We staff members at Buck Brook Farm were kept busy driving the little crooked roads of the Catskill Mountains.
Whether we were on a shopping trip or carting students to functions, there was always a mixture of groans and laughter when we rounded a corner and saw we were coming up on a particular type of truck.
These trucks were always slow and never more so than when loaded down with cargo and grinding up the abundant steep grades of this mountainous terrain. And the mountainous terrain made for endless curves so passing was never an option.
From behind these trucks were large metal boxes, the size of a semi-trailer. At the base of the back wall of the truck was a little sliding door some two feet by two feet. These trucks were aways older and the little doors were always oozing a milky fluid.
These trucks were chicken shit trucks.
The concept of being behind a chicken shit truck grinding its way through the mountains was squeamish. The patience of waiting for a place to pass was challenging. But the smell? Well. Pour a bottle of ammonia over yourself. You get the picture.
When we first saw these trucks we’d stop and wait where we were. If another driver came up behind us they’d understand and wait as well. Once the truck was out of sight we’d go up the hill, go around the next corner, and see if there was a chance to speed past.
And we’d have a story that was instantly recognized by all who heard it.
NOTE: NEVER POUR A BOTTLE OF AMMONIA OVER YOURSELF! I don’t even recommend getting your nose very close once the cap is off.
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The nose has a long memory. Now I know why you don’t have a pet chicken. See you soon.