me from having to notice the scary level of filthiness, and B). to keep me from laughing uproariously.

The piece de resistance, however, was not the kitchen, but the bathroom.  Old farmhouses, as I recall this one to be, usually were not built with multiple bathrooms.  Therefore,  I am pretty sure this may have been their only one.  It would not only have been the only toilet, but it was likely the only bathtub and shower.  It was striking that, not only was this not the cleanest bathroom, but the bathtub was being used to raise newly hatched chicks.  That is definitely the only time that I have ever shared toilet facilities with poultry! 

I think we have been invited to eat in that home on at least one other occasion, but if I wentagain, I have blocked the memory.  To this day, I cannot drink grape Koolaide!

Not all visits were uncomfortable, however, so next time I will tell you about Fourth of July at Billy and Jere's house!