There must be some kind of omen about a chicken crossing the road right in front of you. Or maybe an old wive’s tale. Or maybe this is normal when you’re not in Suburbia.
Watching a chicken cross the road right in front of your car isn’t something that happens every day to a suburbanite. Or really, happens ever in my Pleasantville planned community. Though I did see some girls riding horses on the main road through our manufactured town once, and it wasn’t even during the holiday parade.
A chicken crossed the road in front of my car this past weekend when I was out in Downtown MethHead, Florida with my girls, mom, sister, and her kids. I’m pretty sure I heard it cluck, “BAWK BAWK, MOTHERFUCKER!” as it passed by. Now that I think about it, that chicken probably knows Jenny’s Beyonce.
We were coming from the U-Pick, side-of-the-road farm where we picked strawberries with our own hands, and for the whole 20 minutes it took us to pick 6 quarts of farm-fresh fruits, we were damn farmers.
Clearly the chicken who crossed the road smelled our freshly dirtied feet from afar, and it felt safe crossing in front of my minivan.
Picking strawberries in the boonies was a teachable moment for our suburban kids.
“See, kids. Your food doesn’t really come from plastic bags! Your food comes from people with very dirty feet. And, kids, if you want some Oxy, you can follow that chicken back to its coop where it nests in some methhead family’s living room. Just bring me back some farm-fresh eggs.”
I’m never at a loss for finding ways to teach my children the ways of life in Florida.