One fine August day as summer winded down & we began the slow slide into academia mode, she graced us with a bag of groceries that included one of those cafeteria sized cans. You know the ones, they make you think of the jolly green giant sans all the fancy labeling. This hear label was pretty straightforward; "Canned Chicken" was all it said. No pictures, no gimicks, just two solid words with a world of possibilities behind them. Canned Chicken.
Now, you can only imagine the reflections that were considered by the 10 little recipients of this canned chicken. Sitting, staring at the pantry shelf in the basement dialogs went something like this; "do you think they left the feathers on it?" Because of course we envisioned, in our lively little minds, that inside this can was stuffed a chicken. Crammed into the can in a position similar to the fetal curve of an unborn baby.
By this time in our little lives one or more of us had previously had the experience of seeing a glass jar with a pickled pig - you know the kind, like the biology teachers use to sport on a very visible shelf in their classrooms. No doubt strategically placed to freak out young impressionable minds. No kid is going to come into a classroom & start messing around when there is a pickled pig staring out at you from a jar filled with formaldehyde. No siree that there teacher has a free pass to a right respectable classroom.
So there in the musty confines of our basement we debated the contents of the can; "I wonder if they left the beaks & claws on the bird" one of us ventured. "Of course not" was the quick reply, "they always cut off the head when they kill a chicken". Now instead of giving comfort to the younger siblings, a remark like this sent a visible chill through the air. For our fetal-prone bird was headless as well. With a sideways glance, at each other we made for a hasty exit. Last one up the stairs is chicken shit. Spread real thin now ya hear.
And so it went, for weeks we became the most virtuous of young pious Catholics. Praying that somehow mom would overlook the canned chicken in pursuit of other culinary choices.
Then, as the days got shorter and the cold winter winds began to blow an announcement from church was made. The Sunday before Thanksgiving there was to be a food drive. All parishioners were invited to participate by bringing canned goods to any Mass. The food would be sorted and sent to the poor so that they too might have something to give thanks for on this special holiday.
Like a row of Xmas lights, our little minds lit up one after the other straight on down the line. Each in his or her own way coming to the same grand conclusion; "canned chicken for the poor" was our silent chorus. Yes, that was it - together we would convince mom that this would be our personal sacrafice to the cause.
Surprisingly, mom needed little convincing. Now, mom has many, many gifts. None of which are expressed within the confines of the kitchen. She had probably wondered from the moment she laid eyes to that can of chicken just what the heck she would ever do with it. Now, her children, brought up with a strict belief in faith and a spirit of generosity for those less fortunate, had answered the question for her. The canned chicken would go to the food drive.
Of course a can of chicken is just a can of chicken unless you include some delicious sides; a can of green beans, some boxed mash potatoes (mom never could understand the reasoning behind going to all the fuss of mashing your own potatoes when a few flakes from the box cooked up a batch of no-lump wonder spuds). Oh and a can of cranberry sauce. Jellied.
With a mixture of pride and relief we worked together packing our bag.
That Sunday we proudly lugged our heavy bag of groceries to the altar. Yes sir we were right proud of our generosity. Let the poor people rejoice. God is good. We left Mass that day with our heads held high and a lightness to our step.
As the days were getting shorter, darkness had already settled in when later that day there was a knock at the door. Wondering who might be visiting - a rare treat as for some (unknown) reason we didn't often get drop in company - we raced up from the basement where several of us had been admiring the now vacant spot where our beheaded chicken in a can had previously sat.
It was Father VandenHogan from Church. "Well Father", we angels of mercy exclaimed, "what
brings you here?" We asked in our most precious tones, imagining he was here to praise our generous contribution to the food drive for the poor. Slightly out of breath, he set a box down on our table. Slowly all eyes went to the box. "I just wanted to stop in to wish all of you a happy Thanksgiving" he said with more baritone in his voice than I care to remember. Peering cautiously into the box one by one we drew back in fright. For there it was...the "Chucky" of all chickens are very own Canned Chicken was back.Lord up above I believe I have seen the devil in my dining room. What else could have propelled that chicken back to our home.
But wait, what does this mean? Are we? Could it be?
And so with fear and trepidition our security was ripped from our innocent little hearts. For the truth had been told. We were the poor. What else could have brought this bird back to our fold. The poor. The pitied. Branded like a poorly labeled can of chicken.
Life, for some of the older fry, was forever altered. Hunger would take on a greater urgency and our pride in the size of our family became the shame we wore as a belt of poverty instead.
Many years would pass before we could laugh about this can of chicken.
We might never have seen the humor if not for the fact that one day that can of chicken simply disappeared. Mom not up to the challenge opted to dispose of the Canned Chicken instead of trying to make a meal of it.
