October 1973
The Bottle Or the Egg
Sometimes we get away with what we do in blackouts--other times, our chickens come home to roost
IT ALL HAPPENED, as they say, one night in a local elbow rest before I got dry. (Sobriety still eludes me.) Next to me, a rancher was trying to sell several hundred chickens. Even bought me a drink. Then went into this monologue on how he simply had to get rid of his chickens due to rising feed costs, inflation in general, Watergate, and his aunt's menopause. His conversation brought back wistful memories of my childhood on a farm. Fresh eggs, roosters at dawn. . .
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