A Chicken in the Back Seat

 

A Chicken in the Back Seat

7/21/99

“Move it, you %$#^%$#%!” The roar of a motorcycle and the curses of its rider shattered the serenity of my early morning walk. I looked ahead to see a biker nearly kissing the bumper of the car in front of him. A stream of invective poured from his lips. He shouted at the top of his lungs. I could hear him, but I doubt that the object of his venom could. The car’s driver continued at his unhurried pace as they passed me.

I shook my head and continued my walk. I understood. I had once been a hurried driver. Slow traffic drove me wild. What were these people doing on the road? Didn’t they know I had to get somewhere and get there fast? I especially despised drivers who took what seemed like a week to make a right-hand turn. If you don’t know how to drive, get off the road why don’t you?

 

But that was before I took a chicken to school.

My second-grade class was enjoying a unit on farms. Ever the inventive teacher, I decided to bring a little bit of the barnyard into the classroom. Our daughter kept a few bantam chickens in a coop in our backyard. One particularly docile chicken by the name of Pumpkins would just love a trip to school. Or so I thought.

My husband constructed a chicken carrier from a few boards and some chicken wire and my daughter cozied it up with some straw. Pumpkins obligingly walked in. After scratching around in the straw for a few seconds, Pumpkins nestled down and looked perfectly comfortable in her new home.

I placed the carrier on the back seat and set off for school. Pumpkins clucked contentedly as we rushed along — until we took the first corner. The wheels went one way and the cage went the other. The chicken carrier flew end over end with Pumpkins tumbling inside. I stopped the car and set the cage upright again, but this chicken had had enough. Feathers flew as she battled to get out. A maniacal squawking filled the car.

I arrived at school with a frazzled chicken and a car that looked like a chicken coop on wheels. Brushing away the feathers, and trying not to look at the other not-so-pleasant deposits Pumpkins had made, I carried my visual aid clucking into school. 

Pumpkins calmed down and the kids enjoyed meeting her. I drove home carefully and had a less eventful ride. But the experience set me thinking. Where was I rushing anyway? More importantly, why was I so critical of other drivers who were taking their time, doing the speed limit, and driving defensibly? Maybe they had a reason for their caution.

Angry drivers fill our highways. Road rage is a national epidemic. Cars weave in and out of traffic on our superhighways trying to gain a few extra seconds advantage during morning rush hour. Fender-benders abound as commuters vie for parking spaces or race to beat a light. Drivers pass on double yellow lines and blind curves to be the first to get to the stop sign. Slower motorists are cursed and nearly run off the road. An extensive language of gestures has evolved to express our rage.

I decided that not only would I drop out of this race to nowhere, but that I would also remember to be gracious to those on the road driving to a different drummer. Instead of growling, I hummed. Instead of shaking my fist, I waved cars ahead of me. I waited my turn at four-way stops. I allowed others their pace. I slowed down, calmed down, and cheered up.

So the next time you feel impatient on the highway or wonder why that car ahead of you is taking so long to turn into the supermarket parking lot, relax. Maybe they have a good reason for their caution. 

     Maybe, they have a chicken on the back seat.