All I know for sure is that the big event on February 17, 2024, wasn’t on either Trixie’s or my bucket list. Our men had everything to do with it, so don’t be looking at me funny.
Todd, Trixie’s husband, drove the Jeep while Husband rode shotgun on the way to Ridgeland, Wisconsin, for the occasion. While the vehicle swallowed up the miles, Trixie and I sat in the back seat chatting about adult children and ergodic literature.
The first time I heard about the annual chicken toss in Ridgeland, Wisconsin, I assumed the mayor of the town flung packages of meat (maybe even frozen—ouch!) into the crowd, and the lucky recipients saved money on their grocery bill that week. Husband soon corrected my misunderstanding.
A bleak sun shone as Todd parked on a street in Ridgeland, and we tugged more insulation around our bodies to meet the twenty-five-degree day. Snow pants, check. Extra jacket, check. Hats and scarves, check. Hand warmers in our mittens, check.
We strode toward the growing crowd. This western Wisconsin town’s inhabitants shared the style of those in the northern Minnesota place in which I was raised: Polaris jackets, wraparound sunglasses, camouflage, snowmobile boots, cans of Coors Light.
“You can cut the tension with a knife,” Todd said. And maybe there was a certain anticipation under wraps (read thermals).
At noon, three sturdy men appeared on the one-story flat roof of Rural Mutual, each holding a chicken, and the tossing began.
The men extracted chickens from their cages, one by one, and released them over the crowd. I cringed, thinking of what the townspeople would do if they caught one. Trixie raised her arms with each toss, and I already knew what she’d do if a feathered one ended up in her care. She’d build a lovely coop, and that bird would live a charmed life with a cute name, the healthiest of feed, and her daily crooning.
“Just because you don’t catch a chicken doesn’t make you a loser,” Todd said to me like I was worried about it.
Now and then, a bird flew away, escaping all the extended arms, and the villagers cheered as if they hoped, like I did, the fowl would evade their clutches. I said a little prayer for the chickens flapping over the crowd, feeling conflicted. The criticism from animal rights groups was real; I hated unkindness toward creatures too, but I ate chicken, so who was I to comment? Also, was this unkind? A guy near us tucked his feathered gift inside his coat for warmth, letting its head poke out to gaze around.
Another bird flew away and perched on the Drunk’n Monkey Bar & Hotel, a place that looked more like a saloon from the Old West than an establishment of today. The crowd applauded its freedom.
“What’re you gonna do with it, if you catch one?” I said to a man next to me.
“I already have a chicken coop full of chickens at home,” he said, so I didn’t get an answer.
Each time we thought the show was done, the roof men magically produced another crate. About forty minutes and one-hundred birds later, the cages emptied, and we left the smalltown scene, chickenless.
“Maybe we protest it next year,” Todd said. “You know, mix it up.”
“Or maybe we don’t come back,” I meant to say, but I don’t recall if I did, although I believe our group’s consensus was that the bucket list item had a solid check mark next to it.
Every adventure with Trixie and Todd is delightful, and it’s okay by me if our future excursions don’t involve avian antics of any kind. But wait. I hear Abang Yoli, a new restaurant with Korean fried chicken, is amazing, so maybe next time we do that.
*A big shout-out to Trixie for this blog installment's title. It truly has come to this.
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