By Jill Richardson
Friday morning, April 26, my daughter came to tell me that country singer George Jones, also known as “Possum,” had died at the age of 81 that morning. I was absolutely heartbroken. I have been a huge fan of George for as long as I can remember. Mom used to listen to the oldies growing up and for me that music has always been comforting and full of childhood memories. Much like words sung by Chris LeDoux “Ain’t it funny how an ole song can take you back in time. Bring back the memories you thought you left behind. The melodies they never change, just get better with time. Old melodies and memories keep running through my mind.”
To see George live in concert one day was on my bucket list until I was able to scratch it off last year when I received tickets, for my birthday, to his concert in Boise. Little did I know it would be my last chance.
I spent the morning in mourning, when the afternoon came I headed to town to scratch a few items off my to-do list. I stopped at a feed store in Nampa to get myself an outfit for the PBR that night but came out with a different type of makeover.
As I walked through the isles, I heard the chirping of baby chicks and ventured over to take a peek. They were so cute, muddling around in a stock tank just waiting to be taken home by a farmer of some sort.
Then a lady says to me that the manager had dozens of chicks in the back that have been getting pecked and are a bit beat up and bloody and can’t be sold to just anyone. They need a little special care.
My heart, already broken by the news of George, went out to the lil injured chicks. Almost on auto pilot, I found myself following the manager to the back room and telling her, “Don’t tell me how many there are just box them up and I will take them.”
I left the store with 14 babies and all the supplies to hopefully nurse them back to health. I am now a chicken farmer.
I got home and surprised my daughter, Montanna, with the box as I asked her to come unpack the jeep. She just about dropped the box when she heard the chirping inside. I am so glad for her quick reflexes. She was so happy; I thought she was going to cry. She has been begging for chicks for years.
As we picked up each one and introduced ourselves to them we got a little glimpse of 14 different little personalities. Two of them earned names right off the bat. One lil chick with a very unique look from all the rest was named George, another chick that kept crouching down and kicking his little feet like he was fighting for his last breath and then would get up and walk off like nothing happened, was named Jones for his great ability to fake his dying so well, much like a possum.
On that Friday, the legendary Possum left this earth but now lives on as cute little chicks