Recently, I revealed that I am going to become a grandparent for the first time. My life was greatly influenced by my grandparents.

In a strange turn of events, in one month’s time, four members of the Clinkscales’ team each lost a grandparent. During that time, each shared with me funny and warm stories about their grandparent and the role he or she played in their life.

While I know MY grandmother was special, I was really taken by what these fellow workers shared.

One of those people who lost a grandparent was my son, Josh. There were 12 grandchildren of his grandmother, Vena Stucky, and I am sure that most of the 12 would have liked to have said something at the celebration service of Vena’s life. Instead, they submitted comments to one of the grandchildren, who spoke for all of them. In her presentation, at the end, she said the following about Josh, and then quoted him:

“My cousin, Josh, is an avid sports fan and when he was living in Wichita, he spent many evenings watching sporting events with Grandma. Josh recently described those evenings like this:”

‘I would get to her house early enough to be able to enjoy a nice evening meal and visit about how my classes were going, how my wife was doing, and other things going on in my life. She would then catch me up on what she had accomplished for the day. Then, the game would start. Now, Grandma probably fell asleep midway through the second inning or halfway into the first quarter of the game, but as something happened, and I was whooping and hollering, she would be startled out of her slumber and would join me in the celebration.’

‘See, Grandma did not really care about the nationally-televised basketball game that I wanted to watch, and Grandma did not lose sleep if the Royals lost a game that night like I did. Grandma wanted me to be there, because she wanted to spend time with me. She wanted to know what time I was coming over, because she would wait to eat supper until I was at her house so we could enjoy each other’s company. Grandma joined me at the television because she wanted to have a conversation with me, even if it were only for 15 minutes. It did not matter to her what we were doing – what mattered was that she was spending time with her grandson.’

If you have the privilege of being a grandparent, you can matter; you can make a difference; you can have an impact. You do not have to do anything special. Sometimes, just unfiltered love, acceptance, and being there is enough. Opening your home and your heart has influence that no amount of money, or things, can ever accomplish. Use that opportunity as Josh’s grandmother did.

I hope to be that type of grandparent.

Randy Clinkscales of Clinkscales Elder Law Practice, PA, Hays, Kansas, is an elder care attorney, practicing in western Kansas. To contact him, please send an email to [email protected]. Disclaimer: The information in the column is for general information purposes and does not constitute legal advice. Each case is different and outcomes depend on the fact of each case and the then applicable law. For specific questions, you should contact a qualified attorney.

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Alright. I’m wondering this morning how many chicken pickers we have out there. … I see a little hesitancy out there. Some of you are asking for a definition.


A chicken picker is one who removes the feathers from a chicken during the process of preparing the bird for the dinner table.  The effort is usually performed in the backyard, but certainly can be done in the kitchen or garage in case the weather is wet or cold, or both.

My chicken pickin’ days are over, but I’m happy to report that I have picked many a chicken in my day. Here’s the full story.

When I was a wee one, back in the depression days, my parents would send an order for a hundred baby chicks. It would be sent to a chicken hatchery back in eastern Kansas or western Missouri. The order was sent after the brooder house, located out behind the main chicken house, had been thoroughly cleaned and disinfected. It was just about this time of year when the order was sent, and of.cpurse it was cold outside.


And so the day old chicks needed heat, and Dad drug out the brooder stove to do the job. The stove consisted of a kerosene tank, a regular small stove attached, and a a very large metal hood that would be placed safely over the stove and close to the floor. The chicks would get under there and be very toasty.


The order placed to the hatchery was always for 100 “”straight run” chicks. Straight run meant that half of them were male and half female. We would eat the males and grow the females to full maturity when they would join the rest of the flock as layers. Occasionally we would dip into the laying flock for an older hen who would become half the ingredients for chicken and noodles. My Mother was without question the best chicken and noodles preparer in Ford County!

And so the Post Office would call when the baby chicks arrived by train. The Post Office would literally have stacks of baby chick boxes, indicating that everybody ordered at about the same time so that they, too, might enjoy fried chicken about harvest time when the young poults would reach the weight of approximately 3 pounds.  Actually, when the birds reached 2 pounds they were considered fair game, but there would be more if the family could be convinced to wait for a little more growth.

When the time was right, Dad would go to the brooder house after dark and catch the biggest one he could find,  Since chickens can’t see at night, the selection job was easier. The bird was put under an old wash tub and the next morning after chores and breakfast, Dad did his thing and the bird was ready to process for lunch.  Mom had a bucket of very hot water ready, and the headless bird was plunged into the water until his feathers became very easy to dislodge. Then Max and I would pick the chicken. When we took it in the house for Mom to dress, she would
singe  the bird over a stove flame to remove the usual tiny hairs that did not come off during the picking process.

When Mom completed the dressing process, we had 2 legs, 2 thighs, 2 wings, 2 sides, a wishbone (we called it a pully bone) a breast, and of course a gizzard, a liver, and a heart. Max and I would fight over the gizzard. One chicken was enough for a family of four, as long as there was plenty of mashed potatoes and god, thick, creamy gravy containing little bits of the skillet crumbs!

Who says the Dust Bowl days were bad? It just depended on whether or not you could locate a capable chicken picker!

Kay Melia is a longtime broadcaster, author and garden in northwest Kansas.