A Hen, a Toe, and a Pie Pan - A Tale of Murder in Rural Bedford County Virginia

All of the funny stories in my family do not come from my dad's side of the tree. There are anecdotes aplenty in my mother's branches as well. How could there not be with six sisters, three brothers, an old bachelor uncle, and my grandmother and grandfather all living together in the big, white farmhouse?

On the afternoon in question, my Aunt Vi, short for Viola Frances, AKA "Dinky" (a pet name given to her by my grandfather - a name she loathed by the way), was sitting on edge of the back porch, swinging her feet back and forth. The day before, she had stubbed one of her big toes, so it now sported a huge gauze bandage. Vi was never one for understatement, or for doing anything half-way. The enormity of the bandage was definitely overkill for the treatment of a relatively small injury, but it got her out of some of the chores she hated for a day or two, so she was milking it.

As many small family farms did, back in the day, the chickens were given the run of the yard. They milled around beneath Vi's feet, as she sat on the porch, browsing for bugs and leftover grain. One hen in particular was curiously attracted to the big, gauze wrapping on Vi's toe, and before she could be shooed away, she pecked viciously at the bandage, bringing shrieks of pain from Dinky.

The cries brought my Aunt Reva (Reva Belle - no nickname here as Reva was not the nickname sort) running to see what was happening. Now, Reva was the serious, determined, get out of the way, I'm in charge, sister, so when she found Vi crying and clutching her toe, and pointing angrily at the guilty hen, she sprang into action. Picking up an empty pie pan, which had previously held chicken feed, she sailed it, Frisbee-like, toward the offending hen. Though her intention had only been to scare the old girl, sadly, Reva's aim was true. The pie pan hit the poor chicken with a solid "thunk," instantly breaking her neck.

First came the shock of realizing that the hen was dead and then came the dilemma - What to do with the chicken? In his younger years, my grandfather was not the most patient or indulgent father. Who would be, raising ten kids on a hardscrabble farm through the depression? So, the girls were more than a bit nervous about telling Granddaddy that Reva had accidentally killed a chicken. To head off any adverse consequences, Reva decided that they would just have to prepare the chicken as if she had always been the dinner entree. Unfortunately for Vi, executing that plan meant that her strategy to avoid chores because of her injury was necessarily derailed, as she was forced to help behead, clean, scald, pluck, and ready the hen for the evening meal.

Thankfully, for Vi and Reva, their ploy worked. Granddaddy never found out that the chicken he enjoyed for his supper was actually a murder victim - well, second-degree henslaughter victim, anyway. And they had a funny story to tell for years to come.