Chickengate: Uncle Joe takes a fearless stand

Dear Uncle Joe: You talked a lot about chickens in your column last week. Thanks, by the way, for terrorizing my grandkids who now are afraid I'm going to wring the neck of Clabby, the old hen in the pen in our backyard. The kids love this hen, and after seeing what you said in the newspaper, they break out sobbing every time they look at the bird. But here's my question: You didn't really say how you feel about having chickens in town. Yes or no? Are you for it or against it? Why don't you at least say how you really feel about Chickengate? Thank you. -- Kind Old Grandpa

Dear Kind Old Grandpa: I can see that you are in quite a pickle with the young'uns, and it looks like you blame me for that. Maybe so. Maybe not. The good news is that your grandkids are reading the newspaper. Hurrah! But let me say this: If every third grader was required to either (A) live on a farm or (B) tour a sausage factory, we wouldn't have such a large population of namby-pamby kids. But the plain fact is that there aren't enough farmhouses left in America to properly educate our leaders of tomorrow, and look what happens.

How do I feel about chickens in the backyards of Cape Girardeau folks? Kind Old Grandpa, I have to say I'm against it. Why? Because chickens, like hamsters, are gateway animals. First you cave in on getting a hamster, and pretty soon you have a cat and then everyone under 10 starts whining for a dog. Next thing you know you are spending more on pet chow than you are on groceries to stock your pantry.

Think about it. You start with poultry, and the next thing you know the National Knitting Society is pushing homegrown wool like hot syrup at a pancake fundraiser. And once you start down this path, be prepared. Do you really want a Shetland pony in your yard?

See how dangerous little animals are?

As for chickens: If you fall for the argument that every red-blooded American is entitled to fresh eggs in their omelets, what's next? I'll tell you. Next you'll think about getting a milk cow. And, Buster, you do not want a Guernsey anywhere near the house. Unless, of course, you like getting up at dawn every day -- EVERY DAY -- to milk the cow, and every evening at dusk too. And then there's all that skimming and churning and so forth that comes with raw milk.

Nosiree, chickens are just the first step down the slippery slope to hardcore husbandry, and we do not -- I say NOT -- need barnyards and feedlots in our fair city.

Back-to-the-land movements in our great nation come and go like leaves on a pin oak. Sometimes they stick around longer than you expect, but eventually they disappear.

Honestly, I admire all the good people who want to grow their own veggies, slaughter their own hogs and can their own fruit. Of course, they will wind up spending about 30 times more for what they eat than supermarket shoppers.

And let's face facts. Unpronounceable chemical additives have extended the shelf life of nearly everything we consume -- and, I would suggest, prolonged our own life expectancies as well. How else can you explain the link between human longevity and the replacement of farm food with Twinkies and bacon-flavored potato chips?

Speaking of bacon: I read something the other day on a T-shirt that made me laugh out loud: "I'd grow my own food if I knew where to buy bacon seeds."

So, Kind Old Grandpa, I hope this clears up any confusion. By the way, the next time the kiddos start boo-hooing, tell them this: Write a letter to Uncle Joe. Tell him how crazy he is and how out of touch he is with the real world. Heck, I've been blamed for every mistake in the newspaper for nearly 50 years, so I'm tough. I can take it. Really.

Joe Sullivan is the retired editor of the Southeast Missourian.