A Chicken Named Gary

We lived on 125 acres gifted to us by my wife’s grandfather. It was part of a larger 1,000-acre parcel in southern Indiana. The entrance to the property was off County Road 3, about six miles east of town. A 500-foot driveway came up in a sort of horseshoe shape in front of the house, then turned back towards the highway. After about 250 feet, the driveway turned left, back into the original driveway. And it was in the shape of the letter ‘P’, as in Petersen. As in John Henry Petersen, my wife’s grandfather.

So here we were, moving into a little 900-square-foot ranch-style house with an old barn and an empty chicken coop. Most everything was in working order. It just screamed 1970s farmhouse chic and needed a little updating. We could do that.

The day my wife, Sarah, our toddler daughter, Bea, and I moved in, a neighbor rumbled up in his truck, hopped out, and introduced himself. “You’re John Henry’s granddaughter! I heard you were going to be living here. House has good bones, and the barn has survived more storms than most. I’m Ken!” He reached out to shake my hand as our daughter hid behind my wife’s legs.

Sarah said she remembered Ken from when she was a little girl. Had a wife, no kids, acres and acres of corn, and lots of chickens. She and her friends worked at his farm detasseling corn all four summers in high school. Tough work, good pay, and Ken’s wife, Carrie, always had lemonade for everyone.

“Say, I brought you something to get your little farmstead going. Let me get it out of the truck.” Ken came back with a chicken under his arm. “She’s a good layer, and should keep you in eggs for more than a few years.” My wife took the chicken, thanked Ken, and off he went. “Lots to do today! By the way, her name is Mary!”

My wife and I looked at each other, then the chicken, and down at Bea. Her big brown eyes stared up at the bird, and she said, “Chimken!” “Squack!” said Mary.

While I headed into town to get some chicken feed, my wife set the chicken in the yard near the old coop. She happily pecked around, finding a bug here, a piece of old corn there, and seemed quite content.

Sarah had the chicken coop ready to go by the time I returned with some extra chicken wire, bedding, and feed. As I walked back near the barn, there was our daughter, chasing her chicken around on her short little kid legs, squealing, “Gawry, Gawry!”

It took us a few minutes to figure it out.

That’s how Gary the chicken got her name.

How did you get your name?