CHICKENS IN THE TRUNK

In May of 1987, I was in a van with a geography class on our way to a hiking trip on the Appalacian Mountains of Maryland.  I was telling the people in the front of the van and to the right of me about my adventures to Delaware to pick up two 40 pound boxes of frozen processed chicken in February of that year.

  The trip started out to be uneventful; I had invited my friend Shirley to go with me on a two and a half-hour trip to Delaware from Baltimore Maryland and return in the same day.  My grandmother decided to stay home.
     We left on a beautiful day.  The weatherman called for snow coming up from the south on the Alantic Ocean.  Being from Maryland, it was a no-no to drvie in snow.  I reassured Shirley that when it does snow on the Delmarva Peninsula, that the snow doesn't lay or last if it does lay.  Shirley was feeling better about the trip.  The sky looked very good.  I did not think that it would snow.
     About noon, we arrived at my mother's house.  The sky was starting to cloud up. 
     We sat there for about 2 hours talking to my mother.  I thought that I have better get on the road.  I had gone out to take the chicken out to the trunk.  I was then that I had discoverd that it was starting to snow.  Shirley and I were on the road.
     I drove to Ocean City, Maryland to withdrawal some cash from the ATM machine.  Meantime, the snow was coming down harder and harder.  IT WAS LAYING!  In Ocean City, no less.  As I drove further down the road, the snow was getting deeper and deeper until it was getting too hard to drive. 
      I turned my head to Shirley and mentioned that I have never driven in the snow before.  She looked very concerned.  I then reasured her that I thought that I was doing a good job driving in the snow.  She had smiled and agreed.

As I was telling my story in the van, I was interrupted by a man, who was sitting behind me.  "Chickens in the trunk?", he asked.
I turned my head to him and replied, "Yeah, chickens in the trunk."  I was shaking my head.  I then proceeded with my story:

  We had gone over the Chesapeake Bay Bridge with little trouble driving in the snow.  On the other side of the bridge, the snow wasn't as deep as the eastern side.  And they had salted and cindered the roads.  It was easier to drive.
     I drove for about 20 miles to get to the Baltimore Harbor tunnel.  It was getting dark and the wipers on the car were acting sluggish and the lights would dim as soons as I would take my foot off of the gas feed.  I had been through this before with the car,  I uttered,  "Uh-oh!"
     Shirley was wondering why I had said that.  I told her that the alternator is going bad again.
     We drove through the tunnel and the car was getting worse.  I no sooner got out of the tunnel, I had to keep pushing the gas pedal to keep the car going.  If I had stopped, the car would be stuck near the tunnel.

I was interrupted again by the man from behind, "Chickens in the trunk?", he asked again. 
Yeah!  Chickens in the trunk, "  I replied shaking my head

    I smelled smoke.  I wanted to stop the car but Shirley was begging me not to.  I was too afraind to keep driving.  I stopped on a ramp near her home.  The snow was pouring down.  We got out of the car.  I checked the hood for heat to see if the engine was on fire.  Then I grabbed a flare that looked like something to start a bon fire with and I lit it.  I laid it down behind the car.  Two off duty firefighters saw it from a distance.  They though that my car was on fire.  They offered us a ride to Shirleys house.

Again an interruption from the man behind me on the van, "Chickens in the trunk?"
"Yeah! Chickens in the trunk."

   Once at Shirley's, I called my mechanic and my grandmother.  My granmother was concerned about her car and the chickens in the trunk.
     I looked up the mechanic's number in the phone book.  I dialed the number and a man's voice answered.  I asked for Fred and he said "Yeah."  I told him about the car.  I was talking fast and I was upset with the car.  When I have finished my tale of woe, he said in a grouchy voice," Well, what do you want me to do about it?!"
To my shock, I asked, "You aren't Fred?"  "NO!," click.  It was the wrong number.
     I had spent the night over Shirley's house.  The next morning, I had a phone call from my grandmother, "It is 56 degrees out.  Where in the hell is my chicken!"

The man behind me again asked, "Chickens in the trunk?"  He had a puzzled look on his face. 
Yeah!  Chickens in the trunk."
He then asked, "Were they alive?"
"No!", I replied.  "They were dead chickens in the trunk."

Mary Ann McFarlan

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