Pressed Between the Pages
Published 4:00 am Tuesday, October 20, 2026
PRESSED BETWEEN THE PAGES
DeAnn (Wolkow) Kruempel
A Bird in the Hand
Have you ever considered how when we were children we couldn’t wait to grow up and do all the things grownups do, but later, when our lives are full of responsibilities, we long for the days when we were young and had no worries?
The youngest of six growing up on our South Dakota farm, I often felt like my siblings always got to do the fun stuff, and I was stuck with the menial tasks. Of course, as I got older my help was needed, but my idea of helping differed drastically from those older and wiser, especially my brother.
In late October every year, the young pullets that had grown from “chickhood” in the brooder house needed to be moved to the henhouse, taking over the job of egg production. The old hens who had resided there were gone. Some were sold to neighbors. Some had been processed in Mom’s magical pressure canner and would be served as creamed chicken over mashed potatoes on a cold winter night.
Moving day arrived. I watched Delmer load five straw bales onto the hay rack hitched behind the John Deere 520 and maneuver the tractor right next to the henhouse. He tossed the bales inside and motioned to me with his too-big leather glove to come and help. I watched him push his knee into a bale as he pulled the wire ties. The wires slipped off and the yellow straw was left on the floor in a loose curve. It looked easy, so I tried the knee trick. “I’ll get it,” my brother said. “You can spread the straw around.” Resentfully, I tossed and kicked the dusty bedding through the building.
Just before dark that night, Mom, Dad, Delmer and I headed to the brooder house for the relocation operation. Dad caught six pullets from the roosts, held them by the feet, and began the walk up the hill to the henhouse. Squawking faded into the distance as Mom and Delmer each grabbed four birds. I stepped in, eager to catch one. “DeAnn, you just open the door for us,” my four-years-older brother ordered.
At last, there were only six feathered critters waiting on the roosts. “Dad, can I help carry them?” His eyes glistened with that wistful, “they have to learn sometime” parent look. He handed me one. I held it by the feet upside-down, much to the dismay of the chicken. “Can I carry two?”
I followed Dad to the henhouse with a complaining bird in each hand. I flashed Delmer a proud grin and tried to lift my arms higher so he could see what I was carrying. He hopped on the tractor and hot-rodded into the Quonset. Showoff!
Just then the chicken in my left hand gave a loud squawk, jerked her head up, and flapped her wings. Before you could say, “chicken soup with rice” the feathered fowl was on the ground, cackling joyfully at her sudden freedom. I tried to grab her but she disappeared in the moonlit shadows. With tears in my eyes, I carried the remaining bird to the henhouse.
I got out my piggy bank after supper to pay Mom for the chicken. “Just wait,” she said. I could not sleep that night, imagining every raccoon, fox and coyote in the state pouncing on the hen I had let go.
The next morning, I hurried outside before breakfast, praying I would find her alive. A flash of white scooted under the windmill! Later that evening, relief washed over me as I watched her stroll into the brooder house.
In spite of my failure with this growing-up adventure, the story had a happy ending, and, of course, the important thing in life is what we learn from our failures.
A few nights later, I started to help Mom carry the dishes to the sink. Delmer excused himself. Dad lingered at the table, enjoying his coffee. I drew in a deep breath. “Dad, when can I learn to drive the tractor?”
The author’s column appears in a growing number of Midwest newspapers. Kruempel has compiled and published her column stories every year for the last five years. She has also published a historical fiction series, “Promises to Keep.” Her ten books are available on Amazon.
Contact Kruempel at deannkruempelauthor@gmail.com
