A Chicken From a Past Life

Soulmates, a Psychic, and a Really Good Hamburger in Savannah

“You should read this,”

I said to Kiki, handing her the local paper.

We were hanging out in the kitchen one afternoon after she got home from high school. She took a quick look at the ad I was pointing to.

“Yes! We have to do this!”

The ad was for a session with an animal communicator – a pet psychic. We didn’t know what that was, but it sounded fun, and it wasn’t too expensive. We thought it would make a silly story to tell Eric later.

But who would we take? Honey, our yellow Lab, told us everything she needed us to know. Her emotions were right on the surface, swinging from ebullient love to frantic jealousy, often hovering in a cheerful middle ground we called “food focused.” She had no deep secrets for a psychic to tease out.

But… Clem.

Unlike Honey, Clem was a mystery. Why had she chosen Kiki? What did she want? We knew we had to take Clem.

Two years earlier,

I’d heard about something called the Northeast Poultry Congress in Springfield Mass, about an hour from our home. We were homeschooling then, and I was always looking for little adventures to have with Keek.

She’d already been raising chickens for a few years and we had a small flock in our backyard. They gave us eggs, but were more like family than livestock. They were all given names, and at Christmas they had their own homemade stockings, filled with corn, hanging from the mantle.

We didn’t know what to expect

when Eric, Keek and I set off on an icy January Saturday. What was a Poultry Congress anyway? We found ourselves among hundreds of other people in a cold cavernous exhibition hall filled with over 2000 chickens, ducks, geese, pigeons, and turkeys. The hall held a cacophony of squawks and honks, crows and screams, and row after row of pens filled with fowl, from the tiniest one-pound strutting bantam roosters to three-foot tall hissing geese.

We laughed, astonished, as we roamed the aisles, pointing out our favorites; the biggest, the smallest, the uglies and the beauties. White-coated judges peered into cages and made notes on their clipboards. 4H kids waited in anxious groups. Award ribbons were placed on some cages, while others were moved to a winners circle reserved for the most perfect specimens. This was serious business.

Kiki entered a raffle, putting a couple of dollars on a trio of Old English Game bantams. Bantams are like regular chickens only much smaller, and Old English Game are a compact breed, developed in the Middle Ages. They hold themselves upright, chest out, and are known for their bravery and plucky spirit. (Did you know that contrary to reputation, chickens can be very brave?)

In my last post, I mentioned that Keek was always a lucky person. She had a charmed sort of way of finding things and winning little prizes. So of course, she left the Poultry Congress carrying a cardboard box with those three prize chickens inside.

The bantam trio settled in with the rest of our flock. We noticed one of them, Clementine, was not afraid of people, and was so interested in Kiki that she would jump in her lap, or come running across the yard to dance at her feet, begging to be held. It was impossible for her not to become Keek’s favorite chicken. Over time, Clem started using the dog door to come in and out of the house throughout the day, staying longer and longer until it was obvious she had decided to move in.

We had no choice but to give Clem a nesting basket in the kitchen. She spent much of her time outside with the flock, but always returned to our house. Inside, she would strut through the rooms, a tiny martinet with a coronet voice, calling for Kiki. And if she couldn’t find her, Clem would settle on Kiki’s usual spot on the couch, puffed and preening, awaiting her return.

Kiki, with Clem. I forget the other guy’s name but he was a good little rooster

Clementine was a beauty,

with soft brown and golden feathers and intelligent glinting eyes rimmed with tiny eyelashes. (Did you know that chickens have eyelashes, and they’re made of feathers?) I could pick her up in one hand, her soft warm belly resting in my palm, her spindly legs dangling. She liked to burrow into my bathrobe, finding the sleeve and traveling along until her little red face peeked out at the wrist, where she would sit still, observing.

She learned that trays on the kitchen counter meant movie night, and as I arranged the plates, she would trot into the living room and set herself up on the couch, ready for the show. In the mornings she would be at the bottom of the stairs, puffed like a tiny feathered teapot, waiting for Kiki to get up.

There’s something magical about holding a bird, about a bird who allows herself to be held, stroked, cuddled. This is an animal related to dinosaurs, with strange leathery feet, hollow bones, a sharp beak. Birds are unexpectedly warm and soft and having a small feathered body relax into your hands feels like a great privilege, a connection with a life force so far from human.

Clem resting in Kiki’s hands

“You know she chose you,”

the psychic said to Kiki that day, when we took Clem for her reading. “You two have known each other before. Many times before. I don’t know why she chose this form, but she wanted to be with you.”

Clem nestled contentedly in the woman’s hands, and Kiki listened as tears streaked her cheeks. Before Clem, I would have laughed at the idea of taking a chicken to a psychic. But this was a chicken who exhibited an intelligent, urgent determination to be near my daughter. And Kiki, who had loved many chickens, felt an inexplicable bond with Clem.

I can’t remember how long Clem lived. Maybe only three years. We always hoped she would be one of those lucky hens, the ones that fade gradually into old age, content to peck and doze in the sun until the glint leaves their eyes. But Clem went quick. The day her heart gave out, she was fine at three p.m. but by six she was in my lap, gasping for breath. That night, Kiki held Clem in her waning hours.

“Remember how she ran?” I said to Kiki, the next morning. We were standing at the sliding glass door, looking across the backyard towards the chicken coop. We remembered how Clem would hear Kiki’s voice through an open window, and come running, desperate to reach her, across the yard. Tiny legs a blur, chest out. That little chest, thrust forward, holding her beating bird heart, filled with mysterious longing.

“Yes” she replied. “We always said, here comes Clem, running heart first.”

I’ve been thinking about Clem lately,

because I’m working on an unfinished project. It’s for Kiki, and Clem, and me.

Kiki loved tattoos. She got her first, a blue jay feather, on her eighteenth birthday. Her dad has a lot of tattoos, and growing up, she warned us she was the kind of person who would probably want a lot of tattoos too.

When she was 19, she worked for a long time on a tattoo design incorporating a drawing she made of Clementine. She picked an artist who she thought could execute her vision, but it didn’t work out. (That’s a whole other story.) Keek left the tattoo session with the Clementine portion unfinished, and a year later, ended up getting that part removed from her shoulder.

She always meant to have her Clementine re-done but I think she was waiting to find the right artist. It was too special to take a chance on again.

After Keek died, I thought I might use her Clem drawing for a tattoo in her honor. I don’t have any, except for a little one on my ankle. (The Jackass logo, which the three of us got as our family crest, but that’s also another story) I always figured if I ever started getting tattooed, I’d go big.

This past week,

Eric and I took a day trip to Savannah, Georgia, to meet with the artist who will be creating a botanical design incorporating Keek’s Clementine drawing. I’m getting it on my left arm, a half-sleeve, shoulder to elbow.

It was a really big day for me. I was so nervous on the way there. Not about the actual procedure, which will be next month. I was nervous because this is so huge emotionally. Kiki’s drawing. She made it to put on her body, but her body is gone. I would have died in her place, sacrificed my own body like a brave hen would for her chicks. But I can’t, so I’ll do this instead.

On our travels over the past many months, I’ve looked for the right artist. I finally found the very talented Lauren Damon in Savannah. Lauren spent a long time with me, going over the design, and understands how meaningful it will be.

After meeting with Lauren at the Nomad Society, Eric and I walked out of the shop into the Starland neighborhood. The area is known for its creative community, with murals, art galleries, record stores, and cafes. The influence of SCAD (Savannah College of Art and Design) is extensive in this city, from the campus buildings and event posters, to all the cool-looking artist types on the sidewalks. Of course Kiki would have loved it.

We headed for Betty Bombers,

a diner-style restaurant inside the historic American Legion Post 135. This is not your typical faux-vintage themed place. It’s the real deal, with original posters, old photos, schematics, ads and prints from WWII, and a charming owner who will tell you all about the interesting history on display.

I ate the best hamburger I've ever had there, plus homemade pickles, onion rings, and awesome coleslaw (my bar for slaw excellence is set very high).

Betty Bombers in Savannah, where we had a memorable lunch

As I sat across from Eric at the corner table, under a sunny window, I felt good. Actually good. Maybe the best I’ve felt in my grieving life. So much beautiful Keek energy was surrounding us that day. I felt like I was on a mission of unfinished business, and that she approved.

Ten years ago, the idea of Clem following Kiki from a past life was funny. I didn’t ever think about the afterlife then, or souls and spiritual stuff. I didn’t have to. I had everything I wanted right here in this life. But it’s different now. I know things I didn’t know before. I know that life is bigger than what we can understand, and I know death is not the end.⁜

Our current home, Hunting Island, with full moon rising

Thank you for reading, and thank you for choosing to subscribe to Letters From Turkey Town. If you like this story, please hit the heart button at the bottom of the post. Until next time,

Love, Tina

Links:

Lauren Damon, Nomad Society in Savannah: Lauren Damon Instagram

A Really Good Lunch in Savannah: Betty Bombers