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In 1954, when I was eight years old, I became a chicken rancher.  My parents allowed me to have a small pen of chickens south of our garage at 301 Grove Street, where I grew up. We had bought a dozen mixed hen chicks and one red rooster chick from Canterbury’s Feed store on the south side of Bear Mountain Blvd. near “B” Street here in Arvin. They finally out grew the box that I kept them in and were put into a small pen. It was my job to go out each morning and collect the eggs from the nest boxes that my father had built from old fruit boxes that he had liberated from some ranchers orchard. The hens did not appreciate my trying to reach under them to collect the eggs that they had laid and I would get my hands pecked. They would then flap into my face, squawking as they flew off.    Now, as much trouble as the hens were, the rooster hated MY intrusions into HIS territory. There were days, he would not allow me...
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