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Ody's Country Meats

Monday, January 29, 2001


Fri, Jan 26th, 2001
Posted in

To the Editor,

I read John Torgrimsonís article about the runaway chicken (January 22, 2001 Journal) with amusement, but the first recounting of this story one Saturday evening last fall was the best. John told us the story, complete with an imitation of a frozen, indignant bird. He squawked and flapped his arms and we howled with laughter.

While going to work on the following Monday morning, I parked the car on the side street next to Olmsted Medical Clinic in Preston and looked over at the neighborís and there I spotted that chicken, just pecking in the grass. When I went into the clinic, laughing and blabbering about that chicken, my staff just didnít believe me.

I donít know how I got this reputation, but they thought I was pulling their legs! They smiled at me placatingly, nodded at each other and said, "Sure, Dr. Jakim." It wasnít until the receptionist came in at lunch and said, "Thereís a chicken out there!" that the staff finally began to believe me.

We were going to catch that chicken. We planned a chicken posse and tried to enlist volunteers. Pat Torgrimson was seen circling the block carrying a net, but it was our chicken now.

I thought to myself, "Should I bring chicken feed?" At home, my only bonding with chickens occurs when Iím carrying the compost bucket. Would this chicken recognize an old used Kempís ice cream bucket?

Not long afterwards, I was telling the story to a neighboring pharmacist while trying to enlist his help. I confessed that I knew whom the chicken belonged to. There was silence on the phone, and then he drawled, "You know itís a small town when you know peoplesí names and their dogs names, but when you start knowing their chickensÖ!"

Well, we never did catch that chicken. There have been fewer and fewer sightings during this cold, snowy winter. Though, just last week a chicken was spotted sitting on the mirror of a van that belongs to an Olmsted Clinic employee. It gives new meaning to the phrases "range chicken," or even, "snowbird." That bird has provided us with more laughs than eggs, but then again, it is a rooster. Viva la Chicken!

Stephanie Jakim
Lanesboro, MN

To the Editor,

I read John Torgrimsonís article about the runaway chicken (January 22, 2001 Journal) with amusement, but the first recounting of this story one Saturday evening last fall was the best. John told us the story, complete with an imitation of a frozen, indignant bird. He squawked and flapped his arms and we howled with laughter.

While going to work on the following Monday morning, I parked the car on the side street next to Olmsted Medical Clinic in Preston and looked over at the neighborís and there I spotted that chicken, just pecking in the grass. When I went into the clinic, laughing and blabbering about that chicken, my staff just didnít believe me.

I donít know how I got this reputation, but they thought I was pulling their legs! They smiled at me placatingly, nodded at each other and said, "Sure, Dr. Jakim." It wasnít until the receptionist came in at lunch and said, "Thereís a chicken out there!" that the staff finally began to believe me.

We were going to catch that chicken. We planned a chicken posse and tried to enlist volunteers. Pat Torgrimson was seen circling the block carrying a net, but it was our chicken now.

I thought to myself, "Should I bring chicken feed?" At home, my only bonding with chickens occurs when Iím carrying the compost bucket. Would this chicken recognize an old used Kempís ice cream bucket?

Not long afterwards, I was telling the story to a neighboring pharmacist while trying to enlist his help. I confessed that I knew whom the chicken belonged to. There was silence on the phone, and then he drawled, "You know itís a small town when you know peoplesí names and their dogs names, but when you start knowing their chickensÖ!"

Well, we never did catch that chicken. There have been fewer and fewer sightings during this cold, snowy winter. Though, just last week a chicken was spotted sitting on the mirror of a van that belongs to an Olmsted Clinic employee. It gives new meaning to the phrases "range chicken," or even, "snowbird." That bird has provided us with more laughs than eggs, but then again, it is a rooster. Viva la Chicken!

Stephanie Jakim
Lanesboro, MN

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