Chicken Teeth

There once was a girl from New Suffolk
Who lived with the cows and her kinfolk.
She dreamt of the day.
When she'd get swept away.
By a fella with gold in his waistcoat.

When I was ten years old, there was only one thing I wanted more than fabulous wealth: enough sophisticated allure to spark a fabulously wealthy prince who would spirit me away from weed'n Grandaddy's okra patch.
 
Turn'n my attention to become'n an irrisistable allure, I informed the powers that be that I wanted a job. Not a farm chore job. A real job. New money from off the farm. New money I planned on earn'n by wander'n round until I found someth'n that people would pay me to do for them.

I lost that battle - dead in the water - the minute the word "wander'n" hit the air.

Now, early on, my family found out that they could get me to stop jump'n up and down - while express'n my sincerely vibrant beliefs at the top of my lungs - with an offer'n of snickerdoodles and milk. That even'n was no different, cept for the particular conversation that swirled round those little yummers of cinnamon and butter.

My Uncle Ned told me bout one of the deepest mysteries of The Dismal, and my imagination was sparked and fueled! By the time my tummy was full of cookie, and my greedy head swim'n with the promise of untold treasure, I was ready to go to bed with uncommon docility.
As we went through the usual night time routine - normally marked by vary'n degrees of spirited revolt - I had big ideas bounce'n round my money-hungry little mind. By the end of Summer, I would be rich! Just roll'n in fabulous wealth! And no one would dare stop me as I marched right into the Walgreens and bought me some jungle red lipstick! Which had been the point of earn'n my own money from the begin'n.

So, here is the tale I swallowed hook, line, and sinker:

Uncle Ned reminded me bout all the shark teeth that people found in the swamp. To this day, I don't think anyone knows why there are shark teeth in there - but tourists get a kick out of em.
A cousin of mine actually had a little booth where they could take those teeth and he would turn em into jewelry. I hadn't ever paid too much attention to this oddity, cause I've never seen the sense in wear'n shark teeth; but now, I was all ears cause Uncle Ned said that there were teeth that were even more prized and rare than shark teeth --- chicken teeth!

He said that, a long time ago, chickens were a lot dumber than they are now. They hadn't figured out that they could swallow little bits of gravel to smash up their favorite bugs; so they had to grow teeth.
These teeth, he said, shimmered like little pearls and grew at the back of a chicken's tongue.
After bout a hundred years of uncomfortably  dentured chickens - accord'n to Uncle Ned - a smarter breed of chicken came along and decided that they didn't need to spend their lives be'n irritated by those teeth, so they got shed of em. This made a lot of sense to me; after all, it hadn't been that long since I had gotten shed of my irritate'n and crooked little baby teeth.

So, on I skipped, down Gullible Lane.

Uncle Ned told me that those teeth were so rare and valuable that all it took was to find just one - just one little tooth! - and I could "write my own ticket."
Cagely, not want'n to advertise my bud'n plans, I expressed mild interest in where chicken teeth might be found. Uncle Ned told me that almost all of the ones that had been discovered had been round a coop.

A coop! We had a coop! An old one, too. My Granddaddy had built it when he was a young man and there, out beside the old pump tree, it still stood.
That next morn'n, right after chores, and every day that summer, I mined for chicken teeth. Slowly, I worked round the perimeter. I spent happy hours dream'n of jungle red lipstick - and the irresistible vamp I would become when I wore it. Carefully, I pulled up every single weed and checked the roots and surround'n dirt for chicken teeth.

I was far from lonely. My dog, Daisy, and the chickens, kept loyal company. Often, someone from the house would bring me someth'n cold to drink and, sometimes, a treat. Occasionally, they would bring guests out, and I would, with an air of accurate authority, recount the excite'n tale of the elusive chicken teeth.

Many of those visitors are still alive and, apparently, retain an almost crystalline memory bout my quest for fabulous treasure. 

That year, for my birthday, I got petal pink lipstick and a small necklace with one, tiny pearl.

© Naomi Marshall 2017