I’m a man in rural America, does that mean I have to kill wild animals?

The old chicken coop on the left. My own photo.

“There was a murder in the red barn, a murder in the red barn” — Tom Waits

What does it mean to be a man?

I wish I knew.

I have a possum story I used to tell to my Junior High students. Back then, the story had me as a hero, protecting the school’s chickens. I did what had to be done. I don’t tell it anymore, but If I told the story now, I might tell it differently. I might not be the hero.

Here is the hero narrative:

When I was hired to be a Montessori school’s live-in farm manager, I didn’t know how much killing would be asked of me. I had been a vegetable farmer, but caring for farm animals was relatively new to me. As a born city kid who was living the farm life, I had told those who interviewed me that I knew about chickens and of course I could handle that part of the job. I did know a little about chickens, since on our previous farm we had kept chickens seasonally and sold them to a neighbor every fall. But I was very green.

When we moved to the school’s farm, we inherited a lovely flock of chickens. The school had bought the “exotic mix” of baby chicks and each chicken was special. We had polka dot chickens, shiny black Austrolaups, big fluffy cochins, blue egg-laying Araucanas, and more…