Back to the Chicken Farm
I grew up in a village so small that there were not even street names. On every hill under the mountains was a single house; people used binoculars to see their neighbours, which tells a lot about the distance and human curiosity. I can’t say for sure, but sometimes I felt there were more foxes and cows than people living in this remote place.
If you are bad at remembering surnames, this would have been your dream place: There were only a handful of surnames in the village. The families had nicknames according to their house names or occupations to distinguish between people.
Because my grandfather had a chicken farm, my family was called the “Egg Streules.” People described him as an intelligent man with a head full of ideas who always worked on a dozen projects the village people did not understand. He even invented things and had a weird device that showed moving pictures (yes, that was the first television this village ever saw). Maybe the head of this man was buzzing with energy so much that he had a series of strokes when he was not at a high age. With my grandpa’s mind, the chicken left, too. I was still a kid; the chicken farm was empty of winged birds, and I only knew this man in a state where he had lost his voice and sparkle due to his illness.
But every sad story has some light, so dry your tears: The deserted chicken farm was available as a playground for a little blond Sara whenever she was brave enough to enter. And she was, even if there were giant spiders in front of the old wooden door with a massive key-like form of a storybook. The girl (me) discovered that the former chicken farm still held a few old-fashioned wooden cages and battery farming equipment mixed with mysterious porcelain from a closed hotel. Of course, this was a fascinating place for me as a kid, and everything I found there seemed like a mysterious treasure. The place whispered about its past for those willing to listen. I sometimes felt I could almost touch what was gone, but it turned into dust as soon as I tried.
Despite my love for the chicken farm, I never liked eggs. So, it felt weird being called “Egg Streule” at school, and I did not like it. I was glad when I came out of the village and to a school where people didn’t know about nicknames. They gave me other weird names, but that is a different and very long story. That story also led to me embracing my roots and digging deeper into my family’s history. I became more myself when I accepted that I was a weird mix of a farm girl and a science fiction girl at once. And at one point, I knew: The way led me back to a chicken farm. But this time, I would not be ashamed but make it fashionable. Finally, it came true. Do you like it, Grandpa?
